Midnight Quill Trio

June 1763: Part Three

June 1763: Part Three

Rose’s relief when she saw Fenmore lead Dancer to the mounting block was so intense that her throat closed and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She hadn’t been mistaken in him; he’d come back.

Once they were out of sight of Creed Hall, Rose reined Dancer in. “It went well?”

“It did, Countess.”

For some unknown reason, Fenmore’s smile, the way his eyes creased at the corners, made her heart lift in her chest. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said impulsively.

“So am I, Countess.”

Rose urged Dancer forward. They rode through the woods, the horses’ hooves making soft sounds on the loamy soil. She glanced back at him. He’s my friend. “Fenmore . . . will you please call me Rose?” She felt herself blush, as if she’d done something terribly brazen, and hurried on: “If we’re to travel together, you can’t call me Countess.”

Fenmore nodded. “Then you must call me Will.”

The name suited him. A plain, honest, trustable name.

My friend, Will. Relief at his return rose again, bubbling like joy in her breast. Dancer felt it; the mare’s stride lengthened. Rose laughed. “Let’s gallop.”

They held the horses at a canter until they were out of the woods, then Rose let Dancer have her head. The mare plunged forward eagerly. Meadows and hedgerows flashed past.

Rose inhaled the scents of summer, drinking them in. She felt as if she could gallop forever. She was lighter than air, flying, soaring, free.

Finally, reluctantly, she eased Dancer to a trot and looked back at Fenmore. He caught her glance and grinned.

They rode back through the fields, scattering sheep, jumping the hedgerows. The dark woods surrounding Creed Hall came closer, until Rose almost felt the coolness of their shade.

She put Dancer at the last hedgerow. By the time the leaves fell from these trees she’d be in America—

Dancer landed awkwardly, stumbling. Rose pitched over the mare’s shoulder and hit the ground hard. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. For a dizzy moment the world spun around her.

“Countess!”

Rose rolled slowly onto her back and blinked up at the sky. Ouch.

“Countess!” Fenmore loomed above her. She heard fear in his voice; saw it on his face as he dropped to his knees.

“I’m perfectly all right.” Rose pushed up to sit. She gave a shaky laugh, brushing dirt from her riding habit. “That was my fault, not Dancer’s. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Fenmore ignored her claim to be unhurt. He examined her thoroughly. If he’d been one of the other grooms, she’d have pushed him away, but Will Fenmore she trusted. She let him check her arms, flexing each joint, and then her legs through the heavy fabric of her riding habit. Lastly he ran his hands carefully over her skull and held her face cupped in his hands, examining her eyes.

“I’m fine. My dignity is damaged, but nothing else. I promise you.”

“You’ll have some bruises.”

I’m used to bruises, Rose thought, but didn’t say aloud.

Fenmore released her. “You’ve scratched your cheek.”

“I have?” Rose touched her cheek, where it stung slightly. Her gloved fingertips came away bloody.

Fenmore pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it into a pad, and pressed it to her face. “Hold this. I’ll catch Dancer.”

The mare hadn’t gone far. She came when Fenmore called her. She trusts him as much as I do.

Fenmore gathered the trailing reins and stroked Dancer’s neck, soothing her with softly spoken words. His white-blond hair gleamed in the sunlight.

Rose watched them approach, man and horse. Something tightened painfully in her chest: regret. Will Fenmore, I wish I had married you, and not Henry Quayle.

Rose shoved the thought aside and stood. She could never have married a man like Fenmore. If not Henry, then she would have been contracted to another nobleman wealthy enough to pay her father’s debts.

Fenmore looped Dancer’s reins over a branch. “Let me see your cheek.”

Rose removed the handkerchief.

Fenmore stroked her cheek with a fingertip. Her skin shivered at the light touch. “It’s stopped bleeding. How do you feel? Can you ride?”

