Mr. Sprigg cleared his throat, his breath reeking of cheroot. “Apoplexy.”
Awareness pebbled the flesh on the back of Tom’s neck. The same demise as Mr. Musgrave. “Elisabeth who?”
“The woman had no name.” The vicar took back the book, scanning through the last few entries. He rattled off the causes of death—more consumption, a fall from a ladder, measles. He snapped shut the registry. “I hope this has been enlightening. At the very least, I pray the reality of our susceptible nature will have you listening more intently during Sunday prayer.”
Tom grinned, a little sheepish at the reprimand, but shoved back the creeping darkness of man’s mortality. “One more thing. The woman named Elisabeth. Do ye know anything about her?”
“The entire ordeal was one of delicacy.” The vicar slid off his stool. “She had no name because, like many others of her nature, she did not wish to be remembered.”
“Where can I find her family?”
“She had none.”
“Lodgings? Employment?”
“I think it best you end your search in the church and not—”
“Please, sir.” Tom grabbed the man’s arm, stopping him, then withdrew with a hurried look of apology. “Forgive me. I didnae expect ye to understand what I’m asking, but I swear to ye I’m only trying to do good.”
“Swear neither by the heaven nor the earth, Mr. McGwen.”
“Och, aye. But the girl—”
“You listen as little to my private instruction as you do to my sermons.” The vicar scowled and shook his head, incredulous. “Very well. There is an establishment on the east side of Juleshead. It is a house of sin, whose end shall be bitter as the wormwood if they do not repent. Elisabeth, God have pity on her soul, did not.” He skewered Tom with a look of warning. “I advise you to stay away. You have enough of the devil pulling at your soul without handing him the reins.”
The words sounded too much like the hatred in Papa’s eyes.
Tom nodded, grumbled his thanks, and fled from the church. The same need to tell Meg the truth, what he had done, cramped inside him again. Just as it’d done all these years.
But he was too much a coward to face Meg.
And he was too much a coward to face God.
“I thought ye’d forgotten me.” Tom sat at his rustic wooden table, his beard trimmed tight and his hair a little damp and ruffled, as if he’d just scrubbed his face with soap and water. He finished off the last of his porridge.
Meg shut the cottage door behind her. Already, his nearness set her heart to scampering. “You have chairs,” she observed.
“Built them yesterday.” He scooted out from the table and turned the chair for inspection. The craftsmanship was lacking, the design primitive compared to Lord Cunningham’s lustrous armorial chairs. But the carpentry seemed solid, like something that would last for centuries.
“Look at this.” He moved to the hearth, where a large, brown-and-green braided rug now spread across the floorboards. “Mrs. Dickey learned how to make them in America. She brought it over. Said it was for dragging Mr. Dickey home all those nights.”
“Mr. Dickey?”
“He dips a wee bit too deep sometimes.” When she raised a brow at him in question, he said “Ye know” and guzzled an imaginary bottle.
“Oh.” Meg nodded her understanding. “I see.”
“Hungry?”
“I’ve eaten.”
“Ye dinnae like porridge anyway.” He rubbed his fingers through his hair, eyes bright, and some of his vivaciousness tried to penetrate her own disposition.
She attempted a smile. And failed.
“I’ve work to do in the garden.” He moved for the peg, shrugged on his familiar brown coat, and grabbed a linen seed bag. “If ye’ve a mind to help, I can fetch ye my trousers again.”
“I can assist you perfectly well in this.”
