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“Spence is fine. Odette took care of him, but she was angry. Couldn’t even remember her English, but just kept railing at him in that mix of French and whatever it is she speaks when she’s upset.”
Julia shivered. “I don’t think I’d like to be on the receiving end of Odette’s anger. But Spencer really worried me last night.”
“Spence is much too headstrong,” Morgan said dismissingly, neatly hopping from the shale and sand up onto the wooden flagway that was wide enough for she and Julia to walk side by side. “Hot-blooded. Always wanting to play the hero. Papa should simply buy him a commission and let him trot off to war. It’s all Spence wants. All Rian wants, too. They’re both terrified the war will be over before they can get there.”
“And this worries you?” Julia asked, carefully picking her way on the wet, slippery flagway.
“No. Not a bit. A person should do what a person wants to do. And it’s even worse for us women.” She stopped, turned to smile at Julia, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Don’t you ever wish to just do something? Forget about your skirts and your fragile nature and just do something? Be somebody?”
Julia frowned, truly not understanding whatever it was Morgan was trying to say. “I am somebody, Morgan, and so are you. And Mr. Becket is wonderfully lenient. You won’t find such freedom of behavior in London.”
“Then that’s decided. I won’t go. You tell Chance for me, would you? Tell him I most humbly decline his kind invitation—or something of that sort.”
“Chance invited you to come to London for a season?”
“Uh-huh, but I won’t go now, not if there are going to be a multitude of rules Chance would expect me to obey, because we’d both end up being very disappointed,” Morgan said, turning to peer into the small, dusty shop window. “Oh, Ollie’s waving me in. I suppose the leather has arrived for my new riding boots. Italian leather, you know. The very finest.”
“But aren’t we—never mind,” Julia said, smiling at her own naiveté. From Florence to Spain to the French coast to Romney Marsh. “Shall we go inside?”
“No, no, I’ll take forever. Ollie insists on new measurements each time.” Morgan leaned closer. “I think he likes holding my feet and looking at my legs, but he’s an old man now, and I don’t see the harm, do you? I giggle and tell him my feet are ticklish, and he smiles and blushes.”
“You’re incorrigible, you know,” Julia told her. “And I think I like you very much. Where is the blacksmith located?”
“At the end of the village and then another few steps along, in case the forge catches fire. I’ll join you when I’m done or you can just walk back here, if you don’t mind? Waylon’s probably waiting for you.”
“Will I have to giggle as I let him hold my hand to measure my finger?”
“Only if you want his wife to take a pitchfork to you,” Morgan said, winking, and Julia headed toward the blacksmith shop, now able to see the smoke rising from the forge.
She couldn’t help but notice people stopping, staring at her, so she lifted her chin and smiled, nodded to the ladies and kept moving, her pace increasing as she passed by the larger building displaying a burned-wood overhead sign, Last Voyage.
By the time she reached the smithy, Julia wondered if she had grown a second head, for all the curious looks she was getting, which possibly explained why she hadn’t noticed she was being followed.
She’d pulled open one of the remarkably heavy doors and taken no more than two steps into the dark, overheated shop smelling of hot iron, where a leather-aproned man the size of a door himself yelled at the young boy working the bellows on a nearly white-hot fire, when a voice behind her said, “Guard the door, Gautier.”
Julia instantly froze in place, then turned about to see Jacko. Looming over her, smiling that delighted, deadly smile. Just the sort of smile Julia imagined the devil wearing as he welcomed newcomers to hell.
“Good morrow, Miss Carruthers,” he said, gifting her with a rather insolent salute. “Gautier? I said, guard the door.”
“Oui, Jacko.”
Julia stepped back several paces, then peered around Jacko’s heavy-shouldered bulk to see a small man in a tight-fitting red-and-white-striped seaman’s jersey and rather ragged, definitely baggy drawers. Gautier smiled at her.
“From the outside, Gautier,” Jacko said, still smiling at Julia, and the little Frenchman hit the palm of his hand against the side of his head, said, “Mon Dieu, naturellement. Pardon,” and scrambled through the doorway, closing the door behind him.
Silly as all this melodrama seemed to her, Julia was becoming rather uneasy. “Precisely what do you think you’re doing, Jacko?”
“I think that’s obvious, don’t you?” He turned and lowered the bar onto the hooks attached to the door, then called out, “Waylon! Take the boy and leave. Use the back door.”
Waylon, who was possibly as large as Jacko, took one look, then grabbed the boy by his arm and pulled him toward the rear of the building.
Julia folded her arms and tried to appear calm as Jacko approached the forge. Waylon had mistakenly left an iron rod still heating in the fire, and Jacko slid on a glove, then picked up the rod, its tip glowing white-hot. “Pretty, isn’t it? And yet so dangerous in the wrong hands.”
