Misleading Miss Verity, page 3
The man shrugged. “It’s nowt to me.”
Anthony’s oft-treacherous sense of humor begged his attention. How many times had his superiors decried the crass and difficult convicts as being “nowts”?
“Do ye be laughin’ at me?” The beefy man frowned and turned to his henchmen. “I do be thinkin’ he is laughin’ at me.”
Anthony stiffened as they nodded and murmured agreement. “Sir, I dinnae—”
“Oho, sir is it now?” He stepped forward aggressively. “Y’know what I do with them that laugh at me?”
“I was not laughing at you.”
“But I thinks you was.” The space between them shrank into nothing as the man’s spit-flecked mouth drew closer. “And roight now, it don’t matter wot anyone thinks but me.”
Anthony swallowed a retort as his predicament grew in stature. Would it be cowardly to run or simply the wisest course of action? His early morning reading of the exhortation to be as bold as a lion suddenly seemed as far-fetched as the sailor stories he’d heard of fish that flew. He gritted his teeth. Lord, give me courage!
“I see ye might be a fool but a bold one for all that.”
Anthony exhaled. Perhaps the man might be won over to reason, after all—
Crack!
Pain splintered through his cheek, piercing through to his brain as the beefy man lowered his fist. “That be for lying ’bout my Freddie, ’ere.”
“But—”
Ooof!
Anthony doubled over, sucking in air as agony ricocheted through his midsection.
“And that be for being a God-botherer.” The man spat and swore loudly. “We don’t need none of your sort ’ere.”
Anthony groaned.
“Did I asks ye to speak? Did I?” The man’s eyes held a reddish glow, like an enraged boar, his mouth pulled out in an expression more snarl than smile. “Let ’im ’ave it, Jim.”
At once a rain of blows fell on his back and legs. Anthony tried to defend himself, but memories of wrestling with his cousin seemed so far away, and his feeble attempts availed nothing. A thump on his skull sent him to his knees, a kick to his lower back left him gasping amidst the dirt and slurry.
He wrenched open his eyes to see dung-covered boots inches from his nose. Sour whisky fumes breathed in his face as the man bent down. “Don’t ever be letting me see your ugly mug again.”
Anthony lay prostrate on the dirt, unable to move, his mind slipping between awareness and dark, conscious only of dust swirling in the cold breeze and pain so immense he could almost understand those who begged to be released from this mortal coil.
His eyes closed as the first tears from heaven fell from the sky.
CHAPTER TWO
Bath, Somerset
February
VERITY LISTENED WITH half an ear as Miss Haverstock continued her spring half-term address, reiterating the prestige attached to Miss Haverstock’s Select Seminary for Young Ladies. Well did Verity know there were long lists of desperate-to-be “selectees,” having spied their applications whilst rifling through Miss Haverstock’s study. And how often had she heard her own mama espouse the benefits of Haverstock’s on her eldest two “gels,” the resulting alliances ensuring Mama now took great pride in addressing said daughters as “Lady Erasmus Carstairs” and “my daughter Cecilia, affianced to the Earl of Rovingham’s son.” Such exalted positions had buoyed hopes for Verity. Alas—Verity’s lips twisted in a wry smile—such hopes had always been doomed for disappointment, a situation only exacerbated with the shocking news of Miss Haverstock’s immediate retirement, much to the consternation of various parents, if not their children.
“And now finally, may I say what a joy and delight—”
“‘Finally’ like in St. Peter’s letter to the Philippians?” Helena murmured. “She is long-winded today.”
“Her last chance to remind the parents their investment was worthwhile.”
“Note she did not glance at you when speaking of delight at training your daughters.”
No, she had not.
The indignant glare from her mother drew Verity’s spine straight, her attention fixed to the front as Miss Haverstock waffled on. The withered countenance refused to meet her gaze, thus lending further weight to her suspicions that today would give as much relief to the esteemed lady as it did herself. For the restrictions and lessons had hardly dimmed her “natural vivacity,” as Verity’s paternal grandmother called her high spirits, instead proving more challenge than chastisement.
