On a Desert Shore (27 page)

Chase threw all his anger and his disdain into his next speech: “A word or two more, and we are done. We must acknowledge today's incident that nearly proved fatal to my friend. Mrs. Yates and Miss Honeycutt heard a noise from the boiler room and understood that someone had been eavesdropping on them. Miss Honeycutt did not wait to see what happened or try to prevent her aunt's next act. No, she ran away, though she did send Mr. Buckler to the hothouse to rescue Mrs. Wolfe. Anne Yates jammed the cellar door and opened the valve of the pipe so that the cellar was flooded.” Saying this made his voice turn husky again, and Chase felt chagrin at his lack of control. But that was hardly the point, was it? He felt a driving need that this woman should own her guilt.

“I cannot say if Mrs. Yates knew the boiler would explode, but I think she did,” he said.

She spoke at last. “No…I didn't know.”

Chase reached down behind his chair and pulled up something he'd hidden there. “I returned to the housekeeper's room an hour ago and found this at the back of one of the cupboards. Mr. Tallboys has identified it. It's an Obeah bundle, isn't it, ma'am? You used these foul ingredients to play your games with Miss Garrod. I presume you learned these tricks when you lived in Jamaica?”

Chase began to deal out the contents of the scrap of cloth onto the table. Fishbones. Some musty smelling black dirt. Eggshells. The teeth of a cat. Three glossy black feathers.

When Marina saw the feathers, she gave a cry. She made her way across the room to stand with Chase, saying in a passionate tone, “How could you, Aunt? How could you do this to me?”

An ugly animal-sound burst from the housekeeper's throat. “I want to die. Why did you stop me, Chase?” Her mouth stretched wide, and her fingernails, curling like claws, came up to scratch her wrinkled cheeks. “My children…I did it all for you.”

“It wasn't really about the money, after all.” Chase lifted the woman's hands from her face and restrained them in a tight grip.

Mrs. Yates stood in the role of mother to Marina, to Beatrice, to Ned. This mother had decided that, in Marina's case, the human material she molded was simply too flawed. To defend, as she saw it, the family name, she had been a realist. She would torment the girl, sabotage her London debut, deprive her of position as an heiress and in society. She would poison the mind—and the body—of her brother to ensure what she deemed the appropriate settlement of the estate. Above all, she would not indulge Hugo Garrod's dynastic dreams for his mixed-blood, illegitimate daughter.

Chapter Twenty-six

Marina bid a tearful goodbye to Lewis, swearing to persuade her guardian to allow Lewis to call in future, though whether such visits would ever be permitted seemed dubious. The young people wore defiant expressions and seemed inclined to put the rest of the world at a distance. Waiting until his sister and Buckler had stepped into the coach, Lewis bowed over Marina's hand for the last time.

“I will never forget your goodness to me,” Marina said. He straightened, and their eyes clung.

“It was nothing, Miss Garrod.” Lewis forced himself to look away to address Tallboys, who waited on the portico steps. “Your servant, sir.”

The clergyman inclined his head. “Let me add my thanks, Mr. Durant. Let it never be said that I do not value loyalty and friendship as I should.” He beckoned to his ward. “Come, Marina. Our guests are eager to depart.”

***

When Penelope stepped into the sitting room, Sarah ran into her mother's arms. “Mama, you're home!” she cried. Looking at the child afresh, Buckler saw that she had lost much of her baby fat. Her thin, wiry arms were clasped around her mother's neck, and she was dropping little kisses on Penelope's cheeks and chin. After a moment, she raised her face with its huge, dark eyes to examine her mother more closely. Apparently satisfied, she wiggled free. Maggie, Jamie, and Frank clustered round Penelope, Maggie breaking into a stream of chatter and her sons jumping up and down. Frank tugged at Penelope's skirt, while Jamie put his thumb in his mouth and stared at her. After Penelope released Sarah, Lewis greeted his niece by lifting her into the air and making her shriek with pleasure. Maggie's boys, who worshipped Penelope's brother, were soon drawing him aside to show off their treasures. Frank had a ball he wanted to demonstrate to the peril of a vase that sat on the sofa table, and Jamie a scrawled picture that was supposed to be a dog.

