Chapter Three
Daniel’s dreams of Miss Sinclair had stopped.
At least, there hadn’t been a recurrence since that foggy morning a week ago when Daniel had first met her.
He hadn’t seen her in reality since then, either.
To his dismay, she hadn’t been there when he’d last visited his mother’s grave two days ago.
He found her absence concerning, for if memory served, Miss Sinclair had stated that she visited the cemetery every morning.
Yet the wilting flowers on Evadne Miller’s grave suggested an absence of several days.
On this particular morning, as Daniel made his way along the cemetery path under cloudy skies, he wondered—no, he hoped—he would find Miss Sinclair at the graveside.
His hope faded as the empty bench came into sight.
Worse, as he drew near, he noticed the same, wilted bunch of flowers on Evadne Miller’s grave.
It seemed Miss Sinclair hadn’t been here all week.
Staring at the floral remains, Daniel searched for some kind of reasoning, the most likely being that Miss Sinclair was unwell.
Something trivial, God willing, but enough to keep her from venturing out.
Not that Daniel was in a position to make enquiries.
Despite his dreams, he and Miss Sinclair, in reality, had shared nothing but a brief conversation, which brought something she’d said to mind.
Today was Wednesday, the day when Miss Sinclair supposedly cleaned the church brasses. Perhaps Daniel could make some enquiries about her at the church, assuming someone was there. Definitely worth a try!
Heaving a sigh, he approached Evadne Miller’s grave, removed the rotting flowers, and replaced them with several blooms from the bouquet he’d brought for his mother.
Then he went to his mother’s grave to place the remaining flowers, pausing for a moment to ponder the recently-placed headstone, which he had carved from the finest Carrara marble.
The sculpture had been an endeavor of love for Daniel, one that had taken several weeks.
It had also been a cathartic exercise. Watching the angel emerge from the block of marble had helped to ease the grief that weighed upon him.
“Hope you approve, Mama,” he muttered, as he bent to place the flowers.
At that same moment, the skies opened, releasing large, heavy drops that splattered on the marble and pummeled the earth.
Uttering a mild curse, Daniel straightened and threw an irritated glance at the sky.
Despite the downpour, he was still determined to visit St. Mark’s to ask after Miss Sinclair.
He wouldn’t be able to rest till he learned the reason for her absence.
The way she’d shifted the conversation away from herself bothered him, as did the fear in her voice whenever she mentioned her stepbrother.
Besides, although the strange dreams had stopped, Daniel still hoped to solve their mystery, and he suspected Miriam Sinclair had the answer.
He lifted his collar against the rain, turned to leave, and gasped with shock at the sight of the small, dark figure standing behind him.
“Miss Sinclair!”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at him. Her gaze was fixed on his mother’s headstone. “The angel has arrived,” she said, moving past him to stare up at the sculpted face. “Just like Mama said.”
Daniel opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him as he tried to make sense of her words.
He struggled to think straight due to the shock, and pleasure, of seeing Miriam Sinclair again.
At the same time, a spark of fury lit a fire in his veins as he studied the girl more closely.
Her appearance was unkempt and bedraggled, and not just a result of the rain dripping from the ends of her hair and off her chin.
Where was her bonnet? Where was her coat?
And what the bloody hell are those marks on her face?
Two of them, they looked like faded bruises, one on her cheek and one on the line of her jaw. Bruises caused by what?
Daniel could hardly bear to confront his suspicions.
Gritting his teeth, he glanced down, seeking calm, his gaze drawn to a cloth bag laying on the ground nearby.
The evidence seemed to tell the story of a girl on the run, driven from her home by fear and desperation. Either that, or she had been cast out.
A gasp from Miss Sinclair drew his attention. “Alice,” she said, staring at the inscription on the base of the angel. “You’re his mother?”
