The Least Likely Bride

Chapter Seven

“It’s so neat,” Phoebe said with undisguised admiration, looking up from her minute inspection of Anthony’s handiwork. “Just three stitches and the wound’s closed to the thinnest line. You’ll have a scar, but only a faint one. I wonder what thread he used. Did he say?” Her herbalist’s curiosity was aroused.

“No, and I didn’t ask either.” Olivia rolled away from Phoebe, turning onto her back. She lay with her arm over her eyes, struggling to control the surge of emotion as memory, rich, lushly sensual, flooded every pore and cell of her body.

Phoebe regarded her with a worried frown. “You said you didn’t want to see him again.”

“I don’t. It was a magic interlude, Phoebe. It was only supposed to last until I had to come home. The spell is broken.”

“Somehow I don’t think so,” Phoebe observed dryly.

Olivia sat up, her dark eyes burning. “I’m confused, Phoebe. I don’t know how or why it happened, but I do know that it will never happen again. C-could we not talk about it anymore?”

The slam of the front door, violent and hasty, reverberated through the house. Olivia said, “My father.”

“Yes.” Phoebe was already halfway to the bedchamber door.

“I need time, Phoebe,” Olivia said urgently. “Don’t let him come up. Tell him… tell him I’m getting dressed and I’ll c-come down to him.”

“I’ll get him to see the children first.” Phoebe hurried out. She ran down the stairs, lifting her skirts clear of her feet. Cato’s imperative voice seemed to fill the house.

“Cato… my lord.” Phoebe tripped on the last step in her haste and tumbled into her husband’s waiting arms. He’d anticipated a misstep the moment he’d seen the speed of her arrival.

“Olivia is safe and well,” she said when she could regain her breath.

“So Giles tells me.” He gestured to the burly figure of the sergeant standing behind him. “I’ll go to her at once. Is she abovestairs?”

“She’s getting dressed to come down to you. I believe she’s bathing; you can’t see her immediately,” Phoebe prevaricated. “She really is all right, Cato,” she said when he looked dismayed.

“I suppose I must wait, then,” he said. Some of the worry was smoothed from his face as he looked at his wife. He tilted her face and kissed her mouth.

“And you, my ragged robin. Are you well?” he asked, drawing back from her but still holding her face.

“All the better for seeing you, sir,” she responded, her eyes aglow. “And Charles is grown so big since you left, you won’t recognize him.”

“I’ve been gone but two weeks,” Cato protested.

“Oh, but he eats so much!”

Cato’s mind returned to what was uppermost. “Do you think Olivia will be well enough to accompany me on a visit to these Barkers? Giles has discovered their whereabouts.”

“If she doesn’t ride,” Phoebe said, thinking of the wound in Olivia’s thigh. “I expect it would be all right.”

Cato frowned. “It seems strange to me that Olivia could not remember where they lived.”

“A blow to the head can cause much confusion,” Phoebe said. “When she remembered who she was, I don’t believe anything else mattered, except to get home. She could only think of one thing at a time. It’s quite common with such injuries.”

Cato considered this, noticing absently that Phoebe’s hair was springing loose from its pins as usual and the lace collar of her gown was tucked into the neck. He straightened the collar without conscious thought. “Has she been seen by the physician?”

Phoebe put her chin up. “I believe I have all the necessary skills, sir. Or do you not think so?”

“I wouldn’t dare to dispute it,” he said, throwing up his hands in laughing disclaimer.

“Will you not see the children now? While Olivia is dressing?”

“Is the baby awake?”

“If he isn’t now, he soon will be. I’ll fetch them straightway.”

Cato, smiling, watched her hasten back up the stairs. Babies were still mysteries to him. He was beginning to feel comfortable with Nicholas, who at fourteen months walked quite steadily and had a few words, but the baby, Charles, Cato’s fifth child, who had been born soon after their move to the island, still alarmed him with his fragility. The mothers of his other children had never attempted to interest him in the daily progress of their infant offspring. Phoebe, however, was a very different character, unique in her way of viewing the world. She had made it clear from the first that he was to be a deeply involved parent whether he liked it or not. Cato found that on the whole he liked it.

“We’ll be goin‘ to the Barkers, then, shall us, m’lord?”

“In a short while, Giles. When I’ve talked with Lady Olivia. There’s no hurry, I believe.” Cato raised an eyebrow.

