“No,” he ground out.
Gruber’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “Then shove off.”
Without another word, Samuel wrapped his arm around Abby’s shoulders and guided her toward the door, forcing each step. There was nothing else to do. He never should have given Hawker his word.
And Emma’s wailing cries drove home that ugly truth, each one stabbing him in the back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Merry chatter bubbled in the taproom, boxing Abby’s ears. Laughter clanged in her head, overly loud. This inn was a rash. The world was a rash. Irritating. Rubbing her raw. How could everyone be so cheerful when all was not right?
She stabbed a piece of roasted pork and popped it into her mouth, knowing the thing would stick in her throat, as had the few bites she’d barely managed before. All she wanted to hear was Emma’s coos or babbles. She’d even listen to the girl’s cries and count herself blessed. But never again would she hear that little one’s sweet voice.
The pork landed like a rock in her stomach, and Abby set down her fork. Who was she kidding? She ought to rummage through her chest and pull out her mourning crepe until her heart healed. But would it ever? And if it did, would that not be dishonoring to the child whom she’d come to love so much? It seemed a hideous blasphemy to simply forget Emma like a castoff mantle.
A pang of guilt churned the meat in her belly. She hadn’t grieved the loss of her own family as profoundly as this.
Across from her, the captain shoveled in his last bite then pushed away his plate. Amazing that he could eat so heartily. Did he not miss Emma as keenly as she?
Abby searched the captain’s face for an answer. His dark gaze met hers, but nothing moved behind his eyes. He was a house shuttered tight against any unwelcome visitors.
“A farthing for your thoughts, Captain.”
“Trust me,” he grumbled. “They’re not worth that much.”
“They must be of some kind of value. You’ve hoarded them since we delivered Emma.”
Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms across his chest, a stance she knew too well. He had no intention of answering.
So it astonished her when he opened his mouth. “You are—”
“I know.” She cut him off with a flutter of her fingers. “I am persistent. And you should know by now that I will not rest until I hear what it is that worries you so.”
His lips clamped shut, pressing into a firm line.
Abby shoved down a sigh, for she knew that expression intimately as well. The captain was done with the conversation before it even began. His stubborn streak was as long and broad as her persistence. She might as well bid him good night now, for they were at a stalemate. Pulling the napkin from her lap, she set it on the table and edged back her chair.
But before she could rise, the captain’s voice rumbled low, catching her off guard once again. She scooted closer to the table, straining to hear over the clatter of forks scraping against plates and dinner conversations much more pleasant than this would surely be.
“I have no idea why I’m telling you this.” He looked past her for a moment, as if he searched for words at a far table in the room. Then his gaze shot back to hers, swift and sharp as any arrow. “It’s Emma. She’ll die there, in that house. I might as well have killed her with my own hands.”
Abby bit her lip, unsure of what to say, how to comfort the pain riding ragged in his voice. Yet she must say something. Put him at ease somehow.
She clenched her hands in her lap, hoping to squeeze out some form of consolation. “Surely God will watch over her.”
There. She’d done it, said something…but what exactly had she said? Even to herself her words sounded small in the big room—or maybe it was the sentiment that felt so absurdly tiny in the face of such a loss.
The captain apparently agreed. His jaw hardened, and his eyes narrowed upon her, making her feel even more minute and ridiculous.
Tipping his chin, he looked down the length of his nose at her. “The only thing sure is that man Gruber will run them all into the ground.”
She stiffened. No. She couldn’t believe that. She wouldn’t.
She met his rock-hard stare with one of her own. “You do not know that, Captain. Can you not hope for the best?”
He snorted. “Can you?”
He shoved back his chair and stalked toward the front door, leaving her alone to fight the monster of a question he’d loosed upon her. Coward!
