by Eve Silver
He inhaled sharply and his gaze held hers for an endless moment.
Jane found her breath coming in rough little panting gasps as she stood pinned by the intensity of his regard. His pupils dilated, leaving his eyes dark and heavy lidded. For an instant, something almost frightening flickered there, wild and strangely seductive, and then he blinked and it was gone. Yet she was left with an unfamiliar awareness, a wish that he would look at her like that again.
“We should be away,” he repeated, dropping his hand to his side, breaking the contact. “I will see you back to your father’s inn.”
“That is not necessary, sir. I have traveled this path more times than I can count. I assure you, my safety is not in question.” Her protest was a bare whisper. She was mortified by the thought of this man going out of his way to accommodate her, the innkeeper’s lame daughter.
Gesturing for her to precede him, he shook his head. “I insist. One never knows the harm that can befall the innocent in a place such as this.”
Jane took a step back, her left heel dragging on the ground with a shush of sound.
“My footing is sure,” she lied, feeling hideously awkward, her statement belied by her obvious infirmity.
“I do not refer to your footing. There are greater dangers here than a rutted path or a loose stone.”
His words conjured an image of the poor drowned woman from the beach with her flesh bloated in death and her eyes pulled from their sockets, gnawed out by the fish.
Again, he moved his hand to indicate that she should precede him toward the gate. “Please.”
Deciding that this particular argument was hardly worth her energies, Jane did as he bid. She could not fathom the reason for his firm insistence, but she could not fault a man for behaving chivalrously. As she stepped past him, she caught the faint scent of citrus and spice, and something else... She had the outlandish urge to lean close and inhale to her heart’s content. Instead, she bowed her head and walked on.
They followed the path that Jane had taken with Dolly not an hour past. She cast surreptitious glances at her companion, curious as to his purpose. He strolled at her side, measuring his tread to match her own uneven gait.
She was used to engaging her father’s patrons in conversation, but she struggled now to find a pleasant and acceptable topic for discussion. Only the weather leapt to mind and they had already exhausted that subject.
The path descended toward Pentreath, curving smoothly. Behind them lay gently rolling hills and fields, muddy from the winter rains, dotted with fluffy sheep. Old Magworth’s run-down cottage came to view, and then Dolly Gwyn’s tidier one with its whitewashed face and neat yard. Mr. Warrick glanced at each, making no comment, and then Jane saw his gaze stray to her feet. Mortification washed over her. He would comment now on her limp, she thought, feeling the tension creep across her shoulders.
“There are wild ponies on the moors,” she blurted, anxious to draw his attention to something other than her imperfection.
He stopped and regarded her curiously. “Do you dream of running free on the moors, Miss Heatherington? Like the wild ponies?”
She met his gaze for an endless agonizing moment, wondering how, from her innocuous statement about the ponies, he had divined her most secret yearning. Wondering, too, if he meant his question to be as heartless as she found it.
Fettered by her mangled limb, burdened now as well by her father’s terrible choices and financial ruin, her world was a narrow cage. Never again would she know the joy of running free. Never.
“Yes, you will,” he said, his words a promise, low and rough.
She gasped as she realized she had voiced her thoughts aloud. Or had she? There was something about this man, this stranger, that made her feel as though she was stripped bare to her soul; as though her thoughts were as transparent to him as clear water on a sunny day.
“Please,” Jane whispered, gathering the tattered remnants of her poise as he watched her, his expression unreadable. She glanced at the sky. “We must hurry if we are to find shelter before the storm.”
He waited a heartbeat, and then said, “Yes, of course. Let us proceed.”
They resumed walking, side by side, and Jane was increasingly aware of everything about him. The breadth of his shoulders. The easy grace of his every step. The tantalizing scent of him, so subtle, so clean.
The shimmering impression of danger and power that clung to him.
Oh, this was madness, this instant fascination with a man she had met only moments ago. Such thoughts were so far outside her normal character that she wondered if she had caught a chill, if the heat generated by Mr. Warrick’s proximity was in fact a fever in her blood, an evil humor or the ague.
