“Can’t we…” Her mind hurtles. “Can’t we hide him? No one needs to know. If we just—”
“There’s no time,” Jack says. “You heard him. An arresting party is on its way.”
“But there aren’t any witnesses.”
“The man came to arrest me. He lies dead on my doorstep with a bullet in his chest. Do you think they’re going to care there aren’t any witnesses?”
“The ship,” she says, brightening slightly. “We can get away on theRapide.”
“And go where? I put all my funds in the cargo—until I sell it, I’ve no money. Besides, we haven’t time to assemble the crew and get her under way. They’ll be here any moment. I must leave now or it’ll be too late.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“You will not,” he says sharply. “If they find me, they’ll hang me. I’m a murderer now. No jury could acquit me, even if they wanted to. Probably there wouldn’t be a jury. And if they find you with me, you may suffer the same fate. I will not have you come. It’s out of the question.”
“Jack—”
“No.This was a mistake. I should never have involved you.”
“But where will you go? Tell me that, at least, so that I may write to you—so that I may come see you.”
“I can’t tell you that. If I told you and they questioned you, they may get it out of you.” Brushing away her tears, he says, “It’s best if you don’t know.”
“No! Jack…”
“Goodbye, Isabel.” He places his hand on the back of her neck and kisses her hard, and then he turns and strides to the stable.
“Wait!” she screams, running after him, but he’s already strapping the saddle onto Myra.
“Go home!” he calls, hoisting himself up. Pushing his heels into the horse’s flanks, he clicks his tongue, urging the horse into a gallop. She watches from inside the stable door as he blurs with her tears and then he’s out of sight, away down the road. The smell of horse muck and hay burrows into her nose. She wants to sink down into the straw and weep until there aren’t any tears left in her, but she can’t. She must go home.For me,Jack said. She hopes the men of the Revenue Service don’t come to her. If they do, she must pretend, for Jack.
She begins to walk. One foot in front of the other. Lieutenant Sowerby’s body lies by the open door to the house. The puddle of blood around him is as red as some of the roses. He hadn’t shaved—she only sees that now. A blond stubble sits on his pale, round jaw. There’s blood in this, too, and blood on his lip that has already stopped trickling. She never liked him, but the mix of pity and disgust she feels is such she’s going to choke on it. The air smells of him, of his blood. It’s stronger than the scent of the flowers.He was going to kill you,she reminds herself.He was going to kill Jack.
One foot in front of the other. The dew has gone. The road is hazy with dust. Behind her, the sea rushes at the rocks, waves touching and falling back, touching and falling back, a never-ending rushing. The ocean is calling her, but she has no words to answer.
Chapter Fifteen
She’s still walking. This is good, it means there is a destination somewhere, a place to go. It means she’s not sitting by the side of the road weeping. She’s on the coastal path; after a few minutes on the road, knowing she couldn’t catch up with Jack, she decided to head back to Helford. The path is dry. The small streams coming from higher up on the cliff have mostly dried up in the warm weather. One foot in front of the other. She needs to think. There must be something she can do to help Jack. She caused this—now she has to fixit.
She was about to tell himI love you. I didn’t want to tell you before, but I do.She was going to tell him and now she may never see him again. She thinks of the empty cottage waiting for her in Helford. The cold, empty bed under the rafters. The hollowness of not knowing where he is and whether he is safe.
She has been walking for a while; she’s about halfway home. This means it has been an hour since she left Roskorwell. Sixty minutes, approximately, since she last saw Jack. Seventy-five since he shot Lieutenant Sowerby. She’s nearly at the spot where she met the lieutenant two weeks ago, when she was on her way to Roskorwell and he came to call on her. How she hated his intrusion at the time, the delay he caused her; how she feared missing the ship. Now she hates herself for not seeing what Jack saw all along: that Lieutenant Sowerby had a far sharper mind than she thought. He followed her and discoveredJack’s identity because of her, and Lieutenant Sowerby lies dead in a puddle of blood on Jack’s doorstep, also because of her.
She has to fix this. There must be something, or someone…Harriet.She will go to Harriet and say—she doesn’t know what, not yet, but she’ll think of something. There has been an accident. Yes, that’s what she’ll say. There’s been a terrible accident. A misunderstanding, too. Lieutenant Sowerby believed Jack to be the captain of the smuggling vesselRapide. Can you believe it, Harriet? What delusions the poor man suffered before he turned his pistol on himself?
It may just work. Lieutenant Sowerby was holding his pistol, after all, and had fired a shot. He’s holding the weapon still, unless the revenue men coming to arrest Jack have removed it. Harriet’s husband, Sir Hugh, is the deputy lord lieutenant of Cornwall. Harriet will tell him the story—Lieutenant Sowerby awfully confused, a terrible tragedy, Mr. Carlyon unfairly accused, and so on. Sir Hugh will be able to help, won’t he, if Isabel can make the story believable?
But Harriet will ask her why she was at Roskorwell. She must have a reason. She had come to Mr. Carlyon for his advice about…a reconfiguration of the old pilchard shed into a stable. Yes, that’s what she’ll say. She must go to Harriet before the real story can spread. She’s already turning back when she stops abruptly. Jack’s breeches—she’s still wearing them.Damn,she thinks, the way the men on the ship say it sometimes:Damn.She can’t knock on Harriet’s door in a pair of men’s breeches. It’ll take another hour, at least, to go home and change.
She sucks the salt-tinged morning air into her lungs and begins to run. Even now, even in this most dreadful of moments, she notices how much easier it is to run in breeches than in a gown. She runs until her breath sears her throat and her sides sting as if someone is pushing the blade of a knife into them. She hurtles into the cottage, pulling the shirt over her head and untying the neckerchief that holds up the breeches, fast as the wind, dropping everything onto the floor. Her hands shake as she ties the back of her striped cotton dress. Then she’s out on the path again, sand and dirt flying as she runs to a rhythm made of his name:Jack, Jack, Jack!
The last stretch before she gets to Weatherston she forces herself to slow, walking up the drive instead of running. She pulls some of her hair down to cover the cut on her head and wipes the sweat from her face, her neck; she steadies her breath. If she looks a little ruffled it’s fine, she thinks. It’s only to be expected; it’ll lend credence to her story about Lieutenant Sowerby shooting himself.
At last she mounts the steps to the entrance and knocks. The doors stay shut. She’s about to knock again when a footman opens them and admits her into the black-and-white sanctity of the entrance hall. “I’m here to see Lady Darby,” Isabel says, and her voice echoes in the space, an octave higher than usual.
The footman leaves her. She expects him to return and tell her Lady Darby will receive her, but instead the door to the green drawing room opens and Harriet herself enters the hall. Her face is paler than usual, her mouth a rosebud, tight and small. Could she have heard the news already; could the story have spread that quickly?
Isabel folds her hands together to hide their shaking. “Harriet,” she says, masking her anguish with a forced lightness. “How pleased I am to see you!”
