Marriage of Mercy. Carla Kelly

Inman interrupted, his voice weak but emphatic. ‘Drive on. I want out of this damned cold valley more than I want fever powders, miss. Just drive on. Please.’

      Mr Selway nodded. ‘Good enough, lad,’ he murmured.

      With a sigh of his own, Inman leaned back. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering despite his fever. Without a word, Grace took her lap robe and covered him. Eyes serious, he nodded his thanks. In a moment, he slept.

      ‘I’ll summon the physician as soon as we have the captain in bed in the dower house,’ Mr Selway whispered to her. ‘That is, if Lord Thomson—bless his tiny, atrophied heart—has thought to return the beds and linens.’

      Leaning against the side of the chaise, Inman had slept. He opened his eyes now and then, looking around in surprise each time. Grace had watched his hands. For a good hour, he kept them balled into tight fists. After one time when he opened his eyes, his startled expression unmistakable, Grace covered one fist briefly with her hand. He looked into her eyes as an abused pup would, wondering what she would do to him. When he closed his eyes this time, she noticed that his hands opened and he relaxed.

      ‘We mean you no harm, Captain,’ Grace murmured.

      As soon as they had left the bowl-like valley cupping Dartmoor Prison, the sun shone again. The grass even seemed greener and hawthorn hedges sprouted white blossoms all along the highway. This place is so evil even spring stays away, Grace thought, with a shudder.

      The coachman stopped by a river, shady and overhung with branches already leafing out. ‘Time to water t’horses,’ he called down to the occupants of the chaise.

      Inman opened his eyes no more than part way, as if even that much exertion was nearly beyond him. As Grace watched him, he gazed with growing interest at the stream. In mere seconds, the parolee shrugged off the lap rug and threw open the door. He was a tall man and did not need the step to be lowered to hurtle himself from the chaise.

      ‘I say there!’ Mr Selway called after him.

      He didn’t even look back. With a stagger, he righted himself and plunged into the stream as Grace stared, then leaped to her feet, too, ahead of Mr Selway.

      ‘Please don’t run away!’ she shouted after him as she jumped from the chaise.

      Ignoring her, he waded into the water. Grace stood on the bank, ready to leap in after the parolee. She raised her skirt and petticoat—she could see that the stream came barely above the tall man’s knees—then lowered them as she watched the sailing master, her mouth open.

      He had stopped by a bright clump of greenery growing in the water. With an audible sob, Inman grabbed a handful of the greens and stuffed them in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, then snatched another handful, and then another.

      ‘My God, what is he doing?’ Mr Selway said, standing beside Grace on the bank.

      Grace felt her heart go out to the thin prisoner. ‘I believe it’s watercress,’ she whispered, her eyes still on the man she had chosen. ‘Mr Selway, he’s starving.’

      They watched him as he moved to another clump of watercress. Bits of greenery clustered in his beard as he picked one more handful and walked back to the bank. Mr Selway gave him a hand up and he stood there, watercress in hand, like a man with springtime posies.

      ‘Do you want to take them with you?’ Grace asked. ‘You needn’t, really. There is lots of food at the dower house—or at least there will be—and those will only wilt.’

      She tried to take the watercress from him, but he shook his head and stepped away from her.

      ‘Let him be, Gracie,’ Mr Selway murmured. ‘Let him be.’ He took the parolee by the elbow and guided him back to the chaise. ‘Let me help you in, Captain. There’s a good lad.’

      They resumed the journey. Grace’s eyes filled with tears as she watched Inman admire the watercress he clutched to his chest, unmindful of the damp. Several times before he slept again, he raised the little handful of greenery to his nose, just to smell its peppery fragrance.

      He grew alarmed when they stopped in Exeter near a group of red-coated militiamen, laughing and joking with each other. ‘Easy, lad,’ Mr Selway said, a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll send Gracie into the public house here for some broth and maybe a pasty. Nothing too rich, mind,’ he warned her as he handed over some coins.

      As she waited for the food, Grace stood by the window, watching Rob Inman in the chaise. His eyes never left the militiamen. He looked solemn anyway—his mouth was slightly downturned by nature—but there was no disguising the fear on his face. And what was Dartmoor prison like for you, Rob Inman, turned Duncan? she asked herself, unable to help the shiver that travelled her spine like a bird on a wire.

      Inman wanted to gulp down the broth, but Mr Selway was firm on insisting that he sip instead. The solicitor thought to limit him to half a pasty, until the parolee fixed him with a glare that would have cut through lead, something surprising in one so weak.

      ‘On the other hand, maybe you know what’s best,’ Mr Selway said smoothly, as the parolee refused to relinquish the remainder of the pasty.

      Grace couldn’t help a smile. ‘Mr Selway, the governor of the prison did say he would be a lot of trouble.’ It was only the mildest tease, but Rob stopped chewing and looked at her.

      ‘I’m no trouble to anyone, miss,’ he said around the pasty in his mouth. ‘Well, maybe just to those who get between me and a good wind.’ He was so serious. ‘Aye, that would sum it up.’

      Listening to him, Grace realised she had never heard an American accent before, if that’s what this was. There was just the faintest sound of vaguely familiar diction, and then the careful, clipped words originating from a distant shore. She liked the stringent sound.

      Then he was asleep again, the food barely swallowed, crumbs lodged in his beard to keep the watercress company. That will all come off tomorrow, Grace decided. And from the way you’re scratching your head, I’ll get a servant to shave you bald. And if not a willing servant, then I will do it.

      They arrived at the dower house after dark, with only the moon to show the way. There were so few lights burning in the manor house that she wondered if Lord Thomson was still in residence. Mr Selway had his own opinion about that. ‘What a miser he is,’ he said, making no effort to hide his disdain. ‘I just can’t bring myself to trust people who sit in the gloom to save a groat.’

      ‘Do you think he intends to remain long?’ Grace asked. ‘He could be a trial.’

      ‘I am certain he will be, Gracie. No, I think Lord Thomson will stay long enough to make himself thoroughly unpleasant, then return to London. He will probably pop back unexpectedly every now and then, yearning to catch us in some misdeed.’

      Grace shivered. ‘I wish him gone now.’

      ‘So he will be soon! Patience, my dear.’

      She couldn’t help her audible sigh of relief to see furniture in the dower house. On closer inspection, it was much as Mr Selway had feared: Lord Thomson had emptied out the manor’s attics. As she gazed at the mismatched chairs in the breakfast room and the rump-sprung sofa in the sitting room, Grace couldn’t say she was surprised.

      While Rob Inman swayed at the foot of the stairs, holding on to the railing, Grace hurried upstairs. Beds had been returned to all four bedchambers, complemented by bureaus with drawers missing and a leg gone and propped nearly level with a chunk of wood.

      She glanced in the smallest chamber she had designated for herself, surprised to see a small fire in the grate and shabby curtains returned to the window. She heard a noise across the narrow hall and peeked into the chamber she had thought to reserve for Captain Duncan.

      She didn’t recognise the man, but he must have been one of the old retainers who did odd jobs around the manor. Dressed in a nondescript pair of trousers and