A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 6

  Henrietta retrieved the book and read the spine. “I chose this one because it’s one of my favorites. Each chapter is another adventure. There’s humor. There’s an old sea captain, he’s retired, but he runs his house like a ship. They sleep in hammocks. I shouldn’t tell you, I’ll ruin it.”

  Henrietta laughed to herself, turning away from him, thumbing pages. He needed her to keep talking.

  “Please do.”

  “You should read it yourself.” She slipped the book on the small pile. “I should go. I was—do you need anything?”

  He did. He needed her. He needed to know what she had been doing before he inadvertently summoned her. He needed her to go. He had no honest intentions toward her, not at this hour. His cock was hard, and she was a lovely soft creature who didn’t deserve a man like him. He’d kiss her this time, slake his thirst, and set her aside when what she needed, or thought she wanted, was marriage. Marriage wasn’t for him. He was deeply flawed in ways a man shouldn’t be. Not with all he had been offered in life.

  “No,” he said, swallowing back his shame.

  Chapter 7

  Henrietta entered her study and glanced out the window, overlooking her herb garden. Normally, she’d sit and ponder the variegated shapes and colors outside as the sun rose, settling her mind before writing for an hour. Not today.

  Unlocking the drawer to her desk took more than one try. Henrietta’s hands were no longer shaking, but her palms were sweaty, making her grip on the small key impossible. Finally open, she withdrew the letter and Bible given to her by her uncle before he left yesterday. Though he deemed himself a religious man, it was an odd gift even for him.

  She shouldn’t have accepted it. It wasn’t until she was alone last night that she read the note he inserted. She was to cipher British intelligence, using the Bible as a key, and his soldier as a courier. She burned the note after reading it.

  Loathing and shame tasted bitter on her tongue.

  She spread out a fresh sheet of foolscap and broke the wax seal on Uncle Caldwell’s first confidential letter. It was written to a British general on a ship in New York harbor.

  Henrietta had a lot of opinions about this undeclared war. She kept abreast of the news and discussed events with her reading club. She wasn’t the only one conflicted by the opinions of both sides. If the British won, she gained nothing. Life would go on as it always had. If they lost, and America became its own nation, her rights as a citizen probably wouldn’t change then either. The liberty at the heart of it was for men. White, free men.

  The enciphering was simple, but not quick. Every word needed to be coded as numbers. A word such as “ship” would be enciphered as 374-2-27, referring to page 374 of this edition of the Bible, the second column, and the 27th word in that column. If she couldn’t find a word, she was to scramble it like an anagram.

  By the time the sun reached the tips of the trees, she finished, melting a bit of wax to seal and set it. The original went up in flames when she touched its corner to the candle on her desk.

  She still had a little time for her own writing.

  For the few spare minutes a day, Henrietta set aside her chores and loneliness. She wrote the intimacy of friendships she needed. She became the heroine who saved the town, the intelligent woman who knew she was more than her beauty. On the page, she was visible, wielding her sword, destroying her enemy, and being loved. In real life, she didn’t have the energy for any of that.

  Picking up her quill, she closed her eyes and thought about what she might write today. Last she wrote in her story, the heroine left town to visit her brother. Along the way, apoplexy took her coachman. The carriage toppled into a ditch. Bruised and weary, she climbed out of a briar patch and waited on the side of the road to be rescued.

  “Bloody hell!” she cried to the threatening clouds. “How shall I ever make it to Boston?”

  Henrietta reread what she wrote and crossed out everything but bloody hell. She took a sip of tea and tried to put herself in such a situation.

  I would definitely have cursed. I would have a cry too, but I might try to fix the wheel. And likely fail. I know nothing about wheels except they are meant to be round, and if they are no longer round, they no longer work.

  Nobody liked a crier. She wanted to write a woman who fended for herself and didn’t need a man for survival. Such folly and fantasy. A man was necessary to satisfy the legal arithmetic of marriage. And marriage, Henrietta knew, was both a blessing and a curse. She’d at least write her heroine as someone who knew the difference between a hammer and a mallet.

