I thought of Terrance, angry, disappointed, broken by the loss of his arm and what he'd found upon his return home. I'd been miserable when I'd first come back to England, but I now thought it a lucky stroke that I'd chosen to live in London instead of trying to return to Norfolk. In London, I'd met Grenville and found an interest in pursing criminals. If I'd returned to Parson's Point, I'd even now be as sunk in melancholia as Terrance was.
"Mr. Quinn's injury is hardly his fault," I said, my voice going frosty.
Lady Southwick's eyes widened. "Of course it is not. He was most unfortunate, is all. But Miss Quinn is now married and gone, thanks to me."
"Did you help them elope?"
"I did, indeed, and good thing too. Helena came to me in tears, poor lamb. Her father and mother were about to send Mr. Braxton away, so I told her to leave it to me. I gave Mr. Braxton a bit of money and arranged that they should meet and go away together, without anyone being the wiser."
"Where did you have them meet? The Lacey house?"
"Good heavens, no. Your father was still alive then, and quite a curmudgeon. He took Dr. Quinn's side of the matter, thought Helena a disobedient child, and even wrote me, taking me to task for encouraging them. I beg your pardon, Captain, I know he was your father, but he was a tyrant and often got above himself. Lord Southwick could never stick him."
I did not argue with her. "Then where did you tell them to meet?"
"In the little copse north of your house, near that windmill. Easy for Miss Quinn to reach, and a spot her parents would not think her to go. And romantic."
A girl running away from home would think it romantic, in these days when we all had to read poetry, take long tramps through the countryside, and wax eloquent about skylarks.
"Have you heard from Miss Quinn since?"
"I did. One letter, when she first reached Cambridge. Telling me she was well, and that she had no wish to communicate with her parents. I did feel compelled to at least send her mother a note that she was alive and well, but I could not blame Helena for wanting to say nothing more to them. They treated her badly."
"Her father died soon after. She did not return to his funeral?"
"No. I did write her of the event, directing my letter to Mr. Braxton in Cambridge-Helena had given me no precise street or house-but I had no reply."
"Then you do not know if the letter ever reached her?"
"No, she never wrote again. Young Mr. Quinn went to Cambridge to find her, as you likely know, and he did find the house, but Mr. Braxton and Helena had gone north somewhere."
Lady Southwick made a what-can-we-do? gesture with her ring-clasped fingers, and my anger stirred. She'd been happy to help the girl thwart her parents and disappear into the mists but had felt no need to worry about Helena's well-being after that.
"Thank you," I managed to say.
Lady Southwick smiled again, sliding her hand up my arm. "Not at all, Captain. I am sorry we did not come to know each other better, but I understand you wished to be discreet while you were under Lady Breckenridge's eye." Her smile widened. "Lady Breckenridge, however, has departed."
"You flatter me, my lady, but I truly have much business to attend."
"What a liar you are." She gave my hand a little slap. "I will assure Donata that you were not tempted in the slightest. I release you, Captain, but in a few years' time, when you grow weary of marriage, remember that my home is but five miles distant from yours."
Reaves looked pleased to see me depart. He shook my hand when I said good-bye, but I saw the relief in his eyes. I rode away from Southwick Hall, deciding to return to my house and the copse Lady Southwick had mentioned and have another look around.
Without the rain, I traversed the five miles fairly quickly, reaching the windmill that could be seen from the windows of my mother's sitting room. Its arms cranked steadily, a familiar clack, clack that brought back more memories than I cared it to.
This windmill not only pumped water but ground grain, and its gears had fascinated the small boy I'd been. The keeper who'd used to carry me home when I became too much of a nuisance was gone, replaced by a younger man. The windows in the windmill glowed with light, but I did not stop to pass the time.
To the west of the windmill was the copse, and beyond that sat the Lacey house, bleak under the gray skies. In the middle of the copse was a clearing, in which someone in my grandfather's time had fixed a stone bench. The perfect place for a rendezvous.
I dismounted and walked over the area, leaving large footprints in the mud. I examined the bench, a fancy thing of carved stone from the last century. I got down on the ground and looked under it, my bad knee protesting, though what I hoped to find after ten years I did not know. Nothing was there.
I climbed to my feet and sat down, wrapping myself in my greatcoat and bracing my hands on my walking stick. I was beset with questions: If Helena had met Mr. Braxton here, why was her dress in my mother's sitting room? Who had taken the church silver, and why had they stashed the things in the kitchen? The villagers had assumed Helena had stolen it, but its return made her look innocent.
Perhaps none of the incidents were connected, and perhaps I was chasing shadows. I'd find Helena and her husband alive and well in some northern county, the dress discarded by a maid who'd stolen Helena's things after she went, the church silver taken by a thief who'd never had opportunity to return for his prize.
I realized after a bit, sitting in the wind, that I was pondering these questions to avoid those that had swooped upon me all night: Who was the man my mother had loved? Why had she decided to run away with him? And why hadn't she, in the end?
Because of me? Had she not been able to bear the thought of never seeing her son again, or had she simply not wanted to leave me with my father? By law, a mother could not be guardian of her own child unless legally appointed. A boy belonged to his father, and that was all.
She had left me alone with him, in any case, by dying. But if she'd gone off with her lover, would she be alive today? And would I have forgiven her for going?
I needed to find out. But who to ask? Was my mother's love affair a secret between herself and whoever the man happened to be? Or was it common knowledge, one of those things known but not spoken of? And which man could I approach with the question? Had her lover been a stranger or someone local?
I pondered for a while longer, growing colder by the minute, until I fixed upon a person who knew all the gossip of the nearby villages and was kind at the same time. I led my horse to the bench, got stiffly onto the stone seat, and mounted up.
The rain started again as I rode the short way north. Not long later, I stood, streaming, at the kitchen door of the vicarage. Mrs. Landon's son led my horse to the warm, dry stables, and a maid let me into the equally warm and dry kitchen.
Mrs. Landon, her keys clinking on her belt like a medieval jailor's, welcomed me, bade me give the maid my wet things, and sat me down at the table.
"Mrs. Landon," I said, deciding to broach the topic as quickly as I could. "I want you to tell me everything you know about my mother. Her last year, especially."
Mrs. Landon pushed a steaming cup at me, looking in no way surprised at my command. "You've found out about that, have you, dear?"
I clasped my hands around the coffee, my heart beating faster. "I discovered a journal she kept. Who was he, Mrs. Landon?"
She gave me a sad look from her watery blue eyes. "Well, dear, I suppose it's right that you know. It was Mr. Buckley, the publican. Young Mr. Buckley, that is. The one who's publican now."
Chapter Sixteen
"Buckley?"
I stood, my chair sliding back on the flagstones. Thomas Buckley, the youthful-faced publican who'd welcomed me home as the "young master," remembered what I liked to drink, and offered me cheerful advice about Terrance Quinn-had been my mother's lover?