Chapter Nine
“Mrs. Henley! But what a marvelous coincidence.” Lieutenant Sowerby dismounts and takes his horse by the reins. “I was just on my way to see you. But what are you doing out in this weather? You’ll catch a cold.”
“I…” She gropes around for an excuse. “It wasn’t raining when I set out this morning. Not much, I mean. I’m on my way back now.”
Lieutenant Sowerby says, “I’m afraid you’re walking in the wrong direction in that case, but I suspect you’re aware of that.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly—or is she imagining it?
She runs her wet glove across her forehead. “Of course. It’s only, I lost my…brooch. A…a gift from my late husband. I thought I’d walk back to see if I might find it.”
“Oh my dear Mrs. Henley, you must be distraught,” Lieutenant Sowerby says, sounding mollified. “You certainly look it. Pray, what does the brooch look like? I shall help you look.”
“It’s…” She doesn’t have to close her eyes to see the brooch before her.
Her mother wore it often. “It is shaped like a witch’s heart, set with clear stones and an arrow of red garnets.
The stones are only paste, but as it was a gift from George…
” If she keeps mentioning George, she thinks, Lieutenant Sowerby will soon give up his pursuit.
“Naturally. Let us look together. A witch’s heart, you said?”
“It’s a good luck token.”
He smiles. “Surely you don’t believe in such things, Mrs. Henley? Next you’ll tell me you’re descended from mermaids, after all.”
Her laugh sounds as hollow as she feels. How in Heaven’s name is she going to get herself free of him? Jack is waiting for her; the Rapide sails tonight. She pushes her hands into the folds of her dress. “Such nonsense, isn’t it?”
“I should say so. Ah, here it is.” Something glistens on the path—a leaf, she sees at once, with some drops of rain stuck to it that catch the first rays of sunlight digging through the clouds.
Lieutenant Sowerby bends down, reaching for it, then veers back up.
“Oh no, I was mistaken. It’s only a leaf. ”
She looks at him in wonder and suddenly, it clicks. He’s nearsighted, she thinks, and hiding it. As far as she knows he doesn’t carry any spectacles.
They search the muddy path for some time. At last, Isabel says, “I don’t believe we’ll find it. Thank you for your help, sir. I’ll go home now.”
“I shall accompany you. It’s you I came to visit, after all. May I carry your satchel for you?”
She hears the agitation in her voice when she says, “It’s fine, I don’t mind carrying it.” She must take care to speak calmly, she thinks.
“Please. What sort of man would let a woman such as yourself carry her own things? I insist.”
He’s reaching for the bundle and after a moment, she reluctantly lets go of the looped cloth and begins to retrace her steps.
Lieutenant Sowerby follows behind, leading his horse.
“Why did you come to call on me?” she asks.
Perhaps the delay can be useful, at least, if she asks the right questions. “It isn’t because of smugglers, is it?”
“Don’t fear, my dear lady. Recent intelligence indicates there won’t be any smuggling activity in the area for at least a fortnight.
Well, at least not from the smuggler that Lieutenant Sullivan managed to wound.
He hasn’t yet been found, but he’s almost certainly still laid up.
A gunshot wound will do that to a man.” He straightens up to his full height, self-importance coming off him in waves.
“Have you ever been shot, sir?”
“No, not as such, but I did receive a cut to the arm once. The scar is still visible.” He pushes up his right sleeve and shows her a half-inch line just below the elbow.
“You’re very brave, Lieutenant,” Isabel says.
He colors with pleasure. “I’m only doing my duty, madam, as your late husband did his.
Now, as this smuggler was likely the captain of the vessel in question, his entire enterprise will have been brought to a temporary halt.
Any other criminal activity we expect will be centered around Coverack or Lizard, far enough it cannot affect you here. So you see, you have nothing to fear.”
He’s mistaking her nervousness for timidity, she thinks. Good—let him think it. Making her voice deliberately small, she says, “I’m ever so pleased to hear it. I positively shake with fright at the thought of these ruffians.”
He appears to study her. “I am here for you, Mrs. Henley, anytime you are assailed by such fears. We officers of the Revenue Service have the situation under control, I assure you.”
She almost smiles, hiding her expression in her glove. Then the worry burrows inside her again. She needs to be at Roskorwell by six at the latest. She has time, but Lieutenant Sowerby must leave as soon as possible.
“Why, your bag must weigh ten pounds or more. What do you carry that’s so heavy?” Lieutenant Sowerby shifts the bundle from one shoulder to the other.
