The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  Maggie pursed her lips for a moment, tapping them with one finger. “All right, then. Out with it. That twinkle in your eye says you’re hatching some kind of scheme, and by the looks of it, you might as well sit yourself down. Seems like it might take some explaining, hmm?”

  Jo kissed the top of Charlotte’s head, hiding a smile. Her friend knew her entirely too well. Snuggling the babe a little tighter, she sat on the chair nearest the door—the only one not heaped with a basket of elderflowers or lemon rinds. “I’m not scheming anything. I merely had a wonderful idea, a brilliant possibility, really, and here it is … let me tend little Lottie every afternoon, or as many as you see fit. That simple. You’d be able to keep up your jam business—strawberries are just around the corner, are they not? Sam would have no more late deliveries, and your customers would be happy. Why, you might even be able to net a larger profit and—”

  “Hold on.” Maggie stepped over to a bubbling pot and gave it a stir, then turned and folded her arms. “Not that I don’t think you charitable, but what’s in this for you?”

  “Well, with you making more money,” she shrugged, hoping Maggie would come to a conclusion without her having to parcel out words she didn’t want to say.

  Her friend merely narrowed her eyes. Stubborn woman.

  “I thought you might pay me a bit to care for Charlotte,” Johanna finished.

  “I knew it.” Snapping into action, Maggie cleared off another chair and scraped it across the floor. She sat toe-to-toe, cornering the truth. “For how much you dote on little Lottie, you’d practically pay me to watch her, so what’s happened? What’s going on?”

  A sigh drained the rest of Johanna’s confidence. How to explain?

  “See this kitchen, Mags?” She gazed past her friend’s shoulder. “The spilled syrup, the burnt pots … this kitchen is what my life looks like right now.”

  “Oh dearest, it can’t be all that bad.”

  She frowned at her friend. How much should she tell her? La, what a thought. Mags would pull every thread of the matter from her no matter how knotted it was.

  “There’s no secret Mam and I have been struggling. The inn is rundown. No one wants to stay there, making income scarce. But to attract new customers, we need money for repairs. Money we don’t have. I thought that by taking in Charlotte”—she planted one more kiss atop the babe’s head—“or any other little ones who might need tending, I could earn the extra capital to make the Blue Hedge into a destination instead of an eyesore.”

  “Aww, Jo. I’d love to help you. I would, but we’re barely getting by as is.” A sizzle at the hearth pulled Maggie to her feet. She dashed over and stirred the largest cauldron.

  But defeat was not a friend Jo would skip down the street with just yet. Resettling Charlotte on her shoulder, she stood and neared the fire. “What about other mothers who might like such an opportunity?”

  “I applaud your determination.” Maggie straightened with a sad smile. “But I can think of no one.”

  Her shoulders sagged. She’d been certain this plan would work. Now what could she do? Charlotte squirmed in her arms, and she didn’t blame her. She felt like squirming too, wriggling right out of debt and burdens and hopelessness. A shaky breath escaped her lips before she could stop it.

  Maggie pulled the babe from her arms and laid Lottie in a quilt-lined basket, far from popping embers and direct heat. Then she turned and faced Jo. “Are things that bad?”

  She bit her lip. “Mr. Spurge will be coming around for the money I borrowed from him to pay the ironmonger for the new hearth. I’ve got enough to make that payment, but—”

  “That’s wonderful, Jo! Perhaps things aren’t as dire as you’re making them out to be. You do tend to look on the dark side of things, you know.”

  True. She did have the money—but therein grew the seed of her deepest unrest. Despite Mr. Morton’s assurances otherwise, surely he expected some kind of reimbursement for such a generous gift. She took to pacing, taking care not to gum up her shoes in the gooey spots. “I am grateful I’ll be able to put off Mr. Spurge for another month. The thing is, though, that the money I’m using isn’t mine. Not really. Our lodger, Mr. Morton, gave it to me.”

  Maggie clucked her tongue, tsking as professionally as her own mother. “There’s nothing wrong with a lodger paying his rent. I should think you’d be delighted.”

