To Have and to Hold (37 page)

So she only smiled and said, "I'm glad you feel you can trust me. Is something troubling you about William?"

"Well. . . 'troubling' bain't the word, exactly," she said slowly. "Here's how it is. I talk a lot to 'im at night, sometimes in the barn, other times walkin' on the grounds, and I been telling him things about myself. Things about my father, but not just that. Once I told him what I wished would happen to me—that I'd find somebody who could love me, and we'd get married and have a family. And I told him why I know it will never happen."

"Why?"

"Because," she said simply, "I'm a cripple."

"Sidony. You're not a cripple. You walk with a limp, that's all. And you're pretty, smart—any man would be lucky to have you for a wife."

"That's just what Mr. Holyoake said."

"Well, then. Two wise old adults have given you excellent advice. I hope you listen to us."

Instead of returning her smile, Sidony looked troubled. "Now that's just it. How old a man would you say Mr. Holyoake is, ma'am?"

She thought. "Forty?"

"That's what I'd've said, too. But no, he bain't but thirty-five. I know because he told me last night when I asked. And here's the next thing. Last Sunday Bob Douthwatte asked if he could walk home with me from church. I said no thank you, and that night I asked Mr. Holyoake if I'd done right to say no."

"What did he say?"

Sidony turned her back to the river and perched her elbows on the stone ledge. "What he said—do what I think's right, all that—it's not really ... that's not exactly what I wanted to tell you. The way he
looked,
the way he
said
I must do what was best for myself, so on and so forth—Mrs. Wade, you'll hardly credit it, but I had the strongest feeling just then that Mr. Holyoake might be fond of me himself. And not in the way of an old man caring for a child. The other way."

"I see." Rachel kept her face mild, to disguise her astonishment. But as the seconds passed and the idea had time to sink in, she grew less amazed and more intrigued. "Did he ... say anything that would make you think he had feelings for you?"

"Not in words. To tell you the truth, I don't think he ever would. Ever will. He thinks he's old, and what's worse, he thinks I'm a little girl. No, that's not right—he thinks he
ought
to think I'm a little girl. I don't know why; it's part o' him being a gentleman, I suppose. But the truth is, Mrs. Wade, I stopped being a child a long time ago. I just don't know how to tell something like that to Mr. Holyoake. Or if I should. Or what I ought t' do. Or if I ought t' do anything a'tall." She heaved a massive sigh and turned back around, dropping her forearms over the bridge, gazing down into the river.

Rachel gazed down at it with her. Advice-giving was even newer to her than decision-making. Sidony seemed to want advice, but did she really need it? In truth, she wasn't a child; the longer Rachel knew her, the more she thought her wise, and certainly experienced in life's random cruelties, beyond her years. "How do you feel?" she asked hesitantly. "About William, I mean. Could you care for him as a man?"

"Oh, ma'am, I already do."

"Oh." Rachel smiled with surprise and pleasure. "Well, that simplifies things."

"Does it? But I don't even hardly know him. And how can I
get
to know 'im if he keeps on behaving to me like I'm twelve years old?"

Her frustration told Rachel the case was more serious than she'd thought. "Could you say something to him? Would it embarrass you to tell him how you feel?"

"Well ... I don't mind being forward so much. What I'd mind is him
thinking
I'm forward."

"Hmm. But on the other hand, he might be relieved to have it out in the open. If you wait for William to speak first..."

"I might go to 'is funeral and then die an old maid myself," Sidony finished with a laugh. They lapsed into thoughtful silence. "The main thing I was wanting to ask," she said at length, "is if you think he's too old for me."

"Sidony, I can't tell you that. It's not for me to say."

"No, but—if you was to hear that me and Mr. Holyoake was together, like, and you didn't know anything else, just that. Would you be slanderized?"

