A Heart Deceived (9 page)

His chest deflated. He was a worm. It was his fault her brother lay in a pauper’s grave and another man lay dead. He opened his mouth to tell her.
Lord, give me strength.
Ha. If only he had a sixpence for each time he’d prayed those words the past fortnight. “I … uh …”

“Well?” The woman shared Will’s tenacity.

“I …” He felt low enough without her towering over him. Gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet. What a mistake. The room spun, sweat rained from every pore, and his stomach lurched.

“You what?” she asked.

“I am going to be sick.” The words barely made it out before the bread and cider. He crashed to his knees, hating his feeble body, abhorring what he was in front of her, and helpless to do anything about it—or the next bout of sickness rising from his belly. He doubled over.

“Oh, dear.” The mug cracked to the floor, and Miri’s arms wrapped around him from behind, supportive, strong.

Spent, he leaned against her and soaked in her strength. How long they stayed that way, he could not guess, his awareness fading in and out.

“You cannot stay here, but I fear you cannot leave, either.” Her voice sounded far away. What was she talking about?

“Please. You must try to walk. Stand and put your arm about my shoulders.”

He’d crush her, or at the very least sully her. He shook his head.

“Come now. You can do this.” She tugged upward. “Please try.”

His legs wobbled, and his head still swirled, but at least his stomach had stopped cramping. Would that he had met this woman under different circumstances.

Miri ducked beneath his arm and pushed up, bearing a good portion of his weight. “Excellent.” Her word of encouragement came out strained. Though he hadn’t eaten in over a week, he still outweighed her by at least five stone.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“You’ll see”—she grunted—“when we get there.”

With considerable exertion, they gained the open church door, and she stopped. Her eyes darted from the rectory to one outbuilding and onto the next.

He slanted his head toward her. “You don’t know where to go, do you?”

“No, sir.” She gazed out at the dreary mist dampening the whole countryside. “I do not.”

10

Miri hurried along the main road through Deverell Downs, her calves burning from the pace. Passing by Woods, Proprietor et al, she caught a glimpse of herself in the window. What a fright. Hair she’d hurriedly pinned up before leaving the rectory now breached her bonnet in several places. At least the pelisse she’d donned covered most of her wrinkled dress, for she’d not taken the time to change. Though Roland had remained sleeping while she’d settled the beggar into the potting shed and cleaned the mess in the sanctuary, he surely would not slumber all day. And if he woke to find her missing, she’d have to piece together quite an explanation.

She quickened her steps.

Two doors past the public house, she entered Harper’s Apothecary and Tobacco. Mr. Harper’s name was an apt one, for he ever loved to address a subject until the listeners would as soon stop up their ears.

A silver bell tinkled overhead, and Miri inhaled the earthy scent of clipped herbs and cherry tobacco—so much sweeter than what she’d been smelling this morn. Lamplight warded off the gloom outside and reflected from countless glass jars and bottles, some clear, others blue or green. With crowded shelves and no space to spare, the shop was as welcoming and cozy as a grandmother’s hug.

“Good day.” The voice from the other side of the counter did not belong to Mr. Harper. Neither did the stunning sapphire eyes of the man seated on Mr. Harper’s stool. “At last we meet.”

Miri blinked, unable to form a coherent greeting. How familiar was the sandy hair pulled into a queue, the noble tilt of the man’s head, for she’d studied it often enough on Sunday mornings. Heat rose up her neck as she remembered his wink.

“May I help you?” he asked.

She tucked a spiral of hair behind her ear, praying she’d gotten all the dirt off her face. The man’s smile captivated. A few crinkles offset his eyes, a testimony to a lifetime of winks and grins. How would it feel to live with someone like that instead of a half-crazed bully who—

“Madam?”

She bit her lower lip. Lack of sleep and a morning of foul nursemaid duty had surely taken a serious toll on her wits. “Is Mr. Harper available?”

“I am afraid he is on extended leave, entrusting me with his business in his stead.” He stood and bowed from the waist. “Jonathan Knight, at your service. And you are?”

