Chapter Seven
Sea Grange manor, Suffolk, The following morning
Meg settled at her parlor desk, clasped her hands together, and reviewed her situation.
Scarcely a week remained before the new moon. The plan to feed her laudanum was easily countered. With Father and Brookbank, she’d pretend to eat by dropping food into her napkin. She’d find a way to sneak food from the larder and pantry into her rooms and eat only that.
More worrisome was the lack of time to give the information she learned to someone who could act on it. Even less time, if Brookbank’s Yarmouth prelate arrived sooner than later. Communicating what she’d learned quickly was crucial, but how?
Father and Brookbank would watch her every move to prevent rebellion against the marriage.
They’d no doubt watch Amanda and anyone else in the household she spoke with.
Save for Cook and the butler, most of the servants would refuse to help her out of fear for their jobs.
Others might be truly loyal to Father or Brookbank.
She’d have to seek help from the two senior servants.
If only Kit was not so completely inaccessible.
His attempt to save her from potential drowning at Trout Creek may have been misguided, but he’d seen a problem and acted on the information available.
He was thoughtful and considerate of superiors, subordinates and equals alike.
Kit listened carefully, only taking action after considering options and consequences.
Just look at their conversation about the various properties he’d toured.
He’d considered her comments but didn’t jump to agree or disagree.
Instead, he invited her to drive out with him and re-visit those properties as a means to consult her further.
At the time, the invitation had warmed a small empty space in her chest. She enjoyed Kit’s company, and his request implied he might share those sentiments.
Then Father returned. That small flicker of affection nearly winked out.
She’d enjoy no ride with Kit. He’d defended her to Father but also agreed not to approach her.
She’d been left with a confusing mess of feelings and the clear possibility that she’d imagined any affection on Kit’s part.
Contacting him would be entirely too forward, but he would help, regardless of what he did or didn’t feel for her personally.
However, Father made communicating with Kit impossible. She felt trapped, more so than any of the times when Father locked her in her rooms for some imagined offense. Thank heavens he’d not yet decided she must be confined.
However, she had no obvious recourse. How could she derail Brookbank’s plans without endangering herself or others? The solution must rest in something less than obvious. An action so ordinary as to be completely above suspicion.
That’s what I must do. Continue about my daily routine and seize the first opportunity to disguise a request for help as something else entirely.
An idea began to form. She felt sure enough of success she immediately penned the message for Kit. Ringing for Amanda, she dressed, put the sealed note into a pocket, and descended to the breakfast room.
Father sat reading his newspaper. Brookbank indulged in a plate laden with ham, eggs, and several pastries. He ate with astonishing speed and stood to refill his plate from the buffet when he saw Meg in the doorway.
“Good morning, Miss Fenneman. May I fill a plate for you?”
“Thank you, no.” She moved into the room pouring coffee from the urn and taking a small muffin onto her saucer before sitting. “I breakfasted in my room earlier. I’m here out of courtesy to our guest. Where’s Mr. Sousman, Father?”
Father had looked up when Brookbank spoke to her. While she’d served herself, he’d folded his newspaper.
“Good morning, dear Meg. Ahm. Brookbank has something to tell you.”
Meg frowned at her father. He shifted in his chair and clutched his hands together. He seemed positively nervous.
“Miss Fenneman,” Brookbank began as she sat. “I regret to tell you that Mr. Sousman was so dismayed by your behavior yesterday, he withdrew his offer and left, refusing to remain under the same roof with a woman who would insult his excellent and honorable proposal.”
Meg sipped her coffee. Of course, Brookbank would attempt to shame her into believing Sousman’s departure was her fault.
If she were ashamed, she might be more likely to accept Brookbank.
What surprised her was that he had Father’s support.
Though given the changes in Father since returning from the war, perhaps she should not have been surprised.
Either way she was far from ashamed, she was proud.
She’d stood up for what she believed to be right and proper.
She wouldn’t be forced into a marriage she didn’t want.
Especially with a man she knew to be a criminal tyrant.
The clerk resumed his seat opposite Meg. “Ahem. He cleared his throat. Think you, Squire, I should tell Miss Fenneman the good news?”
“Well, perhaps…” Father hesitated.
Over the rim of her cup, Meg watched the exchange. Brookbank’s expression hardened, and Father blanched.
Brookbank’s foot is firmly on Father’s throat.
“Why, of course,” Father agreed. His smile forced.
Brookbank did not seem to care.
“Daughter, I am pleased to say your future’s assured, despite your recent ill-considered behavior.”
She set her cup down, resting her hands on either side, and blinked. “Whatever can you mean, Father?”
“He means, my dear…” Brookbank reached across the table and captured her hand. “You and I shall marry within the fortnight—as soon as the prelate arrives from Yarmouth.”
“Y…you do not wish Vicar Taylor to perform the ceremony?” She fluttered her lashes and tugged her hand away.
He held his grip for a moment before releasing her. A silent communication of his pending power over her. Power he obviously imagined he already held.
“As interesting as this news is…” She brightened her smile while feeling sick to her stomach. “I’ve still a household to run. Please excuse me gentlemen, I must consult with Cook on today’s meals and what supplies might be needed for the wedding breakfast.”
