The Rogue's Return (24 page)

She couldn't lose Simon. She couldn't bear it.

She fell into a doze, to be woken by his kiss. “It's nunch time. You should try to eat a little more.”

“I do feel empty.”

She climbed out and moved into his arms. “I've missed you so,” she said, resting against his chest.

“And I you. No more sea travel for you, Jancy St. Bride.”

She looked up at him. “I don't want to trap you on an island.”

He smiled. “A smaller one than Britain would be ample, love, when I'm with you.”

“For me, too.” The bell rang for the meal and she moved apart from him. “All steady.”

She went to the mirror to check that her hair was still
in order. It was, but in such a simple style. Grace's words stuck in her mind. “Will I ever be a true lady?”

“You are a true lady.”

She turned to him. “You're bound to say that.”

“My love, I'll try always to be honest with you. You are a lady and my wife, but yes, your appearance must change. I hope you'll spend a great deal on pretty clothes and accept a skilled lady's maid to assist you with them.”

“I'm good with my needle.” It was only half a tease.

“But you won't be able to make everything. A true lady has many demands on her time.”

He'd said exactly the right thing and she didn't think it was calculated. Unlike her own words, which were always weighed to the ounce.

“I dismissed Grace Pitt.”

“I'm not surprised. I'm sorry. There wasn't much choice.”

“She did all that was necessary, and heaven knows I was noisome enough company. I paid her off. A guinea. Probably too much.”

“She had been paid.”

“I guessed as much, but it seemed mine to do.”

“Because you're my wife.” He touched her cheek. “It's been an unsettled marriage thus far, hasn't it? I promise smooth sailing from here.”

“Really?” she challenged.

He laughed. “No, I can't drive away storms, but you won't be sick again, will you?”

“I pray not.”

“No miraculous maggots? No folk remedy for mal de mer?”

“As Dr. Playter said, if I knew of anything, don't you think I'd have used it?”

He dropped his teasing. “I'm sorry. I forgot about your cousin. Nan, wasn't it?”

It struck like a blow that he not be sure.

“Now I've said entirely the wrong thing. Jane, I'm sorry. I forgot how much she meant to you.”

She found a smile. “It's all right. You can't help it. You never knew her.”

“Then why not tell me about her?”

Jancy wanted to talk about Jane, so much it blossomed as agony in her heart, but she couldn't. She couldn't speak the truth, and she couldn't bear to spew lies to Simon. She was going to burst into tears.

“My love, my love, I'm sorry.” He drew her into his arms. “I'm a clumsy oaf. We'll visit Carlisle. You can show me where you both played. Your favorite spots. Your old friends. Your mother's grave . . .”

Jancy screwed her eyes shut but wanted to moan. How had she ever thought she could carry this off? “I'm sorry. I'm weak still. I think I'd better go back to bed.”

“Of course.” He helped her to lie down. “I'll have some food sent to you. Do try to eat.”

Jancy lay there with her hands over her face. How could she live like this, having to lie to Simon again and again and again? Never able to talk honestly about Jane. Never able to relax. Could love survive that? She wasn't sure she could.

The steward knocked and brought a tray. She asked him to put it on the chest, unable to imagine eating.

She kept to her room that day, and whenever Simon came in to check on her, she pretended to be asleep. When he came to bed, he “woke” her.

“I'm sorry, Jane, but I'm not sure you should be sleeping so much. Are you sure you're all right?”

Looking into his concerned eyes, guilt and love brought tears to her eyes again. He gathered her into his arms and rocked her. “Hush, my love, hush. I can't bear to see you cry.”

“I'm sorry. I'm just so tired. I think I'll be better tomorrow.”

He stroked her cheek and kissed her. “I pray so. I want my strong, spirited Jancy back.”

For him, she would fly to the moon. “She will be.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked, his eyes telling her what he really wanted.

She found the strength to play the game. “Perhaps. If you're very, very good.”

“Oh, I will be. I promise.”

He undressed, deliberately leaving the candle lit, and desire overwhelmed even fear. She held out her hands to him and he came to her. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes. Love me, Simon.”

As he slipped into bed beside her and took her into his arms, her need for him, need in every way, was as palpable as the urgent beating of her heart. She turned the lock firmly upon truth. Nothing would ever come between them.

