Gatehaven Read online

  “I see you are holding a book. Is it the one you went searching for?”

  “I think yes. But I have yet to study it.” He sat down and placed the book in his lap. “I thought we could do that together.”

  She sat, placing her feet on the floor. “Come and sit beside me.” She patted a spot on the settee. “That way I can hear you better when you read to me.”

  Ian got up and moved to the settee, trying not to gaze at her. Shannon’s beauty always took his breath away and never more than when they sat side-by-side.

  He opened the book and fumbled for pages beginning with the letter A. “Abomination,” he read. “Hateful, loathsome. Then it says that there are certain acts and practices that the Bible calls abominations, and it names some of them.”

  “What are they?” she asked.

  “It lists certain animals that are not to be eaten or offered as a sacrifice to the Lord because they are considered unclean. And the Bible warns against other unclean practices such as—” He stopped because he couldn’t bear to say the words whore and sodomite in the presence of an innocent young woman.

  “Such as what?” she asked.

  He felt his cheeks warm. “It wouldn’t be prudent to read certain words in front of a young lady. I am sure you understand.”

  Shannon blushed. “Yes. I understand completely.”

  “Let us move on to the next word, shall we, lass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Divination,” he read. “To foretell the future.”

  “Is that all it says?’ she asked. “Just—to tell the future?”

  “There are explanations below that. But I am not sure they are related to the meaning of the word.”

  “Read them, please.”

  “Very well.” He cleared his throat. “Some attempt to tell the future by reading the lines in one’s hand. Some discover possible future events from reading the remains of tealeaves left at the bottom of a cup. Others peer into bowls of water or into balls made of pure crystal in hopes of learning future events. Still others use forked twigs when looking for underground supplies of water.” He paused, looking at Shannon. “Why don’t people read the Bible to learn the future?” He gazed at the book again. “It says the twigs point downward when water is below ground.”

  “My chaperone, Miss Foster, has a ball made of crystal.”

  “Aye. You told me about that.”

  “Do you think she knows that these practices are an abomination to the Lord?”

  “Perhaps not. Though such practices are an abomination according to the Bible, Miss Foster might not know they are wrong if she has never read those scriptures or heard them read to her.”

  “I cannot recall ever hearing the verses you read to me before,” Shannon said. “Yet as soon as Miss Foster took my palm and began to tell things about my future, I knew, somehow, that it was wrong—without being told.”

  He nodded as if to confirm her statement. “It is the same with me. I often know when something is wrong without being told. I think that is because God directs my path. He directs the paths of all those who love Him and follow Him. The Lord wants us to look to Him for answers—to look to Him for help in time of need. Clearly He does not want us to do as the heathen do and follow outside influences or engage in strange practices.” He glanced at her before searching for more answers. “Shall we go on to the next word?”

  “Please do.”

  He flipped to words beginning with the letter C. “Charm,” he read. “A charm is an ornament worn or used to avert evil or bring good fortune. And a charmer is one who uses spells for protection and to influence and fascinate others as a witch might do.”

  “Do you think Miss Foster is a witch?” Shannon asked.

  Ian shrugged. “I cannot say. But it is possible—even likely.”

  “Oh, Ian, that is so sad.”

  “Aye. But remember, God is always willing to forgive those who truly repent.”

  “What does it mean to truly repent?” she asked. “I never understood it.” “Our pastor said that to truly repent of one’s sins is more than merely saying you are sorry. It means trying never to commit that sin again.” He turned to another page. “Necro,” he read. “Necro means death—a corpse or a place where the dead are buried. But I do not see the word necromancy— the word actually mentioned in the Bible.” He hesitated. “Oh, here it is. Necromancy.” He cleared his throat. “Necromancy is divination by means of communication with familiar spirits. Black Magic. Sorcery.” He felt his eyes widen. “This is the one I have been looking for.”

  “What are familiar spirits?” she asked.

  “Let me see if I can find the definition.”

