by Brenda Novak
Chapter 7
“Very interesting.” Chuckling softly, a figure stood in the shadow of the building, watching as the earl rode away from the McTavish Bookshop. Unless the glimmering moonlight had been playing tricks, Druridge was upset. There was no accounting for that, but there was also no dismissing the confident way he’d let himself into the shop. It had almost been as if he had a right to be there. As though the McTavish wench would welcome him.
And after all her airs and self-righteous rhetoric about helping the poor working class! Evidently she’d found a way to improve her own lot and had jumped at the chance.
The earl’s whore. Not a pretty title, but depending upon Druridge’s devotion, Rachel could change everything. An unexpected but bold move.
Cutberth definitely needed to hear about this.
Truman slammed his fist into the stable wall, scaring the horses. They nickered and whinnied in surprise, but he didn’t care if he woke the stable master, the stable master’s dogs and all the lads sleeping above.
She was still with him, damn it. After five miles of slow travel, he couldn’t escape his desire for Rachel McTavish. He had left her standing in that humble bookshop, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly parted, waiting for his kiss, and he had managed to walk away. But he had regretted it the moment he climbed astride his horse—more with each passing mile. She did something to him, something he couldn’t quite combat. He’d chosen to ignore her and move on. But that wasn’t as easy as he’d expected it to be. Deep down, he believed that maybe, just maybe, a woman like Rachel would be the perfect antidote to his cynicism and doubt.
Shaking away the pain in his hand and willing away the ache in his loins, Truman wished he’d never met Rachel. He’d been caught in her spell ever since he’d seen her on that ladder—a bit of revenge for Jack, were he alive to enjoy it. After last night, Truman was more enchanted than ever. He remembered the feel of her arms around his neck, the way she’d gasped as he moved inside her.…
Ah, sweet torture. But she was just one more thing to steal his focus from where it needed to be: solving the mystery of Katherine’s murder. Considering all that had transpired, Rachel would never have a kind thought for him.
It was better to forget her. Certainly he’d be able to, eventually.
The sound of hooves beating the damp earth and then clattering over the gravel of the drive echoed above the settling noises of the stable he’d just left. Truman stepped closer to the stone wall that separated the slaughtering house and chicken coop from the kitchens and waited for his cousin to shelter his horse. What kind of shape would Wythe be in tonight? Rough living and alcohol were taking a toll on his work at the mine, but he refused to believe he had a problem.
Because Truman expected Wythe to be drunk, again, he was surprised to watch his cousin make his way toward the house on sure feet.
“Another late night?” he asked, stepping into his path.
Wythe didn’t seem startled. “Not as late as most,” he said, barely breaking stride.
Truman fell in step beside him. “Did Elspeth close early?”
“Elspeth never closes,” he said with a grin. “That’s what I love about her. But you wouldn’t know. You take your pleasure right here, eh, cousin?”
Truman refused to let Wythe bait him, especially when he believed that Wythe was to blame for last night. “Actually, I’m glad you mentioned that. Rachel claims your horse threw her. You wouldn’t have any idea how that could have happened, would you?”
Wythe slanted a glance his way. “She must’ve been dreaming. I told you this morning I merely made her an offer—one she apparently couldn’t refuse.”
“That’s what I thought.” Truman smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I knew you wouldn’t lie to me. Just like I know you will stay away from her in future… because we wouldn’t want any trouble between cousins. Am I right?”
Wythe stopped and gaped at him, shocked by the veiled threat. But Truman wasn’t about to back down. He wanted to make his point perfectly clear. Rachel might hate him, and he might want to keep his distance from her. But he would not allow anyone connected to him to hurt her ever again.
“Right,” Wythe said, then strode quickly to the house, leaving Truman outside to have another smoke.
