17. Thievery
17
Thievery
The following morning when Luce woke it was to hear not the quiet, sleepy conversation of her sisters in the next room, but cries of alarm. Rapid, panicked footsteps in the vestibule, on the landing and the nearby bedrooms, and what could only be described as wailing.
She rose quickly, threw on her peignoir, and hurried down the stairs.
Her mother was pacing the vestibule, wringing her hands, her cheeks streaming with tears. Veronique, also in her peignoir, stood at the bottom of the stairs, her arms folded tightly across her body, like a frightened child. Jean-Baptiste was in the grand salon. Luce knew this because her father was shouting, not in joy or excitement, but in pure, predatory rage. She peered into the salon and saw the domestiques huddled before him, their heads bowed.
‘Charlotte has run away,’ Veronique whispered to Luce. Her eyes were wide with horror, her face ashen. ‘With Monsieur Daumard. ’
Gratienne gasped, as though hearing the words spoken aloud was a knife thrust to her heart. ‘How shall I bear this?’ she moaned to nobody in particular. ‘We shall be ruined. Ruined! ’
‘God above,’ Luce said, doing her best to look shocked. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Last night. It seems our clever tutor knew precisely when to steal our poor sister away, with father and most of the domestiques at the festivities and the rest of us busy with our guests.’
‘Thank God none of them know,’ Gratienne croaked. She was unable, it seemed, to cease her relentless pacing. ‘Thank God we did not discover this—this aberration until this morning!’
‘Poor Charlotte,’ Veronique said with a mournful sigh. ‘To be so disgraced...’
‘It is not only your sister who is disgraced,’ Gratienne spat. ‘We will all suffer for this!’ She glanced at Luce. ‘Your father is speaking to the servants. Seeing what they know, if anyone saw Charlotte and—and him —leave.’ She stilled suddenly, looked again at Luce, as though seeing her youngest daughter for the first time. ‘What of you, Lucinde? Did you hear anything? See anything?’
‘No, Maman.’ Luce swallowed.
‘I trusted him,’ Gratienne wailed. ‘Trusted him with my daughters ! He is a fox! A wily, cunning fox!’
Jean-Baptiste strode out of the grand salon. ‘Very good,’ he said, his gaze, black with fury, roving over his family. ‘I am glad to see that only one of my dear daughters was stolen from me this night.’
‘Did you learn anything from the domestiques, Papa?’ Veronique asked. ‘Did anyone see them go?’
‘No one saw a thing,’ he said. ‘Not that it matters. They will have gone to Dinan or Rennes, and from there to Paris. I must go at once, see if I can’t track them down.’
Charlotte’s expression as she had watched the play at the Blessing rose in Luce’s mind; the way her sister had paled when King Gradlon pushed his treacherous daughter into the sea. Do you think Papa would have done the same, had that been one of us?
The domestiques trailed miserably out of the grand salon, shoulders bowed as though they were somehow responsible for the misfortune that had befallen the family.
‘I will go with you,’ Gratienne said, scrubbing away her tears. She waved at the groom, the coachmen, as they filed toward the servants’ stairs. ‘Ready the carriage, Elliot, Alexandre. Quickly.’ She gripped her maid’s arm. ‘Madeleine, pack my things.’
‘No, no, ma chère,’ Jean-Baptiste said soothingly. ‘It will be far better—faster—for me to go on horseback. I’ll take two of the laquais with me.’
‘And what am I to do?’
‘Take Veronique and Lucinde back to the malouinière, and wait there for my word,’ he told her. ‘Say nothing of this to anyone, ma chère. If you receive visitors, have the domestiques tell them that sickness has come over the household. No one can discover what has happened. Not until we know more.’
Gratienne burst into fresh tears. ‘How could she do this?’ she cried. ‘The scandal, Jean-Baptiste, the scandal !’
Jean-Baptiste held his wife tenderly until his valet and the laquais were ready, three horses waiting in the courtyard. There was barely time to bid him farewell as he rushed from the house and into the saddle. There came the sound of hoofs scattering gravel, the sad creaking of the gates.
‘We are ruined!’ Gratienne moaned into the silence, sinking onto the stairs. ‘ Ruined! ’
The events of the Blessing shook Luce for days. Charlotte’s departure alone would have been enough to do so, but Samuel’s confession— and all that had passed between them in the shadows of the frigate— also played its part.
