Chapter Twenty-Four
As far as cells went, it was rather comfortable.
Adam even had a bed, a chair, and a wooden table with a washbowl and ewer at his disposal. A chamber pot sat on a shelf under the table.
It appeared to be a servant’s room built into the building’s rafters. The sharply-angled ceiling forced him to remain largely in the center of the room under the ridge beam when standing, lest he bang his head.
A number of small dormer windows, no more than two feet square, spilled light across the floor. If Adam lay on the floor beside them, he had a good view to the southeast where, in the mornings, he could see the shimmering glint of water – whether it was the sea or the mouths of one of the rivers, he couldn’t tell.
Four of the windows had opening panels, a small-hinged window that occupied half of the aperture – enough to let air in, but not enough to squeeze through and escape. The only means of entry and exit from the room was through the tall narrow door at the end wall. It was locked.
Of course, it was.
He hoped the routine was the same today as it had been for the past three days. Sometime after the long case clock chimed the seventh hour, one of Wilkinson’s men would unlock the door and escort him down for breakfast.
Surprisingly, they’d even let him keep a knife. However, he was accompanied everywhere he went in the house. Whenever he ventured out into the grounds, he was accompanied by three, all wearing pistols. He was not exactly a prisoner, but not a trusted guest either.
If he put his ear to the floor, he could hear the sounds of activity below. Again, if his “hosts” were predictable in their habits, the time would be about six o’clock. Someone would reactivate the chimes on the clock and the first sounds he would hear would be the strike of the quarter-hour.
Adam decided to occupy himself this morning with push-ups, which he would do until he heard the key inserted into the lock.
The satchel with the plans and other papers had been confiscated immediately and yet he hadn’t been interrogated right away. For two days, he had lived on the edge of fear that they’d seen through Bassett’s forgery and the next man who approached him would be his executioner. For those first two days, he’d spoken to no one. Not even Wilkinson.
Then the interrogations began. The Artemis warship plans were spread across Wilkinson’s desk and pored over from stem to stern, inch by inch, line by line. Questions were asked of everything. Adam answered what he might reasonably know, replied “Dunno” to others.
The morning sun filled the room with heat and light but there was little breeze to compensate. Adam increased the pace of his push-ups, puffing out air like a pump, raising sweat across his bare back and head, dripping from the week-long beard on his face.
Yesterday he decided to push back. He’d been wearing the same clothes for five days and refused to cooperate further until someone was sent for his things.
Sure enough, at seven o’clock, the door to his room was unlocked. Adam got to his feet and waited. Dunbar opened the door and shoved a small trunk along the floor with his foot.
Wilkinson entered the room behind Dunbar.
“There ye are, Hardacre, yer own clothes, as promised.”
Still keeping his eye on the two men, Adam squatted down and unlatched the trunk. There were his clothes, wrinkled where Dunbar, no doubt, had just tossed them in. He felt around and came across his leather shaving pouch, a small tortoiseshell box containing soap, and his comb.
“Nothin’ missin’, then?”
Yes. The writing box. He ignored Dunbar’s sarcasm and rose to his feet.
“No,” he answered, “that’s everything.”
Another man bustled past with a bucket, curls of steam rising from the hot water. He filled the ewer and left.
“Make yourself presentable,” said Wilkinson. “We’ll be back at the half-hour. After breakfast, I want to talk to you further about the gunning placements.”
Adam kept himself at attention until the door was closed and locked before letting out a long sigh.
While the water cooled, he folded his clothes neatly, then retrieved his soap and shaving kit to begin making himself presentable.
For Dunbar to go to Ponsnowyth and back in a day meant they was no more than thirty miles away from Four Cross. That meant he was still relatively close to Truro and Falmouth – close enough, if possible, to get word to Ridgeway as soon as he had anything worth reporting.
Then there was the missing writing box. He paused a moment and put the straight razor down.
Had they held it back? He’d know soon enough if they had. Or…
Apart from himself, the only person in the world who cared about that damned box was Olivia. Was she there when Dunbar collected his clothes? Had she somehow claimed the box?
