by Aileen Adams
Her hands shook as she ran a wide-toothed comb through her tresses. She noted the tremor and chided herself for it. What had become of her? In such a short time, she’d gone from being the mistress of the household and a bit of a nag—her sister’s chief complaint—to a trembling, frightened old maid.
There was work to be done. She squared her shoulders and quickly rewound her braid before slipping out of her nightdress and into one of two everyday kirtles she owned. Both were in need of replacement, worn thin in the elbows and the seat, but there was little she could do about that in the immediate future.
What was Margery wearing in London?
It was easier to imagine her being there, living a vibrant life in a vibrant town. Better than the alternative, that she’d died weeks earlier.
Did Margery ever miss the fresh, clean air of the farm just after dawn? Beatrice filled her lungs with all the air she could as she walked to the barn, using the footpath that had long since been worn between the house’s rear door and the long, ramshackle building. It needed work. Everything needed work. But there was no one on the farm to do it.
“Good morning, Bess,” she murmured to the tawny cow as she entered the barn.
It had once been full of life, every stall occupied. There had been young men on hand to do the milking, to clean the stalls and feed the animals. It was the same with the stables. Theirs had been a thriving enterprise, one her father was proud of.
But pride was a sin.
Mother had reminded her and Margery of this nearly every day of their lives. She’d held up their very father as an example of the sin of pride, of what it could do to an otherwise God-fearing person’s life. If Papa hadn’t been so proud, hadn’t always wanted to expand his land holdings and grow the farm’s prosperity, God would not have struck him down.
Even as a child, this hadn’t made sense to Beatrice. She’d always questioned things, silently, rarely including Margery until she was certain her sister was old enough to keep a secret. It made little sense that a man who only wanted to provide a secure future for his daughters would be struck down for it.
What was so sinful about working hard and taking pleasure in the results?
From what she’d heard in the years after her father’s death, mostly from friends such as old Cedric, he’d been a fair man. Modest, kind, generous. He hadn’t built wealth for sake of his pride.
He wasn’t like the noblemen, including the one whose land abutted her own. He hadn’t merely bought up all the land around him in a show of power.
And he hadn’t forgotten the good of his soul, either. Deacon Eddard had assured the sisters on more than one occasion of their father’s godliness, how he had always placed his duty to God above all else. Just slightly above his duty to his family, who were granted to him by God and therefore deserving of the remainder of his devotion.
Beatrice sighed over this as she finished milking Bess, who let out a deep moo. Beatrice wondered if this was the cow’s way of thanking her for relieving the pressure in her udders.
“And thank you, my friend,” she whispered, running a hand over the silky flank. “Thank you for the cream and milk and butter.”
Mother had been wrong. Beatrice was certain of it, more certain every time she remembered all the whispered admonishments and warnings of an eternity spent in hellfire. Papa’s sin wasn’t pride. If anything, he had worked too hard and compromised his health in order to assure his daughters that they would have enough to their names when it came time to find husbands.
What a laughable prospect that was. She chuckled over it as she carried the full milk pail to the house and left it just inside the door before fetching the bucket of dried grain for the chickens and the basket for the eggs. A husband? Where, exactly?
Perhaps when she reached London…
The chicken coop was alive with activity when she stepped through the creaky wooden gate which enclosed the birds.
“Good morning, ladies.” She scattered grain over the ground. The half-dozen surviving hens pecked at their meal, chattering among themselves as always. She liked the sound, liked feeling as though someone on the farm wasn’t painfully lonely.
Not like her.
The sound of hoofbeats reached her ears as she finished gathering the eggs. Stepping out of the coop, picking straw from her hair, she recognized the deacon on the back of his old gray mare riding up the road.
“Good morning, Deacon Eddard!” she called out with a wave. It was nice, seeing another person so early in the day.
It didn’t take long for her to realize he wasn’t smiling. She hurried down the dirt path leading from the yard to the trail leading to the road and met the horse at her front gate.
The man’s thin face looked markedly more pinched and sallow than usual as he gazed down at her from above. As always, he wore dark clothing and kept his head covered. She wondered what his graying hair was like underneath. Thin, most likely. As the rest of him.
“Would that I were bringing you better news, my child.” His mouth drooped at the corners, as though something was weighing him down.
An icy hand closed around her heart and she realized she couldn’t breathe. No, it wasn’t possible. Not Margery, not the only other person she had in the entire world. It was one thing to convince herself of her sister’s death in an effort to prepare herself for what seemed like the inevitable, but another to face it as a fact.
Her hands closed around the worn, old fenceposts as she fought to remain on her feet. When she squeezed, the splintered wood sent a jolt of pain from her palms to her arms and revived her somewhat.
No. Not Margery.
Swallowing back the panic rising in her throat, she whispered, “What is it?”
“I’m afraid I’m on my way to Cedric Brown’s. Word has it, he went to his heavenly reward last night.”
It wasn’t Margery.
Relief nearly took the knees out from under her, even as her heart ached for the loss of her friend. Margery would be crushed. The two of them had become quite close, with her sister looking at the older man as a father figure in the absence of her own father.
