The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  Fire followed her warning, burning to the bone, and spread from his neck down his spine. “Grace and mercy! You trying to kill me?”

  “No need. You’ve been doing a good enough job of that yourself. Now, mind your tone. You’ll wake Mam.”

  He steeled himself and straightened. “Please don’t tell me you put this on Thomas’s leg.”

  “Of course not. We used something much stronger. Bear up. I’ll work quickly.”

  Darkness crept in on the corners of his vision, but he kept his breathing steady and forced himself upright. Eventually, a cool cloth pressed against the base of his neck.

  “There. All finished. You’ll survive, I suppose.”

  “I usually do.” He turned then, catching both her hands in his before she could bustle away. “But this time I have you to thank. You are a rare gem, Johanna. I wonder if you know that.”

  A cloud darkened her face, like a shadow on the sun, then just as quickly vanished. “Off with you, sir. It is late, and you need rest, but first a good scrubbing is in order, I think. I shall fill a hip bath in your chamber. Wait here. I shan’t take long.”

  She disappeared out of the kitchen, taking along with her the whole of his heart.

  He slumped on his chair, weary beyond words. This assignment was wearing on him in more ways than one. Would that Ford had decreed he not only reside at the Blue Hedge Inn, but marry the innkeeper’s daughter as well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Johanna yawned. Again. Fatigue competed with the refreshing breeze wafting in from the Channel as she paced the boardwalk in front of the harbourmaster’s office. The briny droplets in the air ought keep her awake, but she’d spent the night tossing one way then the other, the memory of tending Alex both repellant and attractive. She’d been called many things by past patrons, but never a gem. Not that the compliment meant anything, for flattery was a commodity she was often paid. No, his words were nothing extraordinary. It was the huskiness of his voice, the clench of his jaw, the earnest way he’d stared into her soul when he’d spoken. He meant what he said, but more than that—he wanted her to believe it as well. Why would a man care what she thought of herself?

  She spun on her heel and retraced her steps, searching the boardwalk for yellow stockings. If she waited for Mr. Nutbrown any longer, Mam would wonder at her absence. She never should’ve agreed to work with him in the first place and more than likely would have better luck inquiring at the harbourmaster’s without him and his preposterous puppet.

  Mind made up, she stopped her pacing and pushed open the office door. The room was small, made even more claustrophobic by stacks of papers piled atop the counter. Good thing the front windows gave a grand view of the harbor, for otherwise the place might as well be a crypt.

  “Afternoon, miss. Can I help you?”

  Though the man’s question and gaze required an answer, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. This was no man. He was an ostrich. La! What a neck. The fellow looked as if someone had grasped the top of his head and pulled until giving up on the endeavor. The length from cravat to chin had to be a good eight inches. Was such a neck a requirement of the job—or an unfortunate result of gawking over stacks of paper?

  “Miss?”

  “Sorry, yes, of course you can help. Forgive me.” She spoke as much to God as to him. “I am here to inquire about a ship’s arrival.”

  “All right. Which one?” He folded his hands atop the papers in front of him, and though she ought not be surprised, the length of his fingers was equally amazing. Another job hazard from paging through documents?

  “Er …” She bit her lip. Had Mr. Cooper or Mr. Pickens told her the name of the ship? She revisited the conversation in her mind, but honestly, she’d not paid much attention until the payment part. Forcing her gaze to remain on the harbourmaster’s spectacles instead of his neck or fingers, she offered him a brilliant smile. “Once again, sir, I apologize. I am not quite sure of the name.”

  “Very well. We can likely pin it down if you can tell me where the ship is coming from.”

  Victory! She knew this one. “Woolwich.”

  “Aah.” His brows lifted then his head dipped. Like a lighthouse beam, he surveyed the stacks of documents upon his desk and reached for a binder to his left. “Dock number?”

  Her smile faded. So much for victory. Drat that Mr. Nutbrown for his tardiness! Did he know these missing pieces of information? “I am afraid I’m not quite sure of that.”

  The harbourmaster stopped rifling through the packet, his gaze spearing her like a hook through a codfish. “Well, what type of ship is it? Merchant? Brig? Cutter? Sloop?”

  “It is …” She licked her lips. How to answer? “Of the floating variety.”