“Of course, daughter,” Father murmured and resumed his newspaper.
Brookbank sat back in his chair, his expression one of assessment.
Was he estimating the value of the assets their marriage would bring him, or did he somehow suspect her cooperation in the engagement was for appearances only.
“I will count the minutes until you are able to join me in the garden, once your household duties are complete,” he said.
She didn’t reply but curtsied and walked away. Cook would accept her message in addition to the supply list she normally gave. Then under cover of an ordinary shopping expedition to Mr. Beuth’s shop, Cook would pass the message on to Kit via Mr. Beuth.
Once Cook was on her way, Meg approached the housekeeper. “You’ve been wanting me to inspect the household linens for several weeks,” she said to the woman. “Let us do that now, if you’ve the time.”
“I’ll make the time, Miss Fenneman, and if I may be so bold, perhaps we could discuss what the household needs to prepare for your coming nuptials. Two weeks is insufficient time to prepare, so a number of decisions must be discussed and made at the earliest opportunity.”
Between the linens and the discussion Meg would be occupied for most of the day. The idea of using preparation for the sham of a marriage to avoid her supposed fiancé pleased Meg no end. Kit, she suspected, would enjoy the joke as well.
***
Kit read Meg’s note and nearly crushed the precious document.
Her message contained all the information needed to convict Brookbank and Squire Fenneman once taken into custody.
It was also the first example he’d received of her elegant script.
That she’d thought to confide in him touched him deeply.
He re-read the note before locking it into the desk drawer and pocketing the key.
Thank heaven I sent George with that request for dragoons. Pray heaven they arrive in time to capture the smuggling gang.
Beuth himself had brought the note, and said Miss Fenneman had begged the Sea Grange cook to take the message to Beuth disguised in a list of supplies.
That Meg found subterfuge necessary to send the note worried Kit.
His concern for her safety grew exponentially upon hearing the rumor of her impending marriage to Brookbank.
Beuth, who had heard it from the Sea Grange cook, repeated the story to Kit.
“’Twould be a shame if a kind lady like Miss Fenneman were to wed a cur like Brookbank. Can’t imagine what she sees in him,” Beuth said.
“Women of the gentry often don’t have much choice in whom they marry,” Kit responded.
The shopkeeper’s head came up, and his gaze narrowed. “You think the squire would force her?”
“I cannot say.” Kit equivocated.
Beuth took the attempt at neutrality as confirmation. “Someone oughta do something.” The shopkeeper looked pointedly at Kit.
What does he expect me to do? Go charging into Sea Grange like some medieval knight and steal the evil squire’s daughter from under his nose? Balderdash and blather.
Kit’s hands were tied by his promise to Squire Fenneman not to approach his daughter.
“What’s to do, Captain?”
Evidently his military history and exploits were less a secret than Kit hoped.
“You’ve got experience in risky ventures. Surely you can help the lady.”
Help. Yes, he could offer help.
“Mr. Beuth, you understand Miss Fenneman’s position at Sea Grange is precarious. Brookbank will perceive any overt action, no matter how mild, as a threat.”
“Aye, haven’t I been telling you she’s in danger?”
“Indeed, my friend.” Kit placed a hand on the shopkeeper’s arm. “Given Brookbank’s position in the community and his reputation, I doubt he’d hesitate to harm Miss Fenneman if he imagines someone wishes to take her from him.”
“Oh.” Dismay opened Beuth’s mouth, and his hands gripped his head. “That’s not good.”
“Precisely. We must think carefully before acting, or we could increase Miss Fenneman’s danger.”
“Then how can we help her?”
“We can reply to her note assuring her aid’s ready and waiting. We must also suggest some signal that she might use which neither the squire nor Brookbank would recognize as a cry for help.”
“You mean like a candle in the window late at night?”
“Something similar but not dependent on darkness or any other condition. Something ordinary like what she did today by sending this message in place of a shopping list.”
“I can send a note back to her saying I received her request for pink ribbons and ordered them from Yarmouth, expecting delivery tomorrow. Miss Fenneman hates pink—though I doubt either the squire or Brookbank knows. She’ll understand I’m saying her message was received.”
“With any luck, the lack of obvious action will lull those two men into thinking she can be trusted to come into Fenwick and return home. If she can get to the village, could you arrange a meeting for us at a secure location?”
“Aye, I’ll do that, Mr. Copefort.”
Beuth left to pen his note, and Kit considered Meg’s situation from all angles.
First, he must determine she truly did not wish to marry Brookbank. Her antipathy for the man was clear. Still, women often changed their minds for reasons a mere man could not understand.
Kit also needed to know what actions she was willing to take. Would she let him send her away, out of danger?
Somehow Kit doubted Meg could be convinced to run away, especially given the complicated relationship she had with her father. She would see leaving as abandoning the squire. That he had abandoned her for much of her life did not seem to matter.
What alternative was there?
Could he force her to leave? Behave like every other man in her life with power. No, force must be applied to Brookbank and the squire. True, but Kit still did not know how to protect Meg, while her father and his cohort were subdued.
They would fight back first, and Meg was an ideal weapon. He had to convince her to leave home. That was the only way.