Is he making fun of her, saying it like that, using her own words,perfectly fineandI assure you? She wants to stand in the doorway to the sitting room to block his way to the stairs. Her fingers pluck at the lace edging on her cuff.
“However,” Lieutenant Sowerby says, “I have it on good authority that one of the smugglers was wounded during the action. The captain, if reports are correct.”
The shock runs through her so violently she sways on her feet. Putting a hand against the wall to steady herself, she blurts, “Your friend—Lieutenant Sullivan—saw the man?”
Lieutenant Sowerby cocks his head, studying her. “Not quite as such. Lieutenant Sullivan managed to shoot him from the deck of theSwallowat the range of some one hundred yards—he’s a crack shotwith a musket—and with the smoke from the guns, he couldn’t quite make out…” He runs the tip of his index finger along his nose. “The smuggler in question appeared to be giving commands in the stern of the ship and wore a hat such as one would expect of a young officer. I believe we may conclude he was in fact the captain of the vessel. In any case, we believed him killed at first. It would’ve given me great pleasure to avail you of the news, had this indeed been the case, but it appears he lives and has made his escape. You don’t happen to have heard of anyone looking for a place to hide or trying to contract the services of a doctor, have you?” As he talks, his eyes roam the small space.
The tray, she thinks. It’s under the stairs and there are two cups of water on it. Keeping her voice soft, she says, “I haven’t heard any such thing. But if I do, I shall send word to you at once.”
What is the punishment for aiding smugglers? she wonders. Is it the same as for the crime of smuggling itself…death? Or something slightly less terrible; transportation, maybe? Her fingers are cold. She has found a thread sticking up from her sleeve and tugs on it, again and again.
“Just so,” says Lieutenant Sowerby, lips pursed. A drop of sweat rolls down his cheek, and with a look of irritation, he brushes it away. A fly zooms against the window. After a moment, he says, “I saw you the day before yesterday. At the hanging of that traitor. You looked…troubled.” He tilts his head. “Did the proceedings make you uneasy, Mrs. Henley?”
Breathe, for God’s sake!“I…I had not witnessed an execution before. It did make me uneasy, but…” A tremor. Has he heard? She presses ahead. “I understand smuggling is a terrible crime.”
“Just so,” the lieutenant says again. “It’s intolerable to watch these criminals have free rein of the land. That’s why I don’t wait for them to be acquitted at trial. I ensure justice takes place. You see this, surely?”
“But of course.”
“I do wish you’d accept my offer of protection, Mrs. Henley.They’re cutthroats, the lot of them. I can’t bear to think what they would do to a woman of such refined qualities as yourself.”
As on his previous visit, he looks as if he not only can bear to think of it easily, but rather enjoys the image. A trail of red spots creeps up his neck and into his face until he is blushing, his eyes grown dark, his mouth half open. She doesn’t mean to take a step back; isn’t even aware she has done it until she feels the rough planks of the door against her shoulder blades.
“I entirely agree,” she says. At the sound of a light thud, she jumps; Lieutenant Sowerby has heard it, too. He’s listening carefully, but there’s no other noise.
“A bird, I suppose,” he says. “Slamming into the window there, perhaps, the poor, useless creature. If you permit my saying, I noticed your reaction of fear just now. It’s clear to me you are ill at ease and you are right to feel so, living in this godforsaken place all alone. I could protect you, madam, if you would but let me.” He pats the hilt of the sword at his side. When she doesn’t say anything, he adds, “I hope I may have the pleasure of your company again soon, at the dinner organized by my most particular friend the deputy lord lieutenant of Cornwall, at Weatherston Hall.”
“Dinner?”
“Oh dear, we do seem to have a knack for misunderstanding one another this morning. Has Lady Harriet Darby not come to see you?”
“She has not.”
Lieutenant Sowerby says, “I hope you’ll forgive me, but I made mention of your circumstances to Lady Darby, in case it might influence her desire to make your acquaintance. However, she assured me it did not. I believe she said—in her own words, which tend to be quite remarkable—she should not care a jot however much you were reduced in circumstance, for she was in dire need of decent company.”
The thread comes loose from her sleeve and she rolls it between her fingers. “Perhaps something has prevented her coming.” She doesn’t really believe this. Most probably, Lady Darby took one look at the old pilchard shed and fled back to Weatherston Hall.
“Perhaps, indeed.” He purses his lips again, which would make him look comical if it wasn’t for the odd, lingering blush in his cheeks. He raises his hand to his brow, wiping. Two days ago, that same hand put a noose around a man’s neck. “Well, an invitation may yet be forthcoming,” he says. “The dinner is not for another fortnight. I shall look forward to your presence, if it may be procured.”
“So shall I,” she says. “To your presence.”
“Much as I should like to linger, I’d best go. There are smugglers to catch, after all.”
His eyes fasten on her chest and he steps closer until, as before, she’s trapped between his hulking body and the door. The sweat on him is pungent, sour smelling. Leaning in so closely his breath grazes her cheek, he murmurs, “You are an extraordinary woman, Mrs. Henley.”
Her heart nearly beats its way through her skin. With the back of his hand, he moves as if to caress the left side of her face, but before he can touch her, she drops low and dodges his arm. Spinning around to face him, she says, “I wish you Godspeed, sir.”
Lieutenant Sowerby stands very still, breathing hard. He’s still red in the face when he says, “Do let me know if you find yourself in need of aid at any time, Mrs. Henley. Upon my honor, it vexes me that you should choose to live here like this.”
It’s hardly a choice,she thinks, but she doesn’t say it. “I shall, sir.”Go! Please go!The wish is so strong she worries he’ll see it on her face, so she looks down at his boots as he opens the door and crosses the doorstep. The boots are knee-length and made of brown leather. They’re too clean for patrolling the coastal path. He must have them shined often.
The rushing of the waves reaches her over the lieutenant’s steps. She draws strength from the sound as one might from a draft of water when thirsty. Would that leaving a fish for the sea spirit the Cornish people believe in gained one protection not from inclement weather but from noxious men. She’d buy a fish just for the purpose every dayin that case. If she weren’t so deeply shaken, this thought would’ve made her smile.
She watches the boots make their way up the gravel path, watches the lieutenant mount his horse, then lifts her eyes to catch him raising his hand. “Good day, Mrs. Henley!”
Then he’s gone. At once, she starts to tremble as badly as she did when Jack and his men entered her bedroom. She waits behind the door; she doesn’t dare go up yet. Upstairs, all is quiet. After what feels like years, she opens the front door a crack and looks out. What she can see of the coastal path is empty. It has stopped raining, but the air still smells of rain, a wet, leafy scent more suited to autumn than to early spring. The river is swollen with the tide. She pushes the door open wider and takes a step outside, wanting to dip her fingers into the water and watch the waves move over them, but Jack waits upstairs. Deep breaths, then, tasting the sea air—the next-best thing for allaying her fears.
“Isabel,” Jack calls under his breath as she trembles her way up the stairs. He lowers the pistol when she steps into the room. “Who was it?”