After breakfast the next day Simon insisted that Jancy take some air on deck. Mrs. Ransome-Brown protested that it was too cold, but Jancy declared herself desperate for fresh air. She dressed warmly in both a long pelisse and a waist-length cloak. With a firmly tied-on bonnet, warm gloves, and her muff, she was ready for the elements.

The wind hit brisk and icy, but she laughed with delight. “Oh, that feels wonderful!” She tilted her head back farther and saw a sailor high in the rigging. “I don't know how they can bring themselves to do that.”

“A head for heights,” he said. “Should I confess that I climbed up to the crow's nest on the voyage out?”

She turned a frown on him. “You're not to do it this time.”

“Or you'll whip me with horses' tails?”

She fought a smile. “No, with ribbons and silken thread. And I, sir, do have some of those in my luggage.”

He wriggled his brows. “I can't wait.”

Laughter escaped and she turned away to look out at the silver sea, trying not to think of how deep it was, and how frail even a ship like the
Eweretta
was by
comparison. Simon came up behind her and put his arms around her, resting his head against hers. She felt warm, safe, and perfectly content.

“I missed you so much, love. Despite all the strife, we've hardly been apart since our wedding. If I have my way, we will never be apart again.”

She covered his hands with her own. “That sounds perfect.”

He rubbed his head against hers. “Who was the other Jane? The one you fretted about. Tell me, love. I want to share all your sorrows.”

Quicksands sucked at her feet.

J
ancy fought tears. Why now, at this idyllic moment? Eyes closed, she produced her lie. “A childhood friend. She drowned.”

“I'm sorry.”

Some force led her to turn and elaborate, as if a complex lie was less wicked than a simple one. “She drowned in the river. In Carlisle. We'd slipped away from home and were playing at the edge, trying to catch sticklebacks. She fell in. I screamed for help. Some men dragged her out.”

Then some truly demented force took control. “They were Hasketts. Nobody likes Hasketts. Decent people, I mean. I suppose Hasketts like Hasketts.” She was babbling and couldn't stop. “They're dirty and thieving, but they were kind to me. They tried to save her. But she died.”

She stood there, appalled, but deep inside a part of her was bubbling to be able to speak a truth about her childhood family.

They were kind to me.

They would try to save a child from drowning.

In their own Haskett way, they were good people.

She'd fallen into the Abbey Street way of seeing things—if people were footloose and dirty, they had to be wicked. But she knew now that it wasn't true. Not in
the real sense of wicked. Not as clean, home-owning McArthur had been wicked.

How could she not have known how strangling her long denial had been?

“I'm sorry,” Simon said. “That's obviously still a very distressing memory.” He took her gloved hand. “A friend of mine, a cousin, died. We were eight, not six, but playing. Simply playing in a hayloft. He fell. A rotten ladder shattered and—he was impaled. I've seen many other deaths, but I will never forget that one.”

Jancy gripped his hand. “Oh, Simon, I'm so very sorry.” She meant it in more ways than one. His painful memory was true and hers was an entire fabrication.

He smiled. “It was long ago. Then he looked beyond her and turned her. “The tunny are back!”

A huge silvery blue shape arched out of the water, then another, and another. Simon took her hand. “Come on. Hal and Norton are fishing on the other side.”

They ran around the longboat to where Hal and Norton were fishing. Or rather, to where they were leaning against the rail in conversation while holding the wooden frames around which fishing line was wrapped, the rest of it trailing in the water.

“Wake up, you two,” Simon said. “They're back.”

The two men took a firmer grip on their frames. A memory popped into Jancy's head. Playing with similar frames—a hand line it was called. Children whiling away summer afternoons dangling their lines into streams. The best she ever remembered cathching was a useless little gudgeon. They hadn't been allowed to play where they might catch trout, salmon, or pike. That was poaching territory. Hasketts might use their children for begging, but they guarded them from serious trouble with the law.

Hal shouted as his hand line jerked and he began to turn it with his wrist, reeling in the taut line. Simon rushed to help. Jancy wondered if Hal might object, but he was grinning as they worked together. Then it snapped, staggering them both backward.

“Too big,” Simon said, grabbing a new hook and a piece of meat. He fixed it to the line and Hal let it down into the water again.

