The Rogue's Return (6 page)

He vaguely remembered the long-sleeved, high-necked plain black dress from her early days here. He didn't think he'd seen the nunlike black headdress before. Despite newly reddened eyes, in this frame her delicate pallor glowed like lamplit alabaster, illuminating sky-blue eyes and rose-pink lips. The effect was as shocking as a work of art suddenly lit by a shaft of sunlight. He wished it shadowed again.

He wanted her back in her ordinary clothes. No, in fashionable ones. If she was dressed in a flounced gown of yellow or green with a beribboned bonnet on her head, surely she'd be just another pretty girl. He could deal with pretty girls.

She walked to the coffin and bowed her head.

“Would you like me to stay with you?” he asked. “Or would you rather be alone?”

She didn't look up. “Alone, thank you.”

Perhaps he should stay anyway, but he took her at her word. There was a great deal to be done and not much time in which to do it.

When he went to the parlor, Hal said, “I found some coins and these snuffboxes and miniatures. A few old letters, as well. Nothing else, unless you treasure broken clay pipes, assorted buttons, and balls of string.”

“Isaiah thought anything might come in useful. Probably because of his early years. He arrived in Canada with hardly a penny. The snuffboxes might be left to someone. I need to read the will.”

He unfolded a letter to find it dated 1809. “I hope he answered these.”

The three miniatures showed a heavy-jawed officer, a solemn young woman with dark hair, and an infant. “I don't even know who these people are. Jane might, but from the fashions, they look decades old.”

“I think the woman might be the one in the drawing. Her mother.”

Simon compared the miniature to the sketch. “You could be right. I wonder if the child is Jane. The coloring's right, but she looks so . . . reserved. Of course, yesterday that wouldn't have struck me as strange.” He put them down. “I need to start on the business papers, though I don't relish returning to the office.”

“I'll come with you.”

As they crossed the hall, Simon asked, “When do you plan to leave?”

“When you do.”

Simon stopped. “Thank you. I apologize for this mess, but by God, Hal, you're a godsend.”

He was uncomfortably aware that some of his relief was because Hal being here meant less time alone with Jane. And that would extend to the six weeks or more it would take to travel back to England.

“Onward to the paperwork,” Hal said, “though I warn you, it's not my forte.”

“It's not mine, either. I've had nothing to do with Isaiah's business dealings.”

Simon entered the office braced for unpleasantness, but Ross and his people had done their work well. It looked as always except that the carpet had been taken away. And that a small stain on the wood showed where blood had seeped through.

Perhaps his nose detected blood and other odors of death, but the fire crackled merrily, filling the room with that pleasant, tangy smell, and someone had uncovered Jane's potpourri.

Looked at with an executor's eye, the room was a daunting jumble. Shelves were crammed with books, ledgers, and boxes, but he also saw a riding whip, a saber, and more pipes. Drawers doubtless concealed yet more chaos. Isaiah had known where things were, but he'd not been the most organized of men.

“I'll start on the desk,” Simon said. “Perhaps you can flip through the books. He was always tucking papers and even money into them.”

Too late, he wondered if Hal could do such a thing, but he could hardly imply now that he couldn't.
Damnation,
he thought, gathering the papers on top of the desk into one pile,
why is everything so complicated today?

He saw Hal pull a book off a shelf, put it down, and riffle through it. So that was all right. It was over two years since the amputation, so he must have learned to cope, and surely they were friends enough that he'd say if he couldn't.

Simon settled to an orderly investigation of the papers. He'd deliberately left the door open so he'd see if Jane left the dining room or hear if she called for him.

He found Isaiah's will, and it was exactly as Baldwin had said. Apart from a few specific bequests—he'd left Simon his guns and some Indian artifacts—everything went to “my dear niece, Jane Anne Otterburn, who has brought such pleasure to my life.”

How much would it amount to? Baldwin didn't
consider it much, but Jane thought it enough to live on. A substantial sum, a few thousand even, would make her more acceptable to his family.

He found a number of invoices and bills and a hodgepodge of recent letters. Presumably these people should receive an announcement of the death, but Simon knew few of them. Who should get a personal letter? And what did one say?

He dug his fingers into his brow.

“C
an I do anything to help?”

Simon looked up to see Jane in the doorway.

She said, “I can imagine Uncle Isaiah's opinion of my sitting watch over his earthly remains when I could be doing something useful. Ross has supplied a professional mourner.”

Simon rose. “If you feel able, I would be very grateful. I find I don't know most of his correspondents or the context of most of his business documents.”

“I probably do. You're pressed into service, too, Major.”

“Willingly, ma'am.”

She looked between the two of them and settled her gaze on Simon. “Would it be inappropriate for Major Beaumont to call me Jane, and for me to use his first name? I'm afraid I can't start calling you Mr. St. Bride, Simon.”

“I would be honored and delighted,” Hal said, “as long as your tyrannical husband does not object.”

“I'll give you tyrannical. . . .” But Simon smiled at Jane, grateful for her practical good sense and the way she'd lightened the mood without being flippant.

