Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

“Failure to understand is a deficiency in all women. It is natural, and I expect no less from you. Now if you please, I have tithes to account for.” He scooped up the pile of documents he’d straightened, then sank into the chair, leather crinkling beneath his weight.

  His eyes scanned back and forth as he skimmed the page. It was Mr. Eldon’s role to keep the books. Why would her brother not wait until his return?

  Unless he knew the vicar would not be returning at all.

  Strange happenings are afoot. Mrs. Makin had never spoken a truer word.

  Miri mimicked her brother’s earlier stance, placing her palms on the desk. “Pray let me help you. Many a time I helped Father with his books before, well, you know …”

  “No.”

  “Truly, Roland, I am good with numbers.” She leaned forward until the edge of the desk pressed against her hips. “Allow me to assist you. I have little else to do. Perhaps this could be the trade I might develop, something with which to support myself. Mrs. Tattler might even take me on over at the—”

  “Your service is neither needed nor wanted.” His eyes remained fastened on the ledger, but each of his words bored into her. “This is exactly why it would be beneficial for you to shower your attentions on Master Witherskim. I daresay he’s your best chance for support. Be done with this silly notion of independence, once and for all. Now, you are dismissed.”

  She straightened as if slapped. Callous man! Making her hands into fists, she squeezed until her nails bit her palms. Silly notion, indeed. She’d show him. She’d polish up her bookkeeping skills in secret and instead be done with both Roland and Witherskim. Inhaling deeply, she released her tension as she exhaled, then retreated in silence.

  But her stomach was not as quiet. As she padded down the stairs, a grumble creaked louder than the worn tread. She pressed a hand to her tummy, and a louder gurgle rumbled beneath her fingers. Apparently one bite of brown bread and marmalade did not a meal make. Veering right, she headed toward the kitchen.

  Voices carried louder the closer she drew—one gruff with age, the other twittering.

  “He can right well say as he pleases, but that was blood, I tell ye, woman. Dried blood. I’d wager it to be the vicar’s, and what’s more …”

  Miri paused at the doorway, making sure that the tip of her skirt did not so much as sway into Mrs. Makin’s or Old Joe’s line of vision.

  “… I seen Master Brayden’s knuckles the day after the vicar went missin’. I know a-swellin’ set o’ joints caused by a good row. If you ask me, ol’ Master Brayden had himself a knock down right afore Mr. Eldon disappeared.”

  The cook’s voice lowered, and Miri leaned closer. “You don’t think?”

  “Aye, I do think, Mrs. Makin. That I do.”

  7

  Could lungs catch on fire, sear through bone and flesh, and explode out one’s chest like a flaming comet? Sure felt like it. With each labored breath Ethan drew, the burning beneath his ribs intensified, as did his exhaustion and hunger. He should have stayed in London. The hangman’s noose would be a kindness compared to this torment. What he wouldn’t give for a piece of opium right about now, and none of that would be found in a Bedfordshire wood. He glanced heavenward. “The reverend said You have a plan for me. Is this it?”

  Skirting the village of Deverell Downs had kept him out of sight but well within range of home fires. Pots of stew, roasted chickens, fresh loaves of bread … just thinking of the aromas rained saliva into a pool at the back of his mouth. How many days had it been since he’d eaten? His stomach cramped, and he turned aside to spit. Too many. Probably four, maybe five. Seemed like forever ago that he’d met with the reverend at St. Giles. At least the man had heard of Miri Brayden, thank God.

  Yes, thanks indeed. God had brought him thus far, but unless he found something to eat, he’d not go much farther.

  He lowered his gaze and leaned against the rough bark of an ash tree, crossing his arms to ward off the chill of approaching eve. Deep down a cough began, and he bent, hacking until shaky and short of breath. As much as he’d like to sink into the ferns at his feet, if he didn’t keep moving, he’d die here.

  He willed each step thereafter. Determination was all he owned, and a pitiful amount at that. Soon, an old farmhouse with shuttered windows came into view, smoke curling from its chimney like a sailor puffing a pipe. He brushed off his waistcoat, ripped in elbow and collar and long since barren of buttons. A pitchfork would pierce his backside before he’d have a chance to beg a crust or a crumb.

