The highwaymans letter, p.26
The Highwayman's Letter, page 26
“As my father did,” Reggie said harshly. He was feeling impatient with his aunt’s determination to assume the best of the men who had treated his father so terribly.
“It is not fair,” she agreed. “I don’t debate that. I have known my fair share of anger over it all, Reggie. We all lost your father, and we’ve all grieved that loss and how it might have been avoided. But one must be merciful with those who believe themselves to be protecting their families. Who’s to say you or I wouldn’t have done the same if we’d had the same fear?”
Reggie shook his head. “I would not.” He could feel her eyes on him, and he looked over at her, frowning.
Her brows were up, and there was the hint of an incredulous smile on her face. “Only look what you’ve done to support your family, my dear.” She tapped a finger on the knapsack.
He turned his head away from her and shifted on the bed.
“Yes, Reginald,” she continued, “I know you have been putting coins in my purse and in the post office money box.”
He glanced at her.
She took his hand in hers, which was warm and covered in wrinkles. “Do you think I don’t know every penny I have to my name? Or that I am so uncareful in my duties at the post office that I don’t notice a surplus of money?”
“You knew this whole time?”
“Not the whole time, no. I wasn’t certain how you were managing it until tonight.” She patted his hand. “You have robbed coaches for your family, Reginald. And while I hope you won’t do so anymore, don’t think I am ungrateful for the love that motivated it. I only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive what Lord Sandford did. We can never foresee the full consequences of our actions, and I’m certain he didn’t know what his decision would mean for your father.” She rose from the bed, set a soft kiss on Reggie’s hair and the letter beside him, then left the room with a little commiserative smile.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The initial reaction of Joanna’s father to her engagement was surprise. Happiness followed, but it was more subdued than she had anticipated, considering how long they had been waiting for the development to occur.
There was a distraction about his manner that left her feeling deflated and, if she was being honest with herself, slightly anxious about her decision. Had so much of her desire to wed Sir Leonard been centered around how she believed it would affect her father’s view of her? Was her prized rationality really just a wish for her father’s approbation and respect?
Whatever the case, Bath’s beneficial effects upon her mother seemed to contrast starkly with the town’s effect on her father. Joanna couldn’t help but wonder whether it had something to do with what the Paladin—Mr. Sinclair—Reggie—whatever his name was—had said to her the night on the terrace—the night she tried never to think about when she could avoid it, which was far less often than she wished.
She was not particularly proud of the way she had acted that night. She had been taken by surprise, of course, and she didn’t excuse his behavior in deceiving her and making her feel like a fool. But as the mortification and anger inevitably began to fade, she was left with her own harsh words—and his soft ones. He had predicted precisely what would happen: he had lain himself bare in front of her, and she had rejected him.
Three days after her engagement, Joanna came upstairs following an early afternoon promenade with Sir Leonard and found her door closed and latched from the inside. Frowning, she knocked.
There was a shuffling then a thud of approaching footsteps. The latch lifted, and the door opened, and Frances’s face peered out from the gap, eyes wide and full of energy.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Joanna pushed open the door.
Frances held up a letter. Immediately, Joanna recognized the script of the Paladin, and she tried to grab it, but Frances stumbled backward to prevent her.
“I knew you were hiding something!”
“Give that to me, Frances,” Joanna said, quickly shutting the door behind her.
“He is the man who came to your terrace, isn’t he? Isn’t he?”
Joanna stilled, and Frances smiled.
“Oh, yes. I know about that—I saw him hop over the wall and disappear the other night, and I found his mask in the garden the next morning.”
Joanna turned away and walked toward her bed. She had gone to pick up the mask the next day, and, when she had failed to find it, she had assumed the wind had blown it away.
“Congratulations on your admirable eavesdropping skills, Frances. You will face no barriers to being accepted amongst the Bath quizzes.”
Frances followed her. “You cannot blame me. If you wished to keep his visit secret, you should have endeavored to whisper rather than yell. And do not pretend that whatever you argued about is not what you have been moping about for the past few days. I know a heartsick face when I see one.”
Joanna turned toward her, anger flaring up inside her. “No, Fran. You see a heartsick face wherever you look because that is how you view life. Everything must needs be part of some ridiculous romance to you.”
She held up the letter. “Says the woman corresponding with the Paladin!”
“Yes! To prove to you that your infatuation with him was ridiculous. That he was unworthy of your obsession. And I was right.” She said the words angrily, but they smarted, and she felt a prickling behind her eyes. She might have been saying them to herself—reminding herself what she should have known all along. “He is not the hero you insist on swooning over.”
“No,” Frances said in the sort of tone one might expect to be followed by a sticking out of the tongue, “he is the one you have been swooning over.” Her eyes widened even more. “Sir Richard! From the masquerade.” She couldn’t have looked more pleased if the queen herself had ordered every eligible gentleman to woo her. “That was him, too, wasn’t it?” She desperately needed to be brought back down to Earth.
And Joanna would ensure her feet landed squarely on the unforgiving ground. “Would you like to know who he is, Fran? Would you? He is a letter carrier dressed like a fop.”
