On a Desert Shore (24 page)

Tallboys, showing a livid countenance to Chase, snarled, “We don't want any trouble, but this is unacceptable. Get Durant out of here, Chase, or I'll have you and your friends arrested and confined in the Clapham lock-up. Don't think I won't do it. Don't you see that you only frighten the girl and make everything worse? Take the boy away.”

Lewis cried, “Thank God, you're here, Mr. Chase. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop them. Miss Garrod doesn't want to go with these men, but he”—here he paused to glare at Tallboys—“refuses to listen to reason.”

Chase sidestepped the keeper in his path and went to the open window, which admitted the cool air. A ladder had been leaned against the frame. “Resourceful of you, Lewis, and I suppose of Miss Garrod too, since it was she who must have opened the window. Where did you get the ladder?”

Lewis waved this aside. “Found it in a shed. They've drugged her again, sir. I had the deuce of a time rousing her.”

“I see that. She is half asleep still.”

Hearing this exchange, the girl on the bed made a valiant effort to throw off her drowsiness. “It's all right, Lewis. I feel a little strange, but I'll be fine.” She pushed herself up so that her other leg joined the first on the carpet. But it trembled and failed to find purchase, boneless.

“Stay where you are, Marina,” said Lewis.

The keeper had followed Chase to the window. “I'll tell you one more time, sir. You have no right to interfere.”

Ignoring him, Chase addressed Tallboys. “I have evidence that Miss Garrod is innocent of all charges. Do me the courtesy to hear what I have to say.”

Tallboys straightened to his full height and grew stern. “Evidence, you say? I don't believe it for a moment. Your superiors at Bow Street will hear of your conduct, Chase. I will send the letter this very day.”

“Unless you want to make a gift of your family's private affairs to these strangers, send them away. If that's what you want, I've no objection, nor will they. They can dine out on this story for years to come.”

“Get out, Chase,” said Tallboys.

“So that you and the rest of Hugo Garrod's loving relatives can feather your nests at the cost of this girl's life? I think not.”

“How dare you? Today of all days when I am harassed with cares. A funeral service to deliver. Lawyers to meet.” The clergyman took a step closer to Marina and held out a placatory hand. “And this unfortunate creature left to my charge. How dare you question my motives and interfere in plans that are for everyone's benefit?”

“Will you listen or not?”

Tallboys swept out his arm and turned a bristling gaze on the two keepers, who had been listening to this exchange, open mouthed. “That's enough,” he said grandly. “Keepers, remove this man, and when you're done, get rid of the boy too.”

This apparently was no uncommon occurrence in the keepers' line of work. A martial light coming into their eyes, they closed on Chase, one to either side. They were big men, young and muscular and no doubt used to opposition, which they probably enjoyed. Chase knew the type. They would fight with little temper and without quickened breath, their goal to incapacitate with minimal fuss. In the doorway, the two guards from the village glanced at each other but didn't budge.

“Mr. Chase!” Lewis reached back to grip Marina's shoulder. Swaying a little, she now had hold of one of his coattails, so he couldn't have moved even if he tried.

Chase reached into his pocket for his pistol. Calmly, he leveled it at the breast of the man who had first challenged him. “That's quite enough out of you,” he said politely. “Get back.”

Before anyone could move, Ned Honeycutt swept into the room. “What is going on here?” He moved closer to the bed, a powerful smell of cologne and spirits following him. He cast a puzzled glance around and then noticed the pistol in Chase's hand. Tallboys stared at Honeycutt, horrified.

“Who are these men?” said Honeycutt to Chase. At his tone of command, the keepers launched into explanations, but Chase spoke over them.

“You mean you didn't know? They are come to lock up your cousin in a lunatic asylum.”

“Lock her up? What do you mean by that?” Honeycutt's gaze swung toward Tallboys. “I see you've been up to tricks. I was afraid you couldn't be trusted. Out to deprive me of my inheritance and my affianced bride in one fell swoop, are you?”

“Ned,” sputtered Tallboys.

“Well, what am I to think?” Honeycutt caught sight of Lewis for the first time. “What are you doing here, Durant?”

“If you really were Marina's betrothed, I am doing your job, which is to protect her. But she has no intention of marrying you.”

Honeycutt's smile was dangerous. “No, I think she means to break my heart,” he said sadly.

“You've been drinking, sir,” said Tallboys, trying and failing to regain his authority. He retreated toward the door, his eyes darting continually toward the pistol in Chase's hand.

