Lady Blythe’s house was a few minutes’ walk from the harbor. It had been further inland, but due to the ever-encroaching nature of the sea, it was now closer to the water’s edge, in the busiest part of town. It was a prosperous home, added to over time and built almost entirely of stone. It had real wood floors and a roof laid with slate, not the more-commonly used thatch that rotted and began to leak after a time. Real glazed windows reflected the morning sunshine in their diamond-shaped panes, and smoke curled from several chimneys, proclaiming the owner’s ability to light fires in different rooms, despite the cost.
Petra knocked on the door and waited, a part of her hoping that she would be turned away and told never to come back. The door was opened by a young girl, who looked at Petra with surprise.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I wish to see Lady Devon. I’m willing to wait for as long as it takes,” Petra added, since she had no appointment.
“Come in then. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
Petra was ushered into an antechamber that was furnished with only a bench and two tall candles in iron stands. The candles weren’t lit since the room was bathed in natural light, which poured through the window set high in the wall. The light made a pretty pattern on the floor, distorting the panes and making their reflection look slanted and elongated. Petra took a seat and folded her hands in her lap, prepared to wait. Even if Lady Blythe was unoccupied, she’d never see her without making her wait first, to remind her of her lowly station.
The minutes slid by, reminding Petra of how hungry she was. She’d barely eaten that morning, too nervous to swallow the thin porridge Maude made several days ago. It had thickened considerably from being repeatedly reheated, but it was still gruel, and Petra couldn’t stomach it. Her mouth watered at the thought of an eel pie. What she wouldn’t give for a nice, thick slice. If she had coin to spare, she’d go to the market and buy herself a treat, but she couldn’t afford to waste even a halfpenny. Besides, it was the first Thursday of the month, the day the monks collected market fees, leaving stall owners feeling disgruntled and angry. For men of cloth who believe in poverty and charity, they certainly never miss an opportunity to line their pockets, Petra thought bitterly. The king had granted Greyfriars numerous rights, ranging from collecting market tax to owning all the dung in the town, which they collected street by street and from the town ditch. Anyone who required dung to fertilize their fields had to buy it back from the monks, making the priory wealthier with each passing day. Many in the town praised the monks for their charitable works, but in Petra’s view, they owed the people of Dunwich, considering how much they took. Hunger is making me ill-tempered, Petra thought as she glanced at the door. I’d do well to keep my anger in check.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat there, but the light had changed from the bright glare of morning to the gentler glow of early afternoon. Finally, the servant appeared, looking a bit flustered.
“Lady Blythe’s confessor is just leaving. She’ll see you presently.”
Petra turned as a tall man in clerical robes came through the inner door. He held a prayer book and a rosary in one hand and his hat in the other, his gaze fixed on the door. He might have walked straight past her had Petra not inhaled sharply and caught his attention. His hair was cut short, his cheeks lean in a clean-shaven face. He looked almost gaunt, and very stern, but his gaze softened when it settled on Petra, his lips turning up the corners just enough to hint at a smile. He was about to say something when he noticed the curious stare of the servant and changed his mind. He bowed stiffly and departed, leaving Petra shaking with shock. She hadn’t seen him in twelve years, but the heat that flooded her face was a testament to the fact that not much had changed, at least not for her.
Petra quickly rearranged her face into an expression of bland docility and followed the servant into Lady Blythe’s parlor. The old woman was sitting in front of a roaring fire, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes alert. She didn’t offer Petra a seat. Instead, she motioned for her to stand far enough from the hearth so as not to enjoy any actual warmth. Lady Blythe studied Petra for a few moments, as if trying to recall exactly where she’d seen her before.
“How’s your mother?” she finally asked, admitting that she knew her visitor.
“She’s well, lady.”
“Heard about your husband. Shame,” Lady Blythe said. She had an abrupt way of speaking, almost as if she couldn’t be bothered to waste unnecessary words on those beneath her.