“Hal plans to travel back with us,” he said.

“Oh, excellent news.”

Simon wondered if her sincerity rose from the same
cause as his. He probably should have another forthright talk with her about the marriage bed.

Whatever her nervousness about that, here, with the three of them together, she seemed comfortable. She sat beside Simon and went through the letters, sorting them into acquaintances and friends, giving him details about people he didn't know. Together, they composed an announcement and she offered to write them all.

“That would be an imposition,” he said.

“I'll be glad to do it. I've been acting as Uncle Isaiah's secretary since Salter left.”

Simon had been aware that she'd assisted in some way, but not so formally. “Dare I hope that you understand some of his business?”

Her eyes flickered as if she was choosing a response, but then she said, “All of it. With his health, and his hands often unsteady . . . He wouldn't allow me to put things in order here, but I kept his books and wrote most of his letters.”

She soon revealed a depth of understanding that suggested she'd been doing most of the work. He caught himself wondering why she hadn't insisted on better business decisions but then knew he was ridiculous. She was eighteen years old. Was she to argue with and overrule a man nearly three times her age who had far more experience of the world?

They paused for refreshments at noon. Before Simon could return to work, a uniformed aide arrived commanding his presence at the lieutenant governor's residence.

“Damn,” Simon said once the man was safely waiting in the hall. “I should have gone without being summoned. Hal, you'll stay here?”

“Of course.”

“Will there be difficulties?” Jane asked, looking pale. “Over the duel?”

“No, don't worry. He'll be annoyed, but I've been
annoying him for months. This might work out well, in fact. He won't want the duel to resume.”

The brief walk to the lieutenant governor's house was constantly interrupted by people wanting to express sorrow at Isaiah's death. Simon wondered if it was his imagination that saw blame in many eyes. He certainly blamed himself. His rash duel had led to Isaiah's death.

Gore, the man responsible for the whole of Upper Canada, was as annoyed as expected. “Messy business, sir. Very messy. I'll see if I can bring about a resolution, but it's dashed difficult when you questioned the man's integrity!”

“Better than dragging a lady's name in the dirt, sir. McArthur's comments about Miss Otterburn and her uncle were completely unwarranted.”

Gore turned redder. “Yes, yes, but couldn't you have insulted his hat or something? I'll see what I can do to smooth his feathers.”

Simon thought McArthur should be plucked not soothed, but he controlled himself. “I'd be grateful, sir. I have a wife entirely dependent on me now.”

“Aye, and that's another thing. Would have been wiser to be more open about your understanding, St. Bride. And wiser of Miss Otterburn to attend more events. My wife was put out—put out, sir!—to have her kind invitations refused.”

“My wife is somewhat shy, sir, and she has been in mourning for both a mother and a cousin.”

“Aye, aye, but a concert wouldn't have hurt. Or a summer expedition to Castle Frank.”

Simon grasped solid excuses. “Her pale skin easily burns, sir, and she seems to attract the mosquitoes.”

He'd returned to York in July to find Jane covered with bites. He'd offered an Indian concoction that had given her some relief, but he hadn't thought the natives' preventative of grease would be appreciated. He didn't favor it himself, though at times he used it.

It was one of the impossible problems here that the settlers were often disgusted by greasy, smelly Indians while tortured by the insect bites the grease could prevent.

“The English climate will suit her better,” he said. “I have passage booked on the
Eweretta
.”

The
Eweretta
was the North West Company's fur ship. Her annual arrival in Montreal in April marked the true beginning of the Canadian spring. Her departure in late October signaled the approach of the long winter. She took few passengers, but for those few she provided all possible comforts.

Gore nodded. “Excellent. She won't wait for anyone this year, however, with that volcanic eruption playing merry hell with the weather. So the sooner you leave for Montreal, the better.”

The message couldn't be clearer.
Take your troublesome wife and self elsewhere.

Simon met his eyes. “I would not wish to appear to be shirking my obligations, sir.”

“If McArthur isn't here, you can't be expected to wait on his pleasure and risk being trapped by winter.”

So.

“Of course, I would always be available to him in England, sir.”

“Quite.” Gore escorted him to the door. “Happy to provide any assistance in settling Trewitt's affairs. Good, sound man.”

Simon left feeling half a ton lighter. He wasn't a coward, but the aborted duel had served its purpose and he had Jane to consider. If Gore sent McArthur on an errand that would keep him away from York for the next few weeks, his honor might be satisfied without more shots.

“Thank heavens,” Jane said when he reported back, her eyes bright. “So when do we leave?”

“The
Eweretta
's set to sail on the twenty-eighth of October, and we should allow a fortnight to get to
Montreal. All being well, it might take only half of that, but Gore's probably correct. This year, the ship won't wait for us.”

“But that leaves under three weeks to deal with everything here. It can't be done. Inventory. Pack. Sell the house. Dispose of all it contains.”

“You would prefer to stay until spring?”

He saw her readjust. “Very well. It
must
be done.” She returned briskly to the desk and the papers.

