A Search for Refuge

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  They strolled down narrow alleys and back lanes, Mrs. Lancaster waving a greeting to everyone she saw. Several people seemed to be on their way home for the night, probably planning their dinners and when to put the children to bed.

  Lack of physical energy forced Margaretta to slow her steps a bit, and she fell back. Every few steps, Nash would glance back and adjust his pace so she wasn’t too far behind him, but Mrs. Lancaster simply shuffled on, her skirts doing an odd swish with every drag of her right foot.

  As they moved out of town, the businesses and shopfronts gave way to rows of homes. The buildings became simpler and the road a bit rougher, especially on the hill away from the market area. Tile still graced the walls that weren’t made of brick, but the mouldings became plain and the structures more square. Some even seemed to tilt from the weight of age.

  Could Katherine really be living in such a place? While Margaretta had flitted on the edge of society, Katherine had been exceedingly popular before her fall from grace. Could she have left behind the jewels and dozens of servants to live in such reduced circumstances?

  Immediately Margaretta knew the answer was a resounding yes. If the rumors were true, if there was even the slightest accuracy in what they said, then there was every possibility that Katherine had turned her back on all she knew. Given the chance, Margaretta certainly would. If it meant the difference between death and survival for the innocent life she carried, she’d sweep and dust until she couldn’t hold a broom. The simple life hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared.

  And if anyone had enough resilience to make it work, Katherine did. It was why Margaretta was here. She had to know how Katherine had managed to make it all work.

  Had to know if there was a way to redeem such an impossible situation.

  The road they were climbing suddenly opened up, spilling them into a large open green area lit brightly by the sun perched on the horizon. Homes surrounded the green, and a few children chased each other with long, flat paddles, their game of cricket abandoned in the name of pursuit.

  “William,” Mrs. Lancaster called, “does your father know you’ve run off with his cricket bat again?”

  One little boy stumbled to a halt, dirty blond hair flopping into his eyes. He bit his lip, revealing a gap where one of his front teeth had fallen out. “No, Mrs. Lancaster.”

  “Well, then.” The old woman braced her hands on her knees. “You rush home and do an extra good job brushing your father’s horse tonight and we’ll say nothing about it.”

  The little boy grinned, revealing a second hole in the lower half of his smile, and rushed across the green to hug Mrs. Lancaster.

  Margaretta felt a pang in her chest at the sight of the happy little boy. Whatever had pushed her to find the strength to walk up that hill drained away. She hadn’t thought past the fact that she was going to have a baby, hadn’t let herself imagine what came next because she simply didn’t know how to protect such a dependent, helpless being.

  She hadn’t let herself consider the fact that the baby she was carrying would one day, God willing, grow up. Be a child. Run around and play cricket.

  Unless Samuel Albany found him first.

  Chapter Seven

  Nash took a deep breath. He knew the children running around on the green, getting hugs from Mrs. Lancaster before running off to their homes. Of course he knew them. They even shouted their greetings in his direction as they ran off.

  He always found it a bit difficult, though, dealing with the children. Awkward. The younger they were, the more he wondered whether or not their mothers had suffered in bringing them into the world. It was always a vague uncomfortableness, a hazy impression of guilt that inspired him to keep a modicum of distance between himself and the younger generation.

  Tonight, however, his unease didn’t feel so very abstract. It felt specific. Personal. And he wasn’t sure why.

  His sister’s boy would have been older than the ones currently running away from the green, but that didn’t stop him from wondering what his life would have been like if she had lived, if he’d watched her son run around the green with a cricket bat. If she and Lewis had grown their family. What would that have meant for Nash?

  He’d likely have married. But watching Lewis nearly let go of life had convinced Nash that perhaps the danger was a bit too great. Perhaps it was a risk not worth taking. Without a child to hold, a future to cling to, Lewis had given himself over to the melancholy for almost three years.

  His business had faltered and he became nearly destitute. Friends and family had been worried, trying to deal with their own mourning while at the same time encouraging Lewis to keep living.