  Beyond the house sat an outbuilding. Small, though perhaps large enough for livestock. Worth a try. By now, pig slop would be a delicacy. He couldn’t stop the smile that curved his mouth. If only his father and brother could see him now—a prodigal in the flesh.

  His grin faded as he swung around to the back of the byre and entered the shadows. What a hovel. One wall leaned in at such an angle that it forced him to walk crooked, and the roof swagged so low, he needed to duck. Either the farmer was extremely short or worked with a perpetually bent back.

  A single cow lowed as he batted aside a cobweb, the silk of it wrapping around his fingers. He wiped it against his breeches while heading straight for the trough, gut clenching in anticipation. His feet hadn’t moved this fast in days.

  Reaching the manger, he stopped and stared, pushing down an insane urge to laugh. Even the Prodigal had pods or husks or whatever in the world pigs ate. Apparently this cow had already dined and in high style. Not a grain remained.

  He was left with nothing. As usual. How come running from the past never seemed to change the present?

  The whiny cry of a kitten sounded near his feet. Glancing down at a patch-haired fur ball, Ethan snorted. “You look as bad as me, little scrapper.” The tiny cat rubbed against his ankles, mewing all the louder.

  “Would that I could help you, Scrappy.” With a last glimpse at the licked-clean trough, Ethan stomped outside. “But I cannot even help myself.”

  Great. Not only had he sunk to speaking to animals, now he was talking to himself.

  The early evening air, while fresher than the stuffy byre, set off another coughing spell. Bracing both hands on his thighs, he rode out the attack. Long after it abated, he remained doubled over, exhaustion gaining the upper hand.

  “You there! Off with ye!”

  Straightening, Ethan faced the owner of the ramshackle barn, hardly twenty paces from him. Short as expected, the man stood much stockier and more muscular than Ethan could have guessed possible, and he did not wield the proverbial pitchfork.

  He held a scythe. The blade gleamed, honed to a fine and dangerous edge, catching the last glint of the setting sun. So that’s why the farmer didn’t have time to fix his byre—too busy sharpening tools into weapons.

  Ethan backed up, palms raised high. “As you wish.”

  The farmer’s scowl deepened, his wiry grey brows melding into one. “And don’t ye come back.”

  As if he’d want to. Ethan lowered his hands and walked away, feeling the man’s eyes follow him until he gained the road—if it could be called such. The thoroughfare was merely two ruts with grass worn low in between. Hah, some country gent he would make. All the years spent in London had clearly erased his rural roots.

  At any rate, villagers surely would not travel so far on this rugged road each Sabbath. Making an about-face, he retraced his steps toward the Downs. Perhaps he’d missed the turn-off he should have taken.

  Rounding a sharp bend in the road, he spotted another traveler en route from the small town, a musket shot’s distance ahead. The man rode a black horse, and judging from the size, it was likely a mare. Mayhap he’d know the rectory’s location. Was it worth the risk to ask for directions?

  Horse and rider veered right, disappearing from Ethan’s line of vision. Disappointment rumbled in his belly. So much for the directions opportunity—

  But where the rider turned, a cloven oak stood, marking a worn trail that forked off the main road. Wh
y had he not seen it when he’d passed by earlier? A pox on those coughing attacks!

  He entered an archway of trees, following the lane until it opened onto a field. A wider path led to a grey stone church planted atop a knoll. The other wound to the right, leading to a brick-faced building, three stories high. In front, the black mare stamped as her rider secured the reins to a post. Even from this distance, Ethan could see the fancy cut of the man’s coat and high-brimmed hat would allow him entrance to the rectory before his own shabby self.

  Until now, he’d never given a thought to how he would approach Will’s sister. He could not simply waltz up to the front door and expect admission while looking like a ragamuffin. He’d be relegated to the back door, if that.

  So … why not start there?

  Miri paused atop the stairs at the sound of men’s voices. Surely it could not be the squire again. He’d called that morning with the magistrate, Mr. Buckle, in tow, inquiring where the vicar had been the last two Sundays. Neither Miri nor Mrs. Makin could tell him, and Roland had been out.

