Chapter 8
“Your husband will take the child, of course.”
Lost in thoughts of Abby Norris’s headache, the crippling pain in Martha Potts’s joints, and the grim change in the weather such maladies foretold, Sarah nearly stumbled at hearing the vicar speak her worst fears aloud. Mr. Norris paused in their journey up the nave of All Saints’ and gestured toward the pew usually occupied by Sarah and Mrs. Potts, now taken up by a set of broad shoulders clad in dark blue superfine.
As if on cue, St. John turned and gave her a cryptic smile.
And to think she had imagined the Lord’s Day would offer some reprieve.
“Ow, Mama!” Clarissa attempted to throw off Sarah’s fingers where they had sunk sharply into her little arm.
Perhaps, Sarah prayed as they walked toward her husband, Clarissa will refuse to go with a stranger. But such a hope was dashed when St. John patted the polished wooden bench beside him and Clarissa slid happily into place. “Mama play,” she explained, and St. John nodded.
“Yes, I know. I am saddened to hear that Mrs. Norris was taken ill, of course, but I look forward to hearing my wife’s contribution to divine services this morning, Mr. Norris.”
“Mrs. Fairfax is always willing to help,” Mr. Norris praised, urging Sarah toward the chancel, where the organ was ensconced.
As Sarah seated herself at the persnickety old instrument, she glanced back toward the pew. Clarissa had climbed into St. John’s lap and was amusing herself with the shining buttons of his waistcoat. He ran his hand over Clarissa’s mop of golden-brown curls and looked up at Sarah, his expression unreadable.
She quickly turned to face the organ and focused her attention on the music, but throughout the service she could feel his eyes on her back, studying her with an attentiveness no hymn had ever called forth before. She remembered the burning penetration of his gaze the night before, the feel of his strong arms wrapped around her, the whisper of his breath across her lips as he closed in for a kiss.
Her pulse leapt at the memory and her fingers stumbled over the keys. Fool, fool, fool.
Whatever he wanted, it was not her. And whatever she needed, it was not him.
She dragged her wayward thoughts back to the service and played until the organ’s hollow-sounding notes told her that the church was nearly empty.
When she dared to turn around at last, St. John and Clarissa were gone.
Hearing nothing but the echo of Mr. Norris’s fateful promise in her ears, she hurried out of the church, oblivious to the greetings of her neighbors, struggling to find one little child in the crowd. Hampered at least as much by her own anxiety as by the blinding midday sun, she located her husband and daughter at last, standing with the Thomases a few yards down the footpath.
“Mama!” Clarissa cried, holding up a motley collection of wildflowers in one grubby fist while little Bertie Thomas scouted for similar treasure nearby.
St. John turned and then stepped back to make room as she hurried toward them.
“Lovely as always, Mrs. F.,” Nan Thomas enthused. “Weren’t it, Bert?”
Bert nodded. “T’aint the Christian thing to wish the megrims on Mrs. Norris, but ’tis a treat to hear you play, ma’am.”
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax. A treat,” St. John echoed, evidently amused by the man’s choice of words.
“Thank you. It is an honor to be able to assist Mr. Norris,” Sarah replied as the vicar joined their little group.
“Mrs. Thomas, I believe you were just about to explain to me how you came to know my wife,” St. John said after a moment.
Bert laughed. “Everybody knows everybody in Haverhythe, Lieutenant Fairfax.”
Lieutenant Fairfax? Sarah narrowly avoided snorting.
“Mrs. Potts is me ma,” Nan explained. “And Mrs. F. here saved her life—saved all of us, really.”
“Oh?” One dark blond brow shot up.
“I rather think it was the other way around,” Sarah insisted, pleading silently with Nan Thomas to speak of something, anything else.
But if Nan received the message, it mattered very little, because Bert was quick to take up the tale.
“You’re too modest, Mrs. F. You see,” the young fisherman said, turning to St. John, “I were bad hurt, couldn’t work.” He spread his beefy hands before him and studied them for a moment, as if reflecting on their betrayal. “And Nan here were, well . . .”
He paused and Nan passed one work-roughened palm over a belly that had begun to round once again.
“I understand,” St. John interjected mildly, as if such details were an expected part of polite conversation. By contrast, Edmund Norris’s face turned a rather remarkable shade of pink.
“I’d been takin’ care o’ Mrs. Potts, and my own ma, o’ course. But times got tough. Real tough.” Bert jerked his thumb toward Haverty Court. “His lordship’s steward threatened to turn Mrs. Potts out of Primrose Cottage if she couldn’t come up with the rent. She started walkin’ the quay again, like she did after Nan’s pa drowned.”
