Cachet

by Shannah Biondine

  The door blew open, admitting a frigid blast of winter air and several other men to the big kitchen. Morgan recognized one chap as Entwistle's immediate neighbor. Behind him stood Joshua Tate. The others Morgan knew only in passing. "Did you tell him why we want to talk to him?" a stranger asked. Morgan turned back to David.

  "Was getting to it." David lumbered to his broad oak table and sat down with no further response. The other men filed around to join him. Reluctantly Morgan took a place, as well, nervous at the somber demeanor of this gathering.

  Morgan nodded at Tate. "How you feeling these days? Chasing young Nathan across the fields by now, I expect."

  "I'm well enough." Tate glanced at the others in turn. "He worked my fields for a week last year when I was laid up. That's the sort he is."

  "What's this about?" Morgan was distinctly uneasy now. Every man in the room sat staring at him.

  Entwistle cleared his throat. "Some of us have been discussing the future, Morgan. Crowshaven's growing, due in part to your efforts. The others on the council will probably go along. Somersdale's likely to be a fly in the ointment, but we can set aside his objections regarding your holdings—"

  "Objections?" Morgan had stolen a look at the promissory note after Richelle fell asleep her first night back at the cottage. He knew Somersdale held a stranglehold over him that had been broken by his wife's intercession. He'd approached Somersdale on the topic, but the man had slammed the mercantile door in Morgan's face. "His debts were cleared months ago," Morgan asserted. "He's got no claim against my holdings."

  Another man spoke up. "But your ownership could be seen as a conflict of interest, particularly with regard to the inn. Somersdale could try to block our nomination. You'll need to sell it the inn, Tremayne. Bound to be a sore spot."

  "My father built the bloody place! Somersdale can't make me sell the inn."

  "Morgan, listen, lad." David's voice was firm. "Crowshaven's becoming a proper town and needs a proper mayor. We're nominating you at next council meeting. Would help the vote pass if you'd agree to sell. You know council meetings are held in your taproom. Someone else must profit from our ale and food purchases. Shouldn't be the town mayor."

  Morgan was speechless. David scowled. "We'll pay you a salary, Tremayne! Not much at first, but you'll still have your fingers in other pies. Granary, warehouse and livery service. What say you?"

  "I agree with the concept," Morgan replied slowly. "Same thought's crossed my mind. But I can't honestly agree that I'm the man for the job. What about Squire Martin?"

  One man shook his head. "Too old."

  "And some say not to be trusted," grumbled Entwistle's neighbor.

  "Then Boyd. He's the administrative sort and his family goes back—"

  "Who do you think suggested you sell the inn?" David laughed. "We need someone who's not afraid to look others right in the eye—bedamned, even spit in their eye, come down to it—for the good of this village. A man with a stiff spine, yet someone who can get on with one and all."

  Tate spoke up. "We want someone who won't favor a merchant over a farmer. A man known for his word. You're the bloke, Tremayne."

  "I'm flattered, but—"

  Entwistle noisily cleared his throat. "We discussed this with Boyd while you were overseas. We waited until your bride arrived and you settled down and quit that lovesick drinking. You're about to find yourself with a new mouth to feed. You want the post or not?" David demanded. "It is me asking." His eyes flicked to the cradle.

  So now it's personal, Morgan told himself. "Be forced to sell the inn," he mused aloud, swallowing the lump in his throat. "No way around that. I'd demand the same if it were another holding the council meetings in his tavern."

  The others shrugged. Entwistle gave him a hard look. "No way 'round the chores, neither. You did them."

  Morgan took a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness in his chest. "I can't attend the next council meeting. My wife's time is very close, and she lost a child during labor in her first marriage. She needs me with her." He rose and tucked the cradle under one arm.

  "Let's see first if the vote carries. We can meet and discuss this at length afterward. Thank you again for this, David." Morgan's words came out all the faster as he neared the door. He realized he sounded ungrateful, but he couldn't help it—he had to get out. He couldn't take their eyes on him a moment longer. He hadn't come expecting anything like this. He mumbled an excuse about documents awaiting him at the holding company and stepped into the pale sunshine.

  "Morgan!" David followed. Morgan climbed back into the wagon. "Expecting an invitation to supper and see the new Tremayne soon as your wife's back on her feet. And a last drink with you over your bar, son."

