by Aileen Adams
“Would that I were bringing you better news, my child.” His mouth drooped at the corners, as though something was weighing him down.
An icy hand closed around her heart and she realized she couldn’t breathe. No, it wasn’t possible. Not Margery, not the only other person she had in the entire world. It was one thing to convince herself of her sister’s death in an effort to prepare herself for what seemed like the inevitable, but another to face it as a fact.
Her hands closed around the worn, old fenceposts as she fought to remain on her feet. When she squeezed, the splintered wood sent a jolt of pain from her palms to her arms and revived her somewhat.
No. Not Margery.
Swallowing back the panic rising in her throat, she whispered, “What is it?”
“I’m afraid I’m on my way to Cedric Miller’s. Word has it, he went to his heavenly reward last night.”
It wasn’t Margery. He wasn’t there to tell her about Margery.
Relief nearly took the knees out from under her, even as her heart ached for the loss of her friend. Margery would be crushed. The two of them had become quite close, with her sister looking at the older man as a father figure in the absence of her own father.
“I’m so sorry to hear of this,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
The narrowing of the deacon’s eyes told her he mistook her deep relief for sorrow. “It comes to all of us, my dear. Cedric Miller was a good man, an honest and true servant of the Lord. He is undoubtedly in the Heavenly Kingdom this very morning.”
“I have no doubt.” Her voice was stronger, clearer, even if she had merely rattled off the words she knew he expected her to say.
It wasn’t Margery. He wasn’t there to tell her about Margery.
Her senses returned. “Would you like company on the ride to the mill?”
“No, thank you. I understand the miller’s daughter has come in from the village and there is no telling whether she would appreciate the additional company. But I will extend your sympathy to her.”
“Yes, please, do.”
Winifred Baker was a rather unpleasant woman on a good day, the two of them having crossed paths several times. Always going on about her husband and their bakery and their children, then remembering aloud how Beatrice would have no knowledge of such things.
As though she needed the reminder of her loneliness and the fact that she was past marriageable age.
She’d wondered to herself on these occasions, as she’d ridden home on the back of old Cecil, if Winifred thought the visits between her father and a young, unmarried woman were improper. Only a woman with a nasty, cunning mind such as hers would come to such a conclusion.
Better Beatrice stay home, for certain.
As the deacon lifted his reins, about to continue on his way, Beatrice added, “If you would, please, join me for a cup of tea on your return. I’m always grateful for the company.”
“I look forward to it,” he assured her before continuing his ride.
She sighed heavily, leaning against the fence for another few minutes as the mare and her rider grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Another loss, one which she hadn’t imagined hurting as much as it did.
Her heart clenched when she called to mind the pleasant hours she’d spent with the miller, sitting in front of his hearth as he’d regaled her with memories of her father. They were young men together, and he seemed to sense her unspoken craving to know more about the father who’d left her far too soon.
As unpleasant as Winifred Baker was, Beatrice was moved to offer up a silent prayer for her sake. They had both lost their father.
Except Winifred was a full-grown woman with a husband and two children. Security. And memories of a kind father which didn’t need to come by secondhand, through his old friends.
What did Beatrice have? She thought it over as she walked to the house, no longer in the mood for the morning meal she’d planned to prepare for herself before spotting the deacon’s horse on the road.
There was nothing but the remnants of what was once a thriving farm. She would never cease expressing gratitude for the roof over her head and the land which was still theirs, even if it went unused. It was still considered prime land and would’ve gone for an attractive price had she decided to sell.
But she couldn’t. It would mean letting go of the last bit of her father and her family. And there was no telling how Margery would feel about it, imagine finding out one’s land was sold out from beneath them! Even though Beatrice would share the proceeds evenly, it would feel as though she’d stolen something from her sister.
And there were no buyers. This was an important factor, one which had sealed Margery’s decision to forge a new destiny for the two of them. No one wanted to buy the farm, and neither woman knew how to arrange such a deal. There would be no telling whether they were receiving a fair offer even if someone were to express interest.
She sank into a chair at the table in front of the kitchen hearth, and the silence stretched out around her yet again. The silence that had become her life and would be her life until it ended.
One word pierced the silence, whispered by a brokenhearted sister. “Margery.”
4
England. Broc pushed his qualms away and hoped for no difficulties. A sentiment he couldn’t share with his travel companions.
“Have you been here before?” Hugh asked as the three of them strode down the dock, having rowed from the ship only minutes earlier.
“England?” Broc asked.
Hugh nodded.
Broc scratched his jawline. “When business called for it, yes.”
“Before you came to work with me,” Derek clarified, then turned to his brother. “I never could convince him to accompany a shipment anywhere along the English coast. Always claimed to prefer France.”
“Which I do,” Broc pointed out.
“I see,” Hugh chuckled. “So, which is it? A lover in France or a jilted woman here in England?” He laughed along with Derek.
Broc didn’t laugh.