Jancy hung over the rail, watching the great fish flicker beneath the water and sometimes leap out. “They're all too big.”

“There are small ones,” Simon said. “The colonel caught one yesterday.” His attention was on the water and the line, but she didn't mind. Not at all.

Abbey Street might not have taught her much about men, but her Haskett days plus her time with Isaiah had. This was Simon's ordinary life, enjoying sport with friends, and she wanted it for him. Ordinary life for both of them. Surely that wasn't too much to ask?

Colonel Ransome-Brown rushed out with his son to try to catch another fish. Dacre was close behind. Even Reverend Shore emerged to observe. Bait was snatched, but lines snapped. Then Norton began to reel one in.

“I think I can handle this one!” he cried, gritting his teeth as he fought the fish and the fish fought back.

It flashed out of the water, big and strong, but tiny by tunny standards. Perhaps only a couple of feet long. That was big enough for a fierce fight, however, and the men gathered to help as Norton slowly hauled it in. The colonel reached over with a big hook to help bring it over the side. Norton slammed the fish on the head with a mallet to kill it.

Everyone, including the sailors and even the captain, let out a mighty cheer.

That evening, the whole ship enjoyed the results. The cook baked the tunny over a fire on the deck, and it was quite meaty, not like the fish Jancy was used to, but delicious. She made sure Grace Pitt and her family weren't forgotten in the treat. The captain proposed a toast to the fish and the hero who'd caught it. They all raised their glasses and Captain Norton colored, but with pride.

Talk turned to ports of arrival. The
Eweretta
's
destination port was London, but it had already been arranged that she would put in to Plymouth to let off Mr. Shore, whose sister lived nearby, and Simon and his party, in order to visit Lord Darius.

Jancy asked the captain, “Why do so many ships sail around to London? Why not use western ports such as Plymouth or Bristol?”

“Transportation, ma'am. There's the old saying ‘All roads lead to Rome,' but today, all roads lead to London. Now, it's different if goods are going to or from the west or north; then Bristol, Liverpool, or even Glasgow are more appropriate.”

“Sailed from Glasgow outbound,” Dacre said. “We'd be sailing back there if not for commissions in London.”

“We sailed from Glasgow, too,” Jancy said.

“We?” asked Mrs. Ransome-Brown. Why did the woman always seem so suspicious? Was dull clothing a sign of sin in her eyes?

“My wife traveled with a cousin,” Simon intervened, “who sadly died. I mentioned her when Jane was sick.”

“Ah, yes, you were both Miss Otterburn at the time.”

Lionel Dacre exclaimed, “Otterburn! Never say you're old Otter Otterburn's daughter, Mrs. St. Bride? Little Janey? But of course you must be.
That's
why you look familiar.”

Jancy stared at him, straining to keep a smile on her face.

Was this it, then?

Here, in public, where she was trapped by the endless ocean?

Say something.

But he chattered on. “You won't remember me, of course.” He laughed. “You were a young thing when I went on to Sedbergh.”

Of course she had been. Or Jane had been. Jane had been only ten when her father died and the school was sold. At that time, Jancy was still with the Hasketts.

Breathe.

“You and your mother attended prayers each morning,” he reminisced. “I remember your pretty hair. I did hear about Dr. Otterburn's death. My condolences. I say, I hope you didn't mind my using that old nickname. Schoolboy nonsense.”

“Not at all, sir.”

Jancy was still braced for the ax to fall, but he started to tell stories about her father that needed no input from her at all. A reprieve, but she bleakly knew that execution was still likely. Inevitable, even.

She'd persuaded herself that there was little danger of meeting people whom she'd known well in Carlisle—but she'd overlooked the school. Many young gentlemen of Cumberland, Westmorland, and northern Lancashire had spent a year or two at Otterburn's before going on to grander schools. Simon's world could be full of them.

Desperately playing her part in the conversation, Jancy tried to imagine what an ex-schoolboy might know or say that would trip her up. There were so many details of Jane's early life that she didn't know. Her toys, her pets, Martha's baby name for her. Dacre had referred to her as Janey, and she'd told Simon Jancy was her baby name. Had he noticed?

Simon took her hand beneath the table. She knew he thought she was distressed by sad memories, not fear.

