No one wise would venture out on such a cold day. However, she and Tommy were halfway through the village when a loud “Yoooohooo!” called out to them.
Samantha turned to see Hattie and Mabel Doyle hurry out of their cottage toward her. Both sisters had to be well over fifty years old and looked enough alike to be twins, although most people guessed Miss Mabel was the older by a year or two. Their shoulders were humped over by age and their huge black capes swept the ground as they scurried toward Samantha, reminding her of nothing less than two fat, happy beetles.
She slowed her step and hid her impatience, unwilling to give the appearance of a snub. Both women were notoriously sensitive—and she might shortly be living with them if she could not think of a way out of the situation. “Hello, Miss Hattie, Miss Mabel,” she said respectfully.
“Good morning! Good morning,” they chimed in unison.
Miss Mabel spoke first. “Where are you off to—?”
“Where are you going?” Miss Hattie added.
“One of the guests at the inn is ill. Now, if you will excuse us—”
“One of the guests?” Miss Mabel said.
“Must be that dark-haired man,” Miss Hattie answered.
“Dark-haired?” Samantha questioned. The memory of Mr. Browne’s thick dark hair flashed in her mind.
“Yes, the one who came to the village yesterday morning,” Miss Mabel said. “Mrs. Sadler said he was waiting on the front step before they’d even risen for the day.”
“Said he drinks,” Miss Hattie offered helpfully, drawing out the syllables as was her custom. “Drinks terribly.”
A hint of foreboding tickled Samantha’s neck. “This guest at the inn, does he have a name, Tommy?”
“Aye, miss. His name is Marvin Browne. Browne with an ‘e,’” the boy said dutifully.
So Marvin Browne had not left the area. She wondered what had kept him here. It was rare to find a mystery in Sproule.
“Do you know him?” Miss Hattie asked, her eyebrows coming up in interest.
“No,” Samantha said quickly, and then felt foolish. But gossip spread fast in Sproule, and it was usually one of the Doyle sisters who spread it.
She took a hesitant step back toward home.
“Why, Miss Northrup, whatever is the matter?” Miss Mabel asked. “You’ve gone all pale. Are you feeling sickly yourself?”
Samantha shook her head while turning away from their too knowing eyes. “I’m fine, thank you.” She was being a goose. What was it to her if Marvin Browne had not left Sproule as she’d imagined? Or if he needed her help?
She started walking toward the inn. Tommy and the Doyle sisters followed.
“Silly name, Marvin, isn’t it?” Miss Mabel said, her concern for Samantha vanishing.
“I knew a Marvin Browne, Browne with an ‘e,’ once,” Miss Hattie said.
“You did?” Miss Mabel asked.
“Aye. You did too,” her sister said. “He was tutor for the duke of Ayleborough. Don’t you remember now? Years ago, when the boys were young.”
“Ohhhhhh, years ago,” Miss Mabel said. “Yes, I think I do remember. Arrogant man, wasn’t he? From London, and kept raving on about how we all talked like Scots and should mind the King’s English. Silly man.”
The arrogant discription fit Mr. Browne, but Samantha couldn’t see the man she’d met the other night as a child’s tutor. Why, that man had almost appeared to be younger than the present duke.
Samantha shook her head and tried to shut out their prattle. They talked like that all day long. The thought struck her that she would be mad in no time if she accepted her fate and moved into their cottage.
As if reading her mind, Miss Mabel said, “Have you given any more thought about coming to live with us?”
“Yes,” Miss Hattie interjected. “We are excited. I have this pain in my left knee—”
“My back gives me terrible fits,” Miss Mabel interrupted.
“Oh, yes, your back is bad,” Miss Hattie agreed. “But my knee makes it hard for me to walk.” She suddenly started limping for good measure. “It will be so nice when you come to live with us. We’ll never worry about our aches and pains again. Will we, sister?”
“Well, I haven’t quite made up my mind,” Samantha stated tactfully.
“The village has already made it up for you,” Miss Mabel said.
“Aye,” Miss Hattie echoed. “We’re looking forward to your joining us. Three spinster ladies at peace with the world.”