And then, of course, there was Morgan.
There was no denying that Samuel had been right about him. About his selfishness, his callousness. And Luce had never imagined that he could be so rageful. So cruel. His violence toward Samuel appalled her, even more so because, in that moment, Samuel had been no more than a stranger to him. What would Morgan have done, had he known who Samuel really was? Had he known that it was Samuel who had salvaged the Dauphin ’s storm-stone? The very thought made her shudder.
‘I already told you,’ Samuel said, when they were out on the Dove three days later. ‘I’m not concerned. The stone is well hidden, and I’ve been careful.’
‘Not careful enough.’
They had headed east when they’d left the cove, tacking along the coastline, the waves slapping against the hull, the wind snapping in the rigging. It was bliss to be on the water once more, far from the shroud of worry, sorrow and shame that Charlotte’s absence had drawn over Le Bleu Sauvage.
Gratienne, Veronique and Luce had done what Jean-Baptiste had commanded before he left: returned to the malouinière, stayed indoors, and avoided socialising with the other ship-owning families. If visitors called, the laquais sent them away with claims of sickness in the house. Without an endless supply of afternoon teas, suppers, and receptions to plan and attend, Veronique and Gratienne had taken to going to bed, and rising, earlier. Until yesterday, of course, when four cases of fine new wines from Bourgogne had arrived. Thanks to the wine’s generous consolations, Gratienne and Veronique had tottered to their chambers far later than Luce had expected, allowing her to leave a note for Samuel in the chapel, then rise early, tuck the sea-silk into her chemise, and make her escape.
The Dove entered a sheltered bay between two ragged, rocky heads. The water was marvellously clear, as pure and shining as Luce’s glassy slippers. Glancing over the side, she could see straight down to the reef below.
‘Whoever came looking for you at the Blessing knew your name, Samuel,’ she said, turning back to where he sat at the tiller. ‘If they know it, there’s every chance Morgan does, too.’
‘It is just a name. A name doesn’t prove anything.’ He pointed to the sails. ‘We might strike the sails, do a little fishing.’
Luce waited for Samuel to turn the boat into the wind, then lowered the jib while he handled the mainsail. ‘You should have waited,’ she said, when they had finished. ‘Let a few months, a year, pass before you opened negotiations.’
‘I’m not doing this for fun, Luce,’ he said, dropping the anchor. ‘It’s not a game.’
‘No, it’s not,’ she agreed pointedly.
‘If I don’t do this, my family doesn’t eat.’
‘And your family certainly won’t eat if you’re tied to a post beneath the ramparts of Saint-Malo, watching the tide creep up your neck.’ It was warmer now, the morning sun strong. She pushed the long sleeves of her coat up to her elbows, irritated. ‘Only a fool would remain in Saint-Malo now. There is every chance Morgan and his father know your name. And he saw your face at the Blessing, when you stole those ribbons.’
‘He stole them first,’ Samuel said reasonably, returning to the bench in the stern. ‘You can’t steal something if it never belonged to you.’
She glared at him, feet bare, shirt sleeves rolled high, his tanned face turned up to the sun. ‘You know, just once I’d like to go sailing without having to dress as though I’m about to commit highway robbery.’
He shrugged. ‘Then don’t.’
Luce looked around them. There was no other vessel in sight. But for the swallows nesting on the cliffs high above, they were alone.
‘You should go home to Dorset,’ she said, shrugging out of the heavy overcoat. ‘Even for a week or two. Fish. Mend nets. Do whatever you must to keep yourself safe.’
‘And leave the stone unprotected? Leave you unprotected?’
‘The stone will be safe enough in the cave. And I’m not the one who needs protecting. Damn my soul, why is this so difficult?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘This cursed coat —’
It was caught on something. An oar, perhaps. She twisted around awkwardly to free herself.
‘Here, let me...’ Samuel got to his feet. ‘What’s upsetting you?’ he asked, laying a hand on her squirming shoulder. ‘It’s not just the coat, or the sun, is it?’ He leaned close, brushing his lips across the soft skin beneath her ear. ‘Are you worried about me, Luce? Is that it?’
‘ Somebody has to be,’ she grumbled.
He chuckled. ‘Stay still. I’ll get you free...’
