On a Desert Shore (6 page)

“We should continue our tour,” she said.

“Of course, ma'am.” He motioned her to the stairs.

***

Penelope and Lewis hesitated on the threshold of Garrod's drawing room. Though still thin and pale after his ordeal in Newgate prison, her brother wore an air of easy confidence. With their father's gift of money, Penelope had sent him to a tailor, so she was pleased with his evening gear. This was the first time they had appeared together at a formal gathering, and the sight of his upright form in a skin-tight tailcoat, white waistcoat, and black breeches created a lump in her throat.

“Ready?” he said with a grin, offering her his arm.

The room was hung with crimson and gold satin. Gilded columns supported a painted ceiling where mythological figures lounged at perpetual ease. Windows, which opened to a terrace and flower garden, covered one wall. Occasional tables, sleek sofas, and a grand pianoforte basked in the evening sun. This same glow glanced off the mirrors and bathed the room's occupants, making them into a living portrait, a
tableau vivant
of beings from another world. Contrasting her surroundings to the barren lodgings she shared with Lewis, Penelope felt her pulse quicken. Courage, she told herself, and pasted a smile on her face.

“Mrs. Wolfe,” said Hugo Garrod. “Allow me to make you known to my family.” Garrod drew them further into the room, pausing first before an older lady, whom he introduced as his sister Anne Yates.

Mrs. Yates curtseyed, holding out her hand. “Welcome to Laurentum, Mrs. Wolfe, Mr. Durant. Beatrice, Marina. Come greet our guests.”

Beatrice Honeycutt rose from a sofa against the wall. About thirty years old, she was the niece Garrod had adopted after her own parents died in Jamaica. Unlike him, she'd guarded her pink-cheeked complexion from the rigors of the West Indian climate. She would never be described as beautiful—her nose was too thick and decisive, her eyes with their sparse eyelashes too faded—but she was a woman of obvious breeding. As she greeted Penelope and Lewis, she revealed an awareness that seemed at odds with her rather bovine appearance.

“Where's Marina?” said Beatrice, looking around.

“Here I am,” said the girl, who'd been poised at the far end of the room. She came forward. Tonight Marina Garrod wore a gown that made her appear a wood sprite. Her greeting was subdued, delivered in a barely audible voice, but she directed a searching look at Lewis, which he could not fail to observe. Remembering the laughing, vital girl who had dashed off on her father's arm to see the waterworks at Vauxhall, Penelope was puzzled.

“That's an interesting bracelet, Miss Garrod,” she said, unable to think of anything to say. In truth, the ornament warred with the delicate greens of her dress; the black spots on the garish red beads were shiny like onyx. Penelope moved closer to get a better view.

“Like eyes watching you, isn't it?” Marina said in a clear, carrying voice that caused Beatrice to break off in the middle of her sentence. “I wear it to watch those who look at me.”

Beatrice's fingers closed around the girl's wrist. “So that's why you hid your arm behind your back when we came down for dinner, you naughty girl. Where did you get that? I thought your bead necklace had been broken.”

“I restrung some of the beads to make a bracelet. Some were lost, thanks to my maid's clumsiness when she pulled on the necklace too roughly and snapped the string. Leave it alone, Beatrice. It's mine.”

“Of course it is, my love. Only it clashes.”

“You don't like it because it reminds you of my bond with the poor black slaves. That is just why I do like it. I've no objection to being ranked with my brethren.”

Everyone froze. Anxious to smooth over the awkwardness, Mrs. Yates broke into a flow of chatter. “Marina, I did tell you that the ornament is inappropriate. Dear Beatrice understands what is fitting and elegant in dress.” To Penelope, she said, “Indeed both my girls—for I call them such and play no favorites—would put no mother to blush for their manners or appearance.”

“You've no children of your own?”

The cordial smile faded. “No, Mrs. Wolfe. My husband was killed in the first American war. I don't know what I would have done without Hugo all these years.”

