Mr. Charlie rolled his eyes, but scooped up Nixie and handed him back.
Aah. Glorious unity. Nixie trembled, and so did he. With his free hand, he gave the paper back as Nixie relayed the message. “The note says, ‘Arrange for transport of frames to Ramsgate on a vessel large enough to suit. Hire a minimal crew.’”
Tucking the paper back into his belt, Mr. Charlie faced Mr. Blackjack. “If the Indiaman’s coming here, why we taking the frames to Ramsgate?”
Mr. Blackie shrugged. “Dunno. Not ours to question.” Then he shoved a finger into Nixie’s chest. “You, lay low and stay put. We’ll find you when we next need you. And here.” He dropped a bag onto the vacated barrel. “I suppose you’ve earned this.”
Shoving past him and Nixie, they disappeared down the neck of the alley. It took all his power to simply breathe. Nixie too. That had been completely disagreeable in every possible way. Slowly, Nixie turned his little head toward him. “Why do you suppose picture frames require such a covert enterprise?”
“I don’t know, friend. But I have a feeling these gentlemen aren’t so gentle.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Alex swiped his hair over his eye, covering the ugly purple and green remnants. Not that Thomas would mind, and in fact might think the bruise a trophy to be admired. But there was a fine balance between concealment and blocking his vision, so it took him several tries. Finally satisfied, he snatched the crutch resting against the wall and yanked open his door.
Out in the hallway, Quail stopped and pivoted at the sound. “Well, well …” He dissected him with a smirk. “Look who’s returned—and not looking too good at that.”
Alex pulled the door shut behind him and faced the man. “You know, for an itinerant musician, I wonder that you’re still here.”
“And I wonder that a … how did you put it? Aah, yes. Why would a purchaser of fine wines remain in Dover? Not a hotbed of vineyards.”
“Nor is it a sufficient market for entertainers.”
“Never at a loss for words, eh Morton?” Quail narrowed his eyes, the squinty effect likely meant to be intimidating. “Neither am I.”
Alex stifled a smile. The man posed him no danger whatsoever—physically, at any rate. But if he were somehow tangled up with the traitor, or in fact was the traitor himself, well … better to let the man think he held the superior cards. He remained silent.
Quail took a step forward and lowered his voice. “Nor are you at a loss for money, apparently. Miss Langley tells me you pay your rent in guineas. However do you manage that?”
Alex froze. What the deuce? Why would Johanna tell him that? And what other information had she served Quail along with a mug and crust? He took his own step closer, matching the man’s accusing tone. “Tell me, how do you manage to survive from that cat screeching racket you call music? But I think we both know you are not a musician.”
Quail’s nostrils flared. “Nor are you a gentleman.”
A clean swipe on Quail’s part, but Alex parried with a smile. “You admit it, then.”
One by one, Quail’s fingers pulled into fists. “As neither of us are who we claim to be, then I’d say this is a draw, Morton. But I suggest you stay out of my way. Who knows? I might even return the favor.”
The man stomped down the hall and disappeared into his chamber. Alex hesitated, unsure if he ought file the conversation away under Curious, Inconsequential—or Threatening. He opted for Risky as he strode to Thomas’s door.
“Thomas?” He rapped the crutch against the wood. “Feel up to company—”
“Yes!” The answer came before he finished his question.
Tucking his gift behind him, he entered and drew near the boy’s bed.
“Caw, sir! What happened to you?” Thomas lifted up on his elbows. “You look worse than the time I took a tumble from Nanny Shuttleworth’s apple tree and she chased after me with a switch.”
As if making a solemn vow, he held his free hand over his heart. “May you never see the inside of Dover’s gaol, young sir.”
Wide brown eyes blinked up at him, an interesting mixture of horror and respect shining in them. Alex couldn’t stop a smile—nor did he want to. His heart hitched a beat, taking him completely by surprise. How could a scrap of a lad evoke such a strong emotion? He shoved down the feeling and pulled the crutch from behind his back. “Think you could put this to good use?”
Thomas beamed. “Aye, sir!”
