To Wed A Rebel (25 page)

“He’s right,” shouted Watts. “Heads up, lads! There’s lanterns on the edge.”

“They’re the magistrate’s men,” said one local from the crowd, pushing his way free, to where the paths met the steep climbs upwards.

Or worse
, thought Isaac.

And the moment he’d thought it, he feared he’d willed the worst to happen.

Such fights as theirs were illegal, but these strangers weren’t dressed like locals, didn’t look like it, didn’t smell like it.

The spectators scattered, or at least the lower classes did; the wealthy took their time. No one would detain a rich landowner; no one would even see them here tonight. A blind eye would be turned, as always, because only the poor were ever punished for what a gentleman could get away with as a misunderstanding.

They wouldn’t punish a Roscoe and yet, all the same, Isaac felt an urge to run with the others. The paths were packed with men trying to get through, all sharp elbows and no patience. The Navy lot could look after themselves and they knew it too, dawdling behind.

He stayed, he waited and he heard his name.

“Where is Isaac Roscoe?” A city boy, a London type, pale skin and dull hair, eyed those men who remained. “I was told he would be here.”

Watts spoke up, spitting crudely on the ground by the man’s feet. “And who the hell are you?”

“I would watch your tone,” said the man, standing up straight though he was still far too short. “I am Captain Gibson…” he paused, as though expecting his name to mean something “…and I am here on behalf of the Crown, with authority from the local magistrate, so you will tell me where he is.”

“He’s well away,” said Watts. “He’s that posh boy from the manor, right? He don’t have nothin’ to do with us.”

An arm was slung round Isaac’s shoulders, a jovial, friendly action – one that displayed his back to the captain. That was enough to throw the stranger off the scent, to get him to lead his men back to their horses high up on the hill.

Those with fortunes and families like Isaac Roscoe didn’t get flogged.

He was taken for a low-ranking sailor, one of little consequence, no one worth caring for.

The moment Gibson was gone, Watts said, “He’s after that mutineer, isn’t he? And if he’s looking for you, he thinks you know somethin’.”

“There isn’t a reward,” grunted Isaac, pushing the man’s arm away, stepping back, realising how outnumbered he was. The spectators had scarpered and he was left with eight or so Navy boys – who weren’t boys any more – no, they were real men, hard men, men like him.

“I’m not after one,” said Watts. “Our lot heard about what happened, about what that bastard Admiral Farleigh’s like. There’s men who’ll speak up on your lad’s behalf if they have to.”

“You mean if William gets caught?”

“It might not come to that.”

“No one will believe a word against Farleigh,” said Isaac. “He’s got too many friends in too high places.”

“He did have,” said Watts, handing Isaac his shirt back. “But you don’t do what a man like Farleigh does without making enemies, without upsetting the wrong people – and he’s gone and done that all right.”

Then there was hope for William yet.

Isaac nodded his thanks, brushed the sand from his hair and shoved on his boots. “Shall we call it a draw then?”

“I’d have beaten you senseless, boy.” Watts grinned. “But we’ll call it a draw.”

***

The way back was dark, even for Isaac’s well-trained eye. The cloudy sky made it hard to see and every movement or noise had him on high alert, expecting that haughty captain and his men on the path behind him. They never came, unless they had found the farmhouse already and were waiting on him there.

And Ruth would be the one to meet them.

“Shit.”

Why hadn’t he thought sooner?

Isaac knew what Navy types were like and he knew what cloth Captain Gibson was cut from. There were lights on in one farmhouse window. It looked like a ship floating in the gloom, moored in the meadows. Was he too late?

When he reached the door, the house was as quiet as a tomb. He dreaded what he would find. As Isaac hovered in the doorway, listening for any sign of life, he realised all he could lose. Though he had never sought marriage, never truly wanted Ruth, he could not stand to be without her now. His fears –
thank God
– were unfounded.

Ruth was sat by the fireside with May’s head on her lap. Her fingers played with the dog’s soft velvet ears and gave her neck sleepy strokes. Her expression was worn through when she saw him, as though she held too many emotions to correctly display.

