Revenge of the Barbary Ghost (20 page)

Strength returned to her the next morning, but her imaginary night in the marquess’s arms left her bemused, for what did it say about her, that she had resorted to such feminine weakness as to imagine his embrace as an aid to sleep? She blushed whenever she thought of it, and it left her faintly disturbed and oddly yearning for him: his voice, his touch, his kiss.

However, that was the subject for another day’s reflection. She spent part of the morning doing such tasks as needed to be done, as much as could be taken from Pamela to allow her some serenity, then spent an hour at Marcus’s side, thinking and praying. She would liberally reward the women who had looked after him, because he now looked serene and sleeping, a miracle after what his poor body had been through. He had been a good, if imperfect, man, and would be sorely missed, especially by Pamela.

But it was finally time to prepare for the mysterious journey Pamela was set on, and Anne sat patiently petting Irusan, while Mary styled her stubborn hair. Her dark tresses, though silken in texture most of the time, only required the addition of briny breezes to transform into a sea creature of mythological proportions. Mary entered a pitched battle armed with comb and pins, and with ferocious determination, she inevitably emerged triumphant, having subdued the beast.

Anne’s hair resembled mortal locks once more. “What slaves we ladies are to fashion,” she said, turning her head and gazing at herself in the mirror, “when even a plain woman will take so much trouble over her appearance. I’ll never be a handsome woman, but you make me tolerable.”

“Handsome is that handsome does,” Mary said, finally able to speak now that she was freed of the pins she held in her mouth while styling her mistress’s hair. She pushed the last one into place and stood back, giving a nod of satisfaction. She retrieved a refurbished hat, adorned now with dark mourning ribbon to match Anne’s dark gown.

“You’ve been reading
The Vicar of Wakefield
,” Anne replied, smiling into the mirror at her maid.

Mary admitted it, her expression dour. “Aye. I’ve had too much time here to do as I will. I’m enjoying novels more than I ought. It’s a shame, when the Good Book has been my meat for so many years, to admit I enjoy made-up tales.”

Gently, Anne took her maid’s hand and squeezed. “I know you must be dull with such an excess of free time.”

“If I could have my way, I’d not be bored, for I’d clean this wretched house from top to bottom, but I canna put a finger on aught without that miserable Mrs. Quintrell takin’ offense.”

“My mother and grandmother would be horrified if they saw the squalor of Cliff House,” Anne said, glancing around her room. She pushed her cat from her lap and he hopped up to her bed. “But you keep
this
room spotless, and I thank you for it.” She turned in her chair and stared at her maid.

“I’ll tell you something, Mary, that will keep your mind turning,” she continued, and related her exploration of the basement the day before, and her discovery of Marcus St. James’s workshop. She thought back to the local magistrate, Mr. Twynam’s comment about Mr. Puddicombe’s accusations, or questions, as he had amended. He had said it was nothing to concern herself with, but that he would need to clear things up with Miss St. James. Though to her knowledge, he had done no such thing.

Perhaps Puddicombe had accused Pamela or Marcus of smuggling. Would he do so, though, unless he had proof? She shared all of that with Mary, but then it was time for her to go, for Sanderson, driving Anne’s carriage, was waiting at the door. Before leaving, Anne had to convince Lolly that she and Pamela would be sufficient chaperonage for each other, and that there was very little chance of their meeting Lord Darkefell or any other man that day. She was merely taking Pamela for a ride into the countryside, she told her companion. As far as she knew, that was the truth, because Pamela, looking like a wraith, would say no more than that she had a visit she had to make.

She and Pamela got into the carriage and Sanderson, at a sedate pace, set off toward their mysterious destination. Was this, then, where Pamela had disappeared to, almost every other day of Anne’s residence at Cliff House? She hadn’t wanted to pry, and curiosity had warred with courtesy for weeks. Her speculation had become wilder and more outrageous, from a secret lover to anonymous good works, but today she would learn the truth.

As they trundled along country roads, away from the seaside, Anne wondered what, or whom, were they headed toward? Was there, in Pamela’s family, an ancient parent, or a mad aunt tucked away in keeping? If so, she would not be the first to shoulder the burden of a seldom-seen family member who was not fit for society. Anne gazed out the window as she considered her own complex family situation.

