by Aileen Adams
She picked up her pack, allowing the long, red braid to hang over her shoulder once again. “I suppose there’s no longer any need to disguise myself,” she smiled.
“I suppose not.”
“Best wishes to both of you.”
Broc and Derek stood out of deference as she left the table.
Derek followed her progress as she wound her way through the growing crowd inside the tavern before reaching the open door.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not going to let her go that easily?” Broc muttered.
Derek remained silent.
7
It was easier to remain positive with fresh food in her stomach. She hadn’t enjoyed roasted meat in many moons—while the tavern’s offerings weren’t exactly the most delicious she’d ever enjoyed, she had been too hungry to feel particular. Especially when her savior was generous enough to provide the meal for her.
He was a contradiction she couldn’t seem to make sense of. On the one hand, he’d warned her most fervently of the evils of the world—especially of men. He’d urged her not to offer anything to others without being specific.
And yet he’d saved her from the sailors, ensured she didn’t lie in an unconscious heap on the docks, and had ensured she ate a hearty meal before going on her way.
Why? What did he want in return? Nothing, it would seem, as he had allowed her to leave the tavern without attempting to hold her back. He’d never demanded or even requested repayment. Was he the one exception to his own dire warnings?
The day had turned cool, the sun well past the halfway point in the sky by the time she stepped out of the cramped tavern and into the almost equally as cramped street.
She was no longer shocked or surprised by the village and its activity. It was more a matter of curiosity by now. How did these people live? How did they pass their leisure time? What did they need, and how could she meet that need?
It was one thing the miller had taught her when she had confided her plans to him. Aside from Beatrice and the deacon, Cedric Miller was the only other soul aware of what she’d intended. It wouldn’t have been wise to leave her sister alone without bringing the situation to the attention of at least one trusted friend. Margery could rest a bit easier, knowing someone had her sister’s best interests at heart.
She remembered sitting at the round, wooden table in his hut, warming her hands and feet by the fire after making the long trek to his home from the farm. Once she had managed to convince him of the seriousness of her plans—it had taken quite a bit of time, at that—he had sat across from her and begun his lessons.
They were different from the lessons which Derek had shared with her in the tavern, but Margery was certain they were just as critical to her success.
Find someone in need of something you can provide. They won’t want to pay what you deserve—you’re a woman, and a young one at that, and when they catch onto the fact that you’re new to the area they’ll want even more to take advantage of you.
“What should I do?” she’d asked.
He’d spat on the floor, scratching the top of his balding head while considering her question. While he might not have been a learned man, he was the shrewdest she knew—and the most trusted when it came to matters such as this.
He spoke slowly, carefully, weighing his words as he would weigh the grain brought to him for milling. “Remind them what your service means to them. What it means to not have it. If you offer your skills to a seamstress, remind her what it means to get her work done twice as quickly—and how much more she can charge her patrons as a result. If you offer to clean an inn, remind the owner how much more he can charge once word gets out of the cleanliness of his lodgings. What is that worth to them?”
“Is that what you do?” She’d given him a sly smile, which he’d returned.
“Aye, young lady. I make certain that my most tight-fisted patrons remember the importance of finely-milled grain when it comes time to put bread on the table—and how much time I save them, time they could spend in other pursuits. It always works.”
It always works. She held his advice close to her heart as she explored the village, searching for a place to start.
The narrow streets seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions, with even narrower alleys jutting out from the streets at random. Peering down one of them, she squinted in order to see down the dark, dingy length.
There was a man and a woman standing there, perhaps halfway down, both of them leaning against a wall.
When the woman wrapped a bare leg around the man’s hip, Margery’s eyes widened in mute surprise.
The two of them began moving together, bumping against one another, and she suddenly understood. At least, she thought she did.
A pair of hands closed over her shoulders and turned her away from the sight. She didn’t have time to fight off her attacker before she realized he wasn’t an attacker at all.
“Take care when out for a walk, lassie,” Derek grinned, glancing down the alley before looking at her again. “You might see things you’ll wish you hadn’t seen.”
“They—they were—”
“Aye, and you nearly brought attention to them. Neither of them would’ve been very happy with you if they’d seen you—or if others had leered at them because you attracted attention.”
“Why were they… out in the open…” Her cheeks burned painfully hot, her shame more severe than it had ever been. She hadn’t known there could be such shame in the entire world.
“That’s the way of life in a thriving village such as this,” he explained, steering her away from the area and drawing her a bit further down the street. “Especially one located on the coast, part of a busy harbor. Sailors come ashore and... do as they like.”
But out in the open?
Margery quaked inside, suddenly uncertain as to whether this was the life for her. She wasn’t a child. She understood the existence of women such as the one she’d just observed. Even so, she had no idea…
“Perhaps I should’ve given you another lesson to take with you: do not stop to watch what goes on in darkened alleys.”