  At last, he smiled. “Here it is.” He cleared his throat. “A familiar spirit is a spirit that is close to a witch or a sorcerer, or has an attachment to a particular family. Often, those that conjure a familiar spirit call it ‘Master.’ They consult familiar spirits when searching for help and guidance, instead of asking the Lord for help in time of need. Such acts are an abomination, according to the Bible.”

  “Master, did you say?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “I think Miss Foster called somebody named Clem her master.”

  “How awful for Miss Foster. Some people consult familiars to learn things they wouldn’t know otherwise. We must pray that Miss Foster repents and becomes a child of God.”

  He noticed that Shannon’s lips turned down and that her shoulders drooped. Either their conversation was upsetting her or her ankle hurt more than she was willing to admit.

  “I need to go into the village this morning, lass. Monsieur Gabeau gave me permission to borrow one of his horses whenever I needed to. Why not let me take you back to Gatehaven before I ride into town?”

  She shook her head. “I would rather not go back there just yet.”

  “Your ankle is still paining you then?”

  “It is not my ankle. It hardly hurts at all now.”

  “Then what is the reason, lass?”

  “I am not ready to see Miss Foster face-to-face. I doubt I will ever be. She scares me. Perhaps I will stay here until the earl and his family return from London.”

  Ian didn’t think she would be any safer in Leon’s home than in the earl’s. But he was unsure how to convince her of his conclusions. Even if he could, there was no other place for her to stay.

  Leon. When had he started thinking of the Frenchman as Leon instead of Etienne Gabeau? He still had no proof of his conclusions, but somehow he knew that his assumptions were correct. For now, he would keep those conclusions to himself.

  “Go on to the village and do the chores you must do there,” she suggested after a long pause. “I will be waiting here when you return. Perhaps we can talk again then.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WITH THE BOOK he’d borrowed from Leon’s library, the letters, his Bible and the bone in a knapsack he brought from Scotland, he slung the leather pouch over his shoulder and left Leon’s home by way of the door at the rear of the house. Shannon might be sleeping, and if he left through the main door, he could wake her.

  Ian decided not to borrow Leon’s horse after all. He didn’t want to feel more obligated to the man than he already was. Instead, he would hike to the nearby village of Fairs and pay a visit to the physician the Frenchman called the Healer. He wanted to know how Lela and the boy were doing. Ian assumed the Frenchman would be furious when he discovered they were gone. He also hoped to learn more about the bone he found and whether or not it came from a human. Afterwards, he would see if he could find a place to post the letters and eat his noon meal.

  The sun was high in the sky by the time Ian arrived at the doctor’s cottage, only to discover that he wasn’t at home. His wife was kind enough to tell him that Lela and Stephen were safe and on their way to Ireland. Then she directed him to the nearest inn where he could eat his noon meal. Ian left the bone and went on his way.

  The inn was some distance from the doctor�
�s cottage. Ian set out for the Boar and Tongue at once, dreaming of the beef stew the healer’s wife described. He could almost taste it by the time he reached the entry door of the inn.

  A middle-aged man with a round belly stood behind a desk. His back was to the door, so apparently, he didn’t see Ian when he came inside.

  Ian assumed he was the innkeeper, but whoever he was, the man was deep in conversation with a young woman in a blue dress—a dress that was much too small for her portly body. With the innkeeper and the girl preoccupied, Ian had a chance to look around before he made himself known.

  Several wooden signs were nailed to the wall near the entry door of the Boar and Tongue. Ian studied them closely. One stated the cost of a room for one night and the cost of food per meal. But the sign that interested him the most was the one near the desk.

  It read, Send Out Your Posts From Here.

  Ian stepped up to the desk and cleared his throat.

  The innkeeper turned. His face became almost as red as the silklike ribbons in the young woman’s yellow hair.

