CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Felicity kept her head down, watching her feet, as if she didn’t know her fiancé was waiting to kiss her. When he did not let go of her waist, she looked up and let him press his lips to hers. But she quickly pulled away.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No, of course not. I just . . . well, my mother taught me that kissing was only for marriage. I feel uncomfortable, as if we should wait until our wedding night.”
“My darling. You are far too modest and chaste.”
She pulled all the way away from him and took a step toward the grotto entrance. “I cannot help it. I am a deep and ardent admirer of Miss Hannah More, and I invariably ask myself, in any situation, ‘What would Miss More say?’”
She was being facetious, knowing he was not astute enough to catch on, but she did very much respect Miss Hannah More’s opinions on matters of morality. And yet, if she felt in her heart that she was truly going to marry Mr. Ratley, she would not object to kissing him, either on moral or any other grounds.
Mr. Ratley caught up with her and pulled her hand through the crook of his elbow. “You need not concern yourself with other people’s opinions. Henceforth I shall tell you what to think.”
She drew in a deep breath, her teeth starting to clench. If she were not pretending to be in love with the man, she might tell him some things he would not find pleasant.
He walked her to the edge of the hole in the ground, and she saw that there were some rudimentary steps leading down.
“It looks quite dark down there.” Felicity stopped as he put his foot on the top step. “Likely it will be dirty.”
“Felicity, my love, I brought you out here so you would not feel uncomfortable being alone with me.”
No, you brought me out here so you could take liberties and no one would see.
“Do you not enjoy kissing your future husband?”
“Darling, I told you. I would prefer to save kissing for after our wedding.” An uneasiness came over her. She should think of some way to placate him. “But we will have the rest of our lives together. You don’t mind being patient, just for a little while, do you, darling?”
He was not looking at her. “Perhaps you have changed your mind about marrying me.”
“Of course not.”
“Oh, good morning. Or should I say, good afternoon?” Mr. Merrick was standing behind them in the clearing. “I did not realize you had taken the same trail.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Merrick.” Mr. Ratley’s voice was tight, but he smiled anyway.
“Were you about to show Miss Mayson the shell grotto? I was hoping to see it myself. Shall we go inside?” He moved toward them as if he didn’t realize he was interrupting their conversation, and he actually started down the steps.
Felicity took Mr. Ratley’s arm, and they started down after him.
“It will take a few minutes for our eyes to adjust to the dark,” Mr. Merrick said. “Mr. Ratley? Is there a lantern we could light?”
Mr. Ratley bent and picked something up off the ground that squeaked like a metal handle. “Here is a lantern, but we have no matches.”
“I just happen to carry some.” Mr. Merrick came close and struck a match. They soon had the lantern lighted, and Felicity gasped.
Seashells covered every inch of space on the walls. Someone had attached them in beautiful patterns and shapes, and the shells were of many different colors—various shades of yellow, pink, and even blue. They were arranged into sunbursts, swirls, and flowers, decorative borders and arches.
“This place is incredible,” Felicity breathed.
Mr. Merrick was holding the lantern close to the walls, examining them. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Shall we explore further?”
They came to two arched openings, one on the left and one on the right. Mr. Merrick went left, and Mr. Ratley pulled Felicity toward the right one.
“But Mr. Merrick has the lantern,” Felicity protested.
“They both lead to the same place,” Mr. Ratley said.
She let him lead her into the dark passageway, and then he pulled her close and tried to kiss her, but in the dark his lips landed on her cheek.
“Come,” Felicity whispered, “let us catch up with Mr. Merrick. I want to see the rest of the cave.” She wrenched herself out of his arms, annoyed that he was causing her to miss seeing what Mr. Merrick was viewing with his lantern. She took Mr. Ratley’s arm and hurried in the direction they had been walking, keeping her other hand on the wall so she wouldn’t lose her way, the edges of the shells dancing on her fingertips.
A glow of light shone just ahead, and soon they reached the end of the tunnel and a large rectangular room. She drank in the fantastical and intricate mosaics someone had meticulously created on the walls, visible by Mr. Merrick’s lantern, but more so by the light coming in through a hole high above them in the ceiling, letting in the sunlight.
“Look at this,” Mr. Ratley said.
Felicity and Mr. Merrick both came over to see a small shell-covered table against the wall, almost like an altar.
“Lady Blackstone said it looked like a place where someone had performed pagan rituals,” Mr. Ratley said.
“Or maybe it’s where they placed their tea things.” Mr. Merrick didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Felicity couldn’t stop turning her head, trying to take in every beautiful inch of the shell-covered walls and ceiling. “Who could have created such a magical-looking place? It’s so well done, so artistic. The walls, even the floors, everything is perfectly straight and level and symmetrical.”