The world suddenly seemed a very small place to Samantha. In a flash of insight, she realized her deepest fear—that she would live and die alone…and she would be very much alone with the Doyle sisters. Everyone avoided them if they could.
This past year had not been easy, but her future loomed even darker.
Fortunately, she was saved from making a comment because they’d come to the inn. She quickly ducked inside the narrow tavern door.
Everything considered, the Bear and Bull did a fair business. Other than the church, it was the social center of Sproule and the surrounding countryside. John Sadler and his family had a reputation for hospitality and a love of gossip, a winning combination for the success of any public house.
Of course, between the Bear and Bull and the Doyle sisters, nothing was a secret in Sproule.
Samantha nodded to John Sadler, who met her at the door, his expression anxious.
“I understand you have a sick man here.”
“I do, I do,” he said, leading her through the open public room with its huge hearth and whitewashed walls. Trestle tables and long benches were the only furnishings. “Miss Mabel and Miss Hattie, why don’t you take a seat here and Tommy will fetch you a hot cup of cider?”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Miss Mabel said. “But we’d rather see this Marvin Browne.”
“Yes, we want to see him,” her sister seconded, and they followed Samantha and the innkeeper toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms.
Mr. Sadler shrugged. The Doyle sisters were almost impossible to waylay once they’d made up their minds.
His wife’s voice called out, “Has Miss Northrup arrived?”
“Aye, Mrs. Sadler, she’s here,” her husband responded. Birdie Sadler walked into the public room from the back kitchen. “Glad we are you’ve come, Miss Northrup. We’ve been afeared this man’s contagious.”
“How long has he been ill?” Samantha asked, as they led her up the narrow staircase, the Doyle sisters trailing behind. Tommy hovered close to his mother.
“We heard him—” Mr. Sadler made an expressive gesture with his hand. “—Long about the wee hours of the morning. Lost every drop of brandy in him and then some, by the sound of it. Of course, he’d looked like a regular drunk when he came down to buy his second bottle of brandy. Unsteady on his feet and red-eyed.”
“Drink, see?” Miss Mabel said, nudging Samantha from behind.
“Tisk, tisk,” her sister said.
“Had he eaten anything?” Samantha asked, attempting to ignore the comments of her two shadows. They’d reached the short upstairs hall and Mr. Sadler had paused in front of one of the three rooms.
“Nothing at all,” Mrs. Sadler answered.
Samantha frowned. “Why are you so certain his present malady doesn’t stem from the over-indulgence of strong spirits?”
“Mr. Sadler and I have seen more than our fair share of drunks, Miss Northrup,” Mrs. Sadler answered. “This man is sick. When Mr. Sadler went into his room and tried to rouse him, the man didn’t even so much as twitch.”
“His skin is hot to the touch, not like any drunk I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Sadler added. He put his hand on the door. “I’ll warn you now, this isn’t a pretty sight, Miss Northrup.”
“I don’t imagine it is,” Samantha assured him.
“We are prepared for the worst!” Miss Mabel declared almost cheerily.
The innkeeper didn’t bother to knock, but opened the door. Mrs. Sadler stepped aside, b
ut the Doyle sisters pressed forward, craning their necks to see. They quickly covered their noses and stepped back.
Accustomed to sick rooms, Samantha had been prepared for a strong smell. Poor Mr. Browne. Every slop bucket in the room was full. The stench mingled with those of stale liquor and unwashed male.
And yes, it was him. She recognized him even with two days’ growth of beard.
He lay flat on his back, his large frame filling the small bed. The murky light through the shuttered windows did him no good. He was still fully dressed, even down to his mud-caked boots, although his stained clothes were rumpled, as if he’d restlessly tried to remove them and failed. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully, until one noticed the ruddy flush to his complexion or the shallowness of his breathing. A sheen of sweat covered his skin.
Alarmed, Samantha moved closer and placed the backs of her fingers against his cheeks. She could feel the fever radiate from him even before she’d touched his skin.
“Mr. Sadler, please remove these slop buckets,” she ordered briskly. “And don’t just toss the contents out the window, but have Tommy bury them.”
