The Affectionate Adversary (30 page)

“Good connections are not the only key to a successful life, sir. Lady Delacroix’s father made his fortune as a middleman in the opium trade. His beginnings were far more unfortunate than my own, and he had no associates in society whatsoever. He ended by owning a house in Belgravia and wedding his eldest daughter to a peer.”

“I am sure he had not offended half of the
ton
with his boorish behavior prior to his elevation into their ranks.” James strode across the room toward the foyer. “You have done yourself and me a great harm, Charles, and I cannot think how you will repair it.”

“I have written apologies to Lady Delacroix and her nephew. Beyond that, I begin to care very little for my involvement in their society.”

Eyes narrowed, James turned on his son. “You should care! You will never be rich without it—neither as a barrister nor as a tea trader. I am sure an opium merchant could earn a fortune peddling Dover’s powder, Sydenham’s laudanum, and sedative nostrums for children to every doctor, apothecary, and household in the country. But the law? No, you will need Marston’s backing if you want to take on the really lucrative cases. And as for tea, a flourishing enterprise will require the support and investment of Sir Alexander, as well as his acquaintances. I begin to fear you will take the Locke name straight back to its beginnings and end as a gate warden or a blacksmith.”

“Would that be so wrong?” Charles asked, rising. “Would you despise your only son if he failed to advance the lineage in which you take such pride?”

“I shall never despise you. But I should be sorely disappointed in you. You are intelligent, handsome, and well educated. Why would you consider doing less than your utmost to achieve the goals to which you aspire?”

Letting out a hot breath, Charles gazed out the window. “Perhaps I no longer aspire to the goals I once held so dear, Father. Perhaps the acquisition of money, land, and standing in society does not appeal to me as it once did.”

“How can you say such a thing?”

Charles snatched the Bible from the pile of books near his chair. “Day and night, I read the pages of this volume in search of true guidance. The more I study the Scriptures, the more I begin to believe that my purpose on this earth may be something more significant than defending criminals or building a trade in tea leaves.”

James stared at the heavy black book in which his dearly adored late wife had immersed herself. Charles knew his father could not dismiss its power. The greatest joy, the strongest bulwark, the deepest love in both their lives had come from a woman who took literally every word that had been printed on the pages of the Bible.

“Charles, do you mean to become a clergyman?” James asked in a low voice. “Is the church now your aim?”

“I cannot tell you my aim, for I hardly know it myself. My mother believed the Scripture was the guide to an abundant life on earth and a future in heaven. Lady Delacroix, for whom I have great admiration and affection, assures me my mother was correct. And as I search the passages contained within this book, I can find nothing to support a life spent in the accumulation of wealth. Nor do I find any indication that an association with the aristocracy leads to happiness. Treasures are to be amassed in heaven, Father, not on earth. Our dearest companions are to be our brothers in Christ, not the most influential members of the
ton
. If we hope to find fulfillment and joy, we are not to abide by society’s rules but to follow the teachings of Jesus Christ. Our true lineage derives not from a key maker named Locke, but from our heavenly Father, who has adopted us into His holy kingdom.”

James stared as though his son had been speaking Greek. “Do you mean this, Charles? Do you truly believe what you tell me?”

“I do, sir. My words are not my own. They are written on the pages of this Bible.”

“Then we must resign ourselves to ruin.”

Before Charles could respond, the bell at the front door jingled. Without waiting for the servant to answer, James strode into the foyer. “I shall see to this,” he said. “As it appears I must see to everything in this house.”

As the door opened and his father spoke to a messenger outside it, Charles crossed to the fire in hope of drawing some warmth from its flames. He had told James Locke he believed what he had said. But did he truly? Enough to surrender his dreams? And if he did, what then? Must he and his father descend to poverty and disgrace? Or did a true Christian have the right to honest labor and the resulting income? What was the answer to this apparent dilemma, and how might he ever discover it? Bowing his head in distress, Charles prayed that the God of the Bible he held in his hands would hear his cry and answer him.

He felt as though the man once known as Charles Locke had been slowly unraveling from the moment he awoke in Sarah’s arms aboard the
Queen Elinor
. In the hour preceding his rescue from the waves, he had lost his young friend, his father’s gold, and nearly his own life. The pain that remained in his leg served as an ongoing reminder of the nearness of death. Charles had managed to cling to life—and yet he had begun to surrender it as well. Bits and pieces of himself seemed to fall away each time he saw Sarah, each time he searched the Scriptures, each time he heeded the cry of his own heart.

He must let go of everything, he began to realize. Hope. Dreams. Even love. He must be willing, as Sarah was willing, to give up everything. And he was.

“A packet has come for you by post,” James said, stepping back into the library. “I suppose it is some text you have ordered.” He tossed a box wrapped in brown paper onto the chair by the window. James regarded his son for a moment, disappointment in his eyes and regret etched in the lines on his face. “Do you mean to continue your studies in the law, Charles?”

“I intend to do what is necessary to provide for you, sir.” Charles summoned what scraps remained of his once-glorious dreams. “I hope to please you with my deportment, to advance my connections with everyone I may be privileged to call friend, and to earn a living in a manner that satisfies you and does honor to the name of Locke.”

“I am happy to hear it. You are much altered since your misadventure at sea, Charles. I daresay your mother would worry about you.”

Charles smiled sadly. “I daresay she would make me a matter of earnest prayer—as she always did. And I believe I should benefit greatly from her entreaties on my behalf. Yes, I am altered, Father. And I do hope it is for the better.”

