“Mrs. Fortes—”
“Mr. Banfield, as Mrs. Lancaster so helpfully noted, I am weary from my travels. Perhaps your dissection and belittlement of my life could wait until tomorrow? You can stare at me suspiciously while I dust the shelves and assure yourself I’ve no intention of absconding with candlesticks.”
His eyes widened, and then he coughed, possibly to cover a laugh, but she frankly didn’t care anymore. Up these stairs was a chair that wasn’t moving that she could sit in while she ate and a bed she could snuggle into afterward. At the moment, those two things sounded like bliss.
And if she imagined what it would have been like if the handsome Mr. Banfield had been as welcoming as the elderly grocer, well, that was no one’s business but her own.
Chapter Three
Nash sat in his office, trying to return to the work he’d been doing before Mrs. Fortescue had blown into town. He stared out the big window beside his desk, looking across High Street to the now quiet inn where the stage had unloaded hours earlier.
The ink on the tip of his quill had dried, so he gave up pretending and dropped the feather onto the desk surface.
A trio of children ran down the street chasing a dog and inspiring a small, sad pang in Nash’s chest. Had his sister’s baby lived, he would be about the age of those boys. But he hadn’t lived and neither had Mary. And for a few years after, it had been a question of whether or not the husband she’d left behind would survive the loss. Nash had been prepared for his good friend to slip away like his father had after the death of Nash’s mother, alive only in the most literal sense of the word.
It was a cruel twist that the baby his mother had died bringing into the world was felled by the same fate.
The boys shouted as the dog turned abruptly and began chasing them, yapping happily as they scattered down a side street.
Nash smiled at the antics even as he silently reaffirmed his commitment to remain free from the sort of entanglements that killed men while they were yet breathing. This town was his family. It gave him purpose and companionship. When the Lord called him home, there would be people who mourned. That was enough.
He was still watching the quiet street when Mrs. Lancaster shuffled past. He nodded to her when she caught his eye, and she smiled back. Eventually the walk back to the cottage she’d lived in with her husband would become too much for her and she’d have to move into the rooms above the shop, but for now she seemed content to travel back and forth up the hill each day, even though she had to come into town at an exceptionally early hour because Nash never saw her in the morning until she was sweeping the stones in front of her door.
Her walk home tonight, however, meant Mrs. Fortescue was now alone. Her unfettered access to whatever possessions Mrs. Lancaster had in the upstairs rooms was a nominal concern at best, but he still fought the urge to take a walk in that direction. Whether it was to make sure the downstairs doors were locked or that the woman on the run was safe by herself, he wasn’t sure, and that question was enough to drive him away from the door and back to his desk.
The tin of peppermints in his jacket pocket rattled as he settled into his chair. He shifted to the side and fished them out, frowning at the tin before dropping it into a drawer. Metal clinked as it landed on top of the tin of peppermints he’d bought earlier in the week.
He was going to have to come up with a better reason to go by Mrs. Lancaster’s shop tomorrow. If he bought any more peppermints, Mrs. Lancaster might hurt herself from laughing so hard. She’d barely contained her mirth this afternoon, and it had given him a modicum of pleasure to inspire the old woman to smile, even though that wasn’t a very difficult task.
Mrs. Fortescue’s near laugh flitted through his mind. How much more heroic would it feel to be the one to make her smile and laugh?
Nash shook his head. Why did it feel comfortable to be a bright spot in Mrs. Lancaster’s day but decided uncomfortable to consider being such for Mrs. Fortescue? His commitment to himself was certainly strong enough to withstand being the source of a full smile on a young, pretty woman.
Wasn’t it?
Noises from the street below were the first thing to break into Margaretta’s sleep-soaked brain the next morning, but she kept her eyes pressed closed until she could work through the lingering fogginess. She was in a bed, that much she knew, but where the bed was located was still trapped in the black shrouds of drowsiness that were threatening to creep back over her consciousness.
The bedding was clean and smelled of fresh air and lavender, an unfamiliar but certainly not unpleasant combination.
She turned her attention to the vague noises that had woken her in the first place. Definitely not London. Raised voices, horses, and wagon wheels were all distinct from each other, instead of a large noisy blur. A small town then, or a less busy side street of a larger one.
A frown pulled her eyebrows together and sent cracks running through the last vestiges of sleep. Why wasn’t she in London? She remembered traveling to Margate, but the sounds reaching her ears weren’t those of the seaside resort town, either.
With great care she eased one eye open to look at the plain white walls and heavy, dark wood timbered ceiling. The visual inspection of her surroundings brought everything she’d done in the last three days swirling back. Complete consciousness caused something else to swirl as well, though, and she clamped her eyes shut again while taking deep, slow breaths and willing the seizing of her midsection to cease.
Once she had her body somewhat under control, she opened her eyes again to take in the room she’d done nothing but glance at the evening before. She hadn’t known where the candles were and the energy to search for them had seeped from her very bones. After eating most of the bread and half of the fruit she’d purchased downstairs, she’d undressed and climbed into bed.
And apparently slept through the night and into the morning.
Not too far into the morning, though, based on the paleness of the light creeping through the uncovered window.