Conversation had moved to principles of education, so she concentrated on appearing carefree.
See,
she tried to tell herself,
you have met one of those young men and all is well. What notice would a schoolboy take of a child?

She made herself believe it and was almost calm by the time the meal ended. Everyone rose so Kirkby could clear the table, and she was thinking she could make an excuse to retreat into privacy, but Dacre came over.

“I don't wish to impose, Mrs. St. Bride, but I wondered if you still executed portraits.”

It was as if a great stillness settled around her. For
far too long her mind was empty, but then she managed, “I'm sorry . . . ? Oh, no. It was not I, sir, but my cousin who was the artist. However did you know about that?”

He seemed taken aback. “My apologies. I could have sworn . . . I have a picture of my sister, you see, sent to me last year, and I thought you might do one of my wife. Here, let me get it. I'm sure everyone will be interested, for it is so excellently done.”

He was gone before she could protest, and how could she? But she was icy and unsteady. Thank heavens Simon was setting up the card table and unaware of any crisis. She sat in one of the side chairs, fighting faintness.

If she insisted Nan had been the artist, surely Dacre couldn't contradict her. He couldn't be
sure
of such a detail, especially when he hadn't been there. She was trying to remember if Jane had signed those charity drawings. Surely not. She hardly ever signed her work.

This wasn't the end, then. Only yet one more battle to fight.

But if the limited world of the
Eweretta
held such traps, what would the whole of Britain hold? Many of Jane's pictures, for a start.

Dacre came back with a framed picture and announced, “I have a treat for everyone. A drawing executed by Mrs. St. Bride's cousin!”

He related the story of the young artist doing pencil sketches to raise money for the soldiers and displayed the picture on the desk. Everyone gathered to look, and Jancy felt she must go, too. It was small, as were all the ones done at the fair, but even without knowing the sitter, Jancy could tell that as always Jane had caught the likeness. A shy, nervous smile and a kind heart.

All present voiced their admiration.

Then Simon said, “We have more. Would you mind sharing them, my dear?”

Numbly Jancy said, “No, of course not.” If doom was to strike, she wanted Jane to get her due.

He brought back the portfolio and everyone sat at the now cleared table to pass them round.

“A remarkable talent,” the colonel said.

“A sad loss,” murmured Norton.

“You were something of a hoyden,” stated Mrs. Ransome-Brown, looking at the picture of Jancy in the tree. “Ah,” she added, picking up the self-portrait. “The artist.” She looked from the picture to Jancy and back again. “A remarkable resemblance between cousins.”

As usual, it carried a hint of suspicion, but no one, not even the Grand Panjandrum herself, could suspect the truth.

Jancy said, “Yes, we were often mistaken for each other by those who didn't know us well. Our coloring was exactly the same.”

The lady produced a lorgnette and peered at Dacre's picture. “What tiny initials. JAO. What was your cousin's name?”

Jancy's head went hot, her hands and feet cold. There was only one thing to say. “Jane Anne Otterburn, ma'am. We were both called Jane Anne Otterburn.”

The lorgnette was turned on her. “A remarkable coincidence.”

“They are Otterburn names, I understand.”

“How very confusing it must have been.”

“That's why one of us was Jane, ma'am, one Nan.”

She braced for the next blow, but when it came, it was from an entirely unexpected direction. The pictures went the rounds, were admired, and then arrived at her to be put away.

That was when Jancy realized that before Simon brought the pictures out, he'd removed the one that showed their simple Abbey Street house. The picture with the sign in the window saying
Mrs. Otterburn. Haberdashers.

For all his grand words, he was ashamed of even that minor failing.

She tied the portfolio and then excused herself.

She stood in the small room, still and hopeless. How had she ever thought her lies could hold? In York, especially living quietly, there'd seemed no danger. Perhaps that had lulled her.

For a while, the ship had seemed equally safe, even when Lionel Dacre turned out to be from Penrith. In fact that had reassured her, proving that even people who knew Carlisle posed no threat.

But the
Eweretta
was Simon's world in miniature. They would not live quietly but in the midst of a world full of Grand Panjandrums with nothing better to do than scrutinize every detail of her life, men like Dacre who'd attended her father's school, and all the people who treasured Jane's charity sketches.