Marriage of Mercy
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She sat beside him, but not too close. ‘Are you hungry?’ she whispered.
He nodded. ‘If my left leg didn’t smell so bad, I’d probably gnaw on it. D’ye think there’s anything edible in the kitchen besides that old man who thinks he’s a butler?’
Grace put her hand to her mouth to stop her laugh. ‘I think there’s another sandwich or two in the basket. Shall we find out?’
He nodded and tried to rise, then shook his head. ‘Best you go on and save yourself, miss. I think I’m done for.’
‘Spare me the drama,’ she teased as she started down the stairs. ‘Promise you won’t jump parole, and I’ll find you a sandwich.’
‘I can’t make a promise like that,’ he said quickly.
‘You must, on your word as a gentleman,’ she replied just as quickly. ‘You will be shot dead if you break parole. I’m not quizzing you.’
He gave her a long look, as if weighing the very marrow of her bones. ‘If I must, I will. But know this—Captain Duncan may have been a gentleman, for all that he was a bastard. Rob Inman is no gentleman and never was.’
‘I suppose that will have to do,’ she said dubiously, puzzled about this man old Lord Thomson had foisted on her. No, that she had foisted on herself in Dartmoor. ‘But I have questions.’
‘I imagine you do.’ He grinned. ‘And I’m still hungry.’
She found the basket easily enough in the dark kitchen and tiptoed with it upstairs, after pausing a moment to smile at the sound of Emery’s snoring. She handed the captain the remaining sandwich; he waited not a moment to demolish it and look around for more. She followed it with one of her own Quimby Crèmes. The cook at the manor house had obviously visited the Wilsons’ bakery a few days ago. Grace had made these just before the visit to Dartmoor.
‘I could eat more of these,’ he said, his mouth full.
‘You will. I made them,’ she said proudly. ‘My own recipe.’
He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
‘I’m a baker for the Wilsons in Quimby,’ she told him. ‘Well, I was, and I will be again once you are sorted out.’
‘You’re going to sort me out?’ the parolee asked, humour in his voice. He might have been hungry and weak, but he wasn’t slow. ‘How on earth did you end up as Captain Duncan’s keeper?’ He popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. ‘If that’s what you are.’
‘I suppose I am, in a way. Your keeper now,’ she mused. ‘The old Lord Thomson—I wouldn’t give you a penny for the new one—used to visit the bakery shop regularly and he liked my Crèmes. He was full of crochets, but I never paid his ill humour any mind.’ She couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes and hoped they didn’t show. ‘I think I was almost his only friend.’ She also couldn’t help the way her voice hardened. ‘His own relatives were just waiting for him to die. Shame on them.’
‘I don’t see the connection, Miss … Grace.’
‘Nor do I. For some reason, Lord Thomson provided me with the dower house to live in and thirty pounds a year. I suppose that will last until the new Lord Thomson works out some way to stop it.’
‘I gather you could use the money,’ he commented.
‘I could, indeed. I intend to buy the bakery some day.’
‘But you don’t sound confident Lord Thomson’s kindness will continue.’
‘I’m certain it won’t,’ she replied, with no qualms. ‘People like that generally get their way, or haven’t you noticed?’
‘Aye, lass, I’ve noticed.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Why did the old man parole Captain Duncan? I know his origins. Dan was never shy about them. Was it a case of the old rascal wanting to help his bastard son from America?’
‘I suppose that was it,’ she replied. ‘You’ll find this amusing, but Mr Selway told me that Lord Thomson had some vision of Captain Duncan and me falling in love and marrying.’
‘Then you would have had to reckon with the captain’s wife and two children on Nantucket!’ He sighed heavily then. ‘Wish I could get word to them about what has befallen as good a man as I ever knew.’
‘I suppose it will have to wait until the war is over and you go home,’ she said. To lighten the moment, she added, ‘And I suppose you have similar entanglements to prevent my falling in love with you!’
‘Well, no,’ he said quietly. ‘I did have a wife, but she died. A Nantucket girl, like Captain Duncan’s Bess. She understood the sea. They do, on Nantucket.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Grace said. ‘I didn’t mean to make light of it.’
‘How were you to know? It’s been almost four years, but I am sorry, too,’ he told her. He turned reflective then, leaning on his elbow on the stairs. ‘What with the sea and then the war, I reckon I spent more time on the Orontes than in my own bed on Orange Street. Oh, and let’s not forget the attractions of Dartmoor.’
