The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  His jaw worked, yet no sound came out. Emma laid her head against Abby’s shoulder, signaling she was ready for sleep.

  But Abby held her ground. She’d learned long ago how to outwait a stubborn mule.

  The captain sighed, his breath warm and feathering against her cheek. “Has anyone ever told you how persistent you are?”

  “You have. Many times.” She tipped her chin. “And though your bluster makes it sound as if that is a bad thing, I get the distinct impression that you somehow admire me for it.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Would it matter?”

  She frowned. “Would what matter?”

  “If I admired you.” He bent close, his brown eyes searching parts of her she’d never shared with anyone…until now.

  Sudden warmth flooded her from head to toe, and she held her breath. The truth was that this man’s good opinion of her did matter, more than she could possibly understand. She leaned toward him, and despite the barrier of a small child in her arms, she craved the captain’s touch, desiring far more than his admiration.

  She froze. What was she thinking? She had no right to share any part of her heart with the captain. But how could she take back what she’d already given?

  “I—” All the words she should say, the denial of him she must give, stuck in her throat, and she swallowed.

  He rested his worn, calloused finger on her lips. “There is no need to answer. I shouldn’t have asked the question to begin with. Good night, Miss Gilbert.” He edged past her and stalked down the corridor.

  She stared at his retreating form, clutching Emma. Each of his steps away from her was a great, gaping loss, like someone carving a hole in her chest in the exact area that her heart ought to be.

  “Good night,” she whispered, the words tasting as dry as ashes in her mouth.

  As hard as it was going to be to say goodbye to Emma in two days, she suspected that when the time came, it was going to be impossible to voice a farewell to the captain.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next days flew by, far too fast for Abby’s liking. Her mouth twisted with the irony of it as she stared out at the Manchester streets. How eager she’d been a lifetime ago when Fanny had accompanied her, zealous to cover as many miles as possible in a day. Now if she could grab the hands of time and stop them, she would.

  The carriage bumped over cobblestones then dipped into a pothole. She held Emma closer on her lap, her arm wrapped snug around the girl’s tummy. Surprisingly, Emma sat still and had for some time. It was almost as if the girl knew her life was about to change and was as reluctant to let go of Abby as Abby was to release her to a family unknown.

  She pressed a kiss atop Emma’s head, then looked out the window, trying to guess which house might be the girl’s new home. Rusty brick row houses paraded by, straight as a school matron’s posture. They were neat and tidy, but the doors opened right onto the street. There’d be no green grass for Emma to run around on, no space for her to explore, and oh, how she loved to move. Hopefully they wouldn’t stop here.

  The coach turned, leaving the brick houses behind, and relief loosened the muscles in Abby’s shoulders. Emma deserved a cottage house, one with a great field and possibly a pony, where she could grow up running free and breathing fresh air. That was an impossibility here in the city, of course, but at least they might pull up in front of a town house with a small patch of yard.

  But the carriage turned again, this time onto a narrower lane stinking of eggs and fish brine. Abby scrunched her nose. Surely this was only a shortcut on the way to a better part of town.

  It wasn’t. The farther they traveled, the closer the sides of the road drew, choking out light and air and hope. Houses leaned one against the other, like drunken sailors holding each other upright. If one fell, the rest would lie down and never get up again. Abby grimaced, silently praying for mercy on Emma’s behalf. She’d hate to leave the girl in one of these hovels.

  Thankfully, the carriage made a sharp right, and she flung out her hand to balance against the wall. Emma laughed, and after one more kiss to the little one’s downy head, Abby once again looked out the window as the coach jolted to a stop—and her heart dropped to her shoes.

  The captain flipped down the stairs and opened the door. When he offered his hand, Abby debated if she ought to shrink back and hide Emma behind her skirts.

  His dark gaze met her hesitation, commanding her to come out with nothing more than the tilt of his head. She stepped down into an alley courtyard, surrounded on three sides by buildings made up of weathered boards that were held together more by misguided will than nails. Ropes crisscrossed overhead, from one window to another. Those that had glass were cracked. Patched garments hung like graveclothes over the lines, colourless sleeves dangling, grey trousers languishing…or were those rags? None of the clothes rippled with movement, for not a breath of a breeze crawled into this hole.

