Silence Is Golden Read online

  It was all nonsense. Good luck or bad was not the product of a broken mirror or whether a person happened to sneeze on a Monday versus a Sunday. Even cursed as she was, she did not believe it was because of something her parents may or may not have done. She was cursed because she told a lie when she was five years old. While there were definite aspects of the curse she disliked, it had served her well. Hadn’t it made her an object of mystery and allure in the eyes of London’s eligible gentlemen? Hadn’t her curse caused her guilt-ridden parents to give her anything she desired? Some might call it luck, but she called it good planning. She knew how to use her curse to get what she wanted from people. It had been a useful tool over the years, one she wielded with precision. Now, with her engagement cancelled, she no longer had any use for it. Her curse was an illness and had taken her away from the one man she ever wanted. She was desperate for a cure. Though one had not been found, it did not negate the fact a cure was possible. If anyone could find it, she could. Unlike the frantic mothers of unmarriageable daughters in their third season or the poor card players who lost more than they won, she had a plan. She always had a plan.

  Take her curse, for instance. She knew what needed to be done. She would travel to France and find the gypsy who cursed her. After she made the gypsy undo the curse, she would return home to marry Lord Alex and live happily ever after. Five days ago when she had concocted this idea, she had been certain of her success and was eager to leave because the sooner she left London, the sooner this whole misunderstanding with Lord Newgate would be resolved.

  There was one teensy problem barring her from her heart’s desire. She had no money, and without money she couldn’t go far. A search of her father’s study for his stash of pin money proved fruitless, as did a thorough inspection of all of her mother’s hiding spots. It wasn’t until she stumbled upon a little nook next to her father’s study that her prospects turned around. Finding tens of thousands of pounds stuffed between the pages of several musty books increased her surety of eventual success in this endeavor.

  With a fortuitous beginning to her journey—due to excellent planning on her part—she had hopes the journey between London and Surrey would be as easy as finding a king’s ransom in a pile of old books. Yet ever since boarding the stagecoach, she was reevaluating her beliefs about the importance of superstitions. Maybe she had been too hasty to dismiss the omens her peers took to heart. Maybe careful planning did not mean Fate would not intercede and turn her plans topsy-turvy.

  Her stomach pitched as the pelting rain buffeted the coach and she and the other passengers clung to the inside in white-knuckled terror.

  More likely, this coach will upend before Fate has a crack at me.

  “Lord almighty!” Mrs. Peabody cried as the driver took a turn too fast and the entire coach shuddered, listing dangerously to one side. Mrs. Peabody shifted, her ample frame trapping Evelyn between her companions’ two shoulders, before the carriage righted itself and descended with a grand bump.

  “Mrs. Peabody!” Mr. Blackburn interjected, a minister who made up the other human half of the two bookends imprisoning Evelyn in her seat. “I have asked you before not to take the Lord’s name in vain!”

  “I wasn’t cursing the Lord, you stiff-necked prig!” Mrs. Peabody yelled. “I was begging for His mercy!”

  Evelyn wanted to laugh because, honestly, Mr. Blackburn was a bit of a goody-goody even for a minister, but the wind howled in earnest, and her stomach lurched. Pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, she willed her breakfast to remain still in her stomach.

  Please don’t let me cast my accounts all over the inside of this coach. She’d not be surprised if she did. This journey had been nothing short of disastrous.

  Sighing, she tried to block out the bickering voices of Mrs. Peabody and Mr. Blackburn, both of whom had recovered from their earlier fright of being thrown about the cabin. It was easier to do than to silence the critical voice in her head telling her she had made a huge mistake in leaving London five days ago.

  A newspaper rattled, and she looked up from studying her hands in hopes the mysterious young gentleman who sat across from Mrs. Peabody was going to say something. When she looked, his paper remained in front of his face, denying her the chance to study him in greater depth.