“Miss Sinclair, look at me, please.” Daniel placed his hand on her back and cursed inwardly when she flinched. “Forgive me,” he said, as she turned to him. “I didn’t mean to frighten…”
And there it was. His dream realized in almost every detail.
The unknown woman, hair loosely tied back, a pale face set with wide dark eyes, her pleas for his protection unspoken, yet clearly heard.
There were a few differences. First, there had been no rain in his dream, and second, there had been no marks on the woman’s face.
Frowning, he touched the faded bruise on Miss Sinclair’s cheek. “Who did this to you?”
Her gaze remained locked with his. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she replied, and glanced over her shoulder at the angel. “Did you do this, Mr. Barton? Is it your work?”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s magnificent.”
“Thank you.”
“And was it you who put those flowers on Mama’s grave?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I am grateful to you,” she replied. “I’m so glad you’re here, sir. There are things I must tell you. Things about you and me. About us.”
Daniel heard the expectation in her voice, as if she knew of his dreams and her part in them. “Things about us?”
“Yes.” She bent to retrieve the cloth bag. “I know what you’re probably thinking. That I’m a good candidate for the asylum and that you need to make your excuses and leave, and I don’t blame you in the least.”
Daniel shook his head. “Actually, that is not at all what I—”
“But, if I may, I’d like to explain how we are connected. For we are connected, Mr. Barton. I swear it.” She swiped the rain from her eyes. “And if, once you’ve heard me, you still wish to make your excuses and leave, I shall make no further attempt to dissuade you, I promise.”
Daniel didn’t need any encouragement. He knew Miss Sinclair had the answers he sought, and that what he was about to hear would solve the mystery of his dreams. Wincing, he looked up at the sky.
“I will hear you on one condition, Miss Sinclair,” he replied, “and that is, we continue this conversation beneath the shelter of a roof.”
*
Miriam shivered as she settled onto the cold, stone bench beneath the cemetery’s chapel arches. “Here,” Mr. Barton said, removing his wet coat and placing it around her shoulders. “It’s still dry on the inside.”
She regarded the man who appeared to have been chosen to protect her. It was a strange kind of insanity to be considering such things, yet she clung to a sliver of hope. Her mother had spoken and so, it seemed, had Daniel Barton’s mother, Alice.
“Thank you.” she said, flinching when he tucked the coat behind her.
Frowning, he straightened, but continued to look down at her, his silent scrutiny causing Miriam to lower her gaze.
“Answer me honestly, Miss Sinclair,” he said, at last. “Are those bruises on your face the only ones? Or are there more of them, hidden beneath your clothes?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she replied, fighting tears of relief as the residual warmth of his coat enveloped her.
“Answer me.”
“Maybe a few more.”
Mr. Barton muttered something inaudible, then, “What did he use?”
Miriam drew a shaky breath. “Sir?”
“What caused those bruises?”
“Oh. A riding crop.”
A tic came to his jaw. “Why?”
“Because he found out I’d done something of which he disapproved.”
“Go on.”
“I attended a scéance.”
“I see.” He sat beside her. “Well, no, I don’t see, but I’m listening. Let’s hear this mad tale of yours.”
“Do you believe in scéances, sir?”
“Since I’ve never been to one, Miss Sinclair, I cannot venture an opinion, but I suspect my ambivalence is about to be tested.”
Miriam nodded and began her tale. Not once did Daniel Barton interrupt her, nor did his expression betray his thoughts. At least, not until she mentioned the supposed presence of his mother, Alice. He winced and looked down.
“I swear I am not making this up, sir,” Miriam said, trying to keep the desperation from her voice. “When Miss Grey mentioned your mother’s name, I truthfully denied any knowledge of it. Until this morning, when I saw her name etched in marble, I had no idea who she was.”
“I do not doubt what you are telling me, Miss Sinclair,” Mr. Barton replied, his tone somber. “Quite the opposite. It is simply the incredulity of it which is difficult to accommodate.”
