True to form, in moments when she had too many thoughts, Anna spent the rest of the day rearranging the linen closet and contemplating the enormity of her dear brother’s death. ‘Where are you even buried?’ she asked the bath sheets she folded and refolded.
Supper was bread and soup, eaten in the kitchen. Anna thought of the times her housekeeper had insisted on maintaining the propriety of a house, with its mistress in the dining room and the help in the kitchen. This was different. William Fontaine was dead, changing the order of things.
‘Captain Beattiewillbe here tonight,’ Anna said, desperate to know more.
‘We need to know something,’ Mrs Moore added.
We need to know a lot, Anna told herself. They sat in silence and waited.
Was it fear or relief when he finally knocked? Anna hurried to the front door.
So much for the morning’s stalwart captain who had so impressed her earlier. She opened her door on an exhausted man with desperation writ large on a face that might have been handsome in easier times.
‘C…come in, sir,’ she managed.
Two children stood so close to him that they looked attached with glue. It touched her heart when he gave them a gentle push forward. She held the door open wider.
Captain Beattie flashed her a look of gratitude. ‘I’ll explain, Miss Fontaine.’
‘I know you will, sir,’ she replied. ‘There’s the sitting room, with a nice fire. It’s warm,’ she added, noting the older girl’s thin cloak. Whowasshe? The small boy’s clothing was better, but his eyes were filled with terror.What in the world?she thought, forgetting for a moment her own anxiety. Some instinct told her that theirs was worse.
A widow with two grown children of her own, Mrs Moore knew hunger when she saw it. She didn’t wait for an introduction. ‘I have soup and bread in the kitchen. Come along, children.’
The little ones seemed to recognise a command when they heard it. So did Captain Beattie, apparently. ‘Aye, go with the nice lady.’
Mrs Moore shepherded them out, but not before whispering to Anna, ‘Something’s afoot.’
Anna gestured the captain into the sitting room. He went to the fireplace to warm his hands, staying there so long Anna knew he was at a loss for words. She began the conversation, not sure where to start.
‘Sir? You said something about Will’s finances, but tell me first, was there no surgeon on board theSwallow?’
Anna wished she hadn’t been so blunt. His look of real distress showed her a captain not used to failing his men.
‘Miss Fontaine, I will regret that until I die,’ he said simply. ‘Your brother assured me that his injury was a trifling matter, and agreed that our surgeon should go to theRoyal Sovereign, where there were many more wounded.’
She understood. In her heart, a greater question remained. ‘Did my brother suffer?’
‘I fear he did, but it was over quickly,’ he replied simply.
Anna folded her hands in her lap and continued, knowing without knowing how, that this man’s suffering equalled hers. ‘I take comfort that he does not suffernow, and has done his duty.’
‘Miss Fontaine, I held his hand to the end.’ He took his own deep breath, and in the deepest recesses of her heart Anna felt the cost ofhiswar.
Captain Beattie took out a sheet of paper from inside his uniform jacket and handed it to her, apologising for the much folded and crumpled final will of her brother. She noted Will’s shaky signature and swallowed down her tears.
He gave her a moment, leaning back. ‘Miss Fontaine, let us go to Carter and Brustein tomorrow morning and settle this matter. With this signature, Shlomo Brustein will settle Will’s finances on your behalf.’
‘I greatly appreciate this. Thank you, sir.’ She gave the will into his keeping once more.
He returned his gaze to her face, and she realised that he had a bigger issue at hand than mere money. It must be the children. But what about them? She waited for him to speak.
‘Miss Fontaine, you don’t know me.’ Silence, then, ‘Can you trust me? I needyourhelp and I have nowhere to turn.’
Captain Beattie was right: she didn’t know him, beyond Will’s words that he was from Scotland’s Kirkcudbrightshire, and that he was a widower with a child. She had known a few Scots in her admittedly sheltered life.
‘I know you are from Scotland. Will named a place.’
‘Kirkcudbrightshire. Spring Hill, to be specific.’ He managed a smile and seemed to relax a little. ‘Will probably told you we Scots are a bossy, swearing type.’