“No… no, sir.” Giles sounded disconsolate. He couldn’t abide wasting time.

“Have you dined, my lord?” Bisset had been hovering at the rear of the hall and now moved forward.

“No, we have ridden since dawn. But just bring me bread and cheese in my study… and ale, if you please.” The butler bowed and Cato went into his sanctum. A small pile of sealed documents sat on his desk, awaiting his return. He picked them up and ran his eye over them. The writing on most he recognized. A missive from Cromwell, another from Governor Hammond, another from the governor of Yarmouth Castle. The last, however, was addressed in a hand he didn’t know. He turned it over. The wax seal bore the imprint of a coat of arms that was also unfamiliar. He reached for his paper knife just as the door opened.

“Here we are, my lord.” Phoebe came in carrying on her hip a fat rosy baby sucking a dimpled fist. A toddler in short coats held her free hand. Little Earl Grafton regarded his father solemnly for a moment as if deciding his next move, then dropped his mother’s hand and advanced with a gleeful little chuckle, reaching up his arms.

Cato lifted him and swung him through the air. The child shrieked with delight and presented his cheek for his father’s kiss.

“Charles was wide-awake and, like his brother, is in great good humor.” Phoebe nuzzled the top of the baby’s head. “Greet your papa, little one.”

Cato set down his son and heir and took the infant as he was clearly supposed to do. The baby wobbled in his arms and it took him a minute before he felt he was holding him in a natural fashion.

Phoebe watched attentively. She was determined that Cato should learn how to manage his babies and bit her tongue on anxious words of advice.

“Olivia says she will be down shortly.”

Cato nodded. The infant was gripping his father’s finger, and Cato was astonished at the strength and determination of the grip. He reached behind him on the desk and gave Nicholas his great seal. The child sat down under its weight and began examining it intently.

Phoebe smiled and glanced curiously at the missives on the table. “Anything of importance, do you think?”

“I haven’t opened them as yet. There’s one in a hand I don’t recognize.” He tried to pull his finger free, but Charles only clung tighter.

“Was the fighting bad?”

“More of a nuisance than anything. The king’s supporters won’t give up easily. I’m afraid there’ll be another attempt to rescue His Majesty from the island.”

He looked over the baby’s head and smiled slightly. “It means I’m going to be needed here to work closely with Colonel Hammond. All the king’s supporters on the island must come under suspicion. So if you’ve a mind to, you and Olivia may join the court, such as it is, in the castle. The colonel and his lady have issued a most cordial invitation for this evening. It might provide you with some amusement.”

Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. She had neither the time nor the inclination for the trivialities of court life and knew that Olivia despised the games as heartily as she did.

“There’s to be a poet there, I believe,” Cato added, seeing her expression. He was well aware of her disinclination for formal gatherings. “You might find him amusing, although in all honesty I don’t believe Mr. Johnson is a very good poet. But you could talk meter and the various merits of prose and rhyme with him.” His smile was somewhat cajoling.

Such a diversion might serve to take Olivia’s mind off her melancholy, Phoebe reflected, if only as an irritant. “Yes, of course. One evening wouldn’t be too much of a hardship.”

Cato laughed. “You are too obliging, madam wife.” He handed the baby back to her. “After I’ve seen Olivia, we’ll visit the Barkers and I can express my gratitude in proper form, then we can put this unfortunate business behind us.”

If only it were that simple. Olivia had a long way to go, whatever she might say, before she could put her encounter with the pirate behind her. Phoebe reached down a hand to pull Nicholas to his feet. He showed some reluctance to yield up the seal, and Cato gently took it from him, giving him instead a blunted quill pen that Nicholas regarded with immediate favor.

Phoebe said, “I’ll talk to Olivia about going to the castle. Make sure she feels up to it.”

Cato turned back to his letters as the door closed behind his wife and sons. He slit the wafer with the unfamiliar seal and opened the sheet.

Godfrey, Lord Channing, equerry to Colonel Hammond, presents his compliments to Lord Granville. His position as equerry has given him some information about His Majesty that he thinks Lord Granville would be interested to hear. Lord Channing most earnestly begs the favor of an interview at a time and place convenient for his lordship.

It was signed with several flourishes in the style of the old court.

Cato frowned, trying to remember if he’d ever met the man. The renewed fighting had kept the marquis from Carisbrooke Castle in recent weeks, so it was possible he hadn’t encountered a new equerry. The name was familiar, though. The Channings were an old and well-respected lineage, with estates in Wiltshire, Cato thought. But why, if the man had information relating to the king, didn’t he report it directly to Governor Hammond? An intriguing question and one certainly worth pursuing.

