Chapter Nineteen
Camden had not come.
Anne had listened for him all morning. For the sound of boots approaching, the knock at the door, even the distant call of his voice, but nothing came except the ordinary noises of the cottage settling into day.
After the morning meal, she lingered at the table longer than necessary, stretching small tasks into drawn-out rituals. She refilled Gowan’s cup before he could ask, wiped crumbs that were not there, and rearranged items that were already neat. Each moment bought her another moment of waiting.
At first, her brother merely watched her with puzzled curiosity. Soon that shifted to amusement.
“Ye must be lonely if ye wish for my company,” he said, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Come along to the shop, then. Or go see Florie.”
Anne forced a laugh and claimed she was avoiding chores, a flimsy jest. When Gowan finally left, cheerful and unsuspecting, the door closing behind him felt louder than it should have.
A helpless weight settled in her chest as she stood alone.
Where was Camden? He had promised. He would come, speak with her brother, and make his intentions known. Even if duty had dragged him away in the night, he would have sent word.
Late morning sunlight crept across the floorboards. Anne paced, fingers twisting together, thoughts spiraling. Concern gnawed louder than annoyance. Something was wrong, she felt it, though she could not name why.
Anne was flooded with relief when knocking sounded on the door.
She opened it expecting to find Camden with an apology and an explanation. Instead she found Freckles.
The boy’s wild hair stuck out in unruly patches, his face smudged, his clothes wrinkled and mismatched.
The village’s most tireless troublemaker shifted from foot to foot, scratching his head with frantic vigor.
His widowed mother had too many bairns to manage, and he ran loose more often than not, usually with a band of equally mischievous companions.
“Message for ye,” he said, still scratching.
Anne frowned slightly. “From whom?”
“They are out there past the mill. At the old shack.”
Her heart stumbled, then raced.
“Who is?”
Freckles shrugged. “Just told to say that to ye.” He glanced past her toward the interior, and she surmised he could be bribed easily for more information.
“Have ye eaten?” She didn’t want to take time to feed the boy, because if something was wrong with Camden, it was best to hurry and find out what happened.
Shaking his head, the boy gave her a pitiful look. “Nae since yesterday.” Probably a lie. His protruding belly said the child ate well.
She went to the kitchen grabbed leftover sliced pork and a hunk of bread and shoved it at the boy, who began devouring it. “Who’s at the shack, Freckles?”
“I dunno,” he replied, crumbs flying from his mouth as he spoke. “Ye should hurry.”
Anne glared at the boy. “Who sent ye then?”
“A woman, I think her name is Effie. She gave me a coin and told me to fetch ye and tell ye to hurry, cause she saw something that would interest ye.”
Why would Effie send for her instead of coming herself? It made little sense, but Anne didn’t have time for ponderings.
Within moments Anne wrapped her shawl about her shoulders and stepped into the day. She passed the blacksmith shop, waving quickly to Gowan without slowing, then hurried past the tavern toward the edge of the village.
Despite her hurry, several villagers called out greetings, which she returned while doing her best not to draw attention.
If whatever occurred was a private matter, best not to rouse murmurings.
Her mind raced faster than her feet could, and she wondered if she should have borrowed Gowan’s wagon as the shack was a bit of a long walk.
Effie’s use of Freckles was strange. The boy was worse than a fishmonger’s wife, often spreading fantastical gossip that made little sense. Yet beneath it all, there were always seeds of truth.
The closer Anne drew to the shack, the less sense the errand made. Effie would never summon her like this, not through a boy, not to a place so far removed from the village.
The forest swallowed her gradually. Ferns brushed her skirts and dampened her stockings, their cool fronds whispering against her legs.
Moss softened the path beneath her boots, springy and slick, stealing the sound from her steps so completely she felt as though she moved unseen through another world.
The air changed here, thicker, richer. It smelled of wet earth and crushed greenery, of bark and decay and something faintly sour beneath it all. Sunlight filtered through the tangled canopy above, broken into pale shards that flickered across her hands and face.
Birds chattered sharply overhead, their restless calls sounding almost like warnings passed from branch to branch. Rabbits darted across her path, their little noses twitching with displeasure before vanishing into the brush.
Anne slowed.
Her skin prickled.