Finally, Frances was struck silent. Eyes round as dinner plates, she stared at Joanna. “A letter carrier? The letter carrier? The Paladin is Mr. Sinclair?” She threw back her head, laughing. “You clever devil! On your terrace at night, delivering your post during the day. How dared you never tell me?”
Joanna held her sister’s gaze, reluctant to correct her misunderstanding of the situation—her assumption that Joanna had known the truth all along, that she had been part of the deceit rather than a victim of it.
Frances’s smile faded as she stared back at Joanna, realization dawning on her face. “You . . . you didn’t know.” Her eyes went to the terrace. “That is why you quarreled. And why he forgot his mask. And why you have been so . . . so . . .”
“Don’t.” Joanna turned around, smoothing the bedcovers which needed no smoothing as her heart jumped into her throat.
“And here I was thinking you had fallen in love with two different men—and engaged yourself to another. Oh, Joanna. How could you? How could you engage yourself to Sir Leonard when you are in love with the Paladin—with Mr. Sinclair?”
Joanna shut her eyes. “Do you not hear yourself, Frances?” She spoke quietly, feeling suddenly tired. “You honestly expect me to choose a highwayman over Sir Leonard?”
“He is a letter carrier. And better to marry a letter carrier than a man whose first words were—and last words undoubtedly will be—Mother says.”
Joanna shook her head. “Sir Leonard does not deserve your unkindness, Frances.”
Frances came over and took her by the arm, but Joanna refused to be brought around to face her sister. She was perilously near to tears.
“Oh, very well, then. But that does not mean you must marry him! It is not too late, Jo. Every romance has its rough patch, its tempest before the rainbow. You must go and prostrate yourself before him, confess your true feelings—”
“Enough.”
For once, Frances listened. “Fine.” She tossed the letter on the bed. “You mustn’t come to me, though, when you are covered in bee stings and your heart has shriveled inside you because you are determined not to use it on any account.”
The door soon slammed behind her, and Joanna indulged in half an hour of silent tears.
After another morning of cucumber treatment for her eyes, Joanna found her father at the table when she went to sit down for an early breakfast in hopes of avoiding Frances and her mother. Her father seemed not to even remark her presence, and after buttering her roll, Joanna set down her knife and put her hands in her lap.
“Papa?”
His head came up, and he blinked. “Hm?”
She looked at him with a frown, wishing she could understand what had him so distracted and far away. Had he heard the rumors that she had offered for Sir Leonard’s hand? “Have I disappointed you, Father?”
He looked taken aback. “What? No, no. Why should you say such a thing?”
She fiddled with the napkin in her lap then looked at him. “It is only that I expected you to be a bit more . . . pleased at the engagement.”
He smiled wanly. “I am, my dear. I am. I am sorry if I have not appeared it. I have been . . . distracted by a few matters. On no account must you think I am displeased with you, though.”
She offered him a smile and nodded, wishing she could pursue the subject. But what would she say? She added milk to her tea and ate her roll slowly, lost in thought over what breakfast conversations would be like once she and Sir Leonard were married. Would Lady Elkins join them every day?
The time she and Sir Leonard had spent together since their engagement had been difficult for Joanna. She had a tender spot in her heart for him, but now more than ever, she felt keenly aware of their differences. Since their discussion at the magnolia tree, he had spoken to her of little else but the upcoming expedition some of London’s most renowned scientists were planning to Barbados. With the prospect of his fortune becoming his own, his wildest dreams had become a reality, and Joanna had had to remind him more than once that they still had to be married before any expedition could even be considered.
Such interactions were both humorous and unsettling for her as she began to wonder just what their life together would be like. While she suspected a change in scenery might help her in some ways, Barbados was not her preferred destination. Sir Leonard’s descriptions alone made her feel uncomfortably hot. When she mentioned her dislike of the heat, he sunnily suggested she stay behind in England.
He would not be a demanding husband, at least. There was that. It had to be a good thing, didn’t it?
“Joanna,” her father said.
She looked up and realized she had been stirring her tea so long, it had gone cold.
He cleared his throat. “The other day, Frances mentioned a Mr. Sinclair—a friend of yours, I gathered.”
Joanna’s every muscle went taut. This was the discussion she had considered having with him ever since the Paladin’s last visit. But she had refused to do it—refused to believe whatever awful things he had implied about her father, who clearly had enough on his mind without her probing questions.
His expression was hesitant but his eyes eager. “What do you know of Mr. Sinclair?”
She swallowed, wanting to pursue the conversation but dreading the pain it might bring her. She let go of the spoon and picked up the teacup, cradling it in her hands and staring down at the creamy brown liquid. “He is a letter carrier—or a clerk, rather, at the post office.” Her mind went to the moments they had shared delivering letters, and her heart gave a familiar pang.
That heart was proving a more formidable foe than she had anticipated. She could try to strangle it during the day, but it seemed to come alive with a vengeance at night, and she had woken more than once after a vivid dream of dancing with Mr. Sinclair under a forest of wisteria trees, or finding a drawer full of letterlocked pieces of post he had paid for, each a love letter.
