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“I dared not believe it,” he said. “I kept hearing tales of the infamous Wilhelmina Grant and knew that woman, that lightskirt, could not be the sweet Wilma Jepp I had known. I had to see with my own eyes that it was not true. And look what I find instead.” His glance had swept over her court of admirers. “The woman I once loved surrounded by men who’ve had her, who’ve paid for the fancy clothes and the fine jewels. Perched up here like a queen in your box, flaunting your indecency for all the world to see.” His mouth twisted, and he looked like he might become ill. “God, Willie. How could you?”
“Sam.” The single syllable had almost choked her. She was sick with joy that he was alive, he was really alive, and devastated that he’d found her like this. He was only half right about the other men in the box. They’d all sought her favors. Only a few had been successful. Wilhelmina Grant was an exclusive item, not easily purchased. Her current protector, Sir Clive Binchy, hovered behind her, his hand on the back of her chair. She could feel him about to make a move toward Sam, but she held up her hand to stop him.
“How could you do this?” Sam asked, the anger in his voice tinged with a plaintive note. “I thought I’d find you in Porthruan, waiting for me. I thought…But instead you’ve come to this? Damnation. Your mother was right. You’re nothing but a-”
Before he could hurl the vulgar word she knew was on the tip of his tongue, a word she had accepted years ago but had no wish to hear from Sam, she quickly composed herself and do
“Don’t be such a prig, Sam. This is the real world, not that rustic little fishing village in Cornwall. I love all my ‘fancy clothes’ as you so quaintly call them, and my jewels and carriages and more. If you do not like how I came by them, feel free to leave.”
His face fell into a look of such wretchedness it had torn at her heart. But this was for the best. She had to drive him away or she surely would fall apart.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and left.
“I’d hoped you would wait for me.” His voice brought her back to the present.
“I thought you were dead!” Her voice rose, colored with the emotion of that memory. “Your boat washed ashore without you. No one knew what had happened.”
“The press gang commandeered my little boat and forced me to go with them. I told them I was no sailor, just an ordinary fisherman, but they either didn’t believe me or didn’t care. They needed seamen and I looked close enough to one, so off I went, leaving my boat abandoned in the cove.”
“When it was found the next day, empty and shattered against the rocks, we all assumed you’d suffered some sort of accident and drowned.”
“But I wrote you. Once I made land, I sent letter after letter.” At her frustrated sigh, he said, “I suppose your mother didn’t pass them on, did she?”
“No, of course not. She probably burned them.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of the serving girl with a kettle of hot water that she poured into the teapot.
“C’n I gets yer anyt’ing else, Yer Grace?”
“No, thank you, Lizzie. But could you tell Mr. Smeaton I’d like a word with him? Tell him to bring paper and pen.”
Lizzie nodded, bobbed a quick curtsy, and hurried back to the kitchen with her steaming kettle.
“Paper and pen? Gad, Willie, I hope you’re not going to ask me to re-create those letters for you here and now?”
He looked so abashed that she laughed. “Nothing of the sort, Sam. I just realized that I need to note down some instructions for the staff regarding our return to London. It won’t take a moment, I assure you. I just want to do it before I forget.”
“I am relieved.” He heaved a theatrical sigh. “I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry you never got my letters, Willie. You’d have been devilish impressed.”
She laughed again. “I have no doubt of it.”
“No, really. You would have been. They were damned fine letters.”
“I wish I’d seen them, Sam. You ca
“Those letters kept me going,” he said, stroking her fingers, “gave me purpose when I thought I would die of missing you. I wasn’t much good at reading or writing, as you will remember, but soon after being pressed, I was fortunate to find a friend in the master’s mate, a fellow Cornishman. He took me under his wing, taught me everything about the service. He gave me nautical books to read, but when he saw me struggling-I swear the words looked like a foreign language to me-he gave me lessons in reading and writing. If I wanted to rise in the service, he said, I had to be able to compose dispatches and logs, and read and understand contracts and orders and regulations.
“I practiced my penmanship in letters to you. Page after page, filled with details of my life at sea, and full of longing for you. It really is too bad your mother never sent them to you. They were masterpieces, those letters, worthy of Byron himself. No, don’t laugh, they were pure poetry, I swear it.”
“I’d give anything to have read them, Sam. But I never got them and assumed you were dead until you walked up to me that night at the theater. I thought you were a ghost. An angry ghost. Lord, I was so ashamed for you to find me like that.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You did not put on a show of shame, as I recall.”
“No, I flaunted my circumstances proudly in hopes you would go away. I couldn’t go back and change things, I couldn’t reclaim a virtuous life, so I knew I could never be with you. It was too late for that. The best thing would be a clean break. So I made it easy for you to leave.”
“And set me on a new course.”
“Did I?”
“You planted a new level of ambition in me. I was determined to prove that I would never stoop to…well, that I could make a fortune without, um, compromising my honor. I even found myself a rich wife.” He shrugged. “I doubt I’d have married in such an all-fired hurry if I hadn’t still been smarting from learning you’d become some other man’s mistress.”
He spoke of the artist, James Benedict, but they both knew he meant more than that. Dear Sam, he still could not bring himself to name what she’d truly been. But she had never imagined that her career had pushed him into marriage.
“It was not a love match, then?” she asked.
“Not at first, but it was a good match. Her father was a planter in the West Indies where I’d spent a lot of time. Somehow I managed to convince him that I had a bright future and would be a worthy husband to his daughter. She was a pretty girl, and I was very fond of her. That affection grew into something deeper over time. I loved her. She was a good woman, my Sarah.” Sam smiled wistfully, and Wilhelmina knew he still felt her loss.
“You sent for me, Your Grace?” Smeaton stood at attention beside the alcove, awaiting her pleasure. He held a small silver tray with her traveling writing set and a sheet of paper. The writing case was open, and a silver nib was screwed onto the slender sterling pen, ready to use.
Wilhelmina turned to Sam, reluctantly drawing her hand away from his. “If you will excuse me for a moment, Sam, I will just write a quick note.” She nodded for Smeaton to place the tray on the table. He did so, then took the two steps back down and waited stoically, never giving away any hint of surprise that she had made such an odd request.