Honeycutt strolled toward the bed. “Don't poker up, Durant. I mean the girl no harm, as she'll tell you herself. Whose idea was it to have her committed?” he inquired in a conversational tone.

Chase spoke. “That was Mrs. Yates, wasn't it?”

Tallboys gaped at him. “I don't know what you're implying, Chase.”

He kept the pistol steady on the two keepers. “Yes, you do. Ask these men to go back to their carriage and await further instructions.”

Tallboys hesitated. He looked at Chase, then at the pair on the bed. Lewis had sat down next to Marina to hold her hand and stroke her bruised arm. She leaned against him trustingly, as Honeycutt scowled on them both. But before anyone could move or speak, they heard a boom like a thunderclap or the volley of a ship's cannon. The windows rattled in their frames, and shouts broke out in the garden.

Chase was already at the door. “Lewis, take Marina to the library and stay there with her.”

All color had drained from Lewis' face. “Mr. Chase,” he said, his voice hoarse, “where is my sister?”

Chapter Twenty-four

Approaching from the path, Buckler avoided the full blast at the rear of the hothouse. But he felt the earth shake, and an iron plate the size of a door was tossed into the sky to slice through a huge plume of steam before plummeting back to earth. The steam hovered for an instant before it began to dissipate, sparkling with innumerable slivers of glass. He heard a loud crack as more panes of glass shattered.

Buckler ran up to a group of servants, who stared open mouthed at the building. “I'm looking for a woman,” he said, breathless. “A guest here—Mrs. Wolfe. Know where she is?”

An old man in a battered hat came forward. “I saw her go in, sir,” he said, pronouncing each word at a measured pace. “She went to speak to Miss Beatrice.”

“Miss Honeycutt has returned to the house. Where is Mrs. Wolfe? Hurry, man, tell me.”

“I don't know, sir. She likely came out again, least I hope she did. Hey,” he exclaimed as Buckler rushed off, “you can't go in there. Ain't safe.”

Buckler yanked open the door. This end of the structure seemed mostly intact, though the walkway was littered with piles of glass and fallen timbers. Several of the trellises leaned drunkenly, and there were heaps of dirt and broken pots where plants had been shaken from their perches. He skirted these obstacles as he ran toward the source of the explosion, trying to recall what he knew of the layout. After a moment, he stopped, appalled. Ahead of him lay a crater in the floor where the dais had been, and next to that an enormous pile of rubble blocked access to the rear of the structure. This was where Garrod and his family had taken tea on the night of the poisoning. What had once been a garden was now a waste—a waste of shredded metal and shattered bricks and chunks of stone. The detritus included the murdered plants: broken branches, green stalks, and crushed blooms, all jumbled together in a surfeit of destruction. A charred, metallic smell hung heavy in the air.

“Penelope,” Buckler shouted. He tried to think what he must do next, but a sick fear had him in thrall, and he was telling himself that it couldn't be, must never be, if he was to keep his sanity. It was a feeling like none he'd ever experienced, in which it seemed that life was choked to quiet, waiting to learn if the blight had struck. He felt the sickness in every part of his body, as he called Penelope's name again, louder this time, at the top of his voice.

Then he heard her answer.

***

In the minutes before the explosion, Penelope had not been idle. She sloshed through the cold, knee-deep water to retrieve the ladder from the back wall and dragged it back to the base of the cistern. Each time a drop of spray hit the boiler, it hissed at her like an angry dragon, but she blocked the noise from her mind. She also ignored the water gushing from the pipe above her head and flowing in a sheet over the sides of the cistern, though it made her climb difficult. Lifting her soaked dress, she scrambled up the ladder.

At the top she contemplated the window. On the opposite side of the tank, her hope of an exit was only about five feet away, yet it looked impossibly distant. Still, knowing she had no choice but to cross the gap, she measured the distance with her eyes. Her ladder didn't extend to the top of the cistern, and she didn't trust her ability to balance on the narrow rim, even assuming she could jump without mishap. She decided she would have to descend into the cistern and climb up the other side. Clinging to the ladder with one hand, she used the other to struggle out of her dress and let it fall into the rising water. She threw her slippers after it and hesitated a moment to gather her courage. When she was ready, she dropped into the tank.