They rode slowly back to the lake and tethered the horses. Rose sat on the marble steps of the little folly while Fenmore cleaned the blood from her face with a dampened handkerchief. “All gone,” he said, sitting back on his heels. His eyes crinkled in a smile.

“Thank you.” On impulse, Rose leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Fenmore colored faintly. He stood, putting distance between them. “I don’t think it will scar.” He walked down to the lake and rinsed the handkerchief clean.

Rose looked down at her hands. I shouldn’t have done that. “Tell me how it went in Falmouth,” she said into the awkward silence. “Did you sell the brooch?”

Fenmore came back to the folly. He sat, laying the handkerchief out to dry between them. The white square of fabric felt like a barrier. “I sold it in Salisbury,” he said. “It’s larger, got more jewelers. I thought I’d get a better price.”

Rose nodded.

Fenmore reached into his pocket and withdrew a leather pouch. “Two hundred guineas,” he said, holding it out to her.

Rose took the pouch from him, hesitated, and handed it back. “You keep it.”

He frowned. “Are you certain?”

“I don’t want Boyle to find it.”

Fenmore looked at her for a moment, then nodded and tucked the pouch back into his pocket.

“Tell me about Falmouth.”

“Falmouth.” Fenmore rubbed his forehead, and then stared across the lake. “We’ll need a few weeks there before we sail, maybe even a month. There’s a lot needs doing. We have to provide our own food for the voyage.”

“We do?” Rose stared at him in dismay.

“Don’t worry. There are ship chandlers in Falmouth. They have everything we’ll need for two months at sea.”

She nodded, relieved.

“Should be several ships sailing in July and August. We just need to pick one that’s going where we want. The thing is, Countess, the ships are trading vessels and the passengers are mostly indentured servants who travel in the holds.” Fenmore grimaced. “I had a look at one. You wouldn’t like it.”

“I don’t mind.” To escape Henry, she’d willingly travel in a ship’s hold, however uncomfortable and dirty it was.

Fenmore shook his head. “We can get you a cabin, pay an officer to move out for the voyage—you’ve enough money for that. But . . . I spoke with a number of people and they all said it’s not safe for a woman in a cabin alone. You need someone with you, and since I’ll be belowdecks you’ll have to hire a maid.”

Rose looked down at her lap. She pleated a fold of damask. “Would a woman traveling alone with servants attract more attention than a woman traveling with her husband?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want us to stand out. I don’t want anyone to notice us.” If Henry finds us, he’ll kill us. Rose shivered. “Can’t we pretend to be married? Can’t we share a cabin?”

“Countess, the cabins are small. Very small. There may only be one bed.”

Rose bit her lip. She pleated another fold of damask. “Then I’ll travel in the hold.”

“With the indentured servants? No.”

“But—”

“It’ll be crowded. If sickness breaks out it’ll spread fast.”

“Then you shouldn’t be down there either.”

“I’m stronger than you.”

Rose smoothed the damask over her knee. If Fenmore became ill on the voyage, if he died . . .

She tried to imagine arriving at an unknown shore, alone. Fear shivered through her again. “No.” She lifted her head. “We’ll share a cabin. And if there’s only one bed, so be it. I trust you, Will.”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure I trust myself. I like you too much, Countess.”

Rose stiffened and drew back from him. Revulsion crawled across her skin. He wants to bed me.

The muscles in Fenmore’s face tightened, almost a flinch. He averted his head.

A strained silence fell. Rose stared down at her hands, clenched on her lap. Which was the better outcome? For Fenmore to travel in the hold and perhaps die of illness? Or for them to arrive at their destination together?

I can’t do it without him.

If being bedded by Fenmore was what it took to be free of Henry, so be it.

Rose lifted her head and looked at Fenmore, at the sun-browned skin and white-blond hair. He wouldn’t be like Henry. He wouldn’t deliberately hurt her. She tried to recapture the emotion she’d felt earlier—regret that she’d not married him instead of Henry—but it refused to come. She took a shallow breath and forced herself to say the words: “If that happened, it would be all right.”

