Chapter 3
Her lungs burned. And her thighs. Even so, Juliet pressed on, flinging herself over Bedford Manor’s rock wall and scraping her face in the process.
She landed hard on her forearm and then rolled to her feet, all the while expecting a shot between the shoulder blades to take her down. Now would be a good time to pray.
But what would be the point? God hadn’t answered when she’d pleaded for her brother’s life as he lay dying from consumption.
The great Creator hadn’t responded when she’d wept out her very soul at the injustice she’d suffered by her father’s own doing.
And where had God been when Aunt Margaret had teetered at the edge of death, her body frail and fevered?
Juliet sprinted through the trees, fighting branches, rocks, roots.
She tried to listen for footsteps at her back, but her own breathing and the rush of blood in her ears made that impossible.
She didn’t slow a whit until she caught sight of the ramshackle cottage she shared with Aunt Margaret.
The prayer she refused to utter had been answered anyway.
Why did some prayers merit favour and others did not?
Why did God always seem to turn away His face when she needed Him most?
And yet … here she walked, still alive, the danger past. Maybe—perhaps—God was still there, watching, waiting for her to acknowledge the thin thread of grace woven through her life.
But how could she when He had let so much be torn away?
Sucking in great gulps of air, Juliet shook off the jittery feeling in her arms and legs as she crunched along the gravel path.
When Uncle William had been alive, this small structure of stone and timber had been a cozy home.
He had purchased it from the manor soon after marrying Aunt Margaret, a blessing that now spared her from paying rent.
But with him gone, things had fallen into disrepair at an alarming rate.
And since it belonged to her, she couldn’t turn to the manor for any help—help that it desperately needed.
Ivy had overtaken two of the walls and half the eastern side of the roof.
The wooden shingles on the corner of the west side were rotted, a drift of bird down filling the depression.
Rising sunlight glinted off the two front windows, highlighting gaps where the glazing had fallen away.
Juliet took great care in pushing open the door, for an abrupt move could take the rickety thing clean off its worn hinges.
This place needed a man’s touch, sure enough.
She crept inside, hoping to make it past the small bedroom without disturbing her aunt. Let her sleep. Hopefully a good rest would ease the sting of her censure when the woman found out Juliet had been poaching despite being cautioned against doing so.
“You’ve been out again.”
Juliet whirled, slapping her free hand against her chest. Aunt Margaret sat at the big table that dominated the only other room in the cottage, her leg propped on a barrel.
Beyond her sallow complexion and deep-set eyes, intelligence glinted in her gaze.
The woman was far too keen. There would be no use in denying her.
But diversion might work.
“Aunt, what are you doing up?” Juliet grabbed a shawl from the back of the chair near the hearth and draped it over the woman’s shoulders. “You know you should not leave the bed on your own. You could have fallen.” She pressed a light kiss to her aunt’s parchment brow.
Aunt Margaret patted her cheek, her fingers cold against Juliet’s skin. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on you. I’ve been asking for God’s favour the whole time you’ve been out.”
“Well then, it is a good thing He listens to you. And being that you already know where I have been, perhaps you would like to clean this bird while I get a pot ready.” She dropped the bag onto the table.
“Oh, Juliet.” Aunt Margaret shook her head. “This poaching has got to stop. It’s too dangerous. If the groundskeeper were to catch you—”
“Please do not fret. I am very careful.”
“Oh?” She aimed her bony finger like a dagger. “That scrape on your jaw says otherwise. How did you come by it?”
“It is merely a scratch.” Absently, she pressed a light touch to the injury, her hasty retreat still fresh in her mind …
the all-consuming intensity of the man who’d held her captive even more real.
What was the fellow doing in the woods in what was clearly his nightshirt, bare of feet, and trousers riding low on his hips from lack of braces?
There was no way he could have heard or seen her from the manor, so there’d been no reason whatsoever for him to have raced from his bed with a pistol in hand.
No, he’d not been looking for her, that much was obvious.
But he had looked at her. And despite the fear of that moment, the threat of her very life, those grey-green eyes and husky voice of his had done strange things inside her chest.
“—then God was surely looking out for you.”