“Did they hurt you?” Isaac hovered in the doorway, wanting to act, to help, and not knowing how. If Gibson had touched her, Isaac didn’t know what he’d do, who he’d hurt. “Ruth, tell me what happened!”

“They left,” said Ruth calmly, smoothing her fingers down the dog’s muzzle. “I told them that I was alone in the house and it was undignified for them to call at such an hour. That – that Gibson fellow, he did not like that, did not want to be rude – couldn’t stop apologising.”

Isaac blinked, incredulous. “You got rid of them?”

“I imagine they will be headed back towards Falmouth now,” she added quietly. “They will not be back until tomorrow.”

“We need to warn William.”

“We can’t,” she said sadly. “He’s already gone.”

Chapter Five

Ruth

Ruth had requested to be let down from the carriage a small way before the farmhouse. She had claimed that the sea air would do her good – an invigorating walk to get the blood pumping. Jemima had asked no questions, for she was not a talkative person, unless she could correct someone. The boxes and bundles went ahead of her, taken back to the farmhouse to be sorted out by Nessa. The two women said their farewells, only a few brief words, because they would see one another shortly at the assembly ball in town.

With every step, Ruth had imagined men behind her. Severe faces, polished buttons, heavy uniforms. She hadn’t met many military types, only the drab old men who hid behind sheets of paper and sent others off to die. No one discovered her, no one saw her – and yet when she got to the groundskeeper’s place, William was not there. A few bloody rags remained, nothing more. She told all this to Isaac when he returned and wished she could spare him the pain of it.

“Do you think he knew they were catching up to him?” asked Ruth, letting her head fall back against the chair. “It was all over town. When I got back, I tried to find him and I couldn’t. The footprints ran out, almost as if he’d walked into the sea.”

Isaac sighed through his nose, clearly as exhausted as she was. There were fewer marks on him this time, no blood running from his nose, only a little redness around his jaw. She wanted to be near him, kiss them away, but there was too much to say first, too much to air. And she was angry with him. Again. Was this how it would always be – slow progress and damning setbacks?

“It is possible that William found out,” he said in the gruff, slow way that men do when they’re near to sleep. “It’s a small place and word travels fast. The beachcombers are always roaming about, looking for anything that might be valuable – they could’ve told him. I know him, he’d never want to put us in harm’s way; he’d hate himself for it.”

“He cannot have gone far.” Ruth’s lips felt dry. “He could barely stand this morning.”

“You’ll be surprised what a man – or a woman – can do when they need to.” There was more to be said and Ruth waited for it, willed it from him. “Did you get all you needed from town?”

The question was not what she wanted to hear and Isaac knew it. He must have.

“You don’t need to fight, Isaac,” she said, beyond weary, worn down to the bone. “There are other ways to find the money, other paths that we might take.”

“It’s easier this way,” he said, and she knew that was true. “It’s quicker too.”

“I won’t have you put yourself in danger, not when I feel responsible for it.”

“It won’t be for ever, only until I have enough to get us by, to tide us over, to buy back this place.”

“Is that what you truly want?”

“Somewhere that’s mine, yes,” confessed Isaac. “To have a place that feels like home for once, to build one – especially now I have someone to build it with. And no one will be able to take it away from me.”

The fury she had tried to harbour, the hurt she had wanted to nurse, quickly dissipated. Ruth pushed herself to her feet, prompting a grumpy sound from the dog who had been dislodged from its comfortable resting place.

“You cannot build one if you’re dead,” she told him, reaching for him, leaning against him, their temples resting against one another’s. He smelt like the outdoors; dry grass, sea spray, and his clothes still clung to the coldness beyond, as though he would never be rid of it.

“It would take a lot to bring me down, Ruth.”

“I hope so.”

Their footfalls were light on the stairs, their movements slow and careful – with themselves and one another. The bed was chilled and Ruth felt fragile, almost too fragile, but she wanted him, welcomed him. It was a little like peace, a little like forgetting, losing herself in this – in them – for a short while. She slept soundly, drifting off to the comforting sounds of another person lying beside her.