She jumped up and followed him outside. Sconces burned brilliantly against the night, set at intervals on the brick wall of the inn, welcoming any late travelers. The captain, however, strode beyond the yellow glow, his boots pounding hard on the courtyard’s gravel. He stopped when he reached a stone wall, standing as high as his waist, then bent and propped his elbows on it. But he didn’t turn as she drew up behind him, though he had to know she stood close. He just stood there, staring into the darkness, no acknowledgment whatsoever.
Abby clenched her hands, her nails digging little crescents into her palms, angry with the obstinate man. Angry with herself too. What had gotten into her? Now that she was here, what was she to say to the captain’s broad back? That he was wrong? That Emma was even now likely tucked safely into a soft bed with a full tummy?
Despite the chill of the evening, fury burned all the hotter in her chest. Deep down, the truth roiled her few bites of pork roast to rancid bits. The captain was right. Though she’d been trying all afternoon to hope for the best, going so far as to search the scriptures before dinner, she couldn’t do it. She was anxious, despairing, and annoyed with searching for hope. No, worse. She was chained and fettered by a lack of it, unable to move or breathe.
She clenched her fists tighter until her arms shook. How was she to be hopeful when the outcome for Emma would be a life of poverty? Or death? No. There was no possible way she could churn up any morsel of hope for the girl she loved.
“But I can, child.”
She tensed, every muscle in her locking tight. Had she heard right? But how could the captain know what she’d been thinking? Why call her a child? And how on earth did he propose to help restore her hope when he rarely partook of the sentiment?
She dared a step nearer to him. “What did you say?”
He glanced back at her. “There is nothing to say except go to bed, Miss Gilbert.”
She cocked her head. She could’ve sworn she’d heard—
“Hope in Me, child. Emma is Mine, as are you.”
Wonderful. Now she was hearing things. Tiny prickles ran down her arms, raising gooseflesh. Had she not begged all afternoon for guidance and wisdom, to hear some measure of comfort from God’s mouth alone?
She lifted her face to the black sky.
Is that You, Lord? Is that Your voice I hear?
She stood there for a long time, the captain’s broad back to her, stars blinking down on them both. No more whispers came, but that didn’t stop an urgent prayer from welling up in her soul.
Oh God, will You take my ugly hope of You protecting little Emma and change it into a peaceful hope? A strong one? Maybe even a joyful hope? Because I do believe, with all my heart, that Christ is the Victor, that You are Emma’s Protector no matter what, and in that truth will I abide.
The same peace she’d felt days ago draped over her shoulders, and against all reason, she knew—she knew—that somehow Emma’s future would shine as brightly as the stars twinkling overhead.
In the dark, the captain’s shoulders bent, his silhouette black upon black. “I shouldn’t have left her there.” The words were quiet, more of a groan, really. His bleak confession dared her to drift back into despair.
She laid a hand on those bent shoulders, wishing with all that was within her to relieve some of the weight this man carried. “You did what you promised, Captain, and that is always a good thing.”
“Maybe.” He turned to face her. “But maybe I never should have promised such a thing in the first place.”
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br /> Sidestepping her, he stalked toward the inn and disappeared through the door.
For once, she didn’t follow him. She planted her feet and looked up to the heavens. It was going to be a long night for the captain—and for her. She had a lot of praying to do on his behalf.
Regrets always attacked worst in the darkness. Springing out from the midnight shadows. Drawing blood as the witching hours slowly ticked off. By the time Samuel swung his leg over Pilgrim the next morning and led the carriage through the streets of Manchester, he was battle sore and bone weary from an evening of wrestling with guilt.
He shouldn’t have left Emma at the Grubers’.
He shouldn’t have taken her on in the first place.
And he definitely shouldn’t have said anything to Abby about it.
Scrubbing his hand over his face, he fought a yawn. He couldn’t afford this fatigue, for it might cost his and Abby’s life if Shankhart or his men were about. And they would be, sooner or later. If only he had enough funds to buy another gun, arm the driver, or even hire on another man to ride with them.
