My mother wrote of missing me when I went off to school, but that she enjoyed knitting and sewing things for me. She'd sent hampers to the school, as well, which she'd done in secret, because my father thought any comforts from home also made boys soft. I'd gained many friends trading the contents of those hampers, keeping the best bits for myself, of course.
My mother hadn't dated her entries, but I followed the passage of the years based on her references to me, my father, my school years, my holidays. About a year before her death, her musings grew strange.
I pen these words to give me courage. To screw my courage to the sticking place, as the Bard says. But what will become of my boy?
I had no idea what on earth she meant. I had been growing fatigued with reading, the clock ticking into the small hours of the morning. The next entry made me come alert.
Miss Quinn is a lovely child. I quite think of her as my own. She is here often when Mr. Lacey is away, and we have tea and play with her dolls. I wish, I so wish, I could have a daughter such as she! But perhaps I will not have to wait so long. My limbs tremble as I think on it.
Think on what? Had my mother been with child? I had never heard word of it. I read rapidly onward.
What a heavenly thing it is to love. It makes one do mad, mad things. I shall have to compose a letter, such a letter as I have never contemplated writing. I want to go. But then I think of my boy, and I falter. I would be kept from him, never to see him again.
My heart beat faster, and I turned another page.
Really, is it so wrong to long for happiness? I am kept from my son, the only person who loved me until now. Mr. Lacey does not even like me to entertain poor Helena, though the vicar and his wife are glad she has such a friend in me.
He is younger than I, yes, but what of it? We love, and we will love. Perhaps a daughter will come of it, to replace the son I must lose.
I turned the page and found it held the last entry. The time is nigh. I must steel myself. Oh, my boy. My poor, dear Gabriel.
The rest of the journal was blank. I sat, staring at the last page while the candles around me guttered.
My mother had been preparing to leave my father. Her words never openly stated it, while at the same time, they shouted it.
That she had wanted to leave should not surprise me. My father had made her miserable. What did surprise me, however, was that she'd wound herself into the courage to do it.
Or had she? I wish I knew the exact dates these entries had been written. She'd put the journal under the floorboards and never written in it again.
Because she'd grown sick and died? Or because she had run away, and my father had only claimed her dead?
The last thought made no sense. I'd attended her funeral. Someone must have ministered to her in her final illness. Helena Quinn, though she'd been a child at the time, had been close to her. Perhaps Helena would know.
How very convenient that Helena was not here.
And who had been this man with whom my mother had fallen in love, had loved so well that she'd convinced herself to turn her back on her husband and son? She never named him. She'd never even hinted. She'd been faithful to her unknown lover to the last.
I shut the book and clasped it to my chest, closing my eyes. This journal, which I'd bless Donata forever for finding, had brought me closer to my mother, and at the same time, had made her all the more distant.
* * * * *
Chapter Fifteen
I rose the next morning, sandy-eyed, and quite pessimistic about ever finding Cooper. However, I dressed, ate, and rode out again on the search.
I led three of Denis's men west and south toward Holt. We inquired everywhere we went, at farms, in villages, and of shepherds--men who moved back and forth through the valleys and saw everything and everyone. None, however, had seen a man answering to Cooper's description.
I decided to break away and make a brief visit to Lady Southwick, first to apologize for so rudely walking away from her house party, and second to ask her a few things that nagged at me. I had not particularly liked the lady or her guests, but good manners dictated the apology.
Lord Southwick's estate was a large one, and it was easy to send Denis's men to ask questions about Cooper in the outbuildings and the surrounding farms while I went to the house.
Most of the guests had gone, including Rafe Godwin. Grenville was still there, Matthias and his valet packing him up to remove to Easton's house. The valet would return to London with half of Grenville's baggage, and Matthias would remain to look after him. Grenville doubted he'd need as many evening clothes to reside a few days with Mr. Denis, he said.
