On a Desert Shore (3 page)

“And Joanna?”

He shrugged, looking away. “She is well, as far as I know. We've not been in contact. She'd caused a deal of trouble on my estate before I manumitted her. She was said to be an Obeah woman—a native doctress. Most of my people were afraid of her. I did my best for Joanna, gave her a chance in life. But nothing is ever simple in this world, is it?”

“Look, if your daughter is in danger, you were very wrong to wait. What exactly do you wish me to do?”

A muscle twitched at the corner of Garrod's eye; his mouth worked as he struggled to frame a reply. “Watch over her for a week or two. That's all.”

“I'll need to interview her.”

Garrod shook his head. “I don't want her upset. She's fragile, Chase.” He extended his bank draft a second time. “Your retainer. I will require your escort this evening for a few hours. Will that suit?”

Glancing at the amount, Chase took care not to show his reaction. It was a fabulous sum, four times the fee a Runner usually commanded. He decided he would take this job, though it wasn't because of the fee, as welcome as it was. It was because he wanted to meet Joanna's daughter.

Chapter Three

Penelope Wolfe emerged from a darkened passage into paradise. Innumerable globes of fire burst upon her vision, sparkling from an avenue of trees. The scent of greenery mingled with the perfumes of the guests; laughter and the sweet strains of music struck her ears; at the end of the Grand Walk, a flaming obelisk beckoned. All was spectacle, all illusion, but that hardly mattered. She felt lighthearted, younger in spirit, ready to put aside her cares, as she and her brother Lewis joined the stream of people flowing toward the orchestra. When Penelope saw that his face wore a look of wonder that must have been reflected on her own, she smiled, happy to see his pleasure.

“Isn't it lovely?” she cried, pressing Lewis' arm in her excitement so that he narrowed his eyes at her. But at least he didn't pull away, as he would have only a few weeks ago. Progress, she thought, and looked around with fresh delight.

This was Vauxhall Gardens on a summer's night, a magical place of illuminated temples and pavilions in Kennington on the south bank of the Thames. She must find Edward Buckler in this crush, for he was the one, she was sure, who had dreamed up this expedition, and she hoped their mutual friend John Chase would also be present. Part of her delighted in the nonsense. Another part—the sober Penelope responsible for a household consisting of a five-year-old daughter, Sarah; her brother Lewis; her nursemaid and friend Maggie; and Maggie's two children—had resolved to be on her guard. It wasn't that Buckler could ever mean her harm. She knew he loved her and was almost convinced she loved him. That was the trouble. The more time they spent together, the more convinced she was, and the harder they struggled to stay within the bounds of propriety. But, absent husband or no, Penelope was a married woman.

Buckler's invitation had instructed her to use the silver entrance token attached to her card by a ribbon threaded through a loop; she was to proceed to the Grove to meet her party. The token showed three Cupids, two of whom supported a flower garland while a third played a lyre. Who was the “Mrs. Wood” whose name was engraved on the reverse of the medallion? Had she come to Vauxhall sixty years ago at the height of its glory to stroll the walks with her husband—or perhaps a lover? Whoever she was, Penelope had inherited her season ticket. The man at the entrance booth had accepted the older token without question, though he'd informed her that these days the gardens issued ordinary paper passes.

Penelope and Lewis found themselves in a large quadrangular space ornamented by a range of pavilions. Under a fanciful Gothic structure, musicians played. Hundreds more lanterns of every hue decorated the arches and the branches of the trees. People sat in supper boxes in the alcoves of the colonnades, their happy chatter rising in the night air, the lamplight illuminating a sea of eyes. At first Penelope was confused, and her gaze darted here and there, seeking a familiar face. They had just begun to make a circuit when John Chase appeared at her side. He was neatly dressed, but as usual a few gray-brown strands had escaped his queue. His expression was grim.

“Mrs. Wolfe.”

“John! I thought you'd be here. Must I remind you to call me Penelope? Don't you see the absurdity of formality among friends?”

“Penelope, then,” he said, his eyes conveying appreciation for her appearance, which was a comfort, considering she'd been forced to surrender her more expensive gowns to the bailiffs to satisfy some small portion of her husband's debts. Her ensemble had likely cost a fraction of those worn by many of the women here—some of whom strutted so boldly she thought they must be prostitutes—but at least her muslin dress was becoming. It was true that any formality between her and Chase had become absurd. He had proved her father's innocence and, with Edward Buckler's help, saved her brother from the gallows. She relied upon Chase's good sense, acrid humor, and uncompromising integrity. She knew he would tell her the truth, even when she didn't want to hear it, and would always be loyal. In recent months, she'd noticed him watching her and Buckler with a faint air of skepticism, as if he thought she needed an older brother to protect her, behavior that Penelope had found both irksome and oddly comforting. But why did he look so disapproving tonight?