At that moment a stiff breeze gusted over the water, catching at the boat. Luce stumbled, wincing as her foot twisted painfully. She reached for the side of the boat to steady herself, missed, and lost her balance entirely.
‘Watch yourself,’ Samuel warned, too late. Before Luce knew what was happening, she was tumbling into the sea.
‘ Luce! ’ She heard Samuel’s cry before she hit the water, before all became a blur of bubbles, cold and breathlessness. The overcoat was instantly drenched, its weight dragging her down. Panicked, she struggled out of it, went to kick for the surface, and found that she could not.
Her legs were tangled in the coat.
She pulled at it desperately, sculled for the surface, and only sank farther, the weight of her clothing forcing her down. A trail of bubbles rose above her, drifting toward the rounded bottom of the Dove, which was growing smaller and smaller the farther she sank.
She tore at the coat with clumsy fingers, finally tugging herself free. Lungs near bursting now—there had been no time to take a breath—she kicked for the surface again. Again, she failed. She struggled and fought, but her legs were still tangled, somehow, her movements awkward. Terror, heavy as a stone, pulling her down. She tried again, felt the last of the air leave her lungs as panic overcame her. Something was wrong with her legs. Something was—
There was a disturbance above, and Samuel was coming for her, slicing through the water with strong, smooth strokes. She flailed and kicked, reached up as he reached down, wrapping his arm about her waist and dragging her toward the surface.
Luce clung to him as he hauled her back to the Dove , leveraging himself against its side and hoisting her into the boat. She fell heavily into the bottom, a spluttering mess of limbs and wet clothing, one of Samuel’s discarded boots digging painfully into her shoulder. That nightmare of a coat was gone, drifting somewhere below the boat, and yet there was still something wrong with Luce’s legs. She coughed against the oiled timber. Felt the boat sway and right itself as Samuel hauled himself out, rolled into the boat beside her, panting.
Luce struggled to sit up, pushing her wet hair back from her face. She glimpsed Samuel through the strands, heaving himself to his knees, white shirt clinging to his chest, breeches dripping. She tried again to sit up, and found that she could not. Her legs— there was something very wrong with her legs.
Beside her, Samuel froze.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he said in English.
Luce looked down.
Her legs, her breeches, were gone. And in their place, shimmering and strong, covered in a thousand scales of green and blue, pink and silver, was an enormous fish tail.
‘Damn my fucking soul,’ Samuel breathed. He scrambled to his feet, slipped, and crashed to the floor of the boat. ‘Luce? What the...?’
‘I don’t know,’ Luce whispered, trembling. She reached for the side of the boat, tried to pull herself up. Her hands, too, seemed different. They gripped the edge of the timber easily, absurdly strong, and strangely opalescent. Stretched between her fingers, knuckle to knuckle, were fine, flesh-coloured webs.
‘Fuck,’ Samuel said, gaping at her. ‘ Fuck. ’
At the terror in his voice, Luce panicked. The great tail lifted and thumped against the planks, its long trailing fins, fine and shining as gossamer, flinging water everywhere. It hit Samuel’s discarded boots and coat, sent them skidding across the boards.
‘Jesus,’ Samuel whispered. He crabbed backward as Luce flailed against the side of the boat, desperately trying to escape her own body.
‘What—’ she said, teeth chattering, jaw locking with shock and fear. ‘What—’
‘You’re a fucking seamaid!’ Samuel yelped. ‘Luce? A seamaid! ’
‘N-no,’ Luce said, shaking her head. She released the rail, collapsed back into the prow, shivering. No, this could not be. And yet, here she was, lying in the bottom of the Dove, with a tail. A tail. She forced herself to look down.
The top of her body—chest, arms, belly, waist, looked as they always had. Longer, perhaps. Lither. Her skin, like her hands, glittered faintly, as though she had rolled in the silvery powder Veronique sometimes puffed upon her hair. Her caraco was waterlogged, while her thigh-length chemise—which had been tucked into her breeches—clung wetly to the place where her hips ended. Fingers trembling, Luce gingerly peeled the chemise higher. Tiny, silvery scales shimmered beneath her belly button and over her hips, melding gradually into larger, thicker scales. They shone like overlapping jewels in the sun—dusk-pinks and sea-greens, moonlightsilvers and sunset-golds, winter-blues and storm-greys—all the way to Luce’s feet. No, not feet. Enormous fins, curved like half-moons, glimmering as they caught the light, their diaphanous edges trailing the entire length of the Dove . A shudder of revulsion passed through Luce as her fingers brushed against those scales, against the cold, wet otherness of the—of her —tail.
