Chapter 6 #3
Before she could answer, the morning room door banged open. A maid rushed in, sweaty wisps of hair poking out from her mobcap, with a hand to her heart. “My lord. I am sorry, but you are being summoned by—”
“Thank you, Mary.” Lord Cunningham surrendered his poetry book to Meg. All the pleasure and easiness drained from his face as he nodded her good day, drew in air, and hurried from the room.
Meg pulled the poetry book to her chest. She may have kept last night—and the kiss—from Lord Cunningham just now.
But she was not the only one keeping secrets.
Of that, she was certain.
Meg did not see him again until dinner. All day, the abbey had been quiet. The servants, what little she spotted about, seemed somber and languid in their duties.
When Lord Cunningham scooted into his chair several minutes late, that same despondency echoed in his own face. “I trust you passed the day pleasantly?”
She nodded. “Yes.” No. She had done nothing aside from fumble through needlework she hated in a house that did not belong to her. She spooned warm soup santea into her mouth. “And you?”
His smile lifted, then drooped, all without reaching his eyes. “Certainly.”
Silence.
She finished her soup, while he took careful bites of the veal, carrots, and celery on his plate.
Questions flitted across her mind. Today in the library, she’d discovered an open book on the writings of Hippocrates.
The cover had been worn. The open page tear spotted.
Why? What obligation, somewhere in the east wing, kept him for hours—sometimes days—and left him haggard upon his return?
“Lord Cunningham—”
“Tomorrow, I thought—”
They spoke in unison.
She took in a breath and smiled, then nodded him on. “Forgive me, my lord. Tomorrow?”
“An assembly is to be held at the end of the week in Juleshead. It is, of course, a very modest affair and shall be a gathering of unskilled dancers and even worse wardrobes.” He took a quick sip of his barsac wine.
“But my father always thought it a worthy charity to make local village balls as splendorous as possible, beyond what the mere subscription fares could render. When he passed, I took on the responsibility of donating to events throughout nearby parishes myself.”
“That is generous of you.”
“Not quite as noble as your tone implies, but thank you.” Lord Cunningham finished his wine in one long drink, then nodded to the footman to refill the goblet.
“I have not attended one in years. In truth, since boyhood. My father always enjoyed making a brief appearance to witness the grandeur of his efforts.” His eyes grew glassy.
“It is the only time in my life that I can ever recall truly having … well, fun.” He shook his head.
“Our social station was, of course, very taxing. Our events were plays and we were all actors, instructed to move about and say our lines to perfection, without ever missing a note. The assemblies had no such expectations.”
“Did the whole of your family attend?”
“Father was the whole of my family.”
“You had no siblings?”
“Much to my chagrin, no. My mother died shortly after my birth, and even cousins were so distant I have still yet to meet them.” He stood from his chair, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his plate was still half unfinished and his fourth glass of wine had just been filled.
“My books were both mother and brother and sister and playmate to me. But enough of my tedious childhood woes. Do you think, my dear Miss Margaret, that an outing to the humble assembly might cheer your otherwise downhearted countenance?”
“If it was a cure to you, perhaps it shall be for me as well.”
“My thoughts precisely. Perhaps there shall be acquaintances in attendance who might stir your memory as well.” He crossed the table with new energy in his steps.
“Now, if you are finished here, what say you to an evening spent in the garden with more of our poems? I fear we were interrupted from the pleasure this morning, and I should very much like to finish our volume.”
The warm invitation soothed her. “I shall wait for you at the folly.” While he hurried off in search of the book, Meg weaved her way through the corridors that were finally familiar.
She exited into the courtyard, walked the length of a sun-streaked cloister, and wandered into the heart of the garden.
The temple-styled folly, with blooming vines crawling up the pillars, sported a stone bench in the center. She sat and smoothed her dress. Then sighed. Then held her breath.
This was comfortable.
She was safe.
With Lord Cunningham, tucked away in this abbey, she could shrink from the frightening unknowns and angst of what she did not know. Her mind could grow lax. While he read poetry to her or smiled at her or encouraged her, she could exist without questioning anything.