There was humor in his voice, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, but he wasn’t laughing at her. She felt it.
Shaking off the hands which still rested on her shoulders, she replied with a firm nod. “Perhaps you should have. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Wise lass,” he grinned.
When he looked at her the way he did, hazel eyes sparkling with good humor, she found it difficult to breathe. Why was that? And why was the touch of his hands such a comfort? She almost wished she hadn’t shaken him off. He made her feel safe, which was something she hadn’t enjoyed since leaving home.
“Do you not have business here in the village?” she asked, struggling to pull her thoughts together.
The day was waning, growing short, and she still had to find a place to spend the night—if not employment. She did not expect to enjoy such luck.
“Aye,” he replied.
“Why don’t you go about it, then?” she asked, lifting her chin. “Or is your business that of following women from place to place, ensuring they don’t fall victim to unforeseen danger?”
“Unforeseen to you, perhaps.” He cast a glance around, taking in the buildings which surrounded them.
They all looked roughly the same to her unpracticed eye, and not much unlike what she was accustomed to seeing in her little village. Squat, stone walls held together with dried mud. Most of them had roofs made of thatched straw, while some were composed of wood planks.
She couldn’t help but wonder about the people who lived and worked inside. Did they understand how different their lives were from those spent on a farm, out in the open? Without the sounds of their neighbors and those walking about outside constantly meeting their ears?
Before she’d arrived, before she’d received a cold dose of reality, she had imagined life in a thriving village as the height of excitement. Al
ways something new to see, always a neighbor nearby to visit or to request assistance from in times of need.
What if the neighbor refused, however? She saw very few smiles on the faces of those hurrying on their way, and couldn’t help remembering the man who’d nearly knocked her down without so much as a backward glance in her direction.
Just how wrong had she been?
Too late for that now, Beatrice’s voice reminded her. Might as well make the best of it.
“Thank you again. I shall take your advice to heart.” She sidled past Derek, eager to be away from those eyes of his.
He seemed to know her—while the sentiment should’ve been a relief, should’ve made her feel a bit of comfort in the middle of such a large, friendless place, it made her uncomfortable. The thought that someone knew her without knowing her…
She ducked into the first building which appeared to belong to a craftsperson rather than a villager.
The scent of baking bread greeted her, wrapping itself around her head and awakening memories of home.
Memories of kneading the dough, sprinkling it with flour, smiling along with Beatrice as whichever one of them had gone to the miller’s to fetch the flour shared stories of their day.
“Yes?” A large, plain-faced woman emerged from a doorway in front of which hung a curtain to separate the front room from what was beyond.
Margery, still caught halfway between memories of Beatrice and the present, was almost surprised when someone so different from her sister appeared.
“I… I wondered…” Why couldn’t she get her tongue to work?
“Well? Out with it, girl. I have too many orders to fill—and I can’t waste time.”
“You have many orders?” Margery jumped on that piece of information, hoping to turn the tide to her advantage. “Perhaps I can be of service, then. I’ve only just arrived in the village and—”
“And you’re looking for work,” the baker surmised.
To Margery’s surprise, the statement seemed to disgust the woman, instead of offering her relief at the prospect of her workload lessening.
“Yes, I am. I’m certain I could be of great assistance—”
“Save yer fancy talk, lass, and get out of my shop before I throw you out,” the woman grumbled, cutting her off with a wave of her hand. She turned her back, retreating through the curtain without another word.
Margery felt as though she’d just been slapped. The stark revelation that it may not be as easy as she’d assumed to find a position sent her heart into a tailspin.
Even so, she stepped outside with her head held high. All she had to do was keep trying. It was what Beatrice would’ve done, and it was what she would do, too.
8
The innkeeper narrowed his one good eye, looking her up and down with a cruel, shrewd expression. “Nay, lassie. I’m in no need of help. I’ve got more than I need as it is and canna be held responsible for yet another.”
Her face fell. It had been a long two hours, and her feet ached terribly—but no worse than her heart, which was bruised and battered and ready to give out after experiencing so much rejection. She had never known there could be so much harsh cruelty in the entire world, much less in one single village.
Not everyone had been as short-tempered as the owner of the inn in which she currently stood. There had been a little kindness, a little concern for her. But only a little. Not enough to outweigh her growing despair.
To despair was to turn one’s back on God. Wasn’t that what the deacon had so often reminded her and her sister when Mother’s health had been at its worst? There was no room for despair in a heart closely connected to one’s faith in the Lord. Or so she had been told so many times.
Where was that loving God of hers as she stepped out of the inn and into the cold, darkening day? Had He turned His back on her? Why? What was so sinful about wanting a better life for oneself? What was so dreadfully wrong with refusing to accept a few meager crumbs?