There was a knock at the door and Cato laid the letter down on the desk. He went swiftly to open the door.

He regarded his daughter with close concern. Always pale, she looked almost ghostly today. So wan and fragile. He put an arm around her, drawing her against his chest, gently stroking her hair. “My poor child, what a dreadful time you’ve had. Come and sit down.” He drew out a chair for her, then perched on the desk, examining her anxiously.

“Can you tell me what happened? Or will it tire you too much?”

“No, no, of course not.” Olivia offered a hesitant smile before embarking on the story she had perfected with Phoebe.

“Phoebe said you wish me to accompany you when you visit them,” she said at the end of her recital.

“I think, if you can manage it, it would be a courtesy,” Cato said.

“They are simple folk,” Olivia said. “They’re not free with their words.” She could only hope that they had been well enough briefed by Anthony to say no more than the minimum.

“But generous with their spirit,” Cato said. “How lucky for us all that they found you.” He shook his head, his eyes still searching Olivia’s pale countenance. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry since I received Phoebe’s message.”

“I’m so sorry,” Olivia said inadequately.

“My dear, a crumbling cliff is hardly your fault.” He leaned over and lightly brushed her cheek with a fingertip, then turned as the door opened to admit Bisset with a tray of food and ale.

Glad to escape her father’s close scrutiny for a moment, Olivia began to rearrange a vase of yellow roses on the mantelshelf as behind her Bisset bustled to lay out his lord’s meal. She didn’t want to visit the Barkers; it was too close a reminder, too soon. They knew Anthony. She remembered his smile as he’d told her that Mike’s mother had so many children he’d never been able to count them all. He must have spent much time with them. They would know him well.

But if she was there, then she could deflect any awkward questions, make sure that the incident from her father’s point of view was closed once and for all.

“When do you wish to leave, sir?” she asked as Bisset left.

“When I’ve eaten this. It’ll not take many minutes; it’s hardly elegant fare, but I missed my dinner.” Cato broke bread, cut cheese. “Phoebe says you shouldn’t ride, so I’ll tell Giles to harness a pony to the trap.” He took a swallow of ale.

“I’ll fetch my hat and cloak and be down in ten minutes.”

Cato nodded with his mouth full and Olivia left him to his makeshift dinner. She went up to her bedchamber, hurrying past the open door to the nursery as she heard Phoebe’s voice talking to one of the nursemaids. She didn’t want to discuss this upcoming visit with Phoebe. Not just yet.

Holding her straw hat, she wandered to the window in her bedchamber. It looked over the garden and out over the sea towards the Needles. The sun was climbing high, setting the clear blue water sparkling. And yet it was not such a magnificent blue as the open sea.

The Barkers must know Wind Dancer‘s anchorage. Mike served on the ship.

Suddenly Olivia felt as she had when she’d tied the pirate’s cravat around her eyes. When they’d parted with such icy unforgiveness and despite it all she’d been overpowered for a moment by the physical consciousness of him, of what they had shared. Suddenly she could smell and feel him, hear him, see the glow in his eye, the curve of his mouth. Her gut twisted as, just as suddenly, she shrank from the power of the physical memory.

The wound in her leg throbbed.

The Barkers’ farmhouse was isolated, set well back from the lane down a cattle track. The nearest human habitation was a scattering of cottages in a small hamlet that they had passed some ten minutes before they turned up the track to the Barkers’ door.

Olivia, sitting beside Giles, who was driving the pony trap, reflected that such isolation would suit a pirate who wished to come and go freely and in secret. She glanced over at Cato, who was riding beside the trap.

He caught her eye and asked anxiously, “Not too tired?”

“No, not in the least, sir. It’s pleasant to be out in the fresh air.”

He smiled, reassured, and Olivia returned to her thoughts.

The farmyard was bustling. Children tumbled with chickens and a litter of puppies on the straw-covered dirt. Two yellow dogs raced to the trap, barking frantically.

“Quiet! Get off!” A woman emerged from the house and chased the dogs off with a broomstick. They ran yelping into the barn.

“Goodwife Barker?” Cato inquired pleasantly, for the moment remaining on horseback.

“Aye, sir.” She regarded him warily before her gaze took in the trap, its driver and passenger.

