Only once during the whole service did she glance at his profile.
He was relaxed, sleepy, and his eyes had a steady kindness. For a fleeting second, she had the wildest impulse to lean against him, slip her arm through his, and make herself at home in a world she had once lived in.
She ripped the thought from her heart with a set jaw. She was here to learn about the old Meg Foxcroft. Not become her.
Of all the places Tom could take her next, a millinery shop was the last she would have expected. What was he going to do, buy her a hat?
An old woman greeted them at the door, and judging by her enthused embrace and the startling kisses she planted on Meg’s cheek, the milliner was a friend. Or used to be.
A light quiver weakened Meg’s knees as the wrinkly hand clasped her own.
“Come in, come in.” The woman led them into a quaint parlor decorated with mismatched trinkets, a tall old clock, and sagging damask furniture. “I am Mrs. Musgrave, dear. Tommy tells me you do not remember.”
Meg glanced at him.
He sat on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, and smiled. Somehow she gained courage from his unaffected look. She relaxed.
They sat, the three of them, for over an hour.
They talked of Lenox—a fat old cat who slinked from one lap to another, kneading the rug and yawning between each of his naps. Then they spoke of desserts, trifling village gossip—and Mr. Foxcroft.
Mrs. Musgrave said he was a good man. That she put flowers on his grave every week or so.
But her voice was a little stilted, a little hoarse, and she glanced at Meg with a puzzling look. One that belied her smiles. Her kisses. Her sweetness.
Meg’s discomfort reared all over again.
Tom must have noticed. He stood. “Ye forgot something.”
“Oh?”
“Ye’ve two hungry beggars on yer hands.”
“Oh, you.” Mrs. Musgrave chuckled, waved at him, and said that Meg should wait right here and rest. Tom she needed in the kitchen.
They disappeared, leaving Meg alone, confused. The same sickness soured her stomach as she rose to the window and stared out at the black-timbered remains of her uncle’s shop. Why had the old woman looked at Meg that way?
Mrs. Musgrave had been all kindness, all coos and gentle laughs.
Then, in one instant, accusations and distrust had engulfed her eyes, leaving Meg singed. What had she done to warrant such doubt? And was such a crime so terrible she deserved to die?
“I want to see the note.”
“I do not think you do, my dear.”
Tom went to the cupboard himself, pulled out the bowl, and found it just where she’d stashed it before. He read over the words with a gut-stitching pain:
Mr. M did not die of apoplexy. I do not have proof, but if you search your heart, you will know it to be true. He was slaughtered by the ones he sought to save him. There are wolves in our sheep.
“I cannot sleep and I cannot eat.” Mrs. Musgrave stared at him, white lashes wet, her face blotched red. “Elias had been ill for months. It all happened so sudden. He was bent over the hearth, putting embers in our bed warmer … and he just dropped it on the floor and said he couldn’t feel himself.” Mrs. Musgrave hugged her arms. “He was strange after that. Tripping over his words. Falling over when there was nothing to make him stumble. Finally, he said he could not live this way. He went to see Mr. Foxcroft.” She palmed her face dry. “He did not come home.”
“Ye believe this.” His hands ached to shred the paper. “A letter from someone who cannot even show his face.”
“Sit down, dear.”
“I’ll stand.”
“I’ve corn and haddock, and if you wish buttered bread, I can—”