“Shall we give it a go?”
“Aye, but …” The boy’s smile faded, and he looked away.
“But what?”
“Will it …” Thomas’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he slowly lifted his face. Whatever he had to say would cost him dearly. “Do you think it will hurt awful fierce?”
No wonder the boy’s voice quavered. Pride always exacted a price.
“Not if you keep the weight on the crutch instead of your sore leg.” Alex crouched, face-to-face. “But if you like, I’ll help bear you up for the first try.”
At Thomas’s nod of approval, he helped the boy to a sitting position, propped the crutch beneath his armpit, and prayed he’d calculated the height correctly. “On three, all right?”
At one, Thomas bit his lip. On two, he paled. But when Alex said, “Three,” the lad sucked in a breath and pushed up with all his might. Brave fellow.
After several halting steps from bed to door then back again, he helped Thomas lower onto his mattress. Sweat dotted the boy’s brow, and his thin arms shook, but a sweet smile lighted his face.
“There now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He tussled Thomas’s hair, then straightened. “We’ll practice a bit each day, and within a week, I wager you’ll be getting about all on your own.”
Thomas blinked up at him. “I didn’t know, I mean … well, having a mam and a sister is all right, I guess, but having you here—I … I missed you, that’s what. And I didn’t know I missed having a father either, not till I met you.” Alex stared. The boy’s hero worship was a knife to his heart. What a sorry hand life had dealt the lad. Thomas ought have a father to admire—a real father—not a deceiver such as himself. He swallowed the bitter aftertaste of that truth and forced out words he meant more than the boy could possibly know. “I missed you too, Thomas.”
Behind him, the door swung open. “What’s this?”
He turned at the question.
Johanna glared at the crutch in his hand. “What is that?”
He leaned the boy’s gift against the wall—making sure to keep it within arm’s reach should Thomas be brave enough to practice without him. “I had some time yesterday. Can’t simply lie around, can I? And neither can your brother.”
Thomas bounced on his bed. “Alex thinks that if I practice a little bit each day, I’ll be able to get about by myself within a week—just in time to see the Punch and Judy show Mr. Quail promised.”
“That’s a bad idea.” She scowled.
“Aw, Jo!” Thomas matched her glower. “You never have any fun, and you never let anyone else have any fun, either.”
Alex stepped between them and faced Johanna. Sometimes the best way to squelch a brawler was to block the view of the opponent. “You can’t keep the boy in here forever. He’s on the mend, and surely you’ll want his help again soon.”
A sigh bowed her shoulders. “I suppose.” She rose to her toes and peeked over his shoulder at Thomas. “But at least wait until the doctor comes in two more days. If he says it’s all right, then all right.”
Alex gifted her with a grin. “Well done.”
She arched a brow, clearly partaking of none of his charm. “But in the meantime, knowing the both of you, I’ll hold on to that.” Leaning sideways, she reached past him and grabbed the crutch, the effort lifting her sleeve away from her wrist and inching the fabric slightly up her forearm—where three bruises ugly enough to match his own marred her skin.
His smile disappeared. God help the man who’d put them there.
H
e stepped to the door. “A word with you, Miss Langley. Out in the hall, if you please.”
She clutched the crutch to her chest. “You’re wasting your time. I’ll not change my position until we get the doctor’s go-ahead.”
He shifted a pointed gaze to her arm. “It’s not about the crutch.”
Johanna stiffened. Drat! Though she’d tried to keep her sleeve close to her wrist, Alex’s face had hardened when it slid upward. Did the man miss nothing? She’d known him for barely a month, yet she knew what that offset angle to his jaw meant. And the rigid line of his shoulders. He’d have his way or die in the trying. He’d evicted Mr. Nutbrown for a simple lack of payment—and quite forcefully, at that. What would he do to Tanny if he found out the man roughed her up now and then? Not that Tanny didn’t deserve a good dose of his own medicine, but still … Alex yet wore the bruised remains of gaol on his face. Another visit and he might not have a face left at all.
She darted past him and scurried down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Sorry, no time now.”