  Eventually, he had started living again. Turned his business around, remarried, even had two young children.

  Despite his recovery, one thing Lewis said during those three years had stayed with Nash beyond any of the other painful ramblings. Lewis hated himself because he’d been the one to do that to Mary. His loving Mary had eventually killed her.

  Nash didn’t think he could live with such a sentiment.

  Especially now that the vague emotion was starting to sharpen into a familiar face. Was that what had him thinking so much about Mary and Lewis tonight? Margaretta’s presence at his side? The one woman who had cracked his resolve ever so slightly?

  As the children ran off, laughing and happy, Nash thought through the families they represented. Many of them had brothers and sisters who hadn’t lived through infancy. Two had lost their mothers—one to childbirth and another to illness.

  Despite this, the families seemed, for the most part, happy and healthy. But sometimes pain could fester unseen, allowing you to fool the world at large.

  The last boy disappeared over the rise, leaving Nash alone with his obscure remnants of pain.

  Margaretta squeezed his arm and offered him a small smile, a soft look in her eyes that seemed to reassure Nash that he wasn’t alone. She didn’t even know why he hurt, what he’d vowed, but she could sense his inner torment. The fact that he wanted to wallow in that sympathy, to lean into her and seek the comfort of her presence, shocked him out of his stupor.

  Mrs. Lancaster. The cottage. The mysterious tenants who didn’t seem to actually be paying their way for anything. These were the things he needed to be focusing on.

  The cottage wasn’t very far from the green, just two turns down a rutted side street, and they were standing before it. The walls tilted slightly, showing the age of the house. When it had been built originally, it had probably stood alone, overseeing a sheep pasture outside the village, but Marlborough had grown to eventually swallow the pasture and the house.

  Margaretta’s breathing increased even though their pace remained slow. The harsh rattle of her shallow breaths concerned him, as did the fact that she’d grown so pale that her face was nearly translucent.

  He fell back a step to stand near her but resisted the urge to take her hand or wrap an arm about her for support. Despite the depth of their conversations over the last weeks, he’d never touched her. Never sought to bridge the distance between them. If he did that, if he changed the tenuous definition of their association, he was afraid he’d forget the vow he made to himself and his sister, the quiet promise he’d made to the town that became his family.

  Mrs. Lancaster lifted one fisted hand and rapped her gnarled knuckles against the thin wooden door.

  The panel swung open to reveal a pretty girl about Margaretta’s age, with blond hair pulled into a simple bun and a pale green muslin dress that had once been fine but was now showing wear from multiple washings.

  Nash fell back half a step as Mrs. Lancaster pushed into the doorway, cooing over the baby in the woman’s arms. The woman said nothing, simply stared at Margaretta, eyes wide and expression blank.

  The baby gurgled as Mrs. Lancaster continued her attentions.

  A hard lump settled in Nash’s throat. Babies made him even more nervous than young children did. Babies meant that very recentl
y a woman had potentially been at death’s door and only God’s mercy had kept her from it, though how God decided which mothers got to live was beyond Nash’s understanding.

  Margaretta reached over and clasped her fingers around his hand. The feel of her skin against his, even if it was only their hands, nearly broke the wall he’d constructed around his heart. Her nails dug into his palm, but the sharp pain didn’t disguise the warmth of her touch or the softness of her hands. She’d run out tonight without her gloves, and every detail of her skin implanted itself on his brain without waiting for his permission. His thumb traced over a spot that was beginning to roughen and callus because of her daily use of a broom.

  Margaretta had every ounce of his attention, but he didn’t have hers. She was staring at the woman in the doorway, her mouth moving but no sound coming out. Finally she managed to swallow and clear her throat. “Katherine.”

  “Margaretta.” The blonde, apparently the missing Katherine, licked her lips before pressing them into a firm line. Her voice was flat, and when she finally pulled her gaze from her Margaretta, she spared Nash only a glance before glaring at Mrs. Lancaster.

