Whispers from the Shadows (12 page)

“But I ought not have gone.” Arnaud surged to his feet and paced to the window. “Had I but listened to that blasted feeling of yours…”

How different it all would be. So many years of questions and grief that never would have been. So many fewer nightmares. So many shadows that would have no place.

But still, there was light anew. “We must simply thank the Almighty yet again for the miracle of your escape, of your return to Jack, and trust that He is leading you still. Just as He led you out of that infested pit in Istanbul.”

Arnaud braced himself against the window frame. “I know. And I have no trouble crediting Him with the miracles, but seeing Him in the hours of tedium is…” He squinted out the window as he cocked his head to the side. “That looks like—But it cannot be.”

Thad gained the window with two quick strides, his eyes going wide at the figure riding down the street who looked to barely be keeping his saddle. “Whittier?”

“It cannot be. Last I heard, he joined up with Barney's flotilla after the British sealed the harbor. He ought to be well up the Patuxent.”

The river's name, along with the way the man in the saddle listed to the side, lit a spark of urgency within Thad in the same place that warned him against Arnaud's disastrous trip to the Mediterranean. He ducked his head through the open window, his left leg following.

Arnaud loosed a questioning grunt. “What in blazes are you doing?”

“That man needs help.” His left leg on the ground, he swung his right over the windowsill. “And will likely be a heap on the road before I could find a door.”

Though he muttered something under his breath, Arnaud was
pulling himself through the frame as Thad sprinted across his lawn toward the now-halted horse.

By the time he reached the lathered beast, all question of the man's identity had been answered. 'Twas Joseph Whittier all right. Though with a face white as sea foam, and tinged with green. “Witty? Are you ill?”

His old friend turned unfocused eyes his way. One hand held the limp reins while the other arm remained folded across his unfastened uniform jacket. “Lane. I made it, then.”

Thad made sure his smile was calm and reassuring, even though the wisp-thin voice sounded so little like the robust man he knew. “Aye, you did. Come, Witty. Let us help you down.”

“I…” Whittier clutched the arm more tightly to his stomach and blinked too heavily. “Hurts.”

Arnaud came to a halt beside the horse, his frown well justified this time. “Your arm?”

Witty listed further to the side, his arm shifting along with him, and Thad got a glimpse of the filthy shirt under the jacket—the shirt stained a dark, rusty red. “Nay, 'tis his stomach. Look at all the blood. Inside with him. Hurry.”

Their friend moaned as they pulled him off the horse as gently as they could. Because he couldn't support himself, Thad lifted him with a shake of his head. “Will you get the door? And have Rosie clear the table?”

Arnaud ran ahead as Henry appeared beside him, brows drawn. “What can I do?”

“Would you see to his horse?”

His friend nodded and headed for the street while Thad continued toward the house. Whittier let out a low grunt of pain, but his eyes opened again, and they were fired with panic. “You must warn them.”

Thad's throat went tight. “We will, Witty, but first we must see to this wound. What happened?”

He shook his head, nearly thwacking it against the door frame. “Shot. Not important. Cockburn is…Cochrane coming from Bermuda.”

Clenching his teeth until the muscles in his jaw twitched, Thad drew in a long breath and aimed for the kitchen. Tantalizing as any information on those two British admirals was, he must first tend his friend. “Save your strength, please. You can tell me about it
afterward.”

“Nay. Now. Before—” A cry of agony interrupted the words, and Whittier's face contorted.

Thad lengthened his stride. “Rosie! Are you ready for us?”

“Get him on in here, Thaddeus.” Rosie had spread a length of old canvas on the table, onto which he lowered Whittier. His housekeeper hissed out a breath when she saw the stained shirt. “Lawd o' mercy, help us now.”

“Amen.” Thad pushed the jacket away and gently rolled up the ruined cotton shirt. His own stomach cramped when he saw the wound seeping deadly, nearly black blood. Though his medical expertise was limited, he had seen enough to know that this was bad. Over his shoulder, toward the sound of footsteps, he said, “We're going to need Dr. Miller. Fast.”