  She peeked up at the captain. “Are you certain you wrote down the correct address?”

  His jaw hardened, and he nodded. Without a word, he handed Emma to her and retrieved the girl’s basket and small traveling bag. Three steps later, she stood by the captain’s side as he pounded his fist on a pitted door. Abby felt dirty just looking at the place. Maybe no one would answer, and they wouldn’t have to—

  The door opened a crack. A smudge-faced boy with a black eye peered out, saying nothing.

  Captain Thatcher stared down at him. “I’m looking for Margaret Gruber. Is she your mother? Is she at home?”

  The lad’s nose twitched, then he shut the door—or tried to. The captain shoved the toe of his boot in the gap.

  Inside, a reed-thin voice leached out the opening. “Who is it, Tim?”

  The boy stiffened. He darted a look over his shoulder, then licked his lips. “Ain’t s’posed to allow no one in. Father’s orders.”

  Captain Thatcher took a step closer and bellowed into the house. “Margaret Gruber? I’m here on behalf of your brother, James Hawker. I’m a lawman, madam. You have nothing to fear.”

  Tim glowered up at him, the purple around his eye deepening to a shade of fury no young lad should own.

  “Let him in, Timmy.” The voice inside was little more than a whisper.

  “But we ain’t s’posed to—”

  “You heard your mother.” The captain used his stern tone, and Abby straightened her own spine in response.

  With a scowl better suited to an overworked longshoreman, Tim flung the door open and retreated into darkness. The captain followed, and for a moment, Abby hesitated at the threshold, holding Emma tight, afraid to enter. Afraid for the girl’s future. Afraid of the thick dread knotting her stomach.

  Pudgy little fingers cupped her chin, pulling her face down. Emma’s big blue eyes stared up at her. “Ah-be-da?”

  Abby’s throat tightened at the only word Emma knew—whatever it meant. Swallowing back tears, she willed herself to be strong. If she started to cry, no doubt Emma would wail, and the captain would surely have no patience for such a display.

  She brushed back the girl’s reddish-blond hair and whispered, “Ah-be-da, little one.”

  Summoning all her courage, Abby stepped into a room not much bigger than a crypt. Daylight barely seeped through a soot-filmed window, casting shadows over a few sticks of furniture. A table stood at center, which was really just some planks propped atop two crates. An off-kilter bench, large enough to seat only two, sat next to a small hearth. On the floor in one corner lay a poorly stuffed sack with a threadbare lump of fabric balled atop it. Their bed, perhaps? Tim stood next to it, arms crossed. A strange stance of protection for naught but a wad of bedding…unless he had some treasure hidden there? But where was the owner of the thin voice? There were no other rooms and no ladder leading up to a loft.

  The captain strode to the foot of the mattress. “Are you Margaret Gruber?”

  Abby dared a few more steps into the room, narrowing her eyes upon the crude bed. What s
he’d mistaken for fabric slowly moved, lengthening, rising. A waif of a woman sat up, one arm pressed tight against her stomach. Stringy hair hung down over parchment skin, her eyes deep set and yellow. Her lip was split as if someone had punched her in the teeth.

  “I am Margaret,” she rasped. “What of my brother? Is James well?”

  Abby huddled closer to the captain’s back, seeking solace that she knew he couldn’t provide. Everything inside her screamed to make him turn around, to plead with him to take her and Emma out of here, to ride hard and far away from this place of despair. Not that he’d listen, though. It was his duty to carry out his friend’s wishes, and above all, the captain was a man of honor.

  But none of that mattered to Abby. Not now. Not ever. How could she possibly leave Emma in the care of a woman who was little more than a collection of bones and blue veins?

  “Your brother is…he lives.” There was only a slight hitch in the captain’s words, but enough that Abby caught the slip. He knew something about the man, something he wouldn’t share with the woman. “James charged me with delivering his only child into your care.”

  The captain glanced at Abby over his shoulder, and with a nod of his head, he indicated it was time to hand over Emma.

