The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  “Do you see …?” Her words died as a bloody, yellow-stockinged leg appeared, followed by another, both barely holding up a man who looked as if he’d fallen beneath a miller’s grinding stone.

  Mam gasped.

  Thomas stopped tapping.

  Johanna shot up and dashed over to the man. “Mr. Nutbrown?”

  He collapsed against her, weighing hardly more than Thomas. Mam joined her and they both bore him up, drag-walking him over to a nearby bench.

  “Thomas, bring a drink. Quickly,” she called over her shoulder, then lifted the back of her hand to feel for Mr. Nutbrown’s breath. Thankfully, warm air collected on her skin. “Mr. Nutbrown, can you hear me?”

  His eyelids flickered open, and she drew back.

  A world of pain and grief glazed his eyes. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

  Her heart squeezed. No matter how eccentric the fellow was, he was still a man, one of God’s creations—and a very broken one at that.

  Thomas rushed in with a mug while Mam sank onto the bench next to Mr. Nutbrown and helped him guide the cup to his mouth.

  While he drank, Mam eyed her. “What do you suppose happened?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure he can speak …”

  She straightened. Of course. She’d never once heard him talk without Nixie. The smashed puppet was long gone, deposited in the dustbin over a week ago. But upstairs …

  “Stay with him. I’ll be right back.”

  She darted upstairs to Mr. Clarkwell’s former chambers. Neither he nor his band had returned to claim their belongings. Perhaps he’d ride in with Alex? Hard to say. But it was a boon for now that his pile of puppeteering gear sat heaped in the corner. She snatched up the red-coated Punch and dashed back to the taproom.

  Both Mam and Thomas’s brows rose as she laid the puppet on Mr. Nutbrown’s lap. His head dropped to his chest, gaze fixed on the offering. Slowly, carefully, he lifted one finger and stroked the length of the cape. A giant tear splashed against the felt, and he stroked that away too.

  “Oh, Mr. Nutbrown.” Johanna’s throat closed, and she swallowed. “I am so sorry for whatever befell you.”

  His shimmery eyes lifted to hers. Mam patted his hand.

  But he pulled away, and almost reverently, glided his bruised and scabby hand into the body of the puppet. Punch rose, not nearly as high or perky as his old friend, but enough that the little head bobbed once. “Mr. N–Nutbrown is t–tired.”

  The puppet flopped to his lap, and Mr. Nutbrown’s head leaned back against the wall with a thump.

  “Of course you are.” Mam tucked her arm around him and hefted him to his feet. “You shall have a good lay down.”

  The puppet landed on the floor.

  Mr. Nutbrown whimpered.

  Snatching up Punch, Johanna offered it to him. “I think your new friend is in need of a rest as well.”

  A weak smile wavered on his lips. He clutched the red felt like a little boy holding on to his Mam’s hand.

  “I shall be right back.” Mam nodded at her, then helped Mr. Nutbrown shuffle off to a room.

  Before Thomas could scuttle away, Johanna wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “Come wait with me, Brother. We decided we’d face this as a family, remember?”

  “Aww, Jo.” Though he flapped a complaint, he allowed her to lead him back to the bench, where in no time Mam joined them once again.

  “Did you find out any more?” Johanna asked.

  “No. The poor man’s eyes closed before his head hit the pillow.”

  Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  Johanna clenched her jaw to keep from reprimanding Thomas. After having witnessed Mr. Nutbrown’s sorry state and with the sure-to-be drama coming from Mr. Spurge, in truth, she felt like kicking her own foot against the table leg.

  Without warning, the front door banged open, and her heart sank. All the hoping and wishing for Alex to arrive had done no good. Mr. Spurge entered, reaching to remove a black top hat from his greying head. He paused and eyed them up for a moment from across the room. “The entire Langley clan? This is quite an event. Good morning to you all.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Spurge,” Mam and Johanna said in unison.

  Thomas tapped all the faster. “Ain’t nothin’ good about it.”

  “Thomas!” Johanna hissed.