  His mouth pulled into a frown nearly as long as his neck. “What about the kind of shipment, then? Chartered? Licensed? Packet? Military or civilian?”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she longed to see yellow stockings crossing the threshold.

  “Allow me to hazard a guess, miss. You’re not quite sure of that, either.”

  She turned back to the man. “You are very perceptive, sir.”

  He shook his head, and for a moment she worried that the movement might topple the thing from its long perch. He paged through the documents in the binder, then set the folder back down. “Sorry. Don’t see anything in the next few days arriving from Woolwich.”

  “Well, it might not be that soon. Would you mind looking further into the future? Over the next several weeks or so?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

  Which worked, somewhat. He flipped through more pages, but the accompanying scowl on his face could not be missed. “No. There is nothing. Are you sure Woolwich is the port of departure? You know that’s a military arsenal, not often used for common shipments. Maybe you’re mistaken. Was it Weymouth? Worthing? Westham?”

  Hmm. Was she sure? Tapping her lip with her finger, she recalled the entire conversation. She could’ve sworn Mr. Cooper had said Woolwich, but then again … “I suppose I might have heard incorrectly. Would you mind checking on those?”

  He stood and turned, rifling through pages on another counter against the wall. Hopefully that’s all it would take.

  The door flung open. A puppet entered, followed by Mr. Nutbrown, his long legs encased in crookedly sewn hose.

  Her eyes widened as he opened his mouth. If he spoke now—or rather the jester did—her chances at finding out the information would be lost. She shoved the puppet down and glowered at the man. “No!”

  “Sorry?” The harbourmaster turned back.

  “Oh, my friend here just arrived, reminding me we are running late.” She forced a small giggle. “If you wouldn’t mind?” She wiggled her fingers toward the back counter.

  She waited until he busied himself with the documents, then scolded on a low breath, “Put that puppet away.”

  Mr. Nutbrown pursed his lips, then shot out his arm, the absurd puppet front and center over the desk.

  “Don’t!” She warned, pulling on his sleeve.

  He shot her a glance from the corner of his eye, then opened his mouth.

  She batted his arm, a little too forcefully. The jester bobbed.

  So did Mr. Nutbrown. His arms flailed, smacking into the stacks. Papers flew, some behind the desk, some in front. A snowstorm of documents.

  The harbourmaster’s head swiveled at the noise—a disconcerting sight on such a neck. “What’s going on?”

  “So sorry! My friend lost his balance. We shall pick these up straight away.” She yanked Mr. Nutbrown down to the floor with her.

  “Put that puppet away,” she whispered. “You’re ruining everything!”

  For a horrible eternity, he shoved the puppet into her face. If the harbourmaster gawked his long neck over the counter, he’d see the spectacle and kick them both out the door. But thankfully, after a huff and a flare of nostrils, Mr. Nutbrown started picking up papers—the puppet still attached to his hand.

 
She gathered the documents scattered on her side of the tiny room, then paused as she scooped up the last one. There, written at the top in neat, black letters was the word Wool with a long line after it. Could be Woolwich, or maybe not. Looked like the name of a ship beneath it, and a date. She held it closer—

  And Mr. Nutbrown snatched the page away with his free hand.

  This was more than anyone should have to bear. “What are you doing? Why—”

  “My sentiments exactly.” The harbourmaster’s head craned over the counter, directing them both an evil eye—which suddenly narrowed. “Get out! Or I shall call the constable immediately.”

  Johanna shot to her feet, setting the stack of papers atop the counter. “My apologies, sir. My friend here is a little, well, he’s—”

  The puppet popped up beside her. “Mr. Nutbrown is exceedingly sorry for the commotion. Won’t happen again.”

  “Out!” A squall raged in the thunder of the harbourmaster’s voice. “Both of you!”

  “But Mr. Nutbrown sincerely—”

  Johanna grabbed the silly man’s sleeve and tugged him out the door, leading him down the boardwalk while his jester squabbled. When they cleared the warehouse at the side of the office, she stopped. “Really, Mr. Nutbrown! When will you learn that not everyone welcomes your absurd puppet?”

  “Not to worry, Miss Langley. Our mission is accomplished, and here you are.” He pulled a small pouch out of his pocket.

