The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  She fled before he could reply and wound her way past milling customers, frustration upping her pace. Darting into the kitchen, she slung her bonnet on a hook.

  Mam looked up from behind the worktable. A streak of mustard was smeared on one cheek, and her cap hung at half-mast.

  Anger seeped away at the sight. Johanna reached for her apron. “What’s going on? Why this many patrons on a Monday afternoon?”

  “About time you return, Daughter. You’re becoming a regular scamp like your brother.” Mam shoved her cap aright with the back of her hand. “Seems there’s a ship not yet in, supposed to pick up that lot early this morn.” The tilt of her head toward the taproom undid her previous nudge to her cap, and the white fabric fell askew once again. “I hear tell all the taprooms of Dover are filled. Give that pot a stir, would you?”

  Johanna crossed to the hearth and grabbed the long-handled spoon off a hook. “Well, that’s a blessing for our strongbox, but I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you.”

  “About that, I thought you agreed to a morning run only, and here it is afternoon. Did everything go well for you?”

  She scowled. Well? Sure, if you counted a whipping from Tanny for being late, an unfruitful conversation with an obstinate man who refused to help Mr. Morton, and the awful violence she’d witnessed against Alexander. Unbidden images of his face came to mind, beaten and battered, bloody and pained. How to explain what she’d seen, and especially how she felt, when she wasn’t even sure herself? She scraped the stuck bits from the bottom of the pot and set the spoon aside. If only it were as easy to loosen the conflicting emotions caught on her heart.

  Straightening, she faced Mam. “The run for Tanny took longer than I expected. I’d forgotten how much work pickup and delivery can be.”

  Her mother’s good eye narrowed. “There’s more to it, I think.”

  “There’s no hiding anything from you, is there?” Jo shook her head and bypassed her mother, grabbing an empty pitcher off a shelf. “Remember when I tried to keep that stray kitten a secret out in the barn?”

  Her mother laughed. “For a girl not partial to drinking milk, your sudden thirst was a giveaway. And though you’re putting a valiant effort into swaying this conversation, I’ll not have you dodging the subject. Tell me, child.”

  Johanna paused, feeling the weight of the pitcher in her hands and the gravity of what she’d seen. Ought she tell Mam? Her mother had fed the crew of customers single-handedly. No sense adding burden to fatigue. “We’ll talk later, I promise. Go put your feet up, and I’ll tend the patrons.”

  “They’ve been fed and mugs recently filled. They’ll hold for a few minutes. You’ve seen Mr. Morton, and I would hear of it.”

  The pitcher slipped from her hands, but she snatched it up before it hit ground. “How do you know—?”

  “Pish! It doesn’t take a barrister’s mind to figure that out. You ran a load of oakum to the gaol where Mr. Morton is currently housed. And from your hesitation to speak of it, I’d bet my grandmother’s teapot you saw him.”

  A fierce frown pulled her lips. “Mam!”

  Her mother chuckled. “Sometimes you’re as dour as old Mrs. Stickleby. Life’s not always as tragic as you make it out to be. So, how is Mr. Morton faring?”

  Exhaling long and low, she set down the pitcher and leaned back against the tabletop. There was no escaping a mother on an information-gathering mission. “I hardly recognized him. They’ve beaten him. One eye is so swollen, I doubt he can see from it. There are welts and bruises, and worst of all, a guard pulled a knife on him, cutting the back of his neck. His neck, Mam!” Hot tears burned in her eyes. With effort, she blinked them away. “How can men be that cruel?”

  Her mother’s mouth pinched. “You, of all people, know how harsh the world can be, Jo. How is he taking it?”

  She swallowed as a memory welled of how he’d shoved her back to safety and stepped forward himself, taking on the guards’ brutality singlehandedly. “Bravely.” The word came out as a whisper. “He fought only when he thought I was in trouble.”

  “Were you?” Mam dashed over to her and grabbed both her hands. “I’ll not have you going back there if you are in danger, whether we need the money or not.”

  Her mother peered into her face, driving home her point. New worry lines creased the sides of her mouth, and when had her skin become so transparent? This inn, this life, was too hard on her. On them both.