  Thankfully Mr. Spurge let the boy’s remark go unanswered. He strode to their table, set his hat down, then as quickly yanked it back up. With his elbow, he bent and wiped off the area—though it was clearly spotless to begin with. Apparently satisfied, he once again set down his hat, then flipped out his coat tails and perched on a chair opposite them. “Shall we be about our business, then?”

  Without a word, Mam pushed a pouch of money across the table.

  Mr. Spurge’s bushy brows hiked skyward. “Well, well … I must say I am surprised.” He snatched up the bag like a dog might a shank of mutton. Hefting the pouch in one hand, he held it mid-air, jiggling it now and then.

  Slowly, his brows lowered, as did the sides of his mouth. “Feels a bit light.”

  Thomas stopped kicking and leaned forward. “How the scag-nippity would you know that, you old spidery—”

  Johanna shot out her arm and pulled Thomas to her side, crushing him against her with her hand over his mouth. “Please excuse my brother, Mr. Spurge. His leg has yet to fully heal and sometimes he’s out of his head with pain.”

  Thomas squirmed. She held tight.

  Mam leaned forward. “While the bulk of what we owe is in your hand, Mr. Spurge, you’ll find our payment short by five shillings, only five, which we will have to you by end of next week.”

  Mr. Spurge grunted. “Good.”

  Good?

  Johanna’s arm dropped. All the sleepless nights? The angst-filled days? She’d worn her nerves to frayed threads for nothing? Her shoulders wilted, as did Mam’s. God had answered! Not as she’d expected, with the blessing of some extra coins, but with the mercy of a white-haired banker. Shame bowed her head.

  Oh God, forgive me for not trusting You. Your ways are not my ways.

  “Thank you, Mr. Spurge.” Mam’s voice floated to the heavens, and Johanna had no doubt her mother lifted her own silent prayers as well.

  Mr. Spurge pushed back his chair and stood. In one hand he clutched the bag of money. With the other, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded document and handed it over to Mam. “You might want to reconsider that sentiment, Mrs. Langley.”

  Johanna stiffened.

  Mam opened the paper, the crispness a brittle crack in the silence. Thomas didn’t even tap as she read. Almost imperceptibly, the fine, white document started shaking.

  “What is it?” Johanna’s question hung like a black cloud.

  Mam said nothing. She didn’t have to. The creases puckering her face screamed a warning.

  Johanna took the paper from her and scanned the contents. It was a legal document, dated and signed, with three names penned in impossibly perfect cursive.

  Eliza Langley. Johanna Langley. Thomas Langley—

  All due to report to St. Mary’s by the end of the day.

  Her blood turned to ice, and she shivered despite the warmth of the July morning. She dropped the awful paper and shot up from her chair, scowling into Mr. Spurge’s face. “But you hold nearly the entire sum. You would send us to the workhouse over a mere five shillings?”

  He clapped his hat back atop his head. “I would and I am.”

  “Please, Mr. Spurge, have mercy.” The world turned watery, and she blinked. “Upon my word you shall have the rest of the payment by week’s end. I vow it!”

  “Your word, Miss Langley, while encased in very pretty housing, is null and void as far as I’m concerned. Today was the deadline. You have your papers. And I have just acquired a new property. I expect you gone within the hour.”

  “But we have a guest who is unable to be moved.”

  His brows pulled into a sharp, grey line. “Then y
our guest will have to find other accommodation, for this is no longer an inn.” With a snap of his heels, he pivoted.

  Beside her, Mam rose. “Have you no heart, sir?”

  “None whatsoever, madam.” His pace didn’t so much as hitch.

  Johanna reached for Mam, and they clung like two thin yew saplings, desperate for anchor in a storm. Thomas pushed back from his chair and plowed into them.

  Mr. Spurge stopped at the open door, a black silhouette against the brilliance of day. “Oh, I forgot to mention … on the off-chance you were thinking of hooking up that decrepit pony cart, think again. Everything here is my property. If so much as a cracked mug is moved off-site, I’ll see the three of you in Market Place Gaol instead of St. Mary’s. It’s a fair walk, should take you all day, so I suggest you start now.” He tugged the brim of his hat. “Good day.”

  At last the road descended, leading to the town nestled between sea and land by great, white cliffs. Alex kicked his horse into a canter, zealous to reach Dover proper—until Ford caught up to him and forced him to slow.