  Bethia examined the scratch stinging her cheek. Her finger came away clean. No blood. All was not lost. “Good thing Jones thought to pack his tool chest.” Limping, she made her way to the boot of the carriage . . .

  Three pages later, a knock sounded at the front door. In the distance, a dog barked. She’d forgotten about Marcus’s dog, Sissy. The image of Bethia tying rope around the broad chest of the ruggedly handsome yet villainous Lord Markham, highwayman, evaporated into thin air.

  The pounding continued. As did the barking.

  “Bloody hell.” Henrietta rose from her desk and went to the door. A soldier in green regimentals stood before her. He wasn’t exactly handsome; the sharp wedge of his nose shadowed his dark eyes. He wore a bright white wig and shiny black boots lacking a speck of dust. No Lord Markham, he.

  “You have the wrong house. They’re expecting you three up.” She closed the door. There was no house three up, just a dense patch of forest. It was the only defense against her privacy she could fabricate on the spot. A large black boot caught the door at the threshold.

  “This is the correct house. The Caldwell house. You are the young widow, Mistress Henrietta Caldwell, and I am Sergeant Archibald Shrupp. Colonel Caldwell sent me.”

  He swung his haversack from his shoulder to the ground like a ballast, sinking her hopes with this new reality. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I never agreed to quarter a soldier.” The expiration of the Quartering Act from last month apparently meant nothing to her uncle. A homeowner could do as he pleased, which put her in a vulnerable position.

  Shrupp reached inside his short cavalry coat and withdrew a letter. “He warned you’d say that.”

  Henrietta broke the seal and read Uncle Caldwell’s threats. If she did not allow Sergeant Shrupp to stay in his home, he’d evict her and cut off her allowance. Yes, yes, she knew this.

  The last paragraph was new:

  I shall not like to imagine how your Conscience wrestles with the choices presented to you. In a Colony rife with disloyal separatists, you should be proud of your Tory bonds. They shall keep you Safe when we arrest your Neighbors for treason.

  Why couldn’t he understand she had no political leanings? She was a widow and once she’d been a mother, but now she was no one of worth.

  “There’s a spare bed in the attic.” She bit her tongue against telling him she wouldn’t do his laundry or cook his meals. What choice did she have? “I expect you’ll pay for your meals.”

  The sergeant’s dark eyes roved over her in a quantifying and chilling manner. Henrietta took a step back, hands balling into tight fists.

  She made her way down the hall toward the stairs. “You shall be civil and respectful. If you come home drunk, you may stay with the goats.”

  “I am an officer in Butler’s Rangers. We’re not exactly known for civility.”

  At the stairs to the attic, Henrietta turned to face the sergeant. What could she say to that? Did he intend to scare her into submission? It was working, though she didn’t want to admit it.

  “I was promised a bedroom,” he drawled, wrinkling his nose at the stairs as if they personally offended him.

  “That is where I have extra beds.” She forced herself not to look away bu
t to meet his gaze steadily, fearlessly, even if inside she wanted to . . . She didn’t know what she wanted to do. A mixture of rage and sadness tumbled inside her, pulling her to extremes.

  A dangerous light brightened his eyes. “Who else sleeps there?”

  He must imagine a tired young woman of a lower class unable to refuse his advances. “There are no servants. An invalided friend occupies the other bed.”

  He dropped his haversack on the wide plank floor with a thud. “I require privacy and a proper bedroom.”

  She required many things which couldn’t be had, least of all privacy. The hall narrowed in on her, the walls breathing at her back.

  “There is no other bedroom available to you, Sergeant. If you must stay, the attic is yours.”

  “I refuse to play this game. I was told there are two bedrooms on this floor, and to make my choice. Would it surprise you to know your uncle did not say your bed was off-limits? In fact, he suggested it.”