  Lifting one of Mam’s hands, Johanna pressed a kiss onto the back of it. “Don’t fret. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Do not fear for me, but rather for Alex—Mr. Morton.” Mam’s brows rose, as did her own irritation. Why did his Christian name fall so easily from her lips? “Keep Mr. Morton in your prayers, for he needs them more than I. They put him in a cellar. I saw him tumble in. Lord knows if they’ll let him up for air or even feed him. I don’t know how long he’ll be able to last in such conditions. I wish there were something we could do to ease his suffering. Who is to help him, if not us? Even his friend has run off to London.”

  “The man with the hat?” Mam pulled her hands away and retreated a step. Her gaze travelled every inch of Johanna’s face. “When did you see him?”

  “That’s why I was late. Mr. Morton asked me to deliver a message, up near Foxend Corner. By the time I made it back to Tanny’s, he was none too pleased.” She tugged on her sleeves, making sure the hems hadn’t slipped upward. Though probably less swollen, the welts on her arms from Tanny’s switch would be quite the shade of ugly purple. “I’ll see to the patrons now. You ought put your feet up for a few minutes.”

  She turned and reached for the pitcher. A grip on her forearm spun her back around, and she barely stifled a cry.

  Mam’s eyes burned into hers. “This message, what did it say?”

  “Just a name, apparently. I’m not sure I believe the tale behind it. Regardless, Mr. Morton’s friend is of a cowardly nature, for he refused to go help—”

  “The word, Johanna.” Mam’s grip tightened. “What was the word?”

  “Sackett.”

  Mam’s fingers fell away. So did the pain, thankfully.

  Her mother staggered sideways and lowered onto a barrel. “You’re right. I ought put my feet up.”

  “Oh dear! I knew it. This has been too much for you.” Alarmed at the grey shade of Mam’s face, Jo dashed to the corner and grabbed an empty crate, then returned and set it in front of her mother. Stooping, she helped set Mam’s feet on the wood, one leg at a time. “We’ll hire back Ana to cook. We will. As soon as we pay off the final debt on the hearth, that’s what we’ll do next. And with today’s extra earnings, we just might have enough.”

  Mam shook her head. “Don’t be so sure of it.”

  “If we fail to trust in God’s provision, what kind of faith is that?”

  Her mother’s gaze locked onto hers. “Just make sure it’s Him you’re trusting, not yourself.”

  The words washed over her like a bucket of cold water, and she turned away with a shiver. Mam always knew too much.

  Water. Alex would trade his life for just a sip, for he was surely about to die without a drink, anyway. Throat raw, strength spent, he sat motionless in the darkness, hugging his knees for warmth and finding none. Judging by the angle of light breaching the tiny crack in the overhead door, and from the grumble of prisoners in the yard, picking their fingers to nubs with the oakum, he figured it must be morning, day two of confinement. Or was it three? All he knew for sure was dampness, pain, hunger, and worst of all thirst, for he’d had nothing to eat or drink since he’d landed in this godforsaken pit. A small blessing, he supposed, for truly where would the waste have gone except that he should wallow in it?

  He dropped his forehead to his knees. By now the magistrate would’ve learned of his fate, for none exceeded Thatcher’s horsemanship, assuming Johanna delivered his message, of course. Mouth dry, he tried to swallow, but he couldn’t even accomplish that. Failure tasted burnt and bitter, as agonizi
ng as the torn flesh on his hands from searching every inch of this pit, clawing, pounding, scratching for a way out. Nothing remained but to wait and see how quickly death paid a visit—and wonder whom he had to thank for his ticket to heaven.

  A groan rumbled deep in his chest, but stayed there, too weak to rise out his mouth. What a way to die. He’d always dreamed his demise would be in a blaze of glory, guns afire, upholding justice as Bow Street’s finest officer, celebrated and revered … not wasting away in a hole in the ground, helpless and hopeless.

  Is this it then, God? Will Yours be the next face I see?

  Who would even know he was gone? Who would mourn? Ford, maybe. He’d watched out for him since his parents’ deaths. Thatcher? Not likely. The man was all rock and iron. Brentwood? Too busy with his new wife and son. And that was it. The sum of his friends. He’d spent a lifetime holding everyone at arm’s length, and apparently, he was a champion of it.

