A Search for Refuge

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  Chapter Six

  Margaretta’s insides clenched once more as a dozen possibilities tumbled over themselves in her mind.

  Why was Nash pushing for information now? He’d been so patient. It couldn’t be a coincidence that his urgency came on the same day Samuel and her father came to town. One or both of them must have encountered Nash.

  But how? Why?

  She couldn’t believe her father would go alone with any scheme of Samuel’s. He’d said he believed her when she told him she was afraid of Samuel. It was why they’d agreed to send her to Margrave in the first place.

  But now with both of them here together, she didn’t know what to think.

  “My husband is dead.” She choked out the words around the knot of fear that had settled in her throat the moment she’d seen Samuel exit the carriage.

  Nash drove his fingers through his hair before folding his arms over his chest, emphasizing the breadth and strength of his body. It was something Margaretta had quietly admired, his ability and willingness to do more for his clients than sit behind a desk and draw up paperwork. He walked all over town and involved himself in the more physical aspects of property management. But what did he intend to do with her?

  “And your connection with Fortescue Saddlery?”

  A chill wrapped around Margaretta’s body despite the fact that she could hear Mrs. Lancaster poking at the fire, building it up until it crackled once more. What could she say? Nash had become a friend—she wouldn’t let herself consider him anything more than that—and it wasn’t as easy to lie to him as it had been when she first arrived in town. But keeping her father’s business interests intact was the main reason she’d disappeared instead of asking him to help her. If he ended the business deal with the Albany family racing stables, it could ruin his reputation and his business.

  Margaretta licked her lips. “I . . .”

  He stared, face hard but devoid of any readable expression. Margaretta swallowed, wondering if, once he learned the truth, his sense of honor would compel him to tell her father she was here. What would her father do? He’d seemed confident that everything would work itself out when she’d last seen him, but now he was here with Samuel Albany of all people. What did that mean?

  “Please don’t lie to me,” Nash whispered hoarsely, his blank expression giving way to a glimpse of the agony she heard in his words. “Because I’m fairly certain there’s a bag in that room behind you that proves it.”

  She stared back at him, locking her gaze with his, trying to decide what she could say while desperately hoping he could hear all the things she couldn’t bring herself to put into words.

  The hiss and pop of boiling water followed by the rattle of crockery startled Margaretta, allowing her to finally look somewhere other than Nash’s blue eyes, swirling with indeterminate emotion. She turned to see Mrs. Lancaster making yet another pot of tea. It was the only thing Margaretta had been able to keep down today, and Mrs. Lancaster had been running upstairs every hour and a half or so to make a fresh pot.

  “Margaretta.” Nash’s quiet voice had lost the note of pleading, replaced by gentle strength.

  She slumped against the doorframe, feeling tired and weak despite the amount of time she’d spent in bed today. An equal amount of time had been spent at the window—watching, waiting, hoping that her father and Samuel were simply passing through and would be taking the stage out of town.

  They hadn’t.

  “Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes and letting her head fall against the wall. “I am connected to Fortescue Saddlery.”

  “And the Mr. Fortescue I met today? The one I’m supposed to be meeting for dinner in an hour?”

  Margaretta swallowed, knowing her lies were about to catch her completely. “My father.”

  His eyes widened. “Why give us your unmarried name?”

  Mrs. Lancaster bustled in and wrapped an arm around Margaretta’s shoulders. “What does it matter right now, can’t you see the poor girl’s dead on her feet?”

  Once Margaretta was in the vicinity of one of the chairs, she collapsed into it, unwilling to look at either of the room’s occupants. Right now, these were her only two friends in the world, and she couldn’t bear it if she saw distaste or distrust on their faces.

  A cup of tea was pressed into her hands, and she sipped it gratefully, letting the hot liquid soothe her tight throat and settle her jumpy stomach. After half a cup, she almost felt normal again. Perhaps the tension of waiting to be discovered had been making her more ill than the baby or some other illness.