  “He paid far more than he owes, Maggie. Who knows what compensation he’ll require?” With a huff, she halted and absently reached up to rub the scar behind her ear. “I won’t be beholden to a man ever again.”

  “Of course not.” Her friend pulled her hand down and squeezed it in her own. “I understand.”

  “Please, Mags, can’t you think of anything? My head hurts with trying to come up with something to gain funding.”

  A frown weighted her friend’s brow, and she sighed. “There is … something. But I know you won’t want to hear it.”

  “I am desperate to return Mr. Morton’s money. I will entertain any respectable suggestion. Any!” She hated the pleading whine to her voice, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Maggie’s frown deepened. “I am loathe to mention this, but if things are really that bad for you, there’s a rumor going around that old Diggery is laid up with the ague. That means Tanny Needler is short-handed with the oakum delivery.”

  She snatched back her hand. She’d rather owe money to Mr. Morton than do Tanny Needler’s dirty work. “Oh Maggie, how could you … how could I?”

  “Desperate times call for desperate actions.” Maggie’s eyes searched hers, compassion drawing creases at the edges. “I know it didn’t go well with you when you worked for Mr. Needler, but it got you by after your father died. He never failed to pay, and as I recall, was generous at that.”

  “I can’t. I won’t.” The words oozed out, her voice sounding as ruined as Maggie’s kitchen. Maggie didn’t know the half of how Tanny had treated her.

  Her friend sighed. “If you’re intent on returning Mr. Morton’s money and paying your rent next month, you just might have to.”

  She trudged over to the kitchen door, the weight of Maggie’s words dragging her feet. It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear—but it did make sense. She paused at the threshold. “Thanks Maggie. I know you’re only trying to help. I shall give it some thought. Enjoy the baps, and good luck with the rest of your jam.”

  Maggie’s eyebrows waggled. “If I had to choose between Mr. Morton or old Tanny, I know which one I’d choose.”

  She turned away from Maggie’s knowing look. Of course her friend would choose Mr. Morton. There was no contest between a dashing young man and an angry, pompous wretch—unless Tanny had changed.

  Her stomach tightened. God help her if he hadn’t.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In and out at the strangest hours. Dressed and keeping company as a proper gent, yet skilled as a common laborer. No, Mam, there are too many inconsistencies that don’t add up.” Johanna emphasized each word with a solid punch into the bread dough she worked, relishing every impact. “I don’t trust Mr. Morton.”

  “Your brother does.” Across the kitchen, Mam covered a steaming bowl of porridge and set it on a tray. “Implicitly.”

  Jo opened her mouth. Mam’s wagging finger closed it up.

  “You can’t deny Mr. Morton’s been good for the lad, brightening each day with a kind word or a tall tale. Why, yesterday he even brought him a sack of lemon drops. Thomas can’t say enough about him, that’s a fact.”

  Johanna smacked the dough with a satisfying whack, trying to decide which annoyed her more—Thomas’s incessant hero worship of the man, or the decision she’d made to visit old Tanny Needler on the morrow. “But that’s just it, Mam. When Mr. Morton is here, which is precious little, he’s entirely too good. Too generous. Why? Why treat us so kindly?”

  Mam chuckled as she added a mug of cider to the tray. “Despite my poor eyesight, that’s easy enough to see. I’ve been watchi
ng him. There’s admiration in the man’s eyes when they rest on you—which is more frequent than you realize.”

  Her tongue—the traitor—ran over her bottom lip, remembering the feel of his mouth on hers when he’d kissed her on Oak Apple Day. An “unfortunate necessity” he’d called it, so why the continued attention? She scrubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving behind a powdering of gritty flour. “That only makes the man’s actions all the more suspect. Admiration cannot be bought.”

  Picking up the tray, Mam eyed her over the top of it. “It may be working, though.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Morton fixed the stable door, broke up a brawl between Mr. Quail’s men before they destroyed the taproom, even paid in full for an entire month’s residence that he’s yet to use. In all the time he’s been here, he’s shown he’s a good man. And deep down, you know that. What’s more, I think you admire him.”

