by Kruger, Mary
“Is that what finding the truth will do?”
“No.” He looked at her, his eyes puzzled. “Why are you doing this?”
Because I love you, you idiot. “Because I’ve no chance of getting my life back while you remain a fugitive, of course. What was your reason? You might as well tell me,” she went on, when his mouth set in a tight, thin line. “You never have told me your side of the story.”
“You wouldn’t listen.”
“I’m listening now, Simon.”
He looked away, and for the first time she realized how tired he appeared. It must hang heavily on him, she thought, all that he’d gone through, guilty or not. What she had experienced these past weeks was as nothing compared to that. “I owed him money.”
“And?”
“And I’ve already told you I could never have paid it back.” He looked over at her. “Some people would consider that a reason.”
“Mm. How did you meet him?”
“Through the stage, of course. He fancied himself an actor. Sometimes a troupe will let an amateur take the stage, if he pays enough.”
“Was he any good?”
“No. Terrible. But he was a good sort, willing to take any part, which many an amateur won’t. Everyone liked him.”
“Except you.”
“No, no, I liked him, too. But you’ve seen for yourself, Blythe, we players don’t mingle with ordinary people.”
“Civilians.”
He grinned. “Precisely. Because sometimes being in the theater is like being in a war. I made a mistake in judgment. In any event, I needed money.” He straightened, shoulders stiff. “Miller learned of it, and offered to lend it to me. All very friendly.”
“Was it?”
“Aye. Until he charged that high interest rate. The total I owed grew faster than I could pay it. Amazing how serious he got after that.”
“But didn’t you know that when you took the money?”
He shifted on the stair. “I’m an actor, Blythe, not a scholar. When he told me the rate it seemed paltry. ‘Twas only later that I’d learned how bad a bargain I’d made.”
“So you went to see him.”
He shook his head. “No, Uncle Harry tried to help at first. He tried to get the rate lowered. It didn’t work.”
Blythe pursed her lips. “How many people knew about this?”
“Everyone in the troupe, of course. Hard to keep that kind of thing a secret, with the life we live. Why?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know yet. What happened next?”
“Next was that Harry would have repaid the debt, though it would have bankrupted him. I didn’t let him, of course. But I had to solve the problem myself, or I would have gone to debtor’s prison.”
“So?”
“So I decided that I would go to see Miller myself.” He took a deep breath. “It was—”
“Who knew of that?”
He frowned. “I don’t know. Why?”
She shook her head again. “Go on.”
Simon’s gaze was hard. She made herself meet it without flinching. For the life of her she didn’t know if he were innocent or not, but she wanted him to be. Oh, how she wanted it. And that meant she’d set herself a difficult task.
“I wish I knew what you were thinking,” he said.
“You will. Go on.”
“All right.” He shrugged. “Miller wouldn’t see me right away, told me to come back that evening. I had no part in the play we were doing, so I was free.”
“And?”
“He was dead when I got there, Blythe. I swear it.”
“Tell me from the beginning,” she said gently, aching to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Guilty or no, he was suffering.
“Not much to tell. He’d told me to come to his home, above the shop. No one answered when I knocked, but the door was ajar, and so I went in. It was dark. Sun had set, and there was only one candle, burning low. But it was enough.” He swallowed, hard. “It was quiet. That’s what I remember most, how quiet it was. Like a tomb.”
“Simon—”
He shook off the hand that she did, at last, place on his shoulder. “And there was a smell, I thought maybe the room was filled with metal. I called, and there was no answer. I decided not to wait, but when I turned I saw—something. There was a cabinet in the corner, a large thing, black with Chinese design?”
She nodded, to show she knew what he was talking about. “What did you see?”
“A foot. Just a man’s foot, sticking out from the side of the cabinet. I said something, I think, asked if it was Miller and if he was hurt. And then I saw him.” He rose, took a few paces about the garden, and turned back. “I didn’t know what I was seeing at first. I was in shock, I imagine. But then I realized. He was lying on his back, and he was dead.”
