She had never cared for the stuff, but her father had always said a good cup of it could wake him like nothing else. At this point, it was worth a try. “Yes, please.”
He set another white cup on the table and poured. “Cream and sugar are there if you take them. I will be back in a moment.”
Pulling the mug closer, Gwyneth stared into the inky liquid. Then she had to close her eyes at a sudden assault of images. The grin on Papa’s face when she had begged him for a taste of his favorite brew. Mama’s laughter when she had wrinkled her nose at the first touch of bitterness on her tongue. The joy of realizing Papa must have returned from campaign when the scent filled the house again in the mornings.
A clink brought her eyes open. A plate of food had appeared before her, and her host was taking his chair. “There you are. Your guardians retired and my parents took a stroll, but we only just finished. It was still warm.”
“Thank you.” She lifted her fork but then paused to regard him. “You were not expecting us, were you. Despite what that letter from Papa said.”
He cleared his throat and poured more coffee into his cup. “Correspondence from England has been rather undependable, but my home is always open to my friends.”
“I am hardly that, Mr. Lane. I am only the daughter of your parents’ friend.”
“Close enough.” He took a sip. “And it is ‘Captain.’ Or ‘Thad’—with my father in residence, it may otherwise be confusing.”
Her fingers tightened around her fork. She couldn’t possibly.
He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “What are your plans? Will you stay with us a while, or are you en route to somewhere else?”
“I…” The muggy air seemed to converge upon her, weighing her arm down until she had to rest it upon the table. “Papa said to come here, and that he would be no more than a month behind me.”
Except that he would never come, would never give her instruction on what she should do next. She was trapped in this land that wasn’t home, among a people who considered her the enemy.
Why hide the truth? The London papers would report his murder, and they would not be far behind her.
Her stomach cramped, and the world doubled again. Uncle Gates would come. He might already be on his way. What if he thought she knew about whatever he had been looking for? He would come, and he would kill her too, and the Wesleys, and perhaps even the Lanes.
Through the fog over her eyes she saw the flash of a blade, wicked and sharp and aimed at her heart. Her throat ached with the scream she could not release. She didn’t dare. He would hear her, would turn on her.
“Miss Fairchild?”
Who was he, that man she called uncle? He was no soldier like Papa, to be trained to kill. He was only…what was it he had said, when she asked how he spent his days? I deal in words, Gwyn.
Words. At the time she had thought he must be a writer, one working under a nom de plume. But was it so innocuous? Words could be such dangerous things. A few cruel or untrue ones, and a reputation could be ruined. One whisper from her uncle’s lips, and all of England could blame her for her father’s murder.
She could even now be hunted by the law. Her only hope was to keep pretending ignorance. Then when they came after her, she could claim with some believability not to have known until the papers reached her.
“Gwyneth.” Warm fingers covered her icy hand and bade her look up. His gaze parted the fog like the beam from a lighthouse. She ought to pull her hand away, tried to, but her fingers would not obey. “You are safe here. There is no need to fear. I promise you, I do not take lightly the trust your father puts in me.”
A breeze blew in from the open window and soothed the fire of panic from her neck. She managed a nod.
Thad smiled and withdrew his hand. “Eat. I know well what the fare is like on board a vessel crossing the Atlantic, and I promise this will be the best meal you have had in weeks.”
It did smell good. She pulled off a piece of tender beef with her fork and put it in her mouth. Only after she’d taken several bites did she look at him again. “Did I see a child here earlier?”
He had been studying her, but with a gaze so concerned she couldn’t mind it. And now he grinned as if a child himself. “Jack Arnaud. I imagine you will see a good deal of him, as my mother is the closest thing he has to a grandmother.”
The captain’s son. “Captain Arnaud said you were like a brother to him, but I am afraid I cannot remember anything else he may have told me. Has he a wife I will meet soon? Have you?”
All light left his smile. “Widowers. Both of us.”
The bite of creamy potatoes turned to sand. “I am so sorry.” If they had loved their wives even half as much as Papa had Mama, then she could well imagine their grief.
“Thank you. And I am sorry for the loss of your mother. We received that sad news some six months ago.”