Verity bit back her amusement. With Miss Pelling in charge the following month it would be interesting to see if she continued with her reluctance to inform Verity’s parents of her every misdemeanor. No doubt she had not yet been expelled because the seminary could scarcely countenance a failure of the third Aynsley gel, after such previous successes. She sneaked a glance at her mother, whose bitter disappointment in Verity’s lack of social graces was likely to be repeated by her lack of come-out success. Her heart panged. Poor Mama. Destined for perpetual disappointment with her youngest. As Papa always said, Verity should have been born a boy. She lifted her chin, ignoring the wrinkling in her soul she always experienced when reminded of her parents’ disappointment at producing no heir. It wasn’t her fault she was born female.
Miss Haverstock completed her homily, encouraging the selectees and their families to partake of refreshments. Verity nudged Helena. One of the advantages of the exorbitant fees was the comparatively good assortment of refreshments on offer, at least when parents were in attendance. Helena nodded, and soon they were clutching filled teacups and small plates holding an assortment of small cakes and dainty pastries.
“Why, Helena, how thoughtful,” Mrs. Chisholm said, as her daughter plied her with the offerings.
Verity offered her plate and a smile. “Mama, would you like this cup of tea?”
Lady Aynsley patted the seat beside her. “I would prefer you to sit beside me.”
Verity suppressed a sigh and pretended to act like the lady she knew she would never be, smiling at trivialities, sipping delicately at the porcelain cup as her mother prosied on to Mrs. Chisholm about her two far-more-dutiful daughters. While the reverend’s wife leaned in to listen, Verity gestured to the gimlet-eyed headmistress mobbed by a pack of anxious parents, and murmured to Helena, “See what happens when one devotes one’s self to silly strictures?”
“Perhaps that is more the result of needing to enforce them once she met you.”
“Very likely,” Verity murmured, as Miss Haverstock drew near, with the air of one recently escaped from a noose.
“Ah, Lady Aynsley, Mrs. Chisholm.”
“Oh, my dear Miss Haverstock! Your news has filled us with the utmost dismay.”
“I know ’tis unexpected, Lady Aynsley. My sister’s health, however …” She made a helpless gesture.
“Of course. Family must come first,” Mrs. Chisholm agreed. “You shall both be in our prayers.”
“Thank you.”
“And while I am sorry circumstances force my leave, I’m sure Miss Pelling will lead the school admirably.” The newly retired headmistress gave a thin smile that disappeared as she eyed her former students. “Helena, I wish you the best for your return to the north.”
Verity bit back amusement at Miss Haverstock’s refusal to say the word “Scotland,” which betrayed her utter aversion to the place—a point in her favor, as far as Mother was concerned.
“And Verity.” The headmistress sighed. “We can only hope for the best.”
“Indeed we can.” Verity smiled blandly.
The hard gaze narrowed further before Miss Haverstock turned to Lady Aynsley. “It grieves me to think Verity may not quite live up to the exalted stations of dear Caroline and Cecilia.”
Verity’s mother shook her head. “I know you have done your utmost.”
“Yes, we have.”
Verity’s smile felt pasted on as Miss Haverstock continued her piercing scrutiny. While disobedience was not punishable by whipping, she had often wondered just how much pleasure it would have given the headmistress to administer the cane. Indeed, sometimes she wondered if Miss Haverstock might be better suited as a female warden for one of the convict ships she had heard about. Such places would have no hesitation in enacting corporal punishment.
She smiled wider. “Thank you, Miss Haverstock, for a lifetime of memories.”
Her now-former headmistress looked at her, startled, before nodding and walking away.
Verity sighed, a sound swiftly echoed by her mother, though Mama’s sounded more like a groan. “What am I to do with you?”
“What are your plans for Verity for the remainder of the school year?” Mrs. Chisholm asked.
“I’m undecided. We have a busy few months ahead, and I cannot but think a season in London would likely be of greater benefit to my girl than further education.”