Fenmore turned his head and met her eyes. “No. It wouldn’t.”

She saw on his face, heard in his voice, that it wouldn’t be all right for him—and in that moment she knew that even if he didn’t trust himself, she did.

“I trust you, Will.” Rose reached out and laid her hand on his forearm. “We’ll share a cabin.”

He swallowed. “Countess . . .”

“I know you’d never hurt me.”

He stared at her, his eyes intensely blue. “No. I would never hurt you.”

“Then we’ll take a cabin together. It will be all right, Will.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Yes,” he said firmly, as if trying to reassure himself. “It will be all right.”

Rose took hold of his hand. I trust you.

Fenmore hesitated, and then returned the clasp. “There is joy in marriage,” he said in a low voice. “If you find the right person to share your life with.”

Rose was suddenly breathless. There was such intensity in his eyes that she could almost believe he saw all the way inside her, to her soul. She forced herself to inhale, to speak. “How do you know?”

“I just know.” His voice was certain, adamant.

Rose was intensely aware of his hand holding hers—warm, strong, calloused. She swallowed, and tried to gather her wits. “Did your parents . . . ?”

“No.” Fenmore released her hand. He grimaced and rubbed his left forearm. “Theirs wasn’t a good marriage.”

“Did your father work at Creed Hall? Was he a butler?”

Fenmore shook his head and rubbed his forearm again. “He was a coachman.”

Rose frowned. “Is your arm hurting?”

“What? Ah . . . no.” He stopped rubbing his arm. “My father . . . when he drank spirits, it was as if a devil took hold of him. He used to beat my mother.” His mouth tightened into a grim line. “Once, when I was eight, I tried to stop him. He broke my arm.”

“Oh,” Rose said.

“The old earl dismissed him after that.” Fenmore rubbed his arm as if it still ached. She thought he wasn’t aware he was doing it. “I don’t know where he went, never saw him again. He could still be alive, for all I know.” He stared at the lake for a moment, frowning, then turned his head and looked at her. “You don’t need to be afeared of me, Rose. I never drink spirits. If that devil is in me, too, it’s never getting out.”

“I know.” She could no more imagine Fenmore hitting her than she could imagine the sun falling from the sky. Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed his lean, brown cheek, a friendly kiss, as a sister would give a brother.

“Countess, you really shouldn’t—”

“Rose,” she said firmly. “If we are to be traveling companions.” She clasped her hands around her knees. “When will we leave?”

“I was thinking about that. Countess . . . Rose, it would be best if Quayle believes you haven’t run away.”

“Haven’t? But how—”

“If he thinks you’re dead, he won’t look for you.”

Rose stopped hugging her knees. She sat up straight. “Dead?”

“Drowned.” Fenmore gestured at the sparkling expanse of water in front of them. “A suicide.”

Rose opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She looked at the lake and remembered the despair she’d felt, the questions she’d asked Fenmore. Have you ever seen a person drown? Do you know how long it takes?

“You’ll come down here one night,” Fenmore said, when she didn’t speak. “And row out into the middle of the lake and throw yourself in.”

Rose glanced at the rowboat. “What about my body?”

“Never found.”

“Do you think Henry will believe it?”

“No way of knowing. But if he does . . .”

“We’ll do it.” Anything that might mislead Henry was worth trying. “When?”

“Next full moon. So you can see to walk here.”

Rose nodded.

“It’s full moon now. So, in two weeks I’ll make certain I’m dismissed—”

“Dismissed? Why?”

“If both of us vanish the same night, there’ll be suspicion, don’t you think? Especially if your body isn’t found. But if I’m dismissed for bad conduct, and then two weeks later you drown in the lake . . . there’s no connection between us.”

Rose tugged on her lower lip and thought it through. Fenmore was right. “All right. Let’s do it like that.” She tilted her head to one side and looked at him. “You have good ideas, Will Fenmore.”

