To Kiss a Thief (5 page)

“Well, she stayed right here at the Herring when she first arrived in Haverhythe, didn't she, Mackey? What do you recall?”

Mackey scratched his head, further disordering his ginger hair. “I dunno. Said her man was a soldier, killed in foreign parts. That was . . .” He paused, lips moving slightly, appearing to count. St. John half-expected him to begin to draw in the air, as if sketching out a particularly challenging arithmetic problem. Having himself been in that predicament a short while ago, he felt oddly in charity with the man, even as impatience gnawed at him. “Must be more'n three years ago now,” Mackey decided at last. “I say that on account o' the child.”

“A child?” St. John widened his eyes in astonishment only slightly feigned and lifted his drink to his lips, looking expectantly from one to the other.

“Oh yes,” Beals chimed in. “A little girl. Cute as a button, she is.”

Mackey nodded soberly. “'Tis pity she's a bastard.”

Caught in the act of draining his mug, St. John sputtered.

“Now, we don't know that,” Beals corrected mildly.

“No,” Mackey conceded. “But when a woman says she's a widow, and then a baby comes along too many months after that, 'tis pretty certain the father weren't her dead husband. More'n likely,” he concluded gravely, “she weren't never married.”

“Perhaps her husband had died recently,” Beals insisted, “but she did not wish it known.”

“Or perhaps he isn't dead after all.”

St. John did not know why he had said it, but once the words were out, it was clear to him how he had to proceed. Surely the men of the village would not stand against a wronged husband who had come to take his wife home? If he crafted his story with care, they might even prove allies to his cause.

Both Beals and Mackey jerked sharply to look at St. John. “Are you sayin'—?”

“I'm saying,” St. John interposed smoothly, “that the circumstances under which the young woman left her family—”

“Ran away, you mean.”

“The circumstances were less than ideal,” he concluded, with a nod of confirmation for Mackey's words. “If your Mrs.—Fairfax, is it?—is the woman I seek, and especially if she has given birth to a child, her family deserves to know, don't you agree?”

Mackey nodded excitedly, as if awaiting the next scene in some cheap melodrama, but Beals was more circumspect. “But perhaps our Mrs. Fairfax is
not
the woman you seek. We ought not to be telling her story to a stranger. We do not know your motives, sir.”

St. John hesitated. Were they seeking a bribe? Or some other kind of reassurance altogether? He decided on the latter and leaned toward them, lowering his voice. “I have been charged by the young woman's family to carry out a very delicate mission. If your Mrs. Fairfax is not the woman I seek, then her story is of no interest to me. I shall certainly tell it no further.”

“And this woman's family—they'll take her in, take her back?” Beals asked.

“My good man, something precious to them simply vanished three years ago. You can have no idea how eager they are to see what was lost restored.” St. John was pleased with his carefully worded answer. It was, after all, the truth.

But Beals seemed only slightly mollified by his response. “Mrs. Fairfax and her daughter have grown dear to me. I would not want to see them hurt.”

It was a novel experience to find himself the object of suspicion where Sarah was concerned. Novel, and entirely disagreeable. “Where can I find this Mrs. Fairfax?” St. John demanded, more gruffly than he had intended.

“She lives with Mad Martha in Primrose Cottage, down-along and to the east, almost to the quay,” Mackey revealed before Beals could silence him.

“ ‘Mad Martha'?”

“Martha Potts. Her husband was a fisherman—”

“Smuggler, belike—” Mackey inserted.

“Who drowned right off the quay,” Beals finished as if he had not been interrupted. “She watched it happen. It drove her to distraction for a time, and some people hereabouts”—he turned toward Mackey with hard eyes—“still see fit to call her ‘Mad Martha.' ”

“I see,” St. John answered, picking up the key to his room from the table and moving as if to rise. “Much obliged to you for the information.”

“One moment, if you please, sir,” said Beals quietly, laying his broad palms on the table. “I don't believe I caught your name.”

