On a Desert Shore Page 4

  Garrod jumped from his seat and grabbed his daughter’s hand. Together, they ran off into the surging crowd, Marina Garrod laughing like a child. As Lewis followed, a new worry occurred to Penelope. She’d feared that Lewis might fall into bad company among the young men who haunted taverns and coffee houses, but it had never occurred to her to fear other kinds of entanglements. Her brother, who had worked for a time as a junior teacher, was a scholarly young man who had heretofore shown little interest in women. She shook off this concern and looked at Buckler.

  “You heard him,” said Buckler. “Let’s go, Penelope. Chase?”

  “I’ll sit here and finish my punch.” He sat back, frowning at the painting on the wall of the supper box. It showed two Mohammedans gazing, awestruck, upon the beauties of the garden. Chase looked considerably less pleased.

  ***

  When the curtain rose on the mechanism of the waterworks, Penelope and Buckler exclaimed with everyone else. She pretended more enthusiasm than she felt for the mill with its revolving wheel and foaming cascade, smiling dutifully as Buckler pointed out the mail coach with its tiny passengers and the hunters accompanied by a pack of hounds. His shoulder against hers was a distraction, and though he kept his face resolutely forward, she knew he felt the same hum of awareness between them. After a time and without any discussion, they wandered into a more secluded walk among lofty trees in which nightingales sang.

  She had been afraid Buckler would raise the subject of Garrod’s invitation, but he seemed content merely to stroll, drinking in the glamor of the night and listening to the sweet strains of the music that mingled with the birds. Penelope forgot Hugo Garrod and his daughter. She forgot John Chase and his disapproval of her decision to accept Garrod’s commission. She forgot her resolution to keep Buckler at a distance. Something of the magic she had felt when she stepped into these gardens returned.

  When he was sure they were alone, Buckler pulled her under the sheltering branches of an elm. He stripped off one of her gloves, bending to kiss her hand, a lingering pressure. She didn’t move. He straightened to kiss her lips, and she was dimly conscious of the louder trilling of a bird whose clamor seemed to increase in volume as if perched very near. There was a moment when she could have moved away, but she didn’t, instead opening her mouth to him. Then he pulled her even closer, and she felt herself sinking into a dark place of pure sensation. Buckler had kissed her like this only once before, soon after Jeremy had left her. She had warned him the experiment could not be repeated. As she struggled to summon the will to stop him, the birdsong abruptly broke off. They heard a cough.

  Buckler reared back, striking his head on a low branch. He voiced a curse, which he immediately stifled with a horrified look at her. He strode to the shrubs lining the path. Reaching in, he hauled out a man in a dark coat, dark breeches, and soft-soled shoes. Blinking as Buckler lifted him up and thrust his face into the glow of a lantern, the man broke into a flood of apologies. Penelope had never seen Buckler so angry, and she was belatedly appalled at her own behavior. Quickly, she tidied her hair and smoothed her gown, not looking at either man.

  “What the devil do you mean by this, sirrah?” Buckler thundered.

  “No harm, sir. No harm. Doing my job.”

  “Your job is to skulk in the bushes like a blackguard?”

  “Hush, Edward,” Penelope said. “Someone may come by. You’ll only make it worse. Let’s go.”

  His expression softened. Nonetheless, he said mutinously, “He’ll explain himself first.” He released the scruff of the man’s coat.

  The man stumbled back a few paces. “My deepest apologies, sir and madam.” He kept his eyes respectfully averted from Penelope’s face. “It’s just that we don’t get so many birds of late since London’s grown so big and smoky. So they pay me to sing.” He inclined his head at Penelope and added discreetly, “The ladies like it, you see.”

  Penelope couldn’t help it; she began to laugh, and after a moment Buckler had to smile too.

  The bird-singer smiled back in relief. “You won’t be lodging a complaint against me, will you, sir? I need the money.”

  “Take yourself off.”

