Lady in the Mist (5 page)

Except her spirits shouldn’t need perking up. God, apparently, had listened to her after all. Raleigh had come home. He was too late for their wedding, too late to comfort her through the deaths of her mother and grandmother. Yet not an hour earlier, he had stood in her parlor, as large as life.

Larger than life. Years of hard labor aboard a British naval vessel had developed his physique. He stood no more than average height, but his arms and shoulders bulged beneath the confines of his coat as though the muscles strained for freedom. His skin glowed a healthy bronze, while gold streaks lightened his oak-colored hair. With his bright blue eyes, the entire effect pleased Tabitha’s eye.

Her heart remained still, cautious, dried at the edges like a rose petal left too long in the vase.

“I’ve come home,” he’d announced with his grin that created a dimple in one cheek.

“To take up where you belonged?” She knew her tone held no warmth of welcome and didn’t know how to change it. “Were you not happy with a life of freedom, wandering the world?”

His smile wavered. “I wasn’t happy with being alone on my travels. I thought of you every day. And aboard the man-of-war was worse. I wished I’d stayed behind. I plotted every day to get here, to you.”

“I expect so.” The ice broke through, cutting with every word and the sharpness of her tone. She needed it to keep herself from laying her head on his broad shoulder, asking him to hold her.

Of all days for him to return, this one was the worst. She needed companionship, a distraction. Yet if she succumbed to the relief of seeing her fiancé again, she would regret it in moments.

He didn’t deserve a friendly welcome back into her life.

“Life aboard a British naval vessel is unpleasant at best,” she said, pressing home her point. “Of course you’d regret leaving me then. Maybe you should have stuck by your commitments to avoid getting caught by the British.”

“Once they learned my mother was from Canada, they wouldn’t let me go. They said I was English.”

“But you changed their minds and finally were able to come back?” The weakness to seek his comfort fled. Tabitha straightened her shoulders and made herself meet and hold his piercing blue eyes. “You think you can dance back into my life after deserting me practically on the eve of our wedding and expect nothing to have changed?”

“No, but I can hope for forgiveness and go on from there.”

She read the hope in his face, in the way he leaned toward her with his hands clenched at his sides.

“Will you forgive me for leaving?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

It was the only thing she possessed to offer him—the truth. She didn’t know, not this soon, not this easily. “You have had weeks, maybe months, to think about your return. This is a shock to me. Maybe you should leave now and give me some time to accustom myself to the new circumstances.”

“All right, but I’ll not give up on you.” Raleigh departed with a last, longing glance back.

She fled into the garden, with the sunshine, the scent of roses, mint, chamomile . . .

And the lingering memory of another, elusive scent that had warned her of someone’s presence in her garden.

She touched a forefinger to her throat, where her fichu hid the scratch. She knew two men who had reason to threaten her into silence regarding knowledge of the night. If Wilkins had something to do with his wife’s injuries, he might fear what she had said in her delirium. But surely he understood Tabitha couldn’t divulge what she heard during a lying-in, except for the identity of the father in the event of illegitimacy.

As for the Englishman . . . At the least, a bondservant shouldn’t have been out and about after curfew. The greatest of his crimes could be that he, an Englishman, had been directly involved with the three men’s disappearance the same night.

Yet the Englishman had been miles from the abduction scene when Tabitha met him, possibly too far away to have gotten there without a fast horse. Tabitha had noticed no horse on the beach.

She had noticed only the man, noticed so much she recognized him in an instant when she came face-to-face with him at Mayor Kendall’s house. She knew enough to have told Kendall that his manservant, the only stranger in the village, had been prowling the beach at dawn.

And she would have seen that manservant whipped.

She shuddered. Even if he had threatened her, she couldn’t be the one who reported him. If he continued his nocturnal wanderings, he would bring punishment on himself. Yet if he were the culprit who had taken the young men away, he would strike again. More families would live without sons and brothers and husbands to support them. More young women would live without prospective husbands because the population of males had dropped below that of females.