St. John hesitated a moment. Should he go through with it? Could he? But he had come all this way, and he knew no better way to get what he wanted. Determinedly, he cleared his throat.

“I'm Fairfax.”

A
childish shriek of delight roused Sarah from a fitful slumber, and she dragged open her eyes to find midmorning sun slanting across her bed. She had fallen asleep shortly before dawn, having gone over her conversation with St. John so many times that the echo of their words had begun to blend with the dull, melancholy roar of the waves outside her window.

For long, dark hours, she had prayed desperately for something to dispel the haunting image of his eyes boring into her own. But when that something had finally come, she found she could not be grateful, for her traitorous mind had called up in its place the memory of the last time she had seen her parents, and it was to that same terrible vision it returned now.

For weeks—no, months—after her arrival in Haverhythe, Sarah had held out hope that her parents were searching high and low for her, believing her innocent; now she realized no such search had taken place, because they believed her to be dead.

Had they mourned her? Did they mourn her still?

Or had they washed their hands of even the memory of the daughter who had betrayed all their hopes?

She rose and went slowly about her ablutions before donning the same simple black dress. Then she carefully picked up the broken pieces of glass and returned the battered miniature to her trunk. As she descended the stairs to the kitchen, she spied St. John's hat still hanging from the peg by the door. So she had not slept so long as to have missed his visit.

Damn
.

Sarah clapped a hand across her mouth in astonishment, although she had not spoken the unladylike word aloud. Already this encounter with St. John was changing her in ways she did not like.

When Clarissa spied her mother through the open kitchen door, she scrambled from her chair and ran toward her with outstretched arms. “Kitties, Mama! Kitties!”

“What's that, poppet?” Sarah asked, swooping in for a kiss.

“Mr. Beals were here bright and early,” Mrs. Potts explained, nodding toward two loaves of fresh bread on the table. “Bright Meg had her kittens last night.”

“Go see 'em, Mama?” Clarissa begged.

“Yes, dear,” she agreed readily. “But I also promised to drop in on Mrs. Norris at the vicarage this morning. Are you sure the walk won't make you too tired? Can you be good as gold for your mama?” Clarissa solemnly nodded her head as Sarah returned her to her chair and accepted the cup of coffee Mrs. Potts was proffering. “Thank you. Goodness me, I must already be late. What time is it?”

“Half-ten,” Mrs. Potts answered soothingly. “I was just about to wake you. That headache must've done you in.”

“Yes.” Sarah nodded, sipping her coffee. “But it's a beautiful morning, and I'm determined it won't plague me again.”

“Well,” Mrs. Potts began, sliding her gaze to Clarissa and back again, “I hope you're right, but I've had some news—”

“'Rissa go. See kittens,” the child announced, slipping from her seat once again.

Heart pounding with dread, Sarah knelt. “In just a moment, dear one. Run to the shelf by the door and fetch your bonnet.”

Clarissa's lower lip popped out, but after a moment of deliberation, the prospect of the outing won out and she toddled off in search of the dreaded headgear.

“Well?” Sarah demanded as soon as the child was out of earshot.

“That gentleman?” Sarah nodded encouragement to Mrs. Potts. “He went to Mackey's like you told him. And the boys got to talking . . .” Sarah's eyes dropped closed. Why did men accuse women of gossiping when they were by far the worse offenders? “Mr. Beals were there, you see. And, well, he brought more'n that bread this morning. He told me that gentleman said you run away from your family, and he's come to bring you home. He's sayin' he's your—your husband.”

“
Damn
.”

But this time, she did say it aloud.

“Mrs. Fairfax!” Mrs. Potts sounded surprised, but not shocked. The wife of a fisherman had doubtless heard worse.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Potts. It seems I'm not myself this morning, after all.”

“Is it true, then?” Mrs. Potts's voice had sunk to an uncharacteristic whisper.

Sarah's mind raced. Had he told them who he was? Who she was? What everyone believed she'd done? It had been difficult, as a stranger, to find her place in a little village where everybody knew everyone else, and always had. The people of Haverhythe were warm and loyal. But it had not been easy gaining their trust. Once lost, it would be lost for good.