“I’m so sorry to hear of this,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
The narrowing of the deacon’s eyes told her he mistook her deep relief for sorrow. “It comes to all of us, my dear. Cedric was a good man, an honest and true servant of the Lord. He is undoubtedly in the Heavenly Kingdom this very morning.”
“I have no doubt.” Her voice was stronger, clearer, even if she had merely rattled off the words she knew he expected her to say.
He wasn’t there to tell her about Margery.
Her senses returned. “Would you like company on the ride to the mill?”
“No, thank you. I understand the miller’s daughter has come in from the village and there is no telling whether she would appreciate the additional company. But I will extend your sympathy to her.”
“Yes, please, do.”
Winifred Bowman was a rather unpleasant woman on a good day, the two of them having crossed paths several times. Always going on about her husband and their bakery and their children, then remembering aloud how Beatrice would have no knowledge of such things.
As though she needed the reminder of her loneliness and the fact that she was past marriageable age.
She’d wondered to herself on these occasions, as she’d ridden home on the back of old Cecil, if Winifred thought the visits between her father and a young, unmarried woman were improper. Only a woman with a nasty, cunning mind such as hers would come to such a conclusion.
Better Beatrice stay home, for certain.
As the deacon lifted his reins, about to continue on his way, Beatrice added, “If you would, please, join me for a cup of tea on your return. I’m always grateful for the company.”
“I look forward to it,” he assured her before continuing his ride.
She sighed heavily, leaning against the fence for another few minutes as the mare and her rider grew smaller and
smaller in the distance. Another loss, one which she hadn’t imagined hurting as much as it did.
Her heart clenched when she called to mind the pleasant hours she’d spent with the miller, sitting in front of his hearth as he’d regaled her with memories of her father. They were young men together, and he seemed to sense her unspoken craving to know more about the father who’d left her far too soon.
As unpleasant as Winifred Bowman was, Beatrice was moved to offer up a silent prayer for her sake. They had both lost their father.
Except Winifred was a full-grown woman with a husband and two children. Security. And memories of a kind father which didn’t need to come by secondhand, through his old friends.
What did Beatrice have? She thought it over as she walked to the house, no longer in the mood for the morning meal she’d planned to prepare for herself before spotting the deacon’s horse on the road.
There was nothing but the remnants of what was once a thriving farm. She would never cease expressing gratitude for the roof over her head and the land which was still theirs, even if it went unused. It was still considered prime land and would’ve gone for an attractive price had she decided to sell.
But she couldn’t. It would mean letting go of the last bit of her father and her family. And there was no telling how Margery would feel about it. Imagine finding out one’s land was sold out from beneath them! Even though Beatrice would share the proceeds evenly, it would feel as though she’d stolen something from her sister.
And there were no buyers. This was an important factor, one which had sealed Margery’s decision to forge a new destiny for the two of them. No one wanted to buy the farm, and neither woman knew how to arrange such a deal. There would be no telling whether they were receiving a fair offer even if someone were to express interest.
She sank into a chair at the table in front of the kitchen hearth, and the silence stretched out around her yet again. The silence that had become her life and would be her life until it ended.
One word pierced the silence, whispered by a brokenhearted sister. “Margery.”
Chapter 4
England. Broc pushed his qualms away and hoped for no difficulties. A sentiment he couldn’t share with his travel companions.
“Have you been here before?” Hugh asked as the three of them strode down the dock, having rowed from the ship only minutes earlier.
“England?” Broc asked.
Hugh nodded.
Broc scratched his jawline. “When business called for it, yes.”
“Before you came to work with me,” Derek clarified, then turned to his brother. “I never could convince him to accompany a shipment anywhere along the English coast. Always claimed to prefer France.”
“Which I do,” Broc pointed out.
“I see.” Hugh chuckled. “So, which is it? A lover in France or a jilted woman here in England?” He laughed along with Derek.
Broc didn’t laugh.
“I can’t speak for either of you, but I could use a decent meal and something which passes for a bed,” he growled, surveying the town which sat beyond the harbor. In many ways, it wasn’t unlike Kirkcaldy, though it wasn’t as raucous and seemed considerably better kept.
Derek noticed, too. “No wonder Margery had no idea what she was in for on landing in Kirkcaldy,” he observed with a wry smile. “From what I understand, Silloth is the older of the two and better established, while Kirkcaldy has grown beyond all expectations in a much shorter amount of time. The village hasn’t had the chance to establish itself well, whereas this has.”
And it had. Broc spied no fewer than three steeples which rose up over the thatched roofs of the homes and businesses which comprised the village, meaning religion had taken hold there. That alone spoke of what one would find on closer inspection.
There were taverns, too, and Broc would’ve wagered the clothes on his back that there was more than one brothel in the area. They were a necessary evil in the eyes of the many. Men had needs which needed to be met. He’d visited brothels before, as a seaman, and knew how to spot them almost the moment his feet hit dry land.
