The red cottage, p.19
The Red Cottage, page 19
“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?
As a clock on the wall ticked by at an irritating rate, others wandered in. A mother with five towheaded children, a trio of three young maids, more husbands with their wives.
When the bell struck its first booming note, Joanie and Meade slipped into the box pew behind them. He clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Nod off and I’ll be hammering the back of your head.”
“Might need to do the same to ye, after last night,” said Tom.
Meg glanced back at the blacksmith. She had never seen his hair slicked back and his skin scrubbed clean of the usual soot. Despite the tidiness of his appearance, however, his eyes were red rimmed.
Joanie brightened. “I brought this for you.” She handed over two light-pink hollyhocks. “I made Meade stop along the road so I could pick them.”
“Oh, they are lovely.” A little drooping, a little hand crushed, but sweeter than all the perfect blooms in the Penrose garden. The innocent token of friendship startled Meg with gratitude—and comfort.
The bell ceased.
The vicar climbed his pulpit, wearing a white surplice and bands, and read in a scratchy voice from the Book of Common Prayer. Sunlight glowed behind him. Everything hummed around her, tiny noises—one of the tots whimpering, a pew creaking, Meade hiccupping behind them.
And Tom.
She detected his breathing and was far too aware of every twitch he made. She was not certain if she had shifted or he had, but the inches between them had lessened.
Only once during the whole service did she glance at his profile.
He was relaxed, sleepy, and his eyes had a steady kindness. For a fleeting second, she had the wildest impulse to lean against him, slip her arm through his, and make herself at home in a world she had once lived in.
She ripped the thought from her heart with a set jaw. She was here to learn about the old Meg Foxcroft. Not become her.
Of all the places Tom could take her next, a millinery shop was the last she would have expected. What was he going to do, buy her a hat?
An old woman greeted them at the door, and judging by her enthused embrace and the startling kisses she planted on Meg’s cheek, the milliner was a friend. Or used to be.
A light quiver weakened Meg’s knees as the wrinkly hand clasped her own.
“Come in, come in.” The woman led them into a quaint parlor decorated with mismatched trinkets, a tall old clock, and sagging damask furniture. “I am Mrs. Musgrave, dear. Tommy tells me you do not remember.”
Meg glanced at him.
He sat on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, and smiled. Somehow she gained courage from his unaffected look. She relaxed.
They sat, the three of them, for over an hour.
They talked of Lenox—a fat old cat who slinked from one lap to another, kneading the rug and yawning between each of his naps. Then they spoke of desserts, trifling village gossip—and Mr. Foxcroft.
Mrs. Musgrave said he was a good man. That she put flowers on his grave every week or so.
But her voice was a little stilted, a little hoarse, and she glanced at Meg with a puzzling look. One that belied her smiles. Her kisses. Her sweetness.
Meg’s discomfort reared all over again.
Tom must have noticed. He stood. “Ye forgot something.”
“Oh?”
“Ye’ve two hungry beggars on yer hands.”
“Oh, you.” Mrs. Musgrave chuckled, waved at him, and said that Meg should wait right here and rest. Tom she needed in the kitchen.
They disappeared, leaving Meg alone, confused. The same sickness soured her stomach as she rose to the window and stared out at the black-timbered remains of her uncle’s shop. Why had the old woman looked at Meg that way?
Mrs. Musgrave had been all kindness, all coos and gentle laughs.
Then, in one instant, accusations and distrust had engulfed her eyes, leaving Meg singed. What had she done to warrant such doubt? And was such a crime so terrible she deserved to die?
“I want to see the note.”
“I do not think you do, my dear.”
Tom went to the cupboard himself, pulled out the bowl, and found it just where she’d stashed it before. He read over the words with a gut-stitching pain:
Mr. M did not die of apoplexy. I do not have proof, but if you search your heart, you will know it to be true. He was slaughtered by the ones he sought to save him. There are wolves in our sheep.
“I cannot sleep and I cannot eat.” Mrs. Musgrave stared at him, white lashes wet, her face blotched red. “Elias had been ill for months. It all happened so sudden. He was bent over the hearth, putting embers in our bed warmer … and he just dropped it on the floor and said he couldn’t feel himself.” Mrs. Musgrave hugged her arms. “He was strange after that. Tripping over his words. Falling over when there was nothing to make him stumble. Finally, he said he could not live this way. He went to see Mr. Foxcroft.” She palmed her face dry. “He did not come home.”
