Merry, it’s me.”
Strangling the cry for help, Merry turned to face Graham Sinclair. He loomed above her in the night, tall and lean. Handsome face clean and gleaming, his hair neatly tied behind with a black bow. If he had the sense of a gnat, he would fear her. She curled her fingers into her skirts to keep from striking him.
“Why are you skulking about so late at night?” she demanded.
“I could ask the same of you.”
He held up a hand. “Miss Lattimore, I know I must not appear to be your greatest friend, but I have been working diligently on your behalf.”
“Oh yes, I know.” Her nostrils flared as if she smelled something even worse than Newgate. “You saw me committed to the blackest hole in England, with nothing to look forward to but death.”
The force of her anger scored his brow with deep ridges. “Miss Lattimore, I did no more than my duty.”
“Have you come to gloat then? I confess I do not understand it. My family and I were ever kind to you.”
His other hand joined the first in a placating gesture, though his voice grew harsh. “I had no choice in the matter. The evidence against you was too strong.”
Her skin flamed beneath his scrutiny. Clinging to the tail of her anger, she held her arms out wide as if modeling a new gown. “Allow your eyes to drink their fill. I have been brought low by the Pagets and your false sense of duty. I hope you are proud of all you have accomplished.”
She could see the bob of his Adam’s apple despite his stock.
The furnace of humiliation churning within her made even her eyes burn. He stepped back. His outstretched palms made him appear a supplicant. “I have no interest in seeing you brought low. Indeed, I owe your father too much for me to rejoice at your plight. I came to Virginia to find you.”
“Surely you didn’t assume I would desire your acquaintance after all that transpired. And why would you wish mine? I am nothing but a thief to you.”
“Quiet.” Graham held a finger to his lips. “Are you trying to draw the attention of the watchmen?”
She turned on her heel. “I did not desire this conversation at all. You accosted me.”
“I know you didn’t steal the jewels.”
It was perhaps the only thing that could have made her stop and turn back. “You know?”
“Near the end of May the jewels turned up missing again. Upon investigation it was discovered that Lucas Paget had stolen them. It seems he was also the one to place them in your valise.”
“Did he hate me so much?”
“It seems he feared you would tell his mother of his gambling debts.”
Merry shook her head. “His debts? Surely, she already knew?”
“Not their full extent, I think.”
“Do you mean to say that he purposely made it appear as if I had stolen those gems in order to discredit anything I might have told his mother?”
Graham shrugged.
She inhaled, fighting down a rage that stole her breath and blinded her. How could anyone be so depraved? So … so heedless of how their actions injured another person? She reached for a nearby wall to anchor herself. White-hot energy pulsed through her. The way she felt at the moment she could swim back to England and administer the thrashing Paget deserved.
Graham stepped closer. His eyes held a depth of understanding that prodded at her vitals. She closed her eyes against his sympathy. Despite herself she had been trying to salvage some sort of meaning from the madness. But no. It had all been senseless. A tragic waste. She shook off the gentle hand he placed on her arm and bared her teeth in a snarl.
“Have you come all this way to tell me that I’m innocent?”
“No.” He whipped off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve come because I have obtained a pardon for you.”
“What?” Merry took a step back. The world spun and contracted.
“When I discovered the truth I petitioned the king and obtained a pardon.”
“You did that for me?”
“Contrary to what you seem to think, I believe in justice and honor.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I do not know what to think.”
“You used to think me a friend.” His voice was as gentle as the mist. He opened his jacket and pulled out an oilskin-wrapped packet, which he extended toward her.
Merry took it in trembling fingers. Home. She could go home. She could not speak. Tears spilled over onto her cheeks. Mayhap they would mix with the rain and he would not notice in the dark.
“Everything you need should be in there. If you wish, I will come to the Benning home tomorrow and explain it all. They may not want to let you go after having paid for you.”