Shops thinned out as he neared the Manchester city limits. Beyond, fields stretched into a green patchwork. He urged Pilgrim with a nudge to her side to up the pace. Soon they’d pass by a gibbet with some blackguard’s body in a state of decomposition, swinging in the breeze, which was no proper sight for Abby to witness should she chance a glance out the carriage window.
Clouds smothered the countryside, punching down from the sky like mighty grey fists. A bleak day, as dreary and miserable as his mood. Abby had been right when she’d called him a dour old naysayer.
Off to his left, in the field, a boy cried out. Samuel narrowed his eyes. A big man held the lad in the air by the collar with one hand. The other clutched a switch, striking the boy on the backside. Again and again. Far too many times for whatever crime the lad had committed, if any. Men like that often didn’t need an excuse to torture those younger and smaller, those like Emma. Oh Emma…
His throat closed, and he lifted his face to the sullen sky. “God, what have I done? Emma won’t last long in that place. Some guardian I turned out to be.”
“Peace, My son. I am her Protector.”
The truth of the unspoken words hit like a hammer to the head, stunning, smarting, and rankling in a most unholy fashion. He clenched the reins to keep from raising a fist to the heavens. “But how? How will You protect a child I left defenseless with a monster?”
“You.”
He cocked his head, suddenly unsure of his sanity. But more words whispered on the wind.
“You are my means.”
Sweet heavens! He was going mad. Surely a righteous God would not condone him breaking a vow. “But I swore to bring her there. I promised—”
The boy’s cries stopped. So did his heart. The truth of his own prayer zapped through him from head to toe, leaving a line of prickles in its wake. He had promised to deliver Emma to Hawker’s sister, and so he’d fulfilled his pledge.
But he’d never once said he’d leave her there forever.
He tugged Pilgrim’s reins, stopping the big bay, feeling lighter. Freer. And more determined than ever to rescue Emma. But first he swung his gaze back to the field and narrowed his eyes toward the boy, intent on helping him.
Half a smile lifted his lips. The lad had wriggled free and was even now hightailing it out of the barley, the big man with the switch losing ground as the boy sprinted. The cruel master wouldn’t catch him again, not today, and maybe not ever if the boy kept running.
Clicking his tongue, Samuel guided Pilgrim in a tight circle, then bolted back to the carriage and pulled up next to the postilion with a raised hand.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Alarm widened the man’s eyes. “Something wrong, Captain?”
“Not anymore.” He kicked Pilgrim into a canter, purposely avoiding the bewildered look on Abby’s face as he rode past the carriage window.
It took every last bit of his self-control to keep from galloping. Tearing into a town as if the devil were at his heels was asking for attention, and that was never a good thing.
The Grubers lived near the cotton mills, where the rich broke the backs of the poorest of the poor, working them to death and making profit during the sparse years they laboured. Soot blackened the nearby buildings, windows, hearts, and souls. But this day as Samuel rode into the alley on Mudlark Lane, the oppression of the bleak courtyard didn’t smother him. In fact, he sprang off Pilgrim as if he’d lost ten years.
The postilion eased the coach to a stop, and Samuel strode over to the man. “Turn the carriage around and wait.”
“Aye, Captain.” He gave him a sharp nod.
And Abby gave him a sharp look as she stuck her head out the open window. “What are we doing back here? Are you going to—”
He shot up his hand, staving her off. “Stay in the carriage, Miss Gilbert.”
“But—”
Thankfully, the postilion ordered the horses to walk on, carrying away Abby’s questions and protests.
Samuel drew near the door, rage lighting a fire in him as Emma’s pitiful cries leached through the thin wood. If Gruber had harmed that girl, may God have mercy on the man—for he surely wouldn’t.
He pounded his fist against the door, rattling the wood like bones in a coffin. “Open up! Captain Thatcher here.”
Emma screamed. “Ah-be-da!”
That did it. He rammed his shoulder against the door, forcing it open. The wood smacked into the wall, startling Emma, and she stared up at him from where she sat on the floor, mouth open, face smudged, and her bonnet gone. The clean gown Abby had dressed her in the day before was now soiled with ash, grease, and the contents from an overflowing clout.