A low groan rumbled up from Margaretta’s chest as she stretched and pushed herself to a sitting position on the side of the bed.
“Good morning.”
Margaretta screamed and fell back onto the mattress, flinging the bedding up as if it would create a shield. After two heaving, terrified breaths, she eased the blanket off her face and looked toward the door. She had to peek over her feet as well as the blankets since her legs were now sticking over the edge of the bed at an odd angle.
Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out whatever greeting Mrs. Lancaster was giving her as she brought in a small tray bearing a plate of toast and stewed apples, as well as a sturdy mug with steam curling over the rim.
With a hard swallow and a deep breath to calm her racing heart, Margaretta sent up a quick prayer that the steaming mug was a proper cup of tea. How she longed for a good cup of tea. The inns between mail stages had served something they called tea, but could more accurately be described as dirty water. Yet another thing she’d been taking for granted in her former life.
She pressed a hand to her middle. How quickly things could change. Hopefully, one day she could return to such a life, though it would never be the same for her after this experience.
Margaretta pulled her legs in and pushed herself up to sit against the plain wooden headboard. “Good morning.” She cleared her throat to ease the croak in her voice. “What are you doing here?”
Mrs. Lancaster chuckled while she arranged the tray and eased herself down to sit on the edge of the bed. “Why, I live here, dear. I’ve got a cottage up the hill, but my old bones don’t like making that walk early in the morning, so I come back here to sleep every night. I was afraid I’d disturb you when I retired last night, but you didn’t so much as shift a finger.”
Margaretta lifted the mug and inhaled the steam, further quieting her senses. She cast her eyes about the room, taking in the carved wardrobe on the far wall and another small bed situated on the oth
er side of the window from Margaretta’s. Staying in rooms run by the older woman was one thing, but actually living with her? Did Margaretta want to do such a thing? How long would she be able to keep her secret if she was living in such close quarters with Mrs. Lancaster?
She only had another month or two with her secret anyway, but by then she hoped to have a better plan than wait and see if it was a girl. If only it didn’t take so long to have a baby. The solution to her predicament would be much easier if she could simply hide away for a month or two and have the whole thing over with before anyone realized she wasn’t in Margate after all.
Of course, having the baby was only the beginning of her problems. The question was what she was going to do with it afterward, particularly if it turned out to be a boy.
There was no way that Samuel would accept another person sliding in between him and his father’s title.
As she nibbled on an apple, hoping her breakfast would stay settled, she looked around the room once more. “I didn’t take your bed, did I?”
Mrs. Lancaster waved a hand in dismissal. “One bed’s as good as another. I never know which one I’ll decide to crawl into until I come up here each night anyway. At least with you here, I’ll have a bit of predictability in my day.”
While Margaretta ate, Mrs. Lancaster talked, sharing funny stories from the many years she’d been living in the town, tossing in a mention or two of a specific townsperson’s connection to more influential people, thankfully none whom Margaretta had ever met. There were tales from various markets, though if all of them were completely true, Margaretta would eat the plate her toast had been brought on.
Behind a screen in the corner, Margaretta washed the travel dirt off as best she could and dressed, taking care to shift her clothing so no one could see the slight swell in her midsection. After wearing the same dress for three days straight, it was bliss to feel clean clothes against her skin.
With Mrs. Lancaster unable to see her face, Margaretta tried to bring the conversation around to the women Mrs. Lancaster had supposedly helped over the years.
“There hasn’t been that many, in truth. We take care of our own here in Marlborough, and it isn’t often that women travel through by themselves.”
A rustling cloth indicated that Mrs. Lancaster was setting the bedroom to rights. “Mrs. Wingraves’ girl comes through and cleans up here every day, but she won’t bother your things.”
The only identifying or valuable thing Margaretta had was the valise, and she wasn’t overly worried about a young country girl seeing it. The chances of her recognizing the stamped metal emblem or the custom craftsmanship were limited. She wanted to talk more about Mrs. Lancaster’s girls, though. “Do you remember meeting Katherine?”
“I don’t often exchange first names.” Mrs. Lancaster chuckled. “Shall we place wagers on what Mr. Banfield plans to come in and buy today?”
Margaretta came out from behind the screen to find Mrs. Lancaster smiling at her. The old woman winked before retreating into the other room.
Obviously Katherine and the other girls were not open for discussion this morning. In a way, Margaretta was glad. She wouldn’t want Mrs. Lancaster freely telling people about Margaretta’s presence, either. The older woman apparently had no problem talking about the solicitor, though, and Margaretta needed to know if he was going to be a problem. “Does he stop by every day?”
“Hardly ever.” A cackle shook the other woman’s shoulders. “But he’ll be in every day as long as you’re living here.”
Margaretta couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have someone willing to go to that much trouble to watch over her. “He must care about you a lot.”
“Probably more than he’ll admit. Makes my heart break to see the man try and harden his heart. Bible’s full of people with hard hearts, and I wouldn’t want to be a single one of them.”