“How could you tell?”
“His throat had been cut, Blythe,” he said, bluntly.
Blythe’s hand flew protectively to her own throat. She had invited this, she thought. “Oh.”
“And his eyes were open. There was blood—but never mind that,” he said hastily, looking at her at last. “There was a knife on the floor. I picked it up—I don’t know why—and that was when the door opened.”
“Dear heavens.”
“It was Miller’s wife. She screamed. I tried to explain, but she kept screaming. And then the night watchman was there, and the neighbors, and the next thing I knew I was being taken off to gaol.” He dropped down onto the stair again. “And that is my Canterbury tale.”
She didn’t smile. “It looks very bad, Simon.”
He nodded. “Aye, that it does. I had quarreled with him and I owed him money I could never repay. Being found as I was was just the capper.”
“Mm.” Blythe’s brow was wrinkled. It was no wonder he’d been convicted, so strong had been the evidence against him. And yet, he was no killer. At least, she didn’t think so. “I’m tired,” she said, surprising herself by yawning.
“I’m not surprised.” He glanced at her. “What think you of my tale?”
She shook her head. “Right now I frankly don’t know what to think. It doesn’t look good, Simon.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“But if Mr. Miller made an enemy of you, mayhaps he had others.”
“‘Tis possible.”
“Aye. And ‘tis what we’ll have to look for. Have you any plans?”
“Yes.” He grinned, the derisive, mocking grin that she’d learned was aimed at much at himself as at anyone else. “I was thinking of bed.”
“Oh, you’re always promising me that,” she said lightly, and rose, aware that he was gaping at her. Good. “We’ll make our plans later.”
He stood up, stretching his arms in a prodigious yawn that emphasized his chest, making her look hastily away, cheeks warm. “Aye. We’ll have to go to Canterbury sometime. Blythe.” His hand reached out, cupped her shoulder. “‘Twill be dangerous.”
Deliberately she twitched her skirts. “And what is that to me?”
He gave her a little shake. “I’m serious, Blythe. I may be recognized, and if we’re caught—”
“There’s danger now, Simon. Do you wish to wait for it to come to you?”
“No,” he said, slowly. “No. Very well. We’ll do it.”
“Of course we will,” she said, and turned away. If he touched her once more she would melt into a puddle at his feet. “I need to sleep.”
“Yes. Blythe?”
She turned in the doorway. “What?”
He frowned, tightened his lips, and then let his breath out in a gush. “Thank you.”
“Fair payment for all you’ve done for me, sir,” she said sweetly, and turned away, twitching her skirts again. She’d won that encounter, a rarity in her acquaintance with him, and it was rather pleasant. It wouldn’t last, of course. Her smile faded as she started up the stairs, the full weight of her exhaustion settling upon her shoulders. Soon they would be on the road again
, and who knew what the future would hold?
It was market day in Maidstone, and fine weather for it, too. Farmers from all over the area converged on the town to sell their wares and to purchase others. They would stop in at alehouses and inns, at the shops, at the other market stalls. Some might even decide to watch the play that was being given that very afternoon by the Woodley strolling players. It was noisy, crowded, warm, and confusing. Among all the farm carts and barrows, no one would notice one more leaving the town, or the people it held.
Blythe gazed at the bed of the rickety old cart, fists on hips, mouth set in a thoughtful line. Yesterday and the day before she and Simon had worked out the plan, with the help of Henrietta. Disguised as a farmer and his wife, they would travel the back roads to Canterbury. Were they stopped, the hay-strewn cart, littered with old onion skins and fragrant with the earthy smell of potatoes, would make them appear more credible. Both would be disguised, Simon with a false beard; Blythe with brown powder dulling her hair to a uniform shade, and padding inside her clothing to make her appear heavy. A few streaks of rouge on her face, and she’d been transformed, staring at herself in the mirror and startled at how little it took to change her appearance. ‘Twas almost like being another person, and that was almost fun.
