Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (9 page)

BOOK: Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair)
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Frustration broke through Richard Percival’s mask. “Damn it! There
must
be some way of pushing harder, more decisively.”

Unmoved by the uncharacteristic outburst, Curtis paused, then, clasping his hands on his blotter, quietly asked, “Your instructions were—still are—that you want this kept quiet, with no dust raised whatsoever.” Curtis met Richard Percival’s dark blue eyes. “Has that changed?” He let a moment elapse before adding, “Because, yes, I can go much harder. I could raise a hue and cry, the next best thing to a manhunt, if that’s what you want.”

Richard Percival blew out a breath. “No. No.” After a moment, he drew in a deep breath and said, “Whatever reason she had for taking them and fleeing that night . . . until I have them back and can learn what that reason was . . .” Eyes narrowing, he stared into space, then murmured, “If at all possible, I want this kept entirely confidential.”

Curtis nodded. “In that case, I’ll send more men down tomorrow. We’ll need to move slowly and carefully, but our information is that they left Exeter and headed west. Into Cornwall.”

Richard Percival sat silently for several seconds, then he rose and crisply nodded. “Send in your hounds—and keep me apprised of anything they find.” Turning, he strode for the door.

Curtis watched him go. Even after the door had closed, Curtis continued to stare at the panels, then he sighed, shook his head, and got on with his work.

 

 

Chapter

4

 

T
he days rolled on, and with no summons from Fate eventuating, Thomas found himself looking for things to do, for activities to occupy his body and mind.

Recalling the Gattings, who had watched over the house since he’d bought it early in 1816, and who had always made his infrequent stays there comfortable and serene—comforting in truth—he decided that he should call on them and thank them for their years of exemplary service.

The following morning, over the breakfast table, he asked Rose—he and she had, by degrees, slid onto a first-name basis—where the old couple lived.

“In Porthleven, in a little cottage in Shute Lane. That’s just off the harbor, before you start up the hill to the east. Their cottage is Number four.”

He nodded, envisioning the town as he’d last seen it; it wouldn’t have changed. “I’m going to ride that way this morning once I check over the news sheets. I’d like to call and wish them well.”

Rose’s expression as she set down her teacup was approving. “I’m sure they would like to see you . . .” Her words trailed off, then she recovered and shrugged lightly. “To know you’re alive, if nothing else.”

She’d realized that the Gattings would remember him as he’d once been, not as he now was. He smiled with wry understanding. “Indeed.”

Rose colored faintly and reached for the teapot. “It’s not as if you’re incapacitated. Whatever your accident was, you’ve survived and continue to live. Continue to make something of your life.”

He studied her, trying to decide which part of her view of him most confounded him—her apparent blindness to the scars that disfigured the left side of his face, to his habitual gimping gait, or her confident assertion that he was actively living and forging a life, by implication a life worth living.

To his mind, he was in stasis, not living so much as existing, waiting to make his final payment in retribution for his past sins.

Which of them was correct—her or him?

Or could they both be right?

Shaking aside the distraction, he glanced to his left, at Homer’s bright head, then looked at Rose and caught her eye. “I was wondering if I might take Homer for a ride, too. An excursion for the day.” He’d noticed the boy was growing physically restless; a day of exercise would do him good.

Homer’s head shot up, his expression beyond eager. He fixed his blue eyes on Rose. “Please. I’ll do my chores, too—I won’t forget.”

Rose hesitated. She wasn’t immune to the plea in Homer’s eyes; she understood, indeed, shared his longing to venture beyond the confines of the manor. More, she accepted that boys of his age needed to be out and about more, but she couldn’t risk being seen with him. The pair of them together would be much more identifiable than either of them individually. Yet, equally, she couldn’t allow him to venture forth on his own. . . .

Shifting her gaze to Thomas, she nodded. “All right.” Thomas would keep Homer safe; she knew that to her bones. Allowing Thomas to take Homer out for the day was the perfect solution to her problems on that front; aside from all else, if the pair were seen, given the way they interacted—Thomas with Homer, and Homer with Thomas—they would be assumed to be father and son.

Yet another distracting veil to add to hers and the children’s safety.

Homer whooped.