“I can’t speak for either of you, but I could use a decent meal and something which passes for a bed,” he growled, surveying the town which sat beyond the harbor. In many ways, it wasn’t unlike Kirkcaldy, though it wasn’t as raucous and seemed considerably better kept.
Derek noticed, too. “No wonder Margery had no idea what she was in for on landing in Kirkcaldy,” he observed with a wry smile. “From what I understand, Silloth is the older of the two and better established, while Kirkcaldy has grown beyond all expectations in a much shorter amount of time. The village hasn’t had the chance to establish itself well, whereas this has.”
And it had. Broc spied no fewer than three steeples which rose up over the thatched roofs of the homes and businesses which comprised the village, meaning religion had taken hold there. That alone spoke of what one would find on closer inspection.
There were taverns, too, and Broc would’ve wagered the clothes on his back that there was more than one brothel in the area. They were a necessary evil in the eyes of the many. Men had needs which needed to be met. He’d visited brothels before, as a seaman, and knew how to spot them almost the moment his feet hit dry land.
But that wasn’t his concern. Those early, lusty days were behind him. Not that he’d stopped thinking of women entirely. A rather comely lass exited a spinster’s shop as the three of them explored, favoring him with a smile, which he returned in kind, but he had stopped looking for quick pleasures in dark corners.
That was for young, untested men, men with more pent-up energy than was good for them. No one would dare call him old, not at the age of seven-and-twenty, but he’d gotten such activity out of his system years hence.
Derek spotted the inn first and pointed to it. “That’s where Margery spent the night before stowing away. She said the place was clean and reputable.”
“If there’s one person whose opinion I respect when it comes to such matters…” Broc chuckled, and the
others joined in.
She had all but lectured the two of them on propriety several times after they’d first crossed paths, and he would never forget the stricken look on her face when Derek recounted how he had found her staring, open mouthed, at a man and his paid companion as they coupled in the shadows of a narrow street.
Beatrice would be the same way, no doubt. Sheltered, innocent of the world’s many evils and vices, stunned beyond belief at what people were willing to do when they knew they could get away with it. With very high standards for herself and others.
Margery was correct. The inn was downright cheerful, spotlessly clean and owned by a jolly older couple who seemed to find humor in everything.
“Come, come!” the owner exclaimed, chuckling as he led the way to the second floor. His flushed cheeks flushed even darker when he laughed, and his round belly shook from the effort. Broc found his mood lightening as a result.
Hugh and Derek would share a large room while Broc would have a room of his own. It was a treat for him, never before having been afforded the luxury of privacy while he was traveling.
The room was small but serviceable, with clean linens covering a tick stuffed with clean straw and a small window which allowed fresh air to circulate. He breathed deep of the sea, just beyond the wide street before him.
They were fortunate to find such an agreeable establishment. So unlike some of the cramped, filthy places in which he’d spent the night in the past. More than once, he’d chosen to row back out to the ship and sleep onboard rather than spent a sleepless night breathing in the foulness of human and animal waste.
It was pleasant enough to make him regret having to leave in the morning, but there was no time to waste. They had to get to Thrushwood and convince Beatrice to come with them. He had his doubts as to the ease of the task ahead, but he didn’t wish to share his misgivings with the others for fear of being regarded as a problem.
They had no idea of his true hesitations, and he had no intention of revealing them.
A knock on the wall which separated their rooms tore Broc from the dark path his thoughts had turned down. He stepped out into the corridor, where Hugh was waiting.
“We’ll go to the stables to see about securing horses for the trip.”
“I’ll go along.” He preferred to choose his own mount, and needed to move about and find other things to think on. The liveliness of the village would do nicely, he was certain. “Give me a minute to wash myself.”
Hugh snorted. “Why? Do you wish to impress the horses?”
Broc glanced in the direction of the room the McInnis brothers shared, where Derek waited in the doorway. “No. I wish to remove as many reasons for the owner of the stable to refuse us as possible. Or have you forgotten that we’re in foreign territory?”
“How could I forget, with these accents all around me?” He wiggled a finger in his ear as if to clean it out.
Derek stepped back into the room. “He’s right. We’re too travel weary to think straight, but Broc isn’t. We should do everything in our power to make a good showing in the village, even if we’ll only be staying a single night. After all, we’re relying on help from the villagers to get us through our journey.”
“The innkeepers didn’t seem to mind our being Scottish, and rather rough from travel.” Hugh looked down the stairs, and the sounds of laughter from the ground floor drifted up to meet them as if someone had been listening for just the right moment.
Broc scratched his stubbled chin, shrugging. “I’m beginning to wonder whether the two of them are quite right in the head. No one is that jolly for no reason.”
* * *
Broc had been right, as he knew before they’d ever stepped foot outside the inn. There were certain things in life he’d come to depend upon as he’d made his way from harbor to harbor over the years. One of them was the distrust Englishmen held for Scotsmen. Especially Highlanders.