  Abby’s gut clenched, feeling as sick as the woman on the pallet looked. She’d known all along this moment was coming. Tried to separate her heart from the babe she’d learned to love as her own flesh and blood. But now that it was here?

  She turned and fled out the door, clutching tightly to Emma.

  Of all the foolhardy moves!

  Samuel dropped Emma’s basket and bag and took off, chasing Abby’s blue-striped skirt outside. What on God’s green earth was the woman thinking? That wasn’t a kitten she held. Emma was not a pet she could cosset and make her own.

  He grabbed Abby by the shoulder and spun her around. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Her brows folded into a fierce frown. “We cannot leave Emma in that place. We cannot!”

  The words were choked. Desperate. As ragged and ruined as the pathetic scrabble of a courtyard they stood in.

  Samuel yanked off his hat and raked a hand through his hair, tugging hard and relishing the sting. It was a stalling tactic, one he employed on those rare times he felt helpless, and sweet blessed heavens, his hands were tied in this wretched situation. He let loose a breath, praying for the right words to convince Abby—and himself—that leaving Emma here was the right thing to do. That there was no other option.

  For there wasn’t.

  He tugged his hat back onto his head, just as Emma reached out to him.

  “Ah-be-da?”

  His gut clenched, sickened by the guileless blue eyes staring up at him. Trust lifted the girl’s brow. Innocence as pure as that of a newborn foal radiated from her. His hands curled into fists. How could he possibly go through with this?

  Steeling his jaw, he gently pushed Emma’s hand away and looked only at Abby. “I know this is hard. This isn’t what I want for Emma either, but the child is not ours. We cannot keep her from her kin. Say goodbye.”

  “But—”

  “Say goodbye!” He snapped out the command, hating himself for his harshness, hating even more the instant tears shimmering in Abby’s eyes.

  The small shards of his heart that were left broke into a million jagged-edged pieces as Abby lifted the child, face-to-face, and wept openly. Little gasps for air punctuated her words.

  “Goodbye, little one. You be a good girl for your new”—her face contorted and she gulped—“for your new family.”

  Emma planted her palms on each of Abby’s cheeks, pulling their faces together.

  And Samuel clenched every muscle in his body to keep from crying himself.

  God, how am I to bear this? Give me strength, Lord. Give me Your strength.

  From an act of sheer will, he pulled Emma from Abby’s arms, refusing to look at the girl, staring only at Abby’s teary gaze. “Stay out here if you like.” His voice lowered an octave, and in truth, it was a wonder he could force out the words at all. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  He wheeled about. Footsteps padded behind him, each tamp of leather against gravel accusing him. She blamed him for doing this—yet she needn’t have. The nightmares that were sure to follow this day would sear his soul for years to come.

  His step faltered as he neared the door. He’d had to do hard things before. It came with the job. Dragging mangled bodies out of crashed coaches. Hunting down killers who’d think nothing of slicing open his throat. But stepping back into the rat hole the Grubers called a home topped them all.

  Sucking in a breath for courage, he strode into the dim interior. For the first time ever, the gloomy shadows that wrapped around him didn’t comfort, and he suspected they never would again.

  He stalked over to the pallet in the corner and held Emma out. “This is Emmaline Hawker, your niece.”

  Hawker’s sister looked up at him, her face softening, and for the briefest moment, the ravages of whatever disease she suffered from lessened. “Ahh, such a lamb. Give her to me.”

  “No, Mother!” The boy dropped to all fours, pleading with the woman practically nose to nose. “You can’t. Send them away before Father returns.”

  Samuel tensed—and suddenly he was ten years old again. Begging his mother to snatch up his sister and run away with him. Tugging at her apron to get her out of the house before his father came home, drunk, loud, and swinging his fists. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. The similarities here were far too many. What kind of wicked jest was this?

  Margaret patted a bony hand atop the boy’s head. “It is my brother’s wish. I owe him this, at least.”

  Samuel eyed the woman as Emma kicked her legs, angling to be free. What had Hawker done for his sister that she felt so beholden to him?