“Oh, merely some…things I’ve bought at the market and forgot to leave at home when I took my walk.” Her hands clench into fists, hidden by the folds of her dress.
He glances over his shoulder, and this time she could’ve sworn his eyes narrowed—but then he must have trouble seeing, she thinks, being nearsighted and with the rain a veil between them. They reach her cottage, and seeing no other choice, she invites him in.
Without asking her, he goes into the sitting room and stands looking around for a moment before taking one of the two spindle-back chairs.
She takes the other, sitting on the edge of the seat, her hands folded in her lap.
Lieutenant Sowerby says, “I salute you, Mrs. Henley, for keeping your cottage so very neat. Why, you remind me of a story I was told when I first arrived in this backwater of a county, concerning a certain Aunt Margaret. Have you heard it?”
She shakes her head and he launches into the story with zest: “Aunt Margaret came from high society and was disowned because she married a young sailor who turned out to be a pirate. The pirate was killed soon after, and from then on, Aunt Margaret lived alone in a tiny cottage on the cliffs. Hers was a simple life, but twice a year, on the anniversary of her marriage and that of her husband’s death, she would stand on the cliff in all her finery, her gray hair crowned by a lace cap so fine it looked spun by fairies. ”
Lieutenant Sowerby laughs, slapping his thigh. “Spun by fairies…it’s so typical of the lack of wit of the people here, isn’t it? But there’s a warning in the story to women of quality. Don’t go marrying pirates.”
He stops laughing so abruptly she feels her heart thump. The story makes her want to weep. It’s not the woman’s lack of wealth that causes a layer of melancholy to wrap around her senses, it’s the woman’s loneliness. Oh, George, she thinks, and then, with a horrible little shock: Jack.
She must reach Roskorwell before he leaves. The Rapide’s anchorage is a secret; she won’t be able to find it without him. Flustered, she rises from her chair. “I shall make tea.” Tea will provide a natural end to the visit. Once they’ve finished drinking it, Lieutenant Sowerby will have to leave.
In the kitchen, she goes through the by now familiar motions.
It’s difficult to keep the tray still as she carries it into the sitting room.
Her arms feel taut with nerves. As they sip their tea, she converses with the lieutenant as amicably as she can.
From time to time she lets a pause fall and waits for the moment he realizes he has overstayed his welcome. It doesn’t come.
“Pray, what is the time?” she says when she cannot stand it any longer. She has been biting her nail; it’s almost down to the quick.
Lieutenant Sowerby consults his pocket watch. “It’s four forty-five.”
As smoothly as she can, she says, “As you may imagine, without servants, my jobs never end. I must do the washing before nightfall, as well as…” She almost says, cook dinner, but swallows the words, fearing he’ll expect an invitation to dine with her.
“Sweep the floor,” she says. “I have most enjoyed your company, sir. Perhaps you should like to visit again soon?”
He goes. At last, he goes. Rising from his chair, Lieutenant Sowerby thanks her for the tea. Belatedly, she realizes he will likely ride the coastal path back, forcing her to take the longer inland route to Roskorwell. “Will you be returning to Saint Keverne directly?” she asks.
“Would that I were. I have business in Manaccan, which shall take up most of the evening. The innkeeper there may turn informer. It’ll be a good day for the Revenue Service if he does.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” she says, carefully trimming the relief from her tone. “Good day to you, sir.”
“And you, my dear Mrs. Henley.”
To her dismay, the same feverish coloring she’s seen before is back in his round face.
He says, “If only I could convey to you the depth of my admiration.” Before she can stop him, he reaches for her hand and lifts it to his lips as he did on his first visit.
Then he lowers it, but doesn’t let go. His grip is sweaty.
“My dear, dear Mrs. Henley,” Lieutenant Sowerby rasps, pulling her closer.
“If only you’d give in to the passion which I’m certain you must be feeling.
” She raises both hands to his chest and pushes, half expecting him to resist. “Sir! You forget yourself!”
To her relief, he staggers back, the blush intensifying. “I apologize, Mrs. Henley. I did not mean to be so forward; my devotion to you is wholly inspired by your virtue.”
She has barely had time to let out her breath when he pauses on the doorstep and says, “You do realize today is Sunday?”
“I beg your pardon?” She’s thinking of Jack and the ship again. She must get to Roskorwell in time.
“The satchel you carried.” He indicates the bundle on the table. “Things bought at the market, you said.”
“Oh…I believe I—”
“Please, do not worry. The days blend together sometimes, don’t they?”