Giles had donned his new cape, Sarah her bonnet, so they’d apparently embarked on a substantial errand. Fortune had smiled on him, but there was no guarantee Mary would open the door. Indeed, how could she without a key?
Nevertheless, even if he had to speak to the old woman with a locked door between them, it was an opportunity not to be missed. Clearly, Sarah was too afraid to share her secrets. He had a feeling Mary Ward was in favor of his pursuit of her daughter. She might be willing to enlighten him, at least as to why she and Harry had abandoned three children.
His mind made up, he rapped on the glass pane, surprised when Mary appeared almost right away. Either she’d seen Sarah off, or had come downstairs to snoop.
“Mrs. Ward,” he said loudly, doffing his hat.
“Sarah’s gone out,” she shouted back.
“Aye, I ken,” he confessed. “I hoped you and I might have a word. I realize the door is locked, and…”
Mary held up a black key, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Knew there had to be two. Mr. North must have had one.”
Munro wondered briefly if Sarah was aware of her mother’s find, but Mary had already unlocked the door and beckoned him inside.
“I’m glad to see thee,” she said, turning the key after he entered.
He fidgeted with the hat in his hands, not sure how to begin a conversation about love and soul mates and destiny with a wizened old woman he barely knew.
Mary was still clad in the same dowdy, stale-smelling frock she’d worn on the stagecoach and he doubted the small satchel she’d carried contained any other clothing.
Inspiration struck. “Dinna be offended, but when we were bargaining for Giles’ cape, I couldna help but notice a few rather nice frocks…”
She looked askance at him. “Thou art right, but before we go to the market, there are things I must tell thee, and I don’t have much time.”
He chuckled inwardly. Mary hadn’t blinked an eye when he’d more or less insinuated she needed a new wardrobe. “They’ll be back soon, will they?”
“Nay. Gone to the school with some remedy for yon schoolmaster. Now, tell me thy intentions towards Sarah.”
The steely glint in her eye told him he may as well come straight to the point. “I’ve fallen in love with her. I want to propose marriage, but she seems determined to push me away. Perhaps she doesna have feelings for me.”
Mary snorted. “She’s as smitten with thee as thou art with her.”
Sarah had lived apart from her mother for many a year, but Mary Ward’s assertion confirmed what he suspected. “Then why does she insist on rejecting me? I’ve assured her it makes nay difference that she’s illegitimate. I realize she has commitments in Birmingham, and Scotland is far away.”
Mary shook her head. “Sarah would follow thee to the ends of the earth if she could break free of the past.”
“Then tell me what it is about the past that has her in its thrall so I can help her be free of it.”
Hopeful she was on the point of solving the mystery, he was taken aback when she said, “Tell me about thy family.”
He supposed it was natural for a mother to be concerned about the background of a daughter’s suitor, but decided it might not be wise to reveal everything right away. “My father is originally from Wales. He served in the Parliamentary army in Scotland, where he first met my mother. She’s a Highland lass.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “Highlanders were ardent Royalists.”
He thought it an odd statement since the Civil War had ended thirty years before, and in any case the monarchy had since been restored. “Aye, she was, though I can tell ye she wasna very enamored with King Charles when she met him.”
Any trace of color Mary might have had in her wrinkled face drained quickly. “She met the king?”
He’d obviously let slip something he shouldn’t have. “Let me clarify. Our whole family had an audience with him when my father was recently confirmed as Earl of Glenheath, a title that belonged to my mother’s uncle.”
She swayed and grasped his arm.
He babbled on in an effort to explain. “…For services rendered in the restoration of the monarchy…and my mother’s heroism saving the Scottish crown jewels from Cromwell’s clutches, and…”
Mary clenched her jaw. “This will take some thought. Best we go to the market now,” she murmured. “I’d like to be buried in a new frock.”
“I expect the Headmaster will be too busy to see us personally,” Sarah told Giles as they entered King Edward’s.