“Thank you, lady.”
“Need work, do you?”
Lady Blythe laughed when Petra looked surprised by the question. “Why else would you be here? Not like you harbor any warm feeling for me. And not like you should. I worked you hard. You needed to learn discipline and humility.”
“Yes, lady.”
“Don’t ‘yes, lady’ me. Just say your piece. You’re a grown woman now. Act like one.”
Petra bristled at the old woman’s tone, but rose to the challenge. She was right; Petra was a grown woman, and the woman in front of her was much smaller and less intimidating than she recalled. Lady Blythe had aged over the past twelve years, her shrunken body small in the massive carved chair. Had she not had a foot stool, her feet would have dangled in the air, like a child’s.
“Lady Blythe, my husband’s death left me short of means. I have three children and an elderly mother who depend on me. I would be grateful for any work you could offer me.”
“That’s better. Any work?” Lady Blythe asked with a predatory smile.
Petra wanted to scream that she had no wish to scrub pots, take out Lady Blythe’s chamber pot, or pick over wool in the shed, but she was in no position to be choosy. “Any work,” she repeated, her tone firm.
“Things have changed somewhat since you were last here. My sons are grown men and no longer feel the need to heed a mother who’s in her dotage. Robert established a household of his own years ago, but Thomas has recently returned, having lost his wife and married off his daughter. He’s taken over the business from me, so I don’t see much of him. I am here alone most days. The only person I see is Father Avery. I have servants to do the lowly work. What I need is a companion.” Lady Blythe burst out laughing when she saw Petra’s look of shock.
“Is spending time with me more off-putting than scrubbing pots, girl?”
“No, lady. It would be my pleasure to be your companion.”
“So, you’ll do it just for the pleasure of it?” the old lady cackled.
“No, lady. I don’t have the luxury of donating my time for free. I have a family to feed,” Petra replied, angry that the old woman was goading her.
“No, you don’t the luxury. I will pay you a fair wage. In return, you will sit with me, read to me, pray with me, and eat with me. Can you read?”
“Yes, lady. I know my letters.”
“Who taught you?” Lady Blythe demanded. Most women in Dunwich were illiterate, as were the men. They had no need of reading as long as they knew how to count.
“My stepfather. He was taught his letters by his uncle, who was a priest,” Petra replied. That wasn’t strictly true. She’d been taught by her mother, who’d been taught by her own father, but it wouldn’t do to tell Lady Blythe that a woman so far beneath her own station knew how to read, when Lady Blythe probably didn’t.
“I will read any book you like,” Petra said, instantly regretting her choice of words when she saw the thunderous look that passed over Lady Blythe’s features.
“The only book I like is the Bible, you dimwit. You will read the Holy Scriptures, and you will treat them with reverence. Is that understood?”
“Yes, lady.”
“You may start tomorrow. I will not expect you to live here since you have children, but you will arrive at seven and remain until I’m ready for my bed. Don’t look so horrified. I retire early these days. I will pay you once a month and include your meals in the bargain. Here,” Lady Blythe reached into
the pocket of her gown and produced several coins. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t desperate. Buy food for your family, enough to tide you over until you receive your wages. Now go.”
“Thank you, lady,” Petra breathed, grateful despite her animosity toward the woman. Perhaps she’d misjudged her.
Petra fled before Lady Blythe had a change of heart, and went directly to the market. She steeled her heart against the eel pie and instead bought a bag of grain, several herrings to fry for their supper, and a jar of lard for cooking. She also purchased several marrow bones, with bits of meat still clinging to the smooth surfaces, and a couple of onions. She would leave the rest of the money with Maude. Her mother enjoyed going to the market and would make the coins stretch further than Petra would.
Petra wished that she’d brought her basket. There was nothing to carry her purchases in, and no one was kind enough to give her a sack or a wooden crate. It was slow going and awkward, but she finally managed to get her loot home, smiling widely as she came through the door.