She startled at Aunt’s voice, pulled back to the present. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said God was surely looking out for you, for I suspect there is more to your adventure than a run-in with a sharp branch.” Aunt Margaret narrowed her eyes. “Promise me you will not go out again.”
“I will do no such thing. We need to eat.”
“There are still jars of ointments and bottles of tinctures to sell.” Aunt Margaret fluttered her hand towards the shelves behind her. “I know hawking wares is quite a fall from grace for you, but it is a respectable business and far less hazardous than bagging fowl from Bedford Manor.”
A sigh deflated her. “Not anymore,” she murmured.
Aunt Margaret angled her head, concern etching lines at the sides of her mouth. “What do you mean?”
Juliet bit her lip. She didn’t want to worry her aunt more than she already did, but there would be no hiding the truth from the woman.
Aunt Margaret was as good at snaring one in a lie as Juliet was at poaching prey.
She sank into a chair across from her aunt.
“I did not wish to upset you, but … last time I went to town and set up a sales crate, that pompous new apothecary, Mr. Scather, and I had a row. He threatened me, said if I did not move on, he would get the constable involved unless I could produce a license. And without a license, I would be arrested.”
“Arrested!” Aunt Margaret slapped the tabletop, rattling the salt cellar. “The women of our family have been herbalists for generations. None of them needed to purchase a paper to sell their goods! What does he know of tradition, of local medicinals being passed down through the ages?”
“See? This is why I did not tell you. Times have changed, Aunt. There are new laws, different regulations. And Mr. Scather seems determined to make his mark by seeing them enforced—particularly the Apothecaries Act. But do not let this trouble you. I will see to it that we manage despite him.” Juliet patted her aunt’s hand, then filled the teapot with water before setting it on the grate.
“I think a spot of chamomile will be just the thing for now.”
“This is outrageous.” Anger shook her aunt’s voice. “The remedies I make are just as good, if not better, than anything that pretentious peacock Mr. Scather can concoct in his fancy apothecary shop. The people of Bedford ought to know that. They’ve trusted me for years.”
“I know but Mr. Scather has connections, and he has already begun spreading rumours about our remedies being unsafe. Last week, Mrs. Cunningham refused to buy her usual lavender salve from me, claiming she heard it might cause a rash. It is only a matter of time before others believe such hearsay as well.”
“So that’s why sales have dwindled.” Frustration leeched from her aunt’s words, replaced now by concern. “And that’s why you’ve reset your snares, risking your life.”
Juliet faced her aunt, curving her lips into a reassuring smile. “All is not lost. I fully intend to visit your past customers and try selling to them directly. It may take more effort, but it is safer than setting up a stall in the market.”
“A good plan—until we run out of stock.” She frowned. “And now is such a good time to collect plants. I wish I could venture into the woods to teach you what to harvest. A pox on this leg!”
“Give it time.” She squeezed her aunt’s shoulder.
The woman had nearly died from blood loss and then from fever, not to mention she’d broken more than one bone in her leg when she’d tumbled into that rocky ravine.
Juliet pushed down a shiver just thinking about it. “I am grateful you are alive, Aunt.”
A small smile replaced her aunt’s frown. “And I am thankful you are here, though I know you miss your old life.”
Juliet couldn’t deny it. She did miss her old life, with an ache that sometimes kept her awake long into the night.
How weary she was of scraping and clawing, wondering where their next meal would come from, and from the ever-present burden of keeping them both alive.
She wandered to the window, watching green leaves flirt with gold and rust. Winter would soon be here, making birds scarce, though she had a good eye for tracking larger game.
She pressed her fingers to the glass. If only she could get her hands on a bow and an arrow or two, she could take down a deer.
She was sure of it. After her brother had trained her, she’d learned to outshoot him back in the day.
Much to his chagrin. And a buck or a doe would last them for weeks, longer if they dried the meat. But where on earth would she get a bow?
And even more daunting, how could she risk hauling such a big animal off the Bedford estate without getting caught? Was she even strong enough? The danger would be tremendous, but the reward … oh, what a reward.
She let out a long breath, fogging the glass. It was a temptation she could hardly afford to ignore.