Lady Breckenridge, true to her word, had departed yesterday afternoon in her chaise and four, heading back to London before she moved on to Oxfordshire. To this news I breathed a sigh of relief.
Mr. Reaves, the vicar, was still present. I endured his company with Lady Southwick in the drawing room, while I inquired after her health and the accident with the pistol.
"Poor Mr. Godwin," Lady Southwick said. "It quite unnerved him."
Reaves broke in before I could answer. "It quite unnerved you, my lady. Godwin should be thrashed."
"Was it certain that he fired the shot?" I asked.
"Of course he did," Reaves said. "His gun went off, and poor Lady Southwick was nearly hit."
"I did wonder," Lady Southwick said. "He looked so very bewildered. I never realized it was he who fired until Mr. Grenville began to shout at him."
"Dear lady, you were most distressed," Reaves said. "Mr. Godwin is uncomfortable with pistols and should not have picked up one at all."
"A gentleman who will not shoot is looked upon askance," I said. "Perhaps he did not want to admit his inability."
"He ought to have left well enough alone," Reaves said, scowling.
I had to agree with Reaves in this instance. I also had a thought I did not like. I had observed that Lady Breckenridge and Lady Southwick were much alike in dress and way of carrying themselves. Had a shooter, seeing Lady Southwick from afar, her fair hair hidden under her large hat, mistaken her for Lady Breckenridge? Had one of Denis's men grown enthusiastic about threatening my friends to make me behave? Or had the shooter fired for another reason?
The speculation made me doubly happy that Lady Breckenridge had gone. "I agree that Godwin should not have tried to shoot," I said. "I see that he was unnerved enough to depart."
"He apologized most beautifully." Lady Southwick sent me a smile. "I do believe his manners are as impeccable as yours."
"And yet, I have been treating your hospitality shamefully."
"Perhaps." Her eyes took on a glint. "But you know how to humble yourself to a lady. Captain, before you go, will you will honor me with a turn in the garden?"
She blatantly left Reaves out of the invitation. He rose politely and bowed to her but flashed me an angry look as I ushered Lady Southwick out the French doors to the rather windy garden. At least it had stopped raining.
We strolled past flowerbeds that held the last of dying summer blossoms and toward silent fountains, empty of water in this weather.
Lady Southwick tucked her hand under my arm and tugged me close. "Lady Breckenridge believed I would try to steal you away from her. She never said so, of course, but I've never seen her jealous before, poor woman. She never gave a fig what her husband got up to. She must think highly of you."
"I would be honored if she did."
Lady Southwick smiled. "As I have observed, you have fine manners, Captain. I am sorry I did not have time to speak with you more, but how fortunate that we are now neighbors."
"I look forward to it," I said politely.
"No, you do not, naughty thing. I know how delighted you were that business took you away from my tedious house party. The gentlemen and ladies I invited do not suit you. You like the unusual, which is why you have become friends with Mr. Grenville and Lady Breckenridge, and that man Mr. Denis. He is quite unusual from what I hear. I d
o believe I am the only person not unhappy that he sent Brigadier Easton packing. He was quite dull, was the brigadier, his wife even worse."
"You have lived in Norfolk some time now?" I asked.
"Casting my age up to me, are you, Captain? But yes, I married Southwick when I was quite a girl and have spent many an autumn in this decidedly quiet corner of England. House parties liven things up, thank God."
"And you were here when Miss Quinn eloped?"
Her plucked brows rose. "You seem extraordinarily intrigued by Miss Quinn, Captain. Lady Breckenridge put me to the question about her as well. What is your interest? Were you in love with the girl?"
"When I left for the army, Miss Quinn was twelve years old--therefore, I would say no. Her cousin Terrance was my friend. I am concerned for the family's sake."
"How very droll you are. I was teasing you. Yes, I knew Miss Quinn, poor dear. Such a lovely girl but no prospects, I can tell you. Waiting so long for Terrance Quinn would have ruined her--and he coming back missing a limb. Lucky for her that Mr. Braxton came along."
