Chapter 15 #2
“The one what brought you home the other night.” Tillie slipped closer to Meg’s side, her whisper quickening, “So’s I went to the door, on account of him knocking so loud it might near rise the dead.
And he said that I should fetch you. And I said that Miss Foxcroft be sleeping, but he said it didn’t matter ’cause you would have to leave now if you was to make it to church. ”
Church? Tom McGwen wished to take her to church?
“What time is it?”
“Several hours before dawn.”
“I thought so.” Arguments slid to the tip of her tongue, all the reasons she could not possibly go with him. The hour was too early; Lady Walpoole would likely faint; Lord Cunningham would scowl his disapproval.
The words never came out.
Instead, she threw back the coverlets and took Tillie’s candle. “Help me dress. Hurry.”
“You mean you be—”
“Any gown will do. I expect I had not an impressive wardrobe at my uncle’s apothecary shop, and no one ever minded then.
” She had to admit there must have been a little freedom in that.
Wearing whatever you wished. Slouching, if you chose.
Leaning in and gulping down your tea instead of raising it to your lips and sipping like a pretty little painted puppet.
Five minutes later, she was dressed in a simple yellow gown with a light blue spence jacket, her hair twisted back in a loose chignon. “Gloves?”
“These are soiled, but—”
“Never mind. They shall do.” Meg hurried for the door but turned back with a sharp breath. “Tillie? You shall tell Lord Cunningham where I’ve gone?”
“Yes.” Uncertainty crimsoned her cheeks. “I hope he shan’t be angry.”
“He never is.”
“With you.”
Meg gave the girl a reassuring smile, then hurried through the dark abbey corridors, down the stairs, and to the anteroom. Her heart pounded again. Not from fear. Something else.
She stopped before bursting out the door, shaking her head. What was she doing? This was unseemly. Absurd. Even if her old nature had been so reckless, she knew better now.
Go back. A dull warning, but she reached for the door anyway. She stepped outside, the blackness enveloping her, the night fragranced and chilly against her skin. “Mr. McGwen?”
Night bugs chirped in answer.
Had he gone already? She snuck down the steps, dragging her stained glove along the stone railing. His horse waited at the bottom. No Tom. She turned—
Hands swung her up in one effortless motion. She let out a small yelp, swatting, but she was planted atop the saddle before her fighting rendered any good.
Then he was behind her, arms caging her in. “Sit tight with ye,” he grumbled in her ear. “And for once in yer life, keep yer mouth shut.”
She wanted to be angry. She wanted to insist they take a carriage and, even more, that he never grab her again without proper consent. Which he would not receive. Not again.
But as the horse took off at a wild gallop and the air beat at her face, none of that mattered. She lost her fury to the wind, her heart to the night. And she couldn’t help thinking—no matter how wrong this was—that she could not remember feeling more exhilarated in her life.
He had braced himself for her confounded fury. She had asked him to teach her, raising her lofty chin and standing there in her fancy clothes as if Tom were a servant she was bidding to polish her shoes.
He knew her well enough to know one thing.
She would fight him on everything.
She always did.
Blast. He thrust his heels harder into the horse’s sides, their speed gaining through the fog-moistened night. Mud splattered behind them. What would she think of Juleshead upon closer inspection?
He had a million places he wanted to show her.
None that would impress. Or mean anything.
That was the root, perhaps, of his foul temperament. Not that Meg would fuss at him. Not that she wore her perfect, tailored clothes. Not even that she demanded Tom teach her, after all these terrible weeks of despising the sight of him.
No.
He widened his arms again, but her wind-loosened hair still tickled his face. ’Twas only that the life she’d forgotten was small. The stockings he wanted to return were threadbare and worthless. The wharves a little grimy. The shore where they’d played without luster.
Painters would never go there.
She probably wouldn’t either after she saw it through new eyes.
He hardened his gaze on the road ahead, keeping the sigh trapped inside him. He would not think of such things. This was what Meg wanted. To know the truth.
He would give it to her.
What she did with it was out of his hands.
He would focus his attention, instead, on keeping her safe.
Mrs. Musgrave had not shown him the letter.
Mrs. Whalley had bustled into the kitchen, peppering questions about a certain ugly looking turban, and Mrs. Musgrave had no choice but to smile back her tears and slip the note away in her pocket.
She had reached for Tom’s hand just before she left. “Come back tomorrow after church. The shop will be closed, and we may talk then.”
