Chapter 19 #2
But what had he expected her to do? Pretend he had not deserted her?
“What will you do? Keep me forever in suspense as to your feelings? Kill me slowly with your apathy and your not-so-veiled disgust?” He frowned. “I have enough afflicting me, Margaret, without you injuring me too.”
“I have no intention of injuring you.”
“Then speak to me.”
“There is nothing to say.”
“You think I ran.”
“Didn’t you?”
The beat of silence and the tick of his jaw dimmed the last hope she had for an ample excuse.
His shoulders caved. “The animal was out of control. By the time I turned my mount back around, the smoke hindered me from finding you. I thought the best course of action to return to Penrose, where I might procure enough menservants to fight off such an attack. In hindsight, I realize this was not the best course of action.”
Her disappointment in him mellowed into a trickle of pity. “I suppose we cannot always be expected to think clearly in moments of disaster.”
“I should have been there. I should have protected you.”
“Your intentions were pure, my lord, I am sure.” She forced a smile, one she hoped would reassure him. “We shall forget it. All is well.” The same words Tom had once spoken to her.
Somehow, it was more comforting to hear them than to say them.
Embarrassment slinked the back of Tom’s neck, and he kept his eyes on the nicks and scratches of the bedchamber threshold.
“Go on then, guv. The likes o’ my little flittermouse won’t hurt you.” Lieselotte gave him a small push into a chamber that reeked of musky carnations.
Tom steeled his heels two steps inside. He gritted his teeth when the door slammed behind him. “I’ve nae wish to hurt ye, lass. I’d like to speak with ye downstairs.”
The girl across the sparse, cream-colored room stood from a chair. She was thin, young, with a sweat-ringed wrapper and limp red hair. Her cheeks were smeared with pink rouge. The only color of her face. “I don’t go downstairs.”
“Then in the hall.”
She gave a small shake of her head, though she didn’t explain why. What did they do, keep her locked in here?
Tom shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded. “I’d like to speak with ye about Elisabeth. About her death.”
“Who are you?”
“Tom McGwen.”
Her mouth gaped.
“Something wrong?”
“Most men that come here don’t have names.” She limped over to the bed, ropes and wood creaking as she sat. She hugged a pillow to her chest. “You her cousin?”
“No.”
“I think she lied about him, anyway.” Bibby blinked convulsively. “She lied about a lot. I bet you never do that, though, do you?”
Thoughts of Caleb whirred through him. All the things he’d never told Meg.
Och, aye. He lied.
“What do ye know about her sickness?” Tom stuffed his hands into his pockets, shifting. “Lieselotte says an apothecary came to look at her.”
“She wasn’t sick.”
“What do ye mean?”
“She never told me, but I knew the signs. She didn’t want to be no mother.
Especially not … not now.” Bibby turned her face into the pillow.
“I think she asked some gent to smuggle her in Savin. Heard of other girls doing it. Least ways she’d never have to worry about the child ending up at some baby farm. ”
The horrors of such a thought shook Tom. “She killed the baby.”
“She didn’t have a choice.”
“And this was her ailment?”
“I don’t know. I’m not smart.” Bibby rocked back and forth an inch or two, still embracing the pillow. “All I know is that she was almost happy. Things always happen that way. He was going to marry her. She was right sure.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. He never had a name. She loved him. She said he loved her. She lies, though.” Bibby glanced up at Tom, her eyes puffy. “She was afraid if he found out about the baby—that it wasn’t his baby—it would change things. Guess she didn’t think it’d plague her like that. What she done.”
“Then Mr. Foxcroft came.”
“She stopped eating. She’d just lie there in her bed, not moving or anything. Mamma Lieselotte’d come up here and beat on her. Said if she didn’t start working again and making herself pretty that she could never leave and get married.”
“Then how did she—”
“End up dead?” Bibby pulled up the wrap that slinked off her bare shoulder. “I don’t know. All I know is she didn’t want to keep living and she didn’t.”
Thoughts tore through Tom, pieces that didn’t fit together. He couldn’t think about Mr. Foxcroft in a room as sad as this, ending the life of a girl who was only desperate.
He pulled at another thread instead. One he hoped would unravel answers. “Can ye tell me anything about the gentleman she loved?” If the man had been as devoted to Elisabeth as she believed, perhaps his passion had driven him to vengeance.
“Not much. Just this.” Bibby tossed back the pillow and hurried to a curved, tomb chest of drawers. She opened the last drawer. “Her things. The ones for her cousin. She never could stand the thought of her treasures being throwed away soon as her room was give to the next girl.”
Tom crossed the room and peered inside. A smeared powder box. Disarrayed ribbons. A couple childhood relics of worn, cutout animal illustrations. “What’s this?” Tom lifted a lock of coarse brown hair, tied with a string.
“That was his. The one she wanted to marry.”
“May I keep this?”