Wanting to scream, wanting to run, Julia instead stood her ground. “Am I supposed to be terrified, Jacko?”
His eyes sparkled, looked amused, and his tone was light as he smiled at her. “That would be the general idea, Miss Carruthers, yes.” He took a step toward her, and she retreated in spite of her determination to stand her ground. “Tell me about your father.”
Now Julia was terrified, even as she realized she was more terrified of Chance finding out she’d lied to him—a sin of omission, but a sin nonetheless—than she was of Jacko and his menacing weapon. “You’ve been to Hawkhurst?”
His grin was positively delighted. “Oh, and aren’t you the clever one. And a quick thinker, too. I’ve heard about Lieutenant Diamond’s visit last evening. Not just the wound to Spence but to his horse, as well. Very clever, very quick, very credible. And, yes, Miss Carruthers, I’ve been to Hawkhurst.”
“I can explain…”
“Really,” Jacko said flatly. “Just let me safely deposit this pretty thing into the water bucket, and then the two of us can sit over there on those fine oak chairs of Waylon’s…while you explain.”
Julia quickly did as he said, for her knees were knocking together so badly she was sure she might fall down otherwise.
Jacko picked up the other chair as if it weighed no more than a feather, turned it around, straddled it, then rested his crossed arms on the carved back of the chair. “So? What do you want to tell me?”
“What you already know, I suppose. That I am from Hawkhurst,” Julia began, untying her cloak because it was so very warm in the smithy, even though her fingers were cold and clumsy. “And my father was the vicar of Saint Bartholomew’s.” She looked down at her shaking fingers. “Until he was asked to step down.”
“Ah, there we go—and so quickly, too. Confession is good for the soul, isn’t it?” Jacko asked, leaning his large head on his crossed forearms, grinning at her. “And why was he asked to step down?”
Julia glared at him. “Although I’m at a loss as to how you found out, you obviously already know why.”
“That I do, that I do. But now I want you to tell me.”
“He was accused of thievery by his superiors from Rye.”
“So your holy papa was a thief? Stealing from his own church? And then he died, all suddenlike, before anyone could be told and he could be carted off to trial. How’d he die, Miss Carruthers?”
Julia blinked furiously as her eyes began to sting. “I won’t answer that.”
“He hanged himself,” Jacko said for her. “Took himself up to the attics of the vicarage that same night he was accused and hanged himself.”
How dare the man push at her like this? “He did not! My father died in his bed. I found him in his bed. He died in his sleep.”
“So everyone told me. Except for the man I found sweeping out the church. He told me something different.”
Julia hugged herself, began to rock. “Penton? Penton’s a simple man. And he drinks sometimes, poor soul. Nobody listens to Penton.”
“Drinks quite a bit, in truth, when someone else is paying down the blunt,” Jacko agreed.
He was still smiling. How Julia wanted him to stop smiling. But maybe Jacko was like some dogs—when the tail wagging stops, the dog bites.
Julia rushed into speech. “Why are you doing this to me? Why won’t you let my father rest in peace? Yes. Yes, Penton helped me cut Papa down and put him in his bed. He helped me wash him, prepare him for burial, so no one would see him…see him as he was. And my father was wept over by his congregation and buried in the churchyard. And I came to London and met Chance and to my great surprise found myself back here. Is that all you wanted to hear?”
“He was fronting for the local smugglers, wasn’t he? He’d give them money from the church coffers to buy goods across the Channel, then they’d pay him back, until the next time. Not for profit—unless you can call a cask of tea or perhaps some silk or lace for the pretty daughter profit—but to help his struggling congregation. How long had he been doing this? Who knows. But there was a storm or two at a bad time, and the goods had to be scuttled to save the men, so now there was no money when the officials from Rye came to call.”
Julia nodded, giving up the fight, as it seemed there was nothing Jacko didn’t know. “They were suspicious in Rye even before the storm. The church officials demanded answers, and Papa wouldn’t give them to them, wouldn’t betray our congregation, didn’t even tell our people he was in trouble.”
She looked at Jacko. “They were his people. For as long as I can remember, they were his people. And he’d rather die than betray them. There,” she ended, wiping at tears with the back of her hand, “are you satisfied now?”
“I am that.” Jacko got to his feet, hiked up his trousers that had a tendency to slip low on his belly. “You’ll do.”
“I’ll do? Really. And precisely what does that mean?”
“Only a fool trusts the town drunkard, Miss Carruthers.”
“What?”
“I needed to hear the story from you, Miss Carruthers, and you were brave enough and proud enough to tell it to me.” He gave a quick tilt of his head. “And I suppose I wanted you to know that I know. You knew too much, you see, and reacted too well—on the Marsh, with that fool Diamond last night. Now I know why. Your papa may have killed himself to protect his congregation but mostly he did it to protect you. Because you were also a part of it.”