She thought about the seafarers Rob Inman had left behind. Something about the man beside her seemed to loosen her tongue. It couldn’t have been an air of capability, not with him so weak he had to prop himself up on the stairs. Still, she wanted to talk to him.
‘Tell me. The sailor in that dreadful stall. He said “thee” and “thou”.’
The expression in Rob’s eyes seemed to soften. ‘You have to know Nantucket. It’s an island of seafarers, many of them Quakers.’
‘Are you …?’
‘Not I. Most of my neighbours back home are.’
He was silent, probably thinking of his island. She touched his arm lightly. ‘I’ve never quite been able to understand why things happen the way they do. Maybe people have to be really old to understand.’
They were both silent. She reached for his hand. ‘Let me give you a hand up, Captain Duncan,’ she said. ‘Remember, you are Captain Duncan, you must be. Maybe you can sleep, now that you’ve had something to eat. Tomorrow comes early and we have quite a morning planned for you.’
‘Eh?’ He was shaky on his feet, so she held his hand until he regained his balance.
‘It involves a bath and pine-tar soap and short hair again and no beard. Even if you’re truly attached to prison yellow, your clothes are going in the burn pit.’
‘You can have them and gladly, too, but I don’t have anything else to wear,’ he reminded her. ‘Prisoners don’t come with wardrobes.’
‘Mr Selway is two steps ahead of you,’ she assured him, as they slowly walked up the stairs and to his room. ‘Whether you like it or not, he’s acquired shirts and trousers from Royal Navy stores in the Plymouth navy yard.’
‘The Royal Navy? Oh, foul!’
‘It’s no more than checkered shirts and dark trousers. Probably what you wore on the Orontes.’
He smiled. ‘Very much like. Will I fit them?’
‘Eventually.’
He went in his room and she stood at the door. ‘I have to ask, do all Americans sound like you?’
‘Nay, lass,’ he replied and put his finger to his lips. ‘I know this should also be our little secret, I was born and at least partly raised in a very poor part of London. I’ll tell you more tomorrow, if you’re interested.’
‘You’re English?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Not any more,’ he assured her. ‘That’s what you British don’t understand, once an Englishman doesn’t mean always an Englishman.’
‘I could never be anything but English,’ Grace declared.
‘You’re so certain?’ He sat down on his bed then, as if too tired to stand. ‘You speak good English for a baker’s assistant. You seem a bit refined. What has England done for you lately? For me, nothing. Goodnight now.’
Chapter Six
Grace hated to admit it, but Rob Inman was right: England hadn’t done much for her lately. She thought about his words long after she should have been asleep.
It was one thing to be suddenly poor. It was quite another to be treated by former friends as though she did not exist. She lay in bed, feeling her cheeks burn as she remembered the smarts and slights that came her way in the bakery, as former friends looked right through her.
And here was Rob Inman, an unwilling parolee who was making her ask questions of herself. He’s a challenge. Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen him, she thought, punching her pillow a few times in the hope of finding a comfortable spot.
But the fact remained that she had chosen Robert Inman and old Lord Thomson had chosen her to watch him. Her eyes grew heavy, but she had to smile at the absurdity of it all. Lord Thomson, I fear your good intentions are going to be a lot of trouble to me, was her last thought before she slept.
Emery was as good as his word. In the morning, he brought breakfast from the manor house and a daunting-looking cake of pine-tar soap.
‘If this doesn’t scare away fleas and lice, then we haven’t a prayer,’ he told her as they carried hot water to the tin tub he had set up outside in the overgrown garden. ‘While he’s soaking, I’ll strip off the bed clothes and burn sulphur in that room, same’s as if it was the hold of a ship after a long voyage.’
The parolee required no coaxing to adjourn to the garden for the cure. With some dignity, he wrapped a sheet around himself after Emery commanded him to drop his pathetic clothing by the rose arbour. Rob frowned to see Grace standing by the tub, testing the water.
‘I don’t require your services,’ he protested. He wrapped the sheet tighter around his thin body.
‘My thoughts precisely!’ she said. ‘I’m just making sure the water isn’t too hot. My assignments in this endeavour are to bag your sheets and burn your prison clothes.’
Trying not to laugh, she left Rob in the garden at the mercy of Emery and his pine tar.