The moment passed, but Penelope began to notice a growing tension in the room—the feeling they all waited for something. Clearly annoyed, Hugo Garrod kept looking at the door. Occasionally, a fuming silence overcame him, and there was a distinct edge in his voice as he initiated a hushed conversation with Mrs. Yates.

At length he addressed Penelope and Lewis: “My sister can be relied on to help me make your stay a pleasant one. She knows my ways well.”

“I am housekeeper here, ma'am,” said Mrs. Yates, smiling affably. “I would have welcomed you earlier, but Mr. Garrod has his own notions. What you must have thought of me I cannot imagine.” She peered at Penelope out of a round face dissolved in wrinkles and tilted her head, sending a wreath of gray curls bouncing under her cap.

“Nonsense, Anne,” Garrod said. “You are far more than housekeeper here.”

“I fancy I know my place.” Her smile robbed the words of offense. She bustled off to attend to the needs of the other guests, about a dozen in number, most of them business associates, judging by the conversations Penelope overheard. Some were very young gentlemen, the sons of planters sent to England to be educated. As he presented her to several of these boys, Garrod explained that it was part of his duty as Agent for Jamaica to watch over the young people in their parents' absence.

Penelope took a nervous sip of her sherry. “Where is Mr. Chase? Has he arrived?”

Her host nodded toward the window, where John Chase stood, surveying the company. In his good-humored way Garrod said to Beatrice and Mrs. Yates: “What do you think of our genuine Bow Street Runner?”

“He looks quite fierce,” said Beatrice, making a comical face. “I don't think he approves of our grandeur.”

“Mr. Chase?” Penelope said. “You won't easily read his thoughts in his face, but he is not likely to bite you, Miss Honeycutt.” She excused herself to approach her friend.

“What?” he said when she had inspected his appearance.

“Why, it's marvelous, John. It suits you. Why did you do it?”

“A managing female got her hooks into me.”

The managing female—whoever she was—and Penelope had to repress a surge of curiosity on that score—had cut his hair quite short so that it emphasized the bones of his face, making him appear a decade younger. His straggling, gray queue had seemed such a part of him that she had never imagined he might actually chop it off one day, but she wasn't lying that the new hairstyle suited him. The gray was mixed with the remains of brown so that Chase appeared quite distinguished. He was also wearing a coat she hadn't seen before, and there was the faintest hint of extra color in his cheeks.

“You're very fine.” Her eyes quizzed him. “Where have you been all day? I've missed you.”

“Familiarizing myself with my surroundings and attempting to make the acquaintance of my charge. And you?”

“Lewis and I enjoyed a tour of Mr. Garrod's domain. Our pleasure extended even to an introduction to the marvels of the boiler room that keeps his plants warm. Lewis was far more taken with the perfections of the machinery than I could ever be.”

He snorted. “You'd better go do the pretty. I'll speak to you later.”

“Aren't you dining with us?”

“Do you think our host would sit down at table with a Runner? I'm here to play watchdog; that's all.”

“That's the outside of enough. As if you weren't as much the gentleman as Mr. Garrod. More, I'd say.”

“Stubble it, Penelope,” Chase recommended.

Chapter Six

Dinner was announced, and Penelope went into the dining room on Hugo Garrod's arm. The dining room was a large chamber paneled in mahogany and dominated by a huge table covered in snowy damask. Two chandeliers hung from a richly decorated ceiling. Along one side of the room opposite the wall of windows, a long sideboard displayed Chinese porcelain and plate. The meal was an elaborate affair with three courses, all offering an array of dishes, including a turbot, a sirloin of beef, and two haunches of venison. Garrod had included some exotic dishes for his guests to sample: spears of pineapple; pepper pot, a meat and vegetable soup; and cassava bread, made, Penelope was informed, from a starchy root that formed a portion of the slave diet on West Indian plantations.