She opened her mouth to thank him when a sick feeling settled in her stomach. If she left the Bennings now, there would be no way she could help Jerusha and Daniel. Her hands began to tremble. “That will not be necessary.”
The weight of the money pouch tugged at the waist of her skirt. She could forget that any of this had ever happened. Just book passage on the next ship leaving Virginia.
Graham was looking at her with an intensity that unnerved her. Could the man read her mind? She cast about for a means of explaining her reluctance. “They have been very good to me. Once they see the documents they will be just.”
He gazed down at her, searching her face. “Are you certain? It would pain me a great deal to have gone to all this trouble and then for you to remain trapped here.”
“By all means we must be certain that you are spared any pain.”
He pulled back, the moon glinting on the hurt in his eyes.
Merry swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I ought not to have said that. But I prefer to handle this matter myself.”
“Then I bid you adieu.” Stiffly he turned away.
“Mr. Sinclair?”
“Yes?”
“I… Thank you. You have accomplished something I never dreamed possible.”
He stepped back to her side and took her hand in his. “Miss Lattimore, I am so dreadfully sorry for all that has befallen you, and for my part in it.”
The warmth of his hand encircling hers sent a shiver up her spine. She looked up, searching his face, but shadows hid his eyes.
“My father said you had the most finely honed sense of honor he ever encountered.”
He chuckled. “Of late, it has caused me a great deal of trouble.” He took her hand and laid it on his bent arm. “Please allow me to see you back to the Benning house.” He made no move to lead her away.
Merry could not seem to move or even to tear her gaze away from his. Almost dreamily he raised a hand and cupped her cheek. “You’ve not been harmed, have you?”
“No.”
“You relieve my mind greatly.” As if suddenly realizing the inappropriateness of his proximity he turned and strolled with her as if they were on the Strand in London rather than the backwater of Williamsburg.
The loss of his warmth was a kind of bereavement, but Merry attributed her desire for closeness to the chill of the rain.
Her foot slipped in something thick and viscous, and the coins in Sarah’s pouch clanked. He glanced at her sharply but didn’t comment, and she chose not to explain. It was not his affair. He would likely interfere if she confided in him. What he did not know, he could not divulge.
“Mrs. Paget’s lady’s maid, Grace, gave me your valise. I have it in my lodgings. Will you receive me if I bring it to you tomorrow?” His playful tone covered a wounded note.
It was Merry’s turn to ignore what she did not wish to confront. “You’ve seen Grace? How was she? I was so concerned when I left.”
“She seemed hale and hearty. I doubt any of them were surprised to see Lucas Paget come to a bad end.”
He fulfilled her desire for news from England, describing every detail he could recall of his interviews with the Pagets’ servants. He even made her laugh as he described Lucas’s ignominious arrest.
Merry would never have dreamed that she would find herself in such a situation, and yet here she was, walking in the rain in the middle of the night with Graham Sinclair, and nearly enjoying herself.
Having reached the Benning home, Merry left Graham at the gate and continued on alone. She slipped in the same door she had left by and bolted it behind her. She crept up the stairs. No one stirred, though she thought she saw the gleam of Daniel’s eyes as she passed his pallet in the hall.
She breathed more easily once she slipped into the nursery. Hastily she hid Sarah’s purse and the documents regarding her pardon.
Then she gladly changed out of her wet dress and donned a dry nightgown. She towel dried her hair and lay down on her pallet. It felt so good to lie flat. She stretched out and sighed, listening to the rain that had picked up pace until it drummed in steady cadence against the roof.
In just a few days this would all be over, and she could go home to England. She practiced saying it aloud. “England.”
Somehow the notion had become ephemeral, as difficult to conceive as the drops of water in the ocean. She shifted on her pallet, kneading the straw inside into more comfortable lumps.
