Teach
Teach stared out the carriage window at the pouring rain and
blackened sky. The ring in his pocket was practically burning a hole through the material. His insides bubbled like a pot boiling over, and he couldn’t wait to give the ring to her. His Anne.
Sweet, strong, beautiful Anne.
Teach’s mother had often told him that good people
brought peace. That was precisely what Anne did for him. Oh,
she could arouse his temper like no other girl ever had, but it was her strength and depth of character that had attracted him to her in the first place.
That and her unmistakable beauty.
Teach’s pulse picked up as he neared his father’s house. The
large, gray exterior no longer filled him with dread. Ever since his mother had died, Teach had felt trapped, unable to do as he chose.
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But now his father could not prevent him from marrying Anne.
The Deliverance would set sail within six days, but he would not be on it. There was no need. He was as happy as
he’d ever been, and nothing was left to stand in the way of his happiness.
He sprang from the carriage and tore up the stairs. Inside
the house all was still. Anne must be upstairs, changing, Teach thought. He headed for her room on the second floor, but stopped in his tracks when he discovered Margery on the landing. She stood in the dim light, a dour look on her face. “Your father is asking for you, sir.”
“I’ll be right there,” Teach said quietly.
“He wishes you to come immediately.”
“I will, as soon as I’ve spoken with Miss Anne.”
“It has to do with her,” Margery said, the distaste in her
tone obvious.
If the old woman wasn’t careful, Teach would still talk to
his father about sacking her. Following Margery to his father’s room, Teach placed Anne’s ring in his pocket. Now would be as
good a time as any to approach his father about marrying Anne.
The room was ablaze with candlelight, and his mother’s
portrait above the fireplace seemed to smile serenely at him.
“Good evening, Father. You’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Edward. Please, sit down.”
Teach noticed the tense lines in Drummond’s shoulders,
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and his instincts told him something was wrong. Not wanting to argue, he took a seat and waited.
Drummond stepped to the side, and it was then that Teach
noticed a small coffer on his father’s dressing table.
“Did you know of Anne’s propensity to go for long walks?”
Drummond asked.
“Yes,” Teach said warily. What a strange question.
“Did you ever follow her?”
“No, I never followed her. There were times when I accompanied her.”
“Have you ever observed her doing anything . . . out of the
ordinary?”
Anxiety settled in Teach’s stomach, like an unwelcome
guest who would not leave. He remembered the time when he’d
caught her returning the items she’d stolen. “Never.”
“Do you recognize this chest?” Drummond continued.
“No.”
“Her name is engraved on it.”
“Then it belongs to her.”
Drummond made an ugly sound. “But the contents inside
do not.” He unhooked the latch and flipped the lid back before tipping the chest forward. Inside were a few pieces of household silverware and coins. There was even an ornate spyglass, one Teach recognized as his father’s favorite. The one his father had claimed was missing.
His heart thundering anxiously, Tech shook his head.
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“There—there must be some kind of explanation,” he stammered, staring at the objects like they were a poisonous serpent.
“Yes, there is a perfectly good explanation. Anne stole
them.”
Teach ran his tongue over dry lips, trying to fight down a
rising sense of panic. “We don’t know that.” But he did. Hadn’t he caught Anne red-handed?
“Edward, it’s useless to pretend otherwise. Margery followed
Anne and discovered the chest hidden among the willows. While
I have been quite generous, I have not given her leave to take anything from this house. Please, do not do me the disservice of trying to pretend otherwise.”
“I’m not trying to pretend anything. I’m simply trying to
understand it from Anne’s perspective. You treat your employees only marginally better than someone else would treat their slaves, and yet you seem surprised that someone would steal
from you. Perhaps she did it because you barely gave her enough to survive on.”
His father’s face turned a deep shade of puce. “I have never
had trouble with my servants before now.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” Teach said.
Drummond went to the decanter near his bed. He poured
a glass of brandy and downed the contents. “It doesn’t matter.
The damage is done.”
Teach tried to come up with a reasonable explanation he
could give his father. She’d told him there was nothing else.
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He’d believed her. If he’d known she’d taken this much . . .