  Cocking her head, she strained to listen. One voice sounded deep and commanding, almost dictatorial. Roland. The other was over-sweet with manipulative undertones. Witherskim. If she had taken milk with her tea, it would have curdled in her stomach.

  What a dreadful close to a tiring day. With the prospect of filling her vacant time, Miri had encouraged Mrs. Makin to visit her ailing sister for a day or two. The cook had been reluctant to agree, especially with Old Joe taken abed by the rheum. After much coaxing and placating, Mrs. Makin agreed. Miri had prepared and served a cold dinner and cleaned up afterward. She’d not minded the work, but she could have done without Roland’s perpetual cataloging of her shortfalls.

  And now this. She pinched the bridge of her nose, hopeful of warding off the headache that was sure to come.

  Laughter rang out as the front door closed, echoing up the staircase from the foyer. Miri ground her teeth at the prospect of spending the entire evening listening to Witherskim’s cackles. A foxhound baying at its quarry was more pleasant to the ear. Retreating to her room was out of the question. Roland would hunt her down and likely thrill at the chase. No, hiding would not work.

  She must disappear.

  The voices grew muffled as the men moved into the sitting room. Now or never, then. Miri padded softly down the stairs. With one hand, she gathered the extra fabric of her skirt lest the muslin swish overloud. If Roland reappeared at this point, he’d pin her like a beetle to a display board—with Witherskim a willing observer.

  She held her breath as she left the last step and prepared to pass by the open study door. If they’d keep talking, she just might make it.

  Roland’s voice rumbled from within. “Of course Miriall will be delighted to receive you.”

  Her jaw clenched. She’d sooner welcome death.

  “Naturally.” Witherskim’s trademark snicker followed. “I would expect the same from any of the fairer sex in Deverell Downs.”

  Oh vomit.

  “I assure you, Miriall comes from fine stock.”

  Fine and mad, more like it.

  “Excellent. Witherskim lineage is also impeccable, a name harvested from generations of good breeding. It’s a duty to my forefathers that I should plant seed in only the finest of soils.”

  Enough!

  She dashed down the corridor, fighting the urge to rip her ears from her head. Slipping through the kitchen door, she slowed. Shadows, birthed by the approaching evening, would make navigating this maze a challenge. Good thing Mrs. Makin wasn’t here to witness her flight.

  “Miriall?” Roland’s voice, while demanding, at least sounded far away. If he checked her chamber first, then mayhap the study, she’d have plenty of time to rush out and escape to the church. She’d take a dark, creepy sanctuary any day over spending an evening with Witherskim. And if she was found out, how could her brother fault her for spending time with the Lord in prayer?

  For oh, yes, she would pray—for Witherskim to go away, for her brother’s senses to be restored. Pray that, for once, life would take on some portion of normalcy, that she might live out her days in peace at the rectory.

  Ouch! Her hip cracked against the table’s corner, stopping her short. That would be a lovely shade of purple on the morrow. She rubbed the bone with one hand, then scooted ahead.

  “Miriall.” This time her brother’s voice came from the direction of the study.

  Hurry. Hurry. She yanked open the back door.

  Dark eyes blinked back at her, cavernous with pain or perhaps from starvation. The man standing before her was a suit of skin hung on bones. She’d seen fatter orphans in London’s alleys.

  “Please, Miss—”

  “Miriall!”

  Footsteps from the corridor drew closer. As much as she’d like to help the scarecrow in front of her, she did not have time for a beggar. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “Please—” The word rattled from deep in the man’s chest, unleashing a fit of coughing.

  Great. Which was better company—a groping princox or a vagabond with consumption? She pushed the door nearly shut, only inches remaining to seal it. Perhaps if he thought she’d close him out, he’d leave. And quick.

  But his boot filled the gap.

  Frowning, she flung the door back open. “Go away!”

  Startled, the man straightened, placing one hand against the doorjamb for support. “Please, Miri.”

  A jolt shot through her.

  Only her younger brother ever called her that.

