Читать книгу Marriage of Mercy - Carla Kelly - Страница 11

Grace hated to admit it, but Rob Inman was right: England hadn’t done much for her lately. She thought about his words long after she should have been asleep.

It was one thing to be suddenly poor. It was quite another to be treated by former friends as though she did not exist. She lay in bed, feeling her cheeks burn as she remembered the smarts and slights that came her way in the bakery, as former friends looked right through her.

And here was Rob Inman, an unwilling parolee who was making her ask questions of herself. He’s a challenge. Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen him, she thought, punching her pillow a few times in the hope of finding a comfortable spot.

But the fact remained that she had chosen Robert Inman and old Lord Thomson had chosen her to watch him. Her eyes grew heavy, but she had to smile at the absurdity of it all. Lord Thomson, I fear your good intentions are going to be a lot of trouble to me, was her last thought before she slept.

Emery was as good as his word. In the morning, he brought breakfast from the manor house and a daunting-looking cake of pine-tar soap.

‘If this doesn’t scare away fleas and lice, then we haven’t a prayer,’ he told her as they carried hot water to the tin tub he had set up outside in the overgrown garden. ‘While he’s soaking, I’ll strip off the bed clothes and burn sulphur in that room, same’s as if it was the hold of a ship after a long voyage.’

The parolee required no coaxing to adjourn to the garden for the cure. With some dignity, he wrapped a sheet around himself after Emery commanded him to drop his pathetic clothing by the rose arbour. Rob frowned to see Grace standing by the tub, testing the water.

‘I don’t require your services,’ he protested. He wrapped the sheet tighter around his thin body.

‘My thoughts precisely!’ she said. ‘I’m just making sure the water isn’t too hot. My assignments in this endeavour are to bag your sheets and burn your prison clothes.’

Trying not to laugh, she left Rob in the garden at the mercy of Emery and his pine tar.

Mr Selway found her in the upstairs hall with the sheets and blankets bagged in a canvas sack. He followed her as she deposited the bedclothes by the garden path, next to the captain’s discarded prison yellow.

They sat on a bench by the kitchen door. The solicitor opened a folder. ‘Here it is, Grace, all of our restrictions dealing with a paroled prisoner of war.’

She scanned the document. ‘The upshot appears to be that Captain Duncan must never be out of our sight.’ She looked up. ‘He can leave the estate with one of us?’

Mr Selway nodded. ‘Apparently, yes, but we must sufficiently impress upon him that he is not to escape. If he does, under penalty of our own incarceration, we must immediately notify the justice of the peace and he will be shot on sight.’

‘Where would he go?’

‘Down to the sea. I imagine Captain Duncan could easily blend in with the seagoing crowd in Plymouth and ship out on any merchant vessel in the harbour. The fleet’s always hungry for crew.’

Grace thought about that as she listened to the captain’s protests at having his hair washed yet again, from the other side of the shrubbery. ‘Surely Lord Thomson didn’t want his only son to use a parole to escape?’

‘I don’t know what he intended. Indeed, he never knew his son, did he?’ Mr Selway said, his voice troubled. ‘The burden of this falls on you, Grace, I fear. I will check in with you now and then, but I have business elsewhere.’

‘I understand, Mr Selway,’ she said, feeling alone in the venture. ‘At least there is Emery to help me.’

‘True. We’re fortunate there.’ He handed her the papers. ‘Here is the parole for Captain Daniel Duncan, age thirty-six.’ He stopped and looked in the direction of the garden. ‘I must admit, the captain looks younger than I would have thought …’ His voice trailed off; he shook his head. ‘Who would have supposed that incarceration in Dartmoor would render a man younger looking?’

Grace held her breath. Mr Selway was right; Rob Inman was younger than his captain. ‘May… maybe it’s all that good sea air,’ she said, trying not to stammer.

Mr Selway shook his head. ‘Gracie, sea air usually makes a man older.’ He gave her a generous smile. ‘Maybe it is all that healthy American air! My dear, I’ve arranged carte blanche for you with Quimby’s merchants. You can order anything—within reason, of course—and I will get the bills in Exeter. Send them to this postalbox number.’ He handed her a note. ‘Cheer up, Gracie. What can go wrong with so prosaic an arrangement?’

It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that Captain Duncan was dead, but she stopped. Why, she wasn’t sure, except that she had made a promise to the real Daniel Duncan, and felt honour-bound, even if he was an American and a prisoner. Besides that, how well did she even know Mr Selway? This had better be her secret with Rob Inman.

Emery called to her to fetch the new clothes that Mr Selway had left in the bookroom. She took them to the kitchen garden, where the captain sat in the tin tub with his bony knees close to his chin, as tight as a whelk in a basket. His back was turned to her; she gaped at the lash marks on his back. They were fading, but the harsh Stockholm pine tar brought them out in raw relief.

