Marriage of Mercy. Carla Kelly

went in his room and she stood at the door. ‘I have to ask, do all Americans sound like you?’

      ‘Nay, lass,’ he replied and put his finger to his lips. ‘I know this should also be our little secret, I was born and at least partly raised in a very poor part of London. I’ll tell you more tomorrow, if you’re interested.’

      ‘You’re English?’ she asked, surprised.

      ‘Not any more,’ he assured her. ‘That’s what you British don’t understand, once an Englishman doesn’t mean always an Englishman.’

      ‘I could never be anything but English,’ Grace declared.

      ‘You’re so certain?’ He sat down on his bed then, as if too tired to stand. ‘You speak good English for a baker’s assistant. You seem a bit refined. What has England done for you lately? For me, nothing. Goodnight now.’

       Chapter Six

      Grace hated to admit it, but Rob Inman was right: England hadn’t done much for her lately. She thought about his words long after she should have been asleep.

      It was one thing to be suddenly poor. It was quite another to be treated by former friends as though she did not exist. She lay in bed, feeling her cheeks burn as she remembered the smarts and slights that came her way in the bakery, as former friends looked right through her.

      And here was Rob Inman, an unwilling parolee who was making her ask questions of herself. He’s a challenge. Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen him, she thought, punching her pillow a few times in the hope of finding a comfortable spot.

      But the fact remained that she had chosen Robert Inman and old Lord Thomson had chosen her to watch him. Her eyes grew heavy, but she had to smile at the absurdity of it all. Lord Thomson, I fear your good intentions are going to be a lot of trouble to me, was her last thought before she slept.

      Emery was as good as his word. In the morning, he brought breakfast from the manor house and a daunting-looking cake of pine-tar soap.

      ‘If this doesn’t scare away fleas and lice, then we haven’t a prayer,’ he told her as they carried hot water to the tin tub he had set up outside in the overgrown garden. ‘While he’s soaking, I’ll strip off the bed clothes and burn sulphur in that room, same’s as if it was the hold of a ship after a long voyage.’

      The parolee required no coaxing to adjourn to the garden for the cure. With some dignity, he wrapped a sheet around himself after Emery commanded him to drop his pathetic clothing by the rose arbour. Rob frowned to see Grace standing by the tub, testing the water.

      ‘I don’t require your services,’ he protested. He wrapped the sheet tighter around his thin body.

      ‘My thoughts precisely!’ she said. ‘I’m just making sure the water isn’t too hot. My assignments in this endeavour are to bag your sheets and burn your prison clothes.’

      Trying not to laugh, she left Rob in the garden at the mercy of Emery and his pine tar.

      Mr Selway found her in the upstairs hall with the sheets and blankets bagged in a canvas sack. He followed her as she deposited the bedclothes by the garden path, next to the captain’s discarded prison yellow.

      They sat on a bench by the kitchen door. The solicitor opened a folder. ‘Here it is, Grace, all of our restrictions dealing with a paroled prisoner of war.’

      She scanned the document. ‘The upshot appears to be that Captain Duncan must never be out of our sight.’ She looked up. ‘He can leave the estate with one of us?’

      Mr Selway nodded. ‘Apparently, yes, but we must sufficiently impress upon him that he is not to escape. If he does, under penalty of our own incarceration, we must immediately notify the justice of the peace and he will be shot on sight.’

      ‘Where would he go?’

      ‘Down to the sea. I imagine Captain Duncan could easily blend in with the seagoing crowd in Plymouth and ship out on any merchant vessel in the harbour. The fleet’s always hungry for crew.’

      Grace thought about that as she listened to the captain’s protests at having his hair washed yet again, from the other side of the shrubbery. ‘Surely Lord Thomson didn’t want his only son to use a parole to escape?’

      ‘I don’t know what he intended. Indeed, he never knew his son, did he?’ Mr Selway said, his voice troubled. ‘The burden of this falls on you, Grace, I fear. I will check in with you now and then, but I have business elsewhere.’

      ‘I understand, Mr Selway,’ she said, feeling alone in the venture. ‘At least there is Emery to help me.’

      ‘True. We’re fortunate there.’ He handed her the papers. ‘Here is the parole for Captain Daniel Duncan, age thirty-six.’ He stopped and looked in the direction of the garden. ‘I must admit, the captain looks younger than I would have thought …’ His voice trailed off; he shook his head. ‘Who would have supposed that incarceration in Dartmoor would render a man younger looking?’

      Grace held her breath. Mr Selway was right; Rob Inman was younger than his captain. ‘May… maybe it’s all that good sea air,’ she said, trying not to stammer.

      Mr Selway shook his head. ‘Gracie, sea air usually makes a man older.’ He gave her a generous smile. ‘Maybe it is all that healthy American air! My dear, I’ve arranged carte blanche for you with Quimby’s merchants. You can order anything—within reason, of course—and I will get the bills in Exeter. Send them to this postalbox number.’ He handed her a note. ‘Cheer up, Gracie. What can go wrong with so prosaic an arrangement?’

      It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that Captain Duncan was dead, but she stopped. Why, she wasn’t sure, except that she had made a promise to the real Daniel Duncan, and felt honour-bound, even if he was an American and a prisoner. Besides that, how well did she even know Mr Selway? This had better be her secret with Rob Inman.

      Emery called to her to fetch the new clothes that Mr Selway had left in the bookroom. She took them to the kitchen garden, where the captain sat in the tin tub with his bony knees close to his chin, as tight as a whelk in a basket. His back was turned to her; she gaped at the lash marks on his back. They were fading, but the harsh Stockholm pine tar brought them out in raw relief.

      Grace stared at his back another moment, then retreated to the house. Her mind on the man in the tub, she stirred a pot of thick porridge, lacing it liberally with sugar. She pronounced it a success after the addition of a touch of cinnamon and set it to the back of the range to cool slightly.

      As Grace stood there, a maid from Quarle tiptoed down the stairs, holding a wicked-looking pair of shears. Gingerly, she held them out to Grace. ‘Emery said I was to give you these for serious work.’

      ‘Oh, he did?’ she asked, amused. Smiling to herself, she went upstairs. ‘The maid said you need me,’ she told Emery, holding out the shears.

      ‘I need you,’ Rob Inman said. ‘Please.’ He grinned at the old man. ‘Emery is a dab hand at scouring my skin raw, but we both agree that a steady hand close to the scalp and face fall in your territory.’

      ‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ she said, stepping closer for a good look at the task.

      The captain was dressed now in canvas trousers and a checked shirt, looking much like the seamen she had seen in and around Devon’s seaports. Emery had already draped a towel around the man’s shoulders. Clean now, his hair was a handsome reddish-gold, long on his shoulders and mingling with his beard, which Emery must have dragged a comb through, because it flowed in waves to his chest.

      Grace walked around him several times. ‘This is daunting,’ she murmured under her breath. ‘Do I tackle your head first, or your face?’

      ‘It’s all the same to me, just as long as your hands don’t shake,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I