She flung herself away from Samuel, and vomited what was left of her morning meal.
The boat rocked as Samuel inched closer. ‘I’m coming over, Luce. All right? I’m going to move very slowly, very carefully.’
She barely had time to nod before another wave of nausea surged through her body. She leaned over, utterly wretched.
A tentative hand laid itself upon her back. Another caught her long hair, scooping it over her shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Absolutely not.’ She wiped the back of her mouth with her webbed hand.
This can’t be happening. It can’t—
Samuel’s hand remained on her back, moving in long, gentle strokes. ‘I take it,’ he said, carefully, ‘that this has never happened before?’
‘Never,’ Luce whispered. She was shaking, her teeth chattering. ‘I’m frightened, Samuel.’
‘Honestly? So am I.’ Regardless, he settled himself beside her. He had brought his coat with him, and he tucked it around her, drawing her against his chest. Luce leaned into him, comforted immeasurably by his warmth, his calm.
‘Look at your tail,’ Samuel’s voice was soft with wonder. ‘Look at your tail, Luce.’
‘I don’t know how this happened, Samuel.’
‘We’ll find out,’ he said, stroking her damp hair. ‘We’ll find out.’
Luce must have dozed. Exhausted by the changes to her body, by shock and fear, and lulled by the warmth of Samuel’s arms and the gentle rocking of the Dove. She opened her eyes, instinctively scanned the sky for the angle of the sun.
‘It’s fine,’ Samuel said, the words rumbling against her ear. ‘It’s the morning watch, yet.’
She nodded against him. Realised she was no longer cold and wet, but dry and warm. She pushed the coat away.
Her legs were back.
‘It happened a few minutes ago,’ Samuel said apologetically. ‘I didn’t want to wake you...’
‘... How?’
‘You dried,’ he said simply.
‘I didn’t feel it.’
‘No. It was fast. I barely saw it.’
Luce sat up. She had never thought to miss the tortured bones and gnarled, misshapen skin of her feet, yet she ran her hands eagerly over every familiar knot. Then her shins, her knees, her thighs. ‘Thank God.’
‘I’ve been thinking, while you slept,’ Samuel said. He sat up, too, rubbing at his shoulder, no doubt cramped after being bent up in the prow. ‘Turning what happened over and over in my mind. Trying to remember everything I’ve been told about the sea-folk.’
The sea-folk. The half-fish, half-human fae had always seemed more myth than reality. They belonged to a different time, before Luce was born, when magic was still rife and Bretagne untamed. Long gone, they existed only in the stories told by seamen on stormy nights. They were beautiful, the stories said. Beautiful, but unpredictable. In some tales, seamaids were merciful and generous: they aided shipwrecked sailors, brought winds to becalmed vessels, and granted wishes to people who helped them. In others, they were malevolent and dark, luring unwary sailors to their deaths with their beautiful voices, bringing down storms, supping on the bones of the drowned.
A shiver of unease. Which of the tales was true?
‘Did you mean it, Luce?’ Samuel asked. ‘When you said this had never happened before?’
She nodded. ‘Never.’
‘And you had no notion it could happen?’
‘It was as much a shock to me as it was to you, believe me.’
‘That’s the thing, Luce—I am not so very shocked.’ The Dove lolled slowly on the water. A gull sawed by.
She looked up at him. ‘You’re not?’
‘No. I think you’ve always been...’ He gestured to her legs. ‘ This. ’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you are always by the shore. As though you know, in your heart, that you belong there. You’re a wonderful swimmer, and a better diver than me. The sea seems to calm when you are around, though there’s always wind for my sails. Then, of course, there’s your prickle—the way you always know where the stormstone is. You are the only person I know who can do that. And your voice—I’ve never heard anyone sing as sweet as you. And, well, you’re... you’re...’ He shrugged. ‘The tales always say that seamaids are lovely. That their beauty as well as their voices lead men to their delight. Or their doom.’
Delight or doom.
Luce blinked at him. ‘You are being very calm about all of this.’
‘I’ve had time to think about it. And I’ve told you before—you are not the first seamaid I’ve seen. Though of course,’ he added, gesturing at Luce’s bare legs, ‘I’ve never been this close.’