Despite the chill in the air, she broke into a sudden sweat. No. Oh no. What had she done? In borrowing money for Jerusha, she had offered herself as surety. It had all seemed so distant and tenuous. Jerusha would have found the means to repay the debt before Merry’s years of service were completed with the Bennings. But now …
Perhaps they could get by on less. It mightn’t be as easy for them to escape, and especially for them to start a new life, but they were used to handling difficulties. Certainly they were more used to poverty than stewardship.
Merry rolled over again, the metallic taste of shame on her tongue.
Had exposure to crooks and ruffians robbed her of her sense of justice? And yet, what benefit had justice ever provided her? Why should she not grasp at her opportunity for freedom?
“To do justly, and to love mercy.” As if in a hazy mirror, an image of her father’s face rose to the forefront of her mind. She shook her head to banish the vision. He had loved to speak of ideals, but there were no ideal situations, only chasms of chance to be avoided. It seemed that if she did not fall into this one, there was another nearby, yawning wide to swallow her.
A rustle, a murmur, a clatter in the hall. Chewing on her lip guiltily, Merry sat up. She swept back the coverlet, tiptoed to the door, and opened it a scant few inches.
Jerusha stood in huddled conversation with Daniel on the other side. She glanced up as Merry peeked out. “Master’s ill. Come quick.”
Merry nodded and slipped through the door, as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the children.
A cluster of slaves and visitors stood in the hall outside the master’s room. They opened a path for her, and she entered to find Abigail Benning clinging to her husband’s hand. The room stank of the vomit that befouled the bedding and floor. Red welts splotched Mr. Benning’s face and chest. He opened his mouth to speak, and his features contorted. Veins corded his neck and stood out in stark relief at his temples.
Tears streamed down Abigail’s cheeks. “Help him, please.” The terror in her eyes tugged Merry forward.
“We need to stop him from vomiting,” Jerusha said.
His eyes rolled back in their sockets. “Angel.” He reached a hand toward Merry.
“No.” Merry put a hand on Abigail’s arm to draw her attention from her husband’s agony. “The vomiting is good. His body is trying to purge itself of some evil humor.”
Abigail looked deeply into her eyes for a moment and then nodded. “Listen to what she says.”
“Has a physician been summoned?”
Jerusha stepped forward. “I sent Daniel.”
“Hattie, I need towels and water. Jerusha, I will need marshmallow.”
Both slaves sped from the room, their skirts whipping up a breeze.
Merry took Mr. Benning’s wrist, trying to find the speed of his pulse.
Harsh and pointed, the blood pounded through his vessels in angry surges. The skin was flushed and hot, and carmine blotches blossomed on his arms and hands. His eyes fluttered shut. She opened the lids to find they had rolled back in his head.
She had seen something like it once when her father had been summoned to tend to an emergency while they had been on an outing together. Surely this could not be the same thing? She shook her head.
Not poison.
Someone handed Merry the water and towels she had requested. She soaked one of the towels in the basin and wrapped it around the master’s neck. She spoke soothingly and wiped the sweat from his forehead with another dampened towel.
Jerusha returned with an entire basket of medicinal herbs from the garden, each labeled and preserved in its own paper packet. She had also thought to bring the mortar and pestle and the bloodletting kit from the stillroom.
“You are ahead of me, Jerusha. Thank you.”
Jerusha took the towel from her hand. “I’ll do this.”
Merry met her gaze and nodded. “I need some lukewarm rose tea.”
“I’ll get it.” Isaiah hurried from the room.
Merry flipped through the packets until she found the marshmallow. She unfolded the packet, tapped some into the mortar, and began to grind the dried leaves into powder.
The voices in the hall escalated in timbre.
Isaiah appeared at her side with a pitcher of tea.
She mixed a dose of powdered marshmallow into the tea.
“Help me hold his head.”
Jerusha and Isaiah held his head still as Merry put the cup to his lips and slowly tipped in a sip. He gurgled and gasped. His eyes popped open.
Abigail murmured soothing noises. The rigidity in his frame relaxed slightly when his gaze found her.
