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‘No!’ Inman interrupted, his voice weak but emphatic. ‘Drive on. I want out of this damned cold valley more than I want fever powders, miss. Just drive on. Please.’
Mr Selway nodded. ‘Good enough, lad,’ he murmured.
With a sigh of his own, Inman leaned back. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering despite his fever. Without a word, Grace took her lap robe and covered him. Eyes serious, he nodded his thanks. In a moment, he slept.
‘I’ll summon the physician as soon as we have the captain in bed in the dower house,’ Mr Selway whispered to her. ‘That is, if Lord Thomson—bless his tiny, atrophied heart—has thought to return the beds and linens.’
Leaning against the side of the chaise, Inman had slept. He opened his eyes now and then, looking around in surprise each time. Grace had watched his hands. For a good hour, he kept them balled into tight fists. After one time when he opened his eyes, his startled expression unmistakable, Grace covered one fist briefly with her hand. He looked into her eyes as an abused pup would, wondering what she would do to him. When he closed his eyes this time, she noticed that his hands opened and he relaxed.
‘We mean you no harm, Captain,’ Grace murmured.
As soon as they had left the bowl-like valley cupping Dartmoor Prison, the sun shone again. The grass even seemed greener and hawthorn hedges sprouted white blossoms all along the highway. This place is so evil even spring stays away, Grace thought, with a shudder.
The coachman stopped by a river, shady and overhung with branches already leafing out. ‘Time to water t’horses,’ he called down to the occupants of the chaise.
Inman opened his eyes no more than part way, as if even that much exertion was nearly beyond him. As Grace watched him, he gazed with growing interest at the stream. In mere seconds, the parolee shrugged off the lap rug and threw open the door. He was a tall man and did not need the step to be lowered to hurtle himself from the chaise.
‘I say there!’ Mr Selway called after him.
He didn’t even look back. With a stagger, he righted himself and plunged into the stream as Grace stared, then leaped to her feet, too, ahead of Mr Selway.
‘Please don’t run away!’ she shouted after him as she jumped from the chaise.
Ignoring her, he waded into the water. Grace stood on the bank, ready to leap in after the parolee. She raised her skirt and petticoat—she could see that the stream came barely above the tall man’s knees—then lowered them as she watched the sailing master, her mouth open.
He had stopped by a bright clump of greenery growing in the water. With an audible sob, Inman grabbed a handful of the greens and stuffed them in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, then snatched another handful, and then another.
‘My God, what is he doing?’ Mr Selway said, standing beside Grace on the bank.
Grace felt her heart go out to the thin prisoner. ‘I believe it’s watercress,’ she whispered, her eyes still on the man she had chosen. ‘Mr Selway, he’s starving.’
They watched him as he moved to another clump of watercress. Bits of greenery clustered in his beard as he picked one more handful and walked back to the bank. Mr Selway gave him a hand up and he stood there, watercress in hand, like a man with springtime posies.
‘Do you want to take them with you?’ Grace asked. ‘You needn’t, really. There is lots of food at the dower house—or at least there will be—and those will only wilt.’
She tried to take the watercress from him, but he shook his head and stepped away from her.
‘Let him be, Gracie,’ Mr Selway murmured. ‘Let him be.’ He took the parolee by the elbow and guided him back to the chaise. ‘Let me help you in, Captain. There’s a good lad.’
They resumed the journey. Grace’s eyes filled with tears as she watched Inman admire the watercress he clutched to his chest, unmindful of the damp. Several times before he slept again, he raised the little handful of greenery to his nose, just to smell its peppery fragrance.
He grew alarmed when they stopped in Exeter near a group of red-coated militiamen, laughing and joking with each other. ‘Easy, lad,’ Mr Selway said, a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll send Gracie into the public house here for some broth and maybe a pasty. Nothing too rich, mind,’ he warned her as he handed over some coins.
As she waited for the food, Grace stood by the window, watching Rob Inman in the chaise. His eyes never left the militiamen. He looked solemn anyway—his mouth was slightly downturned by nature—but there was no disguising the fear on his face. And what was Dartmoor prison like for you, Rob Inman, turned Duncan? she asked herself, unable to help the shiver that travelled her spine like a bird on a wire.
Inman wanted to gulp down the broth, but Mr Selway was firm on insisting that he sip instead. The solicitor thought to limit him to half a pasty, until the parolee fixed him with a glare that would have cut through lead, something surprising in one so weak.
