La, she must look worse than frightful. Tucking up her hair, she straightened her bonnet. “I am sorry to give you the wrong impression, Mr. Knight. I have not come for myself.”
He glanced up. “Oh?”
“Yes, I …” If only she could pull off her gloves and fan the heat from her face. She could not think when so fagged by the long morning—or with such an endless blue gaze holding hers. “Well, you see …”
His tone lowered as he tilted his head. “Yes?”
“It’s just that …” That what? How to tell this upstanding gentleman that she wished to treat a vagabond on death’s threshold?
“Our hired man has taken with the rheum.” The words came out in a rush. Glancing heavenward, she shouldn’t be a bit surprised if a lightning bolt flattened her here and now, though it wasn’t exactly a lie. Old Joe was abed and in sore condition.
Mr. Knight returned the contents he’d taken from the jar. “Has willow bark been tried?”
“In truth, I do not know.” Excellent. Now she looked foolish as well as dreadful. She wrapped tighter her pelisse, covering the gap where her creased skirt peeked out in front. How she longed to disappear—and the feeling irked her. Why care what this man thought? Or any man, for that matter? No one would have her once her brother’s madness was discovered—a boon in Witherskim’s case, but a death knell to any other marriage hopes.
As if thoughts of Witherskim parading through her mind weren’t bad enough, from the corner of her eye, she snagged a glimpse of the silly man outside the window. Directly across the road from the apothecary’s, Clive Witherskim huddled in conversation with the squire.
Miri whirled about so fast, she wobbled. Hopefully he hadn’t seen her.
But Mr. Knight did. “Miss! Are you faint?” He pulled a stool around the counter and took firm hold of her upper arm, directing her to sit.
“I am—”
“Yes, you are quite pale.” The back of his hand pressed against her forehead. “No fever, though.”
“Really, Mr. Knight!” She pulled from his touch. “I am a bit fatigued, that is all.”
He withdrew his hand but hesitated at her side, peering at her closely. “Clearly, you have overdone.”
“Honestly, sir. I am fine.” She took care, however, to remain with her face diverted from the window.
“Well … as you say.” He resumed his station behind the counter and collected a few items, but his gaze did not leave her. “Is there no one else to see to your hired man? Perhaps I should call on him.”
She shot to her feet. “No!” The thought of his discovering Roland or the beggar pushed the word out of her mouth with force.
His eyes widened. “I assure you, I am fully competent in my profession.”
“I do not question your abilities, Mr. Knight. I should be happy to have you call except for …” Her mind raced to find an excuse, an exhausting maneuver having clocked only two hours of sleep.
“Except for?”
Think. Think! “You’re … er … too busy.” Victory! That could work. “Yes, what with Mr. Harper being gone, I would not think to impose upon you. Old Joe’s not really that bad off.”
“Truth be told, it’s been a little slow around here. It would be no trouble on my part to see after your man. But if you think that not prudent—”
“I do not, sir. Your time would be better served here in the shop, I am sure.” She held her breath, waiting, hoping to see the effect of her words. Had she soothed the savage pride beast within him?
A half smile lit his face. “Very well, you should know best.”
Relief rushed through her, and she exhaled.
He ground a pestle into a mortar, filling the shop with an oddly soothing gritty sound, then formed the concoction into pills. Inspecting each one, he collected them into a small envelope and held it out to her. “Give your man two of these every four hours. That will be one shilling, miss.”
As she took the packet, her fingertips brushed his—steady and strong, so unlike the beggar’s hand she’d held this morn.
The beggar. Her stomach sank. She tucked the packet into her coin purse but did not remove any money. “I have one more request, Mr. Knight. What can be done for a severe cough, fever, and nausea?”
A queer look rippled across his face—one she’d many times directed at Roland.
“I thought you said your man was not that bad off.”
If she said he was, Knight would make a visit. If not, then she looked like a liar. She tapped a finger to her lips, as if that might charm the right words to the surface. “Well, you see … I mean … I think …”
Mr. Knight cocked his head, studying her. “You seem a bit confused, Miss Brayden.”