And perhaps she should make certain of his guilt before she spread damaging tales about him. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d kept her mouth shut about words she’d overheard or been told directly while tending a patient, or even traveling home. She could do so for the Englishman—for a while—rather than see him hurt. Like a doctor, she was compelled to do no harm to a living creature.

Surely that reasoning—not a pair of long-lashed brown eyes that sparkled with gold lights in the sun—stopped her from confiding in the mayor. She would never be that foolish.

She would never be foolish over a man again, as much as she yearned for a family of her own. Once upon a time, she’d fallen for a man with beautiful eyes. Blue eyes. Deep blue eyes she thought she could drown in.

They seemed bluer now in his bronzed face. Yet any depth they held didn’t hold a reflection of her soul, of her heart. He claimed he’d come back to her, but she wouldn’t believe him any more than she’d believe the Englishman had been on the beach for nothing more than an early morning stroll.

The Englishman. So attractive. So flirtatious. So nervous in her presence, stealing her attention from the man she should forgive and let herself love again.

Raleigh should consume her thoughts. Or perhaps Mrs. Wilkins and whatever had gone wrong with the lying-in, or the condemnatory rumors Mr. Wilkins might spread about her. Not an Englishman, who looked at her as though—

“Ah!” She jerked her hand away from the roses. Blood speckled her palm where she’d gripped the stem of a bush hard enough to drive the thorns into her skin.

“Stupid, stupid.” She wrapped her hand in her handkerchief and scrambled to her feet. She needed to get a comfrey poultice on the punctures immediately. She couldn’t afford to injure one of her hands. Her hands were her livelihood.

“Patience,” she called to the maid in the kitchen, “get some water boiling.”

“Oh, Miss Tabbie, you’ve never gone and hurt yourself.” Patience poked her head around the frame of the open door. “What if someone’s about to deliver and you can’t use your hand?”

“No one’s about to deliver.” Tabitha slipped into the kitchen and plucked a bunch of comfrey leaves from a jar.

“That’s what you was thinkin’ last night.” Patience swung the water kettle over the hearth and built up the fire. “You thought you’d have a peaceful night of it, and look what happened.”

“It’s not likely to happen again,” Tabitha said, spooning leaves into a teapot and bracing herself for the rotting garbage odor of the healing herbs.

At least she hoped it wouldn’t. She wished to avoid nights where patients died and strangers wandered her beach.

A shudder ran through her, the chill of a cool breeze on a hot, sunny day. Her hand shook, and she spilled the leaves across the table and onto the floor. First the thorn punctures, now a mess to clean up. If she wasn’t careful, the man would have her walking into the ocean instead of along the tide line.

If she saw him again, which was unlikely. As small a village as Seabourne was, she rarely dealt with the mayor and consequently not his servants. She and Letty met while marketing. They exchanged friendly greetings, but Tabitha wasn’t a servant, even with her position as a hireling. She was a professional for all she was a woman, and Letty, with her Old World ways, disapproved of hobnobbing between classes.

And Mrs. Kendall, were there to be a Mrs. Kendall, would never have passed the time of day with Tabitha unless she needed her medical care. Tabitha often felt caught in the middle, neither fish nor fowl, but far too much alone. If she had a husband, women would know where to place her, how to fit her into their gatherings and entertainments.

After cleaning up the spill, she snatched up a cup and dipped water from the simmering kettle to pour in the pot on the table. The rank stench of the comfrey rose on the steam, smelling of anything but an herb possessing its soothing and healing powers.

“I’ll return to the garden until that steeps,” she said.

“Are you avoiding me?” Patience fixed her with an unwavering stare.

Tabitha arched her brows. “Why would I do that?”

“Huh.” Patience plucked onions from a basket and snatched up a knife. “You don’t want to talk about Mr. Trower coming back.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Tabitha traced the punctures on her palm with a forefinger, then gave Patience a sidelong glance. “But I’m sure you do.”

“I do.” Patience sliced through an onion as though she needed to kill it. “I know you want a family, a real family, not just me and Japheth, but I’d make sure that man intends to stay for real before I tumbled head over heels for him again.”