Miriam nodded. “I confess I harbored some apprehension right up till this morning. But when I saw your magnificent angel and your mother’s name beneath it, I set aside any and all doubts.”
“So, I am required to believe that your mother and my mother somehow orchestrated our meeting.”
“Yes.”
“From beyond the grave.”
“Yes.”
“And as a result, I am expected to offer you my protection and, how did you put it, sanctuary?”
“Well, not… not expected, exactly,” Miriam replied. “I was told I would be afforded your protection, but you are under no obligation. You are quite at liberty to walk away, of course.”
Mr. Barton cocked his head as he regarded her. “And what, Miss Sinclair, will become of you should I choose to walk away?”
Miriam forced a smile. “There are places I can go.”
He lifted a brow. “Such as?”
She hugged the cloth bag closer to her chest. “Well, charitable houses at first, perhaps. But I am well-educated, so I expect I could find employment. As a governess, perhaps. I like children and I am not afraid of hard work.”
“You would likely need references for such a post,” Mr. Barton replied. “Do you have them?”
Miriam’s smile wavered. “No sir, I do not.”
“I see.” Mr. Barton cleared his throat and got to his feet. “You must admit, Miss Sinclair, these events, these strange circumstances, and my subsequent decision, demand serious consideration.”
“Of course, yes,” she replied, nodding.
“To offer you my protection, for example, implies marriage. You ask a lot, madam. You are, by your own admission, destitute, not to mention that we hardly know each other.”
“That has occurred to me, of course,” Miriam said, “but, while I do have a mind of my own, I am not difficult. I would not be a bother to you, sir. In fact, I’ll be quite happy to keep out of your way if that is what you prefer.”
Mr. Barton frowned and kicked at a pebble. “That wouldn’t be much of a marriage, then, would it?”
“Yet those in the upper echelons embrace such arrangements, Mr. Barton.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “Our place in society is nowhere near the upper echelons, Miss Sinclair. This situation does not even begin to compare.”
“No, it does not, of course. Forgive me. It was a foolish remark.” Miriam rose also, beginning to feel as if she was begging for marriage.
It was suddenly belittling. Shameful, even.
“I do understand your reservations, Mr. Barton, truly I do. My proposal is beyond unreasonable and, that being so, please think no more of it. Thank you, sincerely, for your gracious consideration, but I believe I shall take my leave of you while I still have some pride left.” She forced yet another smile, shrugged off his coat, and handed it to him. “I wish you well, sir.”
Mr. Barton frowned, but said nothing, and as Miriam turned away, there remained, within her, the same sliver of hope.
Hope that he would speak, telling her to halt, to wait.
That he had agreed to submit to chance, to take her as his wife, and to save her from utter destitution.
But only silence followed as she walked away and her remaining hope dissolved with every step.
Numb with despair, Miriam paused at the chapel exit, readying herself to step through the drenching curtain of raindrops, and go… where? “Thank you for trying, Mama,” she whispered. “Please thank Alice, as—”
“May I ask your age, Miss Sinclair?”
Startled, Miriam turned to see Mr. Barton approaching, his coat slung over his arm. “Sir?”
“Your age, Miss Sinclair.”
“I am nineteen, Mr. Barton.”
“Hmm.” He appeared to ponder for a moment. “At nineteen, you will need consent from your guardian in order to marry, will you not?”
Did she dare hope? Was he reconsidering? Miriam’s teeth chattered as she suppressed a shiver. “Silas is not my legal guardian, sir. I do not have a legal guardian.”
“I see.” His gaze traveled over her, head to toe. “Do you trust me, Miss Sinclair?”
Her heart leapt. “Yes, sir, of course I do.”
“Implicitly?”
She nodded. “Implicitly.”
“Good.” He placed his coat over her shoulders again and gently touched the bruise on her jaw. “Wait here.”
Miriam blinked back tears and tugged Mr. Barton’s coat tightly around her. It was like a hug, warm and comforting, giving her reason to hope again.