  8

  Miri stood tiptoe, looking past the beggar’s shoulder, desperate for a glimpse of Will. Twilight painted the yard with a monotone brush, making it hard to see much past the woodpile. She squinted, yet clearly no one else accompanied the beggar. Ignoring the unwashed odor of the man, she leaned closer, giving him no chance to misunderstand her words. “Where is Will?”

  He averted his gaze. “I—”

  “Miriall!”

  Roland’s footsteps entered the kitchen, slapping the flagstone floor with determination. The last time he’d caught her helping a vagrant, she’d suffered a lecture on how poverty was a judgment of God, not something to be interfered with. Her knees yet recalled those enforced hours of repentance.

  Stepping back, she pelted the beggar with directions. “Go to the church. The key is atop a grey stone set out farther than the rest.” Hopefully he heard that last bit over the sound of her slamming the door.

  “What are you doing?” Though the words were innocently phrased, Roland’s tone bludgeoned.

  She turned and flattened her back against the oak. Evening shadows twisted her brother’s features into a severity that made her glad for the support. Though her mouth dried, she forced lightness to her words. “I heard you at the front door, which reminded me that with Mrs. Makin gone for the night, I’d promised to lock up the back.” For an added touch, she smiled.

  He frowned and folded his arms, not buying the explanation she sold.

  Bolstering her resolve for the horrid words she’d say next, she lifted her chin. “I am free of duty now and for the rest of the evening.”

  Free? Hardly. Not if Roland and Witherskim had their way. She bit the inside of her cheek lest the thought fly out her mouth.

  Roland stepped closer and grabbed hold of her upper arm, yanking her from the door and out of the kitchen. “Good. Master Witherskim is waiting.”

  Before she could catch her breath, Roland pulled her down the corridor and into the sitting room, where Clive Witherskim advanced.

  “Good evening, Miss Brayden.” He reached for her hand and planted his lips atop her fingers.

  Her stomach lurched. Everything about the man made her ill, from the tip of his outmoded wig to the gartered socks covering his legs. The stench of horehound and onions hung about him, cloying as rotted fruit. His breath, hot and moist, condensed on her skin.

  She jerked away, clasping both hands behind her. His eyes wide
ned, and she realized too late that her reaction offered him a more prominent view of her bosom.

  Miri scooted across the room, garnering one of the two single chairs opposite the settee, and folded her arms. From the doorway, Roland glowered at her unladylike position. Let him. Even warriors went to battle with a shield.

  Witherskim proceeded to the settee and perched on its edge. If he didn’t take care, he’d tumble face forward on the rug. A genuine smile lifted her lips at the thought.

  And Witherskim pounced on her indiscretion. “Your brother has granted me courtship rights, Miss Brayden. I see this is acceptable to you.”

  Her smile vanished, and she rose. “Apparently there has been some miscommunication.”

  Roland flew to her side, a flush spreading upward from his neck. He pushed her shoulder so hard, she’d have a purple mark in the morn to match the one on her hip. She had no choice but to sink into the chair as he shoved her down.

  With his free hand, Roland flourished a nonchalant wave. “Pray forgive my sister’s insensibility. I fear she is fatigued. Naturally your attentions are acceptable, sir, and completely desirable. Do I not speak truth, Miriall?”

  Roland’s fingers dug deeper.

  Wincing, Miri remained silent. Witherskim ran his tongue around his overly red lips. Gad … did he paint them, or were they chapped? As much as she wanted to avoid upsetting her brother, she could not agree.

  “We are waiting, Miriall.”

  The clock above the mantle ticked. A breeze rattled the window. Witherskim’s knit stockings swooshed as he crossed one leg over the other. No, she would not give in to this pressure.

  Almost imperceptibly at first, Roland’s hand on her shoulder started shaking. “I said here we tree flee wait for your answer, Miriall.”

  Miri squinted up at her brother. What had he said?

  Even Witherskim cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, I beg sweg yours.” Roland removed his hand and clasped it in the other. His chest expanded and deflated several times as he gazed at the door. “I fear my sister and I are both fatigued beyond measure. Good wood hoodnight to you, sir.”