Whittier seized Thad's shirtfront, strong enough at first to bring his head whipping back around, though then his hands loosened and fell away. His chest rose slowly, as if the effort to fill his lungs required all his strength. “No time.” His voice was even thinner than a minute earlier. “Cockburn, Lane. He…soon as Cochrane arrives…attack. Awaiting…orders on where. Annapolis or…or Washington.”

The knot in his stomach twisted. “Are you certain?”

“Heard them.” Whittier's eyes went shut again. “Thought I…dead. Talking. Crawled away and…took a horse. You must…warn…”

Calm descended, loosening the twist in Thad's gut and bringing him down into the chair by the table. Purpose took the place of urgency, though it was sorrow stained. He gripped his friend's forearm. “I will take care of it.”

“I know.” Another quavering breath, another raising of his eyelids. “My parents. Jill. My love.”

“I will go to them myself. I will tell them.”

Whittier's other arm lifted slightly and then fell again. “Samuel. Proud of him. And of little Jilly.”

“I know. And so do they.”

With a minuscule nod Witty closed his eyes again. Drawing in another wheezing breath, he let it out. And then…he wasn't.

Rosie's sniff sounded, and her familiar hand rested on his shoulder. “I'll see if I can catch Alain. No call for bringing the doctor
now.”

“Thank you, Rosie.” He gave her hand a pat and then stood. He turned, expecting to find his mother hovering in the doorway.

But it was Gwyneth who leaned into the post, gripping it with white knuckles. Her eyes were as wide and damp as the sea, looking toward the table but glazed in a way that made him think she saw Whittier no longer.

Had he known it was she in the doorway, he would have ordered her away before she could have caught a glimpse of the horrific wound. Thad slowly eased forward, afraid she would yet again go weak-kneed. “Gwyneth?”

“Who was he?” Her voice emerged like a spring breeze, nothing more than a soft stirring.

“An old friend.” He took another step, this one to put himself between her and the table. To block her view, to force her to focus on him instead.

She did, with a blink and a lift of her head. “I am sorry. I never…Papa always said war was an ugly thing.”

“'Tis that.” Thad lifted his chin, motioning behind her. “You ought not be in here. It will only unsettle you.”

What thoughts were those that flashed through her eyes like lightning? They were too swift for him to make out, too much cloaked in those shadows that marred the depths of her gaze, but at least she seemed to hear him. She nodded, loosed the door frame, and half turned.

And then she had to grip the other side. 'Twas more convulsion than tremor that swept up her figure, and she squeezed shut her eyes as if to hold back tears.

“Gwyneth.” He went to her side, ready to catch her should she fall, ready to rescue her should she be overcome.

But the moment he touched a hand to her shoulder, she lifted her chin and swallowed, fighting back whatever demons chased her. And then she strode away.

Thad could only lean into the post and shake his head. It was as though she were a pane of glass, shattered yet still in its frame. What tragedy had struck to destroy her so?

And what strength must she have within to still hold herself upright?

He turned back toward the table and the prone body upon it. He
had a family to notify.

And a message to the congressman to revise.

Ten

G
wyneth stared into her mirror, willing the image to change. Willing the circles under her eyes to disappear, her skin to regain its color, her hair its luster. She looked like a beggar who had stolen fine clothes.

Mrs. Wesley tugged on a lock of Gwyneth's hair and then jabbed her scalp with a pin.

“Ow!” She jerked away, pressing a hand to the sore spot. “Take care!”

The woman's face appeared beside hers in the mirror, consternation etched upon it. “My apologies. I am so poor at doing another's hair.”

Heat bubbled and churned, moving from her stomach to her throat until it erupted from her lips. “Then perhaps Papa should have sent me with my lady's maid instead of you.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth, but it did nothing to stop the hurt from settling on Mrs. Wesley's face. Dear, sweet Mrs. Wesley, who had stayed faithfully by her side. Always there, waiting to be needed. Hovering. Chiding. Suffocating.

No
. Gwyneth squeezed her eyes shut and tried to push down the bilious thoughts. Where did they even come from? “Please forgive
me. I am so very grateful you are here with me. Truly I am.”