“Lady Blackstone doesn’t know who created it,” Mr. Ratley said. “She said one of her shepherds discovered it and told her about it. He was afraid it was a pagan cave and said he didn’t want anything to do with it. He advised Lady Blackstone to cover the entrance and never go inside.”
“And no one in the village knows about it?” Mr. Merrick asked. “There are no stories or legends about it?”
“Not that we know of. It seems to be completely forgotten.”
“It is such a mysterious place,” Felicity said. “I wish we could find a diary telling how it came about, who built it, and why. Perhaps there is a hidden compartment somewhere.”
“That doesn’t seem likely,” Mr. Ratley said. “And it hardly matters. Those who carved it out of the ground and decorated it must be long dead, and now it’s a perfect storage room for our weapons, as we have a large delivery of guns and ammunition coming soon.”
Felicity sighed. So much beauty. So much mystery. “I hope you will not damage it.”
“It should be about time for tea.” Mr. Ratley did not seem very interested in looking at the walls and held out his arm to Felicity.
“Indeed,” Mr. Merrick said cheerily. “I could do for some tea. Thank you for showing us the shell grotto, Mr. Ratley.”
Mr. Ratley gave a half smile as he faced Mr. Merrick. “Of course.”
They all walked toward the entrance with Felicity following Mr. Merrick as if she did not notice Mr. Ratley hanging back, probably hoping to take the other tunnel so he could try to kiss her again.
Once they were out of the grotto, Felicity allowed herself a deep breath and let it out. She was careful not to look at Mr. Merrick. Her gratitude for his interruption of Mr. Ratley’s intentions would show on her face.
Mr. Ratley helped her onto her horse, and the two men also mounted and led the way back onto the trail.
Mr. Merrick stayed with them, engaging Mr. Ratley in conversation all the way back to the stable. He seemed to be purposely flattering her fiancé, paying him several compliments, making him smile, and putting him into a better mood. May God bless you, Mr. Merrick.
They went inside and took their tea together. Just as they were finished, Felicity walked to the window in the sitting room and looked up.
“It looks as if the clouds are clearing. We may get some more sun later.”
When she spun around, she caught Mr. Merrick looking at her. He quickly glanced away.
“I believe I will go up to look in on my Aunt Agnes.”
“I shall accompany you,” Mr. Ratley said.
“There is no need. Please, stay and talk to Mr. Merrick.” She hurried away as fast as was socially acceptable, before Mr. Ratley could insist.
Once in her room, she talked with her aunt, who was sipping tea. She had never required very much food, and since she seemed to be eating as much as she ever did, Felicity decided she would not suffer any ill effects from her recent moments of shock and nerves.
Felicity changed out of her riding clothes and into a white muslin dress with tiny blue flowers embroidered on the bodice. By the time Auntie had finished helping her on with her dress, more than fifteen minutes had passed, so she hurried away.
She smiled at the few people she encountered on the stairs and in the corridor but did not pause to chat. As usual, she browsed through the library, pretending to look through the books, grabbed one to take back to her aunt, and slipped into the closet and shut the door.
Mr. Merrick greeted her.
“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Merrick. I wanted to tell you what I learned from Mr. Ratley today.” She proceeded to tell him about how the insurrectionists all planned to scatter and carry out their plans from different places around the country, and she told him especially about the leaflets and pamphlets.
“Did you know,” she said, focusing on his blue eyes, “that they have a printing press here?”
“Yes. It’s in a building next to the gardener’s shed. They use it to print leaflets with their violent reform rhetoric.”
Mr. Merrick’s brows drew down in that now-familiar wrinkle above his nose, and he tapped the fingers of his right hand against his leg, another little habit of his.
“I have been considering whether I should destroy it so they can’t print any more of their insurrectionist propaganda. It might even delay their revolution if they don’t have enough leaflets.”
“But wouldn’t that be dangerous? They might realize a traitor lurked in their midst.”
“I could make it seem as if it broke on its own.”
“We could do it tonight, then, after everyone is asleep. They run the printing press twelve hours a day, Mr. Ratley said. No one will be running it tonight.”
“You should let me take care of it. If they see us . . .”
“If they see you, they will kill you, but they probably would not kill me. Besides, I want to help.”
“There is no need for you to risk your safety. I will take care of it.” He was leaning toward her with that intense look in his eyes.
Felicity realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out. “Very well.”
He seemed to realize he’d been leaning in, and he took a step back and straightened. She saw him take a breath to steady himself. “Forgive me if I sounded . . . harsh.”
“Not at all. You wish to do your job. I respect that.” Although you could accept my help with no extra risk to yourself—or your silly pride. But, to be fair, there would be less danger of getting caught if one should sabotage the printing press rather than two.
“I am grateful to have you for an ally, Miss Mayson. I am only sorry . . .” He tapped his fingertips on his leg again.
When he did not continue, she asked, “Sorry? For what?”