She sank, and for one panicked moment, as she scrabbled for the bottom, she was sure she would drown. But her feet touched and she stood upright. Shoving off as hard as she could with both legs, she splashed out and extended her arms to grope for a handhold. She missed. She plunged back into the cistern, gasping for breath and inhaling a mouthful of brackish water. She shoved off again, and this time when she jumped, she was able to grab the window ledge. Grimly, she held on, fighting against the current that flowed from the pipe, trying not to flinch when the boiler emitted another hiss. A cloud of steam billowed from below. As her feet started to slip, she curled her toes and dug them into the iron, relieved that the surface was rough and could offer her feet traction. Then she walked up the side, her arms feeling as if they would be wrenched from their sockets. With one final, groaning effort, she pulled herself level with the window. Breathing hard, she lay along the ledge and fumbled for the latch.

It wasn't locked. With all her might, she forced the sash open about halfway and wiggled through. Fresh air washed over her, and she felt the cushion of grass under her knees. She was outside the hothouse. She'd made it. But there came an ominous crash as the trusses that supported the cistern gave way. Penelope stumbled to her feet and ran down the incline. Behind her the glasshouse erupted, and the force of the explosion hurled her forward and knocked her legs out from under her. She fell to the ground, covering her head. Glass rained down, a hail of wreckage.

She lay soaked and shivering in the grass, like a castaway who had crawled to shore. Oddly, she was thinking of her mother, a woman, like Marina, who had been elevated to an entire new world by a man, in this case Penelope's father. Alessandra Lucchesi Sandford had died when Penelope was ten years old. Her mother had been required to give up her faith and her low connections in order to become an English lady, a task at which she had never succeeded to her husband's satisfaction. Her daughter remembered her as a small, dark woman, perpetually nervous, furtively religious, and tragically alone.

“Penelope!” It was Buckler's voice. When she raised her head, he was not in sight, though, not twenty feet away, she spotted the dome of the boiler that, like her, had come to rest in the grass. Shaking with relief, she drew breath and called to Buckler, and a moment later she heard his footsteps pounding down the path. He rounded the summit of the hillock and raced toward her. Then he was moving his hands over her body and patting her with urgent pressure on her legs, arms, and face. She saw his tears and felt a burst of joy.

“Edward,” she said, laughing. “Stop it. I'm not hurt.”

“There's blood on your shift. Where does it come from?”

“I've cut myself. There's glass everywhere.”

In response, he sat down on the ground and pulled her into his lap, his arms closing around her. “My God, Penelope. You scared me half to death. Were you in the hothouse when it blew?”

“Right before the explosion I was in the boiler room underneath, but I managed to climb out in time.”

The arms tightened. “You idiot,” he said.

“Edward, I know who the murderer is. We must find John before she gets away. She heard me eavesdropping on her and Miss Honeycutt. She did something to the pipe so that the water flooded the cellar and the boiler exploded. She may try to get away—”

“Hush,” he said and kissed her.

Penelope suddenly remembered that she was clad only in her shift. Her nipples, stiff with cold and excitement, pressed against his chest, and the warmth of his mouth on hers shook her to the core. She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him back, their tongues mating urgently. Penelope groaned when he drew back.

“What are we doing?” he said, sweeping a hand through his hair in distraction so that it poked up like the bristles of a hedgehog. “I'm sorry, love. I think I must be mad. Come on, let's get you back to the house before someone sees you in this fetching attire.” As he spoke, his eyes traveled down her body, lingering despite the briskness of his tone.

Penelope sat up. “No,” she said. “You are not mad and nor am I.” She cupped her hands around his cheeks and looked into his eyes. “You aren't mad, Edward, and I don't want to wait anymore. I love you, and I no longer care what the world thinks. I will live with you and be your love. I will walk with you and talk with you and dine with you and laugh with you. I will play hostess to your gentlemen acquaintances since their wives will never approve of us. And I will comfort you when you are sad, especially that.” She kissed him gently on the lips. “What will you do for me, sir?”

“Will you let me prove myself worthy of you?”

“Assuredly. You will battle injustice and earn a heap of treasure to pile in my lap.”

“Will you let me cherish you?”

“You shall tuck me up when I have a cold in the head. You shall even darn my stockings if you want to.”

“No, my dear. I'll buy you new ones.” He glanced significantly at her feet. “Will you trust me with Lewis and Sarah? To treat them as my own?”

“I will and I won't mind the gray hairs they give you.”

“If there should be children of our own, Penelope?” he said, his voice low.

“Should God please to send them to us, we will love them and do our best for them, like most parents.”