Not at all—she knew exactly how foolish she appeared. She straightened her back, seeking what little confidence might be found in good posture. “I do not speak of our hired man. This would be for someone else. Someone new to the parish. That’s it! Yes, this fellow is rather bad off, I’m afraid.”
Pursing his lips, Mr. Knight obviously tried to decide if he should purchase her poorly wrapped parcel of an explanation. “In pain?”
“Quite.”
“Very well.” This time his work involved no collecting or grinding or packing. He simply reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small bottle filled with liquid and sealed with a cork. “Twenty drops, Miss Brayden, no more, no less. Mix well into a half-pint of drink. Take a care in your measurements, though. Laudanum is not without adverse effects if used improperly. Administer every four to six hours, as needed. One shilling, four pence.”
She pulled out the correct amount and grabbed the bottle. “Thank you, Mr. Knight. You have been very helpful.”
“My pleasure, Miss Brayden. I shall hope to hear of your patients’ progress. And might I recommend for yourself a bit of chamomile tea? It calms like none other. I think you could do with a bit of that.”
He smiled—a knowing smile. The kind that harbored secret suspicions—one she’d seen on the vicar’s face before he’d disappeared.
“Thank you.” She nodded, then rushed to the door. The little bell tinkled, though not by her hand on the latch.
“Good day, Miss Brayden.” Mr. Gullaby entered, standing a head shorter than she, especially when he removed his hat.
“Squire.” She stepped aside to let him pass.
He did not. Instead, he eyed the bottle in her hand and lifted a single bushy brow. “I hope all is a’right at the rectory.”
Miri tucked the bottle into the folds of her pelisse. If the squire learned of the beggar, he’d no doubt race to the magistrate and they’d run the poor man off before his health returned. “Simply another bout of the rheum for Old Joe, is all.”
“Ahh, yes. I had a chat with your Joe a few days back. He mentioned he could feel something coming on, among other things.” The squire’s brow lowered, but still he did not move. “And how is Master Brayden?”
A flush of warmth flowed through Miri’s body—and not pleasant warmth, at that. “He is fine, sir.” True enough, at least while he slept. But why the inquiry? She narrowed her eyes and studied the man. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing.” He finally pushed past her. “At any rate, likely hearsay and nonsense. Good day, miss.”
Glancing both ways to make sure Witherskim no longer remained about, Miri stepped into the chill spring day, allowing the door to close behind her. Too bad it did not shut out her thoughts.
Had Witherskim gossiped about Roland’s gibberish?
Nigel’s eyes stung, either from lack of sleep or the acrid Dockland stench. Probably both, though it was surprising how last summer’s fire yet defiled the air with its burnt stink. Black-blistered warehouse skeletons and useless piles of rubble now made up a good half of the Wapping District. Passing the charred but still-standing Ramsgate Pub, he slowed his step. He’d give his left crown jewel to go in and chug back a few pints instead of facing Buck tonight.
Laughter and bant
er carried out the open door, but he flipped up his collar and pressed on. He turned into a cobbled alleyway and followed it to the top of the Old Stairs. An unusually clear night with a waning moon lent enough light to view Execution Dock. The low tide swallowed the feet of the condemned men swinging from the gibbets. Good thing he could only see their silhouettes. A shiver ran through him. Hopefully his body wouldn’t soon be sharing the water with them.
But it just might.
Taking care to avoid the washed-up sewage left over from high tide, he descended the stairs, staying close to the algae-covered wall. The other side of the stairway hung open, with a drop far enough to break a man’s neck.
On the bottom landing, a dark shape moved out from the shadows. Big. Obscenely big. A brief surge of fear caused Nigel’s step to falter. His foot shot out, and his bum smacked onto the silt-coated steps. He slid down the rest, landing on spongy ground.
“Nice o’ you to drop by, Thorne.” Buck yanked him up by the collar.
Nigel teetered, shoving down his rising panic. “I told you I’d be here, din’t I?” He brushed himself off, taking longer than necessary.