But still.
The stranger returned to her, like an infection of the mind. His buttons had been made of wood. One was missing. His cheeks were sunburnt. She knew, not only because they were leathery and pink but because she felt the heat when his face had been in hers—
A blur of motion flashed before her.
Something whipped against her throat.
Course, rough, digging into her skin and cutting off her scream. A body pressed into her back. She groped at her neck, clawing at the rope, mouth open.
No. Help. Black dots scattered across her vision. Pain rushed up and down her in waves of shock. She couldn’t breathe. Her head rocked. The rope tightened.
“Stop!” A shout in the distance, then a vicious bark, but the sounds were ringing and the ringing faded. The rope must have fallen, because her body slumped from the bench. Everything was faint, dim, except the sound of her own frantic gasping.
The air hurt.
Everything hurt.
“Margaret. Margaret.” Lord Cunningham, lifting her up, rocking her, smelling of the fruity, apricot scent of his wine. “He is gone, and I am here. You are safe, my dear. I promise you are safe.”
Her fading consciousness tried to hold on to the lie, even though she knew it wasn’t true.
Her one haven in the world had just been shattered.
She was not certain she would be safe anywhere, ever again.
“What I knowed, I already told the justice of the peace, Mr. McGwen.” The gangly, sixteen-year-old balanced a tray of foaming tankards on her hip. “Papa told me not to talk to anyone more about it.”
“I’ll only bother ye a moment.”
“More than you’ve bothered me before, that’s certain.
” Flipping her braid, she paraded toward the wood-framed doorway to the coaching inn taproom—then stopped short.
Beer sloshed. Her eyes travelled the length of Tom with a calculating glint.
“What do you ’pose you’ll be doing now, Mr. McGwen, now that Miss Foxcroft is gone? ”
“She is not gone.”
“Oh?”
“About Hector—”
“I know you and Miss Foxcroft used to slip out at night.” The girl brushed closer to Tom, scented of yeast and mutton and leather. “Papa says every man needs a woman. He’s got a fine horse and one of his best silver pieces tucked away for when I get married.”
“Miss Creagh.” Tom’s patience drained like the beer now dripping from her tray. He resisted the urge to thump the wall with his fist. “I’ll thank ye to answer my questions.”
“And get myself a whippin’ with Papa?” She shook her head, grinning. “I don’t rightly think so. Now, if we were alone—”
“Betsey!”
The girl jumped, the tray slid forward, and earthenware tankards clattered to the floor in a spray of brown liquid.
Mrs. Creagh, the innkeeper’s wife, marched toward them with a glower.
“Clean this up, you little bird-wit. What have I told you about pestering the men like a … like a little …” Biting her tongue, she turned her glare to Tom.
“What do you want, McGwen? If you think you’re going to go seducing my Betsey just because your—”
“I came to find out about Hector.”
“Did you?” Mrs. Creagh harrumphed. “Well, there’s nothing to tell except this.
He came for a meal that Thursday, after dark, and paid his fare for the morn’s coach.
We lodged him in one of the chambers upstairs.
No, he didn’t speak to the likes o’ no one, and no, we heard no struggle during the night.
” She threw up her hands. “We thought he was on the coach with the rest of the passengers until he turns up dead in our garden. If it weren’t for all the pigwidgeons about this place, rubbish like this wouldn’t happen. ”
Frustration lined his stomach. He had more questions, too many more, but none they could answer. He thanked them and quit the coaching inn, the sunshine glaring into his eyes.
Joanie sat where he’d left her—leaning against an old barrel, coddling a couple fuzzy orange-and-white kittens. She glanced up with a soft, familiar look. The same one Papa or Mamm had when they’d stumbled upon another lost waif. “I wish I could keep one. The hostler over there said I could.”
Meade was on the verge of throwing Tom and Joanie out already. He’d be in a fit of rage over another stray. Although—
“Mr. McGwen.” Betsey came tumbling out the door, drenched in beer from her knees down.
Her cheek was red, as if she’d just received a slapping for the clumsiness.
“There is one thing. Some little nonsense I found in that man’s chamber once he was gone.
