“Mrs. Henley! But what a marvelous coincidence.” Lieutenant Sowerby dismounts and takes his horse by the reins. “I was just on my way to see you. But what are you doing out in this weather? You’ll catch a cold.”
“I…” She gropes around for an excuse. “It wasn’t raining when I set out this morning. Not much, I mean. I’m on my way back now.”
Lieutenant Sowerby says, “I’m afraid you’re walking in the wrong direction in that case, but I suspect you’re aware of that.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly—or is she imaginingit?
She runs her wet glove across her forehead. “Of course. It’s only, I lost my…brooch. A…a gift from my late husband. I thought I’d walk back to see if I might find it.”
“Oh my dear Mrs. Henley, you must be distraught,” Lieutenant Sowerby says, sounding mollified. “You certainly look it. Pray, what does the brooch look like? I shall help you look.”
“It’s…” She doesn’t have to close her eyes to see the brooch before her. Her mother wore it often. “It is shaped like a witch’s heart, set with clear stones and an arrow of red garnets. The stones are only paste, but as it was a gift from George…” If she keeps mentioning George, she thinks, Lieutenant Sowerby will soon give up his pursuit.
“Naturally. Let us look together. A witch’s heart, you said?”
“It’s a good luck token.”
He smiles. “Surely you don’t believe in such things, Mrs. Henley? Next you’ll tell me you’re descended from mermaids, after all.”
Her laugh sounds as hollow as she feels. How in Heaven’s name is she going to get herself free of him? Jack is waiting for her; theRapidesails tonight. She pushes her hands into the folds of her dress. “Such nonsense, isn’t it?”
“I should say so. Ah, here it is.” Something glistens on the path—aleaf, she sees at once, with some drops of rain stuck to it that catch the first rays of sunlight digging through the clouds. Lieutenant Sowerby bends down, reaching for it, then veers back up. “Oh no, I was mistaken. It’s only a leaf.”
She looks at him in wonder and suddenly, it clicks.He’s nearsighted,she thinks,and hiding it.As far as she knows he doesn’t carry any spectacles.
They search the muddy path for some time. At last, Isabel says, “I don’t believe we’ll find it. Thank you for your help, sir. I’ll go home now.”
“I shall accompany you. It’s you I came to visit, after all. May I carry your satchel for you?”
She hears the agitation in her voice when she says, “It’s fine, I don’t mind carrying it.” She must take care to speak calmly, she thinks.
“Please. What sort of man would let a woman such as yourself carry her own things? I insist.”
He’s reaching for the bundle and after a moment, she reluctantly lets go of the looped cloth and begins to retrace her steps. Lieutenant Sowerby follows behind, leading his horse. “Why did you come to call on me?” she asks. Perhaps the delay can be useful, at least, if she asks the right questions. “It isn’t because of smugglers, is it?”
“Don’t fear, my dear lady. Recent intelligence indicates there won’t be any smuggling activity in the area for at least a fortnight. Well, at least not from the smuggler that Lieutenant Sullivan managed to wound. He hasn’t yet been found, but he’s almost certainly still laid up. A gunshot wound will do that to a man.” He straightens up to his full height, self-importance coming off him in waves.
“Have you ever been shot, sir?”
“No, not as such, but I did receive a cut to the arm once. The scar is still visible.” He pushes up his right sleeve and shows her a half-inch line just below the elbow.
“You’re very brave, Lieutenant,” Isabel says.
He colors with pleasure. “I’m only doing my duty, madam, as your late husband did his. Now, as this smuggler was likely the captain of the vessel in question, his entire enterprise will have been brought to a temporary halt. Any other criminal activity we expect will be centered around Coverack or Lizard, far enough it cannot affect you here. So you see, you have nothing to fear.”
He’s mistaking her nervousness for timidity, she thinks. Good—let him think it. Making her voice deliberately small, she says, “I’m ever so pleased to hear it. I positively shake with fright at the thought of these ruffians.”
He appears to study her. “I am here for you, Mrs. Henley, anytime you are assailed by such fears. We officers of the Revenue Service have the situation under control, I assure you.”
She almost smiles, hiding her expression in her glove. Then the worry burrows inside her again. She needs to be at Roskorwell by six at the latest. She has time, but Lieutenant Sowerby must leave as soon as possible.
“Why, your bag must weigh ten pounds or more. What do you carry that’s so heavy?” Lieutenant Sowerby shifts the bundle from one shoulder to the other.
“Oh, merely some…things I’ve bought at the market and forgot to leave at home when I took my walk.” Her hands clench into fists, hidden by the folds of her dress.
He glances over his shoulder, and this time she could’ve sworn his eyes narrowed—but then he must have trouble seeing, she thinks, being nearsighted and with the rain a veil between them. They reach her cottage, and seeing no other choice, she invites himin.
Without asking her, he goes into the sitting room and stands looking around for a moment before taking one of the two spindle-backchairs. She takes the other, sitting on the edge of the seat, her hands folded in her lap. Lieutenant Sowerby says, “I salute you, Mrs. Henley, for keeping your cottage so very neat. Why, you remind me of a story I was told when I first arrived in this backwater of a county, concerning a certain Aunt Margaret. Have you heard it?”
She shakes her head and he launches into the story with zest: “Aunt Margaret came from high society and was disowned because she married a young sailor who turned out to be a pirate. The pirate was killed soon after, and from then on, Aunt Margaret lived alone in a tiny cottage on the cliffs. Hers was a simple life, but twice a year, on the anniversary of her marriage and that of her husband’s death, she would stand on the cliff in all her finery, her gray hair crowned by a lace cap so fine it looked spun by fairies.”