"Scandalized? No," she said slowly, thinking she wasn't the best person to ask such a question. One dubious lesson penal servitude taught was a vast, perhaps an extreme tolerance for every human frailty except heartlessness. Still, the more she thought of sweet Sidony and sturdy, honest William together, the more the idea appealed to her. "No, I wouldn't," she said more forcefully. "Because I know you both to be good and decent people who would never take advantage of another, never betray anyone's trust. If I heard you were together ... I would be glad for you. I would think, how grand that these two friends of mine have found each other. And I would wish you happiness."

When she smiled, Sidony's small, piquant face lit up like sunshine on a daisy. She reached impulsively for Rachel's hand and squeezed it. "Oh, ma'am. Oh, that's—I think it's just what I wanted to hear. Thank you. For listening to me rattle on, and for saying such a kind thing."

"There's nothing to thank me for." She'd have said more, but Sidony was backing away from her with a little dance step, looking like an excited pixie.

"I know where he is—in the stables wi' Collie. I'll go talk to him right now."

"Well, if you think you should—"

"Oh, now's the time, while I got my courage up! Don't worry," she called from the end of the bridge, "I'll go slow and careful. I wouldn't want to scare 'im to death!" With a wave, she whirled, gathered up her skirts, and dashed for the stables.

In a thoughtful mood, smiling to herself, Rachel began to stroll along the thin path that edged the far side of the riverbank. As unexpected as it was, the conversation with Sidony had cheered her. How lovely, really, if William and the dairy maid could find a little happiness together. But what a surprise! And how unpredictable life could be! Something else she'd acquired from ten years in prison was an inability to believe,
really
believe in the possibility of change— which must, she thought, be the very definition of despondency. But change was not only possible, it was constant—great, weighty, life-altering changes occurring all the time, not to mention the slighter, less dramatic changes you barely noticed. Her own circumstances proved it. The difference between the woman she'd become and the one she'd been four months ago was the difference between light and dark, hope and no hope. And for good or ill, regardless of whether it could last or not, she owed the change to Sebastian.

Lost in her thoughts, she saw that she'd wandered out of sight of the house. She had no watch, but by the August sky she reckoned it was about eleven o'clock. Time for her meeting with Monsieur Judelet. They met every morning to talk about the day's menu; or rather, she listened while he talked. She picked up her skirts and hurried back toward the Hall.

Cory, one of the stable lads, was loitering in the courtyard, holding the reins of two horses, one a sway backed pony with a half-eaten tail. She recognized it; it belonged to Constable Burdy. She hadn't seen him in weeks. What would he be doing here? She crossed the courtyard uncertainly. As she approached the steps, Burdy and another man came backing out the door to the Hall; she had to sidestep smartly to get out of their way. She started when she recognized the second man. It was Chief Constable Lewes, the. policeman she'd had to report to once a month in Tavi-stock.

The cause of his and Burdy's clumsy haste was Sebastian, who was bearing down on them like a baited bull. His voice preceded his black, angry countenance. "It's a mistake, I'm telling you. Even if it weren't, she's in my custody. It's not as if she's plotting an escape, for God's—" He stopped short when he saw her.

She came closer. "What's the matter? What's happened?"

Lewes was a stout, red-faced man with small, black, unkind eyes. She'd disliked him on sight, and hadn't changed her opinion over the course of their acquaintance; the combination of callousness and stupidity with which he went about his job reminded her of every prison guard she'd ever known. "Mrs. Wade," he exclaimed, rounding on her. She stepped back involuntarily, but he closed the gap and stood over her. "Mrs. Wade, I've got here a warrant for your arrest."

She felt the blood drain from her face. Throwing a panicky glance at Sebastian, she asked, "Why?"

"On account of you violated the conditions of your release."

"No, no, I didn't."

"Where were you on Friday, then, and the-last three Wednesdays running? And where's the pound and ten shillings you owes the Crown for your fine?"

She stared at him. "But I don't have to do that anymore!" She realized she was shaking. "My ticket of leave was remitted. I have a letter."

"What letter?"