  “Sorry, governor,” the man said as if he’d been caught stealing vegetables from a farmer’s field. “I did not hear you come in. My hearing ain’t the best these days, you see. What can I be doing for you on this fine day? Would you like a room? A good meal?” He smiled at the young woman. “I swear Hitty here is the best little cook in the village, she is.”

  The girl giggled, pressing out invisible wrinkles from her stained white apron.

  “So what can I do for you, sir?” the innkeeper asked again.

  “I noticed the sign on the wall there when I first came in,” Ian said. “It says you send out letters. Is that true, sir?”

  “It is.”

  Ian pulled the letters from the knapsack. “I have several letters that need to be mailed. Can you send them out for me?”

  “The mail coach from London does not come as far as Fairs,” the innkeeper said. “But if you be leaving your letters here at me inn and pay me for me trouble, I will send your letters out on the next hired coach to London.”

  “My letters must go to Scotland.”

  “All the way to Scotland, you say.”

  The balding innkeeper had a missing tooth in front, and a sour odor filled the air every time he opened his mouth—a disturbing mixture of garlic and rotten teeth. Ian took a step back.

  “You are a Scotsman,” the innkeeper insisted. “I thought so as soon as you opened your bloody mouth.”

  “Can you send my letters to Scotland, sir?” Ian asked.

  “That I can do. But I cannot say how long it will take for them letters to get there.”

  The innkeeper leaned forward, putting both his hands on his desk. Ian wanted to take another step back. Despite the stench, he decided against it. Too many more steps back, and he would be out the door.

  “When letters be coming addressed to the townsfolk of Fairs,” the innkeeper went on, “they end up here at me inn, they do. Would you be wanting me to post your letters for you, Scotsman?”

  “Aye.” Ian handed the letters to the innkeeper. Then he placed a coin on the desk near a small wooden box.

  The innkeeper put the letters and the coin in the box and shut the lid. “It be peculiar to me—a Scotsman coming here today with letters to send out.”

  “Why is that?” Ian asked.

  “A man staying above them stairs right now be sending letters to Scotland as well. But the man staying here—why he has a French name, he does.”

  Ian tensed. Was Monsieur Gabeau staying at the inn instead of attending a meeting at Gatehaven? If so, why would he lie? And was he sending letters to Scotland, too? He paused, wondering how to phrase his next question.

  “Perhaps I know the man above stairs. Can you give me his name?”

  The innkeeper shook his head, biting his thick lower lip the entire time. “I cannot remember his name. But even if I could, I dare not say.”

  Ian reached inside his knapsack again and pulled out a large coin he’d planted there for such emergencies. He laid the coin on the innkeeper’s desk.

  The innkeeper’s jaw grew slack. His squinty gray eyes focused on the coin.

  Ian pushed the coin closer to the innkeeper. “Does this help you remember names?”

  The innkeeper sent Ian a knowing smile. “There are always exceptions to me rules. If you put another of them coins on me desk, it would be just about right.”

  Ian had hidden more coins in his room at Leon’s estate, but he’d only brought one more coin with him. To give it up would mean he must go without a noon meal. Still it was worth the cost.

  He reached in, pulled out his last coin and dropped it on the desk. The coin spun around and around and finally dropped facedown next to the first coin.

  “What is the name of the Frenchman above stairs?” Ian demanded.

  The innkeeper opened a large book that lay flat on his desk near the coins. “The truth be that I do not be remembering the Frenchman’s name. I cannot read reading, you see.” The innkeeper turned the book around so that it faced Ian. “The Frenchman put his mark here.” He pointed to the bottom of the page.

  Ian looked down and read the name.

  Javier Perrine.

  Well, at least Etienne Gabeau wasn’t staying at the Boar and Tongue.

  Footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs. Ian turned to the stairway. Peter Aimee was halfway down and coming straight toward him.

  “Peter.” Ian moved toward him. “It is good to see you again. I feared the worst and have been praying for your safe return.”

  A smile that matched Ian’s turned Peter’s solemn expression to one of great joy. “You thought I was dead, did you?”

