Andrea Kane (23 page)

“I’m sorry.” Instantly, Courtney lowered her gaze. “I didn’t mean to stare. I just…” What in God’s name could she say? That until now she’d believed visionaries existed only in books?

“The tea,” Mr. Scollard reminded her.

Nodding, she took a sip, then another. It was by far the best tea she’d ever tasted—and the most fortifying. Already, renewed strength was beginning to pervade her body.

“That fool pirate,” Mr. Scollard muttered, pouring two additional cups. “You don’t look a bit like Rory. But I guess at night, the coloring could fool someone, especially someone who looks but can’t see. At least then, he couldn’t. He sees now. Good for you.” Mr. Scollard nodded his approval. “Here, Rory.” He turned, handing Aurora her tea. “Drink up. I planned to have those little iced cakes you like so much, since, as it turns out, Miss Johnston likes them, too. But given the fact that neither of you is hungry—besides the fact that Miss Johnston’s unsettling experience this morning has left her too anxious to eat—I decided to postpone the cakes for another time. Maybe for her birthday. Good idea. For her birthday.” He nodded at his own superb alternative. “Now, shall we have a look at that timepiece?” He pulled up a chair, extended his hand.

Wordlessly, Courtney extracted it, placed it in his palm.

“Hmmm.” He turned it over, studying the engraved case. “Nice workmanship. Costly, too. Doesn’t surprise me, given how much your mother loved him.”

“How did you know…?” Courtney gave it up, snapping her mouth shut. Something told her that to continue asking Mr. Scollard where his knowledge came from was not only futile but a senseless waste of time—time she’d squandered too much of already. “Can you tell me anything?” she asked.

Mr. Scollard raised his head and scowled. “I can tell you you’re as impatient as Rory. And, in your case, it’s even more a hindrance. Patience is an ally you’ll need in the weeks to come. Patience of the head
and
the heart. So learn some.”

“Yes, sir.” Courtney didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The only thing she
did
know was that Mr. Scollard was correct. In his assessment
and
his cure. Patience. After almost twenty years, she’d have to acquire some. “Take your time,” she requested. “I’ll have another cup of tea.”

“Good idea.” Those penetrating blue eyes bore into her, watched her refill her cup, then drain it. “You’re a brave girl. It’s good your strength is nearly renewed, because you’re going to need it. Every bit of it.”

The saucer struck the table with a thud. “Are you saying Papa is gone?”

“Gone? An interesting term. Gone he is—from eyes, from ears. But from mind? From heart? Not gone. Some ties can be broken. Others cannot. Your job is to discern the difference.”

“Ties?” Courtney leaned forward. “What ties? Are you referring to physical bonds or spiritual ones?”

“If memories can’t be silenced, spiritual bonds can’t be broken. Not so with physical bonds.
If.”
Mr. Scollard snapped open the timepiece, studying the unmoving scene. “The ship seeks the lighthouse, yet it’s thwarted.”

“The watch stopped,” Courtney explained. “Then it moved—twice. What does it mean?”

“You’re confused. Don’t fight confusion. It usually gives way to enlightenment. What we see, what we hear, it all means something if we look long enough, patiently enough to fathom its purpose. Most difficult of all are the times we must wait for that purpose to find
us.
Those times require all the patience I just mentioned.”

“And is this one of those times?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Scollard.” Courtney inhaled sharply. “Please tell me. Is Papa alive?”

“That you’ll have to discover for yourself. My vision alone can’t help you. But another can.”

“Another? Another person? Who?”

“Listen with your heart. It won’t fail you.” So saying, Mr. Scollard snapped the case shut, handed the watch back to Courtney. “That tea should have done its job by now. You’d best be getting back to Pembourne. To prepare. For the end of one journey and the beginning of another.” He rose, reaching over to ruffle Aurora’s hair.
“You,
I’ll see tomorrow.”

Aurora’s brows knit in puzzlement. “Can’t I bring Courtney with me?”

“You may. But you can’t.” Mr. Scollard turned, studying Courtney with a far-reaching gleam in his eyes. “I won’t be seeing Miss Johnston for a time.” He lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Go with strength. Return with wisdom.”

For some unknown reason, tears filled Courtney’s eyes, a flash of insight telling her that the next time she sat in this room all would be changed.