  After the man had slipped into the shadows, Buckler said, “I’m sorry.” He was still angry at himself, maybe even at her. Her amusement faded. She often pictured him in his chambers, copper hair standing on end as it was now, lean face alive with interest, drinking endless cups of tea and paging through his legal books to seek an arcane reference and settle a dispute with his clerk. Their mutual friend Ezekiel Thorogood had once told her that she and Chase were good for Buckler—they had drawn him from his habitual solitude and frequent melancholy into the bustle of life. He was a gifted barrister, his career finally on the rise, but a career was not enough for a man.

  “We’d better get back.” Clasping his hand, she led him to the path. What need to say more? No point in thinking ahead or trying to solve an unsolvable problem.

  They retraced their steps, their pleasure in each other’s company gone. After a moment Buckler said, “You don’t really mean to accept that fellow’s invitation? I had a word with Chase before you arrived. There’s something up with that girl that he needs to investigate. Tell Mr. Garrod you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I haven’t. What about Lewis and Sarah? I must take this chance for them.”

  “I don’t trust him. What’s more, Chase doesn’t either.”

  “He and Lewis will be there, and you will come to Mr. Garrod’s party. I’ll be perfectly safe.” She spoke in a reasonable tone, but an edge had crept into her voice. Though she didn’t want to argue with him, she was conscious of a spark of resentment. It seemed that every man in her life thought he knew what was best for her: her father, Chase, and even Buckler. The next thing would be Lewis assuming his right to pronounce dictates. There was only one man whose authority over her she was bound to recognize, and he had long ago abdicated this role.

  “You don’t need to tell me I’ve no right to interfere,” said Buckler.

  “No, you don’t.” Misery descended, and she increased her pace.

  “Penelope, you’re not thinking. Chase will agree with me. You’re too impulsive. If you’d only let me—”

  “Let you what, Edward?”

  “Help you. Advise you. Be a friend to you since I cannot be more.”

  “I cannot and will not accept your financial assistance, as I’ve told you many times. Nor will I be treated as a child or a half-wit.” She turned her face away, a lump coming into her throat.

  After they rejoined the others for supper and fireworks, Penelope conversed brightly with the Garrods. But her mind continually drifted to the letter she had received from her father. Eustace Sandford had married the Catholic daughter of a Sicilian shopkeeper and raised his daughter on the island after his wife died. Penelope didn’t think he would ever return to England. Now he had reported that, the political situation remaining chaotic, he could not at present return home to meet the son he had abandoned as a baby. He had sent instructions to his bankers to provide a sum of money but said nothing about reestablishing his daughter’s allowance. Instead he’d written that she and Sarah were to return to Sicily to live under the parental roof as soon as they could find safe passage, while Lewis was to remain in England to prepare for the Oxford entrance exams, a proposal her brother had refused. Penelope would not leave him and did not wish to go abroad. But what was she to do?

  Chapter Four

  John Chase had been sitting in the supper box, bored by the necessity of making polite conversation. So this was Joanna’s daughter. Marina Garrod played the role of pampered English beauty well. However, she tried too hard to please, chattering to her father and turning like clockwork to include Lewis Durant. Something about her nagged Chase, and after a while he realized what it was. It was as if she sought to disarm criticism, deflect any watching eyes, so that th
ey only saw a polished surface. Sometimes she seemed to forget her role and sink into silence, her face closing up like a flower in the evening.

  He could detect no signs of mental instability. He’d expected a silly, fearful child of seventeen; instead he found an intelligent and poised young woman who would have no trouble asserting her own will. For the first time he felt a qualm about his own fitness for this task. What could he know about girls of this age? Not much, he decided, as he watched her flirt with Lewis Durant, a handsome young man with naturally good manners, though not accustomed to doing the pretty with a society heiress. Garrod didn’t seem to mind Lewis’ attentions to his daughter, probably because he thought the boy so far beneath her as to be insignificant. Chase was seeking a way to end the festivities when Marina reached into her reticule to offer Lewis a sweet from her comfit box.

  She placed the white lace bag with pink silk ribbon on the table in front of her and loosened the strings. Her hand slipped into its mouth. She froze, an exclamation of disgust erupting from her lips. Something spilled out, but Chase couldn’t see what it was.

