On a Desert Shore (18 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Mrs. Yates sat with her worsted work in her lap. Her needle rested; her ears caught every word of the conversation. Her head was slightly cocked, her gaze firm and aloof, as it pivoted from one speaker to the next. She put in a word or two, only when there was need. Beatrice Honeycutt had arranged herself in a black lacquer and gilt armchair, its gold cushion gleaming dully against her stiff, black gown. She draped one arm along the back of her chair and leaned toward her brother, who lounged on a sofa, his eyes like bits of blue fire between half-closed lids. Beatrice's face was smooth, unreadable, but varied expressions flickered across the translucent skin of Ned Honeycutt, glowing warm, blazing hot, chilling pale, his voice rising and falling. Ned spoke of nothings: a party he and his sister had both attended, a morsel of scandal, the prospect of boredom during the period of mourning, hopes for his future. Beatrice answered him with a laugh, an exclamation of derision, a weary frown, a shake of the head, on cue. The door opened. The clergyman, sedate and slow, crossed the room to join them. Mr. Tallboys sat and spread the skirts of his coat on the sofa. He planted his feet in front of him and settled his broad back pleasurably, his greeting loud and authoritative.

The room darkened; the shadows lengthened and pointed across the wine-dark carpet to creep into the farther corners. It was Mrs. Yates' job to attend to the candles, but she sat on, perhaps forgetful. It was so dark now that Penelope Wolfe could no longer see her book. She had been watching them in a sort of daydreaming way. She didn't think they could have forgotten her perched in the window seat, for Beatrice and Mrs. Yates both looked over at her from time to time, and Penelope sometimes caught a hostile flash from behind the housekeeper's spectacles. Penelope thought about seeking out Buckler and Chase, who had escaped to the library or Lewis who had gone to his room, but for some reason she shrank from showing herself and making her excuses.

“Do light the candles, aunt,” said Beatrice at last. Mrs. Yates put her sewing aside and fetched the tinderbox from the mantel. She circled the room, lighting a branch on each console table, another on the small table between Honeycutt and Beatrice, and one more near Penelope.

“Where's Marina?” said Honeycutt to his sister in an indifferent tone.

“Gone up to bed early.”

“My God, did you hear her today? No, I forgot. You weren't there, but Aunt Anne must have told you. Are you feeling better, Bea?”

Beatrice's mouth hardened. “A day of rest and reflection has restored me. Yes, I heard about Marina. Were you surprised? I wasn't.”

“I tried to mend matters, but she ruined my efforts. There's bound to be even more talk now. Just what we needed.”

“You did very well, Ned,” put in Mrs. Yates, pausing with a heavy silver candlestick in her hand. “Marina owes you her gratitude, though she won't own to that. She quite frightens me. When I think—”

“Hush,” said Beatrice.

“She won't find it easy to get around me, Mrs. Yates,” said Mr. Tallboys, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “We shall see what's what once the funeral is behind us and the will read. One could wish Hugo would have directed the girl's education better, but I won't speak ill of him. I owe him my gratitude for the rest of my days.” He smiled at the housekeeper. “I've just been in to say prayers over him. The undertaker has done a commendable job with the hangings and the coffin ornaments, ma'am. I felt such a sense of peace sitting there. Your arrangements are most tasteful.”

“Thank you, sir. I wanted all to be as it should,” said Mrs. Yates.

“May I take this opportunity to say a word? Hugo's death can make no difference in your domestic arrangements. Everything will go on as before if I have any say in the matter, depending on his instructions, which must be sacred to me. I thought you'd like to know that.”

“You are kindness indeed, Mr. Tallboys.”

Ned Honeycutt came to stand over Penelope. “Will you and your brother be leaving us, ma'am? I wish we could have made your acquaintance under better circumstances. My uncle regarded your talents highly.”

It was a less than subtle hint, and there was no other response than to say they would depart in the morning and voice her conventional thanks.

Mrs. Yates said, “You'll be anxious to see your daughter. She will have missed your care. I've long wanted to ask you, ma'am, about a pamphlet that Mr. Garrod insisted was of your authorship. ‘The Proper Rearing of Children.' It was you, wasn't it?”

