MONDAY
December 18, 1815
One
Verity
“Old Red has gone missing again,”Miss Butler called from the inn’s kitchen.“We’re short of eggs.We need more good layers.”
Good layers.The irony pierced her heart.“I’ll look in a minute.”Clutching her polishing rag, Verity Russell swiped at tears with her shoulder.
If she rubbed the planks any harder, she’d wear a hole through them.Solid walnut and her husband’s pride and joy, the heavy Jacobean trestle table suited the derelict medieval inn they were restoring.Making the boards shine was probably a waste but she needed an excuse to be alone.
More good layers, indeed.That hurt.That hurt alot.
Verity had been telling herself that she cried because she would no longer be teaching in here.Starting a school for the village children in her husband’s pub had been her very first accomplishment after escaping her narrow London life, and she had a right to be proud.
But the late Earl of Wycliffe’s heirs had rebuilt their medieval tower to allow local children access to the manor’s schoolroom.Verity’s students would be taught there after the first of the year.
She didn’t fool even herself with that blatant fustian.She wasn’t crying over the change.Children had no place in a public inn, and she actually looked forward to working with Mr.Birdwhistle at the manor.The students would benefit from having two teachers, a better library, and more space.
She selfishly cried for herself and the child she thought she would bear by summer.She hadn’t realized how very much she wanted a child of her own.Foolish of her.She and Rafe Russell had only married a few months ago.They had too little money and too little time as it was.Thank goodness it had been too soon to tell Rafe.With all his other worries, he didn’t need to share this sorrow.For him, she had to keep smiling.Sometimes, she simply needed to be alone with her grief.
Having rubbed every stick of furniture plus the centuries-old bar, she ran out of beeswax.Her students were all home, preparing for the Christmas festivities.Even the dour old women in the kitchen were singing hymns in merry rounds.Having exchanged wintry tents for cozy chambers at the inn, their new staff had reason to be joyful.
Time to hunt Old Red.Avoiding the merriment in the kitchen, Verity slipped into the inn’s lobby, donned a cloak, and set out in the chilly wind to search for the recalcitrant old biddy who wouldn’t stay penned.Best to make a stew for dinner than let a fox have good meat.The biddy was too old to lay much longer anyway.
At twenty-five, wasshetoo old to carry babes?Verity fought a fresh spurt of tears, although now she could blame the wind for making her eyes water.With no family and all the women in the manor busy with holiday plans, she had no one she dared ask.Besides, it was too personal, and given her lonely upbringing, she wasn’t accustomed to sharing.
As if sensing her distress, her marmalade kitten pounced from nowhere to circle her ankles.She leaned over to pet Marmie’s furry head, then tucked him into the warmth of her cloak.Well-fed these days, the once-abandoned kitten was now almost too large for her pocket.
At this early hour, frost still lingered in the shadows.The old hen most likely had retreated to the warm stable.A city girl, Verity had never learned to cook or wring chicken necks, but she might learn for this foul fowl.Not a charitable thought for the holiday season.
Perhaps she should think about pleasantries, like how to make a kissing bough.She’d been a child when she’d helped her mother decorate for Christmas, but it shouldn’t be difficult.Rafe had pointed out the mistletoe in the trees behind the inn.She had no notion of how one harvested it.
Once they reached the large, drafty stable, Marmie jumped out to chase mice.When the manor had an excess of guests, they sheltered their carriage horses in the inn’s extensive stable.The income hadn’t covered costs as yet, but it was a good start.The inn’s bedchambers were scarcely ready for more than a few guests.
She was more comfortable with counting pounds and shillings than cooking.Food was Rafe’s domain, but as bailiff, he often had to be out and about, which meant someone else had to prepare meals.
The hen wouldn’t go near the horses at the busy end of the stable.She preferred the empty stalls in need of repair.Verity stalked down the hard-packed dirt floor, listening for the old biddy.Red usually roosted on a grain bin, but a rustle in one of the old stalls gave her away.With grim triumph, she eased open the sagging door, prepared to pounce.
Two small shapes dived into a meager haystack that hadn’t been there yesterday.
Startled, Verity almost slammed the stall door, but the wriggling rearends attempting to hide in loose straw were too ridiculous to fear.She’d spent these last months dealing with children from five to fourteen and knew when they were avoiding authority.She probably knew these two.The only problem here was why they were in the stable.Some idle game to while away the holiday hours?Or were they hiding from something or someone?
She’d spent many years hiding from her fears.No longer.
She crouched down to a child’s height.“Where are you Old Red?I need eggs for my breakfast.The rashers are almost ready.And I have toast browning.I just need your eggs.”Promises of food usually lured children faster than yelling.
No whispers.Just more rustling as they burrowed deeper.Shouldn’t they have recognized her voice?Were theynotsome of her students?That would be decidedly worrisome.
At the sound of her wheedling tone, Marmie returned to sniff for food.
“I do wish I had someone to share tea and toast with,” she said wistfully.“Eating by myself is lonely.”
A single whisper.No reply.
“Well, if I can’t find those eggs, I shall just have bacon on toast, I suppose.Maybe if I leave the door open, Old Red will wander in later.”She stood and eased from the stall.Did she go inside and hope they took the bait?Or wait and pounce?She didn’t wish to terrify them.“I wish I had children to share my meal.”