  “That thought crossed my mind. Did you send letters to Scotland?”

  “Of course.”

  “So did I.”

  The innkeeper appeared to have a special interest in their conversation. Ian nodded toward the bald-headed man, hoping Peter would realize that the innkeeper was watching them.

  “My stomach is making strange noises,” Peter said. “I think it is telling me that I must eat my noon meal now or wish I had. Will you join me at a table here at the inn, Ian? We can continue our conversation there.”

  “I will send Hitty to fetch two meals at once,” the innkeeper put in as if he was part of their private conversation.

  “Send no food for me, sir,” Ian replied. “I will not be eating today. But do send one meal for Mr. Perrine here.” He glanced at Peter. “You must eat, Javier. You look even thinner than you did the last time I saw you.” Ian followed Peter to a table toward the back. “I will keep you company while you eat.”

  “Are you sure you will not have some of Hitty’s stew?” Peter asked.

  “Not today.”

  Ian sat in a chair across from Peter. As they waited for the meal to arrive, Peter told him all that had happened since they last met.

  “Then are you saying that after you were knocked off your horse, you stayed with a young woman and her uncle?” Ian asked.

  “Yes. They live in a cottage in the woods not far from Gatehaven, and they were very kind to me.”

  “I went walking in the woods one day with the vicar’s dog, and we came upon a cottage in the woods. From what you told me, I think it might be the very cottage where you stayed. Maybe you were there then. Had I known you might be inside, recovering from your fall, I would have knocked on the door and asked to see you.”

  “You might have found me sleeping. I slept most of the time the first few days I was there. Were it not for an attractive young woman named Millie, who nursed me back to health, I might not be here today. “

  “A young woman by the name of Millie took care of you?”

  “Yes. And I will always be grateful to her and her uncle.”

  “I know a young woman named Millie,” Ian said. “She befriended Shannon. Tell me about the uncle.”

  “His name is McGregor, and he is Monsieur Gabeau’s carriage driver and but
ler. But he pretended to be sick while I was recovering and stayed at home so he could help Millie take care of me. And now, Ian, I am happy to say that I think I can answer your question about Eddie’s identity, the boy you went to school with in England. Eddie is the Earl of Northon—all grown up. The earl I visited all but confirmed it.”

  Ian’s stomach growled from lack of food. He coughed several times to mute the sound.

  Then he told Peter about the bone he found in the woods and other recent events in his life.

  Peter already knew that Shannon was in danger. But he hadn’t known that Ian thought Etienne Gabeau was as much of a threat to Shannon’s welfare and good name as the earl.

  “I have no doubt that you are correct about the earl, Ian. Neither of us trusted him from the beginning. But why do you mistrust this Monsieur Gabeau? What has he done to heat your ire?”

  Ian told Peter as much as he knew about the Frenchman, including his suspicions about the man and the strange books he found in the Frenchman’s library. When he finished, Peter shook his head.

  “Amazing.”

  Footsteps caused Ian to turn his attention to the front of the inn near the entry door.

  The maid, Hitty, hurried toward them, carrying a tray.

  “So your meal has arrived,” Ian said. “About time, I would say.”

  “Here you are, sir.” Hitty laid a mug and a steaming bowl of stew on the table in front of Peter. “Will there be anything else you would be needing?”

  Peter pushed the mug of ale toward Hitty. “Please return this to the kitchen. I would like a cup of water instead.”

  “I will go and get it, sir.”

  Ian thought the stew smelled like garlic and well-seasoned meat, and for a moment he was overwhelmed with a desire to have a bowl of stew and a fork and knife to eat it with. His stomach roared inside his belly— an audible reminder that he needed food.

  Hitty returned with the water and set it by Peter’s bowl.

  Ian coughed several times while Peter ate his stew.

  At last, Peter put down his fork and glanced at Ian. “Tell me about those words you found in that book you were telling me about—the one that came from Monsieur Gabeau’s library. I want to hear more about that.”