“I won’t be put off so easily.” His footsteps kept time with hers, down the stairs, through the taproom, across the kitchen—even out the door and into the back courtyard. Really, the man ought to go into business with Mr. Spurge, so fixated was he.
She dashed toward the stable.
His shoes pounded the gravel, close behind. “Not that I mind the view from back here, but how long will you keep up this merry chase?”
She ignored him, upping her pace. To face him now would only encourage his roguish charm.
“Johanna, for the love of all that’s righteous, just stop. I’ll not give up. And if you think you can hitch up Posey to outrun me—”
Gritting her teeth, she whirled and planted her fists on her hips, cutting him off. “There is nothing to discuss. Go about your business, and I shall go about mine.”
Afternoon sun lit golden strands in his brown hair, highlighted even more as he closed in on her. “Fine, but first roll up your sleeve. I wish to see your arm.”
Pah! He was as bullish as Mr. Needler. But as she breathed in his warmth and sandalwood shaving cologne, her knees weakened in a completely different way than when she faced Tanny.
Still, he had no right to be so demanding. She didn’t budge.
He reached for her arm.
She retreated a step. The outright boldness! “You may wish all you like, sir, for I will not roll up my sleeve. I am no servant to be ordered about, nor am I a loose skirt.”
Instantly, his hand dropped to his side, a grimace pulling at his lips. “My apologies, for you are correct on both accounts. My directness suits for my work, I suppose, but I never should have used such a manner with you. Forgive me?”
He hung his head while peeking up at her through his lashes. A sheep caught in a briar couldn’t have looked more contrite. She stifled a growl. Who could stay cross when facing this?
“Yes.” She sighed. “I forgive you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She spun, returning to her previous mission—retrieving a big bucket for Mam.
A tug on her shoulder turned her back around. “Even so, I will see your arm, with or without your cooperation.”
Once, on the High Street, she’d seen a mule dig in its hooves, refusing to pull a cart one more inch despite the railing of the driver. Curses, blows, even the offering of a carrot would not convince the animal to budge.
Such was the ripple of resolve lining Alexander’s brow—right at the point where his discolored bruise faded into tanned skin. Was tenacity the reason he bore such wounds?
She scowled—but slowly pushed up her sleeve, then held out her forearm like a peevish four-year-old.
Stepping near, he cradled her arm in his big hand and bent over it, his breath warmer than the June sunshine against her skin. Her heart beat loud in her ears. Curse the man for making her feel so precious, like a teacup to be mourned for the chip on its rim. She had no right to feel this cherished. His gentle grip cupped her elbow, treating her as if she were delicate and prized and dearly loved.
He studied the marks with a penetrating gaze, then carefully pulled the fabric back down to her wrist. When he let go completely, she nearly wobbled from the loss.
“How did that happen?” His voice was low and dangerous.
She bit the inside of her cheek. What to say? If she named Tanny, surely Alex would seek retribution. But to lie … well … was that not as ugly in God’s eyes as Tanny’s brutality? She’d be no better than her father.
Even so, a perfectly plausible falsehood sprang to her lips, and she bit her cheek harder. Suddenly she knew exactly how Thomas felt when she cornered him … how her father had when confronted by her mother.
Alex lifted a finger to her lips and tapped lightly. “And do not deign to tell me those marks were somehow caused by accident, for they were not. You are a woman who prizes honesty, as do I.”
She swallowed, suddenly overcome. This man was nothing like her father, despite his gaming ways, for he valued truth as much as she. Maybe it was time for her to trust God and take a risk of her own in allowing herself to love Alexander Morton.
“Very well.” She lifted her chin. “I was late in my oakum delivery to Mr. Needler.”
“Blast!” Anger banked in his eyes, turning the blue to a smoldering ash—and threatening to flare into a red rage. “You are finished there. Do not go back.”
She’d laugh if bitterness weren’t closing her throat, and it was a fight indeed to force out any words. “That’s easy for you to say.”
He shook his head. “There are other means of gaining income, if that’s what you’re about.”
