Twenty-Two
Gwyneth stared out the window into the darkening night, her arms folded over her middle. No light shone now from the heavens other than an early star or two, but a square of illumination fell onto the lawn from a downstairs window. She hadn’t lit a lamp in her chamber. Why bother? The shadows draped her, warm and velvety, like a cloak.
A figure turned in from the street, and when he passed through that square of light, she recognized Mr. Lane. Alone, though she had watched him leave with Thad an hour earlier. And walking with a sort of…resignation.
Her throat tightened. Where was his son? Out at some tavern, listening in on rum-loosened tongues, getting a feel for the prevailing state of mind of his neighbors? Or perhaps gone to make amends with Arnaud, who had charged out five minutes after he departed?
Her eyes slid shut, though that scarcely added to the darkness. Why had she not seen it? Not made the connection? And why did it bother her so? She had known he was married before, had known the reasons.
But somehow it changed it to know it was his friend’s wife. Not even because of the strangeness that came with Captain Arnaud’s return from the dead, but because she knew them. Arnaud and Jack. She saw Thad with them nearly every day, had made comments about Peggy that made it clear she had not made the connection—and he had left her with those misunderstandings. Left her in the dark.
She had thought he trusted her. She had thought he wanted to involve her in his life. Was that not why he had told her about his Culper Ring? She had thought he, unlike her father, thought her worthy of the truth, able to handle it, able to help with it.
The truth is too much for you. The thought came like a silent whisper in her ear. Your mind is too weak.
She spun away from the window, flew to the door, and followed the sound of conversation down to the kitchen. Then she came to a halt at the sight of an unfamiliar woman within.
At once she knew it must be Rosie’s Emmy. They had the same fog-gray eyes, the same shape to their faces. But Emmy’s skin was as near to Gwyneth’s cream as to Rosie’s brown, her hair a middling brown rather than black. And her face was even more stunning than Philly’s.
No wonder Thad had said she would not forget an encounter with this woman. Her fingers ached for a pencil with which to put her likeness to paper. And her mind filled with questions.
Rosie spotted her lingering in the doorway and waved her in with a smile. “Are we keeping you awake, Miss Gwyn?”
As if she could have slept? Gwyneth returned the smile and shook her head as she eased into the room. The elder Lanes were both there; Winter at the table with a mug before her, and Mr. Lane pulling out a chair for her, his face somber.
“Sit yourself down, and I’ll get you some lemonade.” Rosie nodded toward the stranger. “I don’t believe you have met my Emmy yet.”
Her Emmy smiled, which made her even more beautiful. “I’ve scarcely gotten free of Henry’s sister all summer, Mama. Poor thing. But I’ve heard all about you, Miss Fairchild. And just how smitten Thaddeus is.”
Heat surged into her cheeks as she sat. “Call me Gwyneth, please.”
Emmy took a sip of water, her gaze not leaving Gwyneth’s face. “I meant to visit before now, but with Liza bedridden I have scarcely seen my own home since May, much less anyone else’s. Henry has been so worried I would overtax myself.” She patted her abdomen, which drew Gwyneth’s attention to its rounded state.
An even more perfect picture. She needed a riot of blooms in the background, her standing in the midst of them with her focus downward, one hand on that expectant stomach. Dressed in something filmy and whimsical, with a breeze playing at the hem.
Winter smiled and patted Emmy’s arm. “I am glad you will be with us for a while, Emmy, and I know Philly will be ecstatic to learn you are back home.”
“Ah.” Mr. Lane brightened, leaning around his wife to grin at the young woman. “Will you be staying here with us, Em?”
“Mm-hmm. Henry recommended it while he is away with Thad, and I thought it a fine idea. Better a few weeks with my favorite people than all alone at home.”
Gwyneth had gripped the glass of lemonade that Rosie put before her but didn’t lift it. At the moment she needed no cool drink—her veins had filled with ice. “Away with Thad?”
For a few weeks?
Mr. Lane cleared his throat. “Congressman Tallmadge intercepted us on our walk, my dear. He needed Thad to sail immediately to Bermuda to see how many ships the British are sending here.”
Her fingers loosed the glass, slid over the table, and tangled with the fabric of her dress in her lap. “But he left with nothing but a hat—”