If that was the case, he hoped to God that Wilkinson and his crew didn’t suddenly get it into their heads that there was something of interest in it and return for it.
Damn.
Should he have confided in Olivia more? No, he dared not; revealing as much as he had to Harold was dangerous enough. All he could hope for was that if Olivia had the box and uncovered the code book, she would be sensible enough to deliver it into Harold’s hands.
Adam picked up the razor and continued shaving.
Olivia. He recalled the feel of her lips on his, the full, soft weight of her breasts in his hands.
Stop.
Adam gritted his teeth. It was over. There was no choice, it had to be over. His enterprise was too dangerous. One misstep even now and he could find himself with his throat slit or a pistol ball in his brain. And, in a couple of months, Olivia would formally accept Peter Fitzgerald’s proposal of marriage.
Hell and damnation!
Adam hissed against the sting of a cut and threw the razor into the bowl in anger. He picked up a towel, touched it to his neck, and glanced at it. It spotted red. He pressed the towel against the nick for a minute until he was certain the bleeding had stopped.
No.
There was no way he would let Olivia marry that grey old fool, not if he had anything to do with it.
By the time Dunbar returned to take him downstairs, Adam had made his resolution.
If he survived this dangerous game, he would go to Ridgeway and demand he accept him with a wife, or not at all.
*
“Are you unwell, my dear?”
Olivia started and looked up into the concerned eyes of Peter Fitzgerald.
“You’ve overtired yourself,” he continued. “This project of yours to write the history of Kenstec Manor – perhaps it’s too ambitious for you.”
Finally, the words she wanted to say made their way to the fore.
“Please don’t fuss. I am quite well, thank you. And I am quite capable of quietly reading and making notes.”
Fitzgerald looked taken aback at the disproportionately severe response.
Olivia shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’ve not slept well over the past couple of days,” she conceded. “And you’re correct, I’ve spent far too long behind the desk. I’m going to go for a walk.”
“Then I’ll accompany you.”
Olivia really wished he wouldn’t but, after her outburst, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse him.
Foskett knocked on the door.
“Excuse me, sir. Mr. Fraser is here and he insists he needs to see you on a matter of some urgency.”
Fitzgerald looked torn. Olivia took the opportunity to reassure him. “You are such a dear to be considered about my health…Peter. I promise that some time in the fresh air will have me revived in no time.”
“Well, as long as you’re sure.”
She even managed to give him a smile to prove it. Fitzgerald returned an uncertain grimace before leaving to see his client.
Olivia closed the journal from 1730 which marked another period of major renovation at Kenstec Manor. In truth, she had lost the taste for her project.
Foskett had been only too happy to answer her legal questions and she was given the answer she had been expecting but dreaded – an illegitimate child cannot inherit, no matter the circumstances. A babe born on the wrong side of the blanket might inherit from his mother, if she had provided for it, but, otherwise, such a child could make no claim.
She picked up her reticule and stepped out into the sunshine, starting on the half-mile walk up to the post office. It had been a mistake to involve herself with anything to do with the Hardacres. If she had left well enough alone, she wouldn’t have opened up such a Pandora’s Box of misery for herself.
Still, there was something about the whole affair that unsettled her beyond her own bruised feelings. No one had heard from Adam since his brusque four line letter offered by the thuggish manservant who collected his belongings – not even Adam’s friend, Lieutenant Bickmore.
Olivia had asked him about it when he called upon her to accompany him to shop for his sister or, as it turned out, sisters. Like Jory, he shrugged off the behavior, telling her it was not out of the ordinary for Adam. Still, she suspected the lieutenant only told her that as reassurance, because there was something in his face that suggested he didn’t believe it either.
One day, I will tell you the truth. And then one day, you may actually forgive me.
The writing box…in her most fanciful imaginings, she wondered whether Adam had hidden something in it before he locked it – a secret letter, a clue.
Such a pity she didn’t have a key. The thought of damaging the piece to get at its contents was unconscionable. What would one have to do to pick a lock?