  “It’s no wonder she’s unwell,” Mrs. Lancaster crooned, smoothing a hand over Margaretta’s hair. “She hasn’t slept nigh a wink in at least three days.”

  “How would you know?” Nash asked.

  That pulled Margaretta’s attention from her teacup. Didn’t he know she’d been living here with Mrs. Lancaster?

  The old woman chuckled. “It’s hard to miss when my bed’s barely five feet from hers.”

  Nash’s head jerked toward the door to the small bedroom. In two steps he was standing in the doorway, hands braced against the frame and leaning in to look over all the contents of the room. What did he see? Margaretta and Mrs. Lancaster were fairly neat—Margaretta more so because she didn’t have enough possessions to make much of a mess, but the room was lived in.

  His expression was incredulous as he looked over his shoulder, still braced in the doorway. “You’re living here.”

  “Of course I am.” Mrs. Lancaster set about cleaning up the tea, but kept her gaze averted from both Margaretta and Nash. The lack of eye contact was unusual and unnerving.

  “But I see you walking toward your cottage every evening. You even wave at me through the window.” Nash’s tone was cold enough to pull Margaretta’s attention once again. How in the world had this confrontation become about Mrs. Lancaster instead of her? “Why aren’t you living in your cottage?”

  It wasn’t hard to guess why he was angry. Mrs. Lancaster’s lonely evening walks had probably included a very deliberate path by Nash’s office. As a man who liked to control everything, he certainly wouldn’t like being fooled by an elderly shopkeeper. Despite the tension, Margaretta had to hide a small smile behind her teacup. Mrs. Lancaster was certainly sly.

  The sly woman currently under Nash’s scrutiny set down the kettle and turned to face him, her hands planted on her soft hips, making the flowers on her muslin print dress bunch together. “Because I leased it.”

  Silence fell, so stark that Margaretta didn’t even risk taking a sip of tea. Even the fire refused to pop or crackle.

  Nash’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “You leased out the cottage?”

  “Just said as much, didn’t I?” Mrs. Lancaster bustled over to the worktable, her right foot dragging a bit with each step but looking as spry as someone half her age otherwise. She pulled a loaf of bread toward her and began slicing it. “I leased it to a lovely young widow and her companion.” She gave a nod in Margaretta’s direction. “Friends of yours, if I had to guess.”

  So Mrs. Lancaster had known something about Katherine! Hope surged through Margaretta only to fade as the full implications of Mrs. Lancaster’s statement sank into Margaretta’s weary brain. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. My friend isn’t a widow.”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Lancaster slid the slices of bread onto the rack over the low-burning fire. “There’s more than one kind of widow, you know.”

  Margaretta glanced at Nash to see his eyebrows climbing up toward his hairline. “There is?”

  “Of course. There’s the woman who got married and then found herself without a husband.” Mrs. Lancaster jerked her head in Margaretta’s direction. “Then there’s the one who simply doesn’t want anyone to ask too many questions.”

  “So your tenant lies?” Nash frowned.

  Margaretta bit her lip. Knowing how passionate Nash was about his clients’ property agreements and contracts, the thought of Mrs. Lan
caster, whom he felt so personally responsible for, making such an arrangement without him, and to someone potentially unscrupulous, had to be torture.

  Mrs. Lancaster shrugged. “If you’re narrow-minded in your definition of widow.”

  Margaretta blinked. How could the definition of widow be misconstrued?

  Nash grunted in disdain, obviously agreeing with Margaretta’s reaction. “She is a woman whose husband is dead. I’m fairly certain Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language will support me in that statement.”

  “And why does he get to decide?” The old woman’s wrinkled hands settled onto her hips again and a frown pulled down the corners of her lips, making her round, normally cherubic face look distorted. “Besides, how do you know she’s not a widow? There’s no age limit on them. A woman can get widowed in a month if her husband ups and dies on her.”

  “Or less,” Margaretta muttered. She didn’t know if either of them could hear her, but the fact that she’d been married less than two weeks—a mere eleven days—had to be something of a unique achievement. And given that seven of those eleven days had been spent apart while he prepared to leave the country, she’d barely been married at all.

