Chapter 5 #2
Between two squat shops, the black, crumbled shape of a building fumed a heavy scent of smoke. The odor scratched at her throat. Irritating her. Making her sweat.
“Ah, just the thing.” Something else must have drawn Lord Cunningham’s attention, for he leaned forward, said something to the driver, and then helped Meg alight in front of a red-painted bookstore.
“I am always on the hunt for more medical books. Father kept a list of rarer titles, and since he was unable to complete it before his death, it is now upon me to carry the mantle. Do you mind?”
“No. Of course not.”
Ring, ring, ring.
A tiny brass bell rang above the door as they entered. Her heart tripped in time to the noise. She followed him down an aisle of books, wiped more sweat from her forehead, then tugged at the too-tight ribbon choking her neck.
Ring, ring, ring. Her head split. Ring, ring, ring. Why would it not stop ringing?
“Miss Margaret?” Lord Cunningham, supporting her arm, pressing her against a row of books. “Are you ill?”
Ring, ring.
“Perhaps you should sit.”
“No.” Breathy. She doubled over, caught her mouth with her hands, and barely kept back the sickness surging from her stomach.
Lord Cunningham pulled her to the floor and barked something to a stranger in the bookstore. Or maybe the woman wasn’t a stranger, because she shrieked Meg’s name.
“Oh heavens! It is you.”
Ring, ring, ring.
“The poor child.”
Ring.
“I shall fetch water … smelling salts … oh, I cannot believe you are back when we all thought …”
Everything faded, all the rows of books and musty scents and stifling shelves. The blackness was warm, but too warm. Flames licked at her. Her throat scratched again, but this time, she could not breath—
Water.
The cool liquid splashed down her throat, spilled down her chin, as tender gloves wiped it back away. Lord Cunningham shifted her nearer. “Better?”
She welcomed air into her lungs as his face came back into focus. She couldn’t find her voice, so she nodded instead.
His lordship smiled.
So did the woman, peering over Meg with wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Something overwrought you, I think, though I am not certain what.” Lord Cunningham grazed a hand along her temple. “Does your head still pain you?”
“No.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Have you any idea at all what might have initiated such distress?”
Her mind scrambled for an answer, for the object or sound or face that had struck her ill. But she was as uncertain of that as she was her own name, and all she could think to answer was, “No.”
The wooden bench outside Dowies Cobbler creaked as Joanie bent over. She tied the red ribbons of her spotless, nankeen half boots, then glanced back up at Tom for the hundredth time since last night.
A smile stretched her lips.
The same one she’d been giving him all day, followed by her blushing cheeks. She looked at him like Meg did. Like Caleb had. Like all the children growing up—as if Tom were some sort of mesmerizing hero.
He wasn’t anything more than a fool.
“They’re pretty.” Joanie leaned back against the brick wall of the cobbler shop, pushing hair behind her big ears. “Lizzy at church had ones just like it. I used to look at them. Papa said I could have a pair when I was older.”
Tom looked away.
He wasn’t used to this.
Someone mentioning Papa easily, when Tom had spent so many years pushing the man’s name from his mind.
“I cried that morning.” Joanie folded her hands in her lap. “Me and Emma and Rosina and Mamm. I prayed every night you would come back. I used to sit in the window above the sink and watch for you.”
Tom had never planned to leave.
He had stayed for weeks, months, maybe a year—living among them, bearing Papa’s silence, sleeping next to the empty bed. One night he slipped beneath his scratchy bed linens and knew he couldn’t wake up again in the same house.
He left before daylight.
Never once came back.
Never could … now.
“Emma married a farmer. They have four babies. I would have lived with them, except her husband said they had no room for me.” Joanie plucked a loose string on her dress. “Rosina ran away with a soldier. I used to write her letters, but she stopped answering them.”
Tom’s knee moved up and down. He scratched at his itching sunburn. What to say to the lass? That she was welcome here—with him—when he could barely take care of himself?
“Maybe I should get married too.” The words were so quiet he had to glance down at her to be certain she spoke. Her puckered chin yanked at his chest.
“Nay, lass.” It seemed strange to slip his arm around her when he’d only ever plopped her on his back and ridden her about the cottage floor as if he were the horse. He placed his hand on her knee instead. Squeezed. “Ye just worry about breaking in those shiny new shoes of yers.”
“We can go show Meade?”
He almost laughed. “If ye want.” Though he was doubtful the burly blacksmith would know what to say—if he said anything. He knew as little, if not less, than Tom did about children. Or lassies.
A brassy ring echoed across the street.
Tom glanced up.
Meg.
His stomach dropped the same time he launched from the bench. He froze. Long purple dress, trimmed with ribbon, a spencer jacket, silver buttons. Her hair was different. Curled around the face, under a bonnet like nothing she’d ever worn.
With uncanny indifference, her eyes skimmed past him.
“Oh,” cooed Joanie. “Look at the pretty carriage—”
He ran, dodging a ragpicker’s cart, blood pounding in his ears so hard he was deaf to everything else. He circled the fancy blue carriage. Charged her before she climbed in and swung her body against him. “Meg—”
With a frantic yelp, she writhed away.
He was aware of everything at once.
The healing red wound across her forehead. The lack of color in her face. The stark panic rounding her eyes as she backed away, as if—
“Away from her this instant.” A strong, white-gloved hand clamped on Tom’s shoulder, yanking him backward.
His mind reeled, lagging. He stumbled back. “Meg.” Breathing hard. Then not at all. “Meg, it’s me.”
Her lips shook. Her gaze shook. The world shook.
She was afraid of him.
The realization stabbed him as he took one more step closer, arms spread. She looked ready for flight. Like the first time he’d kissed her, behind the apothecary among the elderberries and chamomile and thyme.
She knew he would not hurt her.
She’d known that then.
“Listen to me. I don’t know what ye’re doing in that dress and with this man, but I want ye to come home with me—”
“An impossibility, I fear, sir.” The gentleman stepped in front of Meg.
Tall, broad, with blond hair and a too-large jaw.
“Our wish is to speak with Mr. Willmott first and foremost. If you would like to request an audience with Miss Margaret, you may do so in a proper manner.” His brow hardened. “This, I daresay, is in very bad form.”
“Ye did this to her.” Tom tried to push past him. “What did he do to ye, Meg—”
“Sir, that shall be quite enough.”
“Get out of my way!”
“This is preposter—”
Tom’s fist connected with the man’s mouth, teeth puncturing knuckles. The gentleman crashed beneath the shadow of the bookstore’s awning.
“Meg, I’m trying to talk with ye.” He reached for her. “Please, talk to me.”
Red blazed her face. Instead of grasping his outstretched hand, she swept next to the stranger and grabbed his face like she’d grabbed Tom’s a million times. She crooned out a soft note of compassion. She wiped his blood away with the strange and terrible dress.
Then she looked back at Tom.
All the sweet creases in her face hardened, and the beautiful light in her eyes dimmed, and the love he lived and breathed for was absent.
“Whoever you are,” she whispered. “Leave me alone.”