Julia sighed. “Only marginally. But, yes, I was involved from the time I was a young child. I would have stood with him, Jacko, proudly. But he didn’t give me the opportunity. I understand why he did what he did and have come to grips with his death and can even remember him fondly now. You’ll tell the others? You’ll tell Chance?”
Jacko shrugged. “Don’t see the point, do you? Unless you want to one fine day. Not as if you’ve lied to us. You lived in Hawkhurst, your papa was the vicar and now he’s dead and buried in the churchyard as the holy man he was. Oh, and Penton, his pockets full, is aboard ship and on his way to Saint Augustine in America, which he’ll learn when he eventually sobers up and looks over the rail.”
Julia’s heart leapt in her chest. “He’s gone? You did that for my father and me?”
“We protect our own here, Miss Carruthers.”
“So you no longer believe me to be a danger to…to the family?”
Then Julia had to grab hold of the chair behind her as Jacko advanced on her with his lumbering walk before bending to raise her hand to his lips. “Welcome to the family, Miss Carruthers. Chance would be more the young fool than I take him for if he let you go.”
“Julia,” she said, her mouth so dry she could barely get out the words. She still wasn’t sure quite how it had happened, but Jacko had accepted her. “Please. I’m Julia.”
Jacko’s smile suddenly didn’t seem quite so dangerous, although she doubted she’d ever be so foolish as to consider the man harmless. “All right then,” he said, nodding. And then he shouted out so unexpectedly that Julia jumped. “Waylon! Haul your singed arse back in here and fix Miss Julia’s betrothal ring. What a pitiful excuse for a smithy you are, Waylon, letting a lady stand waiting on you.”
Julia bit back a laugh as Jacko winked at her even as Waylon and his young assistant came scurrying back into the smithy.
But that didn’t mean that her hand refused to stop shaking for the whole of the time Waylon measured her finger and refit the ring…especially when she had a sudden thought: had Morgan deliberately maneuvered for her to be alone with Jacko? Had this entire meeting been planned?
But when Morgan finally joined her at the blacksmith shop, her smile was devoid of guile as she asked Julia if she wanted a piece of rock candy she then handed to her in a twist of greased white paper.
“I saw Jacko,” Julia said, accepting the sweet as the two of them waved good day to Waylon and made their way back toward the village proper.
“Did you?” Morgan remarked in seeming innocence, licking her fingers after popping a small bit of the confection into her mouth. Then she winked broadly at Julia. “Had the old warhorse come to Waylon to be re-shod?”
Julia smiled at the small joke as she wavered between two conclusions. She was overreacting to what she had romantically imagined to be a family not only rife with secrets but loyal to the death…or this really was a family rife with secrets and loyal above all to each other.
No matter which conclusion was correct, she knew she was very glad to be on the inside with the Beckets rather than classed as the enemy….
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHANCE SAT IMPATIENTLY, looking toward Becket Hall as he was rowed toward shore, having been told he was dressed like “too much the toff” to be handed an oar of his own. Four days since he’d seen the Hall. Three full days too many, to his way of thinking.
He was caught between anger and bemusement at how much he had missed Julia. Her voice, her smile, her dogged inquisitiveness. Her bravery. Even her stubbornness.
Her ability to draw him out of himself, make him look at his past again, at his choices, at his failings. At his newly discovered hopes.
His last sight of her had haunted him as he’d stood on deck on the Respite, his face turned into the wind. Her nervousness as she had complied with his wish to leave her as she’d lain half-naked and sated in her bed had stayed with him, along with the certain knowledge he had taken with him that this woman would bend, but she would not break. There was a strength in her, a quiet strength, and more than a little daring.
Being on the water again had set Chance’s heart pounding, not with the hated memories he’d expected but with the desire to have Julia standing beside him, sailing ahead of the wind. Showing her the stars by night, holding her close against his side as they raced the tide, chased the moon. Lying beside her in the captain’s cabin as gentle waves rocked them to sleep after an evening of loving…
It wasn’t just the timing of the thing—Julia coming into his life just as he returned to Becket Hall, just as he began to make peace with his past, with his family.
Or maybe it was. Perhaps Julia had entered his life precisely when he needed her, turning it upside down, questioning his responsibilities to Alice, even questioning his loyalties. And never taking a step back.
Chance swiveled on the plank seat to look back at the Respite, its sails lowered and secured, riding high in the water while firmly anchored. How cannily Ainsley had crafted her, a gentle mix of the Bermuda and the Jamaican sloop.
Over sixty feet long and twenty-one feet wide, her weight had to be close to one hundred and fifteen tons, yet her draft was only eight feet. Fast, agile with its fore and aft rigs so superior to the square-rigged Waterguard vessels.
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