Penelope was surprised. She had published this pamphlet under a
nom-de-plume
, her usual practice. Her husband had asked so little of her in regard to wifely obedience that she had felt she should comply with his wishes in this one area. In any event, this had seemed a wise business decision, for what lady would take parenting advice from a woman whose family had become notorious? The pamphlet Mrs. Yates referred to had been quickly produced and sold. “How did you know?”

Now flanking her nephew, Mrs. Yates said, “My brother recognized your description of your education abroad, and you mentioned rearing a young daughter. I must tell you, Mrs. Wolfe, I take issue with your claims.”

“Indeed?”

“You argue that a parent must not quell a child's natural inclination or risk destroying all that is pure and good in him. And yet it is a mother's duty to govern her offspring.”

“Cannot a mother govern through love and respect?”

“Of course. But she must shun corruption, or the world will call her dangerously naïve. I know what of I speak, Mrs. Wolfe. That is why so many of the Creoles send their children to school in England.”

Mr. Tallboys looked up, saying heartily, “Quite right, Mrs. Yates, though Miss Honeycutt must be a shining exception to this rule since she spent her formative years in Jamaica. In general, however, your point is indisputable. I myself deplore the license of modern youth, which is so often due to a lack of proper vigilance and control on the part of their elders.”

“I do not see that bad influences or simply bad luck are easily avoided anywhere,” said Penelope.

“Do you apply this philosophy to your own daughter, ma'am?” asked Beatrice.

“Too much indulgence is unwise, but I've always thought that children are born with a spark of the divine that society is too eager to stamp out. It is arrogant to think we have the power to create human nature.”

There seemed little more to say on this subject, but the ladies of the house were not finished with her. “Your husband endorses your ideas, Mrs. Wolfe?” pursued Beatrice, her eyebrows a little elevated.

“Indeed he does, Miss Honeycutt. He allows Sarah to grow freely.” Since Jeremy had never done anything more than sweep in and play games with his daughter when the mood struck him and when he happened to be around in the first place, this was disingenuous. But they were not to know that.

“A shame that Mr. Wolfe is missing so many of these joys. Children do grow fast,” Beatrice observed. “Do you expect his return soon?”

“I'm afraid I don't know,” Penelope said, keeping her tone even.

After a short silence, Mrs. Yates said: “A pity. Will Mr. Buckler accompany you back to London, ma'am?”

“Mr. Honeycutt has asked him to stay on for a day or two.”

The housekeeper's cold eyes were on Penelope. “Such a handsome man. He is a good friend of yours, is he not? Have you known him long?”

Penelope had had enough. She rose to her feet. “A very good friend. I've known him and Mr. Chase for nearly two years.” She waited a moment before she said, seemingly at random, “How fortunate we are that this tragedy was not so much worse. Mr. Buckler nearly drank the tea with the poison but was, by God's grace, prevented in time. Miss Honeycutt and Mr. Tallboys”—here she curtsied insolently in their direction—“were endangered but survived, though, come to think of it, Mr. Tallboys might have avoided his danger altogether had he not changed his mind about which variety of sugar to take at the last minute. And you, ma'am”—she looked full into the older woman's face—“set aside your own tea to attend to your duties, which probably saved your life. Curious that our fate may depend on such trifles.” With this, Penelope got herself out of the room.

***

John Chase stared up at the blue damask valance above his bed. Uncomfortable with the feeling of confinement, he'd pushed back the hangings as far as they would go and cracked his window to admit air. It was no good. Every time he dropped off, he found himself surrounded on all sides by water, as though he'd put to sea. A glinting sheet of ocean would burst upon his sight, and he would jerk awake, the thoughts starting to jostle around in his brain again like waves slapping the hull of a ship.

He couldn't think of a single task left undone. The constables would return in the morning to help him keep watch on the heiress. Hugo Garrod's study and library had been locked up tightly at the lawyers' direction. The letter from Bow Street, which Chase had answered before bed, lay on the hall table, ready to be posted.
For God's sake, get this one right,
he'd been urged. A primary concern, the chief magistrate said, was that Garrod's extensive business affairs must not be thrust into chaos. Representatives from the merchant house of Garrod, Bentley, and Stern, had waited upon Bow Street. They wanted the matter resolved, with or without the cooperation of the local authorities.

