The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  “Because it wasn’t your idea?”

  He dropped his hand and glowered at the man. “Your job suits you, you know.”

  Though spare lantern light filled the room, the questioning rise of Thatcher’s brow was unmistakable.

  “Diplomacy is hardly your strong point,” Alex explained. “It’s a blessing that riding the countryside gives you little interaction with people.”

  Thatcher’s lips quirked again. Twice in one night? A regular belly-buster of an evening for him.

  “Well, I suppose it’s not like I’ve never stretched the limits of how to bring in a suspect.” Alex sighed. “But I still need you to meet with Ford.”

  Thatcher reached for the empty cup and tipped his head back, draining what few drops could be found since neither Mrs. Langley nor Johanna had yet appeared to offer him a drink. He set the mug down and frowned. “I think we both grasp the situation clearly.”

  “It’s not about that. I need more money.”

  “Gaming skills a bit rusty?”

  “No.” He laughed. “I suspect I shall have to pay a fine price if I’m to become more enticing than orchids.”

  “Orchids? Is that a new cipher I need to know?”

  Alex clapped his friend on the back and stood, snatching up the empty cup. “Thatcher, I doubt you’ll ever need to know about flowers.”

  Whimpering leached out Thomas’s closed door, and Johanna winced. This was her fault. All of it. If only she’d better managed their meager funds, made wiser decisions about what to fix and what not, this whole tragedy wouldn’t have happened.

  Next to her, Mam frowned, face drawn. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Blaming yourself. Stuff and nonsense!” Mam shoved the bucket of soiled dressings into her hands. “Go on down to the taproom and put your mind on other things. I’ll sit with Thomas.”

  “But I—”

  “Shush!” Mam shooed her away with a flick of her fingers. “I’ll have none of that. Off with you.”

  Truly, her mother should’ve been in the military, for there’d be no putting her off. Johanna forced a half smile. “Very well. Come get me if you need me.”

  Mam nodded and ducked back into Thomas’s room. Johanna waited until her mother disappeared, then let her smile fall to the floor. Too bad she couldn’t lie there as well. Had she ever been this weary?

  Treading down the hall, she descended the stairs and entered the kitchen—where a broad-shouldered man stood slicing cheese. “Oh! Mr. Morton. What a surprise.”

  “You’ve caught me red-handed, I’m afraid.” He smiled up at her—the warmth of which did strange things to her empty tummy. “Just gathering a plate of cheese and bread for my friend.”

  “Here, let me do that.” She set down the bucket and doused her hands in some water. Mr. Morton’s stare burned through the back of her gown. Was he reliving the way he’d held her those few nights ago as vividly as she was?

  Shoving down the rising heat of embarrassment, she rehung the drying cloth, then herded Mr. Morton aside by reaching for the loaf of bread on the table. “I apologize for our lack of service the past few days.”

  “You have been tending Thomas, no doubt. How is he?”

  She paused before setting knife to bread, and met his gaze. “Tired of the pain and tired of his room, tired of Mam and tired of me.”

  Mr. Morton chuckled. A delightful sound. Low and soothing.

  “I’d expect no less from a caged boy—and a wounded one at that. I would be happy to sit with him and—”

  “No, thank you.” She sawed through the thick loaf, using more force than necessary. It was churlish of her to cut him off so, but it couldn’t be helped. Tending Thomas was her cross to bear. “Mam and I are managing.”

  “Johanna.”

  She jerked her face up, annoyed that he dared to use her Christian name—but more irritated that she wished he’d say it again, for her name on his lips was a curious balm.

  He studied her with an unwavering stare. “Let me help.”

  The knife in her hand weighed heavy. No, her whole soul did. Emotions she ought not be feeling right now swirled overhead and pressed down. He stood on the other side of the table, but the way his blue eyes caressed her, he might as well be holding her in his arms. She frowned. She’d been wise to avoid him the past two days. She bent, sawing off another slab of bread. “You are a guest here, sir. Not the hired help.”

  “There’s only one person I know more stubborn than you.”

  Finished, she set the knife down. “Yourself?”