“Herrings for supper,” Petra announced happily as she handed the bones wrapped in flax to her mother and set down the bag of grain.
“She’s received you, then?” Maude asked.
“I start tomorrow.”
“Praise the Blessed Virgin,” Maude exclaimed, crossing herself. “Our Holy Mother is looking after us.”
Chapter 12
January 2014
Near Sheffield, England
“Move over and let me drive for a while,” Quinn said when they stopped at a petrol station to fill the tank and get a snack. They were about halfway to Edinburgh, with at least another four hours ahead of them. The day was fairly mild, a hazy winter sunshine lighting their way as they sped along. The fields glistened with last night’s frost and the trees created intricate designs against the pale-blue sky.
“I’m all right,” Gabe protested as he turned toward the driver’s side.
“No, you’re not. You barely slept last night, and you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday. You look like death warmed over,” Quinn said, exaggerating a bit to prove her point. “Here, I got you a ham sandwich and a cup of tea.”
Gabe smiled ruefully, knowing when he was beaten. “Yes, ma’am. I will eat the sandwich and take a nap. And if you do anything to my beloved Jaguar while I sleep, there will be hell to pay.”
“Oh, give me some credit,” Quinn protested. “I can drive in a straight line, and as long as some tree doesn’t jump out at me, I think I can manage to keep your ride safe.”
Gabe’s arched eyebrow said it all, but he obediently handed over the keys and settled into the passenger seat where he unwrapped the sandwich, made a face of distaste, but took a bite anyway, chewing obediently. For someone who could barely boil an egg, Gabe was quite a connoisseur when it came to eating out, and a sandwich from the petrol station was not up to his usual standards.
“Just eat,” Quinn said, silencing whatever he was about to say. “You don’t have to enjoy it.”
Gabe took another bite, but his eyelids were already growing heavy, his body desperate for rest. He’d come to bed late last night, and after tossing and turning for several hours was up just after 3 a.m. Quinn found him lounging on the sofa when she woke up, with some awful horror movie from the 1970s playing on the screen.
Quinn reached over and took the hot cup out of Gabe’s hand just before he nodded off, his half-eaten sandwich forgotten. She hoped that the motion of the car would lull him into a deep sleep; he needed it. Quinn put on her sunglasses and stepped on the gas pedal. The Jaguar purred and sprang into life, chewing up the miles as she sped toward Scotland. It was still early enough that there weren’t too many cars on the road, so Quinn could relax and enjoy the ride. She had to admit that she welcomed a little bit of solitude. Gabe’s news knocked her for a loop, and in her effort to support him as he rode his emotional roller coaster, she’d had virtually no time to analyze her own reaction to the sudden change in their lives.
Quinn stared straight ahead as she mulled over the situation. She wasn’t upset with Gabe for fathering a child. He was a man in his late-thirties, and had enjoyed his share of relationships over the past two decades. He’d done nothing wrong, and the only one to blame in this situation was Jenna McAllister, who chose not to tell Gabe that he had a child. Quinn could understand her motives, but she was angry on Gabe’s behalf, knowing how much he would have cherished time with Emma. He’d missed a crucial part of her childhood, time that he’d never get back. And now he was coming to her a stranger, a man she’d never met rather than a father she loved and could turn to for comfort.
Quinn sighed. She’d indulged in several daydreams over the past two months in which she and Gabe had a baby, but she certainly hadn’t expected that the baby would come before the wedding or would be four years old. Quinn’s heart went out to the little girl who’d just lost her mother and grandmother, but she wouldn’t be honest with herself if she said that she wasn’t just a tiny bit resentful. This was her time to obsess over wedding gowns, choose flowers, and bask in the love of her fiancé; instead, she was about to become a stepmother to a child she’d never met, who would probably completely take over Gabe’s heart and leave her out in the cold.