  She shook her head. “How can you say that? All we saw was a slip of paper with part of a departure name, not where the ship is set to dock, or even what kind of ship it is. I don’t feel I can take the full amount, for surely Mr. Cooper and Mr. Pickens will not be satisfied.”

  He shoved the pouch into her hand and bobbed the jester in front of him. “Mr. Nutbrown assures you they will be very satisfied, for he’s got the eyes of a snake. All the information is safe and sound.” He tapped the puppet against the side of his head. “You may take the payment in good conscience.”

  A sigh deflated the rest of her fight. She had found the paper, he had read it—and she desperately needed the weighty little pouch in her hand. “Very well,” she conceded.

  “Many thanks, Miss Langley. Must be off, now. Mr. Nutbrown is late.” The puppet disappeared around the corner of the warehouse, along with the man.

  Johanna peered into the small pouch, poking through the coins with a gloved finger. All as promised. This was a good start to rebuilding the empty safe box, but not enough to satisfy Mr. Spurge.

  And she had only a little over two weeks left to come up with the rest.

  Whistling a tune to keep Nixie happy, Lucius sped down the High Street, dodging afternoon shoppers. It wouldn’t do to be late. Not again. His business partners surely were not the cheeriest of fellows and at their last meeting had been downright abrasive. It was much more pleasant to work with Miss Langley—even if she didn’t acknowledge Nixie.

  A cramp bit into his calf, and for several steps he hop-skipped on one foot while trying to rub away the pain. It didn’t help. Fig-niggity! This would slow him down.

  Pausing, he leaned against a brick wall and kneaded out the spasm. Thick stitches of thread marred his hose. New stockings would be his first order of personal business once he received the next payment. He glanced at the sun while working out the knot. Perfect. He ought have enough time to collect his fee and make it to the hosiery store before it closed. Just the thought of luscious, new stockings drove away the remnants of his cramp, and he darted back onto the walkway.

  Two blocks down, he turned into Barwick Alley, then took another turn into a gap between two buildings. If he stretched out both hands, he could touch the walls on either side. How cozy. As if each structure were the best of friends with the other, wanting to be so near. He patted the papier-mâché lump in his waistcoat. Just like him and Nixie.

  Ahead, two dark shapes took form. Mr. Charlie sat atop a barrel. Mr. Blackie propped himself against the wall on his good leg. They were bosom companions as well, yet they’d taken him and Nixie into their circle. Perhaps he ought not think ill of them.

  Mr. Charlie jumped down off his barrel. “You got the information?”

  Retrieving Nixie, he held out his partner and cleared his throat. “Mr. Nutbrown sometimes may not run according to schedule, gentlemen, but he always accomplishes his purposes.”

  Without moving away from the wall, Mr. Blackie held out his hand. “Let’s have it, then.”

  He tapped Nixie to his temple. Twice. “It’s all up here.”

  A shameful word exploded out of Mr. Charlie. Strange. Was he having a cramp as well? Maybe, judging by the way he lunged forward on one leg.

  Mr. Blackie left the wall and shot out his arm, holding back his friend. “Not yet.” Then he angled his face, ignoring Nixie and drilling a black stare into Lucius’s eyes. “You don’t have the document, but you know what it said?” He bobbed his puppet’s head. “Of that you can be sure.”

  “Well what did it say?”

  “Confidential.”

  A worse profanity fouled the air, this time from Mr. Blackie. “Of course it was confidential. Besides that!”

  Nixie looked back at him, giving him time to recall everything he read before he turned the jester’s little head forward again. “It said there’s an East Indiaman due sometime late July third. No actual arrival time listed.”

  “Cargo?”

  “Confidential.”

  Mr. Charlie strained against Mr. Blackie’s arm. My! Despite his wooden leg, Mr. Blackjack was a strong fellow. His muscles bulged beneath his shirtsleeve.

  Even his voice was strong as he bellowed out, “I said besides that!”

  “No, you don’t understand.” He shook Nixie’s little head back and forth, emphasizing the word. “That’s what was written on the line after the word cargo.”