“Change is essential in order to grow, Courtney,” Mr. Scollard said quietly. He inclined his mop of white hair. “I can call you Courtney, can’t I? Given that you prefer it.”

“You can and you may,” she responded, attempting a smile.

His gaze delved deep inside her, as reassuring as it was perceptive, “Don’t doubt your strength, Courtney. Call upon it. It will serve you well.” So saying, he turned away, gathering up the china and replacing it on the tray. “Time to polish the lanterns. Before you know it, sunset will be upon us. Good day, ladies.”

Wiping his hands on his apron, he ascended the stairs to the tower and disappeared.

Courtney shifted in her garden chair, inhaling the fragrant scent of roses and lilacs, staring out across the darkening grounds of Pembourne. She clutched the timepiece in her lap, only minimally aware that the sun had long since faded, casting the garden in which she sat in shadows.

She’d been here for hours—ever since she and Aurora had made their silent trek back from the lighthouse—her mind besieged by questions. Aurora had somehow understood her need for solitude, merely squeezing her hand in unspoken support and leaving Courtney to her contemplations.

Other than Aurora, no one knew her whereabouts, a fact for which she was grateful. She had much to ponder, an abundance of soul-searching to conduct, a need triggered by Mr. Scollard’s profound assertions and equally profound implications.

Patience, he’d said. Strength. Ties that were able to be broken; others that were not. The end of one journey and the beginning of another.

Like wisps of smoke, fragments of Courtney’s intended course began unfurling inside her. At last, one piece of the puzzle—that which pertained to the onset of her impending journey—fell into place.

Her fingers tightened about the watch.

Papa.
Two tears slid down her cheeks.
You’ll never truly be gone. But ’tis up to me to make peace with myself, to discern physical from spiritual. Thus, I must take the first leg of the journey Mr. Scollard spoke of, to return to the spot where the nightmare began. Perhaps therein my answers will lie.

Gripping folds of her gown, Courtney sat forward, staring off toward the Channel as her purpose found her, just as Mr. Scollard had predicted. She’d leave right away, seek her truths.

But how could she reach them? In one of Slayde’s ships.

Swiftly, she rose, gathering her skirts, preoccupied with one goal: to rush down to the wharf and be gone.

You owe it to Slayde to tell him first,
her conscience warned.

Impossible,
her urgency argued.
Slayde is in London. I haven’t a clue when he’ll return. And I haven’t the time to wait.

Her common sense tried next.
But it’s nearly night, the worst time of day to sail off to parts unknown.

I can’t let that
—
or anything else
—
deter me. I must go.

She’d taken but three steps when another internal voice resounded, this one halting her in her tracks.
Patience, Courtney.
It was Mr. Scollard, speaking as clearly as if he stood beside her.
You must learn some. Now more than ever
—
you must.

“Mr. Scollard?” She looked about in bewilderment. Nothing but the gardens and trees met her scrutiny.

Listen with your heart, Courtney,
the gruff, omniscient voice persisted.
It won’t fail you.

With a resigned sigh, Courtney retraced her steps, sank back down into the chair. “Very well,” she acquiesced, somehow unsurprised by Mr. Scollard’s unseen presence. “I’ll try.”

She could almost see him smile.

She must have dozed.

Firm hands gripped her arms, shook her awake with gentle, but insistent motions. Disoriented, she cracked open her eyes and shivered, wondering why so cold a breeze permeated her bedchamber. “Matilda, would you mind closing the window?” she murmured. “It’s so chilly in here.”

“I’m not surprised,” Slayde’s deep voice replied. “It’s one a.m. and you’re sleeping in the garden wearing only a thin muslin gown.”

“Slayde?” Courtney blinked. “You’re home?”

“For hours.” He eased her forward, wrapping his coat about her shoulders. “Hours spent searching the manor for you. Everyone thought you were abed, which my visit to your chambers rapidly disproved. Everyone but Aurora, who wouldn’t divulge a bloody thing. I nearly bellowed her walls down before she finally told me your whereabouts. Evidently, you’ve been out here since midafternoon. Let’s get you inside before you become ill.”

“No.” Courtney shook her head, suddenly quite awake. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

“If it’s about what I learned in London, trust me, it can wait until morning.” He scooped her into his arms.

“Please,” she whispered, with another shake of her head. “It’s not. It’s about…something else.”