“Never fear that.” Tabitha laughed. “I’m happy he’s still alive and well, but I’m not ready to repeat the kind of mistake I did with him.”

Like trust him to be faithful more than she did anyone, including God.

Patience set down the knife with a clatter. “You got to trust someone if you want a family, child.”

“It won’t be Raleigh, not for a long time.”

“You’re sure of that?”

Tabitha nodded. “I’m sure.”

Because, as she returned her attention to the punctures on her palm, she couldn’t hold Raleigh’s face in her mind’s eye, though he had left her house less than an hour earlier. She saw dark eyes surrounded by powdered waves and a cocky grin.

And that frightened her more than the idea of giving her heart back to Raleigh Trower.

6

______

Blood spurted. He gasped and dropped his utensils with a clatter.

“My apologies,” he managed with all the stoical training life with his father had taught him. He grabbed a serviette from the sideboard, wrapped it around his hand, and exited the now silent dining room with his back straight and head up.

In the kitchen, he collapsed onto a chair and fought a wave of nausea. “I’d be better at farming than butling.”

“Mercy.” Letty dropped her stirring spoon. “What have you done?”

“Added a bit of my claret to your fine roast.” Dominick grimaced. “And possibly ruined everyone’s appetites.”

“Let me see.” Letty took his hand in both of hers and unwound the cloth.

Blood welled from the gash.

“That’s a bad one, not big, but deep.” She pressed the serviette to the cut again. “Deborah, remove the roast. They’ll have to do with just the fish. Dinah, run for Miss Eckles.”

“Miss Eckles indeed.” Dominick lowered his head to his uninjured hand and started to laugh.

“He’s gone all over funny,” Deborah cried. “Should we make him lie down or something?”

“I’m all right.” Dominick forced himself to be quiet.

He could never explain to the girl how hard he’d been trying to see Miss Eckles, how he’d joked with himself about breaking a leg or catching a fever. He should have simply cut himself earlier and been done with the matter.

“I doubt Miss Eckles will want her Sunday dinner interrupted.” He smelled blood, not Letty’s excellent cooking. His stomach churned.

At least this time the blood belonged to him and not some misguided defender of the guilty.

“Your roast is too tender, Letty,” he said to keep his mind off his throbbing and bleeding hand. “I cut it too hard like the ham.”

“You weren’t distracted by Mrs. Lee?” Deborah tossed over her shoulder as she snatched up the fish platter and headed for the dining room.

The aroma of shrimp stuffed with crab meat wafted past Dominick’s nose. His nostrils flared, and his stomach came close to rebelling. “She’s one to talk,” he grumbled.

“You’re not flattered?” Letty brought a clean serviette to wrap around his hand.

“Of course I’m flattered.” Dominick managed a smile. “I’m human. But I am not in America to commence a liaison with an inappropriate female.”

Except he was a liar. Of course he would start a liaison with an inappropriate female if it served his end.

“And what sort of female would be appropriate?” Letty held his gaze for a moment, then left him to draw a pie from the oven.

Dominick welcomed the distraction from his throbbing hand, if not the topic.

“‘Appropriate’ would be my social equal, of course.” He injected as much flippancy as he could into his tone.

Letty snorted. “Haven’t you worked it out yet, laddie? Deborah and Dinah are your social equals here.”

“But I won’t be here—” He broke off. He didn’t know how long he would be there. Not permanently, that was for certain, and he wouldn’t take an American-born lady back to England with him, even if he had to serve out his four years. He’d already dishonored his family enough.

“Kendall’s likely to send me to a plantation to weed tobacco, or whatever the crop is,” Dominick finished. “I’ve just made amok of his precious dinner with a concession to the Lee family, whoever they are.”

“Never you mind about that.” Letty returned with a cloth soaked in cold water. “This might help. And about Mrs. Downing, she doesn’t care about her family connections. She serves God with her husband, not politicians.”