Margaretta didn’t know what to think of the way the old woman sprinkled God and the Bible into her conversation as casually as a Londoner might mention the traffic or haze. Even though she’d been attending church her entire life, Margaretta hadn’t ever thought to make Jesus quite that versatile. She’d left Him in church where He seemed to belong, but Mrs. Lancaster appeared to think He belonged everywhere.
Margaretta listened to more stories as the women went down the stairs and into the back of the store.
“There’s a broom and dusting things in this cabinet. The broom at the front is just for the porch. I sweep it off regularly. Helps cut down on the amount of sweeping we have to do in here and lets me know what everyone’s doing in the town.”
Mrs. Lancaster laughed to herself as she moved to the front of the store. Margaretta had never met someone who seemed to be so continually . . . happy. Despite everything going on in her life, all the uncertainty around her future, Margaretta couldn’t help but smile. With her steps feeling a bit lighter, she opened the cabinet and tried to guess what was used to clean which things.
The wavy glass that covered the front of Mrs. Lancaster’s shop kept Nash from seeing any particular details, but it was clear that at least six women milled around near the front of the store, waiting for Mrs. Lancaster to help them. It was also clear that none of them were Mrs. Fortescue. Not that he’d had that much time to observe her, but none of them moved like her or even stood the way he remembered her standing.
Besides, she was supposed to be cleaning. Not shopping.
He slipped quietly through the door and eased it shut behind him so as not to draw notice of the chatting customers.
Was it possible Mrs. Fortescue had decided to leave already? Mrs. Lancaster’s voice was as cheery and helpful as ever, so if the young woman had departed it must have been in an amiable sort of way. Otherwise, the old shopkeeper would have been spouting proverbs to everyone along with their purchase totals.
No, if she were still here, she’d likely camped herself in the back with the knick-knacks and other non-food goods. Someone on the run wouldn’t want to be near the front when this many people were in the store. Nash nodded a greeting to one of the women and strolled around a set of shelves to head toward the back portion of the store.
Mrs. Fortescue was in the deepest corner, trying to juggle a brass barometer while running a cloth over the space it had occupied. Afraid that his sudden presence would cause her to drop it, Nash crept up and lifted it from her arms. She was still startled, but at least the barometer didn’t break as a result.
The rest of the shelving nearly did, though, when she squealed and spun around to press herself against the boards, her hand pressed to her chest and her breath coming in quick, short bursts. “Mr. Banfield,” she gasped. “You gave me a fright.”
“Obviously.” Nash nodded at the now clean shelf behind her and held up the barometer. “May I?”
“Oh!” She scurried away from the shelf. “Of course.”
“Why aren’t you using the goose feathers?”
Mrs. Fortescue blinked at the cloth in her hand, coated with dust she’d just raked from the back corner of the shelf. As they both stared at her hand, a large fluffy grey clump drifted off the rag to the floor. She sighed. “Now I’ll have to sweep again.”
Nash’s eyebrows rose. “You already swept? Before you dusted?”
Pink stained her cheeks. “No, of course not.” She pushed her shoulders back and straightened her posture but then immediately slumped and folded forward again before turning back to the shelf. After shaking the loose dust from her cloth, she started on the next section. “What do you need, Mr. Banfield? I’m afraid I can’t help you procure any goods. You’ll have to wait in line with everyone else.”
“And if what I came for was information?”
She snuck a glance at him. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, either.”
He settled his shoulder against the wall and fought a grin. This was almost fun. Where had the suspicion and worry from yesterday gone?
Was the considerable but misguided e
ffort she was putting into cleaning the shelves enough to convince him she meant the shopkeeper no harm? It must have been, because all he felt when he looked at her was a swelling drive of curiosity. He really wanted to know who she was looking for, what she was running from, and why Marlborough had been the point between the two. It was enough to convince him that keeping her close was a very good idea.
“What if I didn’t ask anything about why you were here?”
Mrs. Fortescue laughed, but it was brassy and bitter. She stopped pushing dust around to cross her arms over her chest. “What else could you possibly have to ask me?”
What did he have? His interest in learning about her felt vague and undefined. “Obviously cleaning is not something you’re especially good at.”
She looked like she wanted to smile but managed to restrain herself. “And I imagine you are perfection personified at everything you attempt?”
“Hardly.” He smiled. He couldn’t help it. She was so appealing when she smirked or smiled or anything really that chased away that desperate air she’d had about her when she got off the stage. Had it really been only yesterday? He leaned in as if he were imparting a secret. “I am absolutely terrible at shooting.”
She went back to dusting, but her attention clearly wasn’t in it. “That must make hunting parties nervous.”
He shrugged and moved his way down the wall, staying close to her as she cleaned. The tasseled saddlebag on the shelf in front of him was crooked, so he reached out to straighten it. “I am, however, rather exceptional at riding, so they let me come along and chase the hounds. And now it’s your turn to throw humility aside and confess what skills you’re hiding.”
What was he doing? Was he actually flirting with her? He hadn’t even considered participating in a flirtation in years. And now he was doing so with a woman he barely knew, one he wanted to run out of town? It didn’t make any sense, but he realized he was, possibly for the first time in a very long time, having fun.
A Search for Refuge Page 3