Buckler had not moved from the threshold. He felt a lightness of heart that made him grin like a fool, mingled with the terrifying sensation that he had come home, even though no one but Penelope knew it yet. Not that these lodgings in a mean street off Golden Square could ever be a real home to any of them. The house itself had once been splendid enough, but, now let in suites of rooms, it had deteriorated into damp and dingy shabbiness.

As they'd ascended the broad staircase with its blocked-up windows, Buckler's imagination had been busy with schemes to relocate the whole family. A place where the air was clean and the children could play out of doors, but not so far away that he could not easily manage his business. There were difficulties ahead—enormous ones. He would investigate Penelope's precise legal position with her marriage, and arrange a bond that would secure her an income for life, no matter what happened to him.

He watched her with the children. She'd been so young when she wed Jeremy Wolfe, just eighteen. She'd never told him the full story of her marriage, but he was certain she hadn't had her father's permission, and he thought she might have married abroad. Could there be a loophole that would free her? If not, could he bring himself to put her at risk if their relationship became what he so ardently desired? Later. He would ask himself the hard questions later and make sure Penelope asked them too.

When the clamor had subsided, she glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “Edward, say hello to Sarah.”

He went to the child and held out his hand in greeting.

***

It was John Chase's turn to take leave. He'd escorted the maid Todd, lugging her valise, to the main road and had written the report laying out the evidence against Mrs. Yates for use in the coroner's court and beyond. He'd supervised Tallboys in preparing a statement for her to sign in which she formally resigned as trustee. He'd also consulted with the magistrate, who would oversee the initial inquiry into her crimes, and seen the poisoner confined in the village lockup. Tallboys and Honeycutt, asking that she be provided with every comfort, had arranged for an attorney to wait upon her. Tallboys had inquired if Chase would remain for dinner, but he'd declined, eager to get home. In the morning he would see the chief magistrate at Bow Street, but for tonight he was tired and wanted to be alone.

Tallboys now seemed to distrust his powers of management—a reaction that made him more likeable and that probably wouldn't last. He asked Chase what should be done with the Honeycutts, if Marina should persist in her antagonism toward them.

“Send them about their business,” recommended Chase. “The will leaves them provided for. Why should Miss Garrod be expected to house and feed them if you, her guardian, doesn't choose?”

“You don't think—” Breaking off, he shot Chase a doubting look, then said, “Would it be possible, do you suppose, that Mrs. Yates might go away somewhere and live quietly? She must have been mad to play those heathen tricks and murder her own brother. The scandal, Mr. Chase. It will be dreadful for Miss Garrod.”

And for you
, thought Chase. “Not possible. Mrs. Yates must stand her trial. I'll see that she does myself. I think you know that she is entirely sane, sir.”

The clergyman heaved a bottomless sigh. “And what if a suitable candidate can't be found for the girl's hand in time? Miss Garrod will be left to my charge forever if she does not satisfy the terms of the trust.”

“Leave that problem for another day,” said Chase.

Marina Garrod took his arm and accompanied him right to the carriage door, waving Mr. Tallboys off when he tried to dog her heels.

“Mr. Chase,” she said when they faced one another in the warm glow of early evening, “it is not too much to say that you have saved my life—you and your friends—but chiefly you. I was unhappy when my father employed you. I thought you were another spy. I never thought you would be my friend.”

“But your father did. He chose me because I owed your mother my life. Mr. Garrod hoped I was the kind of man who wishes to repay old debts, and he was right in that. Now, though, I would act for your sake alone, out of my great admiration for you. It has been an honor to serve you, ma'am.” This was not the speech he usually delivered to his clients, but he felt it warranted in this case. And meant it, every word. It had been iniquitous of Garrod to make his daughter's marriage a condition of her inheritance, but Chase believed she would somehow continue to manage her relatives, and he did not envy Mr. Tallboys in his task.

“I would hate never to see you again.” Marina paused, then added lightly, “Perhaps I will one day give a grand party. Will you come watch over the jewels of the guests?”

He bowed, taking her hand. “Glad to, Miss Garrod.”