A footfall beside her made her look up, to see Harry studying the cart with the same concentration. “You’ve everything you need?” he asked, abruptly.
“Yes, I believe so. Food enough for several days, blankets, a change of clothes”—she counted off the items on her fingers—“and money.” She smiled at him. “We’ve had to make do with far less. I do thank you, sir, for your generosity.”
Harry leaned his hand against the cart, his frown massive. “‘Tis us should be thanking you, lass. Simon’s got himself into a right proper mess, and none of us can help him.”
“Ah, well, by helping him, I help myself,” she said breezily, stepping away from the cart. “I believe we’re ready.”
“If your plan does work, what will you do?”
Blythe sighed. “I don’t really know, Mr. Woodley. I suppose I could go home, but...”
“You don’t really want to, do you lass?” Harry said, when she didn’t go on. His eyes beneath his shaggy brows were keen, and kind.
“Not particularly, no. And I don’t know why,” she went on. “I’ve family there.” But not family like Simon’s, she thought, a lump rising unwanted in her throat. Not family that took you in and helped you, no matter what you’d done, no matter the cost to them, and with never a word of complaint. Not family that laughed and scolded and hugged, or looked at you with troubled, loving eyes. Blythe wondered if Simon had any idea of just how lucky he was.
“You’ve changed, most likely.” Harry fell into step beside her as they turned from the lane into the yard of the bakeshop. “Bound to happen.”
“I don’t know.” She frowned. “I’ve changed, yes, but I think what I’ve become is what I always was.”
He shot her a quick look. “I don’t follow you, lass.”
She smiled. “Actors aren’t the only people who play roles, Mr. Woodley. I’m not sorry this happened,” she said, and, as she did so, realized it was true. “I should be, but I’m not.”
Harry studied her. “‘Tis a pity Simon didn’t meet you sooner, lass, else he might not be in this coil at all.”
“But I might be.” She flounced away, unreasonably annoyed. She knew quite well that Simon would never have taken a second glance at her, had he not needed her help.
“There’s naught wrong with the boy,” Harry rumbled on, falling into step beside her, as if she hadn’t reacted in any way. “He’s a good lad. A trifle wild, mayhaps, but that’s to be expected. Aye, and he’s outgrowing that, too.”
“And he takes nothing seriously,” she burst out, stopping dead.
“Does he not, lass?” Harry’s fingers cupped her chin, forcing her to face him. “Do you really know him so little, then?”
“No.” She twisted her face away. “I understand why he acts as he does. ‘Tis a good defense. But it can be rather wearing on other people.”
“So it can. Though mayhaps you’ve noticed that he’s not like that with his family.”
“Yes.”
“Or with you.”
Her head came up sharply. “He is at his absolute worst with me! I—”
He smiled. “Aye, lass, and shouldn’t that tell you something? I’ve worried about the lad,” he went on, before she could speak, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Even before all this happened, I worried. There’s been a restlessness to him, like he needs more.”
“More of what?”
“I don’t know, lass, or I’d give it him. But I’ve noticed something about him the past few days.”
“What is that?”
“That the restlessness is gone.”
She frowned. “Yet he has always been heading to Canterbury.”
“Aye. To a goal, not away from something. You mentioned playing roles, lass. ‘Tis a handy way to escape.”
“From what?”
“From reality. From your life. Take on someone else’s problems and you can forget, for a time, that your own exist.”
Blythe bit her lips. Hadn’t she felt something of the sort when she’d taken the stage in Rochester? Hadn’t she almost believed she was someone else, and felt a peculiar freedom in doing so? “But I think he’s facing his problems now.”
“Aye, lass, that he is, and I think you’re in large measure the reason.”
“Me!”
