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“Good, then you can remain behind and finish the mortar,” Father said.
Roger’s lips pressed flat, but he didn’t argue. “Can we not hire more servants?”
“No.” Father said no more, and the matter was dropped.
William chose to believe that his father had a plan that would restore him to his home in Dorset. This cottage suited William well enough, but it was incongruous with Richard Blakemore. The man had built a successful smuggling business out of Dorset that had supplied them with the income to live a life of relative ease. If evading revenue men and breaking the law could foster a sense of ease, that was.
Until he knew any differently, William would continue on as though this was their permanent home—and perhaps that could become the case for him. He wasn’t cut out for smuggling, and it wasn’t what he wanted to do for the remainder of his life. “We need to plant soon. We should prepare the south field by the end of next week.”
“We won’t be around when it’s time to reap the benefits,” Roger said, his blond eyebrows bunching. “Surely we needn’t go so far in our ruse.”
William leaned over to hang his stockings near the fire to dry before slouching from his coat. Once dry, it would be easy to beat the sand free of his clothes.
“It is not a ruse,” Father said.
William froze. He tried to cover his surprise by arranging his coat on the back of his chair and moving it closer to the fire, but Father watched him closely, and he was certain the man noticed.
“Yes, and I am truly going to be a fisherman for the rest of my days,” Roger said, laughter punctuating his words.
“You won’t, no,” Father said. He looked at William, the rest of his thought floating unspoken between them.
Roger won’t, but William very well might.
All these years since Mother’s death, and William had thought he’d done an excellent job of hiding his true feelings from his father. Evidently, he hadn’t been as surreptitious as he’d thought. Either Father knew of William’s acute dislike for the smuggling trade, or he believed William to truly enjoy this damp little cottage life.
Rising, William stretched his arm high above his head. “I need to get into dry clothes before we prepare to leave.”
Roger groaned. “Must we fish every night?”
“Yes.” William suppressed a chuckle. “Well, every night except Sunday.”
“The one good thing about Sunday,” Roger murmured. “I still do not quite understand why we cannot fish in the daylight.”
“Easier to catch them when they don’t see the nets coming,” William said as he mounted the stairs. He heard Father mumble something to Roger but pushed them from his mind. He was, oddly enough, looking forward to getting out on the boat in the open sea again. He enjoyed the feeling of rowing the oars until he was so tired that he collapsed in his bed and fell asleep swiftly, despite the uncomfortable mattress.
He was growing content in this new way of life, but he had a feeling that it was false, that it couldn’t last long.
And whatever it was that was coming to disrupt it, his father was surely behind it.