Mr Selway found her in the upstairs hall with the sheets and blankets bagged in a canvas sack. He followed her as she deposited the bedclothes by the garden path, next to the captain’s discarded prison yellow.
They sat on a bench by the kitchen door. The solicitor opened a folder. ‘Here it is, Grace, all of our restrictions dealing with a paroled prisoner of war.’
She scanned the document. ‘The upshot appears to be that Captain Duncan must never be out of our sight.’ She looked up. ‘He can leave the estate with one of us?’
Mr Selway nodded. ‘Apparently, yes, but we must sufficiently impress upon him that he is not to escape. If he does, under penalty of our own incarceration, we must immediately notify the justice of the peace and he will be shot on sight.’
‘Where would he go?’
‘Down to the sea. I imagine Captain Duncan could easily blend in with the seagoing crowd in Plymouth and ship out on any merchant vessel in the harbour. The fleet’s always hungry for crew.’
Grace thought about that as she listened to the captain’s protests at having his hair washed yet again, from the other side of the shrubbery. ‘Surely Lord Thomson didn’t want his only son to use a parole to escape?’
‘I don’t know what he intended. Indeed, he never knew his son, did he?’ Mr Selway said, his voice troubled. ‘The burden of this falls on you, Grace, I fear. I will check in with you now and then, but I have business elsewhere.’
‘I understand, Mr Selway,’ she said, feeling alone in the venture. ‘At least there is Emery to help me.’
‘True. We’re fortunate there.’ He handed her the papers. ‘Here is the parole for Captain Daniel Duncan, age thirty-six.’ He stopped and looked in the direction of the garden. ‘I must admit, the captain looks younger than I would have thought …’ His voice trailed off; he shook his head. ‘Who would have supposed that incarceration in Dartmoor would render a man younger looking?’
Grace held her breath. Mr Selway was right; Rob Inman was younger than his captain. ‘May… maybe it’s all that good sea air,’ she said, trying not to stammer.
Mr Selway shook his head. ‘Gracie, sea air usually makes a man older.’ He gave her a generous smile. ‘Maybe it is all that healthy American air! My dear, I’ve arranged carte blanche for you with Quimby’s merchants. You can order anything—within reason, of course—and I will get the bills in Exeter. Send them to this postalbox number.’ He handed her a note. ‘Cheer up, Gracie. What can go wrong with so prosaic an arrangement?’
It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that Captain Duncan was dead, but she stopped. Why, she wasn’t sure, except that she had made a promise to the real Daniel Duncan, and felt honour-bound, even if he was an American and a prisoner. Besides that, how well did she even know Mr Selway? This had better be her secret with Rob Inman.
Emery called to her to fetch the new clothes that Mr Selway had left in the bookroom. She took them to the kitchen garden, where the captain sat in the tin tub with his bony knees close to his chin, as tight as a whelk in a basket. His back was turned to her; she gaped at the lash marks on his back. They were fading, but the harsh Stockholm pine tar brought them out in raw relief.
Grace stared at his back another moment, then retreated to the house. Her mind on the man in the tub, she stirred a pot of thick porridge, lacing it liberally with sugar. She pronounced it a success after the addition of a touch of cinnamon and set it to the back of the range to cool slightly.
As Grace stood there, a maid from Quarle tiptoed down the stairs, holding a wicked-looking pair of shears. Gingerly, she held them out to Grace. ‘Emery said I was to give you these for serious work.’
‘Oh, he did?’ she asked, amused. Smiling to herself, she went upstairs. ‘The maid said you need me,’ she told Emery, holding out the shears.
‘I need you,’ Rob Inman said. ‘Please.’ He grinned at the old man. ‘Emery is a dab hand at scouring my skin raw, but we both agree that a steady hand close to the scalp and face fall in your territory.’
‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ she said, stepping closer for a good look at the task.
The captain was dressed now in canvas trousers and a checked shirt, looking much like the seamen she had seen in and around Devon’s seaports. Emery had already draped a towel around the man’s shoulders. Clean now, his hair was a handsome reddish-gold, long on his shoulders and mingling with his beard, which Emery must have dragged a comb through, because it flowed in waves to his chest.
Grace walked around him several times. ‘This is daunting,’ she murmured under her breath. ‘Do I tackle your head first, or your face?’
‘It’s all the same to me, just as long as your hands don’t shake,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I suggest whacking off my hair first. Get as close to my scalp as you can. I like to wear it short.’