Her apprentice made no reply, but he’d walked with head down, tongue stilled as they’d neared the school.
To her surprise, Battersby appeared, walking briskly towards them. “Mrs. North,” he exclaimed. “If you’d sent word, I could have dispatched a carriage.”
She’d assumed the headmaster would be pleased she’d brought his remedy so promptly, but there was anger in his steely eyes as he glanced about furtively.
Giles brushed up against her when she stopped abruptly. “Doesn’t want anybody to know,” he hissed under his breath.
It occurred to her belatedly that was probably true and Battersby was likely annoyed Giles was now aware of his secret malady. “Headmaster,” she replied softly with a deferential nod. “I have the remedy you requested.” She patted her pocket, but decided it would be wiser not to produce the sealed packet just yet with several schoolboys walking back and forth in the corridor.
“Good, good,” Battersby said in a clipped tone that suggested her unexpected arrival wasn’t good at all. “Bring it to my study.” He beckoned two boys she recognized from her previous visit. “Addison, come with me. Hogg, remain here with Raincourt. Follow me, Mrs. North.”
In the years at Blue Coat, she’d never been summoned to the headmistress’s study, but suddenly felt like a naughty schoolgirl. A knot tightened in her belly when she recalled the scars on Giles’ bottom. She put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute or two,” she told him.
His wooden nod and reluctance to look Addison in the eye indicated he feared the older boy. However, she had little choice and reluctantly obeyed Battersby’s command.
Once they were in the study, the schoolmaster held out his hand. “If you please.”
It was clear she wouldn’t be invited to take tea on this occasion, so she handed over the package, stammering out the instructions, all the while hoping she would actually be paid for her work.
Battersby nestled the pince-nez on his nose, tore open the seal and lifted the flap. “I detect peppermint,” he allowed, using his hand to waft the aroma to his nose. “An infusion, you say?”
“Yes, in hot water. Every evening, before bedtime. For a week.”
He raised an eyebrow, making her wish she’d never mentioned bedtime. He closed the flap, pressed on the seal, then handed the packet to Addison. “Take this to my rooms after you’ve escorted Mrs. North and her apprentice off the premises.”
She didn’t like the sly, shifty look in Addison’s eyes. She assumed he must be a prefect, perhaps Head Boy. Not every pupil she’d encountered sported the hideous yellow socks.
Battersby dug two fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat, tutting loudly when he didn’t find what he apparently sought. He opened the drawer of his desk, poked about in what sounded like a stash of coin and, at length, held out his hand to Sarah. “Sixpence should be sufficient.”
“More than sufficient,” she lied, accepting the coin. Sixpence was the exact price for such a remedy and she’d a feeling the pompous academic was fully aware of it.
“Be careful with the packet,” she said to Addison after he and Hogg had marched them along the corridor to the main doors.
Both boys looked down their noses as if contemplating what to do with a pile of dog muck they’d stepped in, then shut the door in her face.
She and her apprentice made their escape across the meadows surrounding the school.
“Hope you didn’
t expect any thanks,” Giles said with a grin.
“I should box your ears for your impertinence.”
But she smiled and took his hand instead.
Tell Him
Munro had never helped a woman select a frock. His mother employed a seamstress and neither she nor Jewel bought garments in local markets. Slightly bemused, he watched Mary haggle with the mercer once she’d made her choice. He supposed it was in her nature to risk losing the chance to buy a garment she so obviously wanted for the sake of saving a halfpenny. He was paying for the blessed thing in any case.
Of course, he’d never had to worry about money, whereas Mary…
He clenched his fists when she grinned at him triumphantly. He had no idea what she’d meant by her comment about being buried in a new frock. The old woman was clearly losing her wits. And what was there to think about? He loved Sarah and wanted to marry her. Mary should be ecstatic her widowed daughter had caught the eye of an earl’s son.
“Give the man threepence,” she declared as the scowling mercer bundled up the frock and tied it with string.
“Highway robbery,” Old Brown hissed when Munro handed over the coin in exchange for the bundle.