  Morgan waved and gave the reins a slap. Patrick slobbered over his master's face as they made the sweeping turn across the fields and started back down the road into Crowshaven. "A last drink across my bar," Morgan repeated aloud. "I'm beginning to see there's much I don't know about my old friend and partner, Atkinson. First that stunt with Richelle and now this! Hell, I haven't a clue about being mayor, Patrick!" The dog thumped his tail.

  "Running the inn, trade negotiations, dickering over prices...that's what I know. Hell, I've only recently begun to think I can make Richelle a decent husband. Haven't the faintest notion how I'm going to be a good father. Now they want me to be the town's first mayor? Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

  Chapter 30

  Morgan raced back toward the village, his mind in turmoil. The wagon lurched abruptly. Too late, Morgan mentally flashed on the image of a large rock he'd glimpsed in the roadbed. A splintering sound accompanied the wagon skid as he pulled the horses up short. "Bloody perfect! Busted a frigging wheel! Why today, of all days?"

  He was still cursing and struggling nearly an hour later.

  As partner in the livery, he'd insisted spare wheels be stored beneath the beds of all service wagons. But it wasn't easy working to change a wheel alone in the icy cold; Patrick kept loping across the moors threatening to wander off, Morgan's fingers were numb. He'd propped the left side of the rig by tipping the big crate on end and was positioning the new wheel when one of the horses stamped from the cold, jerking the wagon. The crate tipped. The wagon tilted crazily and skidded backward, knocking Morgan to the frozen ground.

  There was momentary blinding pain. Morgan inhaled and forced his voice to sound calm. He clucked his tongue. "Forward, Midnight! Steady." The mounts were well trained. In unison they took one step, two. Then they halted, brought up short by the wagon's immobile dead weight. Morgan roared in pain as the load shifted and brought fresh misery to his pinned right leg. He couldn't get his shoulders positioned to apply full upper body strength. Forcing his arms against the wagon bed was useless and merely caused spikes of agony to shoot into his leg.

  He glanced around and felt his spirits sink. The road was empty in both directions. The nearest farmers were all at Entwistle's, not out working their fields. It could be hours before any of them reached the perimeter tracts near the road. In desperation, Morgan whistled to Patrick, grateful now that he'd taken the pesky cur along. The lanky hound trotted up to sit beside his master.

  "Patrick, go home," Morgan ordered. "Go get Richelle. I need her, need help. Go, Patrick!" He waved his arm in dismissal, grimacing as the pain in his leg became one long incessant throb. The dog fretted and whined, sniffing at the dark stain spreading near the lower half of his master's body. "Get Richelle, Pat," Morgan gasped out.

  The dog turned and trotted back toward the village. Morgan watched until the moving shape was beyond his blurring vision. He silently prayed the animal wouldn't be distracted by a cat or loose hen along the way. He begged God to let someone find him before he slowly froze to death. As the minutes dragged on, he realized he barely felt the pain in his leg now. He mostly felt cold. It's not so bad any more. Can hardly feel my leg at all...Christ! Richelle, I don't want to die here! HELP ME!

  * * *

  Dr. Rowe add
ressed her in a somber voice while Richelle straightened her garments. "We may have a problem. The child hasn't turned. I've seen cases where the head repositions at onset of labor and things proceed normally, but I need to be alerted as soon as your labor begins. I'd judge that to be in less than a fortnight."

  Before Richelle could respond, there was a banging and commotion downstairs. Richelle and the doctor hurried down to the parlor. Boyd was there, questioning Lorella about Morgan's whereabouts, worried since he'd missed making a delivery to old man Crocker. Dr. Rowe spoke up. "He was by my place early this morning. He's probably just been delayed somewhere."

  Richelle didn't think so. Not when Morgan had sworn to return early. "Boyd, you're sure he didn't make that delivery? He was going past the outskirts of the village to see David Entwistle. He wouldn't forget the time. He promised it shouldn't take long I hope nothing's happened to him."

  Boyd got no chance to respond, for at that moment, Malcolm Entwistle came out of the kitchen. "Saw a crate in the back of Morgan's wagon this morning. He was visiting with my father and some of the other men when I left."

  There'd been a moment of awkward embarrassment earlier that morning, when Morgan's chimney mason turned out to be the same young man who'd given Lorella a lesson in selecting the best pumpkin.