“You are not yourself yet.” Though it looked as though it took effort, Mrs. Wesley smiled at her reflection. “'Tis the exhaustion, love, not you. I only wish I knew why the sickness still plagues you. We have been on land over a week now.”

And had it been the sea that caused it… Gwyneth shrugged and focused her gaze on the curling tongs Mrs. Wesley removed from the small built-to-purpose fire. “Could we forego the curling? It is so dreadfully hot already.” She wanted to add that if the woman could not be trusted with pins, she certainly didn't want to put her head near scorching metal, but she bit her tongue.

She would
not
be a slave to exhaustion and its moods. She would
not
.

Mrs. Wesley sighed. “But this will be the first you have gone out since you arrived, love, and it was so kind of Captain Lane to offer to take you to the shops. Ought you not look your best?”

She had no “best.” Not anymore. Only varying degrees of awful. Where on the scale could she hope to land today, after seven straight nights of terror that combined that poor felled soldier with Papa?

Another man dying before her eyes, the life extinguished like a candle too soon snuffed out. Leaving what? Vapors. Tendrils of smoke. Worse, the shifting shadows of smoke, the kind that one could only see in one's periphery, that fled when one tried to focus upon it.

Was life any more than that? Did what one accomplished before death matter at all, or would it all be blown away like smoke?

She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the image of her hollow face. Papa's life mattered. He did great things, fought battles, won wars for his country. Stood, always, as a shining example for those around him. Mama had brought grace and faith wherever went. But Gwyneth? No one would miss her if she were to fade away like a whisper. London would have forgotten her. Her friends would have turned against her when she failed to keep in touch. Sir Arthur would have found another young lady to woo, one more to the taste of his uncle.

And the Lanes—she was naught but a burden to them.

A light tug on the tendrils, and the familiar sound of hair being wrapped around the curling tongs filled her ears. “There now, it will only take a moment.”

She mustered a close-lipped smile and clasped her fingers
together, digging nails into palms. She must focus. Must shake off melancholy as well as bile. Must determine what she was to do with herself.

She could not impose on the Lanes forever. As soon as word reached them of her father's death, she must leave and find some safe place. Somewhere to hide away. Someplace she could…could… A sob tried to rise, but she minimized it to a gasp.

“Heavens, child, whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Wesley patted her cheek and loosed the now-perfect curl. “Perhaps you ought to nap rather than go out.”

“No.” She swallowed against the rising tide and reached up to her hair. She selected the next curl to tighten and extended it toward Mrs. Wesley. “I want to see some of the city.” She had already missed church, being too exhausted after a sleepless night following Mr. Whittier's demise to join the rest of them. She would not miss out on this opportunity. Who knew when Thad would have the time for such leisure again?

Though she couldn't determine what kept him so busy. He was out at all hours, usually her wakeful ones, and home at odd times. If Rosie or Mrs. Lane inquired as to his whereabouts, he would inevitably name some public house—yet he never carried even the slightest whiff of alcohol.

But if he were not there to drink, why would he be?

While Mrs. Wesley finished up on her left side and moved around to her right, Gwyneth reached for the pencil and paper on the vanity. The scene under her fingers would be better in oil on canvas so she could properly capture the glint of sun on water, the green cast that would edge the clouds on the horizon, but she dared not take this particular picture out of her room. Not when the master of the house was the subject, his feet braced on the pitching deck of the ship and spyglass in hand.

She set her pencil upon his face. He would have straight brows, eyes slightly narrowed to show concentration, yet sparkling with…not quite amusement. More…fascination with the world around him.

Mrs. Wesley hummed an old hymn as she twirled another lock of hair around the tongs, leaning over to watch Gwyneth shape his eyes. Her hymn turned to a hum of approval. “Never does your skill cease amazing me, love.” She chuckled. “Had I even half your ability, I
would be a rich woman indeed from selling my work in London.”

Gwyneth's pencil moved quickly. The line of his nose, leading to the peculiar quirk of his lips, one side raised and the other steady. Not quite laughing in the face of the encroaching storm, but showing clearly that his respect for it gave no way to fear.