“Sorry that you must continue to suffer Mr. Ratley’s attentions.”
Her stomach churned. He’d probably heard their argument about kissing. Her cheeks heated.
“Hopefully it will be over soon.”
“I—yes.” Her face was burning. “I am keeping him at arm’s length as much as I can. I’ve told him we cannot get married until he asks my father’s blessing, and since he isn’t likely to go to London for that purpose . . .”
An awkward silence followed. If their situation was not so important to so many people other than themselves, Mr. Merrick would certainly come to her aid. But the thought stirred an ache in her chest, so she pushed it away. She didn’t want to cry and make him any more uncomfortable than he already was. He was obviously a gentleman, so of course he wished to save her this indignity of having to fight off Mr. Ratley’s kisses. Only because he was a gentleman. He did not care specifically for her. And she shouldn’t wish he did. She shouldn’t. But she did.
Philip felt the gut-wrenching pain of Miss Mayson’s embarrassment and relived seeing Oliver Ratley looming over her by the entrance to the shell grotto trying to intimidate her into letting him kiss her. Philip imagined grabbing Ratley’s shoulder, spinning him around, and slamming his fist in his cowardly face. The thought of Ratley’s nose spurting blood was the only thing that kept Philip from doing something that might jeopardize his mission.
He should change their topic of conversation.
“Today I got a letter saying my mother’s illness has worsened, and the doctors do not expect her to recover.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry.” Felicity gasped and pressed a hand to her chest.
“No, not my mother. It is a ploy. A colleague from the Home Office sent the letter, as per our plan, in case I needed a distraction at this point in my investigation. I shall tell Lady Blackstone of the letter—she no doubt already knows, for they open every letter that arrives—and then tonight after dinner I shall use it as an excuse to leave the company early and go up to my room to be alone and pen some letters to my family. I’ll sneak out to the printing press, disable it, and be back inside before anyone misses me.”
He would also use that time to go into Lady Blackstone’s room and steal the papers, but there was no need to divulge that information. He didn’t want her to worry.
“Very well.” She seemed disappointed that she would not be helping him.
“Your information has been invaluable, Miss Mayson. I cannot thank you enough.”
“I am happy for anything I can do. Although I would prefer to have these people apprehended sooner rather than later so that my Aunt Agnes and I can go home.” She smiled, her lips curving symmetrically, her pink cheeks and green eyes delicately enhancing her beauty, and her pale-red-blonde hair framing perfectly arched brows and thick lashes.
But he should not be staring at her so blatantly, admiring her beauty.
“Thank you. Of course. You and your aunt shall be back home with the rest of your family very soon.”
Philip did his best to keep up with the whereabouts of as many of the houseguests as he could but especially those of Lady Blackstone and her almost-constant shadow, Mr. Ratley.
That evening at dinner, Philip informed the latter two of the dire situation of his mother, saying that she was in an unconscious state and could die at any time, or she might linger for many months. However, he felt his first duty was to make her beloved country a better place, rather than sitting by her bedside.
Lady Blackstone commended his zeal. “You are a true son of England,” she said. “Your mother would be very proud of you.”
Mr. Ratley actually clapped him on the shoulder. “It is hard to lose one’s mother. Let Lady Blackstone and me be your support. We are all a family here, of sorts, fighting for a common cause.”
“Thank you. You are good friends.” Philip endeavored to look humble.
Dinner was the same lingering affair, and everyone seemed to be drinking a bit more than usual. As the meal was drawing to a close, one of the women suggested a game.
“Mr. Ratley says he and Miss Mayson are engaged, but let us see if he is willing to pay for her hand with compliments. He must pay fifteen compliments or we shall lock her away from him until he does.”
Miss Mayson’s porcelain skin turned bright red as a hearty “Huzzah!” went around the table, and all eyes turned to her and her fiancé.
Felicity listened with self-conscious embarrassment as her friend Josephine Cartwright suggested Mr. Ratley pay compliments to his bride-to-be, “Or we will lock her away from him until he does.”
Josephine laughed and clapped her hands as the rest of the guests shouted, “Pay up!”
Mr. Ratley beamed, obviously delighted to have so much attention directed toward him.
Felicity tried to smile good-naturedly. But she wished she could sink through the floor at finding herself the object of the raucous crowd’s attention.
Mr. Ratley stood as the crowd began to chant, “Pay up! Pay up!”
“Very well, very well.” He motioned for them to quiet down. “I am a man in love, so I have no objections.”
“I will count for you!” someone shouted.
Mr. Ratley cleared his throat, then announced loudly, “My Miss Mayson is as lovely as any girl in England.”
“Lovely! That’s one!”
He paused, as if he could not think of any other compliments. Her stomach twisted. Everyone was staring, waiting, their faces fastened on her fiancé with caustic grins.
