Arthur’s throat tightened, wanted to close off, but he swallowed and lifted his chin a notch. Was Gates seriously implying that General Fairchild was the victim of espionage?
His fingers fisted around the letter from the American. His uncle, Viscount Hart, was a difficult man to please, one who had given only begrudging approval of Arthur’s choice of bride. Gwyneth’s blood was beyond reproach, but the viscount had wanted his nephew to choose a nobleman’s daughter. Or at least a gentlewoman of resounding wealth that could be added to the viscountcy when Arthur inherited. If he got a whiff of anything as unsavory as espionage surrounding the Fairchilds…
There was only one thing to do. He must find Gwyneth and marry her as soon as he did before anything could besmirch the Fairchild name.
He smoothed out the missive, tucked it into his pocket in case it contained any information that would aid him in his search, and then reached for the one from Mrs. Fairchild too. When he found his lady, she would appreciate the connection to her parents.
He pivoted to face Gates, who was raising the paneling back into its place under the seat. “It seems we have a voyage for which to pack. I trust with your connections that you can attain us passage to Maryland?”
The older man straightened and smoothed his great coat back into place. “There is a supply ship sailing to the Chesapeake with tomorrow’s tide. Meet me at the Black Cauldron Inn at dawn.”
Eight
Gwyneth stood immobile upon the step, shielding her eyes against the merciless sun overhead. Midday. But which day? The same one she had seen briefly at the secretaire after her night of drawing? The next? The next week? She could remember only snatches after Thad smoothed back her hair. Voices echoing, a gentle touch that felt like Mama. The familiar clucking of Mrs. Wesley.
The nightmares. Cruel and dark, with vicious teeth and hurtful words.
She shuddered, wishing for a shawl to wrap around herself in spite of the heat that hung heavy and damp.
A bath had done wonders for Gwyneth’s mental clarity, but she hadn’t wanted to ask Rosie what day it was. Not when the woman already looked at her as if she might shatter with one wrong move. No, better to find those answers herself without alarming anyone.
Hanging from one of the tree’s limbs was a swing, no doubt there for Captain Arnaud’s little boy. What was his name? She strolled along the path toward the large maple. Jack, that was it.
Jack surely wouldn’t mind if she borrowed his toy for a few minutes since he was nowhere in sight. She brushed a few stray twigs and leaves from the wooden seat, mindful of the fact that her dress was her usual white muslin, easily soiled. Sitting down, she squeezed her eyes shut.
She ought to be in black. These last weeks ought to have been spent agonizing over whether to expend the cost on a specially made mourning gown or to dye an old one and broaden the hem. She ought to have been surrounded by the uncles and aunts who would be grieving her father, perhaps disappearing to Fairmonte for a respite with Papa’s brother and his family.
But thoughts of uncles sent a shiver up her spine and made her throat close off. She had thought them so close, her father and Uncle Gates. He was the one who most often visited, whose wife had seemed the most affected by Mama’s passing. And with no children of his own…
A sob heaved up and was caught. She swallowed it down. He did not care for them as she had thought. Not her, perhaps not even Mama. Certainly not Papa…
“Papa. Oh, Papa. I love you so.”
The wind snatched her whisper and took it over the roof, over the city. Perhaps all the way up to heaven.
With one toe on the ground, her hands wrapped around the rough rope, she gave herself a little push. She closed her eyes as the air caressed her hot cheeks and pretended she was a child again at Grandpapa’s country house. That the whiff of roses was Mama strolling her way.
“Oh, good. You are awake.”
The voice, feminine and melodic, brought her eyes open. Only when she spotted the strikingly beautiful woman coming through the back gate did she recognize it as belonging to Philly. Though dressed more casually than when in the library, she looked no less lovely now in simple pale yellow. And absent that panic in her eyes that came from a bubbling beaker.
Gwyneth offered a smile and put her foot down to stop herself so she might stand to greet the newcomer properly.
Philly waved her on. “No need to halt for my sake. I often sneak back here myself.” She leaned against the maple, not seeming the slightest bit concerned for how the rough bark might affect her fine dress. “Have you settled in?”
The very word seemed foreign. Her world had begun rocking long before she stepped foot on the Scribe, and she didn’t anticipate it settling any time soon. How could it, when her anchors were gone? Her smile no doubt went feeble. “Everyone has been very welcoming.”