The hymn ended, and the man lifted his hand in blessing. After a passionless benediction, pew doors opened and feet shuffled into the aisles. That must’ve been some sermon. Ethan leaned to the right, desperate to catch a glimpse of Miri.
A voice came from the left. “Good day, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met. I am—”
“Magistrate Buckle.” Ethan recognized the voice and turned.
The man’s face screwed up as he tapped a finger to his chin. “You are … no. Don’t tell me. I feel I know you.”
Squire Gullaby joined his side, wide-eyed. “Mr. Goodwin?”
Their shock, while amusing, hindered his search for Miri. He gave them a curt nod. “Gentlemen, please excuse—”
“How you have changed!” Gullaby’s eyes traveled the length of him, landing on his signet ring. “And for the better, I might add.”
“Yes,” said Ethan. “Now, if you’ll ex—”
“But how did you”—the squire stepped up to him, his head barely cresting the top of Ethan’s shoulders. He aimed a fat finger at him—“meet with such fortune?”
Ethan knew that look well. Even more, the tone. Generally, though, he’d been guilty of the theft the question implied. Not this time, nor ever again. He lifted his chin, making the squire appear all the shorter. “My father, Lord Trenton, has recently passed. His estate is now mine.”
“Lord Trenton? But that would make you …” Understanding registered on the squire’s red face, and he retreated.
“Exactly.” With a look he’d seen his father use a thousand times, Ethan dismissed him and peered over the man’s head for Miri. By now several others had gathered around as well, making it impossible to see as far as her pew. “As I’ve said, gentlemen, excuse me.”
The smell of horehound and onions broke through the crowd, preceding a stick figure dressed in a velveteen jacket and striped socks. “What’s going on here?”
Ethan rolled his eyes. Just what he needed. Witherskim. “Nothing of your concern.”
Recognition twisted Witherskim’s face, bringing his nose to an even finer point. The man ought to dip it in ink and make a fine living as a scribe. “You!”
Ethan frowned. He didn’t have time for this. “I’ll say this one last time. Slowly, so that you might understand.” He nodded at the fellow. “Please excuse me. I should like to speak with Miri Brayden.”
“Hah!” Witherskim’s egg breakfast traveled on his breath. “She no longer lives here, Mr. Good. Oh, that’s right. It was Goodwin, wasn’t it?”
“Stand down, man.” Gullaby disguised his warning in a cough.
A failed attempt, for Witherskim shot forward a step. “I remember now. Goodwin, the murderer.”
Gullaby sing-songed without moving his lips. “Be careful.”
Witherskim merely snorted. He either didn’t listen or didn’t care. Probably both.
Neither did Ethan. Leastwise not the words about himself. “What was that you said about Miri? She no longer lives here?”
“That strumpet—”
“Mind your tongue, Witherskim.” Gullaby did nothing to conceal his warning this time.
And Witherskim was too stupid to shut up. “That trollop—”
Ethan advanced, fists clenched at his sides. Though he’d like nothing better than to give the man a fat lip, he restrained the urge. Not in a church. “I believe I made you apologize to the lady once before.”
Witherskim rolled back his shoulders and tipped his chin. “Not this time.”
Ethan grabbed him by the lapels, lifting him off his feet. “Every time.”
The crowd stepped back.
Witherskim blanched. “Put me down.”
“Apologize!”
“She’s not even here, man!”
Ethan twisted the fabric in his hands. Where could she be? And why? Questions buzzed like pesky flies. He leaned into Witherskim’s flushed face. “Where is she?”
“Put me down and I’ll tell you, you big ape!”
Ethan splayed his fingers and let the man fall.
Immediately, Witherskim set about tugging down his waistcoat and straightening the crumpled fabric, pausing only to direct the evil eye at both Ethan and Gullaby.
“Where is Miri Brayden?” Ethan looked from man to man.
A fine sheen of perspiration glistened on the magistrate’s brow. Gullaby’s neck and face deepened in color. Both pressed tight their lips.
Only Witherskim answered, still fussing with his rumpled collar. “She’s in the Sheltering Arms Asylum, caged up with that half-wit brother of hers.”