With a casual movement, he took her arm, helping her over a rock that disrupted the smooth flow of the path. The contact crackled through the cloth of her sleeve, and she stared at the back of his gloved hand, broad and strong. As he withdrew, her gaze dropped to the ground, and she resumed walking, numbly keeping pace with him as her blood pounded in her veins. She wanted to touch him again, to feel that connection, and that unfamiliar wanting baffled and alarmed her.
As the Crown Inn came into view, Jane felt an odd twinge at the sight of it. Ambivalence. Though she and Mr. Warrick had not shared any significant conversation save for that one fraught exchange, she was loath to see their brief journey end, even as she knew there was no reason for it to continue. Her pulse raced in a rhythm that far surpassed the mild exertion of their walk, and she could not stop herself from casting sidelong glances at his handsome face, the shadowed hollows of his cheeks, the hard line of his jaw, cleanly shaven and smooth.
Mr. Warrick paused, studying the inn with careful attention. Jane wondered if he saw the beauty of it, the simple practicality of the cobbled courtyard and slate roof. The building was shaped like the letter L, with a stable, a tack room, the pub and dining room, and sleeping chambers above. A row of casement windows lined up along the upper floor, and a second row along the lower. Her father had purchased the place a decade and a half prior.
Jane knew nothing of his profession in the time before he became an innkeeper, only that he had disliked whatever it was that he had done in the past, and that it had paid well enough for him to become an innkeeper.
More than once she had asked him about their lives before Cornwall. She only vaguely recalled a small house in a crowded city, where neighbors rubbed shoulders and tempers. She remembered that her father had been gone from the house for long periods of time—weeks, if not months—and those absences had made her mother cry. His homecomings had made her cry all the harder.
Each time Jane pressed Gideon Heatherington for answers, he sidestepped her questions, saying coldly that he wished she would not badger him so. She thought he must sorely regret the weeks and months he had been away, for surely he saw them as time stolen from a wife who had died too young. He raged against that loss still, the passage of time offering him no ease. The predictable bout of drunken melancholy that invariably followed her queries always made Jane feel both guilty and anxious.
Eventually, she had stopped questioning him about the past.
Yet even without her prodding and poking, her father was gruff more and more of late. He drank too much and woke up surly. She well knew his excuses: he had suffered much, lost much. Jane would forever bear the guilt of that, and so she endured her father’s weaker traits, cleaning up after his messes as best she could and manning the bar until he was himself again.
Now she swallowed the worry that thickened in her throat as she thought of their newly revealed debt. Desperation shifted and swelled, a live thing deep in her belly. This time she would not be able to set things to rights. This time her father had gambled away their very livelihood.
A shiver chased through her as, with a shrill squeak, the shingle hanging over the door of the Crown Inn shifted back and forth in the wind. She looked up to find a bird, black as coal, perched on the metal frame that held
the sign. A raven. Had it followed her down the hill, an ill omen?
The feeling of foreboding that had plagued her earlier returned, wrapping icy tendrils round her heart. Such a strange and melancholy day, heavy with ill news and peculiar happenings and memories best left buried.
Resolutely, she thrust aside her anxious thoughts, and laid her palms against the heavy wooden door of the inn, her actions accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder. The heavens opened and the rain began, landing in fat round drops on her hair, her face, her shoulders. She glanced at Mr. Warrick.
“Please, come inside,” she said, pushing the door wide.
He followed her, close enough that she felt the brush of his greatcoat on her back. The pub was empty, though Jane knew the villagers would gather there come evening. Sooner, if those who had seen her cross the village square spread the tale of her companion.
Shrugging out of her shawl and hooded cloak, she shook the water from them and hung the garments on a hook by the door.
“Father,” she called. “I am home.”
After a moment, Gideon Heatherington strode from the back of the inn, his bulky frame filling the narrow hallway that led from the kitchen to the bar.
“Glad I am that you made it before the storm,” he said. “You know I worry, Janie.”