  He smirked. “You take on too much, you know.”

  “I must. This inn is our livelihood.” She handed over the plate of bread and cheese.

  He took it, yet he did not leave. Instead, a great sorrow furrowed his brow. “I am sorry your father is no longer here to help you. This is too much of a burden for you and your mother to shoulder alone.”

  “While I appreciate the sentiment, the truth is we shouldered the burden long before my father died.” She pressed her lips shut. Why had she shared that? How did he manage to pull things from her she didn’t even know were buried deep in her heart?

  “I am sorry to hear it. Did he suffer long?”

  Suffer? The word circled like a vulture, ready to swoop and stab the barely healed scars left behind by her father. “The only thing my father suffered from was too much drink and a lying tongue. I abhor both!”

  “So should we all.” His tone was soft, low, almost as if he spoke to himself.

  “Well,” she lifted her chin, “I suppose what does not drive us into the ground only serves to make us stronger, hmm? Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a taproom to tend.”

  She grabbed a cloth and whisked past him, wondering all the while how much stronger God thought she needed to be.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next day, Alex waited for the light footsteps of Johanna and the bass thwunks of the doctor to pass his door before he cracked it open. Peering out, he paused a moment longer until the fat doctor disappeared down the stairway and his wheezing faded. Ought not a man interested in health take better care of his own?

  Easing his door shut, Alex stole down the hallway to Thomas’s chamber. He’d tried asking for permission to see the boy, but to no avail.

  This time he wouldn’t ask.

  He rapped once on Thomas’s door before entering. It was a small room, walls weeping brown streaks from years of leakage. A single window cast sunlight upon the boy’s thin body, lying like a piece of flotsam upon a sea of pain. His eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks pale, and his burnt leg was bolstered up and useless. This was wrong. Unjust in every possible respect. A boy shouldn’t be laid out in bed like an old man. He ought to be running, climbing trees, chasing after girls and teasing them.

  Aah, Lord, grant Your mercy.

  Alex choked down rising emotion with a gruff throat clearing. “Good day, Master Thomas. Did you know you’re guarded more heavily than a transfer of gold bullion? Perhaps your mother and sister should give up innkeeping and join a regiment of dragoons.” He winked, hoping the effect would lighten the load weighing heavy on the boy’s brow.

  “They’re more like dragons, if you ask me.” A smile curved Thomas’s lips, then flattened into a wince as he propped his elbows behind him and pushed upward.

  Alex grabbed a chair and pulled it to the lad’s bedside, straddling it backward. The sudden movement rattled a bottle of amber liquid on the night-stand. Straight brandy or laudanum? He studied the boy’s glassy gaze. Could be either.

  “How goes it? Have the past three days been non-stop pain?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Alex flexed his fingers and leaned forward against the chair’s back, resisting the urge to reach out and tussle the lad’s hair. Regardless of the injury, the boy had already been coddled far too much. “Sir is for fathers and old people. I am neither. You may call me Alex, for are we not friends?”

 
; “Aye, sir—Alex.”

  “You’re a quick study.” His gaze strayed to the boy’s leg, covered from the knee down with a cloth saturated in some kind of golden syrup. Maybe honey. Maybe not. The skin peeking out above the poultice burned an angry scarlet. He could only imagine what damage lay beneath the wrap. “What did the doctor have to say? Shall you live?”

  “Pah! Mam and Jo would kill me if I didn’t.”

  He glanced sideways at the twist of the boy’s mouth. True, Johanna and her mother had turned into squawking, overprotective hens, but agreement would only fan the flames of the lad’s discontent.

  “You know your sister and mother want the best for you. Their concern is very real.”

  Thomas blew out a harsh sigh, then grimaced when his dramatics jostled his leg.

  Alex smiled. Apparently passion ran in the family. “Give it time, Thomas. You’ll soon be back on both feet.”

  “But …” Tears filled the boy’s eyes. “What if I never walk properly again?”

  Alex scooted his chair closer. “I’ve a story for you.”

  The boy’s gaze shot to his. Just the effect he’d hoped for.