Though she rarely spoke of him, she did have a sibling, a brother, poor Jamey, who lived with a family in the country not far from Harecross Hall. He had first been sent away many years before because Anne’s mother couldn’t bear to look at him, feeling he was a reproach to her, a constant reminder of her failure to provide a proper heir to the earldom. Also, he was sometimes unruly, and her father’s indulgence did nothing but make him harder to handle, the bigger he got.

But now, after so many years, he had calmed and lived a serene life. He had his hobbies and his activities, his daily routine, his collections and his animals. His serving staff was well paid and kept him healthy and happy. He was capable of little more.

As they rattled hither and yon, down valleys and up hills, across the countryside, Pamela having given Sanderson directions as they mounted, both women were silent, lost in their own thoughts. Perhaps too little sleep left her vulnerable, but Anne was melancholy as she thought of her brother. Many years before
she
had been the dependent, and her big brother was her protector from the bullying of a gang of vagabond gypsy children who taunted her for her timidity and small stature. Dear Jamey had struck the biggest boy, and sent them all running, then had carried her home on his back.

She’d never forget him coming to her rescue, her big, brave brother, but all he got for it at home was punishment. Of course, they had only been so far from Harecross Hall because of his wandering ways, but she had looked up to him then, and loved him still. Farfield Farm would be among her first visits when she returned home, to Kent.

“What is there between you and Lord Darkefell?” Pamela said, suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” Anne asked, startled out of her reverie.

“Anne, you
know
what I mean. Please, just talk to me about something,” she said, her words jumbled and hurried, “for I cannot stop thinking of Marcus, the last time I saw him, as he hauled me to safety and then went back … back to the beach.” Her voice broke and she stared out the window at the countryside. She swiped a tear out of her eye and cleared her throat. “Just talk to me of anything … your dreams, your hopes, for I have so few of my own right now.”

Anne searched her mind for something to take her friend away from her troubles, but maybe her own troubles, as mild as they were compared to Pamela’s, would do. “I don’t know what to do about Darkefell. He’s followed me all the way here even after I rejected his proposal. What kind of man would do that after having been snubbed most firmly?”

“A man in love?” Pam said, with a ghost of a smile in the dim interior of the enclosed carriage. “Perhaps he loves you, my dear.”

“But how? Why? I’ve been so rude to him.”

“That must be a novelty to the man. I cannot imagine any other woman has ever been rude to him. He is utterly gorgeous, as you must know if you have eyes, and charming. Rich. Titled. I’d marry him myself if I had half the chance, but he has eyes for no one but you.”

“What? You would marry him?”

“Good heavens,” Pam said, staring at Anne. “Of course I would. I have flung my bonnet at him many times, my dear, but he fails to notice anyone but you.”

A thrill ran down her back, and Anne had to admit—to herself only—that the power of that thought excited her, that he loved her so devotedly. But God forfend that she become one of those ladies who exerted power over a man just because she could! Some women, denied any kind of authority in the world at large, satisfied their yearning for command by becoming household tyrants, petty despots, with a devoted husband their first subject.

Not that she thought Darkefell would ever become one of those henpecked men, a slave to his wife’s dictatorship. He was not the kind to be a willing servant to feminine whimsy. “It’s such a close bond, Pam,” she reflected, staring down at her gloves. “Marriage would mean he would own me, body and soul.”

“Stop being a dramatist, Anne. The man is besotted with you—”

“Even if that’s true,” Anne said, interrupting her, looking up and staring at her friend, “that besottedness could end in a fortnight, but I’d be tied to him forever. What then?”

“Then you would be rich and titled and comfortable for the rest of your life.” Pamela’s voice was clogged by unshed tears, the tone dark with animosity. She laid her forehead against the glass carriage window. “Is that not enough for you?”

Anne stared at her friend’s pale face in profile; her expression was icy and bitter. There was so much she didn’t know about Pamela, and the recent revelations had pointed that up brilliantly. “Pam, I’m sorry for your financial difficulties, but having money does not solve all of your problems, it only leaves others to plague you.”

Her friend shook her head and stared at Anne, her expression twisted with anguish. “How could I expect you to understand? You have a bullying mother who forces you into an engagement you do not want, and poof, your fiancé dies. Poor Reginald, not good enough for you, I’m sure. You yearn for independence, and poof, your grandmother expires, leaving you a fortune, of which you are mistress because of the indulgence of your generous father. You’ll
never
understand my life.”