Simon turned to Hal. “The
Eweretta
's prime passenger accommodation. You should send with haste to book. Galloway's a good agent in Montreal. If there's no space he may be able to find room for us all on another ship.”

Hal sat to write a letter and then left to see it on its way.

In the hall, the clock chimed two. Six hours. Six hours since Isaiah's death. Simon turned to Jane, a black island of calm, seated at the desk, going methodically through documents. It was unreasonable to resent her composure, but he did.

Had she truly cared for her uncle at all? But he had only to think back to the morning to know just how deeply her feelings ran. This calm was simply more of the peculiarity of Jane Otterburn, his wife.

Since she had the paperwork in hand, he completed the job he'd foolishly given Hal and checked the books for loose papers. He added a great deal to the pile of scraps, letters, and currency notes. He kept an eye out for any book he or Jane might want, but they were things like gazetteers, bound journals, and trade directories, mostly out of date. He sighed.

“What's the matter?”

What the devil do you think is the matter?

He squashed down anger. “It feels damnable to throw away Isaiah's things, even books like the 1795
Directory of Atlantic Ports
. He kept them and so I want to, in memory of him.”

“He kept them because he couldn't be bothered to
throw them out. I don't think he treasured them, Simon.”

Weren't women supposed to be the emotional ones?

He excused himself and went to sit vigil with Isaiah. A dark-clad mute stood in attendance, but the man slipped out of the room as soon as Simon entered.

Simon knew he'd come here as a reproach to Jane, which was flat-out wrong. Isaiah wasn't here, only his corpse. Jane had been correct to say that he would have no patience with them wasting time on his remains. All he'd required was that Simon take care of Jane, which he was failing to do.

He let the professional take his place, returned to do better.

Hal returned, bringing his two servants with him—a lanky young man called Treadwell, who'd been his batman once and was now his valet, and a short block of middle-aged muscle called Oglethorpe. His title was groom, but he looked able to deal with anything, including danger. Simon wasn't sure what to do with them, however, so suggested they could go through the stables and other outer buildings, sorting out rubbish, preparing for an auction.

“Why not sell all the contents with the house?” Hal suggested. “Clear out the absolute rubbish, yes, but leave the rest.”

It was a blinding relief. “My God, yes.” Simon turned to Jane. “Any furniture or other items you value we will ship home, of course.”

She frowned. “That would be foolish. Carriage would be more than its value.”

“I'm not a pauper. If you want a desk or chair, take it.”

“Well, I don't.” She stood up. “Excuse me. I must attend to dinner.”

She swept out of the room and he knew some of her sharpness was in response to his. Damn. He still resented the fact that she was in control of herself. He wanted
her to be a dissolved mess of tears. He felt a good woman, an honest woman, should be. Which was unfair.

He tried to pull his mind into focus and do some meaningful work, but by the time he and Hal were summoned to dine in the parlor, he wasn't sure he'd achieved much. When he discovered that Jane had efficiently arranged for a small table to be set up and a good dinner prepared, it stirred the same resentments.

He tried to act appropriately. “A miracle,” he said lightly. “How clever you are.”

She blushed—he hoped with pleasure.

As they started on Scotch broth, she said, “So, how do we ship our possessions to Montreal, and how much can we take on the
Eweretta
?”

Why on earth would he want a weeping, helpless wife when he could have a calm, capable one?

They made practical plans, but eventually talk dwindled as if the burden of the day crept in with the evening shadows. He saw that Jane hadn't eaten much of her meal, and nor had he. Work was a relief. Idleness might kill him. He noticed for the first time that Hal was cutting roast pork with a combination knife and fork.

His interest must have been too obvious, for Hal said, “It's called a Nelson fork. Knife-sharp along one thicker tine, and rocker-shaped. Clever thing, with the advantage that I could probably slit someone's throat with it if necessary.”

Since the subject was in the open, Simon asked, “Would you not find a hook or some such useful?”

“At times.” Hal didn't seem to mind. “It's the arm that's the problem. Very complex thing, an arm. I have a wooden one with elbow joint and all, but I can only move it with my other arm. I visited a man in Ireland who's working on something better. Complicated matter of moving the chest and shoulder muscles to operate joints. You never know what there'll be one day.”

He spoke without distress, but it still sounded like an appalling problem. Simon didn't know what to say.

He was saved by Sal coming in, not for the dishes, but with a cloth sling full of wood for the fire. Simon remembered that most of the time Isaiah had brought in the wood. He rose and took the sling, saying he'd deal with it. In truth, he was escaping into work again.

He brought in two more loads, taking one up to his bedroom and then, after a hesitation, filling the woodbox in Jane's. Though he'd glimpsed into her room occasionally, he'd never crossed the threshold before and felt intrusive. He supposed a husband had the right, but he didn't feel that way.

He was certain he had no right to study the room, but he did it anyway, seeking answers to the conundrum she presented. It was sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, a clothespress, and a rocking chair by the fire. This all left quite a bit of space and he wondered why the bed wasn't larger. Some other nunlike choice?