On a Desert Shore by S. K. Rizzolo Page A

fingers were so skilled that she seemed to need very little of her attention on her work, but Chase noticed that her white, clenched hand stood out against the brilliant green. Seeming to realize this, she loosened her grip, absently smoothing the creases in the silk.
    â€œHow did the neighborhood tabbies get wind of the story?” asked Chase.
    â€œWho knows? Servants’ gossip, I expect. Or they don’t know anything and are merely raking me over the coals for fun.”
    Chase had long wondered why Sybil seemed so alone, so friendless. He said, “Have you no family to assist you? No one to help you?”
    â€œI’ve told you before. My father died. There’s no one. An aunt and uncle who have made it quite plain I’m not to expect anything of them. I go my own way.”
    He sighed. It was often said that women were the more pliable, the gentler, the weaker sex—but that had certainly not been the case in his experience. He was an old bachelor, but was it possible that a wife would be any easier to manage than the women in his life? Somehow he doubted that. He found himself telling Sybil about the invitation Penelope Wolfe had received from Hugo Garrod.
    â€œIt’s a chance for her,” said Sybil. “She is quite right to go unless…you think?” She raised her brows.
    â€œYou mean Garrod? It would not surprise me if he had something of the sort in mind. A rich man. A young and beautiful woman with no husband in evidence and an unconventional background to make her fair game. She won’t see that.” He scuffed one toe against the carpet and took a long pull of his brandy, emptying the glass. He rose to pour himself another measure from the decanter on the mantelshelf. “Penelope sees the good. She finds a way to trust people and believes in her own luck. It’s a weakness, I think.”
    â€œOr a strength. You worry too much. But I do understand that Mrs. Wolfe is your particular friend.” She wasn’t looking at him as she stabbed delicately with her needle, but Chase understood her.
    â€œIt isn’t like that,” he told her, suddenly awkward. “Mrs. Wolfe and I—she’s in love with another man, and I have become interested in her wellbeing as a friend or an older brother. She drives me mad half the time because she never thinks before she acts.” Actually, he thought it strange that Penelope was willing to leave her daughter with the nursemaid for a few days, unprecedented in his experience. Penelope and her little girl were inseparable, of necessity Chase supposed, considering that damned Jeremy Wolfe’s frequent antics.
    As if in echo to his thoughts, Sybil commented, “She’s a married lady. She won’t like to learn what happens when the world condemns you.” She gestured at the gown that would keep her up most of the night.
    â€œOh, she already knows that. The question is whether that will stop her.”
    He related Marina Garrod’s story, including his own connection to her mother, and was surprised when Sybil expressed sympathy. He would have assumed she would see Marina as that most fortunate of beings: one who never had to worry about her next meal. But she said, “Mr. Garrod left her mother in Jamaica? Poor girl. She never asked to be what they’ve made her.”
    It was late and but for his fatigue and the two glasses of brandy, he would never have uttered his next thought. As it was, the remark, which seemed imprecise and sentimental, embarrassed him: “If she is anything like Joanna, she will be no weakling. Joanna was a kind of native doctress, grand and rather terrifying. Something has…dimmed Miss Garrod’s luster. I mean to know what it is.”
    â€œHow do you interpret the feather, fish bones, and eggshells?”
    â€œNot standard equipment for a lady’s reticule?”
    â€œHardly. Let us hope her maid is not dismissed as a result.”
    They