Bibby nodded. “Guess Elisabeth would like that. Just so long as it don’t get tossed into the hearth.”
“Was there anyone else of consequence? Anyone who might have cared deeply for her?”
“No one. Well. The father maybe.”
“Who was he?”
“Him I know.” Bibby shut the drawer with force. “He drinks too much of Mamma’s gin when he comes. He visits all of us. Owns his own business somewhere on the west side of the village.”
“What’s his name?”
Bibby’s whisper went hoarse, “Mr. Bartholomew Creagh.”
Evening time cast her under a spell. Dinner was the first meal she’d been able to eat without the remnants of fear choking her appetite, and the soft-cushioned wingback nestled her into sleepy comfort.
Lady Walpoole had retired.
Uncle remained scarce.
As the library windows darkened to a moonlit blue, and rain began a light drumming on the panes, only Lord Cunningham remained in company. He had persuaded her here with the argument that they had not finished Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis.
She had nearly declined the offer. The look on his face made her accept.
Somewhere between “The tender spring upon thy tempting lip” and “Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie,” her eyes fluttered shut. The world was airy, void, painless, and then—
“Do take a seat, Mr. McGwen.”
“I’ll stand.”
Forcing past the layers of fog, she sucked in a breath and leaned up. Everything was bleary, then her eyes focused with heart-tripping clarity on the man who had entered the library.
Rain dampened the red, windblown hair across his forehead, and he wiped moisture from his face with a brown sleeve. Too bad he could not remove the scowl so easily. “I want to speak with the lass.”
“The lass.” Lord Cunningham smiled as he snapped shut his book and stood from the scrolled sofa. “Very charming. Though I imagine she prefers to be called by her name.”
“My lord.” Meg thought it wise to interject before Lord Cunningham’s veiled bark turned into snarling teeth. “I will speak with him.”
“I presume it is no trouble if I remain, my dear?”
“It is.” This from Tom. He took another dripping step into the room. “I’ll speak with her alone.”
“I was only attempting to ensure propriety, I assure you.”
“She’s nae thing to fear from me.”
“Yes. To be sure.” Lord Cunningham swept back a look at Meg, smiled again, and lifted his book. “We shall resume tomorrow then. In the meantime, you may speak with Mr. McGwen about our discussion over dinner.”
She nodded. “I will.”
“Goodnight, darling.”
The words came out a little weak when she answered, “Goodnight.” Breaths coming faster, she smoothed her dress and waited until Lord Cunningham departed the room before she stood. “You cannot keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Barging in at any given hour.”
“I had to speak with ye.”
“So long as speaking is all you do.” The second the words were out, she longed to pull them back. The last thing she wished to broach was the kiss.
The glower on Tom’s face shifted into a softer expression. He marched closer to her, tossing his hat to the sofa, and stood inches too close.
The air charged between them.
The memory.
Had it not been for the chair, she would have moved backward and feigned interest in searching for a book or a candle or anything. But the chair—and her palpitating heart—kept her planted. “Lady Walpoole wishes me to learn the intricacies of a dinner party.”
His eyes remained fixated on hers. Then lower. Her lips.
“Lord Cunningham has already seen to the invitations. He has invited Mr. Rushworth and his wife, who were both instrumental in aiding Lord Cunningham in his search of medical books. He collects them. He is brilliant, really.” The words poured out fast, like water gushing through a broken dam.
Why was she rambling? “Other guests shall be in attendance. I do not recall their names. You would not know them.”
Tom took one more step.
She collapsed back into the chair, and while his eyes were still watching her lips, she watched his. “His lordship wants you to be in attendance too.” Breathy. “He fears you misjudge him. He is not unkind.”
He hovered over her, hands on the armrests.
“Only protective.”
Closer.
“He is truly very much the amiable host.”
“Meg.”
She begged her head to turn, her eyes to look elsewhere, but the pull in his eyes was like lightning zipping back and forth across her chest. She was struck with the numbing danger. Mesmerized by the power. “Kiss me again, and I shall pummel your face,” she warned.
“I’ll come.”
“What?”
“To yer dinner party.”
“Oh.” With a hard—perhaps too hard—shove to his chest, she escaped the chair and darted to the other side of the room. She brushed her hand along a row of meaningless books. “It shall be held at the close of the week. You shall set the odds to even.”
“Ye know the lordy doesn’t want me here.”
“Of course he does.”
“I dinnae know if ye do either.”
Silence.
Against her will, she angled back to him, drawing down a book, clasping it to her chest. She knew what he wanted. What he needed.
He’d been starved and deprived so long of the one thing he’d been secure in.
Her love.
She didn’t wish to see the emptiness inside him. The sadness. The part he blinked and tried to hide away with another easy smile.
“I just wanted to see ye were safe.” He plucked his hat from the sofa and left.
Her wrists pulsed with rapid speed. She stood in the same place—clutching the book, entirely frozen—for much longer than made sense.