“We shall see in time, I suppose. Good day.” With that, the older man settled his hat on his head and left the room.

As the front door shut, Charles studied the old Bible in his hand. It was a great treasure, this book. Greater than any law text he might ever own. Setting it on the oak mantel, he glanced at the stack of volumes and then at the parcel that had come by post. Although he did not recall ordering a book recently, it was possible that something had slipped his mind. He would investigate it later. For now, he needed to concentrate on his current studies.

Charles returned to the window, moved the parcel from his chair to the table, seated himself, and turned the pages of his law book to the place where he had left off. The legal case under consideration was a difficult one, though for some reason on this day it reminded him of a letter that might be printed in Miss Pickworth’s gossip-and-advice column in
The Tattler
. “The Dreadful Dilemma of the Multiple Mates,” it might be titled.

A smile tickling his lips, Charles read that in Cornwall in the last century, a rich woman had married a man who soon afterward went to sea. Not long following his departure, a letter came to the woman from the captain of the ship on which her husband had sailed. It reported that the man had died of a fever. She then married a second husband, only to learn that the first was hale and healthy and on his way back to England. Both men subsequently claimed the woman as their lawfully wedded wife—whose fortune was, of course, the true object of the suit.

As Charles began to read how the high court determined which man was the lady’s rightful spouse, his amusement vanished. The woman’s situation brought Sarah immediately to mind. How difficult her lot in life. Everyone envied her, yet Charles now understood that the destiny of a rich woman was not all happiness and ease, as many supposed. Even a wealthy young widow, whom most would imagine to enjoy the very best of situations, could not always count herself blessed.

Poor, darling Sarah. Recalling her beautiful brown eyes, Charles turned toward the window and his glance happened to fall upon the packet that had recently arrived. Oddly, the paper-wrapped container was not in the shape of a book. Nor—now that he thought of it—had the parcel carried the weight of a volume of legal proceedings. He picked it up again. In fact, the package was light. And soft.

Curious, he set the parcel on his lap and tugged apart the twine that held it closed. Then he broke the wax seal and tore away the brown paper. Lifting the lid of a box, Charles recognized his own coat—the frock coat he had torn off in his haste to climb over the wall at Bamberfield House and speak with Sarah in the garden. He lifted the garment and saw a smaller box tucked in its folds. Inside it, his cuff links lay nestled in a bed of cotton.

Who had found them? Who had packed his things so carefully and sent them to this address? Lord Delacroix knew the location of the Locke residence. Did anyone else?

As Charles stood, a sheet of paper slipped from the inside of the coat and drifted like a leaf to the floor. Though he had never seen Sarah’s writing, he knew it was hers before he even picked up the letter.

“
‘Sir,’” he murmured as he scanned the words,
“
‘please meet me at once in Leadenhall Market on Gracechurch Street. Come to the west side of the Green Yard where the fishmongers’ shops are located. S.C.’”

His heart hammering, Charles tugged on his coat and started across the room.
Sarah Carlyle
, he thought as he grabbed his hat from the hall tree and settled it on his head. She needed him.

Sarah waited, trembling, in the deep shadows beneath an eave of the great market that fronted on Gracechurch Street. Located in central London, Leadenhall Market was the largest in England and in fact, in all of Europe. It had arisen centuries before around a lead-roofed manor house. Rebuilt after the Great Fire of London in 1666, the market now consisted of three crowded courts.

Sarah knew the place intimately, for her childhood home stood not a half mile away. She and her sisters often had roamed the market’s narrow lanes during the Christmas holidays. In the beef court, vendors hawked meat, leather and hides, and baize and wool. The Green Yard, where Sarah now waited, featured a central area for shops selling veal, mutton, and lamb, while on the south and west sides were houses and shops for fishmongers. At the east end of Leadenhall stood a market house erected upon columns, with vaults beneath and rooms above. Inside this house were the butchers’ stalls. A bell tower and a clock rose above the old house, and Sarah kept her eyes trained upon it.

Nearly an hour had passed since she had sent the parcel by messenger to the Locke house on Threadneedle Street, but Charles had not come. Within fifteen minutes, her carriage would arrive at the church of St. Peter-upon-Cornhill near the market and stand ready for her return. During Sarah’s childhood, the Watson family occasionally had attended services inside the large structure with its redbrick tower, dome, and obelisk. The church stood on the site of an ancient Roman place of Christian worship, but the present structure had been built by Sir Christopher Wren not long after the Great Fire. Citing a desire to return to the familiar church to pray, Sarah had taken leave of her sisters not long after their luncheon.

After dismissing the carriage, she had prayed inside the vaulted church—but not for long. A side door had let her out into the tiny graveyard, through which she had hurried toward Leadenhall Market. Anxious and filled with trepidation, she had paid a messenger boy to take the parcel to Charles Locke’s house. Then she had lingered there until it was almost too late to start back to St. Peter-upon-Cornhill. If she did not emerge through the church doors near the hour she had instructed her carriage driver to return, the footman would no doubt send someone inside to look for her. So she must be there.

Though the fish market was busy even at this late hour, its powerful odor made it an unpopular area to loiter. Sarah hoped no one would recall the presence of a lone woman in a dark cape and deeply brimmed bonnet. Oh, where was Charles? Did he not know what a risk she took to be seen in this public place?