Page 60 of Holding Onto Love

“No. It gets complicated. Suffice it to say, the rum is purchased. It’s shipped here. Offloaded. Stored in a warehouse. Reloaded. Then shipped out. The way I think, Jasp, is to say wouldn’t it make the most sense to switch barrels in the warehouse? And then figure out how it might be done.”

“And by whom?”

Crispin nodded.

Jasper said, “You wrote I should hint at Hilyer’s Irish concerns.”

“There is a cooperage in Dublin. Gentlemen do not engage in commercial enterprise, but we all know investments come in through backdoors.” Crispin folded his hands. “Hilyer owns a large share of that cooperage. Barrels are not only sold to distillers. And distillers’ stamps are not difficult to forge.”

“Crispin, your evidence sounds shaky.”

“It is no evidence at all,” he conceded, undisturbed. “Nevertheless, I know I am correct. Too many pieces fit. But he is a peer. And pieces aren’t enough. So we will catch him another way.”

“Running to France with supposed military secrets?”

“Yes.” Then Crispin grinned. “So in a way, this all depends on you. Sad that you cannot boast of your heroics to Vanessa.”

While Jasper glared, Crispin pulled his watch from his vest and glanced at it. Then his grin fell away.

“Damn.” He shoved the watch back. “Give my regards to Haz.”

Then he took off at a run.

Part 5

Time to Adjust. Or Not.

August 1813

Cartmel

Chapter Eighteen

Vanessa Wardrip was reaccumulating things. It had started with books. First a few, then a few more. It was silly since she was not even much of a reader. A variety of tutors had soured her on the activity when she was young. Nevertheless, the adventure novels she purchased to reignite Charlotte’s enthusiasm for learning thrilled her as well. They read them together over tea. Then Charlotte recounted the stories at night to her boys. Vanessa looked forward to the day when she might lend Charlotte the books to read to them. But for now…

She tried to wiggle her latest purchases onto the shelf Tam had built.

In addition to books, she bought herself a tea set. It wasn’t an extravagance; she’d dropped her clay pot and it cracked. The replacement she bought over in Paxton Downs, which included four matching teacups, was not Wedgewood but rather an inexpensive imitation that was just as pretty. She christened the set by inviting the two women from church who were always together. They were sisters, she learned, wedded to brothers who were fishermen. They both had sons who were now old enough to go out with their fathers. And Mary and Myrtle had wanted to make her acquaintance for oh-so-long, but were shy.

Vanessa had also bought herself a straw bonnet to keep the sun from her face. Little by little, she was beginning to feel settled. Things were not important, but perhaps what one did with them was.

And now, she must go claim her boots. When she’d tried two days earlier, they were not yet ready, and Bitter had been so apologetic he seemed almost fretful. He’d promised they would be done today. She worried if she didn’t go claim them, he would search for a way to bring them to her.

She tied on her bonnet and set out. Down the street, she saw Charlotte spreading laundry in her yard to dry in the sun. Mostly Sweet Kate’s nappies. Vanessa waved, but kept on, reminded that she had her own laundry to wash when she returned. Mostly underthings. She would not spread them outside. They were lacy and delicate and would not belong to the woman she pretended to be.

The day was hot which made the walk seem longer, which returned her thoughts to where they had been. Her slowly accumulating things. She let word slip out that she’d received a small inheritance from a great uncle in case anyone noticed.

Another purchase she’d recently made was writing paper. She wrote letters to Effie Andini and Rose Posonby, short notes, just to say she was settled into a comfortable cottage near a friend of hers from the Peninsula. She could not tell them where, but if they were so inclined, they might write to her care of Mr. Will Collingswood.

She didn’t post the letters. Will had told her he would not serve as her go-between. He’d meant, of course, between her and Jasper, but he might think she was writing to her friends seeking information about him. She was not. Not really. She missed her London life. But she’d decided she must ask Will first if he would mind being a conduit. Unfortunately, she was finding that letter too difficult to compose.

She wrote also to Crispin. She thanked him for his kindness in thinking of her and sharing his news. She told him, too, that she was settling in, making friends, and that Lydia and Corporal Compton were also well. She didn’t bother asking him how he had located her. He wouldn’t explain. But she tore up that letter rather than send it. It would take weeks to find him if it found him at all. He might or might not reply. And she didn’t want to spend the next few months…waiting. Nor did she think she should strike up a correspondence with Jasper’s brother.

She also composed letter after letter to her one-time lover. Telling him little details about her life here. Asking about his. Sometimes telling him how desperately she missed him—his conversation, his smiles, his touch. Oh, his touch.

She wrote those letters only in her head. Never committing words to paper.

Her forehead was damp with perspiration and her clothes felt heavier and dustier, but there, ahead, finally, was the Comptons’ cottage. Tidily constructed, it was smaller than her own. The front door stood open inviting a breeze and, of course, customers. Six bootmakers were working there now, including Lydia, her husband, Jon, Bitter, and two other injured soldiers. All Vanessa could think was that it must be unbearably cramped.