He smiled and shrugged and pushed to his feet. “We should get back. It’s nearly luncheon.”

Rose stood.

“Let me see your cheek.”

Rose held still while Fenmore tilted up her chin and examined the scratch. The light touch of his fingers made her skin tingle. Rose stared up at him. Such blue eyes. Such a plain, kind face.

Her gaze seemed to be caught in his. She couldn’t look away. She felt the warmth of Fenmore’s fingers on her cheek, saw him squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, heard him mutter “God give me strength” beneath his breath.

“Will . . .”

Fenmore bent his head and kissed her.

Surprise held her utterly still. He’s kissing me! But the gentle touch of Fenmore’s lips didn’t disgust her, didn’t make her afraid. Instead, Rose felt a tiny flicker of pleasure.

Fenmore lifted his head. His eyes were very blue, very serious, as he stared down at her.

“Do it again,” Rose whispered.

He hesitated, and then obeyed. His kiss was as soft and light as a butterfly’s wings brushing over her skin.

Rose closed her eyes. There was such sweetness in Fenmore’s kiss, such gentleness, that her lips quivered open. Fenmore hesitated, and then kissed her more deeply. Still, fear didn’t come. There was only pleasure humming inside her, warming her skin.

Rose shyly kissed him back.

Fenmore’s arms came around her. He gathered her more closely to him. Rose felt a spurt of panic. She stiffened and tried to push free.

Fenmore released her immediately. He stepped back. Dismay was stark on his face. “Countess—”

Rose pressed her hands to her mouth. “It wasn’t your fault.” Her voice shook slightly.

“Yes, it was.” Fenmore took another step away from her. “Countess, I promise it will never happen again.”

“Don’t promise that,” Rose said, lowering her hands. “Will, it’s all right.” And amazingly, it was. She took a deep breath and walked across to him and tentatively took his hand. “Will . . . I like you, too.”

Fenmore stared down at her. The emotion in his eyes was raw, intense.

He loves me.

Something clenched painfully in Rose’s chest. Sudden, foolish tears came to her eyes. She blinked them away. “Let’s go back to the Hall.”

After a luncheon of cold meats and fruit, Rose retired to her bedchamber. She looked at herself in the mirror, seeing black ringlets and hazel eyes. She traced the scratch on her cheek with a fingertip. I hope it leaves a scar. It would make her less beautiful.

If she wasn’t beautiful, Henry Quayle wouldn’t want to own her. You’re mine, she heard his voice whisper in her ear. You belong to me.

Rose shivered and turned away from the mirror.

She sat down at the escritoire and took out her calf-bound journal. She hadn’t written in it since Henry had left.

Rose turned to the last entry, dipped her quill in ink—and hesitated. The journal was a catalog of misery and despair. It seemed wrong to write about Will Fenmore in it, as if Henry would somehow taint him.

She put the journal back and took out a new one. The calfskin was unblemished, the first page as pristine as freshly washed linen. Rose smoothed her hand over it. This journal would be full of hope, not pain.

She dipped her quill in ink and began to write.

Today Will Fenmore kissed me.

She paused, remembering the moment, remembering the sweetness of Fenmore’s kiss, the gentleness, and then she continued writing. I never thought I could enjoy a man’s touch, but with Will, I did.

With Will Fenmore, the world became a different place. It became full of hope and promise.

Will makes me feel safe, she wrote. He makes me feel that anything is possible. He makes me dare to dream again.

I think I could love him.

When Rose had finished writing she looked around the little bedchamber. She didn’t want to leave the journal where Boyle might find it.

The room was paneled in dark wainscoting. Darracott Court, where she’d grown up, had had wainscoting, too—and cunning little cupboards hidden in the walls.

Rose spent half an hour examining the wainscoting. The panels sounded hollow in the corner between the fireplace and the outer wall, but press as she might, she couldn’t find a hidden cupboard.

A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told her it was nearly time for her afternoon ride. She hid the journal beneath her mattress and rang for Boyle. She’d search again tonight.