Olivia took matters into her own hands and jumped down from the cart. She advanced on the lady, holding out her hand. “Goodwife Barker, this is my father, Lord Granville. He has come to thank you himself for your kindness to me.”

Comprehension was immediate. “No need fer that,” the woman said, taking Olivia’s proffered hand. She was a woman of ample girth, and her bright intelligent eyes were like shiny currants in her round face. “ ‘Twas only what any Christian body would have done.”

Cato dismounted. “I stand in your debt, goodwife.”

“That ye don’t, sir. Ye’ve more than paid yer debts,” she replied, dropping him a curtsy. “I’d not looked fer payment, but I’ll not say it came amiss.” She nodded at Giles, who remained in the pony trap. “Good day to ye, sir.”

“Good day, goodwife.”

“D’ye care for a glass of elderflower wine, my lord?” There was no air of subservience about Goodwife Barker as she offered the hospitality of her farmhouse to the marquis of Granville.

“My thanks.” Cato accepted with a smile, well aware that a refusal would cause grave offense.

“The lass knows the way,” she said casually, gesturing that Olivia should precede her.

A large square kitchen occupied the entire ground floor of the farmhouse. The cooking fire was built high, pots on trivets simmered merrily, and the rich smell of baking came from the bread oven set into the bricks of the fireplace. The room was as hot as the oven itself. There seemed to be children everywhere, crawling babies, tottering toddlers, and several older girls who were busy at domestic tasks.

“You have a large family, goodwife,” Cato observed, stepping carefully over an infant who seemed to have fallen asleep where she sat on the floor.

“Oh, aye. My man, Goodman Barker, likes to think he has enough of his own to manage the farm and the fishing without hired help,” she said placidly, taking a flagon from the dresser.

“Is he here? I’d like to meet him. To thank him myself.” Cato perched on the corner of the massive pine table. The perch was a trifle floury but it seemed safer than remaining on his feet when he might tread on a soft body.

“Bless ye, no, m’lord. He’s out from sunup to sundown, rain or shine. He’ll be bringin‘ in the crab pots about now. Like ’e was doin‘ when he found your daughter on the undercliff.” She set two pewter cups on the table and filled them with wine. She handed one to Olivia, saying blandly, “This’ll put strength in you, dearie.”

Olivia took it with a smile of thanks. Mike’s mother had the situation well in hand, and there was nothing here to arouse Lord Granville’s suspicions.

Something tugged at Olivia’s knees. A determined baby was trying to pull himself up on her skirt. She set her cup on the table again and bent to gave him her hands. He hauled himself to his feet with a squeal of delight. She knelt on the stone-flagged floor still holding his hands to steady him, and then she saw something that sent a shiver down her spine.

A small boy was playing with a wooden ship a few feet away from her. It looked to Olivia’s eye to be an exact replica of Wind Dancer. The baby tugged at her hands, clearly demanding that she help him walk, so she obliged, guiding his shaky steps over to where his brother was playing.

She could hear Cato questioning the farmer’s wife pleasantly about the farm and her husband’s fishing. Neither of them were taking any notice of her.

“What’s that you have?” she asked, sitting down on the floor beside the child with the ship, taking the baby onto her lap.

“ ‘Tis a frigate,” the boy informed her with a note of scorn for her ignorance. “I’m puttin’ up the tops’l now.” He pulled on the fine strings that served as shrouds and hauled up the topsail. “See?”

“Who made her for you? One of your brothers?”

“Our Mike,” he said. “ ‘E sails in a ship like this.”

“Oh.” Olivia nodded. “Does your ship have a name?”

“I calls ‘er Dancer.”

“That’s a splendid name. Where does she sail to?”

“ ‘Cross the sea to France, mostly.”

“Does she have an anchorage on the island?”

“Aye.” The boy began to turn the wheel. “I’m goin‘ to sail ’er on the duck pond in a minute.”

“Is that where she has her anchorage?”

“In a duck pond?” The child burst into exaggerated gusts of laughter. “Y’are daft, you are.”

“Well, I don’t know much about ships,” Olivia said. “Can I come and watch you sail her?”

“If you like.” He scrambled to his feet.

Olivia set the baby on the floor and followed the child out of the kitchen and across the farmyard to the duck pond. He squatted at the edge, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he very gently pushed his pretty toy onto the green water.