“Then Mrs. F. come along and asked if Ma would take in a boarder,” Nan chimed in. “If it weren’t for her, I reckon Ma ’ud be at the bottom of the bay.”
Sarah felt St. John turn and look at her. “Is that so?”
Sarah could hardly deny it. After facing the village’s censure for weeks, scraping by on the few coins she had happened to have in her reticule when she left London, and beginning to suspect her own “interesting condition,” Sarah had passed more than a few nights tempted to join Mad Martha there.
Instead, she had joined her at Primrose Cottage.
“Nonsense, Nan,” Sarah demurred. “If your mother had been as desperate as that, my little mite could hardly have saved her. She was simply kind and generous enough to take me in.”
“You’re too modest, Mrs. Fairfax—especially considering what happened next.”
“And what was that?” St. John asked, turning to the vicar.
“When she saw the Thomases’ situation, and realized they were unfortunately far from alone in their troubles,” he explained to St. John with a melancholy shake of his head, “she took a notion to begin a sort of pension for the men and their families. The Fishermen’s Relief Fund.”
“Really, I think Mrs. Norris deserves—” Sarah tried to interject, but her words fell on deaf ears.
“She had the vicar take up a collection,” said Nan.
That gentleman brushed aside his own contribution. “And she got the women of the village to set aside a bit here and there—old clothes or salted fish—for those who needed it.”
“Why, she even badgered ’em up at Haverty Court,” exclaimed Bert. “She’s done all but steal to see that fund built up.”
Sarah watched St. John’s eyes widen at the mention of theft. “Really?” he exclaimed. “Well, Mrs. Fairfax has always been remarkably resourceful.”
“And o’ course, there’s the festival,” Nan added. “We mustn’t forget that.”
St. John looked at Sarah. “Ah, yes. The festival. With proceeds to go to the, er—”
“Fishermen’s Relief Fund,” Sarah supplied brusquely. “If it doesn’t rain,” she reminded them all, casting a chary glance at the cloudless blue sky. “Come, Clarissa. It’s time to go. Are those flowers for Mrs. Potts?”
After the obligatory protests from the children and cheery well wishes from the adults, Sarah turned at last toward the cobbled street. Clutching a bedraggled bouquet of weeds, Clarissa wandered a few paces ahead.
“Why did you not tell me?” St. John asked, drawing Sarah’s hand through his arm.
Sarah longed to pull away but instead nodded a greeting at the Mackey children as they passed. “Tell you what?”
“About Mrs. Potts—the Fishermen’s Relief—the festival. Too modest, perhaps?” He smiled, but his eyes were chips of ice. “Am I now to suppose that you stole that necklace and then took my stepmother’s money for a noble purpose, rather than a nefarious one? Did you fancy yourself some sort of Lady Robin Hood?”
“Lady Estley has told you that she sent me money, and I will not deny having received it. But I deny most vehemently that I demanded it, or expected it.” Sarah spoke in a heated whisper, for she was all too aware of Haverhythe’s love of gossip, and the street around them was crowded. “How could I? I have nothing she wants—nothing anyone wants.”
“You will forgive me, ma’am, if I express some doubt on that point.”
“It little matters to me what you believe,” she lied. “In any case, I put her money to good use. I started the Fishermen’s Relief Fund.”
That revelation succeeded in startling him into silence, but only for a moment. “If you imagine your good works here are somehow penance for your crimes—”
“Crimes, my lord? Of what crimes do you accuse me?” she demanded.
“I think you know your crimes, my lady,” he insisted softly, glancing toward Clarissa and then back at her. “You were caught in a compromising position with another man. At the same time, a priceless family heirloom disappeared. Then you decided to run, rather than stay and proclaim your innocence—”
“But I did.”
His steps halted. “I beg your pardon?”
“I did proclaim my innocence. On the night I first stood accused. But you did not hear me, it seems. Or you did not believe me.” She darted her gaze away. “What hope have I of anyone believing me now?”
“Precious little,” he agreed, an edge of indecision in his voice. “You cannot deny the appearance of guilt.”
She forced herself not to flinch beneath the sudden intensity of his regard. “Appearances may deceive, my lord.”
He tipped his head as if considering her response. “Indeed they may, Mrs. Fairfax. Indeed they may.”
But before he could say more, Clarissa grabbed his free hand. “Play donkey.”
After Sarah slid her oft-mended glove from his elegantly tailored sleeve, he bent to scoop up Clarissa, hoisting her onto his shoulder. At the child’s squealed demand, he trotted along the cobblestones like a donkey, calling greetings to half the town as they went, earning smiles from everyone they passed, and arriving at the bottom of the street hardly out of breath.