  “Nonsense!” She snatched a dishcloth from a peg on the wall, fighting the urge to snap it in the air. “Why you defend him is beyond me.”

  “He reminds me of someone. Headstrong. Independent. Kind to a fault, though unwilling to own up to it, and much too good-looking for his own good.”

  The skin at the nape of her neck bristled. How dare Mam? Choking the life from the cloth, she turned back. “Please don’t compare me with—”

  “I was going to say your father, Johanna. It’s been nice to have a man around here looking out for us. Do not begrudge your brother this time, however short, with a gentleman of good standing. Lord knows Thomas needs it.” Mam disappeared out the door with her brother’s breakfast tray, leaving behind the scent of oats and apples and disappointment.

  Shame sank in Jo’s stomach, curdling the milk she’d taken with her tea earlier. The dough in her hands felt heavy and thick. With a little too much strength, she plopped the lump into a large bowl and laid the cloth on top like a death shroud, a fitting end to a grievous conversation.

  Hefting the bowl, she crossed to the hearth. Why could she simply not be happy about Mr. Morton? He had been nothing but kind and—except for the kiss—of exemplary conduct. Her mother, Thomas, even Maggie seemed to adore the man. Pish! Who did he think he was? Helping. Providing. Caring. Ever since her father died, those things had been her job. Hers!

  The bread bowl slipped from her hands and plummeted to the floor.

  Oh, Lord. That was it. She stared, horrified as the bowl landed dough side down—no doubt a punishment for feeling jealous. Shame tasted bitter in her mouth. Should she not be grateful for the kindness of a stranger? Closing her eyes, she begged for forgiveness in the quiet of the kitchen—until a shuffle of feet at the taproom door turned her around.

  The day was sunny. The shadow on the threshold was not. She’d seen him before. A man of the night, usually conferring in whispers with Mr. Morton at a corner table in the taproom. His hat was pulled low, the whites of his eyes a stark flash of contrast. Black hair, too long to belong to a person of import, brushed the edge of his raised coat collar. Why did he wear such a heavy mantle on a June morning?

  She stepped in front of the fallen bowl, hiding the mess she’d made. “I’m sorry. It’s early and we are not yet ready to serve.”

  “No meal required. I merely ask you deliver this into Mr. Morton’s hands.” He held out a sealed envelope, gripped loosely in his black-gloved fingers. “He said I could trust you.”

  Jo advanced a step, then stopped, eyeing the thick packet. The situation smacked too much of intrigue. Did she not have enough drama in her life?

  With quick steps, she whisked past the man and his envelope, calling for him to follow. “Have a seat, sir. I shall retrieve Mr. Morton straightaway and you can deliver the missive yourself.”

  “He’s not here.”

  Stopping at the base of the stairs, she pivoted. “Sorry?”

  “I said he’s not here.”

  Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she re-ran the whole of the morning. She and Mam had been in the kitchen the entire time. They would’ve heard the departure of any of their guests, so rickety were the stairs.

  “How would you know that?” she asked.

  The man said nothing, his gaze speaking a language she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.

  A shiver crept across her shoulders. Mam’s shoes started a rap-tap down the stairway, the familiar groan of the wood complaining beneath her feet.

  “Mam,” Jo called over her shoulder, “will you knock on Mr. Morton’s door and let him know he has a visitor?”

  “Aye, child.” Her mother’s rap-tapping faded back upstairs.

  “You’re wasting her time, and yours and mine as well.” The man’s voice was matter-of-fact, but the angle of his chin scolded—or was it the play of light streaming in from the side window, slashing an overlarge glower on his face?

  For a moment, she considered running out the front door, away from his stifling presence. This was a man used to being obeyed.

  She straightened to her full height. “Who did you say you were?”

  “I didn’t.”

  She stifled a gasp. This fellow sounded an awful lot like Mr. Morton. How were the two related?

  Seconds stretched into what seemed hours. The man’s gaze never wavered from hers, neither did his resolve, for he said nothing more.

  Fine. If she must be the one to take the high road, so be it. She forced her mouth into a smile she stored in her dealing-with-bothersome-customers reserve. “I have some water on to boil. May I get you a cup of tea?”