Ethan’s blood ran cold. An asylum for her brother made perfect sense, but … “Why on earth would she be there?”
Witherskim stretched to his full height.
“Don’t do it, man,” Gullaby cautioned from behind, loud enough for all to hear.
A haughty smirk pulled up the right side of Witherskim’s mouth. “Because a strumpet deserves to be locked away. I simply made sure she got what she merited.”
The ice in Ethan’s veins turned to fire. He flung out his arm, collecting Witherskim in a headlock, and dragged him out the door.
They weren’t in church anymore.
Ethan shoved him, and the man stumbled forward, flailing like the village idiot along the walkway. A collective gasp sounded behind them.
Witherskim caught his balance and turned, fists raised. When he advanced, Ethan swung low. A solid blow to the man’s abdomen doubled him over. One last kidney shot would end all of Witherskim’s slurs against Miri forever. Just one, quick jab.
He clenched his fists tighter. Giving in to the rage shaking through him would make him no different than Thorne—no different from the man he used to be.
God help me.
Drawing in a shaky breath, Ethan spun and tromped across the grounds. Emotions roiled through him too fast to name as he rubbed his bruised knuckles. His sweet, sweet Miri in an asylum? The thought punched him harder than the blow he’d dealt Witherskim.
Dear God, please—he stopped midprayer and dropped to his knees.
There, on the side of the path, lay the rosebush Miri had babied.
It was dead.
“Papa?”
Miri bolted up. Impossible. His bones had long ago turned to dust. Yet he seemed so real. So near. A dark figure, just around the corner, his coattails fluttering on the breath of wind created by his passing.
“Papa, is that you?”
She reached out her hand. Slow. Tentative. Like wanting to touch a loved one’s corpse, desiring yet abhorring the idea.
There. Cold fingers wrapped around hers.
And pulled.
“Papa, I don’t want to go.”
The chill crawled past her wrist and spread up her arm. She shivered. She’d been cold before, but not like this. Never like this. The grip on her hand tightened.
“No, Papa.”
Why would he take her where she did not want to go? Papas should be trustworthy. Good. Defenders of their little lambs.
But her papa had been different.
Fear slid across her shoulders like the wintery breath of death. With her free hand, she touched her face, horrified that it might be gone already. Her fingertips came away wet. Would she weep forever?
His gentle tug turned into a yank. She jerked sideways, closer to the darkness. The cold. She was losing ground, and she knew it. The frigid embrace sank deeper. Squeezing. Seeping into her lungs and stealing her breath.
“Papa, I love you,” she whispered, “but let me go.”
A December wind gusted, freezing the hairs on her arm, beading up ice drops on her eyelashes, and settling into her heart.
Too tired to struggle, Miri lay back and, in giving up, rested in her Father’s arms.
37
“Hyah!” Ethan leaned close to his mount’s neck, urging the animal forward with each dig of his heels. Its mane whipped back and stung him in the eye. The left side of the world turned watery. He blinked away the moisture
but continued at a reckless pace. Slowing down was not an option. Not now. Yesterday’s mishap had already eaten a glutton’s portion of time. Replacing a lame horse on a Sunday had proven as big a challenge as scaring up an honest man at a cockfight.
He flicked the reins, and the horse shot ahead, leaving behind a trail of dirt clods. Sweat trickled down his face, tasting salty and gritty. By the time he reached Miri, he’d look no better than the first time he’d knocked at her door.
“Watch it, ye scurvy prigger!”
Curses pelted him like arrows as he swerved to avoid crashing headlong into a wagon. The side of the cart grazed his calf as he tore past, yet he daren’t try to stop now. Howls and strange titterings followed him, sounding like a cage full of monkeys. He glanced over his shoulder while his horse pressed on. It was a cage of monkeys. Man-sized. What in the world?
No time to wonder now, not with only half a league remaining to reach the asylum. Soon, Miri, soon.
The lane narrowed, but he pressed on. What had she felt on this same road—fear? Anger? If only he’d been there for her. A frown soured his mouth. He’d built his life on if-onlys, and a poor foundation that had turned out to be.
No more, God willing.