Quinn knew she was being melodramatic, but, truth be told, she was scared that Emma would replace her in Gabe’s affections. What if he decided to call off the wedding and focus on Emma instead? Would Quinn understand or feel hurt and betrayed? She supposed that if Gabe wanted to put their plans on hold, she would support him in his decision, despite her hurt. She wanted to marry him and begin their life together, not spend a year or more in a holding pattern, waiting for Gabe to get to a place where he felt like he could commit to her without disrupting Emma’s life.
Quinn reached for Gabe’s mobile and opened the picture Mrs. Lennox sent her. Looking at her from the screen was an adorable little girl, her dark-blue eyes huge in a heart-shaped face, which was framed by dark waves that reached to her shoulders. She looked heartbreakingly like her father, a female version of the boy he had been. Emma was lovely, and visibly traumatized by the events of the past week and a half. Quinn smiled at the picture of Emma, angry with herself for being such a shrew. This child needed her, and she would love her as if she were her own daughter. And if Gabe needed time, then she would give him all the time in the world because for the first time in her life, she was truly in love and loved in return, and she would do nothing to jeopardize that.
Chapter 13
January 2014
Edinburgh, Scotland
By the time Quinn and Gabe finally got to their destination, a winter twilight settled over the city, casting the skyline in a lovely shade of lavender. It was colder than it had been in London, a dusting of snow blanketing open areas and silvering tree branches. Gabe parked the car and looked up at the light spilling from the first-floor windows. Emma was behind those windows, but they had to attend to business first and see Mr. Lennox in his ground-floor office. Quinn reached out for Gabe’s hand, squeezing it in a gesture of support. His hand was freezing cold. He was nervous.
“Come, let’s get this done,” he said and walked toward the stone steps leading up to the door.
A young woman let them in and asked them to wait while she informed Mr. Lennox that his next appointment was there. Quinn glanced around the office. It was comfortable, somewhat old-fashioned, and completely devoid of any artifice, much like the man himself. When Mr. Lennox came out to greet them, Quinn instantly warmed to him. He was an older man, possibly in his mid-fifties, dressed in a pair of charcoal-gray corduroys paired with a comfortable woolen cardigan over a white shirt. He wore a tie, but still looked relaxed and casual. He was of average height, with sandy hair, warm brown eyes, and a friendly smile. Mr. Lennox introduced himself and shook their hands, treating them like old friends.
“Do come into my office. Would you like a cup of tea? Or perhaps something a wee bit stronger?”
“Tea
please,” Gabe replied. Drinking hard liquor before meeting his little girl for the first time would not be the best idea, nor would it give Mr. Lennox a very good impression of him. Mr. Lennox must have anticipated Gabe’s answer because a tea tray appeared moments later, brought in by the assistant who let them in earlier. She poured out three cups and left as quietly as she had come. Gabe didn’t touch his tea, but Quinn added a splash of milk and took a sip. She always found the act of making and drinking tea soothing, and, at the moment, the warmth of the teacup in her hands was pleasantly calming. Mr. Lennox, who took his time adding sugar and milk to his tea, drank deeply, then turned back to Gabe, who was waiting patiently for the tea ceremony to end.
“I know you must be very anxious to meet Emma, but we have a few documents to go over and some papers for you to sign. I will need a picture I.D., Dr. Russell. Just a formality, you understand.”
Gabe handed over his passport, which looked well-used and had numerous stamps from all the places Gabe had visited in the last few years. Mr. Lennox studied the photo, then nodded and handed the document back, satisfied. “Now then, I have some documents here pertaining to Emma. Here’s her birth certificate, her passport, and a copy of her medical file. I also took the liberty of including this photo album. I thought you might wish to see it, and Emma will certainly need a keepsake once she’s older. There are several pictures of Jenna and Emma. You might wish to remove them, but I think Emma will want to have pictures of her mother.”
The Forgotten (Echoes from the Past Book 2) Page 6