“Ye believe this.” His hands ached to shred the paper. “A letter from someone who cannot even show his face.”
“Sit down, dear.”
“I’ll stand.”
“I’ve corn and haddock, and if you wish buttered bread, I can—”
“Ye looked at Meg like ye dinnae even know her.”
Mrs. Musgrave went into the larder and came back with a bowl of pears. She rearranged them in the bowl, and when she finally looked up, her wrinkled lips formed a devastated line. “Perhaps I do not know Meg. Perhaps you do not either.”
“Ye cannae mean that.” War raged in his chest. He stepped closer. “Meg wouldnae do such a thing. If I have to prove that to you and whoever wrote this note, I will.”
“I do not wish it to be true.”
“It isn’t.”
“All these years, I had this prick. Right here.” She clutched her heart with white-boned knuckles. “I knew something was not right. I felt it. And for the first time, I think I know why.” She reached for the note, cradled it against her as if it held the keys to the world. “You are a good boy, Tommy. I do not wish to see you suffer more than you already have.”
A muscle jerked in his jaw.
“But like you, I have realized I must find whoever wrote this note. I must discover the truth.” Her entire body trembled. “Whether you believe it or not.”
CHAPTER 16
They should go back. If Lord Cunningham had not already sent an army after her, he would if she was not returned before dark.
For the second time today, Tom grabbed her hand. She thought to protest, but the gesture seemed more practical than affectionate. From the millinery shop, he’d dragged her to the smithy, where they’d eaten warm pasties with Meade and Joanie. Then on to the graveyard, where he’d shown her Mr. Foxcroft’s tombstone. Then the curiosity shop, where they’d piddled about and purused the old and scruffy treasures.
His fingers were strong, almost too strong.
The alley narrowed, then opened up to weathered quays and a translucent green sea. He jogged to the end of a wharf, freed her hand, sat, and dropped his legs over the edge.
She remained standing. “I think it time we depart.”
He patted beside him.
“I am in earnest.”
“Sit down with ye before I throw ye in.” Ever since their departure from the millinery shop, he had been distracted, his brow a little heavy, as if his mind were solving problems elsewhere.
Now, his eyes lifted to hers in full attention.
A faint pricking sensation breezed the back of her neck, and she threatened her lips not to return his grin.
He raised a brow, as if giving her one last chance to comply. Had he always been so demanding? Or she only more indulging?
“Oh, fine.” She plopped down next to him, sighing away her frustration. “You realize, of course, I shall never hear the end of this from Lord Cunningham.”
“Yer uncle always survived. I think yer lordy will too.”
“Were we so imprudent?”
“Depends on who ye ask.”
“What if I ask you?”
He took off his coat, tossed it beside him, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “I think ye worry about it all too much. Ye were happy. ’Tis all ye need to know.”
“Surely, you cannot blame me for my inquiries.” She stared out across the water—the blue-orange evening sky melting into the horizon, the seagulls mewing above them, the anchored fishing vessels bobbing in the waves. “It is not enough to know I was happy. I must know why I was happy in order that I might be so again.”
“I’ll tell ye how.”
“How?”
“Find out what makes ye get out of bed in the morning.” He shrugged, smiled. “My Mamm used to write things. I had nae time for words when I was wee, but she’d sing them to me at night or say them in my ear when she was scrubbing me clean.”
“That is lovely.”
“‘Whatever it is, keep it,’ she said. ‘Then ye’ll be happy.’”
“What made her happy?”
“Her wee ones. Papa, I guess.” He rolled his shoulders again. “I never asked.”
“And you?”
He looked at her, then away, the wind stirring his hair the same time it tousled hers. He jumped up too quickly, grabbing her hand. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“To see the boat.” Energy radiated from him like a lightning bolt from his fingers to hers as they took off running back down the wharf. She almost laughed. She grumbled instead, murmuring how they should go home, that they had not time.
At the rocky slope, he hesitated, staring at her with a roguish twinkle.
Then he swooped her into his arms.