  Vexing man. Doesn’t he know it is polite to interact with the other passengers? She acknowledged the fact she had been as silent as he, but at least she listened. He hadn’t even introduced himself to her, which irked her, given she liked attention from the opposite sex and was used to getting it. Except from this man. He paid her not the least bit of attention, which both irritated and intrigued her.

  She was unable to account for her fascination with him. He was an ordinary-looking man—from the top of his sandy-blond head to the bottom of his worn leather boots there was nothing spectacular about him. Nothing out of the ordinary to account for her utter enchantment with him.

  And that is why he is so enticing.

  Over the last several days of stagecoach calamities and foul weather, there had been many opportunities for her to observe and speculate about him. As a rule, she hated idle time, but it provided a most fortuitous opportunity for her to observe the other silent member of their traveling party. For instance, after dinner most evenings, he too sat off from the rest of the group, and her imagination, as it often did when she was bored, ran rampant speculating over the cause of his reticence. Perhaps he was uncomfortable in groups, or maybe he was tired of the garrulous Mrs. Peabody and Mr. Blackburn. Did he see himself as better than the others? Heaven forbid, was he cursed as she was? His continued silence served to increase her frustration and heighten his appeal.

  In her furtive attempts to discern his character, she discovered he was much like her in many respects. For one, he hated waiting almost as much as she. After the first calamitous day of travel, when the axle broke several hours into their journey, she was surprised to find him tapping his foot in agitation, though judging by his public demeanor he appeared unaffected by their delay, bored almost, but his tapping foot gave him away. It wasn’t until the driver told them the stagecoach was inoperable until the morrow that the young man’s composed mask of calm broke. He unfolded his long legs and stormed out of the carriage into the rain. Smashing his hat onto his head, he glared at the sky, his jaw tensed and lips pursed into a frown. She suspected had there been no one else around he would not have been silent. As if she would have minded. She enjoyed a good yell, yet another characteristic they shared.

  Like a summer storm, his ill-humor vanished soon after it developed, and he was once again in charge of his temper. With shoulders squared in resignation, he strode to the side of the coach and helped a young woman and her children descend.

  He turned, offered Evelyn his hand, and raised his gaze to hers. Stormy blue eyes held hers, and she stifled a gasp. She had been wrong in her initial assessment of his appearance. While not as pretty as her betrothed, this man possessed a rugged, masculine quality. High cheekbones, a long nose, and a smooth forehead created stark contrasts of light and dark shadows over the planes of his face. By London standards, he was not attractive, but his sandy-blond hair, flecked with gold, red and brown, curled in gentle waves at his ears and softened the intensity of those sharp angles. Apart, none of his features were remarkable in any way, yet on this man they created a picture worth admiring. He was a handsome man.

  Guilt had settled in her stomach for appreciating the gentleman’s features. What kind of woman was so frank in her admiration for a man not her betrothed? Shame had suffused her body, and lowering her gaze, she had placed her hand in his to descend the coach.

  Four days had gone by, and the man had not spared her a second glance, preferring to bury his nose in his newspaper instead of being a gentleman and conversing with his fellow passengers.

  Perhaps if I stare hard enough at the back of his paper, he will be compelled to look at me. While she possessed a keen awareness of her own absurdity, she
tried nonetheless. There was nothing else to do.

  Her brows furrowed in concentration, and she stared at him, hoping the intensity of her gaze and the loudness of her mental voice would jar the man and make him emerge from behind his newspaper.

  She tried a conversational tone. Put down the paper. Look at me.

  When her first attempt failed, she used an ominous whisper. Put down your paper, young man, and look at me.

  She pursed her lips, angry at his continued silence, and tried one last time. PUT DOWN THE PAPER AND LOOK AT ME, BLAST IT ALL!

  Alas, he and his paper remained stubborn in their reserve, unmoved by her silent command. She was both irritated and disappointed, two emotions she disliked because it meant she did not get what she wanted. Plus, she had irrefutable proof to dispel her belief she had gained mind control powers along with her curse. What a discouraging day!