"You told Lady Breckenridge that Braxton was a banker's clerk?"
"Indeed, I did. A gentleman's son, but his family had no money, so he went into finance. Not a match I'd want for my own daughter, but better than Miss Quinn could hope for. He had ambition, did that lad. I'm certain he's become vulgarly rich by now."
"I heard from another that Mr. Braxton was a solicitor."
Lady Southwick looked surprised. "Not at all. He worked at a bank. He told me distinctly. I do not remember which, but I suppose one in Cambridge."
"You met him, then?"
"Well, I must have done, mustn't I? I introduced the pair of them. So exciting that they ran off together."
It was my turn to profess surprise. "You knew Mr. Braxton? And his family?"
"No, no, you misunderstand. I do not mean I knew him. I mean that I met him when he came to Blakeney. I liked him, I found out all about him, and I introduced him to Miss Quinn. I knew Helena Quinn well, you see. I quite liked her, such a pretty and unspoiled girl. A true lady, and you don't meet many of those these days. I know that Lady Breckenridge must have told you that I dislike ladies altogether, but I mean that I dislike married ladies. They are apt to be either too self-righteous for words or they try to steal one's husband. Widows are even worse." She leaned on my arm. "But young ladies, now, they are deferential, and it would never have entered into Miss Quinn's head to set her cap for any married gentleman."
"But she did for Mr. Braxton?"
"Well, setting her cap might be putting it a bit strongly, but they liked each other right off. Mr. Braxton was so very charming. All would have been well if Dr. Quinn and his wife hadn't cut up rough. They were adamant that Miss Quinn should fold her hands and wait for her cousin to return from the war. Lucky for her that she did not. Look at the poor lad. What is he good for now, I ask you?"
I thought of Terrance, angry, disappointed, broken by the loss of his arm and what he'd found upon his return home. I'd been miserable when I'd first come back to England, but I now thought it a lucky stroke that I'd chosen to live in London instead of trying to return to Norfolk. In London, I'd met Grenville and found an interest in pursing criminals. If I'd returned to Parson's Point, I'd even now be as sunk in melancholia as Terrance was.
"Mr. Quinn's injury is hardly his fault," I said, my voice going frosty.
Lady Southwick's eyes widened. "Of course it is not. He was most unfortunate, is all. But Miss Quinn is now married and gone, thanks to me."
"Did you help them elope?"
"I did, indeed, and good thing too. Helena came to me in tears, poor lamb. Her father and mother were about to send Mr. Braxton away, so I told her to leave it to me. I gave Mr. Braxton a bit of money and arranged that they should meet and go away together, without anyone being the wiser."
"Where did you have them meet? The Lacey house?"
"Good heavens, no. Your father was still alive then, and quite a curmudgeon. He took Dr. Quinn's side of the matter, thought Helena a disobedient child, and even wrote me, taking me to task for encouraging them. I beg your pardon, Captain, I know he was your father, but he was a tyrant and often got above himself. Lord Southwick could never stick him."
I did not argue with her. "Then where did you tell them to meet?"
"In the little copse north of your house, near that windmill. Easy for Miss Quinn to reach, and a spot her parents would not think her to go. And romantic."
A girl running away from home would think it romantic, in these days when we all had to read poetry, take long tramps through the countryside, and wax eloquent about skylarks.
"Have you heard from Miss Quinn since?"
"I did. One letter, when she first reached Cambridge. Telling me she was well, and that she had no wish to communicate with her parents. I did feel compelled to at least send her mother a note that she was alive and well, but I could not blame Helena for wanting to say nothing more to them. They treated her badly."
"Her father died soon after. She did not return to his funeral?"
"No. I did write her of the event, directing my letter to Mr. Braxton in Cambridge--Helena had given me no precise street or house--but I had no reply."
