If I Fall (15 page)

It was a matter of bringing her out, is all.

Unfortunately, the only way he knew how to accomplish this was to do the things that would have enticed the old Sarah into smiling.

The old Sarah, whom he last saw at the ripe old age of twelve, loved organizing scavenger hunts for her sisters. And so, on the first day after their dawn-breaking fight, Jack woke up—much later than usual, and with a hangover the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since he took his first drink of rum on deck of the
Amorata
at the equally ripe old age of sixteen, with a plan. And all he’d needed was an ally.

“Sarah, we’re having a scavenger hunt!” Amanda cried, looking up from her spot at the escritoire, where she was dutifully writing out clues, with her governess Miss Pritchett keeping a watchful eye in the corner, while working on some embroidery.

“Are you?” Sarah replied, as she pulled on a pair of saffron-colored gloves. She ducked into the drawing room and went to look over her sister’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Amanda replied on a giggle. “We are supposed to find items of educational value, and leave clues in them for the next person to find.” She then pitched her voice low, shooting Miss Pritchett a glance. “Although how educational they have to be, Jack did not specify. And I think cook’s tarts could count as educational, don’t you?”

“Jack?” Sarah echoed, her back straightening.

“Yes, well it was his idea,” Amanda replied, her gaze falling to the sofa behind Sarah, where Jack had been sitting quietly, observing the entire exchange.

He watched as her posture stiffened. As her eyes, once filled with easy curiosity, became hard and unyielding.

“You should join us!” Amanda cried. “You used to make the best scavenger hunts. If you make clues for me and Jack, we’ll make clues for you!”

Sarah’s gaze was still riveted to Jack’s. And he would hold it as long as humanly possible, no matter what pain was roiling around his head. (Indeed, cook’s best hangover remedy had done very little, and it was possible that his face was as green as her eyes.) But steadily, and purposefully, he rose to his feet.

“Yes, do join us,” Jack said, praying that his eyes held the apology he meant to convey. “You always did write the best clues.”

Sarah glanced from Jack to Amanda, to the silent Miss Pritchett, whose bowed head did little to hide the obviousness of her listening.

“You’d do better to ask Bridget,” Sarah replied. “She’s been pounding away at the pianoforte all morning; she could likely use a distraction.”

Indeed, a mournful sonata could be heard drifting down from the music room. It had followed a thunderous minor-keyed fugue. While Jack thought his head would like nothing better than to have Bridget stop playing piano for the barest of moments, he knew that her involvement would crush any hope of getting Sarah to play along.

“Come on, Sarah,” Jack tried to cajole. “Surely you can spare an hour, for your sister.”

Amanda, as if on cue, looked up at Sarah with the biggest eyes she could manage.

Sarah hesitated, deciding … then gave an apologetic smile to Amanda. “I’m riding Rotten Row today, with the Comte and his sister.” She indicated her outfit, which Jack should have recognized as a riding habit much earlier. Not to mention that there was a habited groom waiting for her in the foyer.

“But we never see you!” Amanda pouted.

“But I’m going to the Burlington Arcade after and promise to buy you a new hair ribbon,” Sarah cajoled.

Unfortunately, the promise of a hair ribbon was enough to satisfy Amanda, who treasonously shrugged and complied, happily returning her attention to writing her clues.

As Sarah turned to go, Jack took three long strides and met her at the drawing room’s doors. His hand stilled hers on the doorknob.

“Oh, come now,” he tried to sound casual and happy, but he was green to the gills and it must have shown. “You may be able to buy off Mandy, but I’m not so easy. You, of all people, are not above a good scavenger hunt.” Then whispered, with more earnestness, “I merely hope to apologize for my behavior last night. I do wish you’d let me.”

Jack thought for the briefest of moments that she would
acquiesce to his words, that she would soften, and forget about Rotten Row, and the Comte…

But then she removed her hand from under his, with no small amount of disdain. Her green eyes met his (probably) bloodshot ones. It was as if ice had overcome a forest.

“Last night, I resolved to no longer care about your opinion of me, Lieutenant Fletcher,” she said coolly. “And the most remarkable part of that decision is that I no longer worry about trying to buy your favor. I, of all people, should be allowed to appreciate that.”

His eyes narrowed as he stiffened. She continued, “Scavenger hunts are not quite the thing, anymore, are they? Nor is calling Amanda ‘Mandy.’ She declared herself Amanda months ago. We’ve all changed in some way.”

Even you
. It was the unspoken words that echoed through his brain, as she slipped free of him and out into the foyer. He had changed. Changed from a lieutenant of a ship to a land-bound one, likely having to sign the affidavit and go on half pay. He had changed for the worse, and he knew, he
knew
in that moment that she thought she’d changed for the better.

It was at that moment, Jack decided to forgo soliciting forgiveness and concentrate on simply proving himself right.

That no one changed that much.

Although it was very difficult to prove to Sarah that she hadn’t changed as much as she thought when she refused to speak to him. He thought to seek help from Lady Phillippa Worth, who seemed to have sway over Sarah’s actions, but that lady had left town for a week in the country. And there was no way he was going to get past Sarah’s watchdog of a Comte, who seemed to be everywhere.

Everywhere that Sarah was concerned, of course.

Jack tried finding things she might be interested in. He spent a shocking amount of money on a book about Blackbeard, only to find it riddled with inaccuracies. Sarah did not even glance at it.

He discovered there was a play at the theatre that was romantic in nature and silly in execution, and coincidentally, set in Portsmouth. He managed to convince every other member of the Forrester family to attend—as they had a box for the Season in any case—but Sarah had a previous engagement.

