had left her bonnet behind.
'That is not fair to him,' I said. 'Nor to you. I believe that you care for him.'
Her flush told me I'd guessed correctly. 'It is useless for me to care for anyone. As you saw.'
'Who is David's father?' I asked.
She looked up. 'What?'
'Who is David's father? He ought to be giving you coin and making certain his son is well. Name him, and I will drag him here by the neck and shake him until his pockets empty.'
She gave me a faint, ironic smile. 'Are you not the gallant gentleman? It truly does not matter. I bore David eight years ago, and his father died of a fever seven years ago, the bloody fool.'
'Well, then, his family ought to help you,' I persisted. 'David is their kin.'
'A by-blow and a half-wit? Oh, certainly, any family would be pleased to hear of it.'
I stopped again, turned her to me. 'You should not have to do this alone, Marianne.'
'Do not pity me, Lacey. I am finished with pity. I have been taking care of him for eight years now. I am used to it.'
'But you no longer need do it alone.'
She looked at me in alarm. 'Damn you, Lacey, you gave me your word you would not tell him- '
I held up my hand. 'I did not mean Grenville, I meant me. I know about David. I can help you.'
She stared. 'How on earth can you? You barely have two coins to rub together yourself. And in any case, why should you?'
'Do you judge a gentleman only on what he has in his coffers? That is rather irritating of you. I can at least let you talk about David. I can offer my advice, for whatever it is worth, and my ear when you need it.'
For one moment, I thought I saw her soften. Marianne Simmons, who turned a hard face to the world, looked for a brief moment, grateful.
The moment did not last long. 'I told you, I do not want your pity,' she snapped. 'David is happy. He does not know that there is anything wrong with him.'
'I am pleased to hear it. I am offering you friendship, Marianne. It is all I have to offer. You may take it or leave it alone, as you wish.'
She turned away and remained silent while I got myself awkwardly mounted, and boosted her once more into the saddle.
She said, her voice sour, 'You must have had a fine upbringing, Lacey, to be so damn obliging.'
'I had a terrible upbringing,' I said, turning the horse to the road. 'But I am determined to be nothing like my boor of a father. You will simply have to bear the brunt of it. You have forgotten your bonnet, you know.'
She touched her hand to her bare, golden head. 'Leave it,' she said. 'I hate the bloody thing.'
Chapter Eleven
I took Marianne all the way back to Hungerford. We were silent most of the way. Mist hugged the canal, and we rode along the towpath through a hazy world of water and greenery.
We reached Hungerford's High Street and went on to the lane at the end. Before we reached the house, Marianne said, with some of her usual acerbic manner, 'By the bye, Mr. Sutcliff visited again last night. He was not pleased to discover that you had spoken to Jeanne Lanier.'
'You heard him say that?'
'Certainly, I did. He said so at the top of his voice. The scullery maid in the kitchen must have heard.'
'What did Jeanne say to that?'
'I could not hear her as well. But she tried to soothe him, from the sound of it. Said things like, ‘it does not matter’ and ‘you must not take on so.’'
'I wonder,' I mused. 'Was he speaking in jealousy, or was he afraid she might have revealed something to me?'
'Well, I cannot tell you,' Marianne said. 'I could not press my ear to the door, because Mrs. Albright was standing in the hall. She was listening, too, if I am any judge. Neither of us heard enough to satisfy our curiosity.'
'Did he stay long?' I asked Marianne.
'Most of the night. That is, if the creaking of the bed frame was any indication. I had to sleep with my pillow over my head again.'
I did not wish to think about Sutcliff in bed with the gracious Jeanne Lanier. I murmured, 'I wonder how long it creaked on Sunday night?'
Marianne shrugged. 'All night, hard and long, as far as I know. And her gasping and moaning. I don't know when he left, but I could find out if you like. Mrs. Albright is a nosy old body; she likely knows. Or I can ask Jeanne directly. Women like to chat about their men, you know, either to claim theirs is better or to disparage him.'
I tried not to shudder at the thought of ladies sitting nose to nose comparing the faults of their gentlemen. 'Very well, but have a care.'
'I always take excellent care of myself, Lacey.'
We reached the house. She slid from the horse. In the polite world, she would have invited me in for breakfast or coffee, but this was far from the polite world, and doubtless she wanted me to leave her alone. Revelations about one's inner secrets can be rather embarrassing.
As the door closed behind her, I spied Jeanne Lanier looking out of a window in the upper story. Tree branches grew against the house, and she peered through them as though wondering who had ridden to the door. When she caught my eye, she smiled and nodded a greeting.
I tipped my hat to her, then turned and took my leave.
I rode back along the canal, preferring the quiet, cool green of the towpath to the main road where I'd have to dodge the mail coaches and other wagons. More boats plied the canal now, floating silently along the smooth trail.
When I approached Lower Sudbury Lock, I heard argument. The lockkeeper stood on the bank, hands on hips, and directed his invective to a boat beyond the lock. I rode past on the towpath to look.
A narrow boat had sidled up to the lock from the south and west. This one was full of people, children with brown faces, women who covered their heads with gaily covered scarves, and one young man who lounged in the stern smoking a long-stemmed pipe. A goat stood tied in the bow, nibbling in a bored manner on straw.
An older man, his skin brown with sun, his steps slow and sure, led a fat horse along the bank
The man leading the horse stopped at the lock. The barge continued its forward momentum until it bumped the gates. The lockkeeper was glaring at the bargeman, not moving to turn the cranks. 'Best go back,' he spat. 'Don't want you up here. Your kind have already done enough.'
The Romany man simply stared at him, black eyes enigmatic.
'Let him through,' I said on impulse.
The lockkeeper glared at me. 'Rutledge wants them cleared out.' He curled his lip as though to say I ought to have known that.
'I will explain to Rutledge. I wish to speak to them.'
The lockkeeper looked as though he'd like to hurl me into the canal and let the Roma fish me out. He settled for a black stare, then turned to the pumps.
The lock gate slowly opened. The Romany led his horse forward, and the boat coasted gently inside. While the lock filled with water, lifting the boat, women, children, goat, and all, I asked the Romany man point-blank whether Sebastian D'Arby was his relation.
He looked at me. Intelligence glinted in his eyes. 'He is my nephew.'
He must be the uncle who so disliked Sebastian working at the Sudbury School. 'You know that he has been accused of murder,' I said.
'I heard,' the man responded dryly. 'I knew that no good would come of him mixing with the English.'
'You told him so,' I said. 'Did you not? On Sunday night. You spoke-or rather, argued-for a long time.'
'Aye.' He did not ask how I knew.