Reading this missive, Chase had been relieved to find no mention of Marina Garrod. What would happen once her testimony had been reported in the papers? Would the whispers about her die away or continue to spread unchecked? He had conquered his own doubts and was determined to do his best for the girl. Penelope and Lewis believed in her innocence; Buckler did too, though it was his way to hold back and question, no doubt because of his cynical, melancholic nature. But Marina's story had impressed them all with its truth, and Chase wished he could get her out of this house until the murderer was caught.

He shifted his knee to find a more comfortable position, closing his eyes. He knew he must sleep, but instead he rehearsed his next steps. First, a message to Noah Packet to find out if he'd had any luck in tracing the medicine bottle. Why strip off the label unless there was something to hide, Chase thought, not for the first time. Second, another round of interviews with the family, though the ceremonies of death were an obstacle since the bereaved could and did avoid him without excuse. Finally, a talk with Lewis. Blast the boy—he must leave with his sister tomorrow. Chase would not hesitate to thrust him in the coach himself, even over Penelope's objections. And yet he was glad Buckler would not accompany them. It would be good to have the support of one of his friends in Clapham. Besides, he felt an unworthy satisfaction in separating Buckler and Penelope. Chase didn't think he was jealous exactly, but it did seem that matters should not be allowed to go too far. He didn't want Penelope's peace cut up any more than it already was. With Jeremy Wolfe a ghostly fact of life for both his friends, there was no obvious solution to the tangle.

Exasperated, he punched his pillow into shape and stilled his breathing. This time, instead of the rocking sensation jarring him awake, he relaxed into it and felt a sudden joy as the deck of a ship heaved beneath his feet. He rarely thought about his navy days—such thoughts were too sore, to be put doggedly aside. Now he raised a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the glare and strode smoothly to the helm, conscious that he felt no pain, only ease and rightness. His son Jonathan, the boy he'd never met, was at his side, and Chase was teaching him how to make his calculations and steer the little craft. In the dream, Jonathan called a remark, and Chase threw one arm about his son's shoulder and set the other on the tiller.

After that he must have slept for an hour or two until a scream tore through the silence.

***

Doors banged open. Voices called out. John Chase lit a candle and hobbled down the corridor. He launched himself down the stairs at an unsafe pace, using the banister for balance. On the first floor landing, all was dark except for the prick of another candle, which cast a circle of illumination on the people clustered around Marina Garrod's open door. Chase saw Lewis, Penelope, Buckler, Beatrice Honeycutt, and a few servants looking on.

“John!” called Penelope.

“What's happened?”

“I don't know. Mr. Honeycutt just went in to see.”

When Chase pushed into the room, he found Ned Honeycutt looming over his cousin. Marina sat bolt upright in the center of the bed. She appeared drained of identity in the dimness, her features blurred by terror and the remains of sleep. Before Chase could intervene, Honeycutt had dealt her a slap across the face. She cradled her cheek and stared at him, too shocked to cry.

Rage exploded in Chase. He grabbed Honeycutt by the scruff of his nightshirt, spinning him on his heels. His fist smashed into the other man's jaw, and blood from his lip spurted over Chase's hand. Chase drew back to hit him a second time but stopped. He let go, stepping back. At that moment, Lewis rushed into the room. He gave a cry and threw himself on Honeycutt to rain down more blows.

Edward Buckler was there too. “Enough,” he roared, dragging Lewis away. Lewis eyed him, unrepentant, then looked toward his sister. She was kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed, where the housekeeper Anne Yates huddled in an untidy heap of sprawled limbs. Wispy gray hair escaped her cap, which was askew, and she trembled violently as she struggled to one elbow. Honeycutt brushed aside Buckler's restraining arm. He snatched up the candle Chase had left on the nightstand. Dropping to his knees, he held it close to his aunt so that the flame was reflected in her spectacles, glancing off her yellowed teeth and the red cavern of her open mouth.

Beatrice rushed to their assistance. “Aunt, are you injured? Help me with her, Ned.” The sound of Beatrice's voice seemed to penetrate the housekeeper's stupor. She folded her lips and shuddered. “Thank God, you came,” she said brokenly.