  “Marina?” said her father sharply, breaking off his conversation. She turned toward him in fear.

  “Is something wrong, Miss Garrod?” Lewis reached out a hand toward the reticule, but she snatched it away in a panicked motion that strewed its contents across the table. Everyone looked at her, then down. She sat, turning alternately crimson and white. One hand went out in a blind, groping way.

  With a muttered apology to Buckler, Chase leaned around him. “Wait a moment,” he said and touched her arm to stop her. Her dark eyes flashed resentment, but she complied. The ordinary items of a lady’s reticule were there—the comfit box for her breath sweets, the small coin purse, the embroidered handkerchief, and the small mirror. But Chase plucked up a smooth, white object that he at first thought a piece of ivory. Then he found another faintly translucent piece similar to the first and realized it was bone. Among these bones and other rubbish was a single black feather, which Chase also inspected, running a finger down its spine. It might have come from a rook.

  Penelope had several fragile, white shards in the palm of her hand. Holding them out, she said, puzzled, “Eggshell?”

  “What nonsense,” scoffed Garrod. “Marina, did you leave your reticule outside?”

  “No, Papa, I did not,” she said in a low, angry tone.

  “What is it you’ve got there, Chase?” asked Buckler.

  “Fish bones, I think, and eggshells mixed with earth. And a feather.” He pointed at Marina’s gold and sapphire comfit box, which was coated with a dark, moist soil. When he lifted her handkerchief, more was dislodged. He took up the reticule and inserted his own large hand into its delicate folds. Dirt and more fragments of shell and bone crumbled between his fingers.

  Penelope brushed off the box. “Your comfits are not spoiled, Miss Garrod.”

  Helping her, Lewis hastened to agree. “Yes, see, I’ve dusted your linen. Have it washed, and it’ll be fine.”

  “Marina,” said her father in warning, as she swung a distracted gaze at Lewis.

  “Who would do that and why?” she cried.

  She hit a shrill note that set Chase’s teeth on edge. “Do what, Miss Garrod?”

  “Put that filth in my reticule.”

  “You know nothing of how it got there?”

  “I do not. It was meant to distress and humiliate me. I may be only half an English lady, but I know that much.”

  It was an extraordinary thing to say, and shock registered in the faces around the table. Did she refer to her youth, her breeding, or her race? Chase studied her. It was difficult to imagine what the motive could be for such a trick unless it was to unnerve the girl—but why these particular items? Memory stirred but refused to come into focus. Where had he seen such a thing before? Abandoning the effort to remember, he upended the reticule and dumped out the rest of the dirt, shaking the bag vigorously. He handed it back. With trembling hands, Marina began to restore her property. Is it possible, thought Chase, that this girl could have put this rot in her reticule herself for effect or to make herself the center of attention? If so, she had succeeded. “Who would wish to distress you?” he said, trying to speak gently.

  She didn’t answer. As she reached for her coin purse, her arm jerked, and her glass of punch spread a stain over the tablecloth. “Oh, how stupid of me!” She seemed about to burst into tears.

  They all gaped at her. Lewis grabbed a napkin to mop up the stain. “It’s nothing, Miss Garrod. Don’t distress yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “You worry over nothing, my dear.” Despite the easy words, his disapproval showed. He raised a hand to summon the waiter, who hurried to mop up the spill. Seeing the pile of dirt, the waiter seemed about to ask a question, but Garrod stopped the man with a peremptory gesture. The cloth was removed, a fresh one laid.

  “We mustn’t let our evening be spoiled,” said Garrod. “It’s almost time for the fireworks.” Obeying the hint, Marina turned again to engage Lewis.

  Chase shook his head. “I wouldn’t call it nothing, sir.”

  “Leave it for now,” said Garrod curtly.

  Amid the buzz of forced conversation, Chase found an opportunity for a whispered conversation with Penelope. It had not escaped his notice that something was amiss between her and Buckler. They had returned from their stroll behaving like two strangers, Buckler lapsing into a gloom he barely troubled to conceal and Penelope talking too much, entirely too friendly with their host. She looked striking tonight—her dark hair becomingly dressed, her lush figure outlined by her gown, her brown eyes shining. Chase could see Garrod thought so, at any rate. Now Chase said to her, “You see I was right. There’s something wrong in Garrod’s household. Decline his invitation.”