  Nash glanced at her, and for a moment Margaretta thought he would latch onto her statement and demand more answers. Instead he sighed, rubbed a hand across his face, and looked back at Mrs. Lancaster. He must have decided her news was the most pressing. After all, Margaretta was someone he could dispense of with a simple visit to the inn where her father was staying.

  She swallowed. Would he do that? Did he want to be rid of her? Would he even care to hear the rest of her side of the story? The intense desire to go back and change the last five weeks coursed through Margaretta. If she could, she would trust Nash sooner, break her silence and tell him everything. But she couldn’t go back, and her time may have run out while she waited.

  “Mrs. Lancaster, you just told me your tenant was lying.”

  Margaretta looked from Nash’s frustrated expression to Mrs. Lancaster’s determined one. This argument was going to be fruitless, but at least it was proving a good distraction for everyone in the room.

  “Well, what do I know? I’m an old woman.” Mrs. Lancaster scurried to the fireplace and picked up an iron rod from the hearth to poke at the dying flames.

  Nash cleared his throat and ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Which is why we agreed to let me handle your legal documents. I never saw this lease.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” She used a long fork to flip the bread on the rack. “Because I didn’t have one written up.”

  Margaretta laughed before she could stop it, and even though she quickly muffled it with both hands, it was enough to draw Nash’s attention back to her once more.

  An answering smile started to curve his lips, and the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled before he shook his head and looked at the ground. A deep breath expanded his chest until she could see it pulling against the seams of his jacket. When he looked up again, his demeanor was serious once more but no longer appeared angry. “You can’t do that, Mrs. Lancaster.”

  “Why not? It’s my cottage.”

  Nash sighed. “Are they even paying you?”

  Mrs. Lancaster shrugged. “We have an agreement. They uphold their end and I uphold mine.” She glanced at Margaretta. “Well, usually I do. I just told Mrs. Fortescue here about her friend’s presence, but she’s been here long enough that I trust she means no ill will toward her friend.”

  “Of course not,” Margaretta whispered. All this time Mrs. Lancaster had been helping her, she’d been trying to decide if Margaretta was worthy? If it was safe to take her to Katherine? Her hand drifted down to her midsection, an urge that grew daily that she tried her best to ignore. Did Mrs. Lancaster know Margaretta’s secret?

  Her eyes cut to Nash. Did he know? Mrs. Lancaster had just revealed that Katherine hadn’t wanted anyone to know she was here, yet Mrs. Lancaster had told not just one but two people. “What about Nash?”

  “Oh, him?” Mrs. Lancaster sent him a wink and waved her hand as if disregarding his presence. “He can’t help himself from protecting the innocent and disadvantaged. Keeping your friend a secret has almost been more about protecting him than her. Last thing he needs is another project.” Her eyes cut to Margaretta. “Unless it’s the right one.”

  Nash frowned. “I’m going to the cottage.”

  Before Margaretta could blink, Nash was striding toward the door, his boots hitting the floor with dull thuds.

  “Wait!” Margaretta didn’t know where the sudden burst of energy came from, but she surged out of the chair, laying a hand on Nash’s shoulder. “What about your dinner with my father?”

  Yes, the cottage and Katherine and everything she’d just learned was important, but Margaretta also needed to get her father and Samuel out of town. And the sooner Samuel did whatever he came here to do, the better.

  Nash’s eyes cut briefly to where Mrs. Lancaster was collecting the barely warmed bread from the rack and throwing a handful of dirt on the fire. It didn’t take long for him to look back at Margaretta, though. “I’ll tell him urgent business came up with another client. No one was available to talk to him and his partner until tomorrow morning anyway, so he’ll simply have to accept the list then.”

  “Partner?” Margaretta choked out. Her father could not have accepted Samuel as a partner.

  Nash’s brows drew together and the worry that had covered his face when he’d first entered the rooms returned. “Companion? I don’t know. There was something going on that I couldn’t understand. And I don’t know what any of this”—he gestured between himself and Mrs. Lancaster—“has to do with any of that”—his hand swung toward the window overlooking High Street. “But I know I can get at least a few answers at the cottage tonight.”

