The Affectionate Adversary (39 page)

“Now ye must climb over this obstacle and stay on the same path the Holy Spirit told ye to follow, Mr. Locke. Ain’t that the way of it, sir?”

Charles looked up from the haze of sorrow that had clouded his vision. “What do you mean, lad? Speak plainly.”

“This, sir.” Danny took the crumpled letter from Charles’s fist. “’Tis nothin’ more than a trial. Ye said the Holy Spirit told ye to marry that lady and be a tea merchant. Now ye have been given a trial to grow ye.”

“But she has rejected me, boy. That is not an obstacle I can surmount.”

Yet even as he said the words, he heard the distant echo of a woman’s sweet voice as waves lapped the side of a ship:
“No, Mr. Locke, I shall not marry you. Please do be reasonable.”

Sarah had rejected Charles before. Ten times. Maybe fifteen or twenty. How often had he asked for her hand aboard the
Queen Elinor
? Again in the cottage in Shepton? And in the walled garden at Bamberfield? Each time, in her gentle way she had told him the same thing:
“No, Mr. Locke, I shall not marry you. Please do be reasonable.”

Now he had another rejection. An obstacle. A trial. To lead him onto another path? Or to grow him as he made his way along the same path?

Charles took the letter from Danny’s hand, held it up, and tore it in half. “Lad,” he said, “I believe it cannot be many years before I must make you a partner in Locke & Son Tea Company, Ltd. You learn quickly. You are loyal to a fault. And you are far too wise.”

Danny grinned. “Aye, sir, but what lad could ask for a better teacher than the one I found when I were naught but a ship’s boy aboard the
Tintagel
?”

  
Nineteen
  

Sarah dipped a silver spoon into her tea and gave it a stir. As she gazed from her deck chair upon the fair scene of lapping waves and sapphire sky that stretched out before her, she could hardly imagine herself any happier.

Hardly.

But no matter how her heart might ache, she believed that her new quest was off to an admirable beginning. After a month of bathing, strolling the beach, and reading countless novels, Sarah had sent her sister back to London to stay with Mary and her husband. Prudence remained unattached, but not for any lack of flirting. To Sarah’s dismay, the young woman had trifled with every cad in Brighton, thus making it imperative to put her back under Mary’s thumb for the remainder of the summer.

The lady’s maid whose wisdom and friendship meant much to Sarah had departed too. On learning of Sarah’s plan to go to sea, Anne Webster had requested not to be asked to leave England while her father remained in prison. Though Sarah missed the companionship, she was pleased to have found Anne a position with one of Sir Alexander Chouteau’s sisters. Someone as bright, pretty, and well educated as Anne could not fail to advance herself—and what better place to do it than in the house of the duke of Marston?

And so Sarah was alone at sea again. This time, she would not go all the way to India, Burma, or China. France was her destination. After her ship docked in Dieppe, Sarah planned to make her way to Paris and then down to the Mediterranean. By winter, she would have rented a house near the sea, where she would write letters to her sisters, bask in the sunshine, and eat olives.

Of course, no one in England needed to know that she also intended to have a look at the orphanage in Italy, the hospital in Greece, and the small Christian mission in Cairo where God was using her father’s money to minister to the least of His people. And if she happened to wander a bit farther after that, well … at least she would not have to listen to Pru’s hysterics or Mary’s sermons beforehand.

Sipping her tea, Sarah paged through her copy of the most recent issue of
The Tattler
. She recalled Pru’s letter to Miss Pickworth and the surprising advice printed for all of London to see. This day’s column contained the usual recitation of attendees at various receptions and balls, Sarah noted. As she scanned the names and smiled at the witty barbs and accolades dished out by the anonymous writer, her eye fell on a surprising note.

Rumor is rife,
Miss Pickworth had penned.
An alarming and astonishing account has reached our ears. Can it be that the dead do descend upon us? Dare death deliver up a reportedly deceased duke?

A duke
? Sarah thought. What could this mean? As usual, Miss Pickworth was coy.

Our grave gossip goes like this,
Sarah read on.
A future duke whom all deemed to have been bludgeoned, beheaded, and buried may be bound for home. Will Duke Marston make merry at the prodigal’s return? Or will Chouteau call “cheat!” at the taking of a transitory title? Only Miss Pickworth can deliver the details.

Good heavens. Sarah read the cryptic gossip again. The columnist seemed to be referring to the Duke of Marston’s elder son, Ruel. Known as the marquess of Blackthorne, Ruel Chouteau had gone to America and was rumored to have been brutally murdered there. His brother, Sir Alexander Chouteau—Charles Locke’s friend—thus stood to inherit his father’s title and the duchy.

But perhaps the marquess was not dead after all. What would the return of the heir mean to Sir Alexander? and to Charles?

Shaking her head to clear it of all thoughts of the man she had dismissed from her life, Sarah folded the newspaper, placed it on the table, and set her teapot on top of it. The respite in Brighton had done her good. Prudence’s love of the outdoors had meant the two sisters enjoyed picnics, long walks, and an occasional outing on horseback.