  But what of Johanna?

  He winced at the thought of her. She knew he was here. He leaned his head back against the dirt wall, unable to even sob. Oh, God. He had caused the confusion he’d seen in her eyes. She probably yet believed him a traitor and was likely regretting his acquaintance in the first place. Ironic, really. The whole situation. Sent to find a traitor and now wearing the placard himself. Locked in solitary, just when he was ready to open his heart.

  His fingers raked into the muck where he sat. It would have been better if years ago he had raced out of that closet, shouted in the face of the murderers, and taken the knife as a ten-year-old.

  “Why? Why! Why spare me for such an end as this?” The words spewed past his lips, taking the rest of his voice with them. All that remained were ragged breaths, broken dreams, and the vague urge to whisper what might be his last prayer. “Yet even in this, Lord, I suppose I must trust You, for there is nothing else.”

  The dirt walls muffled his prayer, but the words circled back and slapped him sober. There is nothing else. There is nothing else.

  Stunned, he blinked. Why hadn’t he realized such a truth before? There was nothing else to be done but trust alone. Maybe—just maybe—he’d taken on too much, more than a lad should way back when, more than a man could even now.

  “Oh God,” he gasped. “There never was anything else, was there? Only You, not me. I’ve been standing in the way.”

  More than a decade of pride and presumption bled out with the realization. He’d been so busy keeping everything under control, managing all the aspects of his life, he’d missed out on the peace that now slowly wrapped around his soul. Light. Air. Freedom. Everything changed. Oh, the damp darkness of the pit lingered, and maybe even death was near, but had he known such contentment was possible, he’d have given up long ago.

  Without warning, boot steps thumped overhead. A key clicked into a lock and snapped it open. Interesting timing. An angel, perhaps? He’d smile, if it wouldn’t hurt.

  The rattle of a chain scraped against the wooden door. Hinges rasped, and finally, white light, glorious and stabbing, filled the enclosure. He jerked his forearm to his eyes.

  “Move it out!” The harsh command came from a devil.

  Like an old man, he braced his free hand against the wall and pushed himself upward. His legs shook—and down he went.

  “I said move it! Haven’t got all day. Unless you want to stay in there, all cozy like.”

  Alex drew on every remaining morsel of strength left to him. This chance might not come again. “God, please,” he groaned as he fought his way up.

  Hands reached down and grabbed on to his, wrenching him upward. He landed outside, face-first on the gravel of the courtyard, not caring that it ground into his cheek. Air, fresh and precious, filled his nostrils, and he lay there, reveling in the act of breathing.

  Until a boot to his ribs made him curl up with a grunt.

  “On yer feet. You’ve a visitor.”

  A yank on the back of his collar lifted him. He half-choked and half-gagged as two guards lugged him up the stairs and into the guts of the gaol. His mind raced faster than his feet. A visitor could only be Johanna—or the person who’d put him here. His heart hoped for one, his fists, the other.

  The guards led him to a door in the main hall—one he’d not noticed before, hidden in the dark paneling. There, the turnkey stood, tapping his foot. “We’ll be waiting out here. Don’t try anything, or it’ll be the worse for you. Understood?”

  Sweet, blessed mercy. He could barely walk and the man was worried about him busting out?

  “Please.” The word clawed out his throat. “Water?”

  A sneer twisted the man’s face into a macabre sight, as if his features were made of wax and he stood too near a flame. He said nothing, just nodded at the guards and opened the door.

  Jabbed between his shoulder blades, Alex stumbled past the threshold and barely caught himself from tumbling headfirst onto the floor. Behind him, the door slammed shut. In front, two wonders. No, three.

  One, Johanna’s mother sat at a table, the only furniture in the room besides an empty chair. Two, a plate of meat and a crust of bread sat on a plate. And three—

  He lurched forward and snatched a green bottle, not caring if it contained water or cider or arsenic, for it was liquid and he was a desert. With each gulp, life seeped back into him.

  “Go easy or you’ll regret it.” Mrs. Langley’s admonition, while good advice, was impossible to follow.