“Angel.” Again that single strange word.
The night spun out in jerky starts, as if time were a spool of yarn fitfully unwound. The marshmallow seemed to curb the violence of the purging, but his pulse remained hard and driven. With Jerusha’s help, Merry made a tincture of hawthorn and administered it.
Another shifting in the hall and Dr. de Sequeyra arrived. “What is this then?”
Abigail dissolved into incoherent tears.
The slaves pulled back, looking to Merry. She outlined the symptoms she had observed and the physic she had administered. “I had thought to bleed him, but the pulse was so forceful I feared he would lose more than necessary.”
The dignified physician nodded and opened his bag. He pulled out a lancet and scalpels. “Very right. He seems to be resting more comfortably now.” He picked up his instruments and turned to the bed.
“The writhing has slowed,” Merry said, racking her tired brain to provide all the details her father would have required in the same circumstance.
“You did well. Perhaps you could assist me further?”
“Yes sir. My father was a physician.” She glanced up to find the good doctor regarding her approvingly.
He nodded directly. “See what you can do about relieving us of our audience.”
Licking her lips, Merry did as she was bidden. Only Abigail refused to be shooed away. She stayed at her husband’s side, never releasing her grip on his hand.
Dr. de Sequeyra kept Merry moving throughout the night as they fought for Reginald Benning’s life. Somewhere around dawn, bloody spittle began to dribble from his mouth.
Merry quickly dabbed it away and glanced up to see if Abigail had seen.
They had lost.
By midmorning, he was dead.
The sun spread the town with a butter-colored glow. Graham led Connor around to the back entrance of the Benning home. He breathed in deeply, feeling a hundred pounds lighter. True, Merry hadn’t initially reacted as he would have liked, but she had softened by the time he had seen her home. It wouldn’t take long to convince her to return with him. It wasn’t as if she had a great number of options at her disposal.
Merry’s valise banged against his leg. The return of her things might even beguile a smile from her.
He knocked on the frame of the open door. Connor came up beside him, as stiff and alert as a bird dog on the scent. Graham’s smile withered as he took in a more careful account of the house and grounds.
Not one servant bustled through the exposed corridor. The house was silent, with neither the murmur of voices nor the clatter of activity.
His boot scraped the bricks, and he turned around. No one toiled in the garden nor drew water at the well. He knocked again, his knuckles stinging from the sharp blows.
A coltish young maid shuffled from a side hall, saw them at the door, and approached. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her face haggard. “Yes sir?”
“I wish to speak to Merry Lattimore.”
“Yes sir. Come in and wait if you please.” She sounded infinitely weary.
Removing their hats, Graham and Connor followed her into the hall.
Heavy silence blanketed the house and muffled every other sense as well. Though it was approaching lunchtime he could smell nothing from the kitchen. And the curtains were drawn tightly shut in most every room, leaving the house in gloomy shadow. He and Connor exchanged a wary glance, but neither could bring themselves to shatter the odd quiet. What might they find lying beneath?
Merry descended a narrow back stairwell on silent, slipper-shod feet. The black smudges beneath her eyes and pallor of her features confirmed his worst suspicions.
“Miss Lattimore.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sinclair. Thank you for bringing my things.” She held her hand out for the bag.
What could have happened? He lowered his voice and stepped closer to her. “Is everything well?”
“Mr. Benning died this morning.”
“Do you have a moment?”
“I must get back to the children. I dislike leaving them. They are understandably upset.”
“Of course.” Graham handed the valise over, feeling at loose ends. “Perhaps I might call on you later, to make sure you are well?”
She nodded listlessly. “As you wish.” Once more her tone held almost no inflection. Was she struggling with grief … or fear?
The appearance of a constable in the drawing room nearly paralyzed Merry with the certainty that she would be dragged to gaol. Heart galloping, she pulled the children close.