Another tear leaked from his eye, rolled past his reddened nose, and plopped off his chin. He brushed it away impatiently. “Penelope? You do know it's impossible. Do you think I'd disgrace you and bring the world's scorn down on your head? Do you think I'd see Sarah's or Lewis' prospects ruined?”

“And yours. Never mind all that. We will find a way. I will show you that I mean that. Not here, not now, of course. But my knight is to have his reward at long last and damn the consequences.” Laughing, she swung her feet to the grass. “Ugh, there's glass everywhere, and I've lost my slippers.”

Buckler sighed. “I suppose I'll have to carry you.”

***

When John Chase ran out of the hothouse, he caught sight of Buckler and Penelope toiling up the slope. He set off toward them, his heart in his mouth. Penelope had her head tucked into the curve of Buckler's shoulder and her eyes closed. Her feet, covered in tattered stockings, bounced to the rhythm of his stride.

Chase reached them. His hand went out to grip Buckler's shoulder. “Is she hurt?”

Penelope lifted her head. “A few cuts and bruises, John; that's all.” She saw his expression and added, “Don't look like that. I'm fine, as you see.”

“I don't see that. You look terrible. What's happened?” He wrapped his large hands around hers, feeling the slickness of blood. He pulled away to brush the grit of glass from her fingers. Then he bent to kiss her cheek.

She smiled at him. “Was anyone inside the hothouse?”

“One man at the opposite end is all. He wasn't hurt. We were lucky. What were you doing in there, Penelope?”

Buckler grunted a little and shifted her weight. “Can we have this conversation later?”

Chase knew better than to offer to share his burden. His friend cradled Penelope, looking as if he'd bite anyone who offered help. What did Buckler have to look so pleased about? As Chase accompanied them up the path to the house, he said gruffly, “Where is your valise, Penelope? You'll want to wash and change your clothing.” He could have said more. He could have told her how he felt shaky with relief that she wasn't seriously hurt or how he'd been frightened and was downright happy to be walking freely in the open air with both his friends. He didn't say these things. At any rate, she knew them, and there was still work to do.

“Can you manage from here, Buckler?” he said. “I must find Mrs. Yates.”

Penelope stiffened. “She locked me in the boiler room and flooded the cistern. She played the tricks on Marina and poisoned her own brother. You'll stop her, John, before she can do more harm?”

“I'm going now.”

***

Leaving them, Chase circled around the side of the house and walked through the kitchen garden. All was peaceful here, the neat rows of plants still glistening from the earlier rain. None of the servants seemed to be around, probably because they had gathered outside to examine the damage to the hothouse. He went down the steps and in the kitchen door. The cook, busy with her dinner preparations, had little time to spare, especially since her helpers had deserted her. She was hunched over a sauce and muttering to herself, but she nodded in the direction of the housekeeper's room when Chase asked for Mrs. Yates.

He opened the door to this room without knocking and went in. Anne Yates sat in her horsehair armchair, her feet on a small stool, her head reclining against the cushions. It seemed she had just settled down to rest, for a cup of tea steamed gently at her side. She looked up as Chase entered and met his gaze without shrinking.

“I expected you,” she said.

“Are you ready to accompany me to the library?”

“In a few minutes. Why don't you sit down, and I'll tell you all about it?” She smiled at him invitingly, indicated the matching armchair, and raised the cup to her lips.

“No, ma'am.” Chase reached out to take the saucer from her hand. “You won't be needing that.”

He went to the window, opened it, and poured out the contents of her cup. When he faced her again, he saw that she watched him, her eyes faintly quizzical, her hands folded in her ample lap.

***

John Chase and Aurelius Caldwell went to examine the gaping hole, which was all that remained of the boiler room. The gardeners' chief concern was to protect the specimens in the hothouse from further damage. A cohort of estate workers used wheelbarrows and carts to relocate the plants that could easily be moved, while other helpers, some from the village, swept up the branches, green stalks as fat as a man's arm, piles of earth, and scattered blossoms of every hue, along with the fragments of crockery, steel, and wood. The glass lay thick on the ground, in pieces ranging from the tiniest specks glinting like fairy dust to jagged shards that could have taken off someone's head.

A cold fury swept over Chase, as he realized how terrified Penelope must have been, followed by a surge of pride in her resourcefulness. Of course, it had been foolish to hide in the first place, as he had every intention of telling her. Ned Honeycutt, entirely sober now, directed the cleanup for a while before he went to see about summoning a glazier and a builder for the repairs.