At last the road spilled onto a wide gravel drive in front of a ramshackle building. Chaos filled the yard. Wagons and carts. Drivers and guards. Shorn-headed sacks of bones with big eyes. Some laughed hysterically. Others stared, dazed and vacant. Most made noise. So this is where the cartful of monkeys had originated. Was this an outdoor asylum?
His horse shied sideways, and he pulled the reins taut. Not that he could blame the animal. The anthill of activity spooked him, too.
With a poke to the horse’s ribs, he forced his mount over to the driver of the first wagon. “What goes on here?”
A stream of tobacco juice shot out of the man’s mouth and nailed the ground. He swiped the back of his hand across his face, leaving behind a brown smear at the side of his lips. “Closin’ ’er down. Movin’ ’em out.”
“Where? Why?”
“Not my job to know, jes’ to do.”
Frustrated, Ethan rode on to the next cart in line, eyeing the load of wild-eyed scarecrows in the back. All men. No Miri. Thank God.
“Can you tell me what’s happening?”
The driver shrugged. At least he didn’t spit. “Can’t say as I can.”
Ethan grit his teeth and moved on. Women sat in the back of this wagon. He slowed, searching face after face, dread and hope roiling in his gut. Eyes, most vacant, some wild, burned in their sallow faces. None the amber of Miri’s.
He repeated the process three more times, each driver as clueless as the one before. After searching the last wagon, with no sign of Miri and none the wiser about the commotion, he wanted to hit something.
He threw back his head and shouted, not caring that he blended in with the rest of the lunatics. “Doesn’t anyone know what’s going on?”
“Of course, sir. I do.”
Ethan yanked a hard right, wheeling his horse about. On the front stoop of the asylum stood a little man with a big nose. Ethan immediately dismounted and closed the distance between them.
“Well?” Ethan asked.
The man blinked at him. “Well what, sir?”
Ethan folded his arms to keep from punching the man in his protruding bull’s-eye. “Why the carts? Where are they taking these people?”
The short fellow had to look up when speaking or be forced to address Ethan’s chest. “Sheltering Arms is closing. All inmates well enough to travel are being transferred to Bethlem Hospital.”
“Well enough?” Fear edged out anger, creeping into places in his heart he didn’t know existed. Dear Lord, not Bethlem. “Tell me, what of Miri Brayden? Is she—”
“Can’t tell you that, sir.”
“Please.” His voice cracked. He’d drop to his knees and beg if he had to. “I must know.”
“Oh, it’s not that I won’t tell, sir, it’s that I can’t. Mr. Spyder keeps account of the inmates, not me. Though I daresay his records are a bit haphazard at the moment.”
Ethan grabbed the man by the shoulders. “Take me to him.”
The man’s face paled. “Oh, no. Oh, never, sir. Why … haven’t you heard? There’s typhus afoot. Wouldn’t do to expose—”
“Take me!”
The man jerked back his head as if he’d been popped a good one. “Well, can’t say as I didn’t warn you properly.”
They wound through several locked gates and corridors. With each step, Ethan’s concern grew. As did the stench. Death crouched in these corners. He could smell it. It hung from the ceiling, clung to the walls, reached out unseen fingers and brushed against anyone passing by. This was where Miri lived?
He swallowed a lump of terror.
Please God, don’t let her die.
The man led him into a worn cracker box of a room. Peeling paint. Toothpick furnishings. A window so grimy it lit the area in perpetual twilight. Ethan scowled. He’d slept in better rat holes.
“Mr. Beeker! What is the meaning of this?” An abnormally long-limbed man rose behind a plain oak desk, pointing a finger at Ethan. So this was Spyder. Apt name. He was a daddy longlegs in human form.
Ethan spoke before the shorter fellow could answer. “Do not blame your man here.” He nodded toward Beeker. “I insisted.”
Spyder opened his mouth. “But—”
Ethan advanced and lowered his tone. “With much force, which I hope I will not have to employ with you.”
Spyder eyed him from head to toe, obviously measuring the threat, then looked past him to Beeker. “You may go. I’ll handle this.” His suspicious gaze darted back to Ethan. “I must say I do not appreciate such incivility, Mr. … what did you say your name was?”