“Where's Edward?” Penelope smiled at him, extending her hand.

There was no answering smile. Chase took her hand and nodded a greeting at Lewis. “You've misunderstood. It wasn't Buckler who invited you, though he's here too.”

“Was it you?”

“No.” Chase would never be called a talkative man, but he tended to get monosyllabic when in a temper. He had been especially terse recently, even with her. She thought him a good deal troubled by the lack of word from his son in America, but didn't like to raise the subject.

Before she could ask another question, a stranger approached to bow courteously. A tall man with white hair arranged in a style too young for him, he had nothing in common with the elderly gentlemen who sometimes clung to their old-fashioned wigs and heavy buckled shoes. This man was dressed in skin-tight evening breeches, fashionable coat, and snowy cravat from which a diamond sparkled. He raised Penelope's hand to his lips, his lined face creasing in a practiced smile. “Greetings, ma'am.” He bowed to Lewis. “And Mr. Durant,” he hazarded. He cocked his head at Chase. “What are you waiting for? Make the introductions.”

At his most expressionless, Chase murmured, “Mrs. Wolfe, may I introduce Mr. Garrod?”

***

They made their way to a booth where Edward Buckler sat with a young woman. Jumping to his feet when he saw Penelope, he greeted her and stepped back as Marina Garrod rose to make her curtsey. She was a lithe figure garbed in the conventional white muslin gown of the debutante. It shimmered in the glow of the many-colored lamps, which played over the warm skin of her face and throat. She had large, brown eyes set under winged brows, sculpted cheekbones, and an arrow nose pointing toward an elfin chin. Lewis, gazing at the girl in admiration, barely recalled himself in time to make his bow. Miss Garrod gave him a frank look of interest, and a smile wavered on her lips before her expression settled back into more remote lines.

Penelope seated herself next to Buckler, who shrugged when she sent him an inquiring glance. She took out the silver token with its Cupids and pushed it across the table to Garrod. “I believe this belongs to you, sir.”

He didn't take it. “For you, Mrs. Wolfe. A gift. You may wish to return to the gardens on another occasion. Keep it.”

“Very kind. But I cannot accept it.” She didn't understand what was happening here. Buckler seemed uncomfortable, and Chase had apparently decided he would leave Garrod to make his own explanations. She wasn't sure she liked what she had seen of her host thus far, nor did she appreciate the arrogant note in the man's voice when he spoke to Chase.

Garrod launched into an explanation. “I'm glad you were able to join me this evening, ma'am. I have wanted to make your acquaintance and for a particular reason.”

“Indeed?” Penelope shot a look at Chase, who was seemingly absorbed in the performance of the singer who had just taken the stage, but she saw that the nonchalance was a pose.

Garrod had observed Penelope's glance. “Before you take Chase to task, I must tell you that he knew nothing about my little plot until he arrived tonight.” He grinned at her. “Forgive me, ma'am. I intended only your pleasure. You will excuse an old man for saying you look lovely tonight, the perfect foil to the beauty that surrounds us.” Softly, he quoted, “
Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould / Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?
”

This was the inscription printed at the bottom of her invitation, the one she'd assumed came from Buckler. Penelope blushed, which only increased her embarrassment. Then she saw that Lewis, still gazing with all his eyes at Marina Garrod, had apparently decided she was the more fitting recipient of this poetic tribute. Penelope gave him a gentle nudge with the toe of her slipper. He started and shot her an annoyed glance.

Setting down his glass of arrack punch, Buckler spoke into the silence. “Milton's
Comus
? You quote a villain, sir, a sorcerer who happened upon an innocent in the forest and entrapped her.”

“Ah, but her virtue and fiery intelligence protected her,” replied Garrod, unperturbed.

Penelope broke in. “I thought my friends had arranged this gathering.”

Garrod laughed joyously. “As I intended you should, ma'am. Are you truly sorry? For you see your friends
are
here. I wanted you to become acquainted with me and my family.” He paused. “In short, I hoped this evening would give me an opportunity to convince you to accept a further commission, one that would do me an enormous service.”