Luce’s belly roiled again. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. ‘Oh, my God.’
‘The tales say that a seamaid may shed her tail and walk as women do,’ Samuel mused. ‘Some have a little cap that allows them to move between land and sea. Some carry a magic comb. The selkies up north take off their skins and slip them on again when they want to return to the waves. I don’t know what happened to make you change the way you did, but...’
And all at once, Luce knew. She raised her head from her knees, reached into her bodice, and drew forth the sea-silk. It was, she realised with a jolt, almost the exact colour of her tail. ‘Perhaps it was this.’
Samuel stroked the fabric with gentle fingers. ‘Is that sea-silk?’
‘You’ve seen it before?’
‘Only once. It had been harvested off the coast of Corsica, from the molluscs that grow there. This piece is far finer. Someone with a rare skill indeed must have woven it.’ He tore his gaze from the silk, met Luce’s eyes. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘There is a secret chamber within the walls of the town house. I found it in there in an old sea chest.’
‘A secret chamber? How did you find it?’
‘My prickle. It didn’t feel like the rest of the house. I was curious... afraid, too. But I had dreamed... and the groac’h told me not to fear the dark...’
For the first time that morning, Samuel looked truly frightened. ‘You spoke to the tide-crone ?’
‘She’s younger than we thought,’ Luce said defensively. ‘Kind, too.’
He scoffed. ‘Of course she is.’
‘It’s true. She helped me get to the ball. Gave me a gown, and shoes, and a boat to get there.’
He was staring at her. ‘Three gifts, eh? And she asked for nothing in return? No bargain, no price?’
She shook her head. ‘She saw me crying and wanted to help.’
He blew out a long breath. ‘Anyone else would have given away their right to live by accepting such gifts. But not you.’ He shook his head as though he did not know whether to be fearful or impressed.
‘Perhaps she knew,’ Luce said, gesturing to her tail. ‘About... all of this.’
‘Perhaps.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘We should find her. Ask her.’
‘Yes. But first I need to get home.’ It seemed ludicrous to think, after all that had just happened, the most worrying matter was that her mother and sister would discover she had gone. With Papa away, however, and Charlotte gone...
She got to her feet, quickly realising that she could not go home in such a state: her thigh-length chemise was all that covered her bare legs. There was spare clothing in the sea-cave, of course; but first, they had to sail there. She leaned over the side and looked down. Her breeches were a shredded, tattered mess floating near the Dove . Her overcoat, however, was clearly visible on the sand below, sleeves outstretched, eerily human.
Samuel joined her, peering into the water. ‘Man overboard. Are you going to rescue the unfortunate fellow, then?’
Luce hesitated. Any other day, she would have relished the chance to dive off the Dove and retrieve her clothing. For the first time in her life, however, she was afraid of the sea.
Samuel, perceiving it, stripped off his shirt and dived cleanly over the side. Luce watched him scull for the bottom, grab the coat, and drag it up to the surface.
‘This was not,’ he huffed, shoving the sopping mass over the side where it squelched at Luce’s feet, ‘what I expected to be doing with my day.’
‘Are you disappointed?’
He grinned up at her, clinging to the boat, water streaming over his bare arms. ‘Far from it.’
Late that evening, when Gratienne and Veronique had retired, Luce met Samuel at the cove once more.
‘How can you be certain she’ll come?’ Samuel asked, as they built a fire and settled themselves around it.
‘I can’t,’ Luce told him. ‘But this is the time of day that I most often see her.’
It was an in-between time, when the world was half tilted between night and day, moon and sun. If ever there was a time to meet with a groac’h, it was now.
An hour they waited, and then another. The gold-blue shadows lengthened, and the gulls became still, waiting for the moon. The little band of jetins stopped to throw rocks at Samuel before marching over the headland, but of the groac’h there was no sign.
Pale stars were blooming in the sky when Luce went down to the water. She threw every sense she could out into the waves, willing the little black witch-boat to appear, its dark sails defying the breeze.
The cove remained stubbornly empty.
When the moon rose, and the bluish-dark of dusk threatened, Samuel came down to the water.
‘We should leave,’ he said quietly. ‘The sun will set soon. And I for one do not intend to take a stroll alongside the Dauphin ’s crew again.’
Luce nodded. They had agreed to wait for the groac’h until dark, and no later. ‘Have you seen them again?’