‘On the other hand, maybe you know what’s best,’ Mr Selway said smoothly, as the parolee refused to relinquish the remainder of the pasty.
Grace couldn’t help a smile. ‘Mr Selway, the governor of the prison did say he would be a lot of trouble.’ It was only the mildest tease, but Rob stopped chewing and looked at her.
‘I’m no trouble to anyone, miss,’ he said around the pasty in his mouth. ‘Well, maybe just to those who get between me and a good wind.’ He was so serious. ‘Aye, that would sum it up.’
Listening to him, Grace realised she had never heard an American accent before, if that’s what this was. There was just the faintest sound of vaguely familiar diction, and then the careful, clipped words originating from a distant shore. She liked the stringent sound.
Then he was asleep again, the food barely swallowed, crumbs lodged in his beard to keep the watercress company. That will all come off tomorrow, Grace decided. And from the way you’re scratching your head, I’ll get a servant to shave you bald. And if not a willing servant, then I will do it.
They arrived at the dower house after dark, with only the moon to show the way. There were so few lights burning in the manor house that she wondered if Lord Thomson was still in residence. Mr Selway had his own opinion about that. ‘What a miser he is,’ he said, making no effort to hide his disdain. ‘I just can’t bring myself to trust people who sit in the gloom to save a groat.’
‘Do you think he intends to remain long?’ Grace asked. ‘He could be a trial.’
‘I am certain he will be, Gracie. No, I think Lord Thomson will stay long enough to make himself thoroughly unpleasant, then return to London. He will probably pop back unexpectedly every now and then, yearning to catch us in some misdeed.’
Grace shivered. ‘I wish him gone now.’
‘So he will be soon! Patience, my dear.’
She couldn’t help her audible sigh of relief to see furniture in the dower house. On closer inspection, it was much as Mr Selway had feared: Lord Thomson had emptied out the manor’s attics. As she gazed at the mismatched chairs in the breakfast room and the rump-sprung sofa in the sitting room, Grace couldn’t say she was surprised.
While Rob Inman swayed at the foot of the stairs, holding on to the railing, Grace hurried upstairs. Beds had been returned to all four bedchambers, complemented by bureaus with drawers missing and a leg gone and propped nearly level with a chunk of wood.
She glanced in the smallest chamber she had designated for herself, surprised to see a small fire in the grate and shabby curtains returned to the window. She heard a noise across the narrow hall and peeked into the chamber she had thought to reserve for Captain Duncan.
She didn’t recognise the man, but he must have been one of the old retainers who did odd jobs around the manor. Dressed in a nondescript pair of trousers and a smock, he shook out a patched coverlet for the bed.
Grace cleared her throat. ‘And you are …?’
‘Emery’s my name,’ he told her, as though she should have known. ‘You don’t remember me? I rake the ground after the sheep have grazed.’
‘Emery?’ she said. ‘I don’t recall …’ She blushed and stopped herself. ‘And now I am being foolish. You must remember, I’ve only been coming to Quarle for the last few months, when Lord Thomson could no longer walk to Quimby.’
‘Aye, miss, and I work on the grounds. That explains it.’ He indicated the partly made bed. ‘I thought to have this all ready, Miss Curtis.’ He peered beyond her into the hall. ‘Did the prison release Captain Duncan?’
‘Yes, indeed. He’s downstairs and he’s so tired. I thought I would have to hurry up here and make the beds. It appears you have beat me to the effort.’
Emery bowed, which made Grace smile. ‘Gracie, I think I am destined to be your butler.’
‘Emery, Lord Thomson would never allow us a butler, even if you are just a gardener,’ she said quietly.
Emery spread out the coverlet. ‘True. He turned me off the estate. Considering that I have no place to go, I thought I would appoint myself butler.’ He tucked in a neat corner. ‘It’s about t’only job I haven’t held here, so why not, says I?’
He seemed to be imperturbably ignoring her, which amused her. ‘Emery, there can’t possibly be any provisions for a butler in Lord Thomson’s will,’ she told him.
‘Then I will fit right in, Miss Curtis. I have very few needs and I’ve always wanted to buttle. How about I lend you a hand with Captain Duncan?’
Grace nodded, relieved to find so willing an ally, where she had expected none. ‘Yes, by all means, lend a hand.’
Rob Inman seemed determined to make his own way up the stairs, pausing once or twice with Emery hovering by his elbow, and Mr Selway watching his progress from behind, ready to catch him if he stumbled.