  Lorella had instantly flushed beet red when she'd let him into the parlor, but he seemed to take no notice, professionally surveying the premises and taking quick measurements upstairs. As he descended the staircase, though, he cleared his throat and inquired whether she'd enjoyed the ripe pumpkin last month.

  Lorella announced she'd baked it and another she'd purchased later into pumpkin bread. She inquired whether he'd like a taste and a cup of tea. Richelle wandered into her own kitchen to find herself about as welcome as a tax collector. The two young people had eyes only for each other. Dr. Rowe had arrived a short time later, going upstairs to conduct his physical examination of Richelle.

  She'd forgotten about their brash young visiting mason until he'd spoken just then. But thoughts of where Lorella's flirtations might lead were interrupted by their mutual concern about Morgan. Richelle recalled Boyd's summons when she and Morgan had been in Philadelphia. The tales of past deliveries gone wrong.

  She tossed a worried glance at Boyd. "Dear God, you don't suppose Morgan could have encountered highwaymen? You had freight robberies and problems like that once before."

  "Now hold on, mistress, " Lorella interjected. "Mr. Tremayne took Patrick with him. You know that dog doesn't trust strangers, particularly menfolk. I'll wager a month's pay Patrick would never let anything happen to the master. He'd lay down his life for Mr. Tremayne."

  "Yes, that's true," Richelle agreed. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right.

  She walked out onto the front porch and peered down the lane. A vague shape approached from a distance. Gray, low to the ground. She knew even before she heard the distinctive bark that it was their dog, Patrick, running along the bluff toward the cottage. Alone. Her shriek brought Lorella and the others out.

  Richelle spotted the dark red on the animal's fur. "There's blood on him!"

  Dr. Rowe bent to examine the hound. "Not his own, I'm sorry to say. Come on, men. We'll take my rig."

  "I'm coming, too," Richelle insisted. She seized Patrick's head between her palms. "Pat, show me where Morgan is. Take us to him, boy."

  They flew out of the village, leaving a trail of dust and a tearful maid wringing her hands in their wake. Richelle scrambled out of the doctor's rig before it came to a full stop behind the stalled delivery wagon partially blocking the road. She gasped as she dropped to her knees beside the still form on the ground. "Morgan! Dear God, his leg! Hurry, Dr. Rowe!"

  Morgan's eyelids fluttered opened as she lifted his head and gently laid it on her knee. "Richelle...Sent the dog," Morgan mumbled. "Mess. Should have listened...stayed home."

  "It doesn't matter. You're alive, Morgan, that's all that matters. Dr. Rowe's with us. He'll patch you up."

  Boyd and Malcolm lifted the wagon so the doctor could slide Morgan out. "Get him into the bed of that bloody wagon," Rowe barked. "He's losing a lot of blood. Got to sew the torn leg now. No time to move him to my surgery."

  Richelle cradled Morgan's head as the doctor prepared to suture the lacerated flesh. As his breeches tore with a harsh rending sound, Morgan clutched at Richelle's hand with icy fingers. "Don't let them take my leg, Richelle!" he croaked. "Child needs me whole. You do!"

  "Dr. Rowe has to sew your leg, that's all. Like my shoulder, remember? Try not to think about the pain." Her voice was low and soothing. "Sweetheart, it won't be long and we'll have you home by the fire. Here, let me warm you." She removed her shawl and wrapped it around his upper body, kissing his forehead. She held him securely in her arms and nodded to the doctor to proceed.

  "Foolhardy...like you," came Morgan's ragged whisper. He tried to smile, managed only a grimace of fresh pain.

  Tears streamed down Richelle's cheeks. "Not foolhardy. Determined. There's a difference."

  * * *

  Morgan awakened to vague images of Richelle weeping copiously over some tragic event he'd dreamt about. Or thought he'd merely dreamt about, until a throbbing in his right leg made him aware the something horrible must have been real. He opened his eyes. He was in a dark room. His own, he realized, recognizing the canopy overhead.

  "Richelle?" He heard the mounting terror in his own voice and tried to swallow his fear.

  Then came a sleepy murmur and he realized her warmth was there, close beside him. She flung an arm over his chest. "I'm here."

  "What happened? Feels like my leg's in a vise. Jesus, do I still have a leg, or is this phantom pain?"