There was nothing back in Thrushwood. Nothing for her, nothing for Beatrice.
Certainly, they could have scraped by. Margery might have taken in sewing and mending, and Beatrice might have taught the village children, though it would’ve been nearly impossible to earn a living when they lived so remotely. They would’ve needed to find another home, but they had no money with which to purchase one.
She knew that most women of hers and Beatrice’s age would be of a mind to find husbands—and that might have been a worthwhile course of action, too, had there been a single prospect anywhere nearby.
Again, without access to the rest of the village, there was no way for either of them to meet a worthwhile suitor except on Market Day—and even then, until Mother’s passing, it had only been possible for one of them to go to town at a time while the other stayed behind to care for their invalid.
Beatrice was nearly twenty-three, while Margery had celebrated her twenty-first birthday over Christmas. Who would look at them and consider either a desirable match, with no dowry and what little was left of their farm?
They had no other family, no friends in the town. Nothing at all but each other. The situation had proven itself untenable long since, and it had been a harsh winter full of nothing but snow and bleak prospects for the future after their mother’s passing.
It was then that Margery had made up her mind, and not even her beloved sister could force her to think otherwise once she’d set a course of action.
She was beginning to question the wisdom of her stubbornness.
The activity in the village was lessening as the sky darkened, and Margery supposed this was because the evening meal would soon be enjoyed by many. The village’s inhabitants were preparing to go about their warm, comfortable lives, while she continued to wander to yet another business and accept yet another rejection.
Surely, there had to be an end to this. Surely, not everyone could turn her down.
The weight of her sorrow suddenly felt so heavy, she leaned against the nearest wall for support. It was as if she could no longer stand on her own. Was this the sort of thing people went through all the time? How did they live through it without dissolving into tears on a constant basis?
The sting of tears made an unwelcome presence behind her eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away once they began to course down her cheeks. What difference did it make? No one would notice. No one would care if they did. How many crying women had leaned against this very wall? It was probably a common sight.
Her feet ached horribly, the leather sewn to the bottoms of her stockings unsuited to such heavy use. Every stone and pebble made itself known, digging into the soles of her feet and adding to her growing misery.
To her surprise, Derek came to mind.
Where was he? Why had she been so eager to be rid of him? He was smart. He knew she’d made an unwise decision, but she had been too stubborn and foolhardy to see it for herself.
He might be able to help her find a place to spend the night, as she was nearly exhausted and didn’t know where to start or what a fair price would be. She’d be taken advantage of, for certain. It had been weeks since she’d had a good night’s sleep and the lack thereof was beginning to catch up with her.
It was growing dark, the days still short, and it was of no surprise when a fine mist began to fall. Why not? It was in keeping with the way the day had turned. If the skies had opened and a deluge had drowned her, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
Would she be forced to beg on the streets? She’d seen more than a handful of beggars on her travels, sitting in slop and wearing nothing but the thinnest of rags. Their wasted, bony bodies smeared with dirt and dust and the foulest-smelling waste, holding their hands out, trying to smile though their mouths held few teeth.
Would that be her fate? Would Beatrice ever know what became of her?
Or would she fall so far as to work as the woman she’d accidentally watched earlier in the day, the one who had mated with the strange man in an alle
y? A shudder of disgust ran through her, and she shook her head. No, never, not ever. Not even if she were on the brink of starvation.
Was that what the woman she’d seen had once told herself? She was certain that no one grew up wishing to be that sort of person, someone forced to sell their body for money. Something must have happened to force her into it.
Would that be her own fate?
“No,” she whispered, pushing herself away from the cold, now wet, stone wall with one shaking hand. No, she would not allow her life to come to that. There had to be a way to survive. She would not allow herself to fade into nothingness, to become just another faceless wretch with nothing and no one.
She would not allow Beatrice to spend the rest of her life wondering what had happened to her sister. She’d blame herself, Margery was certain. She would be of a mind that were it not for her, her sister would never have taken such a risk.
Beatrice would die blaming herself.
Not if Margery could help it.
She squared her shoulders, pulling the wet hat more firmly over her head as determination surged through her veins.
All that was left to do was to put one foot in front of the other.
So, she did.
9
Something about that single gesture touched Derek’s heart in a way nothing else ever had.
What would she think if she knew he was following her? That he had been following her for hours? She would certainly believe he had ill intentions. It was almost amusing, the fact that he had warned her about men who did the same sort of thing he was doing.
But he had no wish to do anything but protect her. He only wished he could.
It wasn’t going well. Anyone with eyes could see it. Every time she left an establishment, no matter the nature of business conducted within its walls, she left with her head hanging low—lower, in fact, with each passing rejection.
He was watching her spirit crumble.