He thought that he was the only one who noticed a strain between Sarah and himself—seeing as Lord and Lady Forrester had not remarked upon it in the least—but apparently, he was less covert in his intentions than he tried to be.

“Maybe if you dunked her in the river, that would get her attention,” Bridget said to him one evening at home, as they were playing cards. Sarah, again, was out, this time at an evening picnic at Kensington Gardens, which Lady Forrester had been eager to chaperone, as the Comte and his Burmese bodyguard, Mr. Ashin Pha, promised to be there, and Lady Forrester was not blind to the marked deference the Comte paid her daughter.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jack replied, playing a trump.

Bridget examined her cards, her eyes never coming up. “Do you honestly think that I have not observed such similar determination in every other man in London?” She played a higher trump, taking the trick and winning the hand. It was the fourth hand she’d won in a row. “I’d hoped for better from you, that you’d see through it. But no, you’re like everyone else.”

It struck Jack that he might have an ally in Bridget—possibly the only other person in London not a little bit in love with Sarah Forrester’s mellifluous laugh and cutting manners.

“I know there is tension between you and your sister, Bridget,” Jack started to gather up the cards to play the next hand. “But I don’t understand why. You used to muddle along well enough.”

Bridget looked up then—her green eyes so like her sister’s, but titled up at the corners, like a cat calmly observing from its corner of the world. “She took my turn,” Bridget said quietly, taking her cards up into her hands and beginning to sort them.

Jack’s brow went up. “But she used to be—”

Before he could even finish his thought, let alone sentence, Bridget put her cards down and rose from the table. “I’m bored by this. You can have stars in your eyes and think that Sarah is the same wonderful person who ran down the lane at Primrose to meet your carriage and was madly in love with the Blue Raven, but I’d rather not listen to it.”

And with that, Bridget took to spending another evening at the pianoforte.

But Jack had been struck dumb by what Bridget had said. Not that he was like every other man in London, chasing after Sarah (because it was ridiculous), but her last little comment.

Because suddenly, Jack realized he had a leg up on all the other men in London who searched for ways to break through Sarah Forrester’s golden exterior.

Because he knew the deepest secret that no one else knew. He knew her weakness.

“We’re playing pirates!”

“I mastered my piano piece, let’s go!”

“Dolls!”

The Forrester daughters exclaimed as they ran through the house, bearing picnic baskets in their arms. Sarah brought up the rear, carrying the heaviest load, as well as a thick blanket. But she still had a free hand to grab his arm as they went running past, dragging him with her.

It was terribly odd, being thrust into a new family, especially when one never expected to see much of their own family again. But that was exactly what was happening. He had been invited back, again and again to the Forresters, and it did not seem as if he was being treated as a sponsored student, who had to have the best possible grades and the humblest of demeanors. Instead, Jack was being treated as a long-lost member of the family, or at the very least, a treasured friend.

“And since you’re in the navy, you will make the perfect Blackbeard!” Sarah’s eyes sparked with mischief, as her declaration was met with fervent nods from her sisters. “Come on, Jack! It shall be an adventure!” She gave those words such power that Jack couldn’t help but follow along.

Well, he’d tried to be the perfect Blackbeard. On the sloping hill next to the pond, he’d tried to assume the dastardly role, but it was blooming difficult when one did not know the rules, never having played pirates before. And didn’t have a beard, black or otherwise.

“Jack, you have to capture Mandy. She’s the Princess.”

Apparently, he would have little choice.

“But … she cries every time she gets captured.” Jack said squeamishly.

“That’s her job,” Bridget supplied, impatiently.

“Dolls,” Mandy added, sitting on the ground, petulantly.

“No, Mandy, we are playing pirates, not dolls. Don’t worry, Bridget and I will rescue you before you have to walk the plank,” Sarah supplied.

Jack again went for Mandy, but when he reached her, she resumed screaming.

“That’s it. This is far too silly. Besides I’m too old to play such games.” He said, puffing out his chest.

“No!” all three girls cried.

“Jack, never fear, you are doing excellently.” Sarah tried to cheer him up.

“But what’s the point?” Jack asked, exasperated. “And aren’t you supposed to be studying insects?”

That was the pretense under which the picnic was allowed, of course. That the girls’ governess, Miss Pritchett, a long, thin, quiet woman would instruct them on various dragonflies and bugs that could be found down by the pond. But Miss Pritchett did not seem inclined for such instruction, as she was seated quietly under a tree, her head stuck in a novel.

“The point?” Sarah replied with a laugh. “The point is, when you go to sea, you will need to know what to do to elude capture from a pirate. And what better way to do that than to take the place of a pirate yourself?”

“Chase me!” Mandy supplied, attaching herself to his leg.

“And actually catch her this time, would you?” Bridget added.

And so, pressured by playful logic, little girl idolatry, and no-nonsense orders, this time when Jack chased Mandy, he actually caught her. She screamed and squirmed, but then gave the most impassioned, theatrical wail of “Help me! Oh, who will help me?!” which, apparently, was Sarah and Bridget’s queue.

“I will save you, dear Princess!” Sarah cried. “Never fear, the Blue Raven is here!”

“Who’s the Blue Raven?” Jack asked, committing the unforgivable and breaking character.

Although, he quickly learned that breaking character was
not the unforgivable act that he had committed. Rather, it was showing his ignorance.

All three girls looked up at him as if he had grown an extra head. Even Miss Pritchett had glanced up from her novel in something resembling shock.

“Who’s the Blue Raven?” Sarah repeated, once she found herself capable of speech. “You cannot be serious!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bridget said, rolling her eyes.

“Of course it matters!” Sarah declared, her voice alarmingly high, almost screechy in nature. And the soft-spoken lilt Sarah usually had did not take well to screeching.