"Then you do not know if the letter ever reached her?"
"No, she never wrote again. Young Mr. Quinn went to Cambridge to find her, as you likely know, and he did find the house, but Mr. Braxton and Helena had gone north somewhere."
Lady Southwick made a what-can-we-do? gesture with her ring-clasped fingers, and my anger stirred. She'd been happy to help the girl thwart her parents and disappear into the mists but had felt no need to worry about Helena's well-being after that.
"Thank you," I managed to say.
Lady Southwick smiled again, sliding her hand up my arm. "Not at all, Captain. I am sorry we did not come to know each other better, but I understand you wished to be discreet while you were under Lady Breckenridge's eye." Her smile widened. "Lady Breckenridge, however, has departed."
"You flatter me, my lady, but I truly have much business to attend."
"What a liar you are." She gave my hand a little slap. "I will assure Donata that you were not tempted in the slightest. I release you, Captain, but in a few years' time, when you grow weary of marriage, remember that my home is but five miles distant from yours."
*** *** ***
Reaves looked pleased to see me depart. He shook my hand when I said good-bye, but I saw the relief in his eyes. I rode away from Southwick Hall, deciding to return to my house and the copse Lady Southwick had mentioned and have another look around.
Without the rain, I traversed the five miles fairly quickly, reaching the windmill that could be seen from the windows of my mother's sitting room. Its arms cranked steadily, a familiar clack, clack that brought back more memories than I cared it to.
This windmill not only pumped water but ground grain, and its gears had fascinated the small boy I'd been. The keeper who'd used to carry me home when I became too much of a nuisance was gone, replaced by a younger man. The windows in the windmill glowed with light, but I did not stop to pass the time.
To the west of the windmill was the copse, and beyond that sat the Lacey house, bleak under the gray skies. In the middle of the copse was a clearing, in which someone in my grandfather's time had fixed a stone bench. The perfect place for a rendezvous.
I dismounted and walked over the area, leaving large footprints in the mud. I examined the bench, a fancy thing of carved stone from the last century. I got down on the ground and looked under it, my bad knee protesting, though what I hoped to find after ten years I did not know. Nothing was there.
I climbed to my feet and sat down, wrapping myself in my greatcoat and bracing my hands on my walking stick. I was beset with questions: If Helena had met Mr. Braxton here, why was her dress in my mother's sitting room? Who had taken the church silver, and why had they stashed the things in the kitchen? The villagers had assumed Helena had
stolen it, but its return made her look innocent.
Perhaps none of the incidents were connected, and perhaps I was chasing shadows. I'd find Helena and her husband alive and well in some northern county, the dress discarded by a maid who'd stolen Helena's things after she went, the church silver taken by a thief who'd never had opportunity to return for his prize.
I realized after a bit, sitting in the wind, that I was pondering these questions to avoid those that had swooped upon me all night: Who was the man my mother had loved? Why had she decided to run away with him? And why hadn't she, in the end?
Because of me? Had she not been able to bear the thought of never seeing her son again, or had she simply not wanted to leave me with my father? By law, a mother could not be guardian of her own child unless legally appointed. A boy belonged to his father, and that was all.
She had left me alone with him, in any case, by dying. But if she'd gone off with her lover, would she be alive today? And would I have forgiven her for going?
I needed to find out. But who to ask? Was my mother's love affair a secret between herself and whoever the man happened to be? Or was it common knowledge, one of those things known but not spoken of? And which man could I approach with the question? Had her lover been a stranger or someone local?
I pondered for a while longer, growing colder by the minute, until I fixed upon a person who knew all the gossip of the nearby villages and was kind at the same time. I led my horse to the bench, got stiffly onto the stone seat, and mounted up.
The rain started again as I rode the short way north. Not long later, I stood, streaming, at the kitchen door of the vicarage. Mrs. Landon's son led my horse to the warm, dry stables, and a maid let me into the equally warm and dry kitchen.