So he had decided to play the dashing hero before the eyes of the village, eh? Well, then, let him learn just what such a role required. She could ensure it would not be simple child’s play.
Sarah caught up with them just on the threshold of Primrose Cottage and laid a staying hand on his arm. “Meet me tomorrow on the quay. Nine o’clock.”
“All right,” he agreed, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead again. “Another moonlight assignation?”
“Nine o’clock in the morning,” she replied, curving her lips in a small smile. “Come ready to work, my lord.”
* * *
Sarah arrived on the quay early the next day and greeted Mrs. Norris and the handful of people who had agreed to help them prepare for the festival on Michaelmas. Colin Mackey had sent his daughter and his eldest son. Mr. Gaffard was there, leaving Mrs. Gaffard to mind the shop. The Rostrum brothers—Clovis and Hubert, two bent-backed fishermen too old to go to sea—stood side by side; after three years, Sarah was still not sure which was which. These, with a scattering of younger children who were eager to help but really too young to do so, were the army she had collected.
St. John was nowhere to be seen.
Apparently even a miserable bed at the Blue Herring held more appeal of a morning than a day of hard and likely thankless work—the kind a hero undertook regardless. She had expected it to be more of a challenge to reveal his true colors to the town.
“Abby, my dear, are you better?” Sarah walked immediately to her friend’s side and took her hand.
“Much,” Abigail Norris replied, although her smile was still weak and her brown eyes heavy-lidded.
“Well,” Sarah said, giving Abby’s fingers a squeeze and glancing at the sky, “we’ll just have to pray the storm blows over before Thursday.”
“And what storm is that, dear?” Abby asked innocently.
Sarah considered all the storms bearing down on her and only wished she could say which posed the more immediate threat.
“Gather ’round, everyone,” she called with a clap of her hands. “And thank you for agreeing to help. Mr. Norris has made sure every parish within twenty miles knows about our little festival, so we must prepare for visitors. The plan is to have stalls for the bazaar set up here along the top of the quay,” she said, gesturing above her, “and here below, in the evening, there’s to be a dance under the stars.”
It was unconventional—and all likely to be ruined if rough weather came in off the sea. But the wide foot of the quay, where the ships’ cargos were loaded onto sledges and taken up the road, was the largest open area in town, as there were no assembly rooms. “The children can begin by sweeping off the stones and setting everything to rights. And if the men—”
“Ho!” Gerald Beals’s voice rang out over the cobblestones. Sarah turned to see him leading one of a pair of donkeys drawing a sledge laden with lumber from an old barn at Haverty Court that had been damaged in a storm. “Here’s the wood for the stalls, Mrs. F.”
As she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she realized that the second donkey was led by St. John. He was dressed for work, as she had instructed—or at least, as best a man of his rank could be. Over his crisp white linen and buckskin breeches, he had put on an apron of some heavy stuff, probably borrowed from Mr. Beals. The light breeze off the water rippled his shirt and revealed the breadth of his shoulders beneath it. Tossing the donkey’s lead to one of the little boys, he pulled off a glove to run a hand over his bare head, pushing his golden hair behind his ears. Then he came toward her, all blue eyes and dazzling smile.
“Mrs. Norris,” he cried, extending a hand to the vicar’s wife. “On the mend, I hope?”
Abby positively simpered. “Why, yes, thank you, Lieutenant Fairfax.”
“Sorry I’m late, ma’am,” St. John said, turning his charm on her. “Beals asked for a hand.”
“Of course.” Sarah nodded, casting Mr. Beals what she hoped would pass for a smile. “Once you’ve unloaded the wood, you can help the Rostrum brothers and young Colin build the stalls. You do know how to hammer a nail, don’t you?” she asked sweetly.
His smile shifted slightly, but it did not leave his face. “I think, Sarah,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear, “what I’ve learned in the last three years would amaze you.”
Thankfully, one of the little boys chose just that moment to tug at her skirts. “Coming,” she called, and within moments, she was surrounded by a flurry of activity, showing the children how to sweep the sand so that it didn’t fly up in their faces and sending furtive glances toward the knot of men as they set about their task.
St. John did not wait for instruction but jumped into the fray and offered what the other men seemed to find valued suggestions; by the time the sun was high in the sky, the first stall was standing and St. John had emerged as the carpenters’ leader.
At midday the crowd had almost doubled, as the women of the village finished their household chores and brought their children down to the quay to join in the work. Fanny Kittery stood off to one side under the meager shade of a dainty parasol, frowning down at a girl not much older than Clarissa who had just swept a pile of dried donkey dung past her feet.