  “The rain should have let up by now.” Mrs. Harris’s soft, lilting voice interrupted Evelyn’s seatmates’ continuous arguing. She rocked her small child in her arms while the other one clung to her lap, whimpering in fear at the rumbling thunder and occasional lightning cracks ripping through the air.

  Evelyn turned her attention away from the silent, mocking newspaper and smiled in encouragement at Mrs. Harris, wishing she had a reply for the gentle mother’s tentative observation.

  A young widow of no more than twenty, Mrs. Harris was traveling to Ipswich to live with her husband’s family. He had been a soldier fighting on the Continent and had fallen a month before. There was an air of sadness about her, making Evelyn’s heart hurt to see the lines of pain etched on the young face. Yet she did not pity Mrs. Harris, in spite of her loss. Underneath the grief lay a core of steel discouraging sympathy, so she did not offer any. Besides, Mrs. Harris had a plan to care for herself and her two young children, making her a person of admiration, not pity.

  Next to her, Mrs. Peabody agreed, her many chins wobbling their accord. “In all my years on this earth, I can’t say I ever seen rain like this.”

  “It’s a sign,” Mr. Blackburn added in his solemn monotone. “End of days is nigh.” He folded his hands and lowered his head, murmuring in what she assumed was a prayer.

  “It isn’t end of days, Mr. Blackburn,” Mrs. Harris said, “but it has been most unusual weather. Wetter than even the sturdiest of Englishmen is accustomed to.”

  “Twenty years I’ve been traveling this road, Mrs. Harris, between London and Hasselworth, and it’s never taken more than a day. Maybe two if it’s rained a little.” Mrs. Peabody lurched forward in her seat as a sudden gust whipped around and under the coach. “Never has it taken five days!” she yelled over the howling gale. “I tell you, this coach is cursed by the devil himself.” Having delivered her assessment of the situation, Mrs. Peabody slumped back into her seat with a satisfied grin on her wrinkled face.

  “Mrs. Peabody!”

  A bony elbow dug into Evelyn’s side, and she winced as Mrs. Peabody used her ribs to turn her massive body toward Mr. Blackburn. “What? You going to tell me I can’t talk about the devil now either?”

  “No, madam. I was going to say that for once you and I are in complete accord. I do believe this coach is cursed.”

  Her two seatmates conversed in loud, animated tones about ominous portents they had experienced before boarding the coach, while she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. To be sure this had been a most unusual journey—mired wheels, a broken axle, roadways blocked by fallen trees—but this public coach was not cursed.

  These people know nothing of curses and rely on their own superstitious nonsense. I could tell them what it means to be cursed, and then they would have reason to fear.

  She did not miss the irony of wanting to speak about her curse but having it prevent her from doing so. So she remained quiet, all of her knowledge of curses silenced by the one she wished to reveal. Sometimes life was unfair.

  “Will you two be quiet?”

  Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at the young gentleman across from her.

  He speaks!

  Judging from his flaring eyes and the angry set of his mouth, he wasn’t happy about it, either.

  The spirited conversation between Mr. Blackburn and Mrs. Peabody ceased, each of them turning a stunned face to the man in the corner.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Blackburn asked, surprise evident in each syllable he uttered.

  With quiet deliberation, the young man set his newspaper on his lap. “For five days we have all listened to you two argue. I’ve watched you volley insults over this lady’s head.” The young gentleman paused to point at her. “Yet she has remained ladylike and demure, in spite of your repeated insults, blasphemes, and now this ridiculous conversation about portents and a cursed coach. There are two ladies present, I might remind you, as well as a young and impressionable child. Please refrain from spouting nonsense.”

  Mr. Blackburn spluttered. “How dare you censure my behavior, young man! I am a man of God!”

  The gentleman straightened in his seat and picked up his paper, a fierce light in his blue eyes. “I suggest you act like one.” With a flick of his wrists, he returned to his paper, leaving her two seatmates speechless and a ridiculous smile on her face.

