Denis sat for a long time-saying nothing, doing nothing. He remained motionless, in silence, while the waves pushed at the boat.
We started to drift too far north. I took up the oars and quietly turned us around, picking a path back to shore.
Eventually, Denis raised his head and caught the tiller. His eyes were as cool as ever, no tears, no redness to betray grief. But the sun was full in my face, doubled by its reflection on the water, and perhaps I could not see.
Denis said nothing at all as we traveled. He steered competently, and we avoided breakers to move smoothly back toward the windmill. I offered to row him closer to Blakeney or Cley, which would give him a short walk over fields to Easton's, but he declined.
'He will wash ashore sooner or later,' I said after another long silence.
Denis did not ask me who I meant. 'I know.' His mouth was a thin line. 'If you worry that any accusation will fall on you, do not. Your name will not be involved.'
I had not thought that far ahead-I'd barely thought past landing the boat. I said nothing, and Denis went on.
'When there are questions, I will answer them for you. You are under my protection.' He looked to shore at the windmill drawing closer, its arms turning with slow patience. 'Morgan will have a proper burial and a grand funeral service.'
Whereas Cooper, the man he'd trusted for twenty years, would be food for the fishes.
We landed and tied up the boat. Waller hadn't returned, and I decided he must have run off for good.
Denis entered the windmill with the paintings, then came out with a blanket and went into the ruined miller's house. I unsaddled and unbridled the horses to let them again share the cow's manger, which I replenished with hay from stacks on the leeward side of the house.
When I looked into the miller's house, Denis had turned Morgan over and laid him out, hands on his chest. Denis covered Morgan with a blanket and came out of the house without a word.
The day was darkening, and we sought shelter from the night in the windmill. I lit lamps and stoked the fire against the cold.
Denis looked horrible. His finely tailored suit was shredded and blood-spattered, his face smeared with blood and gunpowder. I imagined I did not look much better, which was confirmed when I bent over the washbasin in the bedroom upstairs. I caught a glimpse of my parchment-white face in the mirror, my dark eyes burning with a strange, feverish light.
I found bread, cheese, and ale downstairs in the kitchen, and I fell hungrily to my repast. Denis declined my offer to share the meal with him. He sat on a straight-backed chair, his hands on his lap, staring out the window through which he could see nothing.
'Grieving for him is only natural,' I said around bites of thick bread. 'He was a part of your life.'
Denis turned his head to look at me. 'Please do not speak of it.'
'The man who gave me the life I needed betrayed me too.'
'You mean Colonel Brandon, punishing you for loving his wife.' When I did not answer, Denis looked back at the window. 'You do not like to speak of that either.'
'No,' I said. 'But Brandon and what he did to me made me realize that men are who they are. We try to make them into something they are not, and then are astonished when they turn out not to be what we wanted. We betray ourselves.'
Denis got up from the chair. 'Pardon me, Lacey, but I have had enough of your philosophy for one day.' He walked steadily across the kitchen and opened the door. 'You have fulfilled this commission for me. Pack your bags when we reach Easton's and go.'
He went out into the night, closing the door behind him-not slamming it. I resumed my supper and my own troubled thoughts.
The tide turned, and the road south was dry in the morning. Waller did return, with a constable from the nearest village and the magistrate for the area: a well-fed squire on a well-fed horse.
Waller had witnessed Cooper attack us and kill Morgan, plus Cooper had held Waller hostage. The constable and magistrate were satisfied with the tale that Cooper locked Denis and me into the cellar and then ran off, fascinated by my explanation of how we'd managed to climb out through the floor. Denis said nothing, only stood looking out to sea, his back to us.
I had cleaned the boat before I'd fallen into heavy sleep the night before and had checked this morning to make sure I'd missed no smear of blood. I hadn't, but no one even looked at the boat. The magistrate went off home and the constable sent for a carter to deliver Morgan's body back to the Easton estate. They considered Cooper to be a fugitive, and the magistrate said he'd put out the hue and cry.
I knew they'd find nothing for a very long time. Denis had known exactly where to drop the body. When Cooper did eventually wash to shore, he would be too disintegrated for any but an expert to tell how he died, and then they might believe he'd fallen in with ruffians or was attacked by them. Cooper was a killer-no one would care very much how he met his end.
Denis and I spoke not at all as we rode back. Bartholomew, who'd spent an uneasy night waiting for me, had plenty of questions when I reached Easton's, especially when he saw my blood-spattered clothes. I put him off with short answers and bade him draw me a bath.
As I soaked in the hot water, I told Bartholomew to pack my things. We'd be moving into the pub at Blakeney. I did not want to go to the Parson's Point pub, because Buckley would be there, and I still did not have the fortitude to face him.
Denis summoned me before I could leave, and I went to the study.
Everything was as before-Denis sitting behind the desk, one of his lackeys at the window, looking on. The desk was bare.
Before Denis could speak, I said, 'One final thing puzzles me. Cooper says he did not kill Ferguson. If he did not, then who did?'
'Cooper lied,' Denis said.
'He seemed genuinely surprised that Ferguson was dead. Your surgeon told you that Ferguson had been well beaten, but before his death. The wounds on his face were made by Cooper, who was good with a cudgel. But the death blow could have been made afterward.'
Denis shrugged. 'Cooper delivered the final blow, Ferguson died slowly of the wound, and Cooper did not realize.'
I was not so satisfied. 'A second person might have come upon Ferguson later, when he was too weak to fight.'
Denis rose, not caring. As far as he was concerned, the matter was at an end.
'Come with me,' he said, and walked out of the room without waiting to see whether I followed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Denis led me downstairs to the dining room. The chandelier above the long table had been lit, and under its glowing light, Denis unrolled the canvases I'd found under the floorboards in the miller's house.
It was as though paradise had opened itself into this small, quiet room. I saw Venus and Adonis in a misty green garden; a beautifully dressed Dutch man and woman standing together in a tender moment; the haughty face of a princess with a ruff around her neck; glorious blue skies over classical ruins in a world that did not exist.
Beauty always struck me mute. I could only walk around the table, stunned, looking at glory.
'I thought you would like to view that for which you nearly died,' Denis said.
'What will happen to them?' I felt as though I asked about orphaned children.
'They will go to the gentlemen who paid me to obtain them. Those buyers are growing rather impatient. Brigadier Easton angered me not only because he stole from me but because he was ruining my business.'