She breathed deeply through her nose, trying to still the surge of anxiety. She would not crumble into helplessness. The children needed her and so did Mrs. Benning. Their world had overturned like a phaeton in a strong wind. They needed someone to comfort, not drain them of their few remaining resources.
“So sorry for your loss. A great gentleman.” Tricorn in hand, the constable delivered condolences to the room at general.
“Thank you, Mr. Harold.” Abigail motioned for the man to be seated. He did so after a moment’s hesitation and a brief swipe at the back of his pants with one hand.
“Such a shocking loss. So sudden.”
Abigail’s delicate nostrils flared as if she were fighting back more tears. She managed to retain control, though the struggle turned her voice high and tight. “Yes it was.” She tried to turn to business. “I am not certain yet when we will best be able to accommodate the inventory.”
“Oh yes, ma’am, we will stay out of the way of the family. I thought I would ask Mr. Geddy to help, since I know little about shipping and whatnot.”
“That seems prudent.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Could you direct me to Dr. de Sequeyra? He asked to speak to me.”
“I offered him the use of a guestroom so that he could wash and rest before riding home. Jerusha will show you the way.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The constable dropped his hat and bent to pick it up with a quick, awkward motion. He backed from the room, head bobbing like a turkey’s as he bade his farewell.
The sober, diminished conversation of a house in mourning resumed as the man left.
“I am glad we could be here with you at such a terrible time.” Catherine Fraser reached a hand to pat Abigail’s arm. “I cannot imagine how it would be to go through all this alone. I hope you will allow us to do all we can to help.” Her darkly elegant gown and quiet voice were perfectly modulated to mourning.
“I am grateful to have good friends around at such a time.” Abigail sounded weary beyond human endurance. Red-rimmed eyes set in a chalky white face seemed to burn through the conventions and reduce the others in the room to fumbling.
Mrs. Fraser rallied and tried again. “Mr. Fraser will manage the funeral of course. You oughtn’t to worry with such matters. And of course, I can do whatever needs to be done to keep the household running smoothly.”
Abigail stood, swaying slightly. “Would you excuse me please? I feel … unwell.”
Merry stood and hurried to brace her. She looked over her shoulder. “Children, find Hattie, please, while I help your mama to her room.”
Wide-eyed they nodded, fear patent in their swollen eyes.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
Everyone in the room turned to find the constable in the door again. If possible he looked even more ill at ease, shifting from foot to foot, hands revolving his hat.
“Yes?” Abigail leaned more heavily into Merry as if the weight of trepidation were too much to bear.
“May I speak with you … privately?”
“Let us go into my closet.” She took a step and reached back for Merry’s hand, her grip as cold as a November fog. “Come with me, dear.”
Safely ensconced in the small room where she handled household affairs, Mrs. Benning collapsed in a chair, and Merry stood beside her with a hand on her seat back assuring her of her presence and support.
“It’s this way, ma’am. Dr. de Sequeyra found Mr. Benning’s death a bit strange.”
Mrs. Benning shook her head. “Strange?”
“He suspects poison.”
Her features blanched even further. “What?”
The constable held up a hand. “Most likely it was an accident. This sort of thing happens. Something gets picked with the dinner herbs.”
Abigail shook her head back and forth. “No. No. I’m … There must be some mistake.”
“The doctor believes the illness was caused by lily of the valley. According to him it doesn’t take long to take effect. I just need to interview the staff to see who picked it and how it got into your supper.”
Merry frowned. “It was not in the supper or others would have been ill as well.” The words sprang of their own accord from her lips. She winced and drew back a step as if she could distance herself from her own outspokenness.
The constable looked at her reproachfully, and even Abigail glanced up at her with lowered brows.
The constable sniffed and returned his attention to Abigail. “It might have been in any number of things. Dr. de Sequeyra says that even water from a vase that had held lilies would be enough to poison a man.”
Abigail shook her head. “I don’t recall picking any lilies recently.”