At the post office, two letters waited for her, both with London postmarks, but before she could examine them further, Olivia heard her name called.
“Miss Collins, it’s fortunate we meet again. I was so hoping we would.”
Olivia dropped a curtsy to Lady Ridgeway, but frowned, puzzled.
“You wished to speak to me, my Lady?”
“Yes, let’s take a walk to the park.”
The woman opened a blue and white floral parasol that matched her dress. White fringing shimmied attractively as they walked. Olivia adjusted her hat to help protect her face from the midday sun. Together they walked down King’s Street and onto High Cross. Despite being a decade or more younger, Olivia found herself working hard to keep pace with the other woman’s brisk clip.
Lady Abigail Ridgeway had the bearing of aristocracy, her head held high as though anything in the world was hers for the taking. She must have had men falling at her feet in her youth. Perhaps they still did, since everyone they passed either nodded or curtsied.
It was no small measure of irony that Olivia found herself at the same bench, under the same tree, where Peter Fitzgerald had proposed marriage. Lady Ridgeway pulled out a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her reticule and swept the seat before sitting down. She offered a regal incline of her head, which Olivia guessed was her invitation to sit also.
“I understand you were a governess recently in the employ of Beaufort Denton.”
“That is correct, my Lady.”
“And you are now unemployed?”
Olivia inwardly winced. The woman was not awkward about coming forward.
“Yes.”
“Do you intend to stay in Cornwall?”
“I don’t know. It would depend on finding a situation, and I have not yet had replies to any inquiries. Perhaps, there may be an offer in one of the letters I received today.”
“Would you stay if the opportunity presented itself?”
Olivia looked directly into the woman’s grey-green eyes for the first time. Was this a prelude of an offer of employment?
“Yes, I love Cornwall.”
The look she received in return was assessing. “Just the attractive scenery, is it?”
What on earth was she to say to that? That she had fallen in love? And with a man whose whereabouts was currently unknown and whose actions bordered on the capricious and who knew what else?
Lady Ridgeway watched her. A smile played around lightly rouged lips. “Come now, it’s more than pretty views of the sea that make one stay in Cornwall, although I have to say I find the country air and rustic charm of frank speaking most refreshing after the society of London and Bath.”
Olivia was taken aback by such open mockery and found herself unable to fashion a reply that didn’t call out the woman for her rudeness or make her want to respond in kind. She swallowed the words she wanted to say… the ones she only said in her mind when Mistress Caroline’s friends would treat her like a servant and not a respectable governess.
“I’m not sure what to tell you, my Lady.”
“Well, you’re showing a little spirit, that’s a start. I was beginning to wonder whether you were one of these insipid creatures I so detest.”
Olivia rose to her feet. “I am most assuredly not, and since you prefer plain speaking, my Lady, then you will not be offended if I say that you are rude and condescending – an utter misplacement of the appellation of lady if there ever was one!”
The aristocrat before her merely inclined her head, as though she had simply conceded a point in tennis. The movement was matched by an upturn to her lips and a light shrug.
“I have been called worse.”
She also rose to her feet.
“Do you speak French?”
Olivia answered firmly and without hesitation. “I do.”
“Do you wish to marry the solicitor, Peter Fitzgerald?”
“I do not.”
The answer was out of her mouth before Olivia thought to question why Lady Ridgeway would ask such a personal question, let alone how she would even know of the arrangement.
“Excellent. I think my interest in you is not misplaced,” Lady Ridgeway averred.
“With respect, are you looking for a governess?”
“Good Lord, no. You’ve seen my daughter, Marie – far too old to need a governess. I was considering a chaperone for certain engagements.”
“For yourself, or for your daughter?”
“Neither.” The woman twitched a sly smile.
This was the most confusing conversation Olivia had ever had in her life.
From her reticule, Lady Ridgeway withdrew a card. She handed it to her.
“In two weeks from now, attend an interview here.”
Olivia looked down at the card, black ink standing bold on the heavy white paper.
Charteris House
Truro, Cornwall.
She looked up to find Lady Ridgeway walking away, the woman not even giving her a backward glance.