He shook his head. ‘But I have spoken to others who have. They rise from the sea most nights, now.’
Luce shivered. ‘Why? What are they searching for?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s not what they’re searching for, but who. ’
The dusk deepened around them, heavy with foreboding.
‘Morgan,’ she said.
Samuel raised one shoulder. ‘I’ve asked about. Shared a drink with an old salt or two. They all said the same thing: that a crew betrayed by its captain will walk the shore at night in search of him.’
‘Betrayed by its captain?’
‘Abandoned. Forsaken. We both know that cloud is the highest quality. There was no reason for the Dauphin to founder with it aboard—unless someone, through inexperience or arrogance, say— refused to give up the helm.’ Samuel narrowed his eyes, looked out over the quiet Manche. ‘You told me Morgan’s pockets were full of storm-stone when you found him. What if Bones was right? What if Morgan doomed the Dauphin himself—drove it onto the rocks— and then filled his pockets with stone and abandoned ship?’
Luce remembered the look on Castro’s face when he regarded his son in the grand salon that first morning. He would know the worth, the strength, of his own ballast. Had he known what Morgan had done? Had Luce seen not anger in his eyes, but shame?
‘It would be another reason to lie about the ballast,’ Luce said quietly.
‘Yes,’ Samuel agreed. ‘It would.’
Luce watched the Manche shed its colours in the last of the light. ‘Why won’t the groac’h come?’
‘Perhaps she’s gone,’ he said quietly. ‘I have not seen her, or her little boat, since the night we first saw the Dauphin ’s crew.’
Luce nodded. She herself had not seen the water-witch since the night of the ball, just one day later. The thought of her leaving, silently bidding her stretch of shore farewell and sailing into legend, was unbearably sad.
‘There is someone else who might be able to help us,’ Samuel mused, as they left the shore.
Luce smiled . Us. As though he were with her in this, absolutely. The two of them together, no matter what might come.
‘Who?’
‘Mother Aggie.’ He shortened his strides to keep pace with her as they neared the cliffs. ‘The oldest, wisest person I know. Her father was a fisherman, and his father, and his before him... some say that Aggie herself has salt in her blood—that one of her forefathers took a seamaid to wife, and birthed a line of sea children, gifted with visions.’ He helped Luce up the rocky cliff path. ‘If anyone can give us answers, it’s her.’
‘Then we must go to her. Now. Quickly.’
Samuel laughed as he jogged up the path behind her. ‘Easy, Luce. Mother Aggie lives in Lulworth, same as my family. She’s English.’
Luce’s heart sank. Lulworth was on the other side of the Manche. In England—France’s, and Bretagne’s, enemy. It may as well have been the other side of the world.
‘I can take you,’ Samuel said, following her into the gloaming woods. ‘You could make a run with Bones and me. We’d be gone for much longer than a morning, though. Two days, perhaps longer. It’d be dangerous, too. We would need to make the crossing at night to avoid the English Navy, and the revenue cutters. Say the word, though, and we’ll go. Tonight, if you want. The tide is perfect now, the moon all but dark.’
Luce’s heart almost breached clear out of her body. She imagined the crossing, being there as Samuel and Bones set the sails, caught the wind. The longing to go with them was a physical pain in her chest. But...
Two days. Her family would be distraught if she went missing, especially now. She had told Samuel of Charlotte and Gabriel’s decision—were they well? Married? Happy? She fervently hoped so—and her family’s resulting misery. As it was, her mother could barely eat.
It was impossible.
‘I cannot go with you,’ she said, biting back her disappointment. ‘I do not think my mother would survive if another of her daughters disappeared.’
‘We’d make your sister look better, though, wouldn’t we?’ Samuel smirked. ‘A tutor is always preferable to a smuggler.’
Luce glanced at him. Saw, beneath his smile, the pain.
‘There’s nothing stopping you from going to Dorset,’ she said with forced cheer, taking his hand. ‘You could see Mother Aggie in my stead, and then spend some time there. Your mother would no doubt love having you home for a few weeks, or months...’
‘A valiant effort, Lucinde,’ Samuel said, slinging his arm around her. ‘But unless you’re coming to Dorset with me, I’m staying here.’ He leaned down to her, his whisper tickling her hair. ‘But leave word for me at the chapel if you change your mind.’