With an exasperated groan, he stopped at the top of the stairs. ‘Honestly,’ was all he said and his gaze seemed to take them all in. He did not object, though, when Emery took him by the arm and steered him slowly into his chamber. He looked back at her, a quizzical expression on his face. ‘Miss, I’m being abducted. Granted, it’s happening at glacial speed,’ he declared, which struck her as the funniest thing she had heard in weeks.
Grace laughed out loud, which brought a fleeting smile to his face. ‘Thank the Almighty,’ he said. ‘Glad to know you have a sense of humour. We might need it.’
Emery seemed determined to be of service, which touched Grace. He helped Inman off with his shoes, shaking his head. ‘Lad, it’s been a rough time, eh? No stockings and no shoelaces, and not much leather.’
‘I think the rats were as hungry as we were,’ Inman said. He yawned and looked at Grace. ‘Pardon me, miss, but I’m lousy and fleabitten and not worth an “Ave”. Just give me a sheet and I’ll sleep on the floor.’
Grace shook her head. ‘You’ll sleep on the bed, Captain. Tomorrow’s soon enough for delousing. You won’t object if I cut your hair?’
‘Shorter the better,’ he said after another yawn. He lay down and turned toward the wall, as Emery hitched the coverlet higher and rested his hand briefly on the parolee’s shoulder. ‘Goodnight, all you nursemaids.’
The three of them left the room. Mr Selway spoke first on the landing. ‘Our Captain Duncan seems not to mind taking charge. I think we’ve been told what to do.’
They went down and sat belowstairs while Emery took some food from a basket. ‘Mrs Clyde had me bring over this basket. She said it’s no trouble to prepare a little more for the dower house.’
‘It won’t be until Lord Thomson gets wind of his staff’s philanthropy,’ the solicitor said. He bit into a beef sandwich. ‘Grace. Emery. I do have some modest discretionary funds for the maintenance of Captain Duncan here in the dower house. I was going to hire a cook, but if you will do the honours, Grace, then we can stretch the budget to include our new friend Emery.’
‘I certainly can cook,’ she replied, on firm ground now. ‘And bake. I think that must be why Lord Thomson wanted me here in the first place. I can think of no other reason.’
Mr Selway smiled. ‘Actually, Grace, before he died, he told me he hoped you and the captain would fall in love and marry.’
Grace laughed and then sobered as she remembered the scene in the prison, the one Mr Selway had not witnessed. The captain is dead, she thought with a sudden pang, as the two men chuckled and then conversed with each other. And here is Rob Inman. She had to smile again, thinking of Lord Thomson with real fondness. ‘He was a funny old stick, to get such a notion,’ she told her companions. ‘Pigs will probably fly first, wouldn’t you agree?’
Chapter Five
‘I suppose stranger things have happened, Grace,’ Mr Selway teased. He took another sandwich out of the basket and wrapped it in a napkin. ‘I’m going to that closet off the sitting room that I have dubbed the dower-house bookroom—my, aren’t I grandiose?—to make a careful scrutiny of Captain Duncan’s parole and Lord Thomson’s whimsical will.’ He stood up, nodding to Emery. ‘If Grace agrees, I believe you will be a welcome addition to our staff.’
She nodded. ‘Our staff? What an exaggeration! Mind, Emery, this position only lasts until the war ends and the captain returns to America.’
Emery winked elaborately. ‘If you’re man and wife by then, I can be your butler in the United States. I don’t much fancy the workhouse.’
Mr Selway laughed and left the kitchen. Her eyes merry, Grace finished her sandwich while the old man swept up the crumbs from the table and carefully deposited them in the basket.
‘Mrs Clyde said she’ll give us a pot of porridge with lots of sugar and cream,’ Emery told her.
‘After the captain has been deloused and shaved, I’ll go to the greengrocer’s in Quimby,’ Grace said. ‘He is so thin. I can certainly feed him back to health.’ She shook her head. ‘As for the other matter, we’ll let Captain Duncan decide whom he marries.’
‘Aye, Gracie.’ Emery yawned elaborately. ‘Now, if we can’t think of anything else to rescue, I’ll find my bed.’ He stood up and stretched, then walked to the door off the servants’ dining room.
‘I only wish we could pay you more than the barest pittance.’
‘‘Tis enough. This will be interesting.’
I don’t doubt that for a moment, Grace thought as she climbed the stairs. She opened the door quietly to Rob Inman’s room, listening to his even breathing. She closed the door softly behind her.
