On a Desert Shore Page 5

  The landlady folded her arms, swelling to her full but inconsiderable height. “Ask her. Tell her that if she can give a proper account of herself, we’ll say no more.”

  “She can hear you, you know. Is there a particular reason you inquire, ma’am?” This quarrel came as no surprise to Chase. The fact was that Sybil Fakenham had long harbored a secret, and secrets were intolerable to women like Mrs. Beeks.

  “Nasty rumors,” replied the landlady. “It’s the outside of enough when I can’t even go to the baker to purchase my bread without hearing my lodger’s name on everyone’s lips.”

  “I’ve a right to my privacy the same as anyone else,” said Sybil. “She’d better mind her own business; that’s what I have to say. And you too, Mr. Chase.”

  “Oh?” said Mrs. Beeks. “Then you’ll leave this house first thing tomorrow, miss. That is, after you’ve paid the rent.” She pulled one work-worn hand from her apron pocket and thrust it out, as if daring Sybil to produce the coins on the spot.

  Chase sighed. “How much?” he said to Mrs. Beeks and fumbled in his greatcoat pocket for his purse.

  Sybil flushed an ugly color. “Charity, sir? I won’t trouble you. Go back to sniffing after your thieves. Leave my poor affairs to me.”

  Knowing her a bit better than he once had, Chase chose not to be offended by this piece of rudeness. Sybil Fakenham was not an easy woman to like, but he did like her. She was a wan young woman, an impoverished seamstress liable to cause offense wherever she went. But Chase had learned that she often stayed up all night sewing to earn her few miserable pennies. He pitied her, even though she aggravated him profoundly. He often sat talking with her late into the night while she labored to stay awake over her work. He sometimes gave her coals for her fire or shared his plum cake with her. Of course, Mrs. Beeks knew none of this.

  “Miss Fakenham and I can agree on that much,” the landlady said. “Why should you, sir? I’m sure it wouldn’t be right. Well, miss, if you’re prepared to honor your word, we’ll say no more. I’ll thank you to leave your room in good condition when you depart.”

  He observed the flash of fear that crossed Sybil’s face. She said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Beeks. You’ll have your money and your room. By tomorrow.” She flounced up the stairs. Chase lingered in the hall to talk Mrs. Beeks out of this unceremonious eviction and quietly made good on the money over her objections.

  A glass of brandy in his room soon revived him, and after a while Sybil came in with her sewing. By now they were well enough acquainted that the silence did not trouble them so that both could be comfortable. Pensively, he watched her needle darting in and out of an emerald green silk gown draped across a table placed at her side. Intent on her work, she was quiet.

  “Are you going to tell me?” he asked. When she did not at first reply, he added, “For heaven’s sake, be sensible. You have nowhere to go. You must make your peace with Mrs. Beeks.”

  This won him a twitch of her lips, and it occurred to him that their intimacy could prove risky, even beyond the fear of Mrs. Beeks catching them sitting alone together at night, albeit with the door left decorously ajar. At first, Sybil had seemed so like a scrawny stray that liked to spit at him that it had never occurred to him to see her as a woman. He didn’t find her in the least attractive, except for occasionally when she would make one of her vinegar remarks while looking at him knowing he would share the joke. That was the trouble. Prickly, arrogant, and foolish as she was, Sybil Fakenham possessed a sense of humor and an innate dignity that appealed to him.

  She set aside her needle and studied him for a long moment before she said, “Why should I? If I’m to be put on the street, it will do no good to humble myself.”

  “You humble, Miss Fakenham? Don’t make me laugh. Come, you must tell me. Perhaps this sniffer after thieves can be of some use.”

  The quirk came again. She took a pull of her own brandy, set the glass down, and picked up her work. “You cannot help me, Mr. Chase,” she replied, her tone cool.

  “Try me.” He paused. “I can guess part of it. You were turned out of your place? You were once a lady’s maid, I should imagine.”

  If he’d wanted to startle her, he failed. Sybil merely nodded her thanks as Chase leaned over to trim the wick of one of the candles that had begun to smoke. Then she said, “Clever of you. You don’t need me to tell the story. Tell it yourself.”