  Mam’s voice answered from above. “Mr. Morton’s chamber is empty, Jo.”

  Once again, the man’s arm extended, the envelope daring her to move forward and retrieve it. “Now, will you deliver this? I’ve not the time nor inclination to wait, but if need be, I will.”

  She didn’t doubt him. Those dark eyes would haunt the taproom until Mr. Morton returned, and with his irregular schedule, that might be a long time off.

  “Very well.” She clipped across the floor, the fabric of her skirt adding a swishing accompaniment, then snatched the missive from his hand. “I’ll see that Mr. Morton receives this.”

  For the space of a breath, one side of his mouth quirked up, almost as if he were pleased. “I thought as much. You’ll do.”

  His words trailed a cold quiver down her spine. “I’ll do for what?”

  He stared a second longer, then pulled down the brim of his hat and disappeared out the front door, so quickly she wondered if he’d been but a dream to begin with.

  But the heavy packet in her hand was real enough. There was no address on the front. No name. No writing at all. She turned over the envelope and studied the wax seal on the other side. Deep burgundy in color, but no identifying insignia. Whoever sent this either didn’t own a signet ring or chose not to use it.

  A sharp rap on the door stopped her speculations. She shoved the envelope into her apron pocket, then opened the door to a brass-buttoned chest with the Viscount Coburn’s monogram embroidered in gold on the lapel. Her eyes followed the line of buttons up to a tall, starched collar and farther to a chiseled chin set as hard as granite. The man neither smiled nor frowned, just observed her as he might some droppings on the bottom of his shoe. Beyond him, four fine horses pawed the ground, attached to a gleaming black carriage, a matching emblem in gold on the door.

  A curious urge to curtsy nearly buckled her knees. Nonsense. This was her home. She forced a smile. “May I help you?”

  “I should like to see Mr. Morton.” The man’s tone was as dismissive as his gaze.

  “I’m sorry. Apparently he’s not here at the moment.”

  His upper lip curled, not much, hardly at all, but enough to knock her off the social ladder. Her smile faded.

  “I suppose I shall have to leave this with you, then.” He held up an envelope, the size and shape of an invitation. Swirly embellishments adorned the borders, glinting silver and gold in the morning light.
Fine black penmanship in strong lines clearly identified the recipient to be Mr. Alexander Morton of the Blue Hedge Inn. This one was an artist’s masterpiece compared to the missive in her pocket.

  She reached for it, but his grip didn’t lessen.

  “First, I must have your solemn word you’ll give this to none other than Mr. Morton. We can’t have just anyone gracing the viscount’s doorstep.” He sniffed. “Especially from this part of town.”

  “Well then, perhaps you ought not trust the word of a girl such as me who is from this part of town.” She yanked back her hand and opened the door wider. “Come in and wait for the man yourself.”

  His mouth slanted into a sneer, yet he extended the envelope farther. “For Mr. Morton. None other.”

  “As you wish.” This time the envelope released and came away light and crisp in her fingers.

  The footman pivoted without another word. She immediately shut the door, not wishing to suffer any more indignities should he choose to take off at such a pace as to spray gravel at her.

  Crossing to the counter, she paused in front of the shelves and pulled the other envelope from her pocket. The missive in her left hand was elegant. The other plain. One came from wealth and importance. The other from a whisper of a man who smelled of horseflesh and leather. Both as mysterious as the enigma to whom they were addressed.

  Why did Mr. Morton keep company with a viscount and a … whatever the dark-shrouded fellow was? Why lodge at a ramshackle inn—she cringed at the thought—when he could be lounging in luxury? Why did he evade her questions?

  And worse … why should she care?

  She bent and retrieved the strongbox, then tucked away both envelopes. A satisfying slam of the lid accompanied the opening of the front door, ending further contemplation on the matter. She stood, prepared to face yet one more courier entering with a missive for Mr. Morton.

  But across the counter from her, Mr. Spurge’s black eyes pierced her soul. “My wagon stands ready outside, Miss Langley, the paperwork already drawn up for St. Mary’s.”