Chapter 15
“You were not kind to her.” Joanie slipped onto her knees next to Tom, where he’d already spread out across his pallet for the night. She twisted backwards. “Will you button me, please?”
He leaned up and fumbled with her button. “There.”
“Thank you.”
“Now go to sleep with ye.”
She felt her way to the other side of the room, blankets rustling as she settled into her own pallet. She sighed. “Tom?”
“Lass,” he growled.
“Just one thing more, and then I won’t talk.”
“What?”
“Why were you so unkind to her?”
“I wasnae unkind.”
“You didn’t talk.”
He searched for words to defend himself. He didn’t have any. “Och, go to sleep.” His final command spiraled the tiny, dark bedchamber into silence. He stared at the rafters. He rubbed a hand down his face. Then, low, “I dinnae know what to say to her. I dinnae know how to talk to her anymore.”
Joanie’s shadowed form raised her head.
“And I’ve a fear she’ll not love anything about her old life.” His face tightened. “Not now.”
“Maybe you should do something nice for her. I didn’t remember you much when I came. I was afraid you would wish me gone. But when you gave me my new shoes, I thought you were …”
A noise outside the cottage, altering his focus.
He whipped up. “Hush.”
“Was that a horse?”
“Stay here. Dinnae move.” He crept from the bedchamber, pulling the door shut behind him. His nerves snapped to attention. In the darkness, he ducked below window view and stood only long enough to grab the double-barrel rifle above the mantel.
He swung around just as the door crashed open.
“Move and I’ll kill ye.”
The bulky shadow took a staggering step inside. “If you can.”
Meade? Tom lowered the gun, although he was tempted to fire a bullet next to the man’s head. “Blast, what are ye doing? I could have shot ye.”
“Brownie said you bought a horse.” Meade stumbled inside and tried to hang his hat on the peg. He missed. “Gun too. You gonna spend every last nicker on this place?”
Tom decided not to answer. “It’s eleven o’ clock at night.”
“Came home. Found this.” Meade tried one pocket, grunted, then searched another. He finally found what he was looking for tucked in his left boot.
Tom snatched it and looked for a candle. He lit it and read over the familiar script.
They are blind who close their eyes. If you wish the truth, perhaps you should call again upon your friend. Mrs. Musgrave knows more than she tells.
Mrs. Musgrave? What did she know or have to do with any of this?
“You sleep. I’ll guard.” Meade reached for the rifle as if he expected trouble, but Tom shook his head.
“It is nae threat, but ye best not ride home like this.”
“I can sit saddle.”
“Take my bed.”
“I’ll be takin’ the barn.” With nothing more and forgetting his hat, Meade swaggered from the cottage and slammed the door behind him.
Tom stared at the black-edged note in his hands. The words made him cold. This better lead him to answers—and fast.
Meg’s time was running out.
“You have an artless hand, Miss Foxcroft.” Lady Walpoole handed Meg another cutout paper. This one appeared to be a bugle. “See there, an empty space. You may situate it between the manor and the tree.”
Or your forehead. Meg resisted the urge to smack the paper into the woman’s face. With a careful hand, she swished on the glue and secured the bugle to the folding screen.
After a morning of letter writing and table etiquette, Lady Walpoole had ordered a manservant to carry this lumbering screen into the courtyard.
For the past three hours, they had been laboring to paste on decorative pictures, and when the glue had ample time to dry, they would come back to paint on the varnish.
“Decoupage,” Lady Walpoole explained. “All ladies of breeding are well accomplished in the skill, and if you are incompetent, you shall have nothing at all to talk of with your peers.”
What sort of conversation would this make, even if she were master at it?
“You are sagging again.”
Meg straightened.
“Keep your elbow inward.”
Fine.
“Chin up.”
“I cannot look down if my chin is up.” Meg blew out air in frustration and applied another cutout with a little too much force.
Lady Walpoole frowned. “Very well, Miss Foxcroft. I see I have quite exhausted your patience.”
Had she been so obvious?
“You may go indoors and spend the next hour reviving your enthusiasm. I shall finish here.”
“Thank you.” Meg gave the woman her first real smile of the day. She started away, remembered to curtsy, and turned back to do so.
Lady Walpoole did not appear impressed. “Do not forget, the dancing master shall arrive in precisely an hour. You shall meet us then in the ballroom, wearing something other than your morning dress. Understood?”
“Yes, my lady.” Before the woman could devise another form of torture, Meg hurried to the cloisters, found the door, and rushed indoors.
