If Daniel was in Monte Christi, not Jamaica—and the more she cast her mind back over what Captain del Rio had remarked, the more she felt sure it was so—then William had much to explain, though she knew she would not get the answers she needed this evening.
Her brother had risen and looked as though he were preparing to leave. “That’s the problem with this time of year,” he complained. “It’s too cold not to have a fire, but then you’re always drowsy. I’ll just take a walk to clear my head. No, Silas, stay and keep the ladies company. I won’t be long.”
Since William knew—and in many ways shared—her opinion of Silas, she wasn’t sure why, when her cousin had risen to leave as well, William would tell him to stay. But this wasn’t her house or her parlour, and she could do no more than try to control her tongue and not shame Deborah by causing an argument.
She found it difficult.
Silas hit all of her sensitive points with his questions. He asked after Joseph. He feigned interest in how their family was managing after her mother’s death, probing the places he knew were still hurting and raw. And when that failed to get an appropriate rise from her, he turned the subject again to the captured French officers.
“I must say, I was unaware,” he said, “that they could travel.”
“Well, they can. With the permission of a magistrate, and if they are accompanied.”
“It seems unkind of Uncle Zeb to put this burden onto you, with all you’ve been through. Could he not send Benjamin?”
She thanked her day of travelling for having slowed her brain enough to give her time to analyze his words before replying. It was obvious his sympathy was insincere, but there was something . . . Benjamin, she thought, with sudden certainty. He did not know where Benjamin had gone. Perhaps he’d heard a rumour but he did not know, and looked to her now to confirm it.
She denied him that. “I’m glad to come. It has been far too long since I’ve seen Deborah and the children. Are they hiding?” she asked, turning to her sister-in-law, and the talk then shifted to her tiny niece and nephew who were staying for the night at Deborah’s parents’ house.
“They can be very noisy,” Deborah said in summing up. “We didn’t want to inconvenience you while you were here.” Which was a fair enough excuse, if slightly spoiled by her quick glance at the corner where Mr. de Sabran sat in silence. Had she been a mother, Lydia knew she too might have thought it would be best to shield her children from the presence of an enemy beneath their roof. And it was only for two nights.
Silas seemed surprised to learn she was not staying longer. “It must be important business then, to bring your French lieutenant all this way for such a short time.”
He was digging again, furtively, just like a sleek destructive creature in the garden seeking hidden roots on which to feast.
She knew what was bringing Mr. de Sabran to New York. He had told them, through Mr. de Brassart’s translation, that one of his men had been wounded and was now in fear of his life, and she knew William had made arrangements himself to accompany Mr. de Sabran in the morning to visit the wounded man. But Silas needed to know none of that, so she only replied in her most offhand way, “I don’t bother myself with the business of men.”
From the front of the house came a knock at the door and a murmur of low voices out in the entry hall and then the housemaid came into the parlour, a message in hand.
“It’s from William,” said Deborah, on reading it. “He sends apologies but he has met with a friend and accepted an offer to sup with him. No, Silas, do stay.”
It was one of the longest, most wearisome evenings that Lydia could call to mind. She would gladly, when supper was done, have excused herself under some pretext and gone up to bed, only she became gradually certain that Deborah was actually trying to keep Silas occupied—keep him from leaving the house.
And when Deborah sat down at the harpsichord and asked, “Come, Lydia, sing us a song,” there was a faintly pleading light within her glance.
Lydia disliked singing on demand. She sometimes sang in private, and she knew her voice was passable, but had it not been for her sense that Deborah truly needed her to sing just now she never would have risen from her chair and done so.
Nor would the song Deborah played have been Lydia’s choice—the “True Lover’s Farewell,” full of sentiment.
And yet she sang it, all five verses, and would have gone on to sing another song had William not returned, his long coat carrying the scents of pipe smoke and stale wine and the cold night wind from the harbour.
“Silas, good, you are still here. We are in sore need of a fourth for cards,” he said, then looked to Deborah. “If, my dear, you do not mind?”
“Of course not.”
“Lyddie, I shall see you in the morning,” William promised. With a nod to Mr. de Sabran, he left them once again, this time with Silas trailing darkly in his wake.
A moment later Mr. de Sabran stood also, bowed and said, “Good night,” to them in English, and went upstairs to his room.
When he was out of earshot, Deborah said, “He’s very surly, isn’t he?”
“So might we be,” was Lydia’s reply, “if all our friends and loved ones were now dead or captured, at the mercy of the enemy, and we could neither give them help nor comfort.”
“I just meant—”
“He has a sister and a mother at Quebec. I should imagine that his thoughts are turned to them now more than to our entertainments.”
Deborah smiled. “That’s twice you have defended him,” she pointed out. “He does not strike me as the kind of man who needs defending, or would welcome it.” She laid an arm along Lydia’s shoulders in a hug. “And you are far too tired for me to tease you. To the contrary, I owe you thanks for helping me keep Silas out of mischief.”
So her first suspicion had been right, thought Lydia. “What mischief did we keep him from?” she asked. “And where did William truly go this evening?”
Deborah shook her head faintly, still smiling, and said, “I don’t bother myself with the business of men. I have heard that’s a very wise policy.”
Lydia, for all she acknowledged those were her own words given back to her, was less inclined to obey their advice.
? ? ?
Next morning she rose early when the house was still in darkness and went downstairs to find William in his study. He had always liked to seize this time of day to do his work.
“May I come in?” she asked.
“Of course.” He stood as she came in and crossed to move a cane-backed chair for her so that it would be closer to his own, beside the bookshelves.
This had always been her favourite room in William’s house. It was not large. Its windows did not look upon a view of any consequence, but only on the brick wall of his neighbour’s house, across a narrow lane. It had few fineries—the walls were plainly panelled and the curtains unremarkable, the mantelpiece above the fire as straight and simple as they came without any adornment. William’s writing table and the chairs had been made by their father so they were more functional than fancy, and the only painting on the wall was of a field, with horses.
She knew why this was her favourite room. It felt like home.
And here, so she imagined, she was closer to her brother’s true self than in any other place.
He told her, “You’re up early.”
“I’ve a question I would ask you.”
He sat back and interlaced his fingers, studying her across the little space that lay between them.
She imagined she could see the wheels and gears begin to turn within his mind, and before they could put his thoughts too far in motion she asked simply, “Where is Daniel?”
She had left the question open with a purpose—so that she could watch his eyes in the few seconds before he replied. It was not ever easy to be certain when her brother was untruthful, but she’d long observed that sometimes there was just the barest flicker in his eyes, like that in Father’s eyes when he was calculating sums in silence in his head.
And there it was.
He said, “Why, he’s in—”