Gently, refusing to take offense, Anne said, “I won’t discuss this with you right now, my dear, not while you’re suffering such bereavement. I haven’t forgotten that this is not your first sadness.”

Tears welled in Pamela’s eyes and trickled down her face. “I’m sorry for being rude. I’m just so tired! And we lost two good fellows in that fight.” She mopped her face with a dark-edged handkerchief.

“Oh, Pam, it is such a dangerous game you play!” Anne said, thinking of the lives lost, and the families devastated.

“But we all know the rules, Anne,” she said, a harder edge in her voice. “There is not a man there on either side who does not know the score.” But she sat up straight as the carriage pulled to a halt and gazed out, eagerly. Her tone lighter, brighter, she cried, “I think we’re here!”

They had pulled up to a thatched cottage, a neat but humble abode, and Sanderson opened the door for them and handed them down. Anne followed Pamela, who seemed in a hurry to enter. Her first view of the cottage made her think perhaps her surmise was correct; a mad aunt or crippled parent for whom Pam was responsible now, with Marcus gone? The cottage door opened and a very plump woman holding an armful of what looked like laundry walked out the door and waited.

Pamela moved toward the woman, who set down the bundle. It proved to be a baby, or rather a child, for the little one took a couple of steps before plunking down on the flagged walk.

“Oh!” cried Pam. “He’s walking so much better, just since the other day! Edward, my little darling child!” The infant held up his arms with an excited wail of recognition. Pam lifted him up into her arms and turned toward Anne; finally a smile wreathed her gaunt face. “Anne, this is my Edward, my son. Eddie, can you say Anne?”

“Amamamam,” the little boy cried, waving one pudgy fist in the air.

“Clever boy!” Pam said and hugged the child to her, kissing his forehead as tears streamed down her cheeks. She met Anne’s steady gaze. “This is why I do what I do. I need to create a life for my little boy, my poor fatherless babe.”

Anne gaped, unable to think of a single thing to say, clever or not.

They settled inside, in a tiny snug sitting room, Anne, Pamela and Edward, while Edward’s wet nurse, Mrs. Gorse, retrieved her own baby, Fanny, and set her on the floor beside the little boy. Pamela, in hushed tones, explained to the wet nurse about Marcus’s death. The woman sympathized, then moved off to make tea. She brought a tray, asking if they were all right for a time, as she had baking and laundering to do.

“I’ll look after Edward, Mrs. Gorse, and I’m sure my friend can take care of Fanny for a while, can’t you, Anne?” Pamela asked, with a mischievous grin.

Anne recoiled from the jammy hands of the little girl, a blond-haired charmer with dimples and pudgy fists. “I … I suppose—”

“Good then, I’ll be back in a tic, ma’am,” Mrs. Gorse said to Pam, then disappeared, shouting to her maid-of-all-work to hurry along with the wash.

“Talk to me, Pam,” Anne said, grabbing a cloth from a neat pile of clean laundry, spitting on it, and wiping the child’s grubby hands before the baby could soil the fine fabric of her dress.

“Goodness, you do that very well,” Pamela said, watching her clean the child up and tidy the bows on her dress. “Almost as if you’re ready to be a mother.” Then she sobered, with a doleful sigh. “You knew I was engaged.”

“Yes, I remember. I was so happy for you, and so sad when you wrote about Bernard’s death.” She set the little girl, who appeared to be several months older than Edward, down to roam the room. “Did you marry without telling anyone, then?”

“No, Anne,” Pam said, her cheeks pinkening. “If that was the case, as a respectable widow, Edward would be living with me. No, Bernard and I … we … we anticipated our vows.”

Anne felt her own cheeks heat as she thought of Darkefell’s impassioned kisses and her own temptation to go further, to ask for more, to discover what lay beyond a kiss. She could not think of condemning Pamela, not if she had felt the same way about her Bernard. It was simple to say one should control one’s baser urges, but perhaps without the excessively meddlesome chaperonage she always had, she would have fallen into such trouble. A man as intoxicating as Darkefell, plus time alone, may well have added up to trouble. “And then he died,” Anne murmured softly, imagining her friend’s horror when she discovered the trouble she was in.