“I want you to know that in any house of mine, you will be an invited guest. Standing around and terrifying the servants will not be allowed. I will even expect you to dance with me.”

“If these creaky bones decide to cooperate, I am your man.”

They smiled at one another, and Chase released her.

He was about to mount the steps into the coach when she called him back. “Mr. Chase, do you think I might write a letter to my mother in Jamaica? Will they let me?”

“Insist on it,” he told her. “Mark my words. From this day forward, your family will strive to please you. When you write to Joanna, give her my regards.”

“Anyone who wishes to please me will help me defeat the infamous provision in my father's will that forbids the emancipation of his slaves. Mr. Durant and I have already discussed the matter.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Do you suppose Mr. Buckler can advise me?”

Chase almost laughed aloud but didn't want to hurt her feelings. The thought of Tallboys forced to deal with a budding abolitionist was delicious to him, and, should she persevere in these aims, Buckler would be jolted from his bookish retreat yet again. Or maybe that retreat had become a thing of the past, in any case. Chase had noticed the perfect harmony that existed between his friends and was both happy for them and determined to reserve his judgment of this development for the future. Marina awaited his response. He said, “I am sure Mr. Buckler will be glad to assist you, and if you need me for anything, you'll let me know. Goodbye for the present, Miss Garrod.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Chase.”

As the carriage rolled away, he put out his head and waved a hand to her. She waved back. He watched her until the coach turned onto the main road.

At home, he let himself into the entrance hall. He heard the clatter of the dinner dishes coming from the dining room as he sneaked up the stairs, wishing to avoid seeing anyone. On the landing, however, he met Sybil Fakenham.

“You're back,” she said, seemingly without much interest. But the curiosity was strong in her eyes, and he knew he'd likely be receiving a late-night visit.

“Why aren't you at dinner? Still at daggers-drawn with Mrs. Beeks?”

“We've reached a stalemate, though hostile forces are ever ready for attack.”

“Declare a peace treaty. You won't be around long enough to wage a war.”

“Oh, am I going somewhere?” Her sharp nose wrinkled at him.

“You are going to be lady's maid to a young woman. It's all arranged. Miss Garrod needs a friend in her household, so I'll ask you to keep that tongue of yours between your teeth and make yourself useful to her. They expect you tomorrow. It's a good position, Sybil.” He named the salary that Tallboys had quoted him.

Her eyes widened. “I'll start packing my bags. Mr. Chase, there's something you should know.”

“Later,” he said, so exhausted that he stumbled a little as he approached his door. He hadn't had a full night's rest in five days. “Tell Mrs. Beeks not to disturb me with a tray for several hours at least.”

He went into his bedchamber and closed the door. He removed his boots, ripped the cravat from his neck, and shrugged off his coat. Just as he was about to throw himself on the bed, he saw it, a white rectangle in the middle of his desk. It was impossible to see more, for the room darkened rapidly as night descended. Chase walked to the desk and picked up the letter. Showing foreign postmarks, creases, and water spots, it was addressed in a firm, young hand, which he recognized at once. It was from his son. His fatigue forgotten, he strode to the mantelpiece to retrieve the tinderbox. He lit a candle and sat down in his armchair to read Jonathan's letter.

Acknowledgments

I must start by thanking my friend Dan Kelleher for helping me understand boiler explosions. Dan, chemistry teacher extraordinaire, pointed out problems with my scenario and suggested clarifications. In a historical novel, there's always the question of what actually happened versus what my early nineteenth-century characters
believed
had occurred, especially since steam technology as applied to greenhouses was newfangled in Regency England. I truly appreciate Dan's help.

Margaret and Peter Mason generously gave their time to read a draft of the manuscript and offer perceptive comments. It is in no small part due to their efforts that I was able to catch a number of silly mistakes. Thank you, Margaret and Peter!

As always, I thank my husband, Michael, who helped me with boilers, laudanum, greenhouses, and about a thousand other plotting and character matters. Let's just say that he comes along with me on the journey of every book.

Finally, I am grateful to everyone at Poisoned Pen Press for shepherding this manuscript through production. Thank you, especially, to Barbara Peters, Annette Rogers, Beth Deveny, Rob Rosenwald, and Pete Zrioka.