“How peculiar.” Dominick grimaced. “I’ve rarely met—”

The dining room door swished open and Deborah swept through. “Everyone is concerned about you, Mr. Cherrett. Shall I tell them you are in good hands?”

He would be. Soft little hands with long, narrow fingers. If she ever got there. If she got there before the spots in his eyes turned to total blackness.

It was just a little cut. A little cut with a lot of blood and even more pain. After all his knife throwing with his uncle, he’d cut himself on a mere carving knife.

But the sight of Tabitha Eckles striding through the doorway made the injury worth every throbbing moment. She wore a plain blue gown and white kerchief around her shoulders. Her hair shone beneath a cap with a single frill to adorn it, softening the angles of her face.

And he still wanted to kiss that point of hair in the center of her forehead.

He smiled. “See the lengths I go to so I can see you again, Miss Eckles?”

“You can’t have too serious an injury if you can talk such nonsense, Mr. Cherrett.” Her tone was brisk. She glanced around the kitchen. “You’re in the middle of serving dinner, I see. I’ll take your manservant into the kitchen garden.”

He’d have suggested his room if he thought he could climb the steps. But just rising from the chair proved difficult. He gripped the edge of the worktable with his good hand and hauled himself up. Dizzy, he swayed, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

“Are you all right, sir?” Deborah asked. “You’ve gone as pale as my apron.”

“Perfectly fine. I should be back in time to serve the pudding.” Dominick managed a smile.

“Your brains are the pudding if you think that.” Tabitha slipped her forearm beneath his. “Has he lost a great deal of blood?”

“Apparently enough.” Letty began to slice into the pie, sending the aroma of raisins and cinnamon around the kitchen.

Dominick leaned on the midwife’s arm. “I don’t like blood, especially when it’s mine.”

“Then we’ll stop it,” Tabitha said.

She proved to be a strong woman, easily steadying him on their way outside into the warm sunshine and fragrant herb garden. A puff of air smelling of the sea blew into Dominick’s face, reviving him like a whiff of hartshorn.

He sank onto the bench. “I apologize for interrupting your Sunday dinner, ma’am.”

“It isn’t the first time a meal has been interrupted.” She settled beside him and took his hand in hers. “It won’t be the last.”

“This town needs a surgeon or apothecary.”

“I’ll still be getting interrupted.” She began to unwind the makeshift bandage. “Babies don’t wait until I’m done eating.”

“A pity.”

For what, he didn’t know. Air struck his wound and pain shot up his arm. As she probed the gash with fingers as gentle as breaths, he fixed his gaze on what he could see of her face—the smooth, creamy brow with that intriguing peak of hair that lent her features their heart shape. The way her golden brown lashes shielded her eyes when her head was bent. A wrinkle in the center of her cap, as though it had been ironed inexpertly or in a hurry.

A pucker formed between her winged brows. “The bleeding is slowing, but I need to stitch this. Can you bear the discomfort?”

“I did the last time.”

“The last time?” Her head shot up, her blue eyes questioned him. “You’ve cut yourself before?”

“It wasn’t a cut.” And he wouldn’t have said a word if he didn’t feel so lightheaded.

“A gunshot?” she asked.

“You don’t need to know to treat me.” His tone was sharp.

She returned her attention to his hand, her cheeks flushing. “Of course not. Medical curiosity, is all.” She set his hand palm up on the bench and reached for the satchel she carried. “This will hurt.”

“But I’ll get to see you in a week or so to get the stitches out?”

“Yes.” She took several items from her bag. “Meanwhile, you should be able to continue your work, though I recommend you wear gloves if you have them.”

“I have them.” He shuddered at the idea.

“Good. Close your eyes.”

He caught a glimpse of a needle and silk thread and obeyed. He braced himself for the bite of steel in flesh, but caught the odor of spirits first. The burning sensation on his cut made him long for the needle. Words not fit for a lady’s ears surged to his lips. He clenched his teeth, swallowed, wished he could smell that springtime aroma he’d caught from her hair earlier.

