He moved to the next flower bush.
She followed. “Tom calls you a goat.” Instant regret flooded her, but it was the first sensible alignment of words she could form. “You do not get along well, I presume.”
Uncle harrumphed. Was that all?
“You must have disliked him greatly to deem him so utterly unsuitable a match.”
“Tom’s a good boy.”
“Then why did you—”
“He wasn’t for you.”
“Why not?” With intensity, her lips began to tingle. The morning’s catastrophe was like venom in her veins—not deadly, only troubling enough to make her weak and startled. His aftertaste was beautiful. No. Terrible. What made him think he had the right to kiss her? More outrageous still, why had she let him?
“You’re young.” Uncle rubbed a hand down his coat as if brushing off dirt that wasn’t there. “I know what’s best for you, and I do what’s best for you.”
“Without any regard for what I know myself?” Why was she defending the old Meg? “Never mind. I do not wish to quarrel. In fact, I sought you out with intentions just the contrary.”
“It’s in your blood.”
“What?”
“Being cantankerous.” A whisper of pride dulled the sharp edges of his voice. When he glanced at her, a little sheepish, the first smile crooked his lips. “Thought it over today. Won’t be going to Juleshead. Going to stay here. With you, Meggie girl.”
“And you’ve no inkling who might be responsible for this?”
“No.”
“Or what we might have possibly done wrong to warrant such hate?”
“We’re not perfect.” Her uncle reached over and with leathery hands grabbed her fingers. He gave a swinging little squeeze. “But we do what we can to make people well. All we can do.”
She desperately wanted the words to be true. But someone had penned those letters, and someone was willing to kill—just to prove it wasn’t.
Finding the place was not as difficult as Tom had imagined.
The house sat alone, two miles out from the east end of Juleshead on an acre of unkempt cherry orchards and splintery grape arbors. The roughcast yellow walls, hipped slate roof, and curtained sash windows lent the house a look of domestic innocence.
Tom nearly scowled.
Innocence indeed.
He scaled the stone porch steps and rapped on the door. He assumed he should knock. He’d never visited such an establishment before. Nor listened to stories of those who had.
He may not be a saint, but he knew right from wrong well enough. This was about as wrong as what happened in Meg’s alley.
“Fawgive me.” A plump older woman answered the door after several long minutes. “Didn’t hear you knockin’ there, stranger.” She grabbed his arm and guided him into a floral-papered hallway, where she motioned him to sit on the bottom step of a staircase. “New here, ain’t you, governaw? Don’t you worry none. Mamma Lieselotte here will find you a pretty little sweet chuck.”
He remained standing. “I didnae come for that.”
“You shy one, you.”
“I want to speak with ye about Elisabeth.”
“Of course you do. You must be him wot come to take her things.” Lieselotte tucked a frizzy white ringlet back beneath her lace cap, giggling. “She always says to me she has a cousin somewhere, and I had nigh ’bout given up hope she had.”
“Nay, miss, I’m nae family. I just wish to ask ye some questions.” He waited until she was finished distracting herself fingering dust film off the staircase banister before he proceeded. “How did she die?”