She stepped in closer, tongue between her teeth, frown on her face, and pulled up a handful of still-damp hair. ‘No sudden moves, now.’
She hacked at his hair. ‘I had no idea it was this colour,’ she commented, as she worked her way around his head. Emery had vanished and the maid watched—her eyes wide—from the security of the shrubbery.
‘It hadn’t been washed in a year,’ Rob said, ‘Cut it closer. Don’t be afraid.’
Grace concentrated on the task, then glanced at the maid. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think ‘e’s ‘andsome.’
Rob laughed out loud, which sent her running up the steps and into the house, her apron clutched to her face.
‘You’ve embarrassed her, Captain Duncan,’ Grace said severely. ‘And no, you’re not handsome.’
Maybe he could be. Grace cut closer to his scalp, flicking her fingers against his head when he moved. ‘Stop that, unless you want me to inflict a serious injury.’
As soon as she said that, Grace thought of the marks of the lash on his back, covered now with a respectable shirt. ‘I doubt anything I do would trouble you much,’ she amended. ‘Still, behave yourself. Mr Selway is gone and you must mind me.’
‘Mr Selway spoke to me earlier. I’ll tell you what I told him, I cannot promise good behaviour,’ he replied, serious now. ‘What’s to prevent me, once I get my strength back, from just walking away from here? You don’t appear intimidating. I could knock over Emery with a mere backhand.’ He chuckled. ‘That maid is usually at Quarle, but she thinks I’m ‘andsome, so she’ll give me no grief.’
‘Mr Selway said you will be shot on sight,’ Grace protested.
‘An irate husband said that to me once,’ he mused.
Grace flicked her fingers against his scalp, harder this time.
‘Ow!’ He put his hand to his head. ‘D’ye have steel splinters for fingernails?’ He turned serious then. ‘They’d have to find me to shoot me.’ He shrugged and shook the hair from the towel. ‘Careful around my ears.’
Swallowing the irritation she felt, Grace did as she was bid, admiring his hair. It seemed a shame to cut it so short.
The captain fell silent then. She hummed as she worked, looking at him objectively. The maid might be right. When Rob was allowed to eat in peace, the bony lines of his face would certainly fill out. His nose was straight and his lips full enough for all general purposes.
She stood back a moment, looking at him, before she started on his face. ‘I’ll trim your beard with the shears, then you can get close to it with a razor.’
Rob Inman did look better, despite his emaciation. She could hardly avoid noticing how blue his eyes were, maybe almost as blue as Plymouth Sound on a good day with no overcast. Intent upon her business, she trimmed close to his high cheekbones. He did have long lashes, the kind a woman would envy. She would, at any rate, if she bothered to invest much thought in the matter.
When his face was trimmed to within shaving distance of a straight razor, she crouched a little to tackle his neck. He turned his head to oblige her. After a few snips, she stopped and stared.
‘My God,’ she whispered.
Rob frowned, then must have realised what she was staring at. ‘It’s not that bad, Grace. It didn’t hurt for long.’
She couldn’t help her tears, but wiped them away with her apron, even as she knelt in the grass by the stool. ‘Why would anyone do that?’ she asked, when she could speak.
Her question seemed to embarrass him. His finger went to the black imprint of the letter R in his neck just below the hinge of his jaw. ‘I don’t think the British penal system has much fondness for runaways, Gracie. At least that’s what we figured it stood for. Or maybe rascal, or wretch, except I think that’s spelled with a w. Think what a permanent memory I’ll have of your island.’
Chapter Seven
‘They did that to you in Dartmoor?’ Grace asked. She just held the scissors. Her hands shook, and she didn’t trust herself to continue.
‘Who can blame them?’ he asked. ‘I did a runner, and had the misfortune to be caught and hauled back. When Captain Shortland grew bored of his goon lashing my back, he brought out the iron. Grace, it was seven or eight months ago. Now I just have a souvenir.’
‘That doesn’t make it right,’ she said, wondering why she wanted to argue this kind of logic with a prisoner, someone who had done her country harm.
He tried to smile, but she saw how tired he was. ‘Grace, there’s no accounting for war. It’s a nasty business, better not engaged in, but once you’re caught in its grip, you realise how small a cog in the great wheel you truly are. Admiral or powder monkey, it hardly matters. Just cut me close,’ he told her; now there was no mistaking the exhaustion in his voice. ‘I’ll shave myself, if you trust me with a razor.’