  “Try it, and you may find your meals seasoned with hemlock.”

  Out of nowhere, his hand whipped across her face. Tears sprang to her eyes, and vitriol burned her throat. The stinging on her lips beat with a pulse. She shouldn’t have provoked him. It took all her strength not to cry. The impulse to curl in on herself was almost too great to overcome. If there was one slap, there would be another, or worse. She had no one to blame but herself.

  Shrupp pushed her aside.

  From the attic, Marcus called out. Shrupp seized the doorknob to Willow’s bedroom. She couldn’t spare a moment for Marcus.

  “No!” Henrietta lunged for him. Her motherly instincts propelling her to act, regardless of her own safety. “You mustn’t!”

  She didn’t trust the lock would hold against his grip.

  “You can’t go in here.” She threw herself between him and the door, shielding it with her body. “Please! You can’t have this room!”

  Shrupp paused, one side of his mouth curling up as if enjoying her distress. “Hiding something? Or is it someone?”

  “There is no one.” There hadn’t been for five years. Tears came unbidden as the ache in her chest bloomed into a large spiked flower head piercing her lungs. She’d lay it at Willow’s grave if she could. Set it down and allow herself to heal. But there was no healing for a mother who’d lost her child.

  “Then you have nothing to hide. Open it.”

  “No,” Henrietta sobbed, shaking uncontrollably. “Please.”

  He reached for her and grabbed her chin, forcing her face to his. “Pathetic.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus listened to the heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. He wanted to beat the man to his marrow. But with his leg in a fracture box, all he could do was sit. He could not protect Henrietta, defend her in any way. Like a storm in a glass jar, his fury had no outlet.

  The door flew open. Tall enough to have to stoop, the soldier marched across the floor regardless of what was on it, and dropped a haversack on the opposite cot.

  “Name’s Shrupp. Who are you?”

  The intruder wore silver spurs meticulously shined, tall black boots to his knees, buff breeches, and a green short coat. By his uniform, he was a ranger, a soldier assigned to rout rebels like himself.

  Marcus put a fool’s grin on his face. “Finally, she sends me a friend!”

  Shrupp snarled. “I’ll have your name.”

  A stack on the table caught his eye. “Do you like cards? I play most hands. I’m right pleased to have someone to talk to. Have you ever seen an elephant? I have.”

  Shrupp eyed the devastation on the floor between the cots. “Are you mad? Do you have a mental invalidation?”

  “Not mad at all. Lonely. Now here you are.” He held his arms wide, either welcoming the ranger or offering a hug. He’d let Shrupp decide.

  “What shall I call you?” His patience was running thin by the acerbic tone he used.

  Marcus drummed his lip with his finger. “My full name? Marcus Aurelius of House Kings County, Second of his name, Lord of Flatbush, Prince of Gravesend, Sailor of the Seven Seas—though, technically I’ve only sailed two. No, three—Cabinetmaker, Shop Owner, and Protector of the Fair and Friendly Mistress Caldwell of House Smith, First of her—”

  “Enough!”

  Marcus patted the edge of his cot. “Stay awhile?”

  Shrupp growled in disgust. “Go through my things, and I’ll slit your throat.”

  Shrupp left, taking the stairs two at a time. The door of the house slammed, its vibration carrying all the way to the attic.

  “HEN!” Marcus’s call was met with silence. What kind of friend was he, stuck in the attic and unable to protect Henrietta when she needed him?

  He eased himself off the bed and onto the floor. He’d crawl to her if he had to. He had to do something. His ankle throbbed as he inched himself toward the door, dragging his goddamn leg. His vision blurred with pain.

  He brought himself to the stairwell and looked down the dark chasm. She appeared, finally.

  “I’m fine.”

  By the way she held herself tight, she was anything but fine.

  The need to go to her almost superseded his pain. He didn’t know what Shrupp might have said or done to upset her, but if he’d so much as laid a finger on her, he’d be the one slitting throats.