Unwilling to open her eyes until she absolutely couldn’t hide from the day any longer, Rachel woke late. The financial picture she’d created after going through the books last night had not been encouraging. Her mother owed a traveling vendor almost twenty pounds, which might’ve been two hundred for all of Rachel’s ability to pay. Rents for the cottage and the shop were overdue. And their cupboards were nearly bare. In order to satisfy her creditors and garner enough to survive, she would have to sell off a portion of her inventory, perhaps to a shop in London, which was probably the only place she’d find someone with sufficient funds. But even if she did that, she would be faced with the same situation next month, and the month after. The bookshop wasn’t meeting its overhead. The place would be dismantled bit by bit and she’d soon be left with nothing. Or almost nothing. She’d have her teaching, of course, but the miners paid her in foodstuffs and handmade items. Such bartering provided a more comfortable existence, but would never be enough to support her and young Geordie.
How had her mother managed?
That was a question Rachel feared to ask, even herself. Jillian had started the shop with the backing of her rich father. Although she was illegitimate, he had eventually accepted her, paid for her schooling, even set her up in business. But the money had stopped when he died. From there, Jillian had kept the shop afloat by using the money Jack had received for supposedly setting the fire at Blackmoor Hall, which was long gone. What had she been doing since?
According to what Rachel had figured out last night, one mysterious payment came in each month that was not categorized as to its source. Without that, they would have lost the shop long ago.
With a groan, she pulled her quilts up over her head. For a moment she remembered the money she’d turned away, just yesterday, and wished she could lower her pride and her ideals enough to accept it. She could go to Blackmoor Hall this morning and apologize to the earl for her high-handed rejection.…
But how would she ever be able to live with herself?
There had to be another way.
“Rach?” The front door slammed as Geordie came charging into the cottage. The smell of fresh-baked bread accompanied him, making Rachel’s mouth water.
“Look! Mr. Sandler gave me some bread for shoveling off his walk.” He sat on the corner of her bed, holding a golden brown loaf in his hands.
“It snowed this morning?”
“Aye. The skies are clear now, but it’s near freezin’.” He threw off his scarf, hat and gloves but left on his coat. The cottage was nearly as cold as outdoors. No fire had been lit this morning. Considering the dwindling woodpile in back, Rachel had no plans to heat the cottage until nightfall.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Do you want some of my—”
He stopped midsentence and frowned at her, worry clouding his former expression. “Are you sick, Rachel? What’s wrong? You look so white.”
Rachel summoned the energy to sit up and give him a bright smile. She was drawing on reserves she didn’t know she possessed, but she prayed she could keep up appearances, for his sake. Even if she had to resort to working in the mine, she would find some way to care for him.
All roads in Creswell seemed to lead to the earl.
“I was out late, finishing the accounting,” she said, “but it’s time I get up. I need to open the shop. Would you like to help me?”
He nodded and tore off a chunk of bread to give her. “I’ll shovel the walks.”
Rachel gratefully accepted his offering. He was such a good boy. If only she could provide him with an education and the chance to be something besides a miner.
“Rachel!” Mrs. Tate blew in next, her face red, her movements agitated. She
usually knocked, but today she was obviously too upset to mind such convention.
“What is it?” Mrs. Tate’s married sons worked at the mine. For a moment, Rachel feared there’d been another accident. “Is it Rulon or Charles?”
Her neighbor’s mouth opened and closed twice before any sound came out. “No, it’s the laundress, Mrs. Miller. She said… she said that ye and the earl”—she flapped a hand in front of her face as though she might faint—“that the two of ye—”
A sick feeling began in the pit of Rachel’s stomach, but she had the presence of mind to stop Mrs. Tate long enough to get her brother out of the cottage. “Geordie, would you be so good as to bring in some more wood?”
Hesitant, he looked from Mrs. Tate to Rachel and back again. “I don’t want to do it now. I want to hear—”
“Geordie, please.”
The gravity in her tone must have frightened him enough to get him to obey. Reluctantly, he pulled on his hat, scarf and gloves and trudged outside, taking his bread with him.