“Aye.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know why.” She turned again, heading for the garden gate. What Harry was saying wasn’t true, couldn’t be true. Simon saw her as a traveling companion, and no more. “Tell Simon I’ll return shortly.”
“Where are you going, lass?” Harry called.
“Just for a walk.” She waved at him and walked quickly away.
Harry stared after her, frowning. Made a mull of that, he had. “And what was that all about?” Bess asked, at his side.
“I spoke out of turn.” Harry’s voice was rueful as he slipped his arm about her ample waist. “Mayhaps said some things I shouldn’t.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I think our Simon fancies her.”
“Of course he does.” Bess nestled a bit closer. “She’s a brave girl. He could do worse.”
“Aye, and so could she. But does she see that, Bess?” He turned troubled eyes on her. “All she knows of Simon is that he’s a criminal.”
“I think she sees more than that, Harry. ‘Tis a pity they didn’t meet before.”
“Aye, though likely it would have changed nothing.” He rested his head briefly against hers. “What makes it worse is that we cannot help.”
“We’re doing what we can.” Bess sounded resolute, but her fingers clutched him just a bit harder. And so they stood together, taking comfort from each other, and wondering what was going to become of their boy.
Caution took over Blythe’s steps before she had gone far from the bakeshop, caution born of her upbringing and of the recent events in her life. The square was thronged, with people of all kinds, farmers in smocks, a soldier or two, and even a juggler, whose antics held several children fascinated. Against the buildings of dull Kentish ragstone, the effect was vivid and colorful. Under such circumstances it was unlikely she’d be noticed, and so she was fairly safe. Still, away from her lodgings, away from Simon, she felt nervous, exposed, as if someone were watching and would pounce at any minute. Best she return, then.
Her back crawling with the sensation of being watched, she turned and began fighting her way back through the crowds of jostling, preoccupied people. She shouldn’t have run as she had, even if she’d needed to escape from Harry and the pain of what he had said to her. He meant well, of that, Blythe was certain. He worried about Simon and wished to see him settled. What he did not know, what he could not know, was how his concern stung. She loved Simo
n and would make him a good wife, if that were what he wanted. Unfortunately it wasn’t, and never would be.
The crowd lessened as she reached the edge of the square, and she stopped, catching her breath and looking about again at the colorful stalls and the people who went about their business, unaware that a desperate fugitive was nearby. It was all so very normal that it made her heart ache. Her life would never be so simple again.
She was turning away, ready to return to the bakeshop, when of a sudden a hand clamped onto her arm. “Hey. Blythe Marden? It is you,” a male voice said, amazed and pleased at once. “And I’ve got you now.”
Chapter Nineteen
Blythe froze, as always she reacted to danger, though her mind was calm and clear and registering events, seemingly independent of herself. Foolish of her to come to the market, and to think that her disguise would fool anyone. Now she was caught, and she and Simon both would pay the consequences.
The pressure on her arm increased, forcing her to turn to face her assailant. Against the morning light all she could see at first was that he was a man, taller than she, and broad-shouldered. “Please,” her voice quavered, while her mind mocked her weakness. “I’ve done no wrong.”
“I wouldn’t say that. You always were one for landing in a fix.”
Blythe tugged away, to no avail, but the movement brought the man more into shadow. It took her a moment to realize that he was neither a soldier nor a watchman, nor Quentin Heywood, her inexplicable enemy. “John!” she gasped, and threw herself into his arms.
“Hey.” John held her a bit awkwardly, his arms stiff. “What is this?”
“Oh, ‘tis just that I’m so glad to see you!” She pulled back, patting his face. “When I came to the market I’d not expected to see my brother.”
“Nor I, you.” John pulled back, frowning. “Have you gone to fat?”
Blythe let her breath out in an explosive laugh. “Trust a brother to be so tactless! No, I’m not exactly as I appear.” Glancing first over her shoulder to see if they were being watched, she slipped her arm through his and began to stroll, away from the bustle of the market. “Is Mother here? And Father?”