Penelope felt Buckler tense. He and Chase were two bristling dogs standing at attention, ready to snap at anyone who might threaten her. Her sense of the ridiculous stirred. Had Buckler been brought here tonight by a similar token and engraved card? If so, she assumed Mr. Garrod had selected some less effusive quotation for him.

After a moment, Garrod continued. “I've employed Chase to provide security at my house in Clapham for a week or two. It will be just the family in residence since my daughter needs rest, but I have planned a party in celebration of the full moon. I thought you and your brother might like to come to us for a week.”

Penelope stared at him in bewilderment. “You brought me here to invite me to a party? Why should you, Mr. Garrod? I'm a stranger to you.”

“As I said, I have a commission for you, Mrs. Wolfe. A certain magazine has approached me to request a sketch of my life, but I have stipulated that I wish to choose my own interviewer. I happened upon some work of yours, namely the piece you wrote about Mrs. Durant. I must say I thought it marvelous.”

Under the table, Penelope's hand went out to find Lewis', and he allowed her to clasp it for a moment. After all the lies in the papers, Penelope had wanted to tell the real story of his mother's life. Though she had written the piece under a pseudonym, her own identity had been thinly veiled, so she was not terribly surprised that Garrod knew of her authorship. “You wish me to write an honest account of your life, sir?”

“I'd rather you wrote a puff piece, to tell you the truth. But I will put no restrictions on your muse. I guarantee that, ma'am, and can assure you a handsome fee. You will find promising material to amuse the public in the entertainment I have planned.” Garrod turned his courteous smile on Buckler. “I also entreat you, sir, to attend my small evening party. Tomorrow night? Nothing elaborate.”

“Short notice for Mrs. Wolfe,” said Chase, and Buckler began to utter a scarcely more polite excuse that seemed intended to speak for both of them.

“I will answer for myself, thank you.” Penelope had already decided to accept the invitation. Buckler and Chase knew how she was placed. It shouldn't be hard for them to understand that if she had a chance to earn some money, she must take it. Making a living from her pen had proved a precarious existence at best.

Garrod's voice intruded on her thoughts. “May we count on you, Mrs. Wolfe?”

“Do come, ma'am,” urged Marina Garrod, a statue coming to life. “We shall have such fun. Nothing formal: riding, driving and taking long walks. I'd be glad of a companion.” She smiled at Lewis. “Do you enjoy riding, sir?”

He smiled back. “I've never had much opportunity.”

Chase leaned forward. “You draw Mrs. Wolfe into matters that don't concern her.” His eyes flickered in Marina Garrod's direction. “Private family matters.”

“Nonsense. Clapham is lovely at this time of year. She will enjoy it. Let us discuss the details later. There's the bell for the waterworks. Mr. Buckler, will you escort Mrs. Wolfe while Mr. Durant and I take Marina? Let us make haste. Mr. Durant, will you come with us?”

“Mind your pockets,” said Chase sourly. “The thieves will be busy.”

Garrod jumped from his seat and grabbed his daughter's hand. Together, they ran off into the surging crowd, Marina Garrod laughing like a child. As Lewis followed, a new worry occurred to Penelope. She'd feared that Lewis might fall into bad company among the young men who haunted taverns and coffee houses, but it had never occurred to her to fear other kinds of entanglements. Her brother, who had worked for a time as a junior teacher, was a scholarly young man who had heretofore shown little interest in women. She shook off this concern and looked at Buckler.

“You heard him,” said Buckler. “Let's go, Penelope. Chase?”

“I'll sit here and finish my punch.” He sat back, frowning at the painting on the wall of the supper box. It showed two Mohammedans gazing, awestruck, upon the beauties of the garden. Chase looked considerably less pleased.

***

When the curtain rose on the mechanism of the waterworks, Penelope and Buckler exclaimed with everyone else. She pretended more enthusiasm than she felt for the mill with its revolving wheel and foaming cascade, smiling dutifully as Buckler pointed out the mail coach with its tiny passengers and the hunters accompanied by a pack of hounds. His shoulder against hers was a distraction, and though he kept his face resolutely forward, she knew he felt the same hum of awareness between them. After a time and without any discussion, they wandered into a more secluded walk among lofty trees in which nightingales sang.

She had been afraid Buckler would raise the subject of Garrod's invitation, but he seemed content merely to stroll, drinking in the glamor of the night and listening to the sweet strains of the music that mingled with the birds. Penelope forgot Hugo Garrod and his daughter. She forgot John Chase and his disapproval of her decision to accept Garrod's commission. She forgot her resolution to keep Buckler at a distance. Something of the magic she had felt when she stepped into these gardens returned.