So he said often enough. But that day, that long ago day, he had not worried enough to come find her.
Jane opened her mouth to introduce their guest, but her father continued in a rush. “‘Tis late. I’ll need you to chop the carrots and potatoes for tonight’s stew. I know your leg’s been poorly, but you’ll make do. Mary’s sent her oldest to say she has a chill, so you’ll be helping me in the tavern tonight as well as the kitchen.”
He moved toward her along the corridor, and then paused as he caught sight of her companion. Gideon’s eyes narrowed, and the tip of his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he said. “Well, well.”
Jane saw the distinctive gleam of avarice as he took in the quality of their guest’s attire. She saw, too, the reddened nose and puffy eyes. Her father had indulged in a dram or two, she realized, though noon was not yet upon them.
A brief flare of desperation nipped at her. She squelched it, knowing there was nothing she could do to sway her father from his course. When faced with adversity, he turned to his drink. It had ever been his way, and ever been the path to their downfall. The more he drank, the poorer his decisions became, and the more belligerent his temper. Best to stay out of his way, then.
“Father, this is Mr. Aidan Warrick,” she said, injecting as much enthusiasm as she could into her revelation. “He is our new neighbor, from Trevisham House.”
She had expected her announcement to win her father’s favor and draw a smile, for Mr. Warrick’s presence would surely attract a bustling crowd this evening, and a crowd meant good coin, which could only be seen as a boon. Instead of expressing his pleasure, Gideon stared at their guest, his brow growing stormy.
“Warrick. Mr. Aidan Warrick.” He spat the words as though they seared his tongue. He turned to Jane. “Go to the kitchen,” he ordered. “You’ve vegetables to chop.”
Jane jerked in surprise, her gaze shifting back and forth between the two men. Her father did not spare her a glance. His attention was fixed on Mr. Warrick, and there was no welcome in his eyes. The corners of his mouth turned down as though he had tasted something foul, and high ruddy color flooded his neck and cheeks.
For his part, Mr. Warrick stood ramrod stiff, his expression stony, his jaw rigid.
“Go. Now,” her father barked.
Jane dared not disobey. With a last furtive glance over her shoulder, she limped hurriedly to the kitchen at the back of the inn. Reaching its familiar confines, she rested her palms on the edge of the scarred wooden table and paused to steady her nerves. Her heart was like a drum, pounding a harsh rhythm, her agitation over her father’s dreadful humor mounting as she struggled to determine a cause.
Taking up her apron from where it hung on a large nail hammered into the plaster wall, Jane then tied it on with shaking hands. She glanced around the kitchen. There was nothing unusual, nothing out of place. Only her father’s temperament had gone awry. She longed for an explanation. ‘Twould take something terrible to make Gideon Heatherington offend a customer, particularly one who was clearly flush with coin, and especially now, when they needed money so urgently.
The murmur of her father’s voice drifted along the narrow hallway. Jane edged toward the doorway of the kitchen, straining to hear his words. Taking pains not to be seen, she shifted forward, eavesdropping on their conversation. A part of her was ashamed that she would breach her father’s privacy this way, disobeying his command. Yet, she was driven to discover the reason behind his unforgivably rude treatment of a complete stranger.
Unless that was the answer.
The fine hairs at her nape lifted. Perhaps Aidan Warrick was no stranger. Had he not made mention of an acquaintance with her father a lifetime ago?
But her father had exhibited no sign of recognition until she had spoken the man’s name.
“You cannot have her. She is my daughter, and I need her here.” Gideon Heatherington’s tone grew louder with each word until he shouted, “You are a madman if you think I’ll agree to this scheme!”
Jane slunk forward into the narrow hallway.
“Perhaps.” Mr. Warrick’s gravelly voice was calm, reasonable, devoid of heat. “But the fact remains that you owe me a significant amount of money, Mr. Heatherington. More than you can possibly raise.”