  “Ease up, man.” The magistrate—former magistrate—frowned at him. “I’m as eager as you, but these horses are spent.”

  “My apologies.” Alex squinted as he eyed the buildings hugging the harbor. Afternoon sun glinted bright off the bay. “We are so close.”

  It took all his strength to hold the reins loose, to not give in to urging his mount faster than a trot. But Ford was right. He had pushed their pace the past three days.

  A fresh breeze rolled in off the Channel, carrying a fishy aroma. Likely ol’ Slingsby and his crew were even now on the beach, cooking cod over a fire, plotting some new way to lighten a load of tea or rum from some poor vessel.

  Alex loosened his collar, reminding himself it wasn’t his job anymore to hunt down criminals. Would he miss it? A definitive answer was as elusive as the thin clouds overhead, but he doubted it, not with a dark-haired, brown-eyed woman at his side. His chest squeezed. Aah, but it couldn’t be soon enough until he reached Johanna.

  He glanced over at Ford as they turned onto the High Street. How different it was to arrive in Dover this time, not moving fast enough to arrive at the Blue Hedge Inn. “So, what’s your plan of attack with Mrs. Langley?”

  “Nothing.”

  He arched a brow. “The great Bow Street magistrate has no strategy whatsoever?”

  Ford glanced at him sideways. “I didn’t say that.”

  Alex grunted. “You’re not going to tell me.”

  “You never were a patient one.” A chuckle shook the man’s shoulders. “Oh, all right. If you must know, I intend to allow Eliza all the time she needs to pummel me, hence my doing nothing. But by the time I must return to London to finish up Bow Street business, I suspect my charms will have won her over.” He faced Alex and winked. “We shall retire on my land up in Shropshire.”

  “You own land?” His brows shot skyward. “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve lived in London.”

  “Never had a need for it—until now. As you know, I married an MP’s daughter. Her father granted me a small piece of property in hopes we’d eventually settle there one day. Of course that never came to pass, but I still have it. Besides”—a slow grin eased the lines on Ford’s face—“you don’t really want me underfoot with your new bride, do you?”

  “You know me far too well.” And he did. Emotion clogged Alex’s throat, and he faced forward. “Thank you. You didn’t have to take on my provision when my father died, yet you did.”

  “Alex.”

  His name travelled on the air like an invitation, one he couldn’t refuse. He turned his face back to Ford. Steely grey eyes met his.

  “I’m only going to say this once, for we are not men given to sentiment. You were a fine lad and are an even finer man. Johanna Langley is a lucky woman to have you.”

  His eyes burned. His throat. His heart. He said nothing more, nor could he if a gun were held to the back of his head. They rode in silence the rest of the way until they finally rounded the corner to the Blue Hedge.

  “Go on.” Ford dipped his head. “I’ll give you a moment.”

  Alex swung out of the saddle and sprinted to the door. “Johanna?”

  Bolting inside, he looked for a blue skirt, longing for a flash of her smile. But the taproom was empty.

  He dashed into the kitchen, expecting her sweet face might be bowed over a pot of stew. Yet the hearth was cold, and had been for quite some time.

  The first hint of alarm prickled at the nape of his neck.

  “Johanna!” He strode out of the room, calling her name again and again as he pounded up the stairs. After a search of the guest rooms, he lunged up to second floor, a highly improper action but so be it. He punched open the doors of the women’s chambers. All empty. Barren, even. Only the leftover scent of the rose soap he’d given Johanna lingered like a slap to his face.

  He charged down the stairs and tore out the back door, rising dread pumping his legs faster with each step. Flinging the stable door aside, he stalked in. The decrepit pony cart languished all alone. The horse was gone.

  Alex turned in a slow circle, concocting all sorts of explanations, but the only thing he knew for sure soured in his gut.

  Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  He sped back to Ford and vaulted into his own saddle. “They’re gone.”

  Ford eyed him where he stood near the front of his horse, neither mounting nor moving. “What do you mean?”