They took a picnic hamper with them, and after Rose had fed the squirrel, Fenmore spread a map of the American colonies on the ground and told her what he’d learned about each of them.

Rose listened, and allowed herself to dream.

“What do you think?” Fenmore asked when he’d finished. “Do you have a preference?”

Rose shook her head.

“I’m thinking one of the northern colonies. They have fewer slaves.” Fenmore glanced at her. “I don’t think it’s right to own people.”

“I agree.” She was Henry’s slave—belonging to him body and soul, his to do what he liked with. No one deserves that.

Rose looked at the map, picking out the names of the northernmost colonies. Massachusetts. Pennsylvania. New Hampshire. In a few months, one of those places would be home. A shiver of excitement prickled over her skin.

“Would you like to live in a town or buy a farm?” Fenmore asked, folding up the map.

“I hadn’t thought about it.” Rose c****d her head and looked at him. “Which would you prefer?”

“I’d like to buy a farm and breed horses.”

“Breed horses? What a marvelous idea!”

Fenmore didn’t smile. His eyes were serious. “You need to think about it, Rose. It’ll be your money that pays for it.”

She shook her head. “Not mine; ours.”

“Rose—”

“Our money.” She reached out and took Fenmore’s hand. “I want you to have a horse farm.” She bit her lip, and then asked: “May I live there, too?”

“Of course, but Rose . . . it’ll be a simple life. You’d likely be happier in a town.”

She shook her head. “A simple life is what I want.”

Fenmore stared at her for a moment, a frown creasing his brow, and then his face relaxed in capitulation. “All right, but if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.” She couldn’t imagine anything more perfect than a farm with Will Fenmore. She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Fenmore became utterly still. “Rose . . .”

“If you want to kiss me, you may,” she whispered.

He hesitated, and then groaned low in his throat and bent his head to capture her mouth.

Rose closed her eyes. Fenmore’s kiss was slow and gentle. Warmth filled her. This is how it’s meant to be. Joy and pleasure mingling.

Time ceased to have any meaning. Seconds blurred into minutes. When Fenmore finally broke the kiss, she almost protested.

“We should stop,” he said.

Rose gazed at him. She couldn’t seem to find her voice.

“Rose, if you look at me like that—”

“Sorry.” She looked down at her lap, feeling heat flood her face.

“Don’t apologize.” Fenmore put his arm around her, pulled her close, and settled her against him.

Rose leaned her head against his shoulder. Fenmore smelled of leather and horse and sunshine. “We’ll plant fruit trees,” he said. “A whole orchard of them, and come summer there’ll be apples and peaches and plums for us to eat.”

Rose nodded, feeling his solidness, his warmth. This can’t be real. It’s too perfect. It must be a dream.

But Fenmore’s arm around her shoulders was real, just as the taste of him in her mouth was real, and the sound of his voice spinning dreams for them.

That night, after the servants had gone to bed, Rose wrote in her journal. The dreams I had when I was a girl—of heroes rescuing maidens, of true love that lasts forever—the dreams I put aside when I reached adulthood . . . Will makes me dream those dreams again. When I’m with him, I believe that anything is possible.

I think I could marry him.

She reread what she’d written and laid down the quill. “Am I being a fool?”

Will Fenmore was just a man, not a hero out of a tale of long-ago chivalry. Was she imbuing him with qualities he didn’t possess, making him into something he wasn’t?

Rose rubbed her brow, and then blew out a breath. She pushed back the chair and began searching for the cupboard she was certain was hidden in the corner of the room. As the clock struck midnight, she found it. The wainscoting gave slightly beneath her fingers, a crack appeared, and then a small door opened, revealing a narrow cupboard with four empty shelves.

Rose placed the journal on the topmost shelf and closed the door. With the tiny snick of the latch came a feeling of certainty. Will Fenmore was who she thought him to be. His birth might be low, but he was as true of heart as Sir Galahad.