After the door banged shut, Rachel steeled her nerves and turned to Mrs. Tate, who was wringing her hands. “What about me and the earl?”
Rachel felt as if she was standing in front of a firing squad, waiting for the first crack of gunfire.
“They’re sayin’… I mean it’s all lies, of course, but oh, Rachel, I am so frightened for ye. The whole village is buzzing with the news, and they’re not takin’ it well. Mrs. Chauncery, down at the corner shop, wouldn’t even serve me because of my connection with ye. An’ I passed the blacksmith on the street. ’E wouldn’t so much as return my greetin’.”
“Tell me why. What are they saying?” Rachel knew it had something to do with her visit to Blackmoor Hall but hoped against hope that she was wrong.
“They are sayin’ yer the earl’s mistress,” Mrs. Tate blurted, tears streaming down her face. “That ye’re sellin’ yerself now yer poor mum’s gone. Only they’re not usin’ a word that’s nearly so kind.”
Rachel felt like Gilly had just kicked her in the head. The room started to swirl, and she nearly fell back onto her pillows before she was able to control the dizziness and the nausea. “Who started this rumor?” she whispered.
“I can’t say for sure but word ’as it it was Roxy, down at Elspeth’s.”
Wythe. Rachel pictured the earl’s cousin leering at her just before she stole his horse. Roxy wouldn’t have made up such gossip. She had to have heard it from Wythe.
Damn him! He’d had his revenge. Wasn’t what he’d done enough?
Throwing off the blankets, Rachel climbed to her feet. She had to let the villagers know the rumor was false, had to tell Mr. Cutberth and the miners she hadn’t turned on them. They would hardly approve of her selling herself to anyone—no God-fearing citizen would—but the earl! They’d brand her a traitor and run her out of town. What could she do for poor Geordie then? It was the dead of winter, for heaven’s sake!
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Tate demanded.
“To talk to Mrs. Chauncery and Mrs. Miller and the others.”
“Don’t bother with them. Go to the blacksmith’s apprentice. ’E offered for ye once. Maybe there’s still a soft spot in ’is ’eart. If ye can convince ’im that yer still untouched, per’aps ’e’ll stand by ye an’ ’elp convince the others.”
Untouched. She was no longer untouched and couldn’t sell the poor blacksmith’s apprentice on such a lie. She wouldn’t even try. It wasn’t fair.
“I will speak to who I can,” Rachel said. Certainly the villagers would believe her. She’d grown up with them. She’d helped in the struggle to unionize. She and her mother had taught some of the adults to read, and many of their children too. If she said she wasn’t the earl’s mistress, they had to believe her, didn’t they?
Rachel threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin as she made her way down the main street of Creswell. She had visited the laundress, the tailor, the shoemaker and the milliner, but the story had been the same with all of them. They’d stared through her as if she hadn’t been standing in front of them, had refused to acknowledge her, no matter how many ways she pled her innocence. Which was difficult to do in the first place. Somewhere in her heart, she accepted partial responsibility for what had transpired at Blackmoor Hall.
But it had been an accident, she told herself. At least, it had stemmed from one. It wasn’t something she’d entered into knowingly. And she hadn’t accepted the earl’s money when it was over.
She wasn’t about to give up. Certainly someone would remember all her mother had done for the community and how much she herself had tried to give. Someone had to believe her.
The chimney sweep who traveled through the more sparsely populated counties passed her on the street, wearing his usual sooty hat. In stark contrast to how she’d been treated so far, he greeted her, but he couldn’t do anything to reverse the tide of public opinion. He had to move on in a few days or weeks. Creswell didn’t have enough chimneys to keep him busy for long.
At least his smile was heartening. Perhaps there were others like him who hadn’t heard or didn’t care.