Mr. Sadler snapped his fingers for Tommy to do her bidding. The lad reluctantly moved forward, holding his nose.
“What is it, Miss Northrup?” Mrs. Sadler asked anxiously. “Do you know what he has?”
Samantha set her basket down. She didn’t have to consult her journal to recognize his illness. “Influenza.”
The word seemed to suck the very air out of the room. Influenza had already hit the village hard this winter and the one before.
Even the healthy and young in Sproule feared the influenza after seeing how quickly the Vicar Northrup had succumbed. And last month it had claimed the life of the Rymans’ baby.
Mrs. Sadler reached for her son and pulled him back. “Go downstairs and mind your brothers and sisters. Do not let them upstairs.”
“I’ll go with him,” Miss Mabel volunteered. Miss Hattie was already moving down the stairs.
“We must get this man out of my inn,” Mr. Sadler announced. “There won’t be a soul who will come here if they know I’ve a man sick of the influenza under my roof.”
“Our first duty is to offer him aid and comfort,” Samantha corrected. “This man is very sick. I’m not certain it would be wise to move him.” She pressed her fingers against the pulse at Mr. Browne’s neck. She could feel his heart beat. It was weak but steady. As if her touch irritated him, he shifted restlessly and pushed her hand away.
“Mr. Browne?” Samantha said. She leaned over him. “Mr. Browne, can you hear me?” she asked again, louder.
Mr. Browne turned his head away, his brow furrowed. “Go away,” he muttered, his rough voice weak. He was a far cry from the intimidating man she had met only a day and a half ago.
“Mr. Browne, please, open your eyes. Talk to us.”
For a second, Samantha didn’t think he would respond…and then his eyes opened. She was startled to realize that his eyes weren’t black as coal, as she’d remembered but a warm shade of brown. And there was a touch of red in his black beard.
He stared at her dazed and uncomprehending.
“Mr. Browne, do you remember me? Miss Northrup?”
He didn’t answer. Then, just when she was beginning to believe he wasn’t going to respond, he said in a low voice, “The grave’s mistress.”
Mrs. Sadler gave a small gasp at his words. Even Samantha felt a shiver run through her, especially when he added in his deep, raspy voice, “Have you come to claim me at last?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said hesitantly.
“I’m dying, Miss Northrup,” he whispered. His thin lips twisted into an ironic smile. “Dying.”
She took his hand. It was roughly callused, and in spite of the fever, cold and stiff. She rubbed his fingers between her own to stir the circulation of blood. He had long, tapered fingers like those of a gentleman. But there was strength in them, too. “You are not going to die, Mr. Browne. I will not let you.”
He shook his head slightly, his eyes closing. “Damn hot.” His voice sounded weaker. He tugged at his neckcloth, the knot tight from previous struggles.
Understanding it was important for a patient to feel comfortable, Samantha hooked a finger into the knot and undid it. She was about to pull the strip of material from around his neck when his hand came up and grasped hers. His grip was surprisingly strong.
His eyes were wide open again, and this time he was seeing her clearly. “Get out. Get away from me.”
This was the man she remembered from the other night. The dangerous man.
She met his gaze with a steady one of her own. “I will not leave you like this.”
“You can go to the devil with your charity.” His voice was so soft, she almost hadn’t heard his words. “I don’t need you or anyone.”
She pulled back and he released her hand. But instead of alienating her, his words had the opposite effect. A fierce protectiveness welled up inside her. Everyone needed someone. She believed that all the way to the deepest reaches of her soul.
“I won’t leave you be, Mr. Browne, because I won’t let the influenza claim another soul. Not one more. Do you hear me? Whether you wish it or not, you are going to live.”
His gaze narrowed and then dulled as his energy ebbed. She watched his eyes slowly close.
“Have it as you will.” He slipped from consciousness.
Samantha didn’t know if his words were a curse or a benediction.
“Do you know this man?” Mrs. Sadler asked. Her blunt question reminded Samantha that she wasn’t alone.
