Chapter 4
Four
Mr. Brewster, the innkeeper at the Queen’s Barque, had an obsession.
He was certain the village of Fenwick on Sea was poised to become the next Weymouth or Bognor Regis, and would soon be flooded with visitors every summer, many of whom would stay at his inn.
He was determined to convince Thom that he was right.
Thom was regretting his decision not to join his friend and the divers in their drinking session, for Mr. Brewster had seen him sitting alone in a little nook by a window, and had insisted on joining him.
“The sea air, as everyone knows, is salubrious, Mr. Medlock. And there is also the water. You may not know that the water here at the inn is special. One might say blessed. A fairy blessing, or so they say. If true lovers drink from my well, they are guaranteed love for a lifetime.”
He nodded and smiled. “Just think of that. Love for a lifetime, Mr. Medlock. Many people will visit just for that, I am certain. I see soirées, dinners, lectures perhaps, all kinds of gatherings right here at the inn, where people can meet in a relaxed atmosphere.”
Staring into the middle distance, he made a gesture with one hand, as if inviting Thom to see his vision.
“With celebrations at the well, of course. Perhaps monthly, at first. But as word spreads, weekly might not be too frequent. Some sort of ceremony, in which couples drink from a blessing cup. Fireworks perhaps? Yes, I think there might be fireworks.”
“Fireworks are always nice,” Thom said, wondering how to turn the conversation to Miss Westbrook. Since Brewster was here, he might as well be useful.
Brewster was still in full persuasion mode.
“Just imagine, a gentleman like yourself might be in need of a wife, but how is one to choose? In the bustle of London or York, how can one know the real lady behind the fashionable glamor? But here in Fenwick, you will be able to meet the lady of your dreams and drink the water with her to confirm your choice.”
“And will all these visitors stay at your inn, Mr. Brewster?” Thom asked. “Or are there other accommodation houses within an easy distance of Fenwick?”
It was the right question. Brewster began telling him all about the manors in the vicinity who might have aristocratic visitors, all the inns within a two-hour drive of the coast, and each of the private houses that rented rooms. Better, he not only gave Thom a short history of each place and of the person or family that owned it, he also named and described current visitors.
Thom was happy to sip his ale and wait patiently for Brewster to reach the one name in which he was interested. At last, his patience was rewarded.
The best of the rooming houses, apparently, was next to the smithy, and belonged to a Mrs. Peabody. And her current guests included a Mrs. Westbrook, her daughter, a Miss Arianna Westbrook, and their maid. Two grooms and a coachman were accommodated here at the inn.
“Mrs. Westbrook heard about our well,” Brewster boasted.
“She has brought her daughter here to find true love, and perhaps the magic of the well is already working. I mentioned the young lady to a gentleman staying here at the inn, and he declared he was already acquainted with the Westbrooks. He has been to visit them, so I believe. This could be another match made in Fenwick. Perhaps we could find one for you, too, Mr. Medlock.”
Thom was not able to comment. He was too busy trying not to strangle the garrulous old fool and then going to seek out the impertinent gentleman who dared to turn his covetous eyes on Miss Westbrook.
How preposterous! Jealousy? On behalf of a lady with whom I spent a pleasant hour discussing architecture? And yet he could not mistake the corrosive emotion pumping energy to his muscles and stealing sense from his brain.
Who was this man who was attempting to court Miss Westbrook? Was he succeeding? Was Brewster right, and the acquaintance predated Miss Westbrook’s arrival in Fenwick? More information, dictated what was left of his mind. You need more information.
“Have I met the gentleman?” Thom asked.
“A Mr. Edwin Mills,” Brewster said. “Mr. Mills was a guest here several weeks ago. Poor gentleman. He went out for a ride and was thrown from his horse. Thank goodness some fishermen down the coast found him and nursed him until he was well enough to return. We had quite given him up, and so had his two friends. By then the lady Mr. Mills had been escorting and her betrothed had already left.”
