Chapter Four
A strange sight presented itself to Robert.
He had been expecting, nay looking forward to seeing Miss Fossey in all of her male attire, with her sharp abrupt behaviors, that small cleft cut into her blunt chin, and all of the odd mannerisms she had displayed yesterday.
But instead, he was greeted by the sight of Miss Fossey in a dress.
With all of the appearance of a regular young woman completely confused him.
In truth, he almost did not recognize her, ready to walk past her on the beach as he searched for the unusual prospect of Miss Fossey.
“Mr. O’Sullivan.” She had to wave him down. The lavender sleeve of the dress lifted in the air to wave at him, stopping him in his tracks. She wore lace. A bonnet with a trim.
She pursed her lips as he stared at her in surprise.
Her appearance was a change he did not welcome.
He had been prepared to regard her as a criminal yet she donned the gown of a debutante he might meet for a stroll, working against his set of rules he deemed wise for their interaction.
As a regular looking woman, she warranted none of the suspicions he had considered previously.
“How do you do, ma’am?” he inclined his head in a slight bow.
“I am well, although you are late.”
“It was not the smoothest to—” Robert glanced back at the little town, with a huddle of buildings with blinking lights and wandering merchants and servants.
He rubbed his eyes. After she had left, Robert’s exploration of the cobb had let him down and along to Monmouth Bay, where he’d checked through lobster pots and found a few empty oilskin bags and one sodden and unreadable signal book, to tell him he was certainly investigating the right area.
There were a few scratches on it, which were not recognizable and a passing reference to the Punch and Judy show, perhaps caverns and performers had passed through Lyme recently.
He had stayed up late learning as much as he could from the talkative Weirs who ran the Dower Royale.
But the more they talked, the more Robert realized how insular Lyme was, and how little chance he would have to worm his way in.
At least he had been able to purchase a detailed map from them.
It showed the coastline, which he hoped would give him a good perspective for further sites to visit. But all of this had left him sore eyed.
“Your vision bothers you.” He found Miss Abigail close to him, her hand alighting with surprising gentleness on his.
“A little.”
“Have you never bought a pair of glasses?” She was close enough for Robert to detect concern in her gaze. Reluctantly, he reached inside his jacket pocket and extracted the pouch for his glasses. “You should wear them,” she said. It almost sounded like a command.
Robert frowned as he looked down at his glasses.
He had bought them after his injury. However, he had rarely worn them unless he was in the safety of his own men.
As he did not want to be seen by smugglers or even his fellow officers, as vulnerable.
He feared that he might be perceived in such a manner.
But admitting as much even to himself seemed deeply foolish, since he was sabotaging his own mission.
With a tiny slump of his shoulders, Robert acknowledged that vanity also played a part in his decision.
He had not planned to show them to her, but he did not know if it was the former or latter reason.
Slowly, Abigail drew the glasses out of their plum velvet pouch. She wasn’t looking at him, but only at the glasses. Carefully she unfolded them and lifted them up, slotting them tenderly onto his face.
Their eyes met.
There was no judgment in her gaze. Instead, her expression was simply curious as she studied him. One of her hands still rested on his cheek, the other on his shoulder.
Originally, he had thought her unusual. Perhaps just a plain spinsterish woman.
An oddity. Certainly, that was the impression he had gained from the rest of Lyme when the Weirs had heard about his plans with Abigail Fossey.
But now that he examined her face, Robert found he liked it, because he liked her despite his suspicions.
The sheer strength of her face. The little uptilt of her nose, more visible now she was up close.
The little cleft of her chin, so decided it was almost a cut.
The firmness of her jaw. Those sharp eyebrows, and the depths of brown swirls that spun in her eyes.
“They become you,” Abigail said decidedly. She turned on her heel and gestured that they should leave. Keen to be off toward the stretching offering of the beach.