***

It was a challenge to feign enthusiasm for the ball. In all Ruth’s previous experiences, she had been struck with nerves or had found herself trailing along behind Lottie. The last time, a much more eventful party, had been with Isaac. That night at Trewince Manor felt like a year ago now, not a mere week. And the wedding ceremony could not be a month ago, it had to be a world away, a memory belonging to another, for so much had changed. Ruth smoothed her hands down her new dress.
Forget-me-not
blue, white gloves, a simple set to her hair. Could she forget the past and all that had taken place? She was beginning to. That man she had married was not the man wed to her now. He was different, changed.

“You still look like you,” Isaac said when he saw her, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, it never could be.”

On both their minds was William. Ruth had checked the shack morning and evening, hoping for any sign that he might have returned. Isaac had ridden along the coast, across the fields, in the guise of a country man out enjoying a ride – not looking for a mutineer.

Captain Gibson had not shown his face, but a letter had been swiftly sent their way in an efficient script, addressed to the Roscoe household. The military man would be at the ball and he would like a brief word with them both. Contained within his tidy handwriting had been a few apologetic phrases, begging their indulgence, assuring them that the conversation would take little time, and, lastly, requesting the honour of a dance with Mrs Roscoe.

“You certainly made an impression,” remarked Isaac drily.

“I do have some uses,” she replied, and he kissed her for it.

A fine coach, sent by Lady Mawes, arrived in a timely fashion an hour before the ball was to begin.
(“How many coaches does your family have?”
Ruth wanted to ask Isaac, but she knew better than to kick that particular hornets’ nest.) The old woman was in it, waiting for them, eager to ensure they were properly attired – and ready to chide them if they were not. She smelt like rosemary and clapped her hands together firmly when she saw them both.

“At first I had not been sure about sending that Jemima to aid you, but the girl did better than I expected,” said Lady Mawes the moment that Ruth sat opposite her. Lady Mawes pawed at Ruth’s dress, testing the quality with thin fingers. “Yes, you look quite passable.”

Isaac climbed in after his wife and took his place beside her. His elbow jostled her in a friendly fashion and Ruth’s hand unconsciously went for his. He took it, seemingly without thinking. It was an action Ruth regretted, that instinctive, intimate display, for a self-satisfied smirk found Lady Mawes. That expression said this was all her doing, her push, her master plan. Maybe it was, maybe they’d both been tricked, manipulated into falling in – no – for having a fondness for one another, maybe.

Is it only fondness?

If Isaac noticed the old woman’s pride, he didn’t show it – or at least he seemed no more strained than usual around his great-aunt.

The hour before sunset held pastel colours. The carriage windows were dusty with gold rays and the clouds took on sallow shades. The fields were soon marred by the sun’s stripes across the landscape, thinning into shadow, until it was too dark to see them at all, and they were lost behind houses and people and the evidence of hard lives well lived.

Ruth could hear the music and the laughter even before their carriage eventually made it to the town’s assembly rooms. She did not need to think hard to imagine the gaiety within. The air was drunk with it and she breathed it in, filling her lungs to bursting point. With Isaac beside her, the ball seemed brighter, bolder, more brilliant somehow. Everything and everyone had been shined to perfection and the smile Ruth wore was natural. Even Isaac seemed happier, asked her to dance, mirrored her expression, forgot everything else that pawed at their worries and questioned their happiness.

Because she was happy, in this moment, in this instance, with him.

He wasn’t perfect and neither was she, but she knew him.

She finally knew the man he was.

And he was a good one.

“If I may beg your pardon, Mrs Roscoe,” said a voice filled with puffery and self-assuredness. Captain Gibson bowed low, uniform polished and crisp, every button aligned and not a crease to be seen. “If I may, I would like to request the honour of a dance?”

“Of course, Captain Gibson,” said Ruth, finding it all too easy to converse and put on a show for the fellow who posed a danger to them both. It was all she’d done her whole life: make others feel comfortable or at ease at the expense of her own feelings. Those actions had been lies, fables, and this was no different. Another person might have been worried about how easy she found it to speak mistruths, but for now it helped her to survive. With a beaming smile, she added, “May I introduce you to my husband, Mr Isaac Roscoe?”