At last the shack came into view, crooked and weather-beaten, its boards grey with age and rot. It had been many things over the years: a hiding place for reckless boys, a secret refuge for whispering lovers. But lately it had stood empty whenever she passed on her visits to Agnes.
She stopped, unease coiling inside her.
Instinct drew her behind a tree thick with tangled bushes.
The bark pressed rough and damp beneath her palms, cool through her fingers as she steadied herself.
If this was some childish trick, she would not stumble blindly into it.
And though she doubted anyone would dare harm her, with Gowan being her overprotective brother, caution seemed wiser than pride.
She waited.
A shadow moved in the doorway.
Anne’s breath caught.
A woman stepped into view and laughter followed, bright and careless. Moyra.
The sight of her sent a chill through Anne’s chest. Moyra’s head turned slowly from side to side, eyes sweeping the clearing as though ensuring she was unobserved.
Anne pressed closer to the bark, the scent of damp wood filling her nose as she peered through the leaves. Her fingers tightened around the branches, ignoring the scratches digging into her skin.
Had she been seen?
Moyra showed no sign of it. Instead, she lingered at the threshold, pulling her shawl tightly around herself. She hesitated, then turned inward and spoke to someone inside.
Someone.
Anne retreated another step into deeper cover, heart pounding harder now.
Moments later, Moyra emerged again. Calm and unhurried and walked down the path toward the village. She didnae look back. Didnae seem concerned.
Anne watched until Moyra disappeared.
Confusion twisted inside her. Was this what Effie had meant? Had Effie seen Moyra here? Was someone else inside?
Nothing fit together.
She remained still, scarcely breathing. Her heart thundered so loudly she feared it might give her away. The forest seemed to hold its breath with her, the air heavy against her skin.
Something was wrong. She felt it deep in her bones.
At last she inhaled slowly, tasting damp moss and cold air on her tongue, and listened.
Silence.
The shack appeared abandoned, yet Moyra had spoken to someone.
The thought of who it might be rose unbidden, sharp and nauseating.
No. It could not be.
Anne swallowed, her throat painfully dry, and stepped onto the path. Each movement felt heavy now, deliberate. When a masculine cough drifted from within, she froze, pulse surging in her ears.
Shuffling followed.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she crept closer.
The wood of the shack smelled of rot and mildew as she laid her hand against it.
The surface felt damp and splintered beneath her fingers, flakes of decay catching against her skin as she rose onto her toes to peer through a gap that might once have been a window.
Her world tilted.
A half-dressed Camden stood inside.
He faced away, bent over as he pulled on his boots beside a narrow cot draped with a blanket. His hair was tangled, his movements unsteady, as though the ground shifted beneath him. When he reached for the second boot, a soft curse escaped him, followed by a frustrated groan.
Anne recoiled as though struck.
Her hand flew to her mouth, breath shattering, tears burning instantly behind her eyes.
She stumbled backward.
Rage. Pain. Betrayal. Heartbreak.
All crashed through her at once, leaving her breathless beneath their weight. She didnae ken which cut deeper. The image before her or the promise he had made only hours before.
Sobs clawed upward, shaking her body, though she fought to silence them. She retreated blindly until her knees failed and she collapsed onto the forest floor. The damp earth seeped cold through her skirts, the scent of soil rising around her as grief crushed tight against her ribs.
He must not see her like this.
With effort that trembled through every limb, Anne pushed herself upright.
She walked away carrying a burden far heavier than anything she could name. The path blurred before her, tears clouding her sight. Somewhere behind her, she thought she heard Camden call out, but the sound faded into the fog filling her mind, lost beneath the roaring ache inside her chest.
And she didnae turn back.
*
By the time Anne reached the mill, her breath came in shallow bursts, and her legs trembled from more than the long walk.
The steady turning of the waterwheel groaned beside the building, its rhythm slow and relentless, and the scent of damp grain and river mist hung thick in the air.
It clung to her shawl, to her skin, grounding and suffocating all at once.
She paused at the door, fingers shaking as she wiped at her face with the edge of her shawl. The wool felt rough against her cheeks, already sore from tears she could not seem to stop. She pressed her lips together, forcing them still, forcing herself upright.
Then she knocked.
The door opened quickly, and relief struck her at once when Effie appeared.