  The angry stare didn’t bother the old shopkeeper, who was too busy with the baby to pay much attention to the woman holding him. “As lovely as the weather is, dear,” Mrs. Lancaster said, finally straightening away from the baby, “perhaps you could invite us in? The chill of night is coming, and we don’t want darling Benedict to catch cold.”

  Katherine’s gaze cut to Nash once more before she looked over her shoulder into the depths of the cottage. Tension pulled her face tighter, making the lines of her neck stand out. But then she nodded and stepped back into the house, leaving the door open in silent invitation.

  Nash considered leaving. If he hurried, he’d only be a few minutes late to his dinner meeting. But before him, if he were willing to brave a room containing a baby, were the answers to all Margaretta’s secrets. This was who she’d been looking for. Her quest was complete. She could soon be leaving Marlborough, and Nash didn’t want to be asking himself what if for the rest of his life.

  With a sharp inhale that did nothing to steady his heartbeat, he followed Margaretta over the threshold.

  Margaretta didn’t realize she’d grabbed Nash’s hand until she had to let go in order to follow Mrs. Lancaster into the cottage. She had to make a conscious effort to let go of him, but she wasn’t going to miss her chance to talk to Katherine, and Nash didn’t seem in any hurry to follow their hostess into her home.

  The interior was considerably darker than the street outside, and Margaretta blinked to accustom her eyes to the dimness and to the unexpected surroundings. She remembered visiting Katherine in London, remembered the silk-hung drawing room, the plush Aubusson carpet in her bedchamber. The contrast between those memories and the stark simplicity in front of her now was startling.

  The wide-planked wood floor was swept clean, and two plain but comfortable-looking wooden chairs flanked a fireplace, where a fire burned low. On the other side of the room, a smooth wooden table, a bench, and three more chairs sat in front of a basic kitchen work area. Two doors led from the room, presumably to the bedchambers.

  Even assuming that the chambers in the back of the house combined to the size of the room in the front, the entire living space was smaller than the double drawing room in Katherine’s father’s house where Margaretta had attended more than one social gathering.

  Mrs. Lancaster moved comfortably about the room, taking the baby in her arms and making her way to a rocking chair in the far corner. It was obvious she had done more than give these women a home. She’d been visiting them with some frequency, probably when she’d taken those long evening walks.

  Margaretta stared at Katherine. Her old friend stared back. From the corner of her eye, Margaretta saw Nash shifting his head back and forth as he looked from one woman to the other. How strange it must seem to him that she’d been so desperate to find this woman and now that she had, she was saying nothing.

  What could she say, though? How did one broach such a subject?

  “I see the rumors are true.” Margaretta winced. That had probably not been the best way to open the subject.

  Katherine’s eyebrows lifted, and she looked over her shoulder to where Mrs. Lancaster was rocking and cooing at Benedict. One side of Katherine’s mouth tipped up into a sad smile. “Not as true as you think.”

  The baby let out a gurgle that slid into a bit of a whimper, as if to call Katherine’s statement a lie. Margaretta said nothing, allowing the circumstances to ask her questions for her.

  “Mrs. Lancaster didn’t tell me you were here.” There was an undeniable note of censure in Katherine’s voice, even if the look she sent Mrs. Lancaster’s way was edged with indulgence.

  “Of course I didn’t, dear.” Mrs. Lancaster never looked up from the baby. “You’d have taken this precious boy and made a run for it. When I said I’d protect you, I never said that didn’t include protecting you from yourself.”

  A sigh that could almost past for the beginning of a laugh deflated Katherine’s chest as she looked at the floor and shook her head. When she finally looked up, her expression was a little softer. “Won’t you sit? You may select a chair from the table if you wish to join us, Mr. Banfield.”

  The man choked. “I beg your pardon; have we been introduced?”

  The impish smile that flitted across Katherine’s face was familiar enough to send a pang of sadness through Margaretta. Would her own smiles soon become a mere memory? Something that only hinted at the carefree girl she used to be?