“Let’s have it, then.” Buck held out his palm.
If ever he needed his blessed mother’s gift of gab, now was the time. “First off, mate, I have a bit of a proposition you might be interested in.”
Buck merely shoved his hand closer.
Sucking in a breath of courage, he met Buck’s gaze straight on. “Ye see, ain’t no reason a shrewd businessman like yerself shouldn’t profit from this little transaction as well as Mr. Havisway. He need never—”
His head hit the wall, face mashing against the rocks. Before he could right himself, both of his arms were wrenched behind his back, fettered by Buck’s grip. He gasped at the searing pain in his right shoulder. Dash it! If Buck had knocked that joint out of place, why he’d … Actually, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do.
And the truth of it made him whimper.
“Shut up, ye tittering weanling. Just hand over the money, and I’ll be on me way.” Buck’s voice rasped into his ear.
Nigel grunted. “Lemmego.”
“What?”
Spitting out the blood from his cut lip, he chopped his words apart. “Let. Me. Go.”
Buck’s grip loosened. Nigel spun, tempted to pull the knife from his waistband, then sighed, giving up the ghost of that thought. Buck held a towering advantage. Nothing to be done for it, then. He retrieved a wad of bills. “Here, but it’s short twenty pounds.”
The money was out of his hand before the last of his words passed his lips. As Buck thumbed through the stack, Nigel’s heart beat overloud, pounding in his ears. He resolved himself to a permanent swim in the Thames, though he was already wet from the sweat slicking his flesh. Life had sure dealt him some rotten hands. What a horrid way to—
“I said, what’s yer proposition, Thorne?”
Nigel waggled a finger in his ear. Sweet nimbycock! Had he heard a’right? Perhaps there really was a God. “It’s … uh …” His voice cracked like a downy-chinned lad. “It’s like this … I’ll bring you Havisway’s twenty pounds and an extra twenty for yer trouble. Plus, I’ll set you up right nice at Mistress Pegg’s Bawdy House. And a fine time ye’ll have every night till I’ve paid you off.”
Buck’s face was granite. Not a twitch. Not an inkling to give away his thoughts.
Nigel loosened his collar, hoping these weren’t his last breaths. Surely he could come up with something more. “And I’ll … why, I’ll even throw in a tumble with ol’ Pegg herself. Ye’ve not had a woman if ye’ve not had Pegg.” How he’d get Pegg to agree to this was a mystery, but worth it if it worked.
“Triple it.”
He definitely had not heard right this time. Cleaning out his other ear, he cocked his head. “Sorry?”
“I said triple it. Twenty pounds for Havisway, forty for me.”
“Tr … tr …” Triple it? Nigel’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Ye got seven days, Thorne. Not a day more.” Buck shoved past him and took the stairs two at a time, slippery silt and all.
Nigel leaned against the wall, as high-strung as when he’d come. True enough, he’d not be drinking the river water this night.
No. He’d simply put it off a week.
11
Ethan dangled his legs over the edge of the potting shed’s narrow table. Though Miri had provided him with a pillow and blanket, his body ached from a night spent on the unforgiving wooden planks. He rolled one shoulder, then the next, working out the knots in his muscles.
Light filtered through chinks in the lath. Daylight. How many hours had he slept? His chest still burned, and breathing was a chore … but the nausea and dizziness had disappeared. Actually, he felt pretty good, minus the guilt of murder and grief of losing a friend. Blowing out a long breath, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. How easily this brooding would vanish with one plug of opium. He licked his lips, the bittersweet aftertaste so real that he swallowed.
Sighing, he pushed off the table. Better not to dwell upon it.
On his right, shovels, a dung fork, and several grubbing hoes stood like soldiers against the wall. Cobweb chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and when he inhaled, his nose tickled deep inside. The whole place smelled like mushrooms. Atop a wooden crate sat a jug, a basin, and a tankard covered with a cloth. Not your standard garden shed fare. When had that arrived?
So … he’d not only slept—apparently he’d slept like the dead.