  “I’m not. Would you please come here?” He worked to keep his anger from spilling over to her.

  She didn’t move. Marcus waited. She gave a huff of irritation and joined him in the attic. Red mottled her cheeks, and her swollen eyes glistened with tears. She had a red imprint of Shrupp’s hand on her face.

  “Oh, Hen.” Slitting Shrupp’s throat wouldn’t be cruel enough.

  “Don’t.” She refused to look at him as if that would erase what he saw. Instead, she surveyed the floor. “What is all this?”

  Henrietta waded through an armada of paper boats. Some were crushed, sunk by the heels of the ranger. Others floated in the drift created by her skirts.

  “I couldn’t fall back to sleep. Never mind me. What happened?” Arduously, he climbed back on his cot.

  Henrietta scoffed. Resignation weighted her gaze. “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing I can do. Why did you destroy a perfectly good book?”

  It mattered to him, though there was little he could do to help her. He could offer to marry her, but he liked her too much to do that. Slitting Shrupp’s throat was still a possibility, but since his ability to gather cleaning supplies was limited, he wouldn’t leave that sort of mess for her. “It’s still a good book. Not so good of a navy.”

  Henrietta sighed, immune to his attempt at levity.

  “Come here, Hen.” Marcus patted the cot with the intention this time of getting the occupant in the room to sit beside him. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she exhaled, seeking the rafters for divine intervention.

  “I can’t do this,” she whispered more to herself than him.

  “Come. Sit beside me.”

  Henrietta stared at the space he’d made for her. Obligingly, she perched at the edge of his cot, stiff and uncertain. Her skirts cascaded into the naval disaster. Looking vacantly toward the window, she retreated within herself.

  Six inches separated them. More like a dozen years, or a thousand days. They once knew each other well, in the way children who played together and expected nothing from each other did. In the time since, they stopped knowing each other at all.

  The house made old house noises, filling the void between. Snaps and creaks from the eaves, the ticking of the clock, and the rattle of windowpanes spoke the things Marcus wanted to but couldn’t find the words to say. It might not be so bad was the worst platitude to offer. An impression of Shrupp’s hand already marked her face. There were two men living in her home wh
en all she wanted was solitude.

  His patience waned. He needed to do something. Fix something. He’d never felt so useless in his life, and that was saying a lot. “I—”

  “I had a daughter,” Henrietta blurted.

  Both the sound of her voice, raw and loud in the room, and the words she spoke, startled him. He hadn’t known. Henrietta cleared her throat and pressed her hands together. Her knuckles went pale as her fingers curled into fists. “Her name was Willow. She was everything to me my marriage was not. Her auburn hair brightened in the summer and her rich brown eyes drank in the world.” Henrietta dragged the corner of his blanket to her eyes and dabbed at her tears. “The winter she was three, she caught a fever. My life ended when she died. Yet, somehow, I am still here.”

  Marcus hesitated. She might shatter if he tried to hold her, no matter how gentle. But to leave her a pillar of her own despair was selfish when he could offer something. The least he could do, to her shock and horror, was rip another sheet from the book he’d been working through, and fold it this way and that. Spreading the layers of paper into petals, he handed her a rose.

  Taking it carefully in hand, Henrietta stroked the folds and creases of the delicate flower. It wasn’t a bad representation for making it up as he went.

  “I imagine your father must be rolling in his grave.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice. She lifted the rose in a salutatory gesture to the ships on the floor. “Is that why?”

  “He and I never made our peace.” The Hardwickes were an affluent publishing family. Marcus’s older brother took over for their father when he passed. Never had Marcus been more grateful to be born second.

  “So, you’re still fighting with him by doing this?”

  Was it an act of aggression? Folding paper was something he’d done since he was a frustrated lad. Fine. Maybe it was. “I don’t think about him.” He reached for the book again.