“Is it my imagination,” Hugh muttered as they walked down one of the wider village streets in search of the stables, “or did that woman just cross to the other side of the street after catching sight of us?”
“Aye,” Derek grumbled, teeth clenched. “Though by the looks of her even from a distance, I’m thinking she may have done us a favor.”
Indeed, the pinched-faced woman was no pleasure to behold. She made sure to give them a dirty look before going on her way.
“As I warned ye,” Broc reminded him.
“Aye. It’s been a while since I’ve stepped foot outside of what’s familiar,” Hugh admitted before sidestepping two dogs fighting over a bone in front of a butchery.
Broc thought to himself how much the dogs reminded him of the McInnis twins, down to the color of their hair, but kept the comparison to himself.
A group of men stood outside a tavern, laughing and conversing in the sort of easy manner men had after they’d enjoyed their share of drink. It was barely midday, but not uncommon for men with a love of drink to find time to indulge no matter the sun’s position in the sky.
Their demeanor changed as they caught sight of the three Scotsmen approaching. In the time it took to blink an eye, they fell silent, all eyes on the trio. Two of them moved a hand to their belts, where Broc was willing to bet existed the presence of weapons.
As if the three of them were merely looking for a fight! Was that what the English thought of the Scots, that they roamed the streets in search of someone to attack? Or was it Highlanders in particular? Broc knew the reputation men from the Highlands carried.
And it was based in little more than rumor and half-truths. Yes, they were rough, from the way they carried themselves to the way they dressed and spoke. Yes, they were good in a fight and never backed down from a challenge. Broc had certainly come to appreciate these truths.
But they weren’t beasts. They weren’t animals intent on raping any woman in sight. He was particularly sensitive to the misgivings people had toward those unlike themselves because he, too, had been an outsider for so long. Men from the Highlands weren’t necessarily all they were rumored to be.
He was careful to make eye contact with each and every man they walked past and just as careful to keep an even, neutral expression on his face. They were merely going about their business, as any other man in Silloth on that warm, pleasant day.
Only when the tavern was well behind them did Derek let out a deep breath. “Well, if there was any question as to how we’d be received here, I believe we’ve found the answer.”
“I don’t understand it,” Hugh grumbled. “There are bound to be countless men wandering these streets on any given day, thanks to the presence of the harbor. Why is it such an occasion for us to be here?”
“Perhaps there was recent trouble with Scots in the village,” Broc mused, his mind going back to earlier times. “The memory is fresh enough for them to remember.”
“Aye,” Derek agreed, latching on to this theory. “And we’ll be the ones to pay for it. Mark my words.”
When they reached the stables, the owner proved Derek right. “I’ve nothing to give ye.”
The stalls were full, the sound of neighing horses filling the space. Broc and Hugh exchanged a look, and Broc cleared his throat. “We’ve no wish to start trouble with you and have more than enough silver to cover the cost. If we could bring the ship closer into harbor, we’d be able to unload the horses we sailed with, but the water is too shallow.”
“How is that a problem of mine?” the man asked, spitting near their feet as if to add further insult. He reeked of horses and manure and his own sweat, yet somehow considered himself better than the three of them.
The twins looked as though they were ready to prove the man right and start a fight, so Broc stepped in front of them. “The problem is, if we don’t have horses, we can’t leave your village. We have quite a lot of riding to do and would like to get started at first light. As charming a village as you have here, we would like to get out as soon as possible; and it seems as though you
share that opinion.”
“I do. I don’t like your lot. Coming to our home, dirtying the place up, starting trouble.” The man’s eyes narrowed until they were nearly closed.
“We’re here to start no trouble,” Broc assured him. “We’re merely passing through on our way elsewhere, and will come back through before boarding our ship and sailing home.”
He had guessed correctly. There had been trouble in the past—whether it was the recent past or not made no difference to the villagers. Like as not, their memories were long, and stories found their way down through generations until the truth of them was nowhere near the version told.
The owner eyed them. “It’ll cost ye,” he decided before spitting again.
“We had expected nothing less,” Broc replied, managing a halfhearted smile before the man led them inside to choose from the animals.
He didn’t want to bring voice to his doubts, but the experience was enough to make him wonder once again how receptive Beatrice would be to their sudden appearance at her door.
5
The funeral arrangements were simple and somber, as she had expected.
The memory of Winifred’s wailing would live in Beatrice’s memory for years to come, she was certain. While there was no doubt as to Cedric Miller’s qualities as a good, honest man and friend to all who knew him, his daughter’s show of grief seemed a bit overmuch. Even her husband and small children had appeared embarrassed by her nearly hysterical weeping.
Beatrice promised herself she would offer extra prayers on Sunday as penance for wondering if Winifred would begin tearing at her hair and clothing in abject grief.
Daniel Baker was a kind man, if a bit cowed by the much stronger personality of his wife, and Beatrice had offered her sympathies to him on her way out of the church. Cedric would rest not far from where her father and mother rested; she could visit all three at once.