Penelope was seated next to her host with Lewis placed at the foot of the table next to Marina. Garrod's daughter sat, her food untouched. Her other dinner partner, a portly merchant, tried to draw her out, but she did not respond. Garrod, though engaged in conversation, watched his daughter. They all did. Penelope had noticed this attention in the drawing room too: Garrod constantly calling upon Marina to step forward and assume her role of hostess. But the girl had hung back, and she hung back still, answering in monosyllables and addressing most of her attention to the food she wasn't eating. Was she shy? No, it was more than that. Somehow she made everyone at the table feel her presence and exerted a kind of power from withholding herself. One time, and one time only, Penelope saw her look up at the sound of Lewis' voice speaking to Beatrice Honeycutt, and for an instant the mask cracked. A different young woman peeked out. Then Marina went back to her plate.

Garrod poured the claret. “A glass of wine with you, Mrs. Wolfe?” He gave one of his wide, disarming smiles.

She lifted her glass. “Thank you, sir.”

“Would you oblige me by coming to my study tomorrow morning?”

“Certainly. I am eager to start work.”

“No, indeed, ma'am. You misunderstand. There is not the least urgency. I mean for you to enjoy yourself while you are with us. An hour or two spent discussing our task, nothing more. You shall give yourself over to leisure.” He paused. “I have something planned for this evening that I hope will please you. A small surprise.”

“You are too kind,” said Penelope firmly. “You have done quite enough for me and Lewis already.”

She was not sorry when it was time to address the neighbor on her other side, a man about forty years old with a sharp nose, pronounced brow, and inquisitive eyes. Just in time she recalled his name: the Reverend Samuel Tallboys—the local vicar, a noted West Indian scholar, and Mr. Garrod's old friend. Even though Mr. Tallboys had greeted her politely in the drawing room, she'd noticed that Lewis was accorded nothing more than a nod and a distant bow. Granted, her brother was the illegitimate son of a courtesan who'd had the poor taste to get herself murdered, but that could not excuse ill manners.

Now Tallboys addressed Penelope. “Hugo tells me you have a daughter, Mrs. Wolfe. You've left her in the city. Not too hot and uncomfortable for the child at this season, I trust?”

“No, sir. Sarah enjoys daily exercise in the park with her nursemaid. The heat rarely troubles children.”

He nodded, seeming to cast about for a new topic. “Your father lives in Sicily? I hear there's been rather an uproar there.”

The clergyman referred to the struggle to implement the new Sicilian constitution adopted under the direction of the British envoy, this despite the opposition of Ferdinand, the exiled King of Naples, who had fled to his other domain in British-protected Sicily to escape the reach of Napoleon. Unfortunately, the various factions of Sicilians could not agree to finance the fledgling government. They were steeped in feudalism, so her father always said of his adopted home.

“My father seems to despair of the new constitution even as he works to prop it up.”

“Is that why he hasn't come to your aid in your recent troubles? Forgive me, ma'am, but I read about you in the papers.”

Penelope lifted her chin. “My brother and I have managed on our own, sir.”

Tallboys remained unconvinced, his gaze following Penelope's brother, who had engaged Marina Garrod. The girl's velvet eyes smiled into Lewis' as she toyed with her fish. Lewis looked a little flushed, Penelope thought. She hoped he was not overindulging in the free-flowing wine.

Mr. Tallboys' placid voice called her back. “I hope you'll excuse me if I was too pointed in my remark.” He paused. “Do you mind my asking how long you intend to stay in this house?”

“A few days only, sir,” she said in some surprise. “Mr. Garrod has asked me to compose a report on his evening party along with a sketch of his life that will be published in a magazine.”

“I myself have written such trifles for him in the past when I could spare the time from my own work.” He regarded her speculatively. “You must have much to occupy you in your husband's absence, since you are charged with establishing your brother in some respectable profession. I wish you every success, ma'am, though I fear you've been saddled with too heavy a responsibility. My friend Hugo means well but does not always think how things may appear.”