Slayde paused, searching her face. Whatever he saw there made him comply. “All right.” He lowered himself to the chair, enfolding her in his coat—and his arms.

Besieged by weariness, Courtney nestled against him. “I missed you,” she murmured, abandoning any notion of remaining aloof. “I’m glad you’re home.”

He swallowed, audibly. “I thought of you a great deal. And I worried. You and Aurora together…I half expected my staff to have resigned during my absence.”

Courtney smiled. “I was under the impression you considered me a good influence on Aurora.”

“A wonderful companion. A good friend. But a good influence? Hardly. Remember? You filled me in on your past antics.” He smoothed her hair from her face. “You’re troubled. What is it? According to Matilda, you’ve been a model patient: visiting with Elinore, strolling the grounds with Aurora, and—oh, yes—Cutterton mentioned today’s trip to the lighthouse.”

An exasperated sigh. “Is there anything Cutterton doesn’t know?”

“No. Now, tell me. Did Mr. Scollard upset you in some way? He’s harmless enough, if a bit eccentric.”

“He’s extraordinary. So is his tea, which I’m convinced has healing powers. And, no, he didn’t upset me. But he did cause me to think.” She inhaled sharply, meeting and holding Slayde’s gaze. “I want to borrow a ship—a small one—preferably with a crew of one or two. I’m a fairly good navigator when my head isn’t thrust in the chamber pot. Unfortunately, that’s not very often. So I can’t go alone. But go I must. At first light.” Her fingertips brushed Slayde’s jaw. “Please. Don’t say no.”

Slayde’s features had grown harsher with each passing word. “Armon is dead,” he answered roughly. “What is it you’re seeking?”

“The spot where he boarded the
Isobel.
I need to be there again, to see where Papa went down. I’m not sure why, but it’s the only way I can find peace. Perhaps, since I never actually saw Papa go overboard, it’s easier for me to deny the inevitability of his death. I don’t know. I only know I must go. I considered doing so before you returned, but something Mr. Scollard said…” She wet her lips. “In any case, I waited. Please don’t make me sorry I did.”

Conflicting emotions warred on Slayde’s face. “Very well,” he said at last. “We’ll leave at first light.”

“We?”
She sat bolt upright.

“We,” he repeated. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let you go alone. You need a crew? I’ll supply one: me. I’m one hell of a good navigator and I don’t require a chamber pot.” His silvery gaze narrowed in uncompromising decision. “That had best be acceptable, because it’s the only way I’ll lend you that ship.”

At that moment, Courtney loved him more than she’d ever believed it was possible to love anyone. “ ’Tis more than acceptable, my lord,” she breathed, pressing her lips to the hollow at the base of his throat. “ ’Tis another miracle.”

T
HEIR KETCH LEFT DEVONSHIRE
along with the last vestiges of darkness.

Courtney leaned against the railing, drawing her mantle more closely about her as the wind picked up, snapping the sails to life and propelling their small vessel toward its destination. She watched the Red Cliffs recede into a panoramic view, marveling at how beautiful this section of England was—how perfect for a cottage, a garden.

A home.

With a lump in her throat, she turned away, wondering if she dared any longer hope that dream could become a reality.

This trip would tell.

“Are you all right?” Slayde asked, glancing over from the helm.

“Fine.” She forced a smile. “My stomach has yet to begin lurching. When it does, you’ll see me dash below.”

“Maybe you should go to the cabin now,” Slayde returned soberly. “You look exhausted; did you shut an eye last night?”

“No.” There was no point in lying. “I couldn’t.” She walked over to stand beside him, clutching the mast and gazing out to sea. “Be careful maneuvering into the Channel. If I recall correctly, there are limestone sheets and sand traps somewhere in this area.”

Slayde arched a brow. “Thank you. But you needn’t worry. We’re heading south, away from Portland and the more precarious waters of Lyme Bay. I promise not to dash us on the rocks.”

Catching the teasing note in his voice, Courtney smiled—a genuine smile this time. “Forgive my interference. ’Twould seem you know the waters better than I.”

“Only those surrounding Devon,” he corrected. “By afternoon, I’ll be relying upon your knowledge of the Channel as it moves farther from the English shore.”

“I only hope I recall the spot where Armon attacked the
Isobel.”

“You will.”

Courtney inclined her head, gazing up at him. “Elinore said you sailed a great deal as a youth.”