Mary clutched it to her breast. “I thank thee,” she gushed, grinning uncharacteristically, “first new frock I’ve had in…”
When she stopped abruptly and eyed him, Munro stifled the urge to shake her and demand she reveal Sarah’s secret.
Mary nodded in the direction of St. Martin’s. “We’d better go to the church,” she said. “I’d like to meet Reverend Grove.”
Befuddled, Munro followed in her wake. “I thought you knew him.”
“No. Sarah asked him to keep in touch with folks in Chepstow. That’s how she found out Harry had died.”
A terrible foreboding washed over Munro. Not only had Sarah lived apart from her parents, she hadn’t kept in touch with them. Perhaps it was to be expected a girl abandoned at a tender age would sever all ties. There was definitely something about her father Sarah didn’t want him to know. And it had to do with the Civil War.
“Was Harry in the Parliamentary army?” he asked. “If so, that’s neither here nor there. My father served in Cromwell’s army, but eventually worked for the restoration of the monarchy. Whatever happened during the war—”
Mary stopped in her tracks and glared at him. “Harry was a firm believer in republicanism. At the start of the war he raised a cavalry regiment and served as their colonel. He was soon appointed governor of Reading, and later of Aylesbury.”
The pride in her voice gave him pause, but still the news came as a relief. It seemed Harry was a man of action, a father to be proud of, yet…
Then Mary added, “The problem lies elsewhere.”
They wandered through the church, eventually tracking Grove down in the vestry. He smiled at Munro, nodding thoughtfully when he cast eyes on Mary. “You’re Sarah’s mother,” he said. “I’m glad to meet you at last.”
“And I thee,” she replied. “Thou must tell this young Scotsman the truth about Harry.”
Munro suddenly found himself watching a strange tableau. Mary swayed, clutching a cheap frock that seemed to have become her most prized possession. The frowning cleric clenched his jaw and stared at her. Munro was confused as to what role he was supposed to play.
Mary finally spoke. “He wants to wed Sarah, so he has a right to know.”
Grove brightened. “That’s good news. I assume he has your blessing?”
“I might be old, but I’m not daft,” she replied. “Of course he does. Now tell him. He’ll understand.” She wagged a finger at Munro. “But thou cannot let her know. She must tell thee herself.”
His hopes rose. He recognized now what his role was. He would learn Sarah’s secret and declare that it made not a whit of difference.
Grove cleared his throat. “Sarah’s father was Colonel Henry Marten.”
The name meant nothing. He was hoping someone hiding in the wings would give him a cue so he could speak his next words when an unpleasant memory rose unbidden in his brain.
Glutton and whoremonger.
He should know what to say next to the ashen-faced woman who clutched the bundle ever more tightly, but a thousand bees buzzed in his ears.
Chepstow.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid…”
“The regicide,” Grove supplied.
In his mind’s eye, Munro saw a desolate beach below Dunnottar Castle where a brave young Highland lass waited for a basket to be lowered—a basket containing the crown jewels of Scotland that she was about to whisk away from under Cromwell’s nose. Hannah Kincaid.
Sarah’s father had signed the death warrant of the king whose coronation regalia his mother had risked her life to save from destruction.
He’d been assigned a part he couldn’t play. “Forgive me,” he muttered as he turned for the door, afraid he might retch if he didn’t get outside in the fresh air.
He Loves Thee
Sarah chivvied her apprentice into the workroom after locking the door. They stopped at a street vendor for a cup of broth on the way home from the school, but she needed something to calm her nerves. “Put the kettle on,” she shouted upstairs to her mother. “Giles and I are in need of tea.”
Not expecting a response, she wasn’t surprised when none came. “First we’ll have tea,” she said as she removed the annoying bonnet, “then we’ll set about cleaning and dusting so we can reopen the shop on the morrow.”
Giles took off his cape. “Mam always said I wasn’t much good at cleaning, but tea sounds good.”