  “Accused of theft?”

  “No, insolence. My employer Lady Danbury had a ball. I was called to assist one of her friends who had had too much to drink. I helped the lady to a withdrawing room where she was vilely sick down my dress. Then she started ranting about my lady.” Sybil bit off a thread, keeping her gaze averted.

  “What did she say?”

  “Called her a whore. She implied, with good reason, that my mistress bestowed her favors too generously—on the drunken woman’s husband in particular.”

  “I assume the drunken woman regretted her indiscretions?”

  “The very next day. All it took was a word in my mistress’ ear that I had treated her friend rudely, and I was dismissed. The lady I had assisted claimed I had been the one to disparage my mistress, seeking to gain a new place in her household.”

  “Lady Danbury refused to give you a character?”

  She gave him a contemptuous look. The needle flew. Sybil’s fingers were so skilled that she seemed to need very little of her attention on her work, but Chase noticed that her white, clenched hand stood out against the brilliant green. Seeming to realize this, she loosened her grip, absently smoothing the creases in the silk.

  “How did the neighborhood tabbies get wind of the story?” asked Chase.

  “Who knows? Servants’ gossip, I expect. Or they don’t know anything and are merely raking me over the coals for fun.”

  Chase had long wondered why Sybil seemed so alone, so friendless. He said, “Have you no family to assist you? No one to help you?”

  “I’ve told you before. My father died. There’s no one. An aunt and uncle who have made it quite plain I’m not to expect anything of them. I go my own way.”

  He sighed. It was often said that women were the more pliable, the gentler, the weaker sex—but that had certainly not been the case in his experience. He was an old bachelor, but was it possible that a wife would be any easier to manage than the women in his life? Somehow he doubted that. He found himself telling Sybil about the invitation Penelope Wolfe had received from Hugo Garrod.

  “It’s a chance for her,” said Sybil. “She is quite right to go unless…you think?” She raised her brows.

  “You mean Garrod? It would not surprise me if he had something of the sort in mind. A rich man. A young and beautiful woman with no husband in evidence and an unconventional background to make her fair game. She won’t see that.” He scuffed one toe against the carpet and took a long pull of his brandy, emptying the glass. He rose to pour himself another measure from the decanter on the mantelshelf. “Penelope sees the good. She finds a way to trust people and believes in her own luck. It’s a weakness, I think.”

  “Or a strength. You worry too much. But I do understand that Mrs. Wolfe is your particular friend.” She wasn’t looking at him as she stabbed delicately with her needle, but Chase understood her.

  “It isn’t like that,” he told her, suddenly awkward. “Mrs. Wolfe and I—she’s in love with another man, and I have become interested in her wellbeing as a friend or an older brother. She drives me mad half the time because she never thinks before she acts.” Actually, he thought it strange that Penelope was willing to leave her daughter with the nursemaid for a few days, unprecedented in his experience. Penelope and her little girl were inseparable, of necessity Chase supposed, considering that damned Jeremy Wolfe’s frequent antics.

  As if in echo to his thoughts, Sybil commented, “She’s a married lady. She won’t like to learn what h
appens when the world condemns you.” She gestured at the gown that would keep her up most of the night.

  “Oh, she already knows that. The question is whether that will stop her.”

  He related Marina Garrod’s story, including his own connection to her mother, and was surprised when Sybil expressed sympathy. He would have assumed she would see Marina as that most fortunate of beings: one who never had to worry about her next meal. But she said, “Mr. Garrod left her mother in Jamaica? Poor girl. She never asked to be what they’ve made her.”

  It was late and but for his fatigue and the two glasses of brandy, he would never have uttered his next thought. As it was, the remark, which seemed imprecise and sentimental, embarrassed him: “If she is anything like Joanna, she will be no weakling. Joanna was a kind of native doctress, grand and rather terrifying. Something has…dimmed Miss Garrod’s luster. I mean to know what it is.”

  “How do you interpret the feather, fish bones, and eggshells?”

  “Not standard equipment for a lady’s reticule?”