“Tom!” She had not meant to cry his name. Sir would have been far more effective—and he deserved no more, especially after this.
Climbing over the rocks, he splashed knee-deep into the water and waded toward a small, two-masted boat. The canvas sails were rolled tight, and a fiery orange sun cast the vessel in an unearthly glow.
“Here.” Up to his waist in water, Tom swung her into the boat. “Careful of the mess. Mr. Flemick takes little care.”
“Mr. Flemick?”
Tom climbed in next to her and rubbed a wooden plank clean so she could sit. “He owns it. Used to catch for him.”
“You stopped.”
“Aye.”
“Because of me?”
“Because I had nae time.” Dripping, he scooted in next to her and clapped his knees in pride. “Well, what do ye think?”
She curled her nose. The boat was despicable. Empty wine glasses littered the floor, along with a slush of fish entrails and seaweed. The stench was repugnant. “It is …” Why was she compelled to say something gracious? To feel something gracious?
Maybe because the boat mast had her initials carved in the wood.
Or because the sun bathed them in such a warm light and the waves rocked the boat in such a soothing motion. Or maybe it was only that he smiled at her.
The boat was dear, not for anything it had to boast of but for the memories it still possessed for him. Memories she had lost. Memories she couldn’t get back, even if he took her everywhere and showed her everything.
“It is a very good boat.” She resisted the sudden sting of emotion. “To be certain, I cannot remember ever boarding any better.”
“Careful, lass.”
“Pardon?”
“Ye’re being kind. His lordship willnae approve.”
“I wish you would not tease me about him.” Meg stood, wobbled, and frowned at him when he steadied her arm. “I can manage myself, thank you. Now, if you are quite finished showing me your boat, I think it would be wise to consider our departure—”
A gunshot rang in her ear.
Terror drenched her like water so cold she lost feeling. Duck. She didn’t have time.
Tom tackled her down, shoving her body between two wooden boat slats. He covered every inch of her. Hid her face with his hands. “Ye’re fine. Ye’re fine.”
She was not fine.
Something slimy and cold squished into her ear. The rotten scent of fish and blood made her stomach heave, and had it not been for him—the familiar scent of his wet shirt—she would have retched.
Hours fled.
No.
Seconds.
He shifted, his breathing fast. “Stay down.”
“Tom, no—”
“Stay. Down.” He lifted himself off her, the boat creaking, the waves lapping and slurping beneath the rough wood.
She counted the seconds. He would go down first. Then her. She hoped they threw her overboard. She’d rather fade into the sea, loose and cold and drifting, than to burn like her uncle. She didn’t want to be ashes. Please, God.
A mild oath carried with the breeze, then Tom pulled her up. “Look.”
She followed his finger to shore, where a ratty-bearded man plucked a gray pigeon from the quayside. “He did not … I mean, I was not …”
“Old Jabez. Local poulterer.” Tom rolled down the sleeve of his shirt and swiped it across her cheek, the linen fabric soft and calming.
She almost leaned into his touch. Just long enough for her legs to gain their strength and the bile to slip back down her throat.
“Ye’re all right.” He said it again, slower, as if determined to make her believe him. She was not certain she did.
Hoisting her back into his arms, he lowered into the water and carried her to shore. The cool, salty liquid splashed her clothes, reminders she was still alive, still breathing.
For now.
Back on the quayside, he ran for his coat and came back to drape it around her shoulders. “I dinnae want to take ye back. I want ye to stay here with Meade, where I can guard ye.”
“I cannot hide from my danger when it follows me everywhere.”
“I can keep ye safe.”
“Ye didn’t before.”
His eyes flinched, but it only made his jaw stronger and his stance broader. “I’ll promise ye this. I willnae let it happen again.”
She had no way of knowing if Tom McGwen kept his promises. A pull inside her whispered he did.
The days stretched longer than before. Too many times, amid all her dancing lessons and reading and netting purses, Meg stole glances at the clock.
Never had the hours chimed with such lethargy.
Or the hands moved so slowly.
Why?
She should be grateful. She should be eager to fulfil her role as lady and wife—not bored. But the listlessness droned in her brain, weighting her limbs, and drawing her back to places she didn’t wish to go.