The anger she had felt had dulled almost completely now, and beneath its charred remains, she was left to grapple with what she knew of him—his kindness, the immediate connection she had felt with him as both letter carrier and highwayman, the way he had made her laugh, the feeling of his hand holding her to him and his lips on hers.
More than anything, she wanted to understand why. Why had he chosen such a dangerous path? None of it squared with what she knew of him.
“And what of his family?” her father asked.
Joanna’s brows knit at the strange question. “He lives with his aunt and uncle. I understand his father died in debtor’s prison.”
Her father’s cravat bobbed, and a stricken expression passed over his face. “Is Mr. Sinclair—the one you know—is he . . . is he happy?”
Joanna had asked herself the same question since seeing him last. Was he fighting his heart as she was fighting hers? But why should her father care about such a thing? Misgiving bubbled up inside her, making her wonder if perhaps there was more to what the Paladin had said about her father than she had allowed herself to believe.
“Father?” She ignored his question. “What happened? Mr. Sinclair is under the impression that you are somehow to blame for his situation.”
He shut his eyes, and his chin quivered for a moment before he covered his mouth with a hand.
She hurried up from her seat and went to the one beside him, taking his free hand in hers, though her own stomach was tight with anxiety.
“I am to blame,” he finally said, face full of affliction.
“For what? What do you mean?”
“For his father’s death. Debtor’s prison.” His shoulders came up. “For everything.”
“You aren’t making sense, Father.” She squeezed his hand in an effort to bring his glazed over eyes back into focus.
It seemed to work somewhat, for he finally looked at her. “It was selfish. Thoughtless. But I never meant . . . I swear I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Tell me what happened,” she said, keeping her voice gentle, though the flapping of nerves inside her chest was anything but gentle. “From the beginning.”
He blinked, nodding, and his hand turned over to grasp hers, as though he needed her support if he was to tell all.
He took a moment to compose himself, fiddling with her hand. “I was new to Bath and in need of a banker here. Joseph Sinclair was an up-and-coming one, working for another man at the time. He had a promising mind, an engaging personality, and a knack for investing—a man destined to succeed. I encouraged him to start his own bank, told him that I would put my money with him if he did and ensure he had a trustworthy London correspondent. He was eager to do so, but he needed more capital if he was to attract the right sort of clients.” The corners of his lips turned down in a frown. “I offered him three thousand pounds to lay the foundation and promised to help spread the word. And so I did. Soon enough, all the best and brightest in Bath were coming to bank with Sinclair.”
His expression darkened. “Then Frederick died. You remember—it was all so unexpected, and he had left the estate heavy with debt. I panicked—I had always been so careful with my own money, never left a debt unpaid—so I called in the loan, thinking Sinclair was well-enough established, and we went to Birchley.” He shook his head. “Word spread that I had left Sinclair—taken all my money. People panicked, thinking the bank was failing, and they all demanded their money. I didn’t know—not until weeks later. I sent him a letter, inquiring after the state of things, but I never heard back.”
He bit the inside of his lip, shaking his head. “I discovered later that Sinclair couldn’t make good on all the debts. There was an uproar. People assumed the worst of him—they demanded he repay them every cent.” He shut his eyes. “He went to debtor’s prison, and by the time I returned and discovered the whole truth . . . it was too late. He had died of consumption in Bath City Gaol.” His chin began to tremble again. “I should have waited. Frederick’s debts could have waited.”
Joanna tried to control her own emotions, but her eyes were brim-full. All she could think of was a young Reggie Sinclair losing everything, including his own father. All she could hear were the terrible names she had called him. She shut her eyes, unable to offer any words of comfort to her father. What had he done?
What had she done?
Dinner with Lady Elkins and Sir Leonard in Great Pulteney Street that night was a somewhat stilted and somber affair. Neither Joanna nor her father were in a conversational mood, and everything Lady Elkins said might have been calculated to annoy them.
Frances, too, seemed to be in rare form and, while Joanna was content to see that she was perfectly civil to Sir Leonard, anytime she spoke to his mother, it was with a mechanical smile on her face and a barb to her comments.
There was discussion of the nuptials—when and where they should occur, who should be informed. For her own part, Joanna preferred a small wedding—or no wedding at all. But it was too late for such thoughts, and as she watched Sir Leonard sniff a spoonful of honey before drizzling it over his tea, she knew she could not jilt him. Her heart might yearn for a certain letter-carrying highwayman, but what sort of heart would it be if it abandoned Sir Leonard? Particularly when she had her doubts whether they would be engaged at all if not for her persistence.
Twice during dinner, he mentioned his hopes for an expedition across the Atlantic. Joanna had never seen him so full of excitement—or his mother so dismayed.
Apparently sensing an opportunity to sew discord, Frances encouraged him in his fantasizing, asking him all about the duration of the sea voyage to Barbados and what the climate was like there.
“Ah,” Frances said, “so, warmer even than a conservatory. What an adventure for you, Jo!” She leaned toward Sir Leonard. “Joanna is a lover of cool weather, you know. She is forever opening windows to let in a breeze, and she often keeps her windows open all night.”