  He drained the bottle and collapsed into the chair with a moan. His stomach heaved, and he doubled over. For a horrible eternity, he feared he just might lose what he’d gained.

  “Tut, tut.” Mrs. Langley clucked her tongue. “You look a sight.”

  When the wave of nausea passed, he straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He worked his jaw for a moment, until he was sure words would come out. “Not to be disrespectful, madam, but what are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t very well leave you to suffer in solitary.” She pushed the plate of food toward him.

  This time he paced himself, starting with a small bite of bread. “So, Johanna told you.”

  “Aye.”

  “But how did you do it? Get me out, I mean. You’re hardly a magistrate.” He chewed on a few possibilities, none of which made sense, unless … no. The thought was too horrible. Surely his instincts couldn’t be that far off. He stared at her, slack-jawed. “Of all the unholy justice—did you accuse me of treason?”

  She laughed, crinkling her nose the same way Johanna did. “I’m many things, but not the bearer of false witness. And I’m afraid you’re not free. I merely bribed you out of solitary for a visit, a plate of food, and some water. That was the best I could manage with what we had.”

  His mouthful of meat turned foul, and he shoved the plate away. “Please don’t say you used the rent money on me.”

  “All right. I won’t.” Leaning across the table, she nudged the food closer to him. “Now, don’t waste my coins.”

  For one with so many years tucked beneath her bonnet, she still had a lot of kick in her. With a grin, he picked up the bread. “Thomas takes after you.”

  “And you take after your father.”

  The bread turned to wood shavings in his mouth. Either she thought she knew Ford’s creation of a father up in Sheffield, or … once again, the thought was too horrible. Too wonderfully horrible. He sat back in his chair, food forgotten, and tilted his head, prepared to listen with his whole body. “What would you know of my father?”

  Her eyes twinkled with knowledge and what? Pity? Grief? No. Neither. A tremor moved deep in his bones, rippling outward, like standing next to a reverberating gong.

  She gazed at him with compassion. “What I know is that you’re no wine merchant, are you, Mr. Moore?”

  He sucked in a breath. If she knew the truth, then how many others … wait a minute … had she been the one to put him in here? If so, the woman belonged on a Royal Theater’s stage, so good was her act
. But why? Every muscle in his body clenched. Was Mrs. Langley the true traitor? Did she know who murdered his parents? Were the two somehow related?

  “Breathe, son. Just breathe. You look as if you may give way at any moment.” She glanced at the door then back at him. “And I doubt we have much time left.”

  He set his jaw, then winced at the pain of it. “Perhaps you ought explain yourself.”

  “It took me a while to figure things out. The old cogs don’t turn as quickly anymore.” She tapped a finger to her temple, then aimed it at him. “But it’s plain as the nose on your face and the striking blue of your eyes. The hair, that threw me, for Charles Moore’s mane was dark, as could be his mood at times. I assume ’twas your mother who gave you the fair streak, in hair and character, hmm?”

  He’d been speechless once. Shortly after Ford had taken him in, the magistrate had discovered him playing on a fine piece of evidence—a Stradivarius—down in the courtroom’s cellar. Of course he’d been reprimanded, but eventually Ford had awarded him the violin and the continuation of his lessons.

  He gaped. This didn’t even begin to compare.

  “Oh, I suspected,” Mrs. Langley continued, “but I couldn’t be sure until Johanna told me the contents of the note you asked her to deliver.”

  He shook his head, but the movement did no good. “How on God’s green earth would you know the meaning of Sackett?”

  She lifted her chin. “I believe the real question is why would Ford place an officer at my inn? What is the old fool up to?”

  The room began to spin. Or maybe the entire world did. Pain or not, he scrubbed his face with his hand. “I assure you, madam, I am as baffled about that as you. How do you know Ford?”

  She pushed back from the table and stood. “I’ll not question you further, nor will I answer any of yours. No one can know we had this conversation. Ever. Now eat and drink as much as you can hold, for I won’t be able to do this again.”

  He shot to his feet. “But—”

  “Keep your trust in God, son. It is the best any of us can do. And remember, your present situation is not your final destination.” She strode to the door and rapped. “Ready.”