  “When I was a lad, ’round about ten years old—”

  The boy’s pupils widened, and Alex knew he’d nailed the boy’s age, reeling in his full attention. “I had a bit of a mishap myself. Father told me never—ever—to handle his pistol when he wasn’t around. Easy enough, since he carried it with him wherever he went.”

  “Everywhere?”

  Alex shrugged. “London streets are not as safe as Dover’s.”

  Thomas nodded as if he’d lived a hundred years roaming Cheapside or Spitalfields.

  Scrubbing a hand across his chin, Alex hid his smile. “One day, my father was home after an all-nighter, sleeping. I knew better than to wake him. Mother was gone. But I was curious. You know that feeling, that need to know how something works? It fairly crawls under your skin, and you have to act on it, for there’s no sitting still.”

  A small “aah” rode the crest of Thomas’s exhale. Good, this was working.

  “Well, that’s exactly how it was for me on that day. Not that Father hadn’t shown me his pistol many a time. I could sketch the bronze muzzle and carved handle from memory. The curve of the steel trigger. The sharp angles of the flintlock. Such a beauty.” He paused, gauging the time for the gun’s image to spring to life in the boy’s mind.

  “The thing is, Father had never yet allowed me to shoot it. How would it feel? Was there a mighty kickback? I was certain I was old enough, strong enough to handle it, for is ten years of age not nearly a grown man?”

  Thomas’s face snapped to his. “I tell that to Mam all the time!”

  “Well, it’s not.” He edged closer, whispering the rest. “And I’ve the scar to prove it. Would you like to see?”

  Thomas’s head bobbed in a single, solemn nod.

  Alex stood, turned the chair around, and pulled off his left boot. His toe snagged for a moment on a hole in his sock, long past the need for darning, but he finally freed his foot and lifted it for Thomas’s inspection. There, at center, just above his toes, rose a bubble of marred skin the size of a farthing and the color of an overripe peach even to this day. A tangible reminder of transgression’s cost.

  “What happened?” Thomas’s voice was reverent.

  “As I said, I wanted to try out the pistol, but I also wanted to obey my father. I figured him being in the other room fully met the requirements of having him present. So, I gave it a try.”

  He tugged his sock back on, followed by his boot, then met Thomas’s gaze. “Which do you suppose was louder, the firing of the gun, or my screams when the shot tore through my foot?”

  “Caw, sir!” The boy’s face paled.

  “Laid me up for more than a fortnight, I tell you. Got middling good with a cloth-molded crutch. Shall I make one for you?”

  Thomas shifted on his elbows, propping himself up farther. This time, though a very real tremor of pain wrinkled across his brow, his smile belied it. “I’d like that. Oh, I would!”

  “Good. We’ll have you up and about in no time, giving your mother and sister something to really cluck about, eh?” Hooking his thumbs beneath his armpits, he flapped like an overgrown chicken and squawked.

  Laughter shook the boy’s shoulders.

  Mission accomplished. Alex stood and replaced the chair.

  “Thomas? Are you all right?” The door swung open, and Johanna’s skirts swept in. She summed up Alex with a mighty scowl, the harbinger of a sound scolding.

  “Mr. Morton! Have I not asked you to allow Thomas his rest? I insist you leave at once.” She stepped aside from the doorway, as if the action, combined with her command, might usher him out as effectively as a gun to the head.

  He planted his feet. “It’s been three full days, Miss Langley. The boy needed a diversion.”

  “The boy needs to rest, sir.”

  “Aw, but Jo.” Thomas’s thin voice cracked. “Alex was only—”

  “It’s Mr. Morton, and furthermore”—Johanna looked past Alex to her brother. “Thomas! What are you doing sitting up? You know your leg must remain elevated. The doctor said—”

  “It’s still on the cushion,” the boy shot back.

  “Thomas, this is not to be borne. You will not walk again if you do not listen to the doctor’s instruction. Is that what you want?”

  Her curt question sagged the boy’s shoulders. He deflated onto the mattress, pain seeping out in a groan.