But he didn’t care. Samuel swept her up and cradled her against his chest, rubbing his cheek against the top of her head. Her fingers clawed into his waistcoat in a grip that would be impossible to pry off.
“Ah-be-da, little one,” he whispered against her hair.
With a last, shuddering breath, she quit crying.
Samuel lifted his face, surveying the small room. His gaze landed near the hearth, where Margaret Gruber lay on the floor still as a stone, despite the commotion of a man breaking into her home and snatching up the babe in her care.
He pulled off his hat and peeled Emma from his chest, setting the child down with the old piece of worn felt—her favorite plaything. Two paces later, he dropped to his knees and bent over what might very well be Margaret Gruber’s corpse. Strands of greasy hair hung over her sharp cheekbones, her skin the colour of wax. Her eyes stayed shut, and though he looked, he couldn’t really detect any rise or fall of her chest.
“Mrs. Gruber?” He pressed his fingers against the side of her neck. A weak pulse fluttered beneath his touch, for now, anyway.
He scooped her up, her body weighing hardly more than Emma’s, and as he laid her on the flattened sack of straw in the corner, her eyes flickered open.
“Captain?” Her voice was a wisp against her cracked lips. The air rattled in her lungs. But she’d recognized him, a small victory, that, but a victory nonetheless.
“Yes, madam, it’s me. Let me get you a drink.”
He collected a dipper of greenish water from a pail with scum climbing up the insides. Not good, but better than nothing…hopefully.
Emma scooted over, grabbing onto his leg and pulling herself upright, so that he had to hobble back to Mrs. Gruber with the child attached. Once again he pried Emma’s hands from him, then aided the sick woman to sit, lending her his strength as she drank.
“Mmm,” she murmured as she took little sips and finally downed it all. Her yellowed eyes blinked up to his. “Thank you. I am much revived.”
He eased her back down and set the dipper aside while Emma pounded on his back, cooing. Then he faced Mrs. Gruber. “Is there anything more I can do for you?”
“No, I…” She swallowed, her throat bobbing with the ef
fort, but when she spoke again, her voice came out much clearer. “You came at a fortunate time. I was trying to stop Emma from getting too near the hearth, but I…I couldn’t do it.” Her brow folded, and she swallowed again. “Why are you here?”
“I’m taking the girl.” With one arm, he swept Emma from behind his back and drew her forward. “I’m taking Emma back to your brother.”
The woman’s eyes glistened. From sadness or a return of her fever? “But James wished me to care for her.”
He hugged Emma tighter in the curl of his arm. “We both know you can’t, madam.”
“You don’t understand. I owe him this.” Thin tears broke loose, just a few, for she likely couldn’t produce more. “My brother is the one who got us out of debtors’ prison.”
Samuel stifled a scowl. Would that Hawker could’ve saved his sister from her brute of a husband as well.
“Mrs. Gruber,” he softened his tone, “I am certain that if your brother knew you were ailing, he’d not have sent Emma in the first place. I shouldn’t have left her here yesterday. The burden is too much for you to bear.”
“You are”—her voice hitched, and she gulped in a breath—“very kind, sir.”
Reaching with his free arm, he pushed back the matted hair from her brow, wishing he could do more for her. But it was too late. It would be a miracle if she lasted till nightfall.
“Rest now,” he whispered. “I’ll gather Emma’s things and let myself out.”
Her hand shot out, grabbing his arm with more strength than he’d credited. “Thank you.”
Torment twisted her face, stabbing him in the heart. It wasn’t fair, this ruined life of death and destruction. “May God bless you, Margaret Gruber.”
Her lips parted, and for one spectacular moment, a brilliant smile lit her face, erasing the ravages of disease and hard living. “He already has, Captain, for I am assured I will go to a better place because of Christ.”
The Noble Guardian Page 22