Rachel’s hopes in that regard fell a little more each time she encountered someone new. Almost everyone who had any influence in town cast her a disparaging look and stepped wide to avoid direct contact, as if she might contaminate them. She visited the baker who had given Geordie the bread that morning, but he treated her no more charitably than the others. Evidently word was spreading fast and emotions were running high. Even the baker’s errand boy narrowed his eyes and spat at the ground as she passed.
By the time she decided to go directly to the source of the problem—Roxy at Elspeth’s, and then, possibly, probably, Wythe Stanhope himself—hot tears burned behind her eyes.
Elspeth’s was a ramshackle building on the back side of town, two wattle-and-daub houses and a converted shed, joined together. The street leading to its sagging porch was usually muddy, but today the ground was too frozen for mud. The ice and snow crunched beneath Rachel’s boots as she cleared the small gate at the entrance to what had once been a garden but was now barren earth. The walks hadn’t been cleared. They rarely were.
The smell of fried food and dirty linen assaulted Rachel’s senses as she waited in the front foyer for the girl who’d answered the door to summon Roxy, but at least the room was warm. She felt like she’d been freezing for months. Sometimes she wondered if she’d ever be warm again.
“Madame Soward said not ter disturb Roxy. She’s got ter work in a few ’ours,” the girl announced, returning. “But Madame will see ye. Back ’ere.”
Rachel followed her through the maze-like interior of the house. It had been partitioned off in several places to create more private rooms, but the thin walls did little to cloak the sounds of what went on inside. It was just after noon, and already Rachel could hear a rocking bed.
Quelling a shudder, she focused on the back of the slender girl she followed. Rachel had visited Elspeth’s before, but always first thing in the morning. Most of the women were asleep then, the last of their customers just claiming their horses and heading home—like Wythe had been the morning she’d passed him.
Evidently business picked up much earlier than Rachel would have guessed.
“Rachel, how are you?” Elspeth glanced up from where she sat on a narrow settee as the girl led Rachel into a small parlor. She was wearing a red dress with a tight-fitting bodice that failed to give her a waist but succeeded in pushing her huge bosom up and almost over the top of a deep décolleté. She was heavily powdered and rouged, but nothing could camouflage the fact that she was getting older, well past her prime.
The room, gaudily decorated with purple velvet drapes, flocked wallpaper and purple upholstery, was far different from the small, brown study at the back of the house where they’d met before. A breakfast tray resided on the marble-topped table in front of Elspeth.
“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “Have you heard?”<
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Elspeth considered her thoughtfully. “Please, come sit next to me and relax. You’ve made some powerful people angry.”
“I am not sure I know why.” Rachel perched on the edge of the seat closest to Elspeth and hoped sight of the food wouldn’t make her stomach grumble. She’d dashed off with nothing more than the crust of bread Geordie had given her for breakfast.
“Is that so?” Elspeth went and closed the door. When she turned she eyed Rachel from head to foot. “First, tell me why the miners would have reason to distrust you.”
“I have no idea,” Rachel said. “I have always done my best to help them. My father and brother were miners.”
“But the earl believes your father had something to do with the fire, does he not?”
“That’s no secret. The past few months, his solicitor, Mr. Lewis, and his butler, Mr. Linley, have been questioning everyone in town about my father.”
“Ah, but the fact that your father was hired to start the fire is not so well known, is it?”
“How did you—?”
Her smile turned sly. “There is very little that goes on in Creswell that I do not know about.”
“Then you know who hired him.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” She shrugged. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Life is not as simple as it seems, Rachel.” She paused to straighten a porcelain poodle on a what-not shelf that hadn’t been dusted for days, possibly weeks. “You’ve always had your nose in a book, filling your head with unrealistic expectations. You have zealously supported any cause you deem worthy, while innocently missing the subtler changes that have taken place here in our small village. If you are not careful you will find yourself in serious trouble.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?” Rachel couldn’t have been more surprised.
She chuckled. “I am trying to warn you not to get caught in the tug-of-war between the miners and the earl.”
Rachel felt caught already. “But I have always been on the miners’ side.”