  “Hardly. Let us hope her maid is not dismissed as a result.”

  They shared a smile. Chase said after a moment: “Miss Garrod is better off in England. There is less open prejudice, and she would have only one choice in Jamaica: to become the plaything of a white man in order to uphold her caste. The mulattos and quadroons do not mix with the blacks. Here she can be decently wed.”

  “And inherit her father’s estate?”

  “Presumably. Listen, when I return from this job, I’ll call on Lady Danbury and persuade her to give you your character. In the meantime, can I rely on you to stop antagonizing Mrs. Beeks?”

  “Under one condition, kind sir.” Her lip curled with such outrageous scorn that Chase had to grin.

  “What’s that?” he said warily.

  She reached down to rummage in the basket at her feet. “Something I’ve been wanting to do for months. The sewing scissors won’t do. Let’s see. Do I have them? Yes.” She pulled out a pair of shears and brandished them so that they gleamed in the candlelight. “No proper lady’s maid would be without these.”

  Pushing aside her worktable, she advanced upon him.

  Chapter Five

  “Don’t worry, mum,” said Penelope’s friend and nursemaid Maggie. “Miss Sarah and I got big plans, don’t we, love?” Over the child’s head, Maggie observed a tear trickling down Penelope’s cheek and fixed her with a stern look from narrowed blue eyes. Practical to the bone, Maggie approved of this excursion, insisting her mistress would be “daft” to reject this opportunity. It might even lead to a step up for Mr. Lewis, which the Lord knew, would be welcome, his future having been a frequent topic of discussion among them. Maggie, who possessed a wandering husband of her own, had no patience for squeamishness when it came to a woman making her way in the world.

  It was too late to turn back, for there, pulled up at their front door, was Mr. Garrod’s gleaming barouche along with a pair of elegant, matched grays. Maggie’s sons, Frank and Jamie, danced with excitement on the pavement. Sarah pushed her mother’s clinging arms away and joined the coachman, who hoisted up each child to pet the horses.

  So Penelope kissed her daughter goodbye and climbed into the carriage beside Lewis. As the carriage wound through the traffic-clogged streets, they drove with the top folded back, the warm air lifting their hair. Mr. Garrod had told her that his estate, one of three along with his townhouse in Wimpole Street, lay only four miles from Westminster Bridge in Clapham, an ancient parish in Surrey. Once a woodland where the wild boar and red deer had roamed and still surrounded by farms and fields, it had become an exclusive suburb for the merchant classes, including, Garrod had said with a grin, “a pack of evangelicals and abolitionists.” Bankers and merchants had built their villas around the Common, a large tract of land that had been well drained and improved with turf, trees, and ponds. Set behind a carriage drive, Mr. Garrod’s mansion fronted the north side of the Common, his extensive pleasure grounds stretching back to the main road. The house, erected about sixty years earlier, had a symmetrical façade of yellow brick and a pillared entrance porch.

  “I call it Laurentum,” their host told them after they’d trooped through a series of gardens, greenhouses, graperies, and peach houses until Penelope felt almost drunk with beauty.

  Lewis looked about to explain this remark, but Penelope said, “A city near Rome, wasn’t it? Site of the imperial villa.” Garrod seemed surprised, and she smiled to herself. All those years her father had kept her chained to her books could sometimes pay unexpected dividends. They resumed walking down the graveled path, the afternoon sun warming the top of her straw bonnet. It was a frivolous confection decked in knots and ribbons, which she had trimmed herself with Maggie’s help.

  “Laurentum—suitable for one who wears the laurel wreath,” added Lewis in a neutral voice. Penelope read his thought: there was something exquisitely pompous in the idea of naming one’s house after the wreath awarded to victors. She sent him a quelling glance and put her hand on Mr. Garrod’s sleeve. They entered the hothouse.

  It was a house of glass with straight sides and rounded ends. The air felt wet, a mist beading on the shiny surfaces of the leaves and swirling around her face. As the mingled scents of sweet and spicy flowers teased her nostrils, Penelope gazed at the riot of blooms outlined against foliage in every shade of green. She was reminded of the summers in Sicily before her mother’s death when she used to play out-of-doors for hours, the ripe fruit from the trees in their garden dropping willingly into her hands. She released Mr. Garrod’s arm and went on alone.

