“Back upstairs in the attic chambers. He patched himself up and wouldn’t even let the doctor touch him before he went to tending the servants.”
Tom wasn’t certain if he should ask—if hewantedto ask. He swallowed hard and her name came out more raspy whisper than anything else.
“The constable took her to the village lockup. He says she’ll hang.” Joanie’s cheeks blotched red and white. A tiredness hung in her gaze, a sudden fragility. As if it were too excruciating in a world of so few friends to lose someone this close. “She was nice to me, Tom.”
“I know.”
“I want to go home and … rip apart that hat she gave me.”
“Nay.” He shook his head, reached across the bed, and grabbed Joanie’s hand. “Ye keep the hat, lass. She gave me things too.” Meals when he’d been hungry. Those soft, encouraging pats when he’d been so deprived of human touch.
A listening ear.
The truth when no one else would give it to him.
He’d found a little bit of Mamm in her smiles, a little bit of home in her kitchen, and the first real sense of responsibility with every carriage door or clock or leaking roof he’d fixed. Now the memories were changed, appalling, and bitter. Everything about her was different. He’d lost the millinery shop to horror as much as he’d lost the apothecary shop to flames.
Och, maybe Joanie should destroy the hat. Maybe Tom should extract every part of her from his being, because Mrs. Musgrave deserved to be despised.
He turned his head away, lest Joanie see his tears.God, show mercy.
Because despite everything, he couldn’t help wondering how wrong it would be to keep a piece, just the tiniest piece, of Mrs. Musgrave still in his heart.
Pippins curled beneath one of Meg’s arms and Violet snuggled against the other. Purrs filled the room. The delicate scent of fur as well as lavender soap faded away the stench of terror.
Lord Cunningham came and went too often.
With bothered, distant looks, he seated himself next to her bed or brought lemon balm tea with tentative smiles.
“I want to see Tom.”
“He is improving substantially. Dr. Bagot is optimistic concerning his recovery, and as you are already aware, the man is never optimistic about anything.” Lord Cunningham had given her a light and forced laugh, sat down for another ten minutes, then bounded away with an excuse she couldn’t even remember.
How much easier her mind settled in his absence. Deep, sluggish breaths rose and dropped her chest, the rhythm soothing, like the man’s voice from her memory. She allowed sleep to take her. Dreams of the pink pinafore, white lilacs, and waddling ducks stole her back to a simpler life.
One where her shoulder did not throb in testament to her pain.
In punishment for what she’d done.
When she awoke, Violet had braided a strand of her hair and someone had brought a tray of food. The tempting aroma of rice pudding and gingerbread stirred a grumble in her stomach.
“I already ate three.”
“Hmm?”
“Three gingerbreads.” Violet reached over Meg, snatched a star-shaped gingerbread from the tray, and presented it. “You slept a long time after Dr. Bagot gave you the medicine.”
Medicine? Why did she not remember?
“Laudanum.” For the first time, Meg noticed the figure on the opposite side of the room. Uncle occupied a wooden chair, and though evening had already fallen, the many wall sconces and candlesticks brightened his face.
One eye was swollen shut, ringed with dark purple and red. A cut slashed through his left brow, another through his lip. “Eat.”
“I shall feed you.” Violet seemed eager to nurse for once in her life. “Just take gentle care to sit, and I shall spoon it right into your mouth.”
“Violet.” Meg winced as she sat up, then pulled the girl into her arms. She nuzzled her face into the sweet, childlike curls. “You should not have stayed with me all day. You must rest.”
“I am tired of resting.”