Rose glanced at Pippin, now frowning slightly, her lower lip starting to protrude. Rose looked at Homer. “Consider being allowed to accompany Thomas as a reward for working so hard at your studies, and, after all, your birthday is coming up.”

Homer simply grinned. Stuffing the last of his toast into his mouth, he raised his mug and drained it, then pushed back his chair. “I’ll go and check the cow and the stables.” He glanced at Thomas. “Will you be long?”

“Maybe an hour.” Thomas looked at Rose. “We’ll have lunch there, and be back for afternoon tea.”

She nodded crisply. A glance at Pippin showed a much more amenable, accepting face; the mention of Homer’s birthday had done the trick.

Homer dashed to the back door and went out.

Thomas pushed back his chair. Rose glanced at him and realized he’d followed her gaze to Pippin. “Pippin,” he said, “you were going to show me the dress you’ve made for your doll. If you like, you could show it to me now—I have a little time before we go.”

Pippin’s little face lit. Nodding, she gulped the last of her milk, then flung a smile at Rose and pushed back her chair. “I’ll go and get Dolly—she’s still asleep.”

Thomas nodded solemnly. “I’ll be in the library—come and show me there.”

Pippin raced off, shoes clattering.

Down the length of the short table, Rose met Thomas’s gaze. “That was . . . brave of you.”

His lips quirked lightly. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”

Pushing up from the table, he started gathering plates.

She rose and did the same, taking the stack to the sink.

He followed with the rest.

They’d fallen into a small domestic ritual; she would wash the dishes and he would dry them and put them away.

She was very aware that neither of them had been born to such duties, yet they performed them now without complaint; their lives, the decisions they had made, had brought them to this.

She knew that was true for herself, and she intuitively knew it was true for him, too.

But that morning . . .

Standing before the sink, the plates she’d ferried from the table already in the bowl, she waited for him to set the stack he’d carried on the bench-top beside her.

He did and paused, looking down at her. His gaze was on the side of her face; she could feel it.

And awareness flared—the sensual yearning both of them were being so careful to hide, to suppress.

Regardless, its very existence made her feel alive.

Alive in a way she’d never felt before.

Even though nothing could ever come of it, it still stole her breath, still made her blood sing.

Raising her chin, she stared out at the rear garden, fighting the compulsion to shift her gaze to him, to his face, to his fascinating eyes. Eyes that seemed so clear, so open—unrestricted gateways to his soul.

Her lungs had grown tight, but she found breath enough to say, “I’ll take care of all this today—you’d better get into the library, or Pippin will be disappointed.”

He didn’t immediately move. After a moment, he said, “I really don’t know anything about dolls.”

She smiled. “But you do know something of dresses.” She cast him a very brief sidelong glance. “The trick is to pretend the doll is real, like a frozen lady, and comment accordingly.”

“Ah.” He nodded, then dipped his head. “In that case, I’d better go and do my duty.”

He moved away, heading for the door.

Before he reached it, she swung around and said, “Thomas.” When he paused and looked at her, she met his gaze directly. “Thank you. From both me and them.”
But especially from me.

His lips curved cynically. “No thanks required. I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t wanted to—if I didn’t think I’d enjoy Homer’s company as much as he’ll enjoy the outing.”

She’d noticed that was a habit of his, downplaying his acts of kindness. She arched an equally cynical brow back. “And Pippin?”

The curve of his lips deepened. As he turned away, he said, “That, I believe, you should view as an attempt to keep the peace.”

She snorted, then, shaking her head at his ways, reached for the kettle.

S
everal hours later, Thomas guided Silver down the hill into Porthleven, Homer on the pony trotting alongside.

The ride from the manor along the cliffs had been uneventful. Silver had wanted to canter, but the pony’s shorter legs wouldn’t keep up; Thomas had had to rein the gray in, and Silver was now disgusted, trudging along in the equivalent of a horsey sulk.

But the steep descent into the tiny harbor village had them all looking about, even Silver.

The day had started fine, but light clouds had blown up, intermittently blocking the sun. Now that they were by the shore, the breeze had stiffened a touch but remained more flirtatious than forceful.

They had come into the village around the western headland; the harbor and village lay in the steep cleft between the twin headlands, where the land descended sharply to meet the waves of the Channel.