"From the Home Secretary. It came—"

"If you got a letter from the Home Secretary, the sheriff would've got one, too," he said stolidly. "I'd've seen it, and so would Burdy. Nobody in the county knows nothing about a letter."

Sebastian stepped in front of her, and his tall, hard body blocking the constable steadied her a little. "If Mrs. Wade says she received a letter, then she received it. I wouldn't advise you to call my housekeeper a liar.''

"Nobody's calling nobody a liar, my lord," Lewes said quickly, his ruddy cheeks turning redder. Beside him, Burdy seemed to get a little smaller. "I got this warrant for the woman, which I duly drew up on account of Mrs. Wade not abiding by the conditions of her release. Mayor Vanstone signed it," he added, jabbing the air with a folded piece of paper. "If there's a remittal letter, I'd like to see it, because otherwise it's my duty to execute this warrant.''

"I'll get it," Rachel said before Sebastian could speak. She raced up the steps, leaving the three men in the courtyard.

It was silly to run, but she couldn't help it; by the time she reached her room she was out of breath and panting. She flung the door open wide and strode to her desk, jerked out the middle drawer. She kept her personal papers under the accounts ledger—not that she had that many, just her original release document and the two letters her brother had written to her years ago from Canada. And the Home Secretary's letter.

It wasn't there.

She searched again, feeling her palms dampen with perspiration. The two side drawers were for pens, pencils, stamps and envelopes, bills and receipts. She searched them anyway.

Not there.

She kept the housekeeping money in a strongbox. Her fingers trembled while she fitted the key into the lock—because she knew the letter couldn't be in there.

It wasn't.

Her mind went dangerously blank. She hated the tight, icy feeling under her breastbone, the chill vise of fear. They couldn't arrest her again; Sebastian wouldn't let them. He was a magistrate—he was a viscount! Anyway, the letter must be here, there was no place else it could be. She started her search over again, and when it was as futile as the first time, she widened it to her bedroom—the drawer in the little table beside her bed.

Nothing.

She made herself walk slowly back down the hall, calming herself with deep breaths. Outside, Sebastian and the two constables looked grim, as if they hadn't exchanged a single word since she'd left. They turned when they heard her in the doorway. Girding herself, she told them the news.

"I can't find the letter. It isn't where I put it."

Sebastian's mouth hardened; she couldn't tell what he was thinking. She needed to touch him—but of course she couldn't. Lewes, whose job was to take her into custody now, looked at once self-important and uncomfortable, as if the hazards involved in arresting Lord D'Aubrey's mistress were just occurring to him. "Well, now," he said uneasily. "In that case, it appears I've got no—"

Sebastian bit out a curse, turning his back on him. "Don't worry," he commanded softly. He took both of her hands and squeezed them. "Stay here." Then he pivoted, took Lewes by the elbow, and led him off a few paces to the center of the sunny courtyard. Burdy followed. She couldn't hear the words, only the low, fierce, implacable tone of Sebastian's voice. And for the first time since she'd seen Burdy's pony, she relaxed, because she knew she was safe. For now.

Without surprise, she watched the policemen nod one last time and walk off to their waiting horses. As they trotted through the archway, Sebastian said something to Cory, and the stableboy ran out after them, then turned and made a dash for the stables.

No privacy here. She wanted to run into Sebastian's arms and hold him until the helpless shaking subsided. She couldn't, of course; someone might see. So she kept her hands to herself when he approached her, and her voice low to ask him, "What can it mean? What will happen? The letter was there, and now
it's gone."

Without speaking, he took her hand and pulled her up the steps and through the door, and in the dark, cool hallway he embraced her. "It's all right," he told her, and she tried to believe it. She was moved because he understood her fear without her having to explain it, but the only comfort came from the strong clutch of his arms around her. She pressed against him, fortifying herself.

Finally he let her go. "I've got to ride to Captain Carnock's. He'll sign a writ with me to delay this nonsense. Whatever Vanstone's up to, it's not going to work."