Robert followed her. He did not think he would continue to wear them outside, not whilst he was making inquiries and investigating the town folk, but with Abigail, what would be the harm given she knew about them now?
For his nighttime activities of investigating any noise or activity in the town, the wisdom said he should wear them for his ‘fossil’ hunting.
“How are you liking Lyme Regis?” Her question broke into his wandering mind.
“I am adjusting,” Robert said. It was true.
In some ways, the town was a font of information, easily accessible and friendly.
Certainly, there were a great many people who were happy to tell him a great number of tales of the town’s history.
What seemed harder to discover was the underground happenings.
Yet he had a few leads he would start on this afternoon.
Once that signal book had dried out, he might be able to decipher it, and the maid at the Dower seemed susceptible to some persuasion.
“I imagine you would be popular amongst the townsfolk,” Abigail said. For a moment, his vanity swelled. He hoped that she was complimenting him before she continued. “Tourists, wealthy ones, normally do not arrive until the summer months.”
“No, I am pleased to see the reality of Lyme Regis. Discover what is at the heart of the place. If I am to settle here.”
He had been surprised at the colorful characters of the owners of the establishment.
Mr. Weir had bright red hair, and a buoyant bounce to his step as he had skipped from parlor to chamber, describing the inhabitants of Lyme as well as the menu that was on offer.
The latter was his main focus. Fennel haddock.
Grilled monkfish. Steamed mackerel. Stuffed squid.
Oysters in wine sauce. On and on, Mr. Weir had spoken, waxing lyrical about the merits of delicious seafood available in the area, until Robert was certain he knew more than he ever wanted to know about fishing.
At least he comforted himself that the hotel was the standard of luxury beyond his normal means.
When Mr. Weir’s wife arrived, she had discovered his plans of exploring the coves with Miss Abigail.
‘Miss Fossey?’ Mrs. Weir had said with a note of pointed humor, ‘the town eccentric. She is quite a strange creature. Her family is well-regarded but Abigail Fossey has been a bizarre little thing since her youth, and age has not improved her.’
Most women might have alluded to the woman’s reputation, but this did not seem to overly concern Mrs. Weir, and the ongoing comments about Abigail.
The memory of his irritation, and a vague sort of protectiveness flared through him at the time. Now, as he was looking at Miss Fossey, he continued to be annoyed at The Dower owners’ attitude toward Abigail.
Even in her purple dress, with all of the assumed normalness of a genteel lady, she had failed.
She had rolled up one of the sleeves, but she had taken much care with the bodice as the ribbon was not smoothed.
This change of garb, this wearing of a dress might be seen as a ploy of showcasing her appeals…
and yet perhaps it was an attempt to hide herself.
Was she still his suspect? Would she think of seducing him to distract him from investigating her…
or was that just a rogue and inappropriate thought that suddenly occurred to him?
And why did the particular thought hold his attention so much?
He could see she still wore her knife and hammer which did nothing to mitigate his suspicion toward her.
“The Weirs are garrulous hosts, with many opinions they wished to share with me.”
Miss Fossey turned on her heel, moving over the pebbles on the beach, forcing him to fall instep next to her.
“Oh, aye they are.” She did not sound hugely amused, and he wondered how aware she was of what her neighbors said about her.
It struck him as unlikely that someone of Miss Fossey’s opinions would pay much heed to the talk of others, but perhaps he was wrong.
The cove curved in a gentle manner and expanded out. Beyond them, Robert could see the gradual rise of the cliffs, seemingly painted in layers of rock. He had learned the expression used was ‘Blue Lias’.
The woman beside him moved at a steady pace over the particularly uneven rocks.
She snatched up her skirts, hiking them up as she climbed, and giving him the surprising sight of her shapely legs, clothed in brightly colored long socks, a vivid contrasting green, one of which was tied with a cream bow.
It was not remotely ladylike. It was the sort of thing he might have expected to be worn by a lady of the night, and not a scientifically-minded spinster.