Page 21 of The Scholar’s Spy

She raised her arms, and she ran, calling, yelling out toward Mr. O’Sullivan, hoping he might see what was happening, turn back and know.

It was not enough. When the force of the rocks and sandstone crashed into her, it was sudden, painful and immense. She was flung to one side, and forward, momentum catching her up in its grip, as the weight of sand hurdled toward the water’s edge. Dragging her toward the point she had aimed, and taking her there far quicker than she wished.

Darkness, all-consuming, stuck to Abigail’s body, her face. Pressing down on her eyes and into her mouth, as Abigail tried to cry out.

Then all went still and then there was nothing.

Chapter Eight

Robert walked away from the argument, a strange blend of fury and impotence boiling through him. He had lost his temper, which he rarely did.

He had grown increasingly frustrated and angry after his failed attempt to write to Montacute, over the last few days, and this hadn’t helped today.

There were details of the ongoing investigation, his discoveries, what he had learned so far about the smuggling gang. Listing all the hints that indicated smuggling was occurring—the constant drinking of ‘flip’ which given its ingredients of rum, sugar, beer, gin and brandy spoke to a town well versed in shipping in illegal goods. The problem was who. Which was why he’d questioned the Weirs’s maid last night.

“Miss Enskin—Bessie,” Robert drew nearer to the maid. He gave her his most winning of smiles.

Bessie dimpled up at him, clearly a little inebriated. The gentry were not the only ones making the most of the spring ball.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Robert said as Bessie swayed closer. He could tell she would like it if he kissed her hand or whispered a sweet nothing to her, but suddenly the thought of seducing a witness for evidence was not quite so appealing when it wasn’t Abigail.

“Yes, sir?” she murmured.

It was time to test his theory out. “Have you heard of Punch?”

She grinned as she stepped closer. “She scares me. My brother’s done a bit of work for the Pinhayers, but…” Suddenly, she clamped her hand to her mouth, cutting off the words, as if she realized what she’d said.

“Please,” Robert tried again, but she shook her head dramatically and ran off crying.

So, his witness was just a scared girl, or the woman he didn’t know if he could trust, because of how much he desired her. And this Punch might still be Abigail.

Robert had a profile of the most prominent members of Lyme society—both men and women. Detailed what he thought of each one in turn. Yet as he wrote these down, he’d found himself scribbling down anecdotes about Abigail. Reflections on something she had said. A sweet comparison to her freckles. Hurriedly he had stuffed all of his pages into the fireplace so best not to dwell on what that meant.

*

In anger, he kicked out a nearby pile of rubble and rocks, sending the lot scattering in every possible direction. As soon as his outburst and the flying stones had settled, he had regretted his response.

Drawing in a breath, Robert tried to resume his gentlemanly demeanor. It felt a long way away at the current moment. Where was his famed calmness and logic? Surely it was simply down to frustration with how the investigation was progressing—yet Robert had encountered numerous setbacks and problems with his other enquiries, yet never had he been moved to lose his patience so entirely with an innocent young woman.

You don’t know if she’s innocent.

He had been so convinced that she was the smuggler Montacute sought, but on closer inspection, he questioned his choices. Yet every time he sought to distance himself, or make use of her, his attraction to her clouded his logic.

Abigail Fossey was a problem. Constantly pulling his attention regardless of whether she was in his presence or not. The picture of her frowning, a knitting of her brow, her quizzical mouth chewing on a topic before offering her unusual pronouncement, flooding his mind. Her damned little chin with its dainty cleft was plaguing him.

It was annoying.

It was infuriating.

It made no sense.

Diverging off the path back to Lyme itself, Robert cut down onto the bobbled beach, meandering through the rockpools and chalky outcrops toward the water. There was a soothing quality to the sea that Robert had always enjoyed. Many men in the navy had been press-ganged, forced to work, and whilst there was a great deal Robert could not claim to enjoy about navy life, he had always loved how close he was to waves. In quieter, tranquil moments, when they occurred, Robert liked to imagine his life after the navy—it was an elusive series of images, a blurry looking cottage framed by climbing ivy, the nearby sound of church bells, and a pathway that led inextricably to the sea. It wasn’t an opulent or fashionable future, but it felt achievable. It felt like his. In no circumstances had Robert ever allowed himself the thought that anyone else would be with him.

Looking at the water, as it came in and then out, in a rhythmic manner, did soothe him. Pulled him onto the calmness he had sought. Just as he was certain he put aside his irrationality and reclaimed his equilibrium, an almighty crash drowned out the sea’s noise. It echoed around the long bay as if it had been sent from God above.

Robert whirled around. Part of him was scared that this was the invasion from some foreign powers that every able-bodied man in England feared. The French? Or a different nation turned traitor? The wild thought that it could be the Americans…

But surely it was too loud for a mere army?