This young lad touched her heart. Despite being orphaned and suffering brutal punishment at school, he hadn’t lost his sunny disposition. She decided to break a rule and allow him upstairs to enjoy his tea. “Up you go,” she told him as they entered the main shop. “Tell Mrs. Ward I said it was all right. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Thanks, Mrs. North,” he replied, before taking the steps two at a time.
She closed her eyes and put a hand on the counter, indulging in the calming ritual of inhaling the familiar aromas. But something was different. There was a faint hint of the scent of a man. Her eyes flew open. Munro had been in the shop in her absence. Heart beating too fast, she vacillated between elation and annoyance. How had he gained entry? She started toward the stairs, ready to interrogate her mother, but Giles had hurried back down.
“Mrs. Ward isn’t upstairs,” he said.
Air whooshed from her lungs. Munro had taken her mother. No, that didn’t make sense. Her mother had gone out with Munro. But where? And why? And how had they unlocked the door?
Giles touched her arm. “Mayhap she went to church.”
St. Martin’s…Reverend Grove…oh God.
She yanked open the door and looked towards St. Martin’s, relieved to see her mother coming down the steps on Reverend Grove’s arm. But where was Munro? Perhaps she’d been mistaken. Her mother clutched a bundle. As far as she knew, Mary Ward had no money of her own, so somebody…
Thoughts tumbled over each other. She’d assumed her mother couldn’t get out of a locked shop and that had proven to be false. Evidently, Reginald’s key hadn’t been hidden well enough.
By the time her mother and Reverend Grove reached her, confusion had struck her dumb.
“Mrs. Ward has had an exciting day,” the cleric said with a forced smile. “It was my pleasure to meet her at last.”
Sarah detected no hint Munro Pendray had accompanied her mother, or that her secret had been revealed.
Giles reached for Mary’s bundle. “I can take that for you,” he offered.
“Nay,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”
“You’d better stay down here,” Sarah told her apprentice, afraid of what an obviously exhausted Mary might say. “I’ll get my mother settled.”
He nodded. “I can make tea on the wood-stove in the workroom.”
Grateful for his thoughtfulness, she f
ollowed Mary as she struggled on the stairs, finally prying the bundle from her grip. “You bought a frock?”
“For my funeral,” came the unexpected reply as her mother climbed into bed and closed her eyes.
It was on the tip of Sarah’s tongue to ask who had bought the garment, and about the spare key, but her mother lay so still she feared for a moment she’d truly died.
The grief that surged in her throat came as a complete surprise. She’d long thought she wouldn’t feel anything when her mother died. Just as she’d felt nothing—except perhaps relief—when news came of Henry Marten’s passing.
“Don’t die yet, Mama,” she whispered.
Mary opened her eyes. “I’ve fulfilled my promise to thy father. He fretted about thee and thy sisters. I don’t want to go on living without him, and I’ve done all I can. Thou art in the Lord’s hands now.” She closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.
The tears made it difficult for Sarah to undo the string tied around her mother’s purchase. True to her nature and beliefs, Mary Ward had chosen a grey frock that buttoned to the neck. However, it was more fitting funeral attire than the dowdy dress she suspected her mother had worn for many years. A woman who’d sacrificed a great deal for the man she loved deserved to be buried with dignity.
Twelve years confined to a prison hadn’t diminished her ardor, though they’d never been wed.
“Tea’s ready,” Giles shouted.
Sarah laid out the new frock at the foot of the bed. “Thank you, Munro Pendray,” she whispered.
She tiptoed downstairs, now keenly aware of the emptiness her mother must have felt facing life without the man she craved.
“How is she?” Giles asked.
“Not well,” she answered, fearing she might later find her mother had died, but more terrified of being present when she passed.
They drank their tea, then set about cleaning, dusting and washing utensils. The activity occupied her hands, but worry for her mother and regret for Munro lay like a lead weight on her heart.
Kingslayer's Daughter (The House of Pendray Book 2) Page 9