Then the needle came. The muscles on his back jerked in sympathy. His entire body tensed, and behind his closed lids, he saw a cloudy day, cold and wet, a stable yard, fetid and dirty, blood soaking into the cobbles, washed pink from the rain. His blood, shed in such a humiliating way . . .

“Mr. Cherrett?” Tabitha gripped his shoulder, her fingertips resting on the scar, though he doubted she could feel it through his coat and shirt. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?”

“No.” He opened his eyes to find her face mere inches from his. Her breath fanned his face, and he caught his reflection in her clear eyes. “I’ve humiliated myself enough for one lifetime. I won’t add losing consciousness over a little blood and pain to the list.”

“Good.” She smiled and drew back. “I’ll set a poultice on this, and you’ll be back to your duties in a day or two.”

“I have to be. Mr. Kendall is having important guests.”

“That’s right.” She smeared a foul-smelling ointment on his hand. “You’ll do well enough. Come to see me in two weeks and I’ll remove the stitches.”

“I’d rather see you sooner.” He caught her gaze and held it.

She blinked several times, like someone suddenly exposed to strong light. “That isn’t necessary, Mr. Cherrett, unless you pull a stitch or it goes septic.”

“I could go for a walk on the beach with you.”

“I like my walks early in the morning.”

“How early?”

“Earlier than a bondsman should be about.”

“Ah, a direct hit.” He feigned a recoil as though from a blow. “You don’t like me much, do you, Madam Midwife?”

“You’re English. You were where you shouldn’t have been the night three of my countrymen vanished.”

“And I’ve been charged guilty because of a little walk on the beach and my country of birth?” He kept his tone light, playful, to mask the tension running through him, tension that had nothing to do with pain. “Is that any fairer than Harlan Wilkins accusing you of his wife’s death?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard that talk.” She curled her upper lip. “He’s off drinking and gaming and thinks I did something to harm the poor creature.”

“Will it harm your work, your reputation, Madam Mermaid?”

“Not likely.” She shrugged, though her jaw hardened. “My family has served this community for three generations without a whiff of scandal.”

“Would that I were so confident in my family name saving me.” Dominick heaved an exaggerated sigh. “But I’m judged guilty for being the dreadful English.”

“If I judged you guilty, Mr. Cherrett, I’d have told your master of your escapade.”

“So why haven’t you?”

She shrugged. “You were a bit too far from where the men were last seen. And we have no proof the British are involved, only suspicions due to your ships being in our waters.”

“But not too far”—he raised his uninjured hand to touch her throat with a whisper of his fingertips—“to have done this to you.”

She sat perfectly still as though his contact paralyzed her. He didn’t even know if she breathed until she drew in a ragged breath and pulled away from his caress.

“Whoever it was, I heed the warning. I’m used to keeping my mouth shut in my work.” She bent her head over his hand, which she wound in a strip of bleached linen. “Keep this clean. I’ll leave some salve with Letty. She’ll find you fresh cloth for bandages.”

After giving the bandage a final tweak to tighten the knot, she rose and turned toward the house.

Dominick stood too and rested his hand on her arm for a breath. “I can tell you it wasn’t me, and you’ll believe what you will.”

“You have reason to want to keep your nighttime activities private, where no one else I know does.” Her mouth pursed. “A whipping is painful.”

Skin along his back crawled. “Oh, don’t I know.”

“Do you?” Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he condemned himself with that careless remark.

“I was an English schoolboy.” He tried to recover from his slip. “You can imagine that I often gave my tutors cause to whip me.”

“I doubt that’s the same as what’s doled out to a bondsman, so watch your step, Mr. Cherrett. I don’t like tending to a back cut to ribbons.” Admonition delivered, she strode to the house, her skirt swishing around her ankles, her low-heeled walking boots raising puffs of dust in her wake.

Dominick smiled despite his aching palm, despite what she’d intended as a rebuff of his flirtation. He would win her over. He had to. He had less than four weeks to complete his mission, before his uncle left the American patrol and returned to England—leaving Dominick stranded as a servant for months, even years, regardless of whether or not he completed his mission.