He was afraid to find out what had spurred such a tormented look on her face.
He was more afraid not to.
Tom McGwen spoke very little to her the length of the ride, and Meg did not bother trying to penetrate his silence. If he wished to brood, so be it.
Besides, he had made it very clear he did not wish to hear her voice.
Fine.
She did not wish to hear his either.
By the time they reached Juleshead, most of the village lights were still unlit, and only a faint hue of yellow softened the sky. Their horse hooves clip-clopped on the cobblestones. The air smelled like primrose bushes and brisk freshness as they passed gold-colored storefronts and row houses.
A mother goose and her ducklings wandered into the street. Tom waited until they passed before urging his horse forward again.
When they reached a round-tower church, Tom tied his horse to a beech tree and swung Meg from the saddle. He led her inside.
The nave was empty and narrow, with an old stone altar and white plastered walls. A massive window with fifteenth-century tracery filtered dusty sunlight into the room.
“Here.” Tom motioned her into a box pew. “We’re early.”
She situated herself, pulled off her gloves, and resisted the urge to scoot farther away when Tom sat next to her.
The fabric of his brown coat touched her jacket. Odd that it stirred a faint rustling in her chest. She fidgeted. Sighed. Then finally gave in to her discomfort and slid an inch away from him. “Now what?”
“We’re early.”
“You said that already.”
He glanced at her, neither with amusement nor annoyance, and leaned back in his seat. He propped his boots on the opposite bench.
“In truth, sir, I did not imagine you attended services.”
“I wish ye wouldnae call me that.”
“Sir?”
“Aye.”
“What did I call you before?”
“Same thing as everyone else.” He stroked his beard. “My name.”
“Very well. Tom.” Turning toward him, leaning an elbow on the box pew wall, she studied his face. “You did not answer me. I seem to recall your reluctance during a previous conversation to acknowledge the handiworks of God.”
“I come to church.”
“Begrudgingly?”
Tom sent her a quick side look before turning his eyes back to the front of the nave. A wry grin quirked his lips. “Listening to the vicar is like hearing yer uncle rattle off tincture recipes.”
“But you do believe.” When his lips flattened, she prodded, “Do you not?”
Pain bothered his face—a look she knew only because she’d felt the cold prongs of despair herself. Surprise flicked through her. Tom McGwen knew grief. And it had nothing to do with her or now or anything that had happened as consequence to the black-edged notes.
He had told Meg her own secret. Had he ever told her his?
As the cloud vanished, he pointed across the church with a smirk. “See that pew?”
“Yes.”
“One time old Mr. Hickinbottom, the sheepherder, had another of his falling sicknesses. He toppled over in the middle of the vicar’s sermon, and while everyone else was whispering and doing nary a thing, ye climbed over the box pew, pulled him out into the aisle, and set to cradling his head until it passed. ”
Warmth flushed over her at the admiration in his voice. “It must have been a spectacle.”
“The vicar gave you a lecture. Mr. Hickinbottom gave you a sheep.”
“He did?”
“Aye.”
“What happened to it?”
“Mutton stew.” He laughed. “Ye hated to eat anything ye’d named, but yer uncle wanted it gone soon as ye carried it into the shop. It bleated a whole night before he lost his patience.”
How very much she wanted to take in his words, live and breathe them, until they colored all the emptiness of her mind. “Tell me more.” A strange homesickness wafted through her. “Anything about me. Or my uncle. What we were like.”
“Ye laughed a lot.” Tom shook his head, tender crinkles at his eyes. “Come evening, especially. When ye were tired. When it was the three of us.”
“We spent a great deal of time together.”
“Aye.”
“Did you …” She regretted the question that almost slipped out. When Tom raised a brow, she plunged forward anyway. “You spent time with other village girls too, I presume?”
He seemed a little surprised by her curiosity. A little pleased too—annoyingly so.
“Not that it matters to me.” Meg shrugged. “I just supposed you did.”
“Why?”
“I—well, because—”
“Ye think me a wee bit handsome?” The daring grin that widened his lips made her glare.
“Certainly not. Sir.” The last she added with no small amount of defiance as she tightened even closer to her end of the box pew.
Tom did not seem bothered. He leaned closer, his intentions unclear, when—
Voices and footsteps echoed behind them. An elderly couple bustled down the aisle, paused in cheerful greeting, and found their seats at the front of the church.
“Later,” Tom whispered. What had he been ready to say? Or do?