Understanding dawned, a cold drenching. Jane pressed the flat of her fingers against her lips. The money. Not owed to someone in far-off London, someone Gideon could avoid with promises and excuses—a lost letter; a great distance—not someone he could play for extra time until he found a way to settle their debt. Instead, they owed the vast sum to their new neighbor, a man who knew exactly where to find them.
Despair oozed through her. Any foolish dreams of a reprieve she had harbored were dashed. So soon. He had come to collect so soon, on the very heels of the letter demanding payment.
“You refuse my offer? Then you’ll be taken to debtor’s hell. Do you have any idea what prison is like, Mr. Heatherington?” Mr. Warrick asked, his tone harsh. “Crowding, desperation, disease.”
“A strange question you ask, Mr. Warrick, for I doubt you’ve any better idea than me.”
“My knowledge, or lack thereof, is of no relevance,” Mr. Warrick said, the words smoothly spoken, bereft of inflection. “The fact remains that if you deny my offer, Squire Craddick will see you taken to Halifax, or perhaps the Fleet, there to rot until your debts are paid. Though...” Mr. Warrick let the word hang before continuing, “paying your debt is an eventuality that may never come to pass, for how will you obtain the funds to remedy your situation? You will lose the Crown Inn. There will be no one to watch after your daughter.” He paused, the truth of his words hanging heavy in the air, and then he continued softly, his tone laced with a terrifying enjoyment. “You will suffer. You will know she suffers. And you will lose everything you hold dear.”
Leaning her shoulder against the wall at her side, Jane feared that but for its solid support she would sink to the ground. They would lose their home, their source of livelihood. Her father would be dragged away in irons. The Fleet. In far off London town or, even worse, Halifax Debtor’s Gaol where men were herded four or five to a bed with little food and no heat. Her father could lose his freedom and, with it, his health, even his life. The thought was too dreadful to consider.
Whatever his faults and flaws, he was all she had.
Oh, dear, sweet heaven. She had brought Mr. Warrick here, invited him into the Crown Inn. She had thought her father would be pleased to host such a distinguished guest. She had thought Mr. Warrick handsome, interesting. A prince from a fantasy tale. Foolish girl to be beguiled by a masculine form and striking face. He was no prince, unless she named
him a dark prince, the very devil come to Pentreath in the guise of a man.
“You could take me,” her father said, and Jane heard both the sullen frustration in his tone, and the lack of sincerity.
She frowned, confused. Take him where? To prison? Was that not exactly what Mr. Warrick proposed?
“You?” Mr. Warrick laughed, the rough sound devoid of humor. “Would you leave your daughter to run the inn alone? How long before a man took it in mind to take the place from her, even by force? How long would her chastity last?”
A horrified gasp escaped her. Mr. Warrick was discussing her virtue as though it was a subject open for public review. She could imagine her father’s face, beet red with anger, a vein throbbing in his temple. Nerves and worry pricking her, she eased another step closer.
“Come now, Gideon Heatherington. ‘Tis a simple business transaction.” Mr. Warrick’s voice was infinitely patient. “A purchase of a product, so to speak.”
At her father’s answering bellow of rage, Jane hurtled forward, stumbling on her weak leg in her haste. Bracing one hand against the wall to stop herself falling, she watched, distraught, as her father lunged at the other man, one fist raised.
Terror and bitter bile clawed their way to her throat. Mr. Warrick was younger, quicker, stronger. There was no doubt in her mind as to who would be the victor in a brawl between the two.
Stepping neatly aside, Mr. Warrick waited, making no move to either attack or escape. With an angry growl, Gideon lowered his head and charged once more. Again, Mr. Warrick avoided the charge, and Jane drew a shaky breath as her father lumbered awkwardly past, his morning’s libations working through him and leaving him with less than sharp coordination.
As her father rounded for a third attack, Jane looked from one to the other, feeling as though she had stepped into the midst of a Penny Dreadful, for surely this tableau was stranger than any work of fiction. She must stop it. Now. Before Mr. Warrick lost his temper. Before greater damage was done.
