The Taste of Innocence by Stephanie Laurens
Easing open the side-table drawer, he drew out Edith Balmain’s diary. Nudging the drawer closed with one knee, he stood contemplating the book in its silver-plated covers for a silent minute, then turned and, taking the book with him, left the room.
Sarah woke to find herself alone in their bed. Warm and relaxed, she felt curiously content; she stretched, then remembered the events of the night. And realized why.
Out of the bad, something good often came. Her aunt Edith had frequently said so, and she’d been a very wise woman.
Rising, she rang for Gwen, then washed and dressed. Leaving Gwen exclaiming over their discarded clothes, she headed for the breakfast room.
Her orphanage had just burned to the ground, yet she’d never felt more confident and at peace with her lot.
Charlie was seated at the head of the breakfast table, Barnaby on his right. He looked up as she entered and met her eyes; she beamed a glorious smile at him, knowing with just that look that he felt it, too—that he felt as she did.
This morning was the beginning of the rest of their life. Their joint life. If the events of the night had demonstrated anything, they’d demonstrated that.
The future lay before them to make of it what they would, but the successful merging of their lives was already under way.
As Charlie had stated, they’d rebuild—and build better.
Filling her plate, surprised at just how hungry she was, she dispensed with formality and went to sit on Charlie’s left. He was waiting to draw back her chair.
As soon as she was settled, Barnaby spoke. “I’ll be leaving within minutes—I’ve already asked for my horse to be brought around.” He glanced at Charlie, then explained, “We’ve decided that we need to inform the authorities about what’s been happening here. I’ll ride to London and tell Stokes, then come back and continue my search for the agent. He’ll still be here—they’ll expect you to sell, but he’ll likely wait for a few days at least before making his next offer. But with the fire at the orphanage, we have an immediate, investigatable crime, and Stokes and the rest need to know that—that the game truly is afoot, and the dice are being rolled in earnest.”
He mopped up the last of his ham. “It’ll also give me a chance to check with Devil and see if Montague has unearthed any clue.”
Sarah nodded. “We’ll have a great deal to do here, organizing the children and the staff, let alone dealing with the farm.”
Charlie nodded. Reaching for her hand, he closed his around it. “I’ll go to the farm with Kennett. We’ll sort out what has to be done to make the ruin safe. It’ll take days to get it damped down and secure, but we’ll make a start.”
“There’s the animals, too,” Sarah said. “Jim turned them out into the north field. Perhaps Squire Mack would take them for the moment?”
Charlie nodded. “I’ll ask him.”
“Meanwhile…” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I’m going to have to write to the bishop. ‘I greatly fear, your lordship, that the orphanage burned down.’ Goodness only knows how I’m going to phrase that.”
“Never mind the bishop—and I’m sure he’d agree,” Charlie said. “Make lists of what the children and staff need—aside from all else, you’re sure to sustain visits from your mother, Mrs. Duncliffe, Alathea and Celia, let alone the other local ladies, all wanting to know what they can do to help. They’ll probably give you a day’s grace, but for your sanity’s sake, you’ll need to have a list of requirements by tomorrow.”
Sarah laughed. He was right. “I’ll manage.”
A chair scraped; smiling, Barnaby set down his napkin and rose. “I’ll leave you two to your endeavors, and get on with mine.” He waved them both back as they started to rise. “I know my way out, and you both need to eat. And I’ll be back before you know it, as soon as I can.” His easy expression faded, hardness replacing it, a predatory glint gleaming in his eyes. “This is one villain whose downfall I don’t want to miss.”
With a nod and a salute, he left them, striding out to the front hall.
As the sounds of his departure faded, Sarah gave her attention to her plate and Charlie did the same. They ate in companionable silence, then, replete, she sighed and sat back.
Charlie was sipping his coffee, his gaze on her face.
She smiled, just for him, letting her happiness show. “It’ll be better, won’t it?”
He held her gaze, then set aside his cup, reached for her hand, and lifted it to his lips. He kissed, his eyes steady on hers, and confirmed, “Much better.” After a moment, he added, “We’ll make it so.”
An hour later, Malcolm Sinclair met his housekeeper—a woman from the village who came in to clean and cook for him—at the front door.
He smiled charmingly. “Mrs. Perkins, I apologize for not mentioning it yesterday but I won’t need you for the next week or so—I’ve been called away and will be leaving later today. If you’ll accept this…” He handed over a plump purse. “Your wages to date plus a retainer. I’ll let you know when I return.”
Mrs. Perkins quickly checked the coins, discovered his “retainer” would cover a full week of her ser vices, and smiled happily. “Of course, sir. It’s been a plea sure doing for you, and I’ll be happy to come again once you get back.”
She bobbed a curtsy and turned back down the path, no doubt already planning what to do with her unexpected free time.
Malcolm remained in the doorway until she’d passed out of the gate and disappeared down the street. Stepping back, he closed the door, then shrugged off his morning coat.
Donning a rough workman’s jacket, then pulling a wide-brimmed felt hat low over his head, covering his distinctive wheat-blond hair, he drew on heavy leather gardener’s gloves before picking up the sack of tools he’d left waiting behind the door. Hefting it, he strode down the corridor, old boots thudding on the polished boards. Going through the library, he let himself out by the French doors to where his horse stood saddled and waiting.