Mary would be delighted to have Prudence staying with her at Heathhill House, where they might more easily confer and scheme. Mary’s “confinement” had not confined her in the least, Sarah realized, for she had written of parties, din- ners, receptions, and balls—listing every attendee, details of all the gossip, and a general commentary on gowns, manners, and puddings. Puddings, it seemed, had become as important to Mary as slippers and bonnets these days. She was rounding out very nicely, she reported.

No mention was ever made of Charles Locke. Sarah thought it very kind of her sisters to avoid discussing the man. She herself hardly thought of him.

Only when she chanced to look at the sea did she recall their long conversations and his whispered words of admiration and commitment so long ago aboard the
Queen Elinor
. Only while strolling in Brighton’s endless gardens did she think how he had climbed over the wall at Bamberfield to profess his passion for her. Only when browsing in shops did she remember their ardent avowals of love beneath the awnings of the Leadenhall Market. And only at night, alone in her bed, would Sarah allow herself to dwell upon how very lonely she felt, how bereft of him, how quietly the years stretched out before her.

But enough. Now she was on her way again. A new course. A quest worthy of her time and energy. She reached for her teapot and lifted it to pour out another cup. Charles was probably halfway around Africa by now—on his way to buy tea and begin his new life as a successful tradesman. Or perhaps he was still in London, purchasing a warehouse and establishing his investors. He might go to sea in springtime, when the weather was better and the winds more favorable. Either way, Sarah was not likely to see Charles again for another year or two—by which time she would have forgotten him altogether.

As she took a sip of tea, Sarah gazed out at the receding strip of white shoreline. Dear England. Such a blessed isle. She would be grateful to return here in time. But God had other work for her to do now that she had calmed her sisters and settled them even more comfortably than before. For the first time since she had walked away from Charles and left him standing over his gold in the drawing room at Trenton House, Sarah could honestly say she felt happy.

“Excuse me, madam, is this seat taken?”

Sarah glanced up to find an elderly gentleman with a curled white mustache. She smiled as he tapped the empty chair at her table. “No, sir, I have no use for it. Do feel free to take it away.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He lifted the deck chair. “May I inquire … do you go to France?”

“I do, sir. To Paris.”

“You are welcome to join my wife and our daughters at our tea table, if you wish. We are on our way to see our son who was injured in battle. We plan to take him home to England with us when he is well enough to travel.”

“I do hope you find him much improved.” She looked over her shoulder at the three women who were waiting expectantly at the next table. “I thank you for the invitation, sir, but I am truly very happy to be alone.”

“Are you, indeed?” The voice from the other side of her chair drew Sarah’s breath out of her lungs. She swung around to find Charles Locke standing before her, his top hat in his hand. He tilted his head, one brow raised quizzically. “You are
very
happy to be alone, Lady Delacroix? Or may I join you?”

“Oh …” She bit her lip.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” the older gentleman said with a bow. “I believe you may need this chair after all. I see another there at the far side of the deck. Good afternoon.”

“But I—”

“It has taken me a very long time to discover you, Sarah,” Charles said, settling into the chair. “Your sister is quite protective. Very admirable of her, I must say. Poor Delacroix was most distressed to be kept in the dark.”

“How did you find me?”

“I looked. Everywhere.” His mouth tipped into the hint of a smile. “I even applied to Miss Pickworth, who was kind enough to mention in a recent column that Sir Alexander Chouteau had danced with Miss Prudence Watson while both were on holiday in Brighton. Come now, Sarah … you did not think I would let you go so easily, did you?”

“You have your gold. Your tea enterprise. Your father … I thought—”

“Did I not tell you how I felt about you? I am sure I did. But perhaps you were not listening carefully enough.” He leaned forward, his blue eyes searching. “I love you, Sarah. I have loved you always, and I shall love you forever. God brought you into my life, and you opened my eyes to Him. Never mind about chests of gold and boxes of tea. Never mind about money and status and lineage and title.”

“But you do mind.”

“I mind that I obey God. That is all. You taught me the importance of looking about to discover what really matters. I have done that, and I see that God has given me certain things. Gifts. And, you see, I am meant to use them.”

He drew a small locket from his coat. As he pressed open the clasp, Sarah saw two miniature portraits. “My father and my mother,” Charles said, setting the locket on the table. “God gave them to me, and they, in turn, gave me the education and the guidance to become the man I am.”

Now he pulled a gold coin from his pocket and laid it beside the locket. “God permitted me this living, Sarah. In Christ’s teachings, I am not the rich young ruler who walked sadly away from Jesus because he could not part with his treasures. I am, rather, the servant whose master gave him five talents. That servant traded with what he had been given and made five more talents. When his master returned and saw the increase, he said, ‘Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things.’ Sarah, I have been given this money to use in the most responsible and godly way I can. And I mean to do so.”

Now he took a sheaf of paper from his coat pocket and spread it on the table beside the coin and the locket. There were several pages, and he set his hat atop the stack to keep them from blowing into the sea. “Here I have been given something more. These are promissory notes, letters of intent, and other documents from investors committed to the establishment of Locke & Son Tea Company, Ltd. And here I have the first letter from my partner, the man I have entrusted with the responsibility of taking my gold to China to purchase the first shipment of tea—Henry Carlyle, Lord Delacroix.”