A lengthy bath won’t come a moment too soon, she thought, as she went to her own room. He smells worse than a kitchen midden in August. She would probably have to burn everything he was wearing and his bedding, too. The least I can do is return him to America in better shape than Captain Shortland gave him to me, she thought.
She stood in front of the fire in her room, hands outstretched, wondering why she had ever agreed to any condition in Lord Thomson’s will.
‘Emery is right. It will be interesting,’ she murmured, as she folded her clothing on the battered bureau, with its mirror in dire need of re-silvering. ‘Thank God for Emery.’
Grace burrowed under her covers, pulling her knees close to her chest for warmth, missing the yeasty fragrance that permeated the bakery. Grace, at least you are not incarcerated in Dartmoor Prison, she reminded herself. ‘Maybe it’s best not to think about such things,’ she murmured into her pillow.
Her sleep had been troubled. She kept seeing the real Captain Duncan, his eyes closed in death, his silent, stinking men grouped about him. Over and over in her dream, she looked at Rob Inman, then chose him. Why him and no other? She had no idea, but there he was in her mind’s eye as she tossed and turned, waiting patiently as he had probably waited since the Orontes was captured. What else is there to do in prison but wait?
She wasn’t sure what woke her hours later. She wasn’t perfectly convinced that she had even been asleep, not with her mind still filled with the horror that was Dartmoor, contrasted with the unexpected kindness in the eyes of Rob Inman’s shipmates, as she knelt in the odourous straw by their dead leader.
She sat up, listening. There was no mistaking it. Someone was moving down the narrow hallway to the stairs.
Her heart hammering in her breast, Grace threw back her covers and reached for her shawl. She opened her door to see Rob Inman walking quietly down the stairs.
‘Rob Inman, you had better not be planning an escape. You’re taller than I am, but I think I could stop you.’
He stopped and looked around, startled at first, then amused. ‘You probably could,’ he told her, then sank down on the step. ‘I tried to wrestle a rat last week and ended up losing my shoelaces.’
She sat beside him, but not too close. ‘Are you hungry?’ she whispered.
He nodded. ‘If my left leg didn’t smell so bad, I’d probably gnaw on it. D’ye think there’s anything edible in the kitchen besides that old man who thinks he’s a butler?’
Grace put her hand to her mouth to stop her laugh. ‘I think there’s another sandwich or two in the basket. Shall we find out?’
He nodded and tried to rise, then shook his head. ‘Best you go on and save yourself, miss. I think I’m done for.’
‘Spare me the drama,’ she teased as she started down the stairs. ‘Promise you won’t jump parole, and I’ll find you a sandwich.’
‘I can’t make a promise like that,’ he said quickly.
‘You must, on your word as a gentleman,’ she replied just as quickly. ‘You will be shot dead if you break parole. I’m not quizzing you.’
He gave her a long look, as if weighing the very marrow of her bones. ‘If I must, I will. But know this—Captain Duncan may have been a gentleman, for all that he was a bastard. Rob Inman is no gentleman and never was.’
‘I suppose that will have to do,’ she said dubiously, puzzled about this man old Lord Thomson had foisted on her. No, that she had foisted on herself in Dartmoor. ‘But I have questions.’
‘I imagine you do.’ He grinned. ‘And I’m still hungry.’
She found the basket easily enough in the dark kitchen and tiptoed with it upstairs, after pausing a moment to smile at the sound of Emery’s snoring. She handed the captain the remaining sandwich; he waited not a moment to demolish it and look around for more. She followed it with one of her own Quimby Crèmes. The cook at the manor house had obviously visited the Wilsons’ bakery a few days ago. Grace had made these just before the visit to Dartmoor.
‘I could eat more of these,’ he said, his mouth full.
‘You will. I made them,’ she said proudly. ‘My own recipe.’
He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
‘I’m a baker for the Wilsons in Quimby,’ she told him. ‘Well, I was, and I will be again once you are sorted out.’
‘You’re going to sort me out?’ the parolee asked, humour in his voice. He might have been hungry and weak, but he wasn’t slow. ‘How on earth did you end up as Captain Duncan’s keeper?’ He popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. ‘If that’s what you are.’
‘I suppose I am, in a way. Your keeper now,’ she mused. ‘The old Lord Thomson—I wouldn’t give you a penny for the new one—used to visit the bakery shop regularly and he liked my Crèmes. He was full of crochets, but I never paid his ill humour any mind.’ She couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes and hoped they didn’t show. ‘I think I was almost his only friend.’ She also couldn’t help the way her voice hardened. ‘His own relatives were just waiting for him to die. Shame on them.’