The clergyman's utterly self-assured and rational tone took her back to her girlhood. How many times had her father spoken to her thus? And this from a man she'd met only five minutes before! She said, “Forgive me, sir, but allow me to be the judge of what is best for Lewis.”

“Now I know I've offended you. But you must have sensed that this is not a happy house. Did you not see the way that young woman reacted to the reminder to remove the heathen bracelet? I do pity them all. The girl is uncontrollable.”

“If Miss Garrod was wrong to disobey her aunt, her cousin was equally so in reminding her in front of everyone.”

But Tallboys objected to this. “Miss Honeycutt? No, ma'am, you've mistaken her. She is devoted to her family, a model for her young cousin. She is worthy of our warmest admiration. I know Hugo thinks so too. She had opportunities to marry but has chosen instead to help him train the girl to fill her position in society. We must all hope Miss Honeycutt can be persuaded to grace her own hearth one of these days.”

The man's eye had grown positively moist with his fervor. Penelope said tentatively, “Are there plans to that effect?”

“I spoke hypothetically. Mrs. Yates is getting on in years. Miss Honeycutt's duties at home will no doubt increase, not diminish.”

Uncomfortable with the conversation, Penelope was cudgeling her brains for another topic when the door to the dining room was thrown open. The guests looked up to see a gentleman on the threshold, the butler hovering at his elbow. Unlike Garrod, whose face was rather sun-browned, this man was fair and had a sickly yellowish tinge to his complexion, as though he'd spent one too many nights carousing. He had guinea gold hair and weary blue eyes. Fine lines of discontent were etched about his mouth, which had a sulky cast that marred his otherwise agreeable features. It took Penelope but a moment to identify the familiarity that swept over her as she and everyone else gazed at him. He reminded her of her husband Jeremy: dissipated, dissatisfied, and disinclined to exert himself. He stood, staring back at the company with a faintly amused expression on his face. Rising from the table, Beatrice hurried to greet him, their resemblance apparent, though the brother had received most of the good looks. This was one of Hugo Garrod's presumed heirs, Ned Honeycutt.

“There you are at last,” said Garrod with heavy sarcasm. “I'm pleased you could join us, Ned.” He lifted one finger to the butler. “Lay another place for my nephew.”

***

Edward Buckler made his way through the crowded reception rooms. He had arrived after dinner with the other guests invited to hear a well-known harpist and drink tea. He soon found Penelope seated in a spindly gilt chair next to a gentleman in clerical dress. Her face wore a set expression, as if her companion was not to her taste. She smiled in relief when he approached her, and Buckler felt some of the depression that had been dogging him lift.

“You're the barrister who defended Mr. Durant in court?” inquired Mr. Tallboys when greetings had been exchanged.

Buckler bowed. “I am, sir.”

“I'm sure Mrs. Wolfe is infinitely obliged to you.”

“It was a close-run thing. I was never more relieved in my life when Lewis was released.”

“Indeed, Mr. Buckler has been a very good friend,” put in Penelope. “I owe my brother's freedom to him and Mr. Chase.” She addressed the clergyman. “I will introduce you to Mr. Chase, sir, if he can be spared from his duties.”

Looking a trifle askance, Tallboys merely nodded, and Buckler, bridging the silence, said, “I'd like a word with Chase myself should opportunity present. He was interrupted the other day when telling me a story about nearly dying of the yellow fever in Jamaica. I'd like to hear the end of that tale.” He addressed Tallboys politely: “Chase was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy until an injury cut short his career.”

“A shame,” was the noncommittal reply. Buckler took a seat at Penelope's side, and the remaining time until the music started was filled with a discussion of Britain's recent victory at Vittoria in Spain.

The concert over, Hugo Garrod announced, “It is far too lovely an evening to remain indoors.” He swept out an arm. “We'll take tea, and I will show you my surprise. It is as rare as any work of art in my collection. Rare and far more ephemeral.”