“You don’t understand. There is nothing else.” She cast her hands wide, wishing she could as easily cast all her troubles to the wind. “Believe me, I’ve tried. Needler’s oakum and Quail’s silly Punch and Judy show are my last hope to pay the rent in two weeks.”
There. She’d said it. Aloud. And voicing it made the workhouse all the more real and dreadful and—the world turned blurry. Hot tears burned at the back of her eyes. No. She would not cry, not in front of a bruised man with enough troubles of his own.
She pivoted and fairly ran toward the stable.
“Johanna!” He darted around her, quick as a jackdaw, and stood immovable in her path. “You’re right. There is nothing else, but not in the way you mean it. As valiant as your efforts are, all this striving of yours is but a puff of wind. I had a lot of time to think and pray while in solitary, and I learned something that may be of help, for I see some of the same tendencies of mine in you. Would you like to hear it?”
She sucked in a shaky breath, shoving back the good cry that threatened. Not trusting her voice, she gave a stiff nod.
“It’s a simple truth. One I’ve overlooked all my life, and here it is.” Running a hand through his hair, he tipped his face up to the sky. “There is nothing more—nor less—than trusting in God. Therein surrender, and you will find rest.”
“Rest?” She spit out the word, despite his earnestness. “What kind of rest is there in the workhouse? I can’t let that happen.”
His face lowered to hers, his stare unrelenting. “It’s not up to you, Johanna. It’s up to God. Do you believe that?”
“Of course I do.”
“Your actions say otherwise, the way you’re running yourself ragged, the worry I see in your eyes, the sharpness with your brother.”
She shrank back, her gaze driven to the ground. Truly? Was that what she’d been doing for all the world to witness? For Alex and Mam and—she sucked in a breath. For God to see? Shame twisted her stomach.
Oh God, forgive me. He’s right. He’s so, so right.
Slowly, she lifted her face. As much as this man rankled and shook her world, she ought give him credit for speaking truth. “Thank you.”
A grin spread, making little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “I’m not the one you should be thanking.”
He skirted her and strode toward the
inn, leaving her alone in the center of the courtyard. Alone with myriad upon myriad of thoughts.
She lifted her face to the same sky he’d faced just moments ago. “Things might not get any easier, Lord, but even so, Mr. Morton is right. It is You I should be thanking and trusting. The thanking part I can do, but the trust? Ah, Lord … You know me, better than I know myself. I cannot make any promises to trust You like I should, but I shall try—with Your help, that is.”
The sun beat down, pure and strong, as hot and real as the new hope springing up inside her—but would hope alone be strong enough to sustain her and Mam and Thomas should the workhouse be their end?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dover was a’scream this early in the morning. Literally. From knife-sharpening hawkers to arguing dray drivers, noise boxed Alex’s ears more thoroughly than his shouting match with Tanny Needler. The scoundrel. It had taken all of his self-reserve—and an extra measure gained from an on-the-run prayer—to keep from bloodying the man’s nose. He flexed his fingers as he dodged a sausage-seller’s cart, temptation to turn back still surging. Needler deserved an uppercut and worse for his conduct toward Johanna.
But a croaky voice echoing in an alley slowed his steps. He cocked his head, listening hard, and there, a layer beneath the hum of commerce and life on the High Street, a familiar twang crawled out from the alley. Alex dared a peek around the corner, though he needn’t have. Blackjack’s toothless dialect was one in a million.
Two shapes, one tall and listing sideways on a single, strong leg, the other short and squat, with a shock of red hair escaping a hat brim, faced a wide-eyed Nutbrown. If Blackie or Axe turned his way, the knuckle-buster he itched for would be satisfied—but also ruin his mission. And on these crowded streets, he’d not only provide entertainment but newspaper headlines as well.
Alex eased back, remaining within hearing range yet out of their sight.
“But gentlemen, Mr. Nutbrown has said he’s excessively sorry to be late once again. Business, my fine fellows. Business is a harsh taskmaster and prodigiously time consuming.”
The Innkeeper's Daughter Page 23