He sighed, his eyes turning misty. “Another of our Fenwick matches,” he said.
“I thought at first that Mr. Mills and the lady… but no, once the other gentleman arrived, it was obvious where the true romance was, especially after Mr. Mills left. They did not announce it, however, until the lady’s brother arrived. I daresay they were waiting for him.”
“What a pity Mr. Mills did not reappear until after his friends had left. I imagine he is anxious to join them,” said Thom, hopefully.
“Oh, he apparently has business interests in the area,” Brewster said. “Investments of some sort, possibly? I cannot think what they might be.”
Neither could Thom, and his mind, already prepared to be suspicious of Miss Westbrook’s suitor, jumped to his own salvage project.
It could not be, of course. No one but he, his two partners, and the man who had commissioned them knew what they were after.
Not even the owner of the Havspray, the ship that had sunk off the coast near Fenwick in a storm in May of this year.
Well, one of the ships. It had been a bad storm.
But the Havspray was the one that concerned Thom.
The Havspray and a certain box in a particular cupboard in a specified cabin on that ship.
In fact, as so often with this sort of commission, ignorance increased by increments across concentric circles, with only necessary information crossing the boundaries.
Outside was the outermost circle, the world at large, who knew nothing about Thom and his team, or what they were doing in Fenwick. Within that circumference were their provisioners—Brewster would need to be included here, since he knew that Thom, Jim, and the divers were together.
Inside the next, smaller circle were the divers themselves and the crew of the Cormorant, who had to know they were in Fenwick for a salvage operation, and must be able to work out, based on the equipment they had, that their job would be to retrieve something small enough for a single person to carry it away.
All of them had sworn not to mention their task to anyone else, or even discuss it among themselves except when actually on the job.
The circle within held Jim, Paul, and Thom, who knew the approximate location of the wreck and the precise location of the crucial box within the ship before the wreck.
In the most central circle was one man. One man who knew nothing about salvage but everything about the box they had been sent to find.
Only the Duke of Haverford—and presumably the box’s sender—knew what the box held, and why it was precious enough for the costs of salvage to be worthwhile.
No. Neither this man Mills nor anyone else within the outer circle could know exactly what they were doing. There was always a risk that someone might observe enough to be suspicious, but it was only Thom’s unaccountable jealousy that wanted to find Mills guilty.
Even so, Thom found himself saying, “You must introduce us some time.” He had another thought, a way to change the subject now he had the information about Miss Westbrook that he sought.
“Mr. Brewster, you mentioned a tour of the inn,” he said.
“I wonder if you would consider opening it to other inn guests—indeed, other visitors to the area? I am certain many people would be fascinated to explore such an historical building.” A sudden inspiration had him adding, “And to see the famous well, of course.”
There. If Miss Westbrook was invited as part of a group, there could be no objection to her coming, could there?
Thom was quite pleased with himself for thinking of it.
The rain continued through the following day.
Arianna was heartily sick of it, their rooms in the boarding house, and her mother, in ascending order of despair.
When a note arrived for her mother, she held her breath, hoping it offered a break from the tedium.
Almost anything would be preferable to staying here listening to her mother bemoan Arianna’s deficits and plan ways to trick prospective suitors—although Mr. Mills was the only current prospect—into proposing.
“Arianna,” said Mama, when she had read the note, “the innkeeper is planning to conduct a tour of his historical establishment. He has sent an invitation to all visitors, dearest. We shall go. This may be the opportunity we need to put you in front of all the eligible gentlemen in the district.”
Was this Mr. Medlock’s doing? He had mentioned inviting her to such a tour, and though the invitation was not from him, Arianna had a sudden conviction that he had arranged it.
Mama was sighing. “I have been very disappointed in the lack of social engagements in this village, Arianna. One must hope that we will meet the right kind of people tomorrow at this tour. People with invitations, Arianna. People who will introduce you to eligible bachelors.”
Arianna didn’t bother to pay attention after that, listening only enough to make encouraging noises and nod agreement at the appropriate times.