Verity’s lips pressed together. Oh dear, no.
Mrs. Chisholm gazed thoughtfully between Verity and her mother. “You know you are most welcome to send Verity north to stay with us for the summer.”
“Oh, Mama, what a wonderful idea!” Helena clapped her hands. “We could have all manner of fun! There are the horses, and we could explore the abbey nearby, and of course James would love to see you.”
Verity frowned at her friend’s indecorous comment. James was a pleasant fellow, but a trifle marked in his attentions whenever he had visited Helena in Bath before. She glanced at her mother, whose raised eyebrows betrayed her discontent with a mere minister’s son holding such aspirations. Perhaps a little begging might be in order.
“Oh, Mama, please. Then you could spend time with Caroline and be there when the new baby arrives.”
“Verity! Please do not speak of such things.”
“But why? Surely it is not ill-bred to be excited about becoming an aunt.”
“It is not ill-bred to be filled with anticipation, that is true, but it is ill-mannered to mention such things.” Mama shifted her attention to Helena’s mother. “Thank you for your kind invitation, but I’m afraid I cannot accept. We have much to attend to in these next few months, what with Cecilia’s wedding, and Verity’s presentation.”
“Well, think it over,” Mrs. Chisholm said, in that easy unruffled manner that had always appealed to Verity. “Verity is always welcome, and you may find it helpful should family matters require your presence elsewhere.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Chisholm,” Mama said stiffly. “I am much obliged but must decline.”
Verity’s spirits, which had been riding high as the crest of a wave, fell flat. How stupid to hope. Of course Mama would not wish to be obliged to anyone. Why, the very idea was anathema!
Her nose wrinkled. Mama’s reluctance to feel obliged probably ranked as low as Verity’s own desire to be presented to the King’s sisters. One could only hope that poor King George III’s death meant the Drawing Rooms would be canceled this year.
Too soon she bid her best friend farewell and set out for the lonely home that was Aynsley Manor, wondering, without the fizzing anticipation that had greeted her this morning, just what her future held.
Sydney Town, New South Wales
At the sound of the rattling door Anthony wrested his body into an upright position, hoping the caller would not know he had taken to resting for short periods during the day. His lips formed a mirthless smile. Resting at his age? But his body protested, the aches and pains inflicted two weeks ago weighing as heavily as the memory of the young thief’s lashing yesterday. Anthony had pleaded for clemency—the lad, who could not be more than ten, had grown up in an unprincipled environment and was only following his father’s orders—but the magistrate would have none of it.
“We are a civilized colony, and must strongly discourage the avarice and vice that brought so many to our shores.”
Yes, a civilized colony indeed, one that might replace structures of wattle and daub with buildings of gleaming gold sandstone, but nonetheless one that locked up small children and deemed all people who spoke accented English as being rather less than acceptable. Thank God his brogue was deemed the slightly more acceptable kind, otherwise he might face the same persecution as poor Father O’Leary did, whose proclamation of truth refused to be heard by anyone other than the Papists.
By the time he shuffled to the front door, his visitor was gone, the slightly stained cream envelope under the door the only sign that Anthony had not imagined the whole thing. He gingerly bent down—the doctor said it would be another week or two before his bruised ribs fully healed—and scooped it up, his eyes adjusting in the dim light to read the neat writing:
Mr. Anthony Jardine
8 Lennox Lane
Sydney Town
New South Wales
He smiled to himself; “8 Lennox Lane” sounded far more respectable than what it was—a row of mud and timber huts crowded together around a sewer-lined dirt lane that stank in summer and flooded misery in winter. Why the colony’s senior chaplain deemed it acceptable for Anthony’s use brought unanswered questions, but he had learned not to object too strenuously. Experience had proved it far more productive to just get on with things, to begin a project and then apologize, rather than wait for permission that may never come. If he’d followed protocol he would never have been granted permission for the soup kitchen that had sustained many families during the recent drought. And as for assisting the emancipists with their letters and numbers, he could hear the booming negative echo across his soul. No, Chief Chaplain Marsden might have his own ideas why Anthony should be situated in Lennox Lane, but helping freed convicts attain learning was not one of them.