” She glanced back, as if to be certain her mother could not hear.
“I don’t have it with me now, but if you was to meet me out at the wharves come dark, I would bring it for you. ”
“What is it?”
“Betsey!”
She grimaced at her mother’s shrill voice. “I’ll bring it tonight” was all she said before she disappeared back inside. The door slammed behind her.
“Come on, Joanie.” Tom helped her up, and when she placed the kittens back into the grass, he plucked them up himself. They wiggled and meowed in his grasp. Meade would murder him. “Let’s go home.”
“I want to see him.” The hoarse words came out a whisper.
She’d resisted them all night in her sleepless tossing as she clutched the raw, throbbing line across her neck.
But then she’d pulled the possibility back over her.
Like a teacup of warm milk and honey or a worn chair by the hearthside, the reality of seeing him again soothed her.
Which was nonsense, of course.
She despised the stranger. Did she not?
He had accosted her in the street. He had invaded her chamber. He had been intense and reckless instead of gentle and calm—and then he had done the unthinkable. He had stolen the first kiss she could ever remember giving.
But he knew her.
Or claimed to.
“If I am ever to learn the truth, it is time I cease hiding from it.” Meg resituated herself on the pillow-stuffed chaise lounge in the library. She accepted the cup of willow bark tea on its saucer. “Thank you.”
“Admittedly, I do not think it a wise course of action.” Lord Cunningham knelt before her at the chaise lounge. He readjusted the soft counterpane across her legs. “If anyone should be summoned for answers, Mr. Willmott is certainly the most objective and, I daresay, safest option.”
“We may speak with Mr. Willmott another time.”
“Miss Margaret—”
“But I feel, somehow, that while Mr. Willmott might offer me facts concerning my life, Tom McGwen might know more.”
“You remembered his name.”
Meg glanced away. “Not quite, my lord.” Did she really wish to tell him of the kiss now? She was not certain that would help her argument. “I know this must be difficult for you to understand, but I just wish to speak with him.”
“I do not trust him.”
“Nor do I.”
“I took the liberty some days ago to find out more concerning this stranger.” Lord Cunningham stood and poured himself a cup of tea. He slanted her a look, a hesitant one, as if asking for permission to continue.
“And what did you discover?”
“McGwen arrived in Juleshead seven years ago, yet no one has the slightest indication of where he came from. He is little more than an uncouth vagabond who lives in a room above the blacksmith shop and does nothing better with his time than render trouble.” His lips opened, then shut just as quickly with a look of disgust. As if there were more.
“What are you not telling me?” she croaked, a hand on her throat.
Lord Cunningham smiled away the worrisome look. “Suffice it to say, I do not think McGwen was … respectful to you, my dear. I am certain, by no fault of your own.”
A tunnel of shame burrowed through her. Flashes of the dark bedchamber, his consuming kiss, drew sweat to her hairline. She should have known he was terrible. What in heaven’s name had she been embroiled in? What dark and dishonorable secrets haunted her past?
Perhaps Lord Cunningham was right.
Perhaps it was wrong—and dangerous—to invite them all back to light. But did she really have a choice?
“Someone wishes me harm, my lord.” She could not bring herself to say the word dead. “I assure you, all I wish to do is find out why. Tom McGwen means nothing more to me than that.”
“Then it is Tom McGwen you shall have, tomorrow afternoon.” Lord Cunningham lowered his teacup back to the library stand. “I shall go ahead and write the letter now. Rest while I am gone, my dear.”
“My lord?” She called out to him as he reached the green-paneled doorway. “There is one thing. About last night.”
“It is better you do not think of the ordeal.”
“When you brought me inside … you called for Dr. Bagot. He was already in the house.”
Lord Cunningham’s expression remained steady, but his eyes seemed unable to meet hers. Was it her imagination, or did they moisten as he lifted his face to the ceiling and sighed? “Dr. Bagot was here because I had requested his stay at Penrose Abbey.”
“Why?”
Lord Cunningham finally met her gaze. His words rasped as much as her own, “Because my daughter is dying.”