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“Yes, letters. Little parcels, sometimes.”
“How did you even become acquainted?”
“Her father is the most obnoxious fence I’ve ever met… he’s not a smuggler, but he arranges certain things for… them.” Them sounded more like us. “Including me. And I… happened to come by his cottage one evening.” Alastair exhibited no shame, but Paul gleaned that he phrased things genteelly. “And Muriel took me aside on my way out. She was on her way in from work and overheard some of our conversation. She thought I’d be well-suited to helping her transport these letters, and I am. But I won’t take her money.”
“You won’t?”
“How well do you know her?” Alastair seemed to be silently evaluating his face for signs of distress; Paul hoped he did not look very flummoxed.
“Not very.” Paul sipped and considered how long he had known Muriel, but how little he knew of her as a person. Part of that had been her father’s doing, because he did not encourage her to be social unless there were connections or advantages to be gained. “We’ve known each other since childhood, but I can’t say I was an outgoing boy. So… not well.”
“You don’t seem especially shy now.”
“I…” Paul cleared his throat. It was possible that Alastair was flirting. A glint to his eye gave it away more than his tone. Generally, Paul made no such assumptions, yet he would have thought so regardless of the premonition. The signs were subtle, written in tiny clues. “I suppose I’m not, now.”
“Well,” said Alastair. He leaned closer, smiling just a little. “I’m not fond of gossip, but I think I can be frank with you.”
To have something to do that wasn’t initiating a kiss, Paul drank more of his cognac.
“She has a lover,” said Alastair. “And I deliver their correspondence.”
“Does she?”
“Mmhm, a Miss Abigail in Overstrand.”
It did not strike Paul as much as it would others because he wasn’t strictly normal himself. When Alastair slid him an even wider smile, he nodded and grinned. “And she’s supposed to marry some man in Norwich.”
“Yes, well, not if she has anything to say about it. She’s determined to run away.”
“No vicar would marry two women.”
“Of course not. But you don’t need the church to be married.”
“I’ve often wanted…” Paul corrected himself. “Wondered if such a thing could be possible.”
With some pity, Alastair inclined his head and murmured, “Of course it is. She’s been saving money for months and she says she’s put enough away to help them set up house, so they’re trying to make good their escape. It was harder, she said, before she met me. I’ve just been dealing with her father for the last few weeks, and it’s only been a fortnight since I’ve been delivering things to Abigail.”
It explained why Paul had never noticed him before. One didn’t have to come inside for him to notice them. From the taproom windows in particular, he saw many people on their daily business and could glean their habits. Chances were, if Alastair had been around longer than those few weeks, Paul would have seen him. “I assume she’d be ready to change her name, start again entirely somewhere else.”
“Yes.”
After a long pause, Paul asked him, “But why are you helping? And without payment? You’re not her friend.”
“I want to think such a thing is possible for anyone with a good heart. Or at least good intentions.”
“That’s noble.”
“It isn’t nobility,” Alastair said. He drained the rest of his cognac.
“What is it, then?”
Setting his glass down on the narrow table before the sofa, Alastair replied, “I should have liked the chance, myself. I don’t have it, but that doesn’t mean others can’t take theirs.”
With a frown, Paul looked over at him. “You can’t come tearing in here demanding to be let into my cellar, then say something like that, without me wanting to know more about you.”
“This is terrible business practice, you know,” said Alastair, both by way of replying and changing the subject. For now, he would ignore Paul’s desire to know more about him. That would be like opening Pandora’s Box.
“What?”