“Is what true?” she asked hesitantly.

“Is that gentleman your husband?”

Sarah's jaw stiffened, but she forced herself to nod.

Mrs. Potts's eyes widened. “And Clarissa's pa?”

At just that moment, Clarissa came through the doorway dragging her bonnet by its strings. Mrs. Potts cast a doting eye in her direction. “You'll have to tell her, you know.”

“Tell what, Mama?”

“All in good time, dear one.” Sarah sent Mrs. Potts a speaking glance. “For now, let's see about those kittens, shall we? Remember, though, you must not touch!”

Just as she knelt to tie the child's bonnet, a sharp rap came at the front door, echoing through the house like the report of a pistol. The two women jumped. Both knew who it must be.

“Go,” Mrs. Potts insisted, taking the bonnet from Sarah's hand and ushering her toward the back door. “I'll take care o' him.”

As Sarah scooped up her daughter, Clarissa lay her bare head against her mother's throat. Sarah buried her nose in the girl's tousled curls and inhaled deeply.

She could not—
would not—
lose the one thing that had made the last three years worth living.

Once they were out the door, Sarah set the child on her feet. Clarissa darted down the steps and into the alleyway, pausing at the archway that led to the lane. Catching up with her, Sarah saw a team of gray donkeys drawing a heavily laden sledge up the steep street, carrying cargo that had been off-loaded on the quay and was now bound for some Haverhythe cottage, Haverty Court, or perhaps points beyond. Although it was a regular sight, Clarissa clapped with delight and watched the donkeys pick their way carefully up the cobblestones, the kittens momentarily forgotten.

Yesterday's rain had given way to the kind of intensely blue sky unique to autumn. A light breeze gave the air a certain crispness, fluttering the ribbons of Sarah's bonnet and teasing loose a few strands of hair beneath it. It was a morning that ought to have called Britons of every sort to come out of doors to soak up the last rays of sunshine before the gloom of winter set in. The street was nearly deserted as they made their way up-along, however.

They made a game of guessing what the sledge carried and followed the donkeys slowly up the street, waving them on their way when they came to Mr. Beals's door. Having finished the morning's deliveries, the stout baker had just opened his shop and was sweeping off the oddly shaped wedge of a step that brought the shop's floor in line with the sharp angle of the street.

“And a good morning to you, Mrs. Fairfax!”

“Meg?” Clarissa cried out.

Mr. Beals smiled. “Why, there's my girl,” he said, ushering them inside as he lifted his dusty apron from a hook and tied it around his ample middle. “Bright Meg's just back here, where it's warm. But I do believe she's ready for callers.”

Clarissa darted past the counter and toward a basket in the corner nearest the oven. Sarah glanced around the shop and was relieved to see it otherwise empty. “Remember what I said, Clarissa. You must not touch. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mama,” she said, throwing herself onto her hands and knees so that her chin was level with the edge of the woven container that held the stuff of all her dreams.

Inside a basket lined with scraps of soft fabric, Bright Meg was a circle of orange fur, her whole being seemingly wrapped around her four precious babies. Sarah envied the mama cat's contentment.

And her claws.

* * *

“Here.”

The door to Primrose Cottage opened to St. John's knock just enough to allow his tall beaver hat to be passed through the gap. The disembodied hand that held the brim was most certainly not Sarah's.

“Mrs. Potts?”

“Take it,” she insisted, giving the offending object a shake, “afore I let the wind have it.”

Reluctantly, St. John lifted the hat from her grasp and placed it on his head. “Much obliged.” Mrs. Potts tried to push the door closed behind it, but he had prudently wedged the toe of his boot in her way. “Please, ma'am, may I come in?”

“Mrs. Fairfax isn't here.”

Knowing Sarah could not have got far, St. John held his ground. “That's quite all right. I had hoped to have an opportunity to speak with you.”

The door opened a crack wider. “And what would you want wi' me? I won't tell you where she's gone, if that's what you're after.”

