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The moment the door closed behind him, Kate stood straight and twisted her hands into her apron. Mr. Wilson was too suspicious. What if he decided to “helpfully” track her husband down and ask when he planned to join Kate in England? It was too soon for this. If it was discovered that Mr. Hamilton didn’t exist, her business would be ruined. But that sort of information would take months to ferret out. Years even. And no one would connect her to David Gallow. More importantly, no one would connect her to David’s death or the horrible threats of his son.
Her stomach ached at the thought. Not for the first time, she almost wished she’d stayed in Ceylon long enough to know the outcome of that night. But she’d had no choice. She’d promised David she’d never reveal the truth, and so she’d had to run.
The letter hidden beneath the countertop was another worry buzzing around her head like a hornet, but she wouldn’t rush over to it and hold it in trembling hands like some helpless young girl. Instead, she finished her dusting like the responsible business owner she was, then she stowed away her rags and duster and sat calmly down at her stool.
The letter had arrived from London two weeks before. She’d taken it out every day to stare it down as if it were a snake. A Mr. Dalworth claimed to be writing as a representative of a very important planter in Ceylon. He’d heard of Hamilton Coffees and wanted to discuss a deal with the shop owner personally, perhaps saving all interested parties a good deal of money in the process.
Mr. Dalworth did not name the planter. Kate felt suspicious of that, yet she could understand the reasoning. The planter would not wish to anger his current broker. Still, it made her nervous. What made her even more nervous was that Mr. Dalworth would be personally traveling to Hull this week.
Why?
Kate glared down at the letter for the hundredth time. Mr. Dalworth’s client wished to know Mr. Hamilton’s background and reputation. If only Mr. Hamilton actually existed, it would be simple information to provide.
This was exactly the type of deal that could help her business flourish. Exactly the purpose behind all her scheming. She knew the product, after all. She knew it from the moment the woody sprouts pushed from black soil. She knew when the beans must be picked to hold the greatest flavor. And most importantly, she knew which plantations took more care than others. Which owner demanded his workers pick the most beans, and which owners taught workers to pick the best.
But no one would believe a woman could know so much, which was exactly why she’d invented a husband upon her return to England. Just for a little while, then she’d lay him to rest. It wasn’t such an awful lie, surely. Her real husband was dead, and she deserved to make something good of her years on Ceylon.
But an inquiry from an anonymous planter in Ceylon? A coincidence or a trap?
Kate took a deep breath and looked around her shop. This life she had built. This good and right thing she’d carved for herself out of darkness. A year ago, she would have lowered her head and curled her arms around herself, afraid to take a chance. But now she thought . . . now she thought she would rather go down kicking and screaming, mad with fury. If it was a trap, she would fall into it and wait for the chance to attack the man who’d laid it.
She carefully folded the letter, zipping her finger over the creases to seal them tight. Then she slipped the letter back under the counter and dusted her hands. And now her workday was over, and a sizzle of anticipation traced through her body.
She slipped the latch and rushed to the back room, her boots raising a happy riot against the wood floor. Purposefully ignoring the kitchen and the two burnt dinner pots that awaited her attention, she grabbed her hooded cloak from a nail on the wall and pushed open the alley door. The air that greeted her when she stepped outside was startlingly crisp.
Kate paused for just a moment to inhale the delicious coldness, ignoring the various alley odors that lingered about. The warm spell had finally broken, and the weather she’d been waiting for had arrived.
Rushing down the alley, she eyed the sky above hopefully. Flat
gray clouds hung still over her head like great, floating promises. She wound her way through the lanes until she reached the strolling park, then veered away from the ancient willow, choosing a bench on the opposite side of the lawn. There was no sense in reminding herself of Aidan.
The wind sent brown leaves skittering over the grass as she sat down and gazed across the park. It all thrilled her—the dry sound of the dead leaves, the hard bite of the air, the wind’s cruel caress as it snuck into the folds of her cloak.
The grocer, Mr. Johansen, had predicted it would snow before sunset. She was ready.
Sitting as still as the stones that made up the bench beneath her, Kate waited and thought of nothing, refusing to allow even a hint of an idea or memory to form in her mind. She simply closed her eyes and breathed.
She’d discovered over the course of her time abroad that heat was a fortress, a prison. It oppressed the body and the mind, suffocated the soul. The cold was liberating. She suspected that, if she wished, she could rise up and fly away on a stir of the wind.
A tiny pinprick struck her cheek. Then another.
A fan of bittersweet euphoria swept through her body. Eyes still closed, she turned her face up to the sky and felt a dozen more snowflakes land on her skin. Her mouth stretched into a wide, unfettered grin and a sobbing laugh escaped her.
Seconds later, her face now wet with melted snow, she opened her eyes to see flakes floating, dancing, blowing through the air. A weight lifted from her heart at the sight. It was silly, she knew. She’d been back in England for months now, but for the first time, she felt she’d returned.
She’d wondered sometimes, particularly since Aidan’s departure, whether she really belonged in England. She felt so changed, so foreign. It had even occurred to her that she’d died on that island and this was some sort of death dream. But sitting here in the cold, watching the dim light of the hidden sun grow dimmer, she knew she was home. A few hot tears mixed with the dampness on her cold cheeks as darkness finally fell over the park.
She should go. She was looking forward to lighting a fire in the stove and working on her mending, just enjoying her small parlor with its yellowing walls and ragged furniture. She’d received some excellent Madeira in trade and planned to have a glass to help warm her before she retired to her bed, a bed the perfect size for her and her alone. But for now, she was content to sit here, to shiver and breathe.
Time stretched by, her nose began to numb. Taking a deep breath, she drew in the cold and looked slowly around, memorizing the sight of the light silver veil of falling snow, setting it carefully in her mind before rising to start her stroll home.
She’d reached a peaceful place again. A week ago she’d been frantic. All the control she’d exerted over her life had threatened to crumble and leave her soul naked to the elements. Over and over again, she’d imagined how different life would’ve been if she hadn’t been sent to Ceylon. Or even if she’d only known Aidan hadn’t abandoned her. She could’ve escaped if there had been someone to run to. If she’d had hope, she would’ve found a way to make her way back to him. But she had stayed. Stayed and faded.
Oh, it had eaten at her heart for long hours—the thought of what could have been. But after that first endless night of trembling hands and raw emotions, she’d forced herself to calm. She was fine now. Just fine.
Avoiding the front door—and Mr. Wilson’s prying eyes—Kate passed through the mouth of the alley, counting on the brightness of the snow for visibility. A few feet in, a prickle of unease swept over her skin, but she ignored it. These days found her curiously unafraid of physical danger. She’d sailed alone all the way from Ceylon with little thought for her safety. The leering looks of the sailors had been easily quelled by cold stares of her own. The men seemed able to sense her impervious contempt of them, and they’d left her alone. It was almost like magic, this fearlessness. A strange magic though, since it had failed her in the face of Aidan York.
“Kate.”