Samantha picked up her basket of medicinals sitting on the floor by her feet, and sitting on the edge of the bed, started rooting through it. If she was going to keep her promise, she needed to start immediately. “We met the other night. He wanted into the Ayleborough vault.”
“He what?” Mrs. Sadler said in surprise.
Finding the small muslin bag she was looking for, Samantha glanced up. “He wanted into the Ayleborough vault,” she repeated patiently. “Here, Mrs. Sadler, this is feverfew. Please make a tea of it, the more, the better.”
But Mrs. Sadler did not take the packet from her hands. She turned with distress to her husband. “She met him lurking around the graveyard. What kind of man does that? And did you hear him wish her to the devil? The man’s on his deathbed!”
“Mrs. Sadler, he is not himself,” Samantha said. “He can’t be held to account for what he is saying.”
Her husband stepped forward, the set of his face stubborn. “The man’s not staying here. Not in my inn. I want him out of here.” Taking his wife’s arm, he turned on his heel and started for the door.
Samantha followed. “This man needs our care. You can’t turn your back on him.”
“And what am I to do if he dies in that bed?” Mr. Sadler threw over his shoulder, his heavy shoes clumping down the wooden stairs. “People are very superstitious, Miss Northrup. There isn’t a soul who will sleep in the room, let alone the same bed, if he meets his Maker in it. Times are tough. The new duke doesn’t come up here as often as his father and all the nobs and gentry around these parts would rather toast their toes in London than brave the Northumberland winter. This man could ruin me.” He marched into the empty taproom.
Samantha followed, her skirts swinging around her ankles as she hurried to catch up with him. After Mrs. Sadler had veered off toward the kitchen, Samantha said, “Mr. Sadler, I will stay here and nurse him. You won’t have to lift a finger. Do you hear me?” she demanded in exasperation as the man went to the keg and poured himself a healthy draught.
“Aye, I hear you, missy, and my answer is no!” He lifted the tankard to his lips and downed the contents in one gulp.
The man’s lack of compassion angered Samantha. “If my father was alive—”
“But he isn’t, because he had the influenza,” Mr. Sadler snapped back. “And I don’t want to end up like the good v
icar, God rest his soul.”
Mrs. Sadler came out of the kitchen, her eyes brimming with tears. “The Doyle sisters left. Tommy said they feared for their lives. They’ll spread the news of this all over the village in less than an hour.”
Mr. Sadler shook his head. “Don’t worry, Birdie. I’ll have him carted to the Post Road and put on the first stage going south.”
“You can’t do that!” Samantha said. “A mail coach ride in this weather will kill him. We have a Christian duty—”
“Bah to Christian duty!” Mr. Sadler said. “I take care of my own.”
At that moment, they were interrupted by Alys Porter, the blacksmith’s wife. She hovered by the front door. “Birdie, I’ve heard some alarming news from the Doyle sisters. Is it true you’ve got the influenza here?”
Mrs. Sadler groaned and fell back down on the bench by one of the trestle tables, covering her mouth with her hand.
Mr. Sadler answered for her. “Aye, it’s true, but he won’t be here long. I’m going to round up a couple of the lads and we’ll send him on his way.” He started for the door.
Samantha practically ran to step in his path. “That man will die without proper care and his death will be on your conscience.”
“Better him than one of my children.” Mr. Sadler walked around her and left. Samantha heard him shouting outside for Roddy, the hired hand, to hitch a wagon.
Tears of frustration filled her eyes. She whirled on Mrs. Sadler. “You cannot just throw the man out! The Lord asks us to care for one another, even if we are strangers.”
Mrs. Sadler stood, her expression as grim as her husband’s. “Then mayhap you should put the man under your roof, Miss Northrup. That way you may care for him all you like.”
“Why, Birdie,” Mrs. Porter said. “That is a good idea!”
“What is?” Samantha asked.
Mrs. Porter stepped into the room. “The idea of sending Mr. Browne over to the vicarage. You can tend him there, Miss Northrup.”
“Aye,” Mrs. Sadler agreed, her face brightening. “It is the best solution.”
Because of You Page 3