They went into the garden, which was at this hour, suffused with the last of a golden light tinged with gray-blue twilight. Buckler stopped Penelope on the walk. “Is something wrong? Where's Lewis?”

“I wish I knew. I didn't see him and Miss Garrod during the concert, and I'm afraid that wretched girl is going to get him in trouble. Oh, Edward, Mr. Tallboys thinks there will be more gossip if I stay here.”

“Are you wishing you hadn't come? I have a rented coach. Return to London with me tonight.”

“That would only lend credence to any rumors. No, I'll finish my work as quickly as possible and then go. It is not easy to be apart from Sarah.” Her voice faltered.

“A bad business,” muttered Buckler. Though he knew
Penelope to be capable of handling her own problems, his instincts were chivalrous. He hated to see her in difficulties and be unable to solve them. He tried to unclench his jaw and smile at her reassuringly.

“I know,” she said. “You don't need to tell me I told you so.”

He squeezed her hand and released it. “Don't worry about Sarah. I'll take Maggie and the children out for an ice or to the Tower menagerie tomorrow.”

She smiled her gratitude. They went on through the flower garden. Lanterns had been hung in the trees that lined the path. The path began to rise as they approached the hothouse, whose position on elevated ground commanded a view of the surrounding country and, in the distance, the sprawl of the metropolis.

Inside, girandole lamps burned in wall sconces, their glass pendants reflecting myriad beams of light, which mingled with wisps of steam that curled from the floors and walls. A small orchestra played softly in one corner under a canopy of greenery. Tall shrubs in pots created shadowy corners in which benches had been placed under makeshift arbors, and the high windows had been thrown open to admit the night air. The company walked around, viewing the brightly colored flowers and climbing plants, some of which wound through ironwork trellises and trailed down to brush a cheek or shoulder. In the reception area, maids dressed as shepherdesses served the guests. But before taking their seats at the tables that surrounded the dais, people filed up the steps, paused a moment, then came down again, though Buckler, peering through the mist, could not see what they looked at. The clatter of teacups arose. Some of the shepherdesses carried plates of cakes or offered wine, while others hoisted the trays that held the steaming cups.

Buckler forced himself to attend to Tallboys, who, having turned back to continue their conversation, waxed enthusiastically about the Protea flowers. “The name comes from the god Proteus,” Buckler was informed, “the changeable god of many forms, which seems rather appropriate for Mr. Garrod, doesn't it?” Tallboys pointed out that the large, brilliantly colored flowers of pink and red and orange were actually composed of smaller tubular flowers inside a frame of petal-leaves. Though Buckler smiled and nodded, his mind remained on Lewis. He agreed with Penelope that the boy should not pay such marked attentions to Marina Garrod. Chase was not in sight, but Buckler hoped his friend did not find his task too onerous. It was not uncommon for the senior men of Bow Street to be invited to attend fashionable parties to guard the nobs and their valuable jewels. This job, however, was out of the ordinary.

It was Buckler and Penelope's turn to ascend the steps of the dais, where Garrod stood next to an urn set in the center of the stage. As an overpowering scent of some perfume wafted toward them, Buckler paused to draw in a breath. But Garrod's broad back blocked his view, so he glanced instead at Tallboys' profile. Wonder had softened the clergyman's stiffness.

Tallboys stepped aside. “Look at this, Mr. Buckler. It really is quite extraordinary.”

When Buckler would later recall the details of this evening, more than anything else it was that hushed, expectant look on Tallboys' face that had stuck in his memory.

***

Annoyed that Marina Garrod had given him the slip, John Chase negotiated the path, avoiding the curious stares of the guests. He had seen Penelope and Buckler entering the hothouse, but where had the girl gone? He'd kept Marina under his eye during the concert but had lost sight of her in the confusion when the music ended. He increased his pace, his boots sending a spray of gravel into the air.