The constable pushed his lips out in an exaggerated pucker. His head bobbed again in comedic fashion, though Merry felt no desire to laugh. “I’ll need to speak to your cook and see what else Mr. Benning might have eaten, and who prepared it, and so on.”
Tight little lines radiated around Abigail’s mouth. “Do what you must.” She rose. “I must see to my childr …”
Her hand reached for the chair but missed, and she swayed toward the fireplace.
Merry grabbed hold of her and guided her back down into the seat. “Pray wait here, ma’am. I’ll fetch the doctor.”
She shooed the constable before her and hurried in search of Dr. de Sequeyra. He prescribed immediate bed rest, and Mrs. Benning was bundled upstairs. Jerusha and Merry helped her out of the restrictive day dress she wore and into her nightdress. The doctor once again checked her pulse then administered a sleeping draught.
With Jerusha installed in silent vigil, Merry hurried in search of the children. She found them sitting mournfully in bed, their solemn little faces drained of their usual vitality. She checked them each for signs of returned fever. They seemed cool enough, despite their listlessness. When none of their toys captured their interest, she settled in to read to them.
They burrowed close, seeking the comfort of contact. Their innocent bewilderment broke her heart. They sensed the household’s sorrow, but could not truly grasp the cause. They had never before been faced with such a loss. Her eyes stung with exhaustion and the dreadful dryness that remains when tears have been shed. Emma sighed. Nestling her head against Merry’s arm, the rigidity in her little frame eased into the limpness of sleep. Merry stroked the girl’s hair. She leaned her head back against the wall and allowed her eyes to drift closed.
The fire in the grate of her family’s drawing room in London drew her close, and she stretched her hands toward it. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Father would have been interred by now. Her tears hissed as they hit the hot bricks of the hearth.
The incessant snick of her mother’s lace tatting needles grated against her nerves. Her self-satisfied conversation grated even more. “At least now you can marry Lord Carroll. He’s been very gracious in not demanding your answer because of your father’s illness.”
Her jaw clenched against a rush of indignant words. “I have given him a response. More than once.”
“Nonsense. You’ll see differently now that your father is gone.”
“I shall not.” The whispered words were nearly swallowed in the crackle of flames. Where, oh where, was Graham? Not a word, not a note from him in months. She had believed, hoped, that Graham loved her and would offer for her. But then he had disappeared at almost the same time Father had become so ill. Now Father was dead, and still he made no appearance. She would never have believed he would abandon her at the hour of her greatest need.
“You shall, or you shall not have a dowry.”
Merry whirled. “No, Mother! I will not marry that man. He is loathsome.”
Her mother looked up from her lacework. She narrowed her eyes, a calculating gleam lending her a venal appearance. “You’ll marry him, or you’ll not stay under my roof another night.”
She was running. Fleeing. Cold wind hurtled past her, whipping her hair into tangles that blinded her. She stumbled. Fell.
Falling.
Merry jerked awake. A chilly breeze raised gooseflesh on her arms. Night had crept up on her. She rubbed at her eyes and then her temples where a dull throb pulsed. If only she could stretch out and sleep for a week.
Instead she slid carefully from between the still-sleeping children. Tenderly she tucked them under their coverlets. Blinking back tears, she retrieved Emma’s doll from the floor where it had fallen and settled it in the crook of the girl’s arm.
In the kitchen, Cookie tended some sort of stew as it hung over the fireplace.
“Are you all right?”
Cookie spun around as if she had been branded. “Lands, you scared me.”
“I’m sorry. I just wondered how you are faring.”
Tearstains ravaged the older woman’s face. “I never thought I’d see the day, and that’s the truth. I can’t hardly believe it.”
Merry sat at the table. “He seemed so … invincible.”
Cook’s eyebrows drew together in a bemused frown. “I’m not talkin’ ’bout the master. Everyone has to die sometime.”
“Then wha—”
“They took Jerusha away. Said as how she murdered ’im.”