Mama’s monologues were predictable. She would bemoan Arianna’s lack of attractiveness to suitors, praise herself for all the efforts she had made on Arianna’s behalf, take a swipe at Father’s low social class—without ever mentioning the wealth that gave them a life of luxury—and list the advantages and desirable features of any eligible male currently in her sights.
It was currently a list of one, for Arianna had not yet successfully scared off Mr. Edwin Mills.
She was going to have to be subtle about it.
Mama had already scolded her for the garments she had worn to visit the church—simple lines, practical fabrics, colors that didn’t show every speck of dust or flick of mud.
“It is a wonder Mr. Mills paid you a scrap of attention, Arianna Westbrook, dressed like a governess or an old maid. And an old maid is something I shall not allow you to be, so do not think it. You shall not scare Mr. Mills off with your usual little tricks—talking like a bluestocking, arguing with his opinion, claiming your dowry is in a trust your husband will not be able to touch.”
Arianna had not realized that Mama had caught on to her strategies. It was a reminder that—while Mama might not be an intellectual—she was smart about the things that mattered to her, most of which had to do with status and social position.
To her own surprise, Arianna struck back. “I am a bluestocking, Mama. I only argue with opinions that are wrong. And why would you expect me to marry a fortune hunter who only wants me for my dowry?” Even as the words left her lips, she knew she had made a mistake.
“You will not disrespect me, Arianna. I am your mother. More to the point, your inheritance is under my complete control.” Legally, that was not true.
But from a practical standpoint, Mama was correct.
Arianna’s other two trustees tended to follow her mother’s direction.
“I shall see you married to a gentleman with connections well before your next birthday, and if you defy me, you shall be punished. Do you understand me?”
What could Arianna say but, “Yes, Mama. I apologize, Mama.”
In the war Mama had made of their relationship, Mama held most of the ground and all the weapons.
Things would change after Arianna’s wedding, or on the day she turned twenty-five, but that meant she still had more than thirty months to evade the suitors Mama selected, and the marital traps Mama kept setting for her.
In the beginning, Arianna had put Mama’s desperation for a son-in-law down to some sort of twisted maternal concern.
Or perhaps to grief over the death of Arianna’s father, for it had started even before their formal mourning period ended.
Mama had shown few signs of attachment to Papa while he was alive, but Arianna had told herself that her mother was not demonstrative.
When she first began to detect the patterns, Arianna didn’t want to believe what her mind was telling her. Until Pelham Townsend, the indigent fourth son of a bankrupt earl, had refused to be deterred by her usual strategies, driving her to an outright refusal. Which Mama had refused to accept.
The church was booked. Invitations were sent.
Arianna promised to stand in front of the priest and refuse the wedding.
Mama had her whipped, and then locked up without food.
By the time Arianna was back in circulation again, Townsend had left London, having eloped with another heiress.
Apparently, his financial embarrassments were too pressing to allow him to wait for Arianna.
It was quite by chance that Arianna had found the note he had sent to Mama.
She must have crumpled it up and then hidden it in her desk, perhaps when Arianna or a maid came into the room.
Arianna had seen her doing just that with letters she found annoying—into the fire if one was lit, and into the drawer to be burned later, if there was no fire.
Townsend’s name was uppermost on the crumpled ball.
It had been the first thing Arianna had seen when she opened the drawer to fetch some notepaper for Mama.
She had put the note into her pocket, and had read it later, when she was alone in her bedchamber.
The words that rocked her view of her mother’s actions were engraved in her mind.
“I am abandoning our agreement. Your daughter hates the idea of being married to me, and I do not want a reluctant wife, even if the share of her dowry you were prepared to give me would solve all my financial problems. I have found another, less argumentative bride, and you need to find another son-in-law who will agree to splitting the dowry with you.”
That note was now sewn into the lining of her sturdiest coat. If ever Mama tried again to force her to the altar, those words might give Arianna a chance to fight it.