  Tim sank back to his haunches as his mother held up her arms to receive Emma. The neck hole of the woman’s thin shift drooped with the movement. Paste-coloured skin peeked out, dotted with red spots.

  Samuel bit back a curse, knowing full well but not wanting to admit what the woman suffered from…wasting fever. He’d wager ten to one on it. Margaret Gruber would be dead within a week. Two, if she were lucky—which she wasn’t. Luck didn’t live in this wretched backstreet fleapit.

  Clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw cracked, he stooped and handed Emma down to the woman, not releasing her until Margaret Gruber’s skeletal arms wrapped around her.

  Emma craned her neck, gawking up at him. One of her hands snaked up in the air, reaching for him. “Be-dah?”

  He shook his head, refusing the request, and betrayal wailed out of the girl’s mouth, punching the air from his lungs.

  Folding his arms, he turned to the boy, vainly trying to shut out Emma’s cries. “Where is your father?”

  Tim didn’t bother standing. He stayed crouched, only his eyes moving. “Out selling apples.”

  Apples? Samuel frowned. Only cripples sold—

  “What’s this?” A foghorn of a voice entered just before a thump-step, thump-step drew up behind him.

  Samuel swung about, and Abby darted to his side. Two steel-grey eyes bored into his. The man was his height, slightly smaller of frame, and propped up by a rag-topped crutch shoved beneath one armpit. Only one leg and the stick of hickory held him up. A sour stench wafted off him. From a morning of drinking or from whatever it was he held in a canvas sack.

  The man’s cold gaze slid from him to Abby, drifted down to where Hawker’s sister tried to shush a snotty-nosed Emma, and finally landed hard on Tim. Purple crept up the man’s neck. “I told you, boy, ne’er to let anyone in.”

  Samuel sidestepped, blocking Tim from his father’s deadly stare. “The boy had no choice in the matter. I am Captain Thatcher, principal officer of the Bow Street magistrate.”

  Gruber bared his teeth like a wolf. If hatred were a living thing, the size and breadth of the monster living inside the man would devour t
hem all.

  “What’s a filthy runner doing up in these parts? Not enough men to harass in London? Bloody thief catcher. Bootlicker to the crown, that’s what you are.”

  Samuel rolled with the jabs. He’d heard worse. These weren’t even particularly creative. He met the man’s stare head-on. “I was charged to deliver your niece into your wife’s care.”

  Curses thickened the air, punctuated by the thwack of the man’s bag landing on the table. “I can’t feed a squalling brat! I can barely feed these two worthless sacks of horse—”

  “Mind your tongue,” Samuel growled. “There are ladies present.”

  Scarlet spread up the man’s neck and bled across his pockmarked face. “I’ll not be told what to do in my own home, runner.”

  “You will as long as I’m here.” Pulling free of Abby, Samuel stepped up to the bully and squared his shoulders.

  Footsteps trembled behind him. Abby gained his side and fumbled with the strings of her reticule, drawing all their attention. She dumped the contents into her palm, the coins jingling into a small pile, then held out the offering to Gruber. “Here. Use this for Emma’s care, for all of your family’s care, that she may not be a hardship to you.”

  The man snatched the money away so quickly, he wobbled on his crutch. “All right. But soon as this is gone”—he looked past him and Abby, narrowing his eyes on his family huddled in the corner—“the child will be eating from your portions, not mine.”

  Fury quaked through Samuel, shaking him to the marrow of his bones. Should not a husband, a father, any man born in the image of God die to self for the sake of a loved one? Ahh, but there was the truth of it. Gruber loved no one but himself—just like the man who’d sired him thirty-odd years back.

  Gruber shoved the coins into his pocket then turned on him. “Well, runner? Have you further business with me?”

  Aye, he’d like to give the mongrel a sound thrashing. Teach him what it was like to be knocked about for no reason other than the whim of the moment. Samuel’s fists tightened into iron knots. He could use a real bloody knuckle toss-around right about now, and in his younger days, nothing would’ve held him back. But Emma’s mewls did. So did the trembling of Abby’s skirts.