As much as she enjoyed the fresh air—the rose bushes in bloom, the floral garden scents, the dog at play in the folly—she’d rather lock herself in the dankest room of the abbey than endure any more of her ladyship.
She undid her bib-fronted apron.
Then pulled out her hair needles and shook the locks free as she hurried through a corridor toward the stairs—
Movement.
In the window.
Meg froze and jerked back, a flight instinct urging her to run. Tasseled draperies covered part of the window, but a quaint view of the courtyard boxwoods was still visible through the pristine panes.
Her mind scurried as she took a tentative step closer. She peeled back the brocade fabric, looked everywhere.
Nothing.
No one was here. No one had watched her.
But as she hurried away down the corridor, stuffing the hair needles in her pocket and folding her apron, gooseflesh dotted her skin.
She could have sworn she’d seen a face.
Mrs. Whalley was in the millinery shop when Tom arrived, trying on a tall bonnet with too many flowers and bows.
“It does rather improve upon the shape of my face, to be sure. Although I shall have to speak with Charles, as I have not quite enough pin money.” She barked out a laugh, but the sound came to a grating halt when her eyes met Tom’s in the mirror.
“Oh. Dear me. I had not at all imagined myself to be observed.”
“Mrs. Whalley.” Tom nodded a stiff greeting.
Hers was equally stiff. “I must say, I am quite surprised to see you here, as I heard it mentioned only last evening that you took residence outside of our little village. I daresay your father’s inheritance must have been ample indeed, have you the funds to purchase a cottage and cease fishing altogether. ”
Tom bristled at the infernal woman’s tone. Ignoring her, he moved to the counter, where Mrs. Musgrave was busy thrusting ostrich feathers into the ribbon of a new straw hat. “May I speak with ye a moment?” he asked.
Mrs. Whalley sashayed beside Tom. “Dear Mrs. Musgrave, do not think of bothering over me. Left alone, I shall probably try on every bonnet—and likely buy three of them.” She flicked a hand at Tom. “You have company. Good society is just what our own dear Tom needs, I think.”
Mrs. Musgrave scooted over a tiny brass bell. “Do ring if you need something, please. I shall only be a moment.” She motioned to Tom. “Come along, dear.”
In the kitchen, she set a pewter kettle to boil, then pointed to one of her yellow-and-flower-painted chairs. “Sit down. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat a wee bit of whatever’s in that jar over there.”
She beamed in delight. “I just baked them this morning. Millefruit biscuits.”
Once she’d fetched two glasses of milk and biscuits enough for ten of them, Tom reached into his pocket. He slid the note across the table.
“What is this?” She plucked it up. Some of her color drained.
Silence.
Tom cupped his hands around the cool milk, eyes steady on her face, as an erratic pulse beat at his throat. “Well?”
“I cannot imagine why this … I mean, whatever could I have to do with it?” She dropped the note, as if the touch of it burned her. Her eyes pooled tears. “I must go and see to Mrs. Whalley. She would never ring the bell, but I am certain she shall need my—”
“Ye’re upset.” Tom bounded to his feet and stopped her before she reached the doorway. A touch to her arms confirmed what he already suspected: She trembled.
“Look what you have made me do. Now I am crying again like a silly old fool.” She waved an anxious hand. “I do not want anything to do with this, Tommy. Not anything at all.”
“Ye know something.”
“No.”
“Meg needs you.” He tried to bite back the passion heating his voice. “I need you. If ye have any idea who wrote such a letter, then maybe ye can—”
“I do not know who wrote the letter.” Her voice gave out on the last word, and she turned back to the kitchen. She went to the cupboard, where Lenox napped on the top shelf, and pulled out a pottery bowl without disturbing him. She lifted a folded piece of paper. “I only know I received one too.”
Candlelight wavered across Tillie’s face, accenting deep shadows beneath her eyes. She crept closer to the bed. “Very sorry, miss, to disturb you. Are you certain you be awake?”
Meg laid a hand across her thrashing heartbeat, willing the fear to settle. She’d awoken the same time the door whined open. She’d fought with the coverlets. Then battled the scream in her throat—half wondering if it would make any difference.
If she was going to die, she might as well keep her dignity.
But it was only Tillie—dressed in an age-yellowed nightgown and matching night cap—holding out a dripping candle and looking for all the world as if she had just received a fright herself.
“At first I thought we would be robbed. I was ever so terrified and would have woken his lordship, but then I recognized the horse.”
“What horse?”