  Lowering her head, she hid her smile in her chest and pondered this new information the mysterious man revealed about himself. She already knew he was a gentleman. His behavior toward her and Mrs. Harris proclaimed his station as one. But to come to her defense proved he was an honorable, respectful man. She no longer held any guilt for her unexplained fascination with him. He was worth admiring.

  Satisfied with her conclusion, she enjoyed the temporary silence until a loud crack scared them all. The coach shuddered and tipped forward, sending its passengers tumbling out of their seats. Mrs. Peabody let loose a lusty roar, piercing the unnatural calm descending both in and outside of the coach. Save for the one cry, all else was still as the assorted passengers rolled and bumped around the coach’s interior.

  With mounting horror, she watched as Mrs. Harris clutched her babe close to her breast before glancing in anguish at the small child being battered about the coach, his tiny limbs limp like a puppet without its strings. Evelyn tried to grab hold of the boy and almost had him when he was wrenched from her grasp. Near tears, she searched for his little body amid the press of arms and legs flailing about. When she found him tucked into the sturdier torso of her reserved defender, she sobbed her relief, knowing the boy was protected. The vehicle rolled again and sent her flying weightless through the air. With a final pitch, the coach groaned to a stop. All the other passengers slumped to the bottom of the carriage, while she crashed into a seat.

  Mingled moans arose from the bottom of the coach as her fellow travelers assessed the damage done to their persons. Touching her forehead, she winced and pulled her fingers back. Through a fuzzy haze of pain, she noted the blood on her fingers and a dull ache in her temples.

  But in spite of the blood and chaos inside the coach, what concerned her most was the fact there might be something to this superstitious nonsense after all.

  Chapter 2

  “Are you sure I can’t convince you to wait for another coach?” Mr. Blackburn bent and retrieved the satchel, handing it to him. Alfred smiled in return at his friend’s worried expression.

  “No, William. I thank you for your concern, but I will miss my ship if I tarry any longer.”

  Passing his bag to the driver, he marveled at the changes two days had wrought. Before the accident, had someone told him he and Mr. Blackburn would be addressing each other by their given names, he would have laughed and called him a liar. Yet the carriage accident had shown a different side to the minister, and Alfred had come to admire and respect him.

  When the coach upturned and sent its passengers tumbling about, it was William Blackburn who pulled himself from the tangled mass of bruised flesh to take charge. While Alfred attempted to regain his equilibrium and calm the trembling child in
his arms, Blackburn assessed damage, tended the injured, and kept as cool a head as any Wellington doctor. After returning the child to his mother, Alfred had snapped to his senses soon enough and assisted Mr. Blackburn in removing the women from the coach. Between the two of them, they managed to transport the passengers to the nearest home, several miles down the road.

  By a stroke of luck, no one sustained serious injuries. Even the silent sprite who had bled from a slight contusion on her temple needed minimal medical care. The one member of their little party still abed was Mrs. Peabody, and he suspected her convalescence had more to do with the attention she received from the caring housewife than to any actual injuries to her person.

  “If I can’t change your mind, at least take this.” William thrust a small object into his hands. “It kept me safe when I was on the Continent. I want you to have it.”

  It was a silver medallion no bigger than a shilling. At one end of the coin someone had punched a hole into the metal and looped a silver chain through it. He peered closer at the marking on the disc and sent a questioning stare to his friend. “St. Christopher?”

  “The patron saint of travelers and a fitting gift for an adventurous young man. May it guide you and keep you safe in your journeys.”

  He stared at the engraved image of the stooped figure of St. Christopher, his gnarled hand clutching a staff and a child clinging to his back. The edges had been worn to a smooth finish that rolled like polished glass between his fingers, and he knew he held a cherished memento. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it? This seems like an odd talisman for a Protestant minister to have. Perhaps it has sentimental value for you?”