Charlie surveyed the blackened ruins of Quilley Farm. The wings had been reduced to smoldering heaps of charred wood and soot-streaked rubble, but in the main building flames still flickered and flared, working their greedy way through the skeleton of wooden beams buried within the stone walls.
In some places, the stone walls had bulged, then crumbled, heavy blocks tumbling haphazardly to the ground. Sections of wall still stood—liable to crumble without warning.
He pointed. “We’ll need to get grapples and haul them down—we can’t risk them falling on anyone wandering by.”
“Aye.” Beside him, Kennett nodded, grim and set. “We’ll do what we can today, but most likely we’ll have to do it bit by bit, as the fire finishes with each section.”
Charlie considered the unstable walls and the piles of rubble behind the main house. “Let’s leave the stone until later today. We need to spread the debris at the back and make sure what’s left is fully doused.”
He glanced back at the steady stream of men toiling up the slope. Many carried tools on their shoulders. The first had appeared as he and Kennett rode through Crowcombe.
Greeting the men who’d reached them, he led the way around the main house. After pointing out what had to be done, he picked up a rake and set to.
Throughout the morning, he worked alongside the men. Engaged in the relatively mindless chore, they chatted and talked. At first they watched their words around him, but gradually they relaxed, eventually directing queries his way, wondering about his views on the local hunt, on the plan to resurface the road through the valley, and countless other local matters on which he did indeed have both views and influence.
By the time they broke off for a late-morning ale supplied by the Crowcombe innkeeper, he’d learned more about the problems facing the local people, the whys and wherefores, than he had from hours of listening to their masters.
Leaning on the rake, his coat tossed over the nearby fence, he quaffed the ale, then blotted his brow with his sleeve. The day was cool
He glanced around at the men; all had accepted his authority without question—more, they’d looked for it. To them it was right and proper that he, a Morwellan, an earl of Meredith, should be there, giving them orders, taking responsibility. That was how local communities worked.
Yet he hadn’t been there, not for years, and if it hadn’t been for Sarah, he wouldn’t be there now. Without his connection through her, dealing with the ruin would have been her father’s responsibility, and at his age he would have sent one of his senior workers; definitely not the same thing.
The Cynsters lay far to the south; the area around here looked to Meredith for their lead, and he was not only the earl but significantly younger and more bodily able than most of his neighbors.
His place was here, among these people. Being available to them, keeping an ear to the soil so he knew what troubled them.
His responsibility lay here, not in London.
What truly surprised him was how well that glove fitted, how comfortable he felt in the role.
Duty had always featured highly in his life, but he hadn’t before thought much of this facet. Yet he’d embraced one new aspect in his life, and was actively changing said life to accommodate it. Perhaps this was another aspect that—in light of that other—would now fit better. Better than the life he’d thought he and his perfect wife would live, mostly in London, cut off from what he now realized was an essential part of him, of who he really was, of the man he now wanted to be.
“M’lord?”
He turned to see one of the older men beckoning.
“We’ve found a section of the fence that’s burned through—looks like burning thatch landed on it. Can you come and say what you want us to do?”
Charlie straightened, laid aside the rake, and followed the man around the building.
A little after noon, Malcolm Sinclair, garbed in an elegant morning coat, tight buckskin breeches, and spotless linen, every inch the sophisticated London gentleman, strolled the short distance from his front gate into Crowcombe village proper.
Halting on the stone stoop of the local solicitor’s office, he paused. He rarely used local people as his tools, but in this instance, using Skeggs seemed both appropriate and wise.
Deliberately turning, he looked up at the broad shelf of land above the village—at the black, still smoking ruin of Quilley Farm. He considered the sight, debating whether some might think it a fitting symbol for the end of his ambitions.
After a moment, he turned and, opening Skeggs’s door, calmly went inside.
Sarah didn’t get a chance to write to the bishop until early afternoon, when they finally got all six babies fed and settled for their nap. She found the small, tiny, perfect people utterly fascinating—far more than she had a mere few weeks ago.
That, presumably, was another sign of her likely condition. She wasn’t sure…yet she hoped. Prayed. That, she felt, would be the crowning glory, the final perfect piece in her newly constructed life. But she wanted to be sure before she told anyone. Even Charlie.
Especially Charlie.
At their wedding she’d seen the look in his eyes when Dillon and Gerrard had spoken of their sons; she didn’t need to wonder what his reaction to her carrying his child would be. But because she knew how much it would mean to him, she had to be sure. Absolutely sure.
Her sitting room having been temporarily commandeered as a sorting room for linens, she took refuge in Charlie’s library; pulling up the large chair to the desk, she selected a pen from the set he kept nicely sharpened.
She found paper and ink, then settled to her task. As she’d prophesied, finding acceptable phrases with which to break her news was not a simple matter, but when the clock next chimed the hour, she’d achieved what she considered a satisfactory result. Sealing the missive with Charlie’s seal, she laid it on the blotter for him to frank.