Feeling her lips twitch in a smile, Sarah turned her head to avoid being seen, only to discover Emily Dawlish standing by her side, watching the men work.
“I just come down to say that your dress’ll be done by Wednesday teatime,” Emily declared, her eyes never leaving the men.
“Why, Emily, you must be working your fingers to the bone! Really, it wasn’t necessary.”
But Emily foreclosed her protest with a shake of her head. “’Tain’t nothin’, Mrs. F. And no charge, neither,” she added, giving Sarah a nudge with her elbow.
“How—?”
Emily fixed her glittering eyes on Sarah’s face. “Your man come by, wantin’ a couple o’ things done up quick. Said he forgot to pack a change o’ linen.”
Forgot? More likely he had not planned to stay long enough to require such a thing.
“I told him I’d hafta get the cloth at Gaffard’s,” Emily continued. “He didn’t make no mind about that, so I just added the muslin for the dress onto his bill. I figure, what do men know about the cost o’ such things?”
Heaven only knew Sarah didn’t have a penny to spare for frivolities. She felt torn between an obligatory protest at such deceit and a peculiar gladness for the girl’s cleverness. Before she could determine which to express first, Emily turned her gaze back to the working men and sighed.
“Lord, mum. Word’s abroad you’re givin’ him the cold shoulder, but I don’t rightly see how you can!”
There was no denying that St. John cut a fine figure. And Sarah could not suppress a little twinge of pride at the thought that it was highly unlikely any other lady of his acquaintance—Eliza Harrington included—had seen him looking so. Gone were the accoutrements of a gentleman, the lace-edged sleeves and tight-fitting coat. In their place was a sweat-dampened shirt of fine cambric that clung to the muscles of his back like a second skin. Sarah had never known physical labor to make a man so appealing. But then, Sarah knew of no laborers who had St. John’s good looks to start.
Watching him work, she could almost forget that he intended to see her pay dearly for crimes she had not committed.
The arrival of Mrs. Potts bearing two large baskets of food rescued her thoughts from taking such a maudlin turn. Clarissa darted to and fro like a hummingbird. Workers young and old fell on the repast, and before long, Mr. Mackey showed up, rolling a small keg of ale before him.
“Thought ye might’ve worked up a thirst,” he said in his gruffest voice.
Sarah very nearly hugged him.
While the small crowd ate and drank and talked, Sarah looked at all they had accomplished in a few short hours. The stones of the quay and the landing had been swept clean, and what had this morning been a pile of discarded lumber was now a series of neat stalls. Mrs. Gaffard had brought a bolt of striped fabric and was draping it festively across first one and then another before stepping back to inspect the effect. Farther along the quay, the Mackey girl had gathered the youngest children, Clarissa included, and was amusing them with stories and games to keep them from getting underfoot.
Surrounded by her successes, Sarah did not realize she was no longer alone until a shadow fell across her shoulder.
“Admiring your empire?” St. John’s voice came from behind her.
“I’m pleased, yes,” she acknowledged, moving slightly, but not enough to face him. “It’s a good morning’s work. Now, if the weather holds and people come, I will consider it a success.”
“The Fishermen’s Relief seems a worthy cause, and I wish it well.” He paused. “I cannot help but wonder, though, how this burden came to rest on your shoulders.”
She raised one quizzical brow. “Burden, my lord? I would not describe it so.”
“But the family at Haverty Court—?”
“Landlords sometimes fail to do their duty by the villages in their trust,” she answered, cutting him a sideways glance. The marquess had spoken fondly of Lynscombe, the Sutliffe family seat, but Sarah had never seen it. St. John could not bear being immured in Hampshire, Lady Estley had confided to her.
“Sometimes landlords lack the means to make the necessary improvements.”
She knew quite well why St. John had married her, just as she knew she had not imagined the defensiveness in his voice. Chancing a look in his direction, she glimpsed the stubborn set of his jaw. He looked in that moment quite remarkably like his daughter, and she almost smiled at the resemblance.
But she caught herself.
“Spending money is not the only way to fulfill one’s responsibilities, my lord. Sometimes a bit of genuine concern for the people involved will reveal other ways to help.” She cast her eyes over the little community gathered around her. “In any case, there is no family at Haverty Court now. I met the old earl once, but his health is poor. He spends all his time in London, where he can be near his physicians. I wrote to him last year with the idea for this festival. Six months later, his secretary sent word that I could proceed with his blessing.”
“He ought to be grateful,” St. John replied, his eyes still on the children at play along the quay. “And his son does not—?”
“One hears rumors of sons who spare little thought for the people and places that will make up their true inheritance, more’s the pity.” How did the people of Lynscombe fare in comparison to those of Haverhythe? She doubted she would ever know.