“I would never ask you to betray the confidence of a friend, Mrs. Potts.” He paused. “Mrs. Fairfax is your friend, is she not?”

At that, the door swung wide. “None better. And I won't stand by and see her hurt by the likes o' you.”

Although she was surely not five feet tall, “Mad Martha” Potts cut an imposing figure in her gray serge gown, the knobby fingers of one hand clutching a broom handle as if it were a weapon. St. John had no doubt of her ability to use it as one. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, hoping to persuade her to relent.

But he did not move his foot, just in case.

“I deeply regret whatever I may have done or said that gave you the impression I meant Mrs. Fairfax any harm,” he replied, laying a hand across his chest in what he hoped was the appearance of sincerity. “Do you know who I am?”

Her dark eyes narrowed and were nearly lost in the wrinkles of her weathered visage. “Word's abroad you're claimin' to be her man.”

“And what does Mrs. Fairfax say?”

Mrs. Potts made no reply, but the answer was written on her face.

“So she has told you I am her husband. I expect you're wondering how I came to be here.”

“Couldn't care less. What I'm wondering is how your wife came to be here without you.”

“Fair enough.” When pressed, he had given Beals and Mackey a simple story, one on which he could embellish as necessary. Based on their reactions, he knew it had the essential ingredients for success: misunderstood lovers, insurmountable distance, and broken communication, sufficiently probable that Sarah would find it uncomfortable to contradict him.

With Mrs. Potts for an audience, perhaps he could begin to refine it.

“But may I come in? I know how swiftly gossip will fly in a country village.” With the right word in Mrs. Potts's ear, he suspected it might travel even faster.

She stepped back and allowed him to enter, setting aside the broom and gesturing toward the sitting room, where he and Sarah had spoken the night before. The morning light did not improve its appearance. It was neat and clean, but strikingly barren, not even a carpet for the scuffed wide-plank floors. Faded paper covered the walls, and what had seemed in the lamplight to be comfortably worn chairs, the light of day revealed as threadbare. Whatever the late Mr. Potts had done to support his family, legal or otherwise, he had been none too successful at it.

Mrs. Potts seated herself in the chair closest to the fireplace, so St. John took the other, the one he thought of as Sarah's. He laid his hat on the table between them, and at Mrs. Potts's encouragement, he began to speak, modulating his voice to suit his tale and donning a grave expression. “Mrs. Fairfax and I were married three years ago last June, against my family's wishes. But we believed our love could sustain us in the face of their disapproval.”

The sentiment drew a sad smile from the woman. “As young people are wont to do,” she acknowledged.

St. John gave a nod of abashed agreement.

“At my request, my father had purchased a commission for me, and I had received notice just a month before our wedding that I was to be stationed for a time in the West Indies. We thought of going out together—”

Mrs. Potts frowned. “You didn't mean to take my girl across the sea?”

“As it turned out, it might have been for the best,” St. John averred, noting Mrs. Potts's maternal possessiveness and considering how best to put it to use. “But my mother professed to be of your opinion and would not hear of it. She insisted she would do her duty by my bride.”

As if she suspected what was to come, Mrs. Potts leaned toward him and shook her head. “But she didn't.”

“No, indeed. You cannot imagine my astonishment and anger when I returned just last week to discover that my wife had disappeared. I believe my mother and sisters must have driven her from the house shortly after I set sail. How she happened to come here, I do not yet know, but my mother had received one letter from her in all those years, and in it Mrs. Fairfax made mention of Haverhythe. So it was here I began my search.”

“And her tellin' everyone—even me—that she were a widow.”

“She might well have thought she was. If she wrote, I received no letters. I cannot say what became of those I sent her.”

“Folks didn't always believe she was tellin' the truth, you know. Especially after Miss Clarissa came. Did you have any inklin' about the child?”

“None at all until you brought her home last night.”

“And her never knowin' her pa.” Mrs. Potts clucked disapprovingly. “But for a' that your missus don't seem too happy to have you back.”