  “The inn is empty, and by the looks of it, they’re not intending to return. The hearth is cold. There are no personal effects anywhere. It’s not right. Something’s happened.” His voice shook, but it couldn’t be helped. “Come on! We’ve got to find them.”

  Ford’s hand snaked out and grabbed hold of the headstall on Alex’s horse. “Think, man. Don’t just act without evaluating. It will accomplish nothing and more than likely waste your time.”

  He grimaced. What a hypocrite. He’d told Johanna the very same thing that day she’d struggled with the stable door. “You’re right.” He sucked in a huge breath. Spurge was his first guess, but not the only one. For all he knew Tanny Needler could’ve had a hand in their disappearance. “Let us go to the local magistrate. Perhaps he might know something.”

  “Now you’re talking sense.” Ford released his hold of Alex’s horse and grabbed his own mount. Together they trotted back to the High Street—where a familiar figure strolled.

  “Mrs. Scott,” he called as he dismounted. “A word, please.”

  Johanna’s friend, Maggie, turned toward him, a wriggling babe in her arms. Beneath her bonnet brim, her forehead puckered, then cleared. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Morton.”

  He let the name slide, unwilling to spend one second more than needed to find Johanna. Forcing a calm tone to his voice, he asked, “Where is Johanna? Where has she gone?”

  A small cry garbled in her throat. “You don’t know? She and her family are on their way to St. Mary’s.”

  Calm be hanged. The workhouse? But Johanna ought to have had more than enough money to pay her debt—unless Spurge had upped his asking price. Rage lit a fire, painting everything red. “Why? How?” His voice thundered even in his own ears.

  Eyes wide, Mrs. Scott retreated a step, clutching her babe tighter.

  Behind him, Ford grumbled an admonishment.

  “I’m sorry.” Alex ran a hand over his face, praying for peace. “Forgive me, but I must know everything. Please, Mrs. Scott.”

  She blinked, then lifted her chin. “Mr. Spurge called in his loan this morning. To my regret, I hadn’t the extra funds to lend them.”

  “But there was no need. They had more than enough to pay off Mr. Spurge. Unless …” his gut sank. Unless the money he’d taken such care to hide had been stolen.

  “Surely you are mistaken, sir. My husband is even now driving them to the workhouse. Hopefully it won’t take long for them to pay back their debt, though I don’t know how t
hey’ll manage once they get out and—where are you going?”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Scott,” he called over his shoulder as he swung back up into the saddle. “But I have a wagon to catch.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Johanna stared at the dark stain marring the July afternoon. Behind a fence of black iron, St. Mary’s grew larger with each turn of the wagon wheels. Situated outside of town in the middle of nothingness, the workhouse hunched like a beast, ready to stretch out a paw and claw in anyone who ventured too close.

  A faint smile traced a ghostly pattern on her lips, and she lifted her chin despite the monster ahead. Losing the inn had been hard, but it hadn’t been the end—and this wouldn’t be either. Now that her worst fear had come to pass, surprisingly she wasn’t as crushed as she’d imagined. The sun still shone, the wind still blew, and God yet reigned in the heavens. She lifted her face to the sky, and a peculiar kind of lightness filled her soul.

  Could it be that the real demon tormenting her had never been this ugly brick building but her desperate act of holding on to things too tightly, things she had no right to hold on to in the first place?

  The wagon lurched over a rock in the road, and she grabbed the side. Mam sat between her and Mr. Scott, wedged in safely. Behind, in the wagon bed, Thomas bumped around. None of them spoke, except for Thomas, whenever he spied another traveller on the road. This far out, though, it wouldn’t be likely they’d see anyone.

  Johanna patted Mam’s leg. “With God’s help, we’ll weather this, Mam. I feel sure of it.”

  Mam’s hand closed over hers. “I was tired of being an innkeeper anyway.”

  Johanna gasped. Why had her mother never shared that with her before? “What—?”

  “Caw! Look at that cloud o’ dust snaking up. Someone’s riding hard.” Thomas scrambled as best he could to the gate at the back.

  For a moment, Johanna was tempted to turn around and focus on the approaching traveller instead of on the open gates ahead. But no, better to face her future—even a challenging one—head on.

  “It might be … yes!” Thomas shouted. “It’s Alex!”