A tap fell on the door; she looked up as it opened and Crisp glanced in.
“Ah—there you are, ma’am. A note from Mr. Sinclair, brought by one of the lads from Crowcombe.”
“Thank you, Crisp.” Sarah lifted the sealed note from his salver.
“The boy said no reply was expected, ma’am.” Crisp bowed and withdrew.
Hunting out Charlie’s letter knife, Sarah broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet.
“Oh! How wonderful!” Sinclair had written that he’d found her aunt’s diary—in “the most surprising place.” Sarah wondered where it had been, then quickly read on.
Unfortunately, Sinclair wrote, he had to leave on urgent business, and given the press of errands he had to complete before he left, he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of calling on her to place it in her hands. However, he wondered if she would have time to ride out and meet with him—he had promised himself that he wouldn’t leave the area before he’d taken in the famous view from the bridge across Will’s Neck falls. He would be passing that way at three o’clock—if she could meet him there at that time, he would hand over the diary and explain where he’d found it.
Alternatively, if she was unable to meet him, he would return the diary when he came back to the area, although he couldn’t say when that would be. Given its intrinsic value as well as its nostalgic value to her, he was reluctant to entrust its delivery to other hands.
Sarah glanced at the clock. It was fifteen minutes past two o’clock—plenty of time for her to change and ride up to the falls.
She wanted the diary, wanted to hear where he had found it, and with the taint of smoke still lingering in her lungs, the fresh air and exercise would do her good.
One of the easier decisions she’d had to make that day. Rising, she headed for the door to give orders for Blacktail to be saddled while she changed into her riding habit.
Twenty minutes later, Charlie was organizing a group of men with grapples and lines, testing the stability of the walls still standing, when a lad from Crowcombe village approached.
“Message, m’lord.” The boy tugged at his cap and proffered a folded and sealed sheet. “From Mr. Sinclair. Him as is staying at Finley House.”
Charlie accepted the letter. Hunting in his pocket, he found a coin for the lad and dismissed him.
He glanced at the men, but they knew what they were doing. Stepping back, he leaned against the fence, broke Malcolm’s seal, spread open the sheet, and read.
All animation leached from his face.
Devoid of salutation, Malcolm’s message was blunt.
I will shortly have your wife. As you read these words, she’s riding up the track to the bridge over Will’s Neck falls. If you wish to see her again you will do precisely as I ask. Don’t hesitate, don’t think—most important don’t imagine that you understand what I have planned. Don’t try to organize anything, don’t attempt to raise any alarm. Do remember that there is a direct line of sight between the bridge and Quilley Farm—I am presently watching you through a spyglass.
Leave the farm and ride to the bridge. Do as I say, and fair Sarah will still be yours, entirely unharmed, by the end of the day.
Act, and act now—or you will lose her.
We’ll be waiting for you on the bridge over the falls.
Charlie stared, unseeing, the black lines dancing before his eyes.
Icy dread welled within him; it coalesced, closing like a fist about his heart. He’d never felt so cold in his life. So chilled.
But he knew what he had to do. Precisely as Malcolm asked.
Drawing in a huge breath, straining against the iron vise locked about his lungs, he remained still, outwardly calm, and forced himself to consider…
But there were no alternatives. No one he could contact, no one near he could call on for help with this.
Especially as he knew Malcolm Sinclair didn’t bluff.
Stuffing the note in his pocket, he walked off, heading for where Storm was tied. As if pressed for time, he swung back and from a distance called to Kenn
Kennett’s unconcerned, laconic wave would make it clear to any watcher that what ever he’d said hadn’t been any warning or alert.
Pulling Storm’s reins free, Charlie swung up to the gray’s back and set off as fast as the gelding could go down the lane to Crowcombe—to the track leading to the bridge over Will’s Neck falls.
21
Sarah walked Blacktail up the last steep stretch of track leading to the bridge over Will’s Neck falls. She didn’t hurry; she was sure she’d be in time. Swaying with Blacktail’s gait, she drank in the solitude of the upper reaches of the hills, punctuated by occasional glimpses of lush green valleys and the sparkle of the distant sea caught through breaks in the trees bordering the track.
The morning’s clouds had dispersed, letting sunshine wash the land. With each breath of cool, clean air came the promise of spring, and more, of new beginnings.
Sarah’s lips lifted; determination and confidence thrummed steadily through her. The orphanage building might be gone, but they’d all survived and would only grow stronger and better for the trial.
She and Charlie had found their way through the initial difficulties in their marriage—and they, too, were stronger for it, growing more so with each passing day because of the testing times.
A sense of peace and future purpose had sunk deep into her bones by the time she reached the clearing where horses were usually tethered while people went to see the views from the bridge.
A tall black horse bearing a gentleman’s saddle stood patiently waiting; Sarah tied Blacktail to a branch farther along the clearing, then, sweeping up the trailing skirts of her riding habit, walked on along the narrowing track.
The bridge, spanning the sharp, knife-slash of gorge down which the falls tumbled, lay around the next bend. It was possible to ride across it and on along the track coming up from the other side, but the track led nowhere other than to the bridge; most people came to see the view, then rode back the same way they’d come up.