  “It’s only for a few days, John. You know why I must go.”

  “Take care, or your brother will fall in love with that girl. Do you really want him to pursue the acquaintance?”

  She looked uncertain but, as usual, chose to disregard his warning. “Is someone playing tricks on Miss Garrod?” she said instead.

  “Possibly.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

  After that they went to view the fireworks, which were no sooner over than a shower of rain descended on the revelers. Chase made his farewells and joined the crowd shuffling toward the exit. In front of him was a matron who held a shawl over her head. The complaints of her husband, coat buttoned to his chin, floated back. Chase knew there would be a long line of coaches awaiting those traveling by road, so he followed the husband and wife down the water-stairs to the landing, where a uniformed bailiff strove to keep order amid the confusion. The boatmen’s cries of “Oars, oars” assaulted Chase’s ears. The foul odor of the Thames invaded his nostrils. Moonlight bathed the scene in a cold glow that didn’t touch the black water. Fatigued from his long day, Chase leaned heavily on his walking stick. He ignored the mudlarks offering to procure a boat for him.

  When it was his turn, he stepped into a wherry with three other people to make the journey across the river. He disembarked near the Adelphi and walked the short distance to his lodgings, brooding as usual about the lack of word from his thirteen-year-old son, a captain’s servant aboard an American privateer. The war between Britain and her former colonies ground on; American privateers continued to inflict their humiliating losses upon British shipping; the mails grew ever more erratic; and Chase had grown ever more impatient for news of Jonathan.

  He arrived home to another kind of war. As he put his key in the lock, the sound of raised feminine voices reached his ears. He groaned. He wanted his letters, a brandy, his newspaper, and his bed—in that order. He would have to send word to Bow Street about his upcoming absence too. But when he opened the door, it was to find his landlady Mrs.
Beeks and the household’s only other tenant, Sybil Fakenham, ranged like duelists on opposite sides of the dimly lit entry hall. Looking on, Mrs. Beeks’ son Leo wore a rapt expression on his deceptively cherubic countenance, though his younger brother, William, was nowhere in evidence. A shy, bookish sort, William would have retreated to his room. Leo gave Chase a little grimace and pantomimed terror.

  Sybil looked relieved to see him. “Mr. Chase! You’re home.”

  “As you see, but I’ll be going out of town tomorrow. Any letters?” He addressed this question to Mrs. Beeks, attempting to sound casual.

  Some of the anger faded from his landlady’s face. “Now, Mr. Chase, you’ll be hungry and wanting a bite of supper. A mutton chop with potatoes? There’s a steak and kidney pie as well as a fruit tart. Shall I serve you upstairs, sir?

  “I’ve eaten. My letters?”

  “No word from Jonathan, sir,” said Leo.

  The boy drew breath to ask a question, but Mrs. Beeks interrupted. “As to your correspondence, sir, there’s nothing much that seemed important. I put it in your room.”

  Chase glanced from one tense face to another. Could he avoid inquiring into the cause of this uproar? No, Mrs. Beeks was practically choking on her spleen, and Sybil was clearly determined to retaliate at any cost. The contest would only rage the hotter as soon as his back was turned. He said, resigned, “I heard your voices from the street. Is there a problem?”

  Mrs. Beeks snorted. “You might say so, sir. You know I’ve always kept a respectable house, and I’ll not allow Miss Fakenham to bring scandal down around our heads.” A woman with raven eyes and fleshy, red cheeks set off by a crisp widow’s cap, Mrs. Beeks prized respectability above all else. Chase must assume there had once been a Mr. Beeks, but he had only rarely heard his landlady speak of him. These days her one consuming aim in the world was to ensure the proper establishment of both her children.

  Chase elevated an inquiring eyebrow at Sybil, who flushed and avoided his look. “Meaning what precisely?”