  Hadn’t they already become so? Her smile had returned easily after her husband’s death. Perhaps a bit too easily. But then they’d hardly known each other, had both considered the marriage a prudent match that would secure a future between Fortescue Saddlery and Albany’s racing stable. John’s death, though tragic, had seemed more of an inconvenience than a devastation, but then it became apparent that Margaretta’s future hadn’t simply been delayed. It had been threatened.

  She hadn’t smiled much since.

  Katherine sat in the other chair flanking the fireplace, looking as serene and graceful as she had during her Season in Town. “I make it a point to know all the important people in my area, Mr. Banfield,” she said smoothly. “Besides, Mrs. Lancaster speaks highly of you.” She then turned toward Margaretta. “How have you been?”

  “Well.” Margaretta said hesitantly. “I’ve been married.”

  Katherine looked like she didn’t quite know what to do with that information. “Congratulations.”

  “And widowed,” Margaretta continued.

  “Oh.” Katherine’s eyes widened, and her hands gripped each other in her lap. “I’m so sorry.”

  As the baby let out another loud cry, the door behind Katherine opened, and another young woman stepped out. Margaretta’s jaw went slack. She recognized the woman with the round face and the nondescript brown hair as the friend who had followed Katherine around almost like a companion. “Miss Blakemoor?”

  The woman blinked in Margaretta’s direction. She coughed. “Miss Fortescue?”

  Nash, who had stood upon the other woman’s entrance, shot an accusing look Margaretta’s way. A reminder that he hadn’t forgotten the news that had been dropped on him earlier this evening.

  Margaretta cleared her throat. “It’s Mrs. actually.”

  Miss Blakemoor coughed and darted a look in Mr. Banfield’s direction. “Oh, er, I’m actually a Mrs. as well.”

  The dizzying weakness from earlier crept into the edges of Margaretta’s brain as she tried to make sense of everything she was seeing and learning. What was real? What was pretense? Perhaps if she gave a little information the woman, or apparently women, she’d come to see would provide some answers as well. “Mine was a very short marriage,” Margaretta said with a smile that attempted to break the tension in the room. “It is sometimes difficult to remember I received a new name.”


  Nash crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at her. “What else are you forgetting?”

  “Nothing that need concern you.”

  “Too late. I find my concern growing by the moment.”

  Margaretta stared at her hands. He sounded almost hurt, as if he, too, had found himself in a strange place these last few weeks, wondering about their burgeoning friendship. Had he grown feelings for her the way she was deathly afraid she’d grown feelings for him? Margaretta wasn’t willing to name the thing that made her heart pound whenever she heard him greet Mrs. Lancaster during his daily visit. To do so would mean one more thing she had to leave behind when the time came.

  The baby cried once more, this time refusing to be hushed and calmed by Mrs. Lancaster. “I do believe he’s hungry, my dears, and I’m long past the age of being able to help him with that.”

  Margaretta clamped her teeth together to hold in her shocked laughter, while Katherine and Miss Blakemoor felt no such compulsion to restrain theirs. Nash emitted a low groan.

  Miss Blakemoor crossed to the rocking chair and lifted the bundle in her arms. “I’ll see to him, Mrs. Lancaster.”

  And then she disappeared back into the room she’d come from.

  Katherine looked at Margaretta pointedly. “Rumors rarely get everything correct.”

  Nash pulled his chair over to the grouping and settled into it. “Are you from London as well, Miss FitzGilbert?”

  Katherine’s pointed look narrowed into a glare as she shifted her gaze to Nash. “How do you know my name? Yours is blazoned across the sign outside your office. Mine, however, is certainly not.”

  “Margare—er, Mrs. Fortescue, I mean—” he cut himself off with a sigh and pinched the top of his nose as he took a deep breath. “Margaretta came to town looking for a Miss Katherine FitzGilbert. As she appears to have been looking for you, I’m assuming that you are the Miss FitzGilbert in question. Or have you suddenly remembered a name change as well?”