Grace stared at his back another moment, then retreated to the house. Her mind on the man in the tub, she stirred a pot of thick porridge, lacing it liberally with sugar. She pronounced it a success after the addition of a touch of cinnamon and set it to the back of the range to cool slightly.

As Grace stood there, a maid from Quarle tiptoed down the stairs, holding a wicked-looking pair of shears. Gingerly, she held them out to Grace. ‘Emery said I was to give you these for serious work.’

‘Oh, he did?’ she asked, amused. Smiling to herself, she went upstairs. ‘The maid said you need me,’ she told Emery, holding out the shears.

‘I need you,’ Rob Inman said. ‘Please.’ He grinned at the old man. ‘Emery is a dab hand at scouring my skin raw, but we both agree that a steady hand close to the scalp and face fall in your territory.’

‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ she said, stepping closer for a good look at the task.

The captain was dressed now in canvas trousers and a checked shirt, looking much like the seamen she had seen in and around Devon’s seaports. Emery had already draped a towel around the man’s shoulders. Clean now, his hair was a handsome reddish-gold, long on his shoulders and mingling with his beard, which Emery must have dragged a comb through, because it flowed in waves to his chest.

Grace walked around him several times. ‘This is daunting,’ she murmured under her breath. ‘Do I tackle your head first, or your face?’

‘It’s all the same to me, just as long as your hands don’t shake,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I suggest whacking off my hair first. Get as close to my scalp as you can. I like to wear it short.’

She stepped in closer, tongue between her teeth, frown on her face, and pulled up a handful of still-damp hair. ‘No sudden moves, now.’

She hacked at his hair. ‘I had no idea it was this colour,’ she commented, as she worked her way around his head. Emery had vanished and the maid watched—her eyes wide—from the security of the shrubbery.

‘It hadn’t been washed in a year,’ Rob said, ‘Cut it closer. Don’t be afraid.’

Grace concentrated on the task, then glanced at the maid. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think ‘e’s ‘andsome.’

Rob laughed out loud, which sent her running up the steps and into the house, her apron clutched to her face.

‘You’ve embarrassed her, Captain Duncan,’ Grace said severely. ‘And no, you’re not handsome.’

Maybe he could be. Grace cut closer to his scalp, flicking her fingers against his head when he moved. ‘Stop that, unless you want me to inflict a serious injury.’

As soon as she said that, Grace thought of the marks of the lash on his back, covered now with a respectable shirt. ‘I doubt anything I do would trouble you much,’ she amended. ‘Still, behave yourself. Mr Selway is gone and you must mind me.’

‘Mr Selway spoke to me earlier. I’ll tell you what I told him, I cannot promise good behaviour,’ he replied, serious now. ‘What’s to prevent me, once I get my strength back, from just walking away from here? You don’t appear intimidating. I could knock over Emery with a mere backhand.’ He chuckled. ‘That maid is usually at Quarle, but she thinks I’m ‘andsome, so she’ll give me no grief.’

‘Mr Selway said you will be shot on sight,’ Grace protested.

‘An irate husband said that to me once,’ he mused.

Grace flicked her fingers against his scalp, harder this time.

‘Ow!’ He put his hand to his head. ‘D’ye have steel splinters for fingernails?’ He turned serious then. ‘They’d have to find me to shoot me.’ He shrugged and shook the hair from the towel. ‘Careful around my ears.’

Swallowing the irritation she felt, Grace did as she was bid, admiring his hair. It seemed a shame to cut it so short.

The captain fell silent then. She hummed as she worked, looking at him objectively. The maid might be right. When Rob was allowed to eat in peace, the bony lines of his face would certainly fill out. His nose was straight and his lips full enough for all general purposes.

She stood back a moment, looking at him, before she started on his face. ‘I’ll trim your beard with the shears, then you can get close to it with a razor.’

Rob Inman did look better, despite his emaciation. She could hardly avoid noticing how blue his eyes were, maybe almost as blue as Plymouth Sound on a good day with no overcast. Intent upon her business, she trimmed close to his high cheekbones. He did have long lashes, the kind a woman would envy. She would, at any rate, if she bothered to invest much thought in the matter.

When his face was trimmed to within shaving distance of a straight razor, she crouched a little to tackle his neck. He turned his head to oblige her. After a few snips, she stopped and stared.

‘My God,’ she whispered.

Rob frowned, then must have realised what she was staring at. ‘It’s not that bad, Grace. It didn’t hurt for long.’

She couldn’t help her tears, but wiped them away with her apron, even as she knelt in the grass by the stool. ‘Why would anyone do that?’ she asked, when she could speak.

Her question seemed to embarrass him. His finger went to the black imprint of the letter R in his neck just below the hinge of his jaw. ‘I don’t think the British penal system has much fondness for runaways, Gracie. At least that’s what we figured it stood for. Or maybe rascal, or wretch, except I think that’s spelled with a w. Think what a permanent memory I’ll have of your island.’