  Mrs. Lancaster pressed the two pieces of bread into Margaretta’s hands on her way to the door. “Well, you’re not going anywhere without me. It’s my cottage after all.”

  “And you are my responsibility,” Nash answered. “I promised your husband.”

  She flipped one hand through the air. “The dear man’s dead. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”

  Nash opened his mouth to answer but closed it with a sigh.

  Margaretta bit off a piece of the toast, the first thing she’d actually felt like eating all day. As her two friends headed out the open door, a tingling crept up from Margaretta’s feet. Could the woman in the cottage actually be Katherine? Could Margaretta risk waiting to find out? Her father and Samuel would be ensconced in their inn by now, preparing for dinner. Was there really much risk in her leaving the shop?

  Clasping the unfinished bread in one hand and grabbing her cloak off the wall hook with the other, Margaretta ran out the open door just before Nash could close it behind them. She took a deep breath and looked from a frowning Nash to a smiling Mrs. Lancaster.

  “I’m going as well.”

  Nash and Mrs. Lancaster looked at her, their expressions as different as could be. The concern in Nash’s face warmed Margaretta’s heart, settling her stomach even more. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “Mr. Albany said his manservant was in town. I didn’t—I don’t like this situation and I’d rather you stay here until I know more about it.”

  Mrs. Lancaster pushed past Nash on the little landing. “Of course you’re coming, dear.” She draped the large yellow cloak over Margaretta’s shoulders and flipped the hood up to cover the dark curls. “It’s your friend we’re looking for after all.”

  And if Katherine could disappear once, she could disappear again. Eight months ago, she’d left society so completely that Lord FitzGilbert didn’t even acknowledge her existence anymore. What was stopping her from running again if she learned Margaretta was in town?

  “No,” Nash said. “It isn’t safe.” He reached for the older woman’s shoulders, the care in his gesture easing the lines of frustration and anger on his face. “First, we�
��re going to see what business you’ve mucked up with your cottage.”

  “I’ve mucked up nothing.” Mrs. Lancaster sniffed. “Everything is exactly as I wish it to be.”

  Nash closed his eyes and sighed again.

  Mrs. Lancaster took the opportunity to head down the stairs. Margaretta followed before Nash could lead her back into the safety of the little rooms she’d been clinging to all day. It would be better if she stayed behind, there would certainly be less risk, but seeing Mrs. Lancaster standing up to Nash, revealing all she’d managed to do without anyone knowing, had given Margaretta a bit of courage.

  Yes, life had thrown her a problem, but it was time she took steps toward solving it. Even if the person in Mrs. Lancaster’s cottage wasn’t Katherine, Margaretta was done waiting for someone else to tell her what to do. She’d been hiding behind Mrs. Lancaster’s care and even Nash’s protectiveness, hoping to find an old friend who would give her an easy solution. It was time she found one of her own.

  By the time they reached the alley at the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Lancaster was nearly skipping like a child on a treasured outing while Nash practically stomped his way down the uneven stone pavement.

  Margaretta considered the future as she trotted along behind the others, occasionally stuffing a bite of bread into her mouth. Part of her was still exhausted from the emotional and physical toil of the day, but hope was a powerful animal and she would ride it as long as it allowed her to run after her companions.

  It wouldn’t be so bad, being a country matriarch. True, she’d never lived anywhere in her life besides London, but it wouldn’t be such a bad life if she could establish herself in a little village, grow old, and then force everyone to her will the way Mrs. Lancaster seemed to be doing. It was the last thing Samuel would expect her to do. There had to be some way she could establish herself somewhere, perhaps a village less passed through by aristocrats and London’s wealthy elite.

  The idea of leaving Marlborough, leaving Nash, made her heart pound in her chest again. Or perhaps that was the fact that they were getting farther away from the safety of the store. Yes, that had to be it, because with the baby, she couldn’t afford to form any attachments that might influence her thinking.