  "You have your leg, and I need to check it," she muttered. She rose and lit both bedside lamps. "You were trying to change a wheel and the wagon slipped. If the pain gets too bad, Dr. Rowe said I can give you more laudanum."

  "Aye, it's bad." She spooned some of the liquid into his mouth. He swallowed and winced. "Feels like someone ran over my leg with a loaded wagon. Right—I did that, didn't I?"

  She gingerly sat on the edge of the mattress, trying not to jostle him. "Now you're jesting? You might have been killed, Morgan! I would have been left to raise our child alone."

  He stretched to lay a hand over her swollen belly. "Everything's all right?" She ignored his question, peering at the bandage over the stitches. It was clean and dry. The flesh around it was slightly pink, but not hot to her touch. She glanced up at her husband's face. Morgan's eyes were clear, not glazed. No sign of fever.

  "The doctor says you were fortunate it was so cold out there on the road. Lessened your chance of infection. Of course, that wouldn't have been much consolation had you frozen to death out there under that rig." She shook herself and stood up. "Can I get you something to eat? You haven't eaten since breakfast."

  "Thirsty. Need some tea." She started for the door. "No! Have Lorella fetch it. Stay here with me."

  "I'll only be a moment. She's asleep, Morgan. It's the middle of the night."

  "It's all right, Mistress," came a muffled voice. "I heard him cry out and thought you might need help. I'll fetch the tea."

  Richelle colored slightly, wondering how many other cries and night sounds Lorella may have overheard. She turned back to Morgan. "Where did you get the cradle you had in the wagon when we found you? It's beautiful."

  He tried to sit up. Richelle helped prop him against the headboard. He seemed a bit stronger after the hot tea and a few bites of Lorella's soft biscuits with butter. He was at least able to offer a weak smile as she lowered the teacup. "Wench makes fine biscuits. Young Malcolm shall grow fat."

  She had no idea how Morgan had learned of the budding romance between their maid and the mason, but it was clear from the kindly look in his eye that he approved. "The cradle," she reminded, "It was supposed to be a surprise for me, wasn't it?"

  "Aye. David's been saving it for my
firstborn. Didn't listen to your female intuition about riding to the outskirts of the village. Remind me next time I'm being stubborn of how you won this argument. Trust you won't resort to having a wagon strike me for future victories."

  "This is certainly not my idea of a victory," she protested. "You're badly injured. You need to rest. Let's go back to sleep." She helped him slide back down under the covers.

  She put out the lamps and settled next to his left side. His whisper was hoarse in the darkness. "I can't sleep like this, Richelle. It's bad enough lying on my back. I much prefer resting on my side, curled around you. I need to feel you."

  "I'm right here," she whispered, moving to share her body heat.

  "Put your arm over me. Aye." His words were beginning to slur, Richelle noted. The laudanum taking effect. She adjusted her position so her arm lay draped across his chest and he released a deep sigh that almost could have passed for one of contentment. "Better... Good night, Madam T..."

  Richelle closed off the worry from her mind. Morgan wasn't feverish. He'd be all right. He'd already drifted back into a deep slumber. Dr. Rowe had promised to return and have another look at Morgan tomorrow afternoon. The damaged leg would heal. Richelle swallowed and bowed her head. Their child would be born soon, and Morgan would be all right. He had to be.

  Chapter 31

  "I'll not abide this, Richelle. I can't stay in this damned bed!" Morgan fumed while Richelle patiently outlined the doctor's instructions. Her husband had convinced himself Dr. Rowe would examine him and grant permission for a to return to limited activity. Instead, Morgan had been told to stay off the bad leg.

  "I'll go insane staring at these same four walls. I don't need laudanum now. The pain's abated; I'm doing better. There's no reason I can't go to the office for a few hours. I'm not going to stay here in this bed for days on end!"

  "I did, back in Philadelphia," she replied coolly. "I didn't particularly enjoy it, but I reminded myself I had a duty to you and our child. You'll do what the doctor says is best, just as I did. You're not strong enough to be up and about, and you can't put weight on your injured leg. The doctor said he'd send a crutch for you. Then you can begin moving about the house, but you won't be allowed to leave it. Stop pushing yourself. Anyway, I need you here at home. Have you forgotten we've got a baby coming?"