Seacliff by Felicia Andrews Page A

began.
    “Yes,” she said sharply. “I want to talk with you about that. I would like to know by what right you have struck one of my people.” Oliver looked at her stupidly, blinking rapidly until he was able to comprehend what she was saying. Then he pulled away slightly without releasing his grip. “You have heard.”
    “I have.”
    “It was necessary.”
    “Oliver”—she lowered her voice—”I cannot see the necessity of striking anyone who is part of the staff. And especially someone who is my friend.”
    “Caitlin, this is not a proper topic for discussion in my household.”
    She reacted as if she had been slapped. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks. “How… how dare you!” she said. “How dare you speak to me this way! David Daniels, may I remind you, sir, is a member of my household. I would not presume to take a switch to that sniveling child, Mary, just because she mutters about me behind my back— though I would take pleasure in doing so, I assure you—and I fail to see how—”
    “The lad was insubordinate,” Oliver said, his tone oddly muted.
    “Oh, Oliver, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t the army, and these are not your soldiers we’re talking about.”
    “Caitlin,” he said firmly, “this is not what I wished to speak with you about.”
    Her mouth opened, closed, his words finally soaking in. Was he going to tell her why James Flint had been in the house without her knowledge? And in thinking his name, Caitlin wondered if Flint hadn’t, for some reason, told Oliver about their tryst. The idea of it chilled her, but she was relieved when she sensed her husband was not the slightest bit angry.
    “Very well,” she said, when she understood he’d been expecting some sort of response. “We will discuss it later. What is it you want?”
    His fingers kneaded the backs of her hands, and suddenly she was filled with the most uncanny feeling of dread. “Oliver, tell me.”
    He inhaled slowly, deeply, then let the air whistle out between his teeth before he spoke again. “This afternoon, while you were out walking, I received a visitor.”
    She held herself quite still, not wanting him to know she had in fact seen him talking to the man.
    “He brought me a packet of letters. They were all quite dated, I’m afraid. Somehow they had been sent on to London, because Bradford mistakenly assumed I would be traveling there this past week. A perfectly natural error. But I have spoken to him rather sharply about it to be sure it will not happen again.”
    “I don’t recall messengers coming here, Oliver,” she said, the dread now working to drive a chill through her bones.
    “You have been walking quite a bit lately,” he told her in mild reproof. “I barely see you at meals, much less during the evening.”
    Not trusting herself to say anything in response, Caitlin only nodded and hoped he would take it for an apology.
    “Be that as it may, there was a note in the packet from Reverend Ellis Lynne. It was addressed to me.”
    Her eyes closed slowly, and she felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. A hand took her shoulder and pressed her gently to the couch. Her tongue moistened her lips, but try as she might, she couldn’t swallow away a sour lump lodged in her throat.
    Reverend Ellis Lynne was the Anglican clergyman in Seacliff’s valley. He was not universally liked, being as he was a transplanted Englishman and harshly prim. He believed it was his duty to pry into the lives of all his parishioners, whether they liked it or nor. Her father thought him a small man in both stature and character, and had once told her he believed the cleric was involved with the English. But since he had no proof, he could do nothing except speculate and complain.
    Caitlin had no feelings toward the man one way or the other. But a letter to Oliver, not to her, could mean only one thing.
    “Caitlin?”
    “Oliver, please, say it quickly and be done with it.” But she would not open her eyes.
    “Shortly