A soft breeze filled the sails and little Wind Dancer skipped a little until an indifferent duck blocked her path.

The boy waded in, holding up the legs of his britches, gave the duck a careless smack on the beak, and set his ship going again.

“So where does she have her anchorage?” Olivia asked as he came back to her.

“In a chine,” he said.

A chine. Of course. The island cliffs were studded with these deep gorges known as chines. Narrow tongues of water that disappeared into the cliff and in many cases were not visible from the sea, or from the cliff above. She’d heard that smugglers used them to unload their goods in secrecy. And now she remembered the enclosed feel to the air, the thin sliver of sky that was all she’d been able to see from the deck of Wind Dancer when they’d dropped anchor. The pirate’s frigate had its own secluded harbor in a chine. A chine somewhere below where she’d slipped off the cliff.

“When Pa doesn’t need our Mike, ‘e sends a message to the master that ’e can go on Dancer. Sometimes the master sends a message to our Mike. Sometimes he’s gone fer a month or more, our Mike,” the child added, taking up a stick and poking his little ship loose from some pond weed.

Olivia had some familiarity with the minds of children and understood that this boy had invested his toy with all the realities of the big ship.

“How do they send messages?” she heard herself ask.

“Leaves ‘em up on Catherine’s Down. At the oratory, I ’eard ‘em say. There’s a flag.” The little ship keeled over under a gust of wind, and the child lost interest in the conversation. He waded once more into the pond to rescue his vessel.

He seemed to have forgotten Olivia. But he was clearly a case of little pitchers having big ears, Olivia reflected. In such a large family in such a small house, it was hardly surprising a bright child would hear things he shouldn’t, things whose importance he didn’t understand.

Olivia returned to the farmhouse, where Cato had finished his wine and was preparing to take his leave. Olivia came in, momentarily blinded by the dimness after the bright sunshine. “That’s a fine wooden ship Mike made,” she observed. “I was watching his brother sail her on the duck pond.”

“Aye, he’s good with ‘is ’ands, is our Mike,” the goodwife responded, her eyes suddenly sharp as they rested on Olivia, standing in the doorway.

“Does he help his father with the fishing?” Cato inquired.

“Off an‘ on. But mostly ’e hires ‘imself out as an extra hand on the big fishin’ boats that go out from Ventnor.” She moved towards the door. Her guests were ready to leave and she had her own work to do.

Cato walked back out into the farmyard and Olivia followed. The boy was still playing with his ship in the duck pond. Olivia climbed back into the trap as Cato mounted his horse. “Thank you again for all your kindness, goodwife.”

“ ‘Twas nothin’, miss.” The goodwife didn’t smile and her eyes darted to where her son was playing.

“It’s all right,” Olivia said quietly. “No one has anything to fear from me.”

The goodwife looked as if she was about to say something, but then Cato was offering his own renewed thanks and she was obliged to turn to the marquis.

They left the farm and very little was said on the return to Chale. Olivia responded to her father’s occasional remarks, but her own thoughts absorbed her.

So Wind Dancer had an anchorage in a chine. There would be no path from the clifftop down to the chine. It was how they were kept hidden. Olivia knew that much about the island. The chines drove in from the sea, and the clifftop, while it might be eroding in part-hence her own fall-would offer no direct access to the gash in the cliff at sea level.

And she knew how to get a message to Anthony.

“Did Phoebe talk to you about attending the king at the castle this evening?” Cato inquired as he helped her out of the trap at the front door. “I would like you to be presented. It can be done another time, of course, if you’re too tired. But we need not stay for long.”

“Phoebe mentioned it. Of course I will accompany you both.” She smiled. It was an effort but it seemed to satisfy Cato. “I understand you’ve promised her a poet, sir.”

“I fear he has not her talent,” Cato said. “But he’s about all that’s available at present.”

“Phoebe will take any poet on offer,” Olivia said with perfect truth.

Cato laughed and turned to Giles with a question. Olivia went into the house.

So she knew how to contact the master of Wind Dancer. Had she wanted to know that? Had she tried to discover it?

Of course she hadn’t. The man she’d last seen, the man who’d bidden her such a coldly indifferent farewell, who’d refused to hear her hesitant and inarticulate apology, was not a man she would wish to see again, and he’d made it clear he had no wish to see her again. She simply possessed a piece of useless information. Its only satisfaction lay in the knowledge that the master of Wind Dancer would not wish her to possess it.