Finally, Mr. Ratley said, “Miss Mayson is the girl I have dreamed of my whole life.”
“That’s two! What makes you want to marry her? Come on, man!”
“She is an ornament on my arm, my brightest jewel.”
“A bright jewel,” Mr. Cartwright said. “That’s three.”
She pressed the back of her hand to her burning cheek.
“No, no, that’s the same thing!” someone shouted. “Lovely, a dream, and a jewel. Something else, something else!”
“She is beautiful, handsome, lovely,” Mr. Ratley listed, still smiling broadly.
“Those are all the same!”
Felicity tried to force an amused smile while she prayed he would think of some other compliment, something appropriate—or, better yet, put a stop to this “game.” When she glanced up, she noticed Mr. Merrick’s hands were clenched into fists as he glared at Mr. Ratley. But when he looked at Felicity . . . She couldn’t meet his look of compassion.
“Think of something else,” another man shouted, “or we will take her now and lock her away.” He even went so far as to stand up from his chair, motioning to Mr. Sproles to join him.
O God, please don’t let this escalate any further. Why did Mr. Ratley not put a stop to this? Instead, he wore a ridiculous smile.
“Oh, my Miss Mayson is the loveliest of women. She is the apple of my eye . . . my comfort . . . the mother of my future children.”
Everyone roared with laughter. Felicity could not even lift her eyes from her lap. How humiliating to see and hear her fiancé unable to come up with anything he loved about her besides her physical appearance and usefulness to himself. Thanks be to God that she did not intend to actually marry him, that she was not trusting in Mr. Oliver Ratley to love her for the rest of her life. How could she have ever pledged herself to a man so shallow that he did not value her mind or her heart?
The men who had just been guffawing at Mr. Ratley’s words now took a few steps toward her.
Philip gritted his teeth as he stared at the man who was humiliating his fiancée and himself and was too doltish to even realize it.
Could the blockhead not think of anything else to love about Miss Mayson? Philip was sickened. Was he too blind to see that she was clever, kind, and intelligent? That she was gentle and always found the good in others? Did he not see that behind that quiet voice was a steely conviction, a courage to always do what was right?
The man was a vile caricature, an utter failure at appreciating this glorious woman, not to mention that he did not even see how he was humiliating her in front of these rough men. Philip’s blood boiled.
When a few of the men got up, focused on Miss Mayson, and stepped toward her, Philip rose from his chair.
“That is enough,” he shouted, his hands clenched into fists. “You are embarrassing the lady.”
Everyone stared at him as his heart pounded with the same intensity he longed to apply with his fists to their faces.
He went on in an even tone, forcing a calm he did not feel. “There is no need to throw decency to the winds in this undignified manner.”
“Mr. Merrick is right,” Lady Blackstone said in a hard tone of voice. “Ladies, let us adjourn to the parlor. And if the men can control their bawdiness, they may join us later.”
Philip suddenly remembered. In all the chaos, he’d forgotten his plan for the evening. “Lady Blackstone, if I may . . .”
She stopped and turned steely eyes on him.
“Please excuse me and allow me to go to my room. I . . . after the news I have received about my mother, I feel I should write some letters to my family and—”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Merrick. You are excused.” She turned and left, leading the other ladies with her.
He couldn’t help glancing at Miss Mayson. He caught her eye, but only for a moment. Her cheeks still blushed red. She looked away and followed the other ladies out. Philip left with them, then went up to his room.
He took off his blue coat and replaced it with the black one that had Lady Blackstone’s room key sewn into the lining. He grabbed a stack of blank papers off his desk and carefully placed them inside his waistcoat, then hurried back out his door.
In the corridor, he pressed himself against the wall and listened. He looked to the right and to the left. No one seemed to be around. He walked slowly and carefully toward the wing of the house where Lady Blackstone’s room was located while ripping out the stitching in the coat lining one stitch at a time until he was able to extricate the key.
He paused in front of her door, inserted the key, and went inside, shutting the door behind him.
He quickly went to the drawer where the papers were located. He opened it and found them just where they had been before. He took them out and replaced them with the blank pages from inside his waistcoat—laying the first page of Lady Blackstone’s papers on top—and stuffed the rest inside his waistcoat.
He looked all around, trying to spot anything he might have left out of place. Satisfied, he moved to the door, listened carefully, opened it, listened again, then slipped out. He locked it back with the key, then hurried back to his own room.
Inside, he went to his trunk and lifted it off the floor, tilting it onto its lid. On the bottom was a tiny latch. He turned it to reveal a compartment large enough for the papers and the key. He put them inside, closed and latched it, and put it back down on the floor.
He then moved as quietly as possible back out of his room, down the stairs, and out the door to the nighttime garden, all without encountering anyone, praise be to God.
Silently, he crept toward the building that housed the printing press.