  Ornate benches and chairs, placed at intervals along the walkway, beckoned invitingly, but she continued past a reception area where tables had been set up around a dais, then paused to admire a lily pond with delicate pink blooms afloat on green pads. Here she stood, craning her neck to see the tops of the palm trees, their majestic crowns just brushing the iron skeleton roof. She could not see the far walls, which were screened by trellises and stages decorated with colorful shrubs.

  Pleased by her appreciation, Mr. Garrod called out a litany of names: pelargoniums and hostas and heaths and begonias. But Penelope scarcely listened. She stepped into the alcove formed by the half-moon end of the structure and contemplated a shrub growing in a large tub with wheels. About five feet high, it flaunted cream-white blossoms nestled in a bed of blue-green.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it? Protea Lacticolor,” said Garrod, coming up to her, his face a-glow, his voice hushed as if they were in church. “I introduced it to this country from the Cape and have now in my houses twenty-four different varieties of the genus Protea. They are very rare. Indeed, I know of no other horticulturalist in England who has them in cultivation. The world is small and getting smaller, Mrs. Wolfe. England has built a vast commercial empire that benefits us all and brings goodness and culture and leisure to our daily lives. Our lives are enriched both materially and otherwise.”

  Before Penelope could think to guard her tongue, she blurted, “But not the lives of your slaves in Jamaica?”

  Garrod shook his head, smiling. “You are an abolitionist? That will no doubt add a spark to our work together.”

  “I am indeed, in spirit at least. I cannot claim to have aided in the campaigns.”

  “I look forward to educating you more on this subject, ma’am, for there are many ill-informed views floating around these days. The West Indian colonies are yet the jewel in the imperial crown.”

  Penelope stroked one silky, cup-shaped flower. “I cannot think it right that any person be held in bondage, sir.”

  He stepped closer and spoke in a low, insistent tone: “Do you not see that Africans are natural inferiors born in a savage land? It is our duty to bring them to enlightenment. They will gradually evolve toward freedom. Their lives are no worse and often better than those of the industrial classes in England.”


  “If not now, when?”

  He shrugged. “You must acknowledge the danger of rushing to extremes. Have you heard what happened in St. Domingue? Not a hundred miles from Jamaica, the blacks rose up, and horrifying bloodshed was the result. We must do all we can to prevent that tragedy from being repeated.”

  Penelope made no attempt to hide her anger. “It will happen again if you treat these people so cruelly.”

  At that moment Lewis called out to ask what was behind the drapery on the dais, and Mr. Garrod hurried over, his arm raised to block him from peeking behind it. “No, Mr. Durant, be patient. You must wait until tonight to see that particular treasure.” Abruptly, Garrod bent over and scooped up a shiny object that had been obscured by the hem of the curtain. “Why, look at that. You’ve done me a service, sir. I had misplaced my ring of keys. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I visited the hothouse yesterday, and there it was all the time. Strange I didn’t notice. My valet was certain he’d seen the keys in my dressing room last night. Entirely too sure of himself, that fellow.” As he spoke, he detached a single key, then stowed the ring in his pocket. He excused himself to disappear behind the curtain, apparently to attend to some neglected business.

  Emerging a few minutes later, he rejoined Penelope. When Lewis had wandered off again, Garrod returned to their earlier conversation. “I suppose you think yourself untouched by slavery, Mrs. Wolfe?”

  “Your meaning, sir?”

  He looked up from fastening the little key to his watch fob. “Just this. I know for a fact that your family has interests in the West Indies. Your uncle Ralph Sandford, whom I have encountered in my business affairs, is an investor in several shipping concerns, part of a combination that owns three or four plantations in Barbados. Your father, Mr. Eustace Sandford, draws upon his stake in the family concerns to pay for his Sicilian retreat.” He spoke gently, not as if he wanted to triumph over her but as if he wanted her to understand.