“Miss Brayden.” She wet her dry lips. “Miss Miriall Brayden.”

His smile broadened. “Well then, Miss Brayden, how may I assist you”—he looked past her shoulder out the bay window—“on this fine and dreary day?”

Pleasing to the eye and charming to the ears. She swallowed back a smile despite herself. Witherskim could take a few lessons. Her good mood vanished, and she shuddered. Why think of him now?

“You are chilled, I think, miss. A bit pale as well.” He moved halfway down the counter and removed the lid from an amber jar. “I believe I have just the thing for you.”

La, she must look worse than frightful. Tucking up her hair, she straightened her bonnet. “I am sorry to give you the wrong impression, Mr. Knight. I have not come for myself.”

He glanced up. “Oh?”

“Yes, I …” If only she could pull off her gloves and fan the heat from her face. She could not think when so fagged by the long morning—or with such an endless blue gaze holding hers. “Well, you see …”

His tone lowered as he tilted his head. “Yes?”

“It’s just that …” That what? How to tell this upstanding gentleman that she wished to treat a vagabond on death’s threshold?

“Our hired man has taken with the rheum.” The words came out in a rush. Glancing heavenward, she shouldn’t be a bit surprised if a lightning bolt flattened her here and now, though it wasn’t exactly a lie. Old Joe was abed and in sore condition.

Mr. Knight returned the contents he’d taken from the jar. “Has willow bark been tried?”

“In truth, I do not know.” Excellent. Now she looked foolish as well as dreadful. She wrapped tighter her pelisse, covering the gap where her creased skirt peeked out in front. How she longed to disappear—and the feeling irked her. Why care what this man thought? Or any man, for that matter? No one would have her once her brother’s madness was discovered—a boon in Witherskim’s case, but a death knell to any other marriage hopes.

As if thoughts of Witherskim parading through her mind weren’t bad enough, from the corner of her eye, she snagged a glimpse of the silly man outside the window. Directly across the road from the apothecary’s, Clive Witherskim huddled in conversation with the squire.

Miri whirled about so fast, she wobbled. Hopefully he hadn’t seen her.

But Mr. Knight did. “Miss! Are you faint?” He pulled a stool around the counter and took firm hold of her upper arm, directing her to sit.

“I am—”

“Yes, you are quite pale.” The back of his hand pressed against her forehead. “No fever, though.”

“Really, Mr. Knight!” She pulled from his touch. “I am a bit fatigued, that is all.”

He withdrew his hand but hesitated at her side, peering at her closely. “Clearly, you have overdone.”

“Honestly, sir. I am fine.” She took care, however, to remain with her face diverted from the window.

“Well … as you say.” He resumed his station behind the counter and collected a few items, but his gaze did not leave her. “Is there no one else to see to your hired man? Perhaps I should call on him.”

She shot to her feet. “No!” The thought of his discovering Roland or the beggar pushed the word out of her mouth with force.

His eyes widened. “I assure you, I am fully competent in my profession.”

“I do not question your abilities, Mr. Knight. I should be happy to have you call except for …” Her mind raced to find an excuse, an exhausting maneuver having clocked only two hours of sleep.

“Except for?”

Think. Think!
“You’re … er … too busy.” Victory! That could work. “Yes, what with Mr. Harper being gone, I would not think to impose upon you. Old Joe’s not really that bad off.”

“Truth be told, it’s been a little slow around here. It would be no trouble on my part to see after your man. But if you think that not prudent—”

“I do not, sir. Your time would be better served here in the shop, I am sure.” She held her breath, waiting, hoping to see the effect of her words. Had she soothed the savage pride beast within him?

A half smile lit his face. “Very well, you should know best.”

Relief rushed through her, and she exhaled.

He ground a pestle into a mortar, filling the shop with an oddly soothing gritty sound, then formed the concoction into pills. Inspecting each one, he collected them into a small envelope and held it out to her. “Give your man two of these every four hours. That will be one shilling, miss.”