Annoyed at wasting so much time, Ethan brandished his biggest weapon—his title. “Ethan Goodwin, Earl of Trenton.” Though it rolled off his tongue easily enough, hearing it was still hard to swallow.
Spyder stiffened, then mumbled to himself. He lifted a finger and pointed to a bench. “Have a seat. My apologies for the general disarray. I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a bad time.”
Ethan huffed. Who did the man think he was fooling? “From the looks of this place, it’s been bad for quite a while.”
“Yes, well—”
Ethan held up a hand. “Don’t bother. I don’t care. I came for Miri Brayden, nothing else. Is she here?” Steeling himself for the answer, he sucked in a big breath.
Spyder’s thin shoulders lifted. “I don’t know.”
“What?” Ethan’s voice filled the room. He shifted his weight, rattling the inkwell on the desk. “I thought you were in charge.”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly? What is that supposed to mean?” This was turning into an ugly dance, swapping one ignorant partner for another. Ethan ran a hand through his hair, tempted to pull it all out. “I was told you would know.”
“As I said, mostly.” Spyder lowered to his seat and shuffled through some papers. “I have lists of the departing, the dying, and the dead, not the full listing but—”
“But you have some?” Ethan stepped up to the desk.
Spyder looked at him with the same expression he likely gave every lunatic that entered this room. A frown pulled at his mouth. Not angry, rather … disgusted. Like the discovery of manure on the bottom of his shoe. “Lord Trenton, I may be a bit short-staffed in the midst of this crisis, but I am not incompetent. Naturally I have some of the lists. I am trying to tell you that they are not complete.”
Impatience spread along every nerve, a consuming cancer that made him jittery. “See if her name is there.”
“You really ought to come back later, my lord. These documents are not—”
“Do it!” Ethan planted his hands on the desk, jarring the inkwell cover from the bottle. It rolled off the table and crashed to the floor.
Spyder pursed his lips, twitching them one way, then another.
With precise movement, he reached over to a drawer and slowly pulled. He removed a pair of spectacles and a bit of cloth, then rubbed one lens to a fine sheen before moving on to the next.
Something snapped inside Ethan. Loud, almost crackling, like a shoulder joint ripped from a socket. His voice, however, remained deadly calm. “Mr. Spyder, if you do not hurry along, I will lunge over this table and personally add your name to the dead list. Do you understand?”
Spyder paused his polishing and narrowed his eyes. “Hostility is a sign of madness, you know.”
“Fine. Then lock me up and I’ll reach Miri all the sooner. But when I do”—his hands curled into fists—“you’d better pray I find her whole and hale.”
Setting his spectacles on his face, Spyder rifled through a stack of papers. “Name?”
Ethan growled. “Brayden!”
“Ahh,” Spyder murmured while running a fingertip the length of a document. Toward the end, his hand stopped. “Hmm.”
Ethan held his breath.
Spyder’s lower lip jutted out. Then his finger was on the move again, finishing out that listing and skipping over to the next.
The rustling paper slapped Ethan’s senses. Everything prickled. Spyder’s breathing grated shreds of flesh off him. Nothing should take this long.
“Huh,” Spyder grunted. “Looks like …”
Ethan willed the man’s words to continue, hoping, dreading, dying a thousand deaths.
“Brayden. Brayden. Yes, here it is.” The man looked from the document in his hand to Ethan.
He really ought to be able to figure out what that look meant, what those eyes were saying from behind the glass walls. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Yet he had to know. “What …” Thick emotion, hot and dusty, strangled him. “… what list is the name on?”
Spyder removed his glasses, setting them and the document on the desk. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes turned down. “Perhaps you ought to sit, my lord.”
Ethan froze. Rigid. Numb. He felt small and useless. A discarded heap of impotent bones.
“Just tell me.” An old man’s voice. His.
Spyder pushed back his chair and stood, meeting Ethan on a field for a game he did not want to play. The man’s lips moved. Eight words came out. Arrows, swift and sharp, keenly aimed to stop his beating heart.
Michelle Griep Page 26