She felt him shift his weight, as if her words had succeeded in making him uncomfortable. “One can hope such sons learn the error of their ways.”
“Indeed, one can,” she agreed. “But Lord Haverty has no son. No children at all, in fact. His nephew will inherit, when the time comes.”
“And what sort of man is he?”
“I could not say.”
They stood in silence for a long moment. The skin along her spine prickled, as the heat radiating from his body penetrated the fabric of her dress. But she would not step away and give him the satisfaction of knowing how his presence affected her.
“Beals tells me there’s to be a dance Thursday evening,” he said at last.
Sarah nodded.
“A wonderful idea. And where will it be held?”
“Right here, where we’re standing. The musicians will sit over there,” she added, indicating with a wave of her hand the broad steps that led up the quay. “I had thought of using the ballroom at Haverty Court, but alas, that was not to be.”
“Better this way, I think.” She could not keep from looking at him then, suspecting him of laughing at her idea. But his countenance was sincere. “The people of the village would not feel as comfortable there. You will want them to enjoy themselves after all their hard work.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
“I do believe, though, that it should be tried first.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She felt his fingers slide slowly down her arm and grasp her hand as he came around in front of her and made a bow. “Your dance floor. It ought to be tested.”
And before she could protest—before she could offer any reply at all—he had swept her into a rollicking country dance, whirling her across the cobblestones and in and out among her neighbors, who soon began clapping a fierce rhythm to accompany them.
Despite the rough surface and his heavy boots, St. John moved with confident grace and effortlessly drew her along with him. The ribbons of her bonnet streamed past her chin like dark, delirious butterflies, and her fingertips tingled where they rested in his strong, work-roughened hands—skin against skin, most unlike a proper ballroom. Every cliché she had ever heard about dancing seemed suddenly to have become a profound truth. She did feel lighter than air.
“I’ve just realized this site has another advantage.”
“What’s that?” she asked, already slightly breathless.
“I heard you play so beautifully yesterday.” Sarah accepted the compliment with a slight nod, wondering where this was leading. “But this lovely spot requires more portable instruments, so you cannot be expected to provide the evening’s accompaniment.” He stepped back with a smile and she mirrored his movement. “You will dance instead. With me,” he insisted, drawing her close once again.
Shaking her head, she ducked under his arm. “I cannot dance only with you.”
“You expect the rules of the ballroom to be observed under the open sky?”
They were back to back now, so she could not see his eyes. She felt safe in a teasing reply. “I intend to be properly sociable. If you look closely, you’ll find that my dance card is already half-full.”
“We’ll just see about that,” he said as he spun her around and went down the dance again.
In truth, she had expected not to dance at all. She had expected to haunt the fringes with the widows and matrons, watching others enjoy themselves.
In this one small way, perhaps, St. John’s arrival was a reprieve.
All around them, others took up the unheard melody. Mr. Gaffard bowed to Mrs. Potts, while Mr. Beals took Emily Dawlish’s hand and led her in a breathless romp across the landing. The older children joined in with untaught glee, inventing steps to suit themselves. Scandalized, Mrs. Kittery allowed her parasol to droop to one side, her lips creased with disapproval.
Sarah tipped back her head and laughed.
St. John’s eyes seemed to glow with what she could only describe as approval. “Can it be that we’ve never danced before, Sarah?”
Instantly, she was taken back to the night of their nuptial ball. The musicians on the dais tuning their instruments, about to begin. Lady Estley in a flurry because St. John, who was to open the dance with his new bride, was nowhere to be seen. Her own eager—and, as it turned out, foolish—offer to look for him.
She had found him, of course. With Eliza.
Sarah stumbled, and although St. John could have carried her through the gaffe with ease, she could not seem to make herself move. Their abrupt stop brought the impromptu dance to a ragged close. Nervous barks of laughter came from the men, and the women lifted self-conscious hands to smooth their hair. It was as if a cloud had suddenly covered the sun.
“Sarah?” St. John coaxed, tucking a finger under her chin to raise it.
But she would not face him. How could she have let down her guard, even for a moment?
Then the screech of what sounded like seabirds filled the air, and Sarah chanced a peek at the head of the quay. All the little children were standing or kneeling at the edge facing the village. She had taken one step forward to admonish them when she saw Georgina Mackey pointing down and shrieking. And in that terrible moment, the earth simply stopped spinning and ground to a shuddering halt.
A child’s form bobbed in the still water of the harbor. And the wind at last carried Georgina’s cries to Sarah’s ears.
“Clarissa! Clarissa!”