As she took the packet, her fingertips brushed his—steady and strong, so unlike the beggar’s hand she’d held this morn.

The beggar. Her stomach sank. She tucked the packet into her coin purse but did not remove any money. “I have one more request, Mr. Knight. What can be done for a severe cough, fever, and nausea?”

A queer look rippled across his face—one she’d many times directed at Roland.

“I thought you said your man was not that bad off.”

If she said he was, Knight would make a visit. If not, then she looked like a liar. She tapped a finger to her lips, as if that might charm the right words to the surface. “Well, you see … I mean … I think …”

Mr. Knight cocked his head, studying her. “You seem a bit confused, Miss Brayden.”

Not at all—she knew exactly how foolish she appeared. She straightened her back, seeking what little confidence might be found in good posture. “I do not speak of our hired man. This would be for someone else. Someone new to the parish. That’s it! Yes, this fellow is rather bad off, I’m afraid.”

Pursing his lips, Mr. Knight obviously tried to decide if he should purchase her poorly wrapped parcel of an explanation. “In pain?”

“Quite.”

“Very well.” This time his work involved no collecting or grinding or packing. He simply reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small bottle filled with liquid and sealed with a cork. “Twenty drops, Miss Brayden, no more, no less. Mix well into a half-pint of drink. Take a care in your measurements, though. Laudanum is not without adverse effects if used improperly. Administer every four to six hours, as needed. One shilling, four pence.”

She pulled out the correct amount and grabbed the bottle. “Thank you, Mr. Knight. You have been very helpful.”

“My pleasure, Miss Brayden. I shall hope to hear of your patients’ progress. And might I recommend for yourself a bit of chamomile tea? It calms like none other. I think you could do with a bit of that.”

He smiled—a knowing smile. The kind that harbored secret suspicions—one she’d seen on the vicar’s face before he’d disappeared.

“Thank you.” She nodded, then rushed to the door. The little bell tinkled, though not by her hand on the latch.

“Good day, Miss Brayden.” Mr. Gullaby entered, standing a head shorter than she, especially when he removed his hat.

“Squire.” She stepped aside to let him pass.

He did not. Instead, he eyed the bottle in her hand and lifted a single bushy brow. “I hope all is a’right at the rectory.”

Miri tucked the bottle into the folds of her pelisse. If the squire learned of the beggar, he’d no doubt race to the magistrate and they’d run the poor man off before his health returned. “Simply another bout of the rheum for Old Joe, is all.”

“Ahh, yes. I had a chat with your Joe a few days back. He mentioned he could feel something coming on, among other things.” The squire’s brow lowered, but still he did not move. “And how is Master Brayden?”

A flush of warmth flowed through Miri’s body—and not pleasant warmth, at that. “He is fine, sir.” True enough, at least while he slept. But why the inquiry? She narrowed her eyes and studied the man. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing.” He finally pushed past her. “At any rate, likely hearsay and nonsense. Good day, miss.”

Glancing both ways to make sure Witherskim no longer remained about, Miri stepped into the chill spring day, allowing the door to close behind her. Too bad it did not shut out her thoughts.

Had Witherskim gossiped about Roland’s gibberish?

Nigel’s eyes stung, either from lack of sleep or the acrid Dockland stench. Probably both, though it was surprising how last summer’s fire yet defiled the air with its burnt stink. Black-blistered warehouse skeletons and useless piles of rubble now made up a good half of the Wapping District. Passing the charred but still-standing Ramsgate Pub, he slowed his step. He’d give his left crown jewel to go in and chug back a few pints instead of facing Buck tonight.

Laughter and banter carried out the open door, but he flipped up his collar and pressed on. He turned into a cobbled alleyway and followed it to the top of the Old Stairs. An unusually clear night with a waning moon lent enough light to view Execution Dock. The low tide swallowed the feet of the condemned men swinging from the gibbets. Good thing he could only see their silhouettes. A shiver ran through him. Hopefully his body wouldn’t soon be sharing the water with them.