Anthony didn’t mind, not really, for living in Lennox Lane had its advantages: he was but a short walk from the newly established Botanical Gardens, and he had grown to know his neighbors in a way that living several miles distant in a fancy house would never permit. And while the past few years he had seen things his parents would have shuddered over, births and deaths and disease and despair, he somehow felt like God was using him, a vessel of God’s grace that had seen more than one heart soften to accept the message of love that still underscored the fire and brimstone so often preached from the chief chaplain’s pulpit.
He shook off the unease that thoughts of Marsden always provoked and fingered the parchment in his hand. A letter from home! Perhaps Da and Ma had relented after all.
He studied the precise handwriting and knew a pang of disappointment. No, not his parents. Perhaps Amelia … ? Had her parents changed their mind about him?
Anticipation now curling his heart, he lowered into the lone chair, carefully slit the seal and opened the pages. Read them, disbelievingly.
No.
The letter fell from his nerveless grasp, its contents only glanced at but already engraved upon his heart. Poor David and Julia. And poor little Matthew. His eyes burned, his throat constricted. His lips compressed tightly until the initial blunt force of grief for his cousin passed, then he eased down to pick up the piece of paper.
The door rattled again, easing sunlight into the room. “Mr. Jardine!” came a stern voice. “You should nae be bending down. Ye are not full recovered yet.”
Anthony coughed, the pneumonia obtained after his encounter at The Romping Horse thickening his throat once more, causing his lungs to burn.
The owner of the stern voice came into view, the blue eyes piercing as ever. Meeting John McNaughton had been another blessing from God, his practical Scots sense masking a dry sense of humor seven years in chains had not been able to break. “Why, whatever be wrong?”
He handed over the letter, watching the well-worn face stiffen for a moment as the news sunk in. “This be your cousin?”
“Aye.”
There was not much Anthony had not shared, his secrets safe with the former valet, whose service to an unscrupulous London lord had resulted in a trial and punishment as severe as his master was corrupt. In the two years since their meeting, McNaughton’s willingness to work for the pittance Anthony could offer and their shared heritage and humor had helped forge a bond thicker than he’d ever shared with the only family member who had wished him well on his Antipodean voyage.
David …
He swallowed.
As if sensing his distress, McNaughton—or Mac as Anthony referred to him in his mind—dipped his chin, years of training smoothing away his reaction. “Now that is very sad news. Very sad news indeed.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose you be wanting to return for the funerals?”
“They would be over long ago.”
“Of course. How foolish of me.” The gaze softened. “You will be returning?”
“Yes.”
Something akin to disappointment flickered in the older man’s eyes, sparking an offer Anthony never thought he would make. “Would you like to return with me?”
For a second hope suffused the grizzled features but then he shook his head. “Aye, that would be grand, but I cannae afford such a thing.”
Anthony nodded. As a free man, Anthony could scarcely afford the ticket to England, his savings almost as meager as when he’d arrived six years ago. A convict might receive a ticket-of-leave but could never hope to return to kith and kin half a world away, and the letter had mentioned nothing of financial provision.
“Still, I am pleased for you, Mr. Jardine.”
Mr. Jardine. In the whirl of emotion since he’d first received the news and realized everything in his life had changed, he’d forgotten the most fundamental. His cousin’s death meant Anthony was now the fourteenth laird of Dungally, which meant his role in this parish would be his no longer. He glanced ruefully out the window, where the shouts of the Patterson lads came loud and lively. Just when he was making some headway with hearts harder than the sunbaked soil he was forced to leave. Still, God would tend this growing flock somehow. Surely Jensen, the parson from Norwich who had traveled out with him on the Guildford, would not mind the extra responsibility. Or perhaps Carlton, young as he was, would rise to the challenge. Even O’Leary believed the truth …