Whitewashed buildings lined the cobbled road that encircled the small harbor. A seawall extended from the western shore across the harbor mouth, protecting many small sailing and fishermen’s boats bobbing at anchor behind it from the sometimes destructive swells of the Channel. From the eastern headland opposite, a breakwater curved out and across, creating a barrier to shield the entrance to the harbor itself, the gap between the end of the seawall and the quay lining the eastern shore.

The village had grown up around the stone quays bordering the three sides of the harbor, with most houses scattered up the long slope of the eastern headland.

Shute Lane was easy to find, on the eastern side just above the harbor. Thomas and Homer drew rein outside Number 4, a tiny fisherman’s cottage with bright spring flowers in a box along the front window.

Gatting answered Thomas’s knock. Now old and wizened, and heavily dependent on the cane over which he hunched, Gatting covered his shock at Thomas’s injuries, yet, regardless, it was plain that the old man was pleased to see him.

Thomas hadn’t intended to go inside, to, as he’d thought of it, impose on the old couple’s hospitality, but Gatting would have none of it, and when he called Mrs. Gatting to the door and she added her entreaties, Thomas realized he couldn’t—shouldn’t—refuse them.

Sometimes, the rights and wrongs of how he should behave still escaped him.

Indeed, it was Homer who largely led the way; noting how the Gattings responded to the boy, who they knew from their shared years at the manor, Thomas decided he should follow Homer’s lead.

So he and Homer sat in the cramped little parlor and allowed the Gattings to serve them morning tea. Homer and Gatting chatted all the while, and in between, Gatting inquired after Thomas’s plans for the manor. The arrival of Mrs. Gatting, still round and plump with a cherubic face, carrying a tray that included a plate piled with slices of pound cake, created a diversion that saved Thomas from having to invent too much.

Settling on the settle, Mrs. Gatting railed at the fate that had seen him so badly injured, but, as he was learning was common with ordinary people, she accepted that life went on and thereafter largely ignored his state, treating him as she always had, with a mixture of deference and suitably restrained mothering.

All in all, the visit passed smoothly, with considerably more warmth than Thomas had expected. When they parted from the Gattings at the front door, he pressed a folded bank draft into Gatting’s hand. “A small token of my appreciation for all you did for the manor, and thus me, over the years.”

The Gattings both beamed. “Thank you, sir,” Gatting said.

“And the best of luck to you,” Mrs. Gatting added.

With a salute to them both, Thomas turned and followed Homer to where they’d left their horses. Mounting up, he wheeled back toward the harbor; pretending not to have noticed the shock on the Gattings’ faces as they realized just how much he’d given them—enough to see them through the rest of their days in comfort—he led the way back through the town.

As they walked the horses along the stone quay across the base of the harbor, Thomas glanced at Homer and saw the boy’s wide eyes fixed on the many sailing boats bobbing at anchor in the roughly rectangular pool.

Homer didn’t look his way even though Thomas waited; the boy was beyond absorbed. Facing forward, Thomas scanned the curve of the road rising along the western side of the harbor—their route home. Just past the point where the harbor wall jutted out from the western headland stood the whitewashed bulk of the Ship Inn.

Thomas flicked a glance at Homer, who was still fixated. “Let’s leave the horses at the Ship Inn and go for a wander around the village before returning to the inn for lunch.”

Homer happily nodded and nudged his pony to keep up as Thomas turned Silver up the street to the inn.

There wasn’t all that much to see in the small village. Thomas stopped at the blacksmith’s to pick up some nails, then, noticing a small milliner’s shop, braced himself and entered. With Homer’s help, he selected a pair of lace mittens for Rose and three lengths of bright ribbon for Pippin. Tucking the packages into his jacket pocket, he followed Homer back into the sunshine.

Although the boy was too well behaved to push his case, the way Homer’s gaze drifted to the harbor, to the boats, told its own tale. Understanding the fascination, Thomas waved his cane down the lane that led back to the harbor. “Why don’t we walk out to the eastern headland before heading back to the inn?”

Homer looked up at him and grinned. “Yes. Let’s.”

They set out at a steady pace. After riding even the few miles there, Thomas appreciated the chance to stretch his legs. Marching along paved streets was quite a different exercise from walking over the less even but softer terrain about the manor; his gait was different, with different muscles drawn into play.

BOOK: Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair)
12.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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