He reached for the jug and emptied it into the basin. The cold water bit his hands, stinging his skin as he splashed it onto his cheeks. He scrubbed his face and neck, dampening his collar. How far removed he felt from his youth, when heated water was served him from a silver pitcher. He shook aside the image. Truly there was not much he missed about his former life—except for a warm bath. Ironic that the lifestyle he’d chosen since provided neither baths nor warmth.
The door scraped open, and he looked up from his washing. Miri entered, her curves silhouetted against the outside sun—tiny waist, broad hips. What a shape. He could consume her with one embrace.
A backdrop of sunlight haloed her head. Spirals of hair glinted into a blend of tawny copper, framing her face. How might it look if he loosened those hairpins, release those curls to fall from shoulder to waist, and—
Enough. He flicked the remaining water from his fingers and wiped his hands on his pants, hoping his smile did not reveal his thoughts.
“Good morn.” She crossed to his makeshift bed and set down a tray, then undraped some clothing she had slung over her arm. “I see you are feeling better.”
“I am.” He rested his back against the shed’s wall, willing the rickety wood to hold him. “This is a curious infirmary you have brought me to, Miss Brayden, though I am grateful for your care.”
She whirled, bracing herself against the table. If she were a bird, she’d have taken flight. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”
Shame raced through him. Not only had he frightened her, but the answer to either question might earn his banishment. Yet he owed her the truth. Working his jaw, he prayed that words would magically flow. “My name is Ethan Goodwin. I am … was … a friend of your brother’s.”
She frowned. “Roland hasn’t any—”
“Will’s friend.”
The change in her expression was momentous, like a woman seeking news of her condemned husband. She stepped forward, wringing her hands. “Please, where is he?”
A lump the size of Westminster lodged in his throat. He’d give anything to erase the anguish in her eyes, especially since he was the cause. “I am sorry to say that Will is no longer … I mean, he …” He blew out a ragged breath and swiped his face. “Will is deceased.”
“No!” All color drained from her cheeks. “Not … not Will.”
She swayed, reaching one hand back toward the bench.
Without thinking, Ethan closed th
e distance between them and scooped her into his arms, lest a swoon overtake her. As suspected, his embrace did consume her, so well did she fit against him. Under different circumstances, he would never let go.
As it was, she struggled, and he loosened his grip.
Her hands flew to her face, but she did not wail as he expected. Just a few, quiet, deep moans—as from one who knew well how to wield sorrow.
The lump in his throat turned to dust. “I am sorry, truly.”
She swiped her eyes with her sleeve. “As am I, Mr. Goodwin.”
“Call me Ethan.” The request came out before he could stop it. Ridiculous timing on his part and a complete breach of etiquette, but still … the rising desire to know her friendship would not be forced down. She must think him mad.
Perhaps he was.
Beneath a pool of tears, eyes the color of autumn oak leaves searched his. “It is not seemly, Mr.—”
“Ethan.” He softened his tone. “Please, I am certain Will would have had it no other way.”
At the mention of her brother’s name, her lower lip quivered. The dam broke, her cheeks flooded with silent weeping. “Was he … did he … suffer much?”
Her grief hit him as a physical blow, wrenching his heart. He never should have come here. She would have been spared the pain that now etched her brow—pain birthed by him. Avoiding details that would only burden her further, he said simply, “It was a speedy end.”
“Oh.” Her word was a whisper.
“Miri … I …” Sweet heavens. What to say? He drew in a breath as shaky as hers. “I am sorry. Truly. Your brother … he meant a lot to me, more than—”
“Please.” She turned from him and gripped the table, her body rigid as the spades against the wall. The fabric of her dress rippled as if she clenched each muscle into oblivion. “Say no more. Not … yet. Not now. Mayhap another time.”
Helpless, he wove his fingers together and squeezed. So many emotions at once. Too many. One little chunk of opium would quell these volatile feelings. He licked his lips with a craving so strong he could taste it.
After an awkward silence, her shoulders rising and falling with each of her breaths, at last she spoke—and the emptiness in her voice almost killed him.
Michelle Griep Page 7