‘Of course I do. And while you’re doing that, I’ll bring out some breakfast.’
‘Music to my ears,’ he said with a conscious effort.
She hurried as fast as she could, because he seemed to wilt before her eyes. She wished she had brought him breakfast even before the bath; it was all he could do to sit upright. ‘I’ll send Emery out with a razor, soap and hot water.’
Rob shook his head. ‘Food first.’ He could barely keep his eyes opened. ‘Anything.’
‘I’ll hurry back,’ she said, irritated with herself for not noticing how weak he was.
When she returned with a tray of well-sugared porridge and two hard rolls stuffed with butter and marmalade, her charge lay asleep on the ground. He had pillowed his head on his arms and his breath came slow and peaceful.
‘Drat!’ Grace said under her breath, guilty she had not thought to bring him food sooner. She set the tray beside him in the grass and sat cross-legged next to him under a hawthorn tree, which was shedding its white blossoms.
Perhaps he had smelled the food. Rob opened his eyes and reached for a roll, almost in one motion. He moved onto his back, chewing and swallowing with the same singleness of mind she had seen yesterday, when he had devoured the watercress. The other roll went down faster than the first.
‘Can you help me sit up? It’s a pain to be so useless.’
She did as he asked. In another moment, the bowl of porridge was just a memory. He looked around for more.
‘Emery is afraid you will vomit if you eat any more right now,’ Grace told him.
‘Emery can take a flying leap off a quay,’ Rob said. ‘You’re a baker’s assistant? At some point in your life, maybe you knew what it’s like to be hungry.’
‘I’ve been lucky,’ she said, too shy to tell him of her plummet from her station in life and her rescue from a worse fate by the Wilsons.
By the time Rob had finished shaving—he took his time, stopping to rest—Grace had to agree with the maid who had brought the food from the manor. The man was at least a little handsome, discounting the high relief of his facial bones, a defect that time and food would soften.
‘I don’t think you’ll scare horses,’ Grace said, handing him a warm towel, which he draped over his face with an audible sigh.
‘I hope to heaven not,’ he replied and swabbed the warm towel across his face and neck, where the prison brand stood out in stark relief.
Shaved and shorn, the captain looked so different. She wished she had not cut his hair so close, because it was a beautiful shade of reddish-gold. His eyes were as nicely blue as she had noticed earlier and his nose was straight, even if it did appear etched into his face, because of his total lack of body fat. There was something about him—she had noticed it last night on the stairs: an air of capability she did not expect to see from a man who was a prisoner and weak from hunger and ill use.
She wondered if that was an American trait. Even with a brand on his neck and too few pounds on his body, her parolee did not look like a man who knew his place.
How do Americans do that, I wonder? Her next thought: Can I possibly keep him on this estate, if he chooses not to be here? Lord Thomson, what have you wished on me?
‘Will I do?’ the captain asked, catching the eye of the little maid who still stood there.
The child nodded. Grace doubted anyone in recent memory—maybe ever—had asked her opinion, much less with a smile.
Grace touched her shoulder. ‘He’s teasing you.’
‘I think you’ll do,’ the maid said, then ducked behind Grace, overcome with shyness.
‘I think so, too,’ she told her. ‘If we do our duty—as Lord Nelson admonished all Englishmen—and fulfil our charge from old Lord Thomson, we’ll send him back to … to…’
‘Nantucket.’
‘… to Nantucket healthy.’
‘Your country is counting on you,’ he said gently.
The appeal to patriotism brought the maid out from behind Grace. Still unable to speak, she bobbed a curtsy and dashed for the manor.
The captain watched her go. ‘You realise, of course, that I will be able to inveigle anything I want from the big house, if she is my go-between.’ He handed back the empty porridge bowl. ‘Now, if you will help me upstairs, I hear my bed calling me.’
Grace did as he asked, uneasy at his exhaustion and the way he had to literally pull himself up the stairs. He stood at the top of the landing for a long moment, teetering there until he had his balance. She wondered what he was thinking, unable to really know if his startling change of circumstance had even registered completely.
He headed towards his chamber, but Grace put her hand against the small of his back and steered him to the next room. ‘Emery is fumigating the chamber where you slept last night,’ she told him as she opened the door. ‘This is where you will be staying.’