  Alex frowned. Her careless words had undone in seconds the small amount of good he’d built in the past twenty minutes. He’d hauled in many a brothel madam who’d not be as callous.

  Silently, he studied her. A strand of dark hair escaped one of her pins, drooping over her brow. Shadows darkened half-circles beneath her eyes. And was that … yes, the wrinkles in her gown were imbedded deep enough that she must’ve slept in it. This was not the same woman he’d come to know in the past week. Something more was at work here than simply distress about her brother.

  “I would have a word with you, outside, if you please, Miss Langley.” In two steps, he clasped her arm and led her out the door, shutting it behind them.

  “Mr. Morton, really!” She faced him with a scowl.

  “Exactly, Miss Langley. What is this really all about?”

  Johanna clenched her hands so tight, her nails dug into her palms. Was it Mr. Morton’s piercing blue gaze or his inquiry that made her feel so exposed? Either way, she didn’t like it. Containing her problems was hard enough without him poking holes into her facade.

  She lifted her chin. “You had no right to sneak into my brother’s room and excite him in such a fashion.”

  He drew in a long breath and slowly released it. A curious reaction. She’d expected something a bit more defensive. Even a simple raised brow would’ve done the trick, but the strong cut of Mr. Morton’s face was entirely indecipherable. Even with years of experience reading patrons and guests, this man was an enigma at best.

  “I admit it was underhanded to wait to visit your brother until you were occupied elsewhere. For that I apologize. But”—he wagged his finger—“that is the sum of my crime. I took the boy’s mind off his pain and fear, and you brought it all back with a few thoughtless words.”

  She stiffened, his accusation chilling her to the core. Is that what she’d done? Slowly, she lowered her head, preferring to study the hem of her skirt instead of the indictment in Mr. Morton’s frown.

  “As I suspected.” His tone softened. “And so I repeat, what is this really about?”

  Clasping her hands in front of her, she debated what, if anything, to tell him. Oh, how she missed sharing her burdens with her friend Maggie, but since the baby had arrived, time was a scarce commodity from her. And she couldn’t turn to Mam, for her mother was as overwrought as she. That left no other close confidant save God upon whom to unload her troubles, and the skirt fabric at her knees was already w
orn thin.

  She dared a peek up at Mr. Morton. The hard lines of his face had smoothed into genuine compassion—the same look as when he’d held her in his arms and allowed her to make a sopping mess of his shirt.

  She sucked in a breath for courage. “Truly, I appreciate your candor, yet I have already overstepped the bounds of propriety. Haven’t you heard enough of my troubles? Should you not be out acquiring some fine wines, or whatever it is that you do, instead of counseling my woes?”

  “Aah, still a bit of spunk in you. Good.” One corner of his mouth turned upward. “Even so, sometimes it helps to get an outsider’s perspective.”

  Was that what he was? An outsider? Then why did she feel as if she ought put on a pot of tea and pour out her cares to this man? She searched his gaze, her problems rising to her tongue. Clearly his mesmerizing blue stare muddled her thinking. Good heavens. What was she thinking?

  She turned. “I appreciate your concern, but perhaps you ought leave now, Mr. Morton. I’m sure you’ve bigger matters to attend, and so I bid you a good day.”

  “That’s the easy way out, Johanna.”

  Her name from his lips shot straight to her heart and tripped an extra beat. Annoyed at the base response, she whirled. “Why must you insist on calling me by my Christian name?”

  “Because it never fails to get your attention.” His smile dazzled. “And I find that when I anger you, you’re more likely to tell me what’s really on your mind.”

  “You are exasperating.” As was this conversation. She sidestepped him.

  He blocked her path. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

  Faith! What a bully. She folded her arms and for a moment considered how strong of a battering ram she could make herself if she bent forward and charged. There’d be no other way to put him off—but she wouldn’t make a dent in that broad chest.

  “Very well.” She sighed, resignation both acrid and sweet. “If you must know, I am short on the rent payment and the next hearth installment is due in a few days. Now with Thomas’s doctor bills … well, unless God acts, you may have to find yourself different lodging soon.”