But that wasn’t his concern. Those early, lusty days were behind him. Not that he’d stopped thinking of women entirely. A rather comely lass exited a spinster’s shop as the three of them explored, favoring him with a smile, which he returned in kind, but he had stopped looking for quick pleasures in dark corners.
That was for young, untested men, men with more pent-up energy than was good for them. No one would dare call him old, not at the age of seven-and-twenty, but he’d gotten such activity out of his system years hence.
Derek spotted the inn first and pointed to it. “That’s where Margery spent the night before stowing away. She said the place was clean and reputable.”
“If there’s one person whose opinion I respect when it comes to such matters…” Broc chuckled, and the others joined in.
She had all but lectured the two of them on propriety several times after they’d first crossed paths, and he would never forget the stricken look on her face when Derek recounted how he had found her staring, open mouthed, at a man and his paid companion as they coupled in the shadows of a narrow street.
Beatrice would be the same way, no doubt. Sheltered, innocent of the world’s many evils and vices, stunned beyond belief at what people were willing to do when they knew they could get away with it. With very high standards for herself and others.
Margery was correct. The inn was downright cheerful, spotlessly clean and owned by a jolly older couple who seemed to find humor in everything.
“Come, come!” the owner exclaimed, chuckling as he led the way to the second floor. His flushed cheeks flushed even darker when he laughed, and his round belly shook from the effort. Broc found his mood lightening as a result.
Hugh and Derek would share a large room while Broc would have a room of his own. It was a treat for him, never before having been afforded the luxury of privacy while he was traveling.
The room was small but serviceable, with clean linens covering a tick stuffed with clean straw and a small window which allowed fresh air to circulate. He breathed deep of the sea, just beyond the wide street before him.
They were fortunate to find such an agreeable establishment. So unlike some of the cramped, filthy places in which he’d spent the night in the past. More than once, he’d chosen to row back out to the ship and sleep onboard rather than spent a sleepless night breathing in the foulness of human and animal waste.
It was pleasant enough to make him regret having to leave in the morning, but there was no time to waste. They had to get to Thrushwood and convince Beatrice to come with them. He had his doubts as to the ease of the task ahead, but he didn’t wish to share his misgivings with the others for fear of being regarded as a problem.
They had no idea of his true hesitations, and he had no intention of revealing them.
A knock on the wall which separated their rooms tore Broc from the dark path his thoughts had turned down. He stepped out into the corridor, where Hugh was waiting.
“We’ll go to the stables to see about securing horses for the trip.”
“I’ll go along.” He preferred to choose his own mount, and needed to move about and find other things to think on. The liveliness of the village would do nicely, he was certain. “Give me a minute to wash myself.”
Hugh snorted. “Why? Do you wish to impress the horses?”
Broc glanced in the direction of the room the McInnis brothers shared, where Derek waited in the doorway. “No. I wish to remove as many reasons for the owner of the stable to refuse us as possible. Or have you forgotten that we’re in foreign territory?”
“How could I forget, with these accents all around me?” He wiggled a finger in his ear as if to clean it out.
Derek stepped back into the room. “He’s right. We’re too travel weary to think straight, but Broc isn’t. We should do everything in our power to make a good showing in the village, even if we’
ll only be staying a single night. After all, we’re relying on help from the villagers to get us through our journey.”
“The innkeepers didn’t seem to mind our being Scottish, and rather rough from travel.” Hugh looked down the stairs, and the sounds of laughter from the ground floor drifted up to meet them as if someone had been listening for just the right moment.
Broc scratched his stubbled chin, shrugging. “I’m beginning to wonder whether the two of them are quite right in the head. No one is that jolly for no reason.”
Broc had been right, as he knew before they’d ever stepped foot outside the inn. There were certain things in life he’d come to depend upon as he’d made his way from harbor to harbor over the years. One of them was the distrust Englishmen held for Scotsmen. Especially Highlanders.
“Is it my imagination,” Hugh muttered as they walked down one of the wider village streets in search of the stables, “or did that woman just cross to the other side of the street after catching sight of us?”
“Aye,” Derek grumbled, teeth clenched. “Though by the looks of her even from a distance, I’m thinking she may have done us a favor.”
Indeed, the pinched-faced woman was no pleasure to behold. She made sure to give them a dirty look before going on her way.
“As I warned ye,” Broc reminded him.
“Aye. It’s been a while since I’ve stepped foot outside of what’s familiar,” Hugh admitted before sidestepping two dogs fighting over a bone in front of a butchery.
Broc thought to himself how much the dogs reminded him of the McInnis twins, down to the color of their hair, but kept the comparison to himself.
A group of men stood outside a tavern, laughing and conversing in the sort of easy manner men had after they’d enjoyed their share of drink. It was barely midday, but not uncommon for men with a love of drink to find time to indulge no matter the sun’s position in the sky.
Their demeanor changed as they caught sight of the three Scotsmen approaching. In the time it took to blink an eye, they fell silent, all eyes on the trio. Two of them moved a hand to their belts, where Broc was willing to bet existed the presence of weapons.