  “Humph.” Mr. Blackie lifted a brow at Mr. Charlie. Some kind of conversation went back and forth between them, but a silent one. Finally Mr. Blackie looked back at him—once again ignoring Nixie.

  “And the point of departure is Woolwich, you’re sure of it?”

  “Well …” Nixie’s voice stalled out.

  Mr. Blackie dropped his arm. Mr. Charlie sprung forward and grabbed Lucius by the throat, lifting him to his toes.

  Precious little air made it to his lungs. Even less made it to Nixie’s, but the brave little fellow managed to choke out, “Mr. Nutbrown. Is as sure. As he can. Be.”

  “Axe!” Mr. Blackie shouted. “Drop him.”

  Mr. Charlie let go.

  Lucius rocked back on his heels, rubbing his neck with his free hand and coughing. Nixie spluttered too. When they finally caught their breath, he held out Nixie to explain. “Because of the nature of the document, the departure was shortened to Wool with a dash after it.”

  Mr. Charlie shot a glance at his partner. “Could just be from Wool. We can’t afford to make a mistake.”

  “Could be. But not having the cargo listed, and … hmm.” A raspy noise bounced from wall to wall as Mr. Blackie scratched his jaw, then he leveled a deadly stare—at Nixie. Lucius shivered.

  Mr. Blackie glowered at Nixie. “You’re sure there was a dash after Wool?”

  Nixie bobbed his head so hard, for a horrid moment Lucius feared it might pop off. “Yes! Yes! No doubt at all.”

  A low breath grumbled out of Mr. Blackie, but then he pulled his awful gaze from Nixie and faced his friend. “That’s got to be it.”

  Mr. Charlie narrowed his eyes. “For our sakes, I hope so.”

  “You and me, both.” He faced Lucius. “You’ll have to write down that information so’s we can deliver it.”

  “But why can’t you just say it like Mr. Nutbrown—”

  This time Mr. Charlie leapt for Nixie. Lucius snatched him back, horrified. Indeed. He much preferred working with Miss Langley. Despite her sometimes scolding tone, at least she didn’t resort to such violence.

  “Not yet, Axe.” There was
no denying the command in Mr. Blackie’s voice. Mr. Charlie retreated—but only a step away.

  “What do you think we’re payin’ ye for?” Mr. Blackie pulled out a money pouch, the jingle of the coins inside sounding like new stockings. “Now then, I said write it down.”

  Confusion bowed Nixie’s head. How was he to write here? No proper desk. No ink or parchment. He held Nixie in front of him, lifting his brave little face. “Mr. Nutbrown hasn’t pen nor paper.”

  Mr. Blackie snapped his fingers. Mr. Charlie pulled out a folded scrap tucked inside his belt and held it out.

  Lucius retrieved the piece of rag paper. It was small, but with several folds. If he opened it, he could easily fit the information on one side. Nixie flung out his arms. “There’s still the issue of a pen, gentlemen.”

  A growl rumbled in Mr. Blackie’s throat—and a knife whipped out from a sheath at his side. Before Lucius could blink, Nixie was plucked from his hand and thrown to the dirt. Pain, worse than the cramp, stabbed his fingertip. Blood swelled. Deep red.

  “You better write quickly.” Mr. Charlie laughed.

  Nixie whimpered from the ground—or was that him? He leapt toward the wall and opened the paper full, glad for the size of it. Flattening the paper against the bricks, he bit his lip as he scrawled words with his fingertip. His letters were thick as he wrote. July 3. Late. East India … the pain began to ebb. So did the blood. Sweat beads popped on his forehead as he looked up at Mr. Blackie’s dark scowl. Oh dear, sweet mother! The man might sever his entire hand if he didn’t finish the message. He shoved his finger into his mouth and sucked on it, drawing a fresh flow. Finishing the last letter, he pulled his hand back from the gruesome sight.

  This time Mr. Blackie laughed. “Good. Now read the other side.”

  He hesitated, worried for Nixie. Worried for himself. Worried about what might be written on the flip side.

  “Do it!”

  Mr. Charlie’s harsh bark forced the page over. Lucius’s eyes skimmed from word to word.

  “Out loud, you idiot.”

  A lump lodged in his throat. How was he to speak without Nixie? He shot a wild look to where his friend lay facedown in the alley.