She leaned back into the stable doorway, gnawing her lip, as the realization drained through her. He had not told anyone. All these years, he’d been alone.
She’d failed him.
Not just as Margaret Foxcroft of Penrose Abbey without her memories.
But as the Meg of before, who’d walked beside him and loved him and played with him—but still had not known him at all.
Joanie was already asleep when Tom returned to the cottage. He took creaking steps across the room, grabbed his clothes from the floor, and was just leaving when her groggy voice called out to him.
“Back to sleep with ye. It’s only me.”
“I want to hear about tonight.”
“In the morning.”
“Was it lovely?” With a yawn, the pallet rustled. “The dinner and the courses and all the guests, I mean. It must have been grand. Like the lord’s carriage.”
“Aye.” Grand as the devil. He pulled two floral-stamped biscuits from his pocket, ignoring the tightness bludgeoning his chest. “I saved these for ye. For breakfast.”
“I have something for you too.” The slightest edge of emotion in her voice made him straighten. “I hope you won’t be angry. I should have given it to you sooner, like Mamm said, but I just—”
“Given me what?”
Joanie sat up, cocooning the blanket around her shoulders. “I was a little frightened when I first came. Keeping it made me … well, it was like I was keeping a piece of them. I could hear Papa in my head.” He heard a smile in her words. “It’s on the table.”
He already knew.
“I dinnae want that, lass.”
“You’re their blood.”
“Ye’re their family.”
“You are too.” Her shadow sagged. “Just because you left doesn’t change that.”
’Twas not leaving that changed that. ’Twas what he’d done before he left. “Sleep, lass. Goodnight.” Gripping his clothes, he shut her back into the room, shredded the fancy clothes like they were on fire, and pulled on the comfort of his own worn trousers and shirtsleeves.
He avoided the table.
He moved to the windows and inspected, not for the first time, the yellow sprigged-cotton curtains. Meg had sewn them?
No, not Meg.
A stranger.
When he finally crossed the room, when he lit the tallow candle and scooted it close to him, the frayed black book faced him. He touched the cover. The faded gold designs. The taunting words:The Holy Bible.
He resisted the memory of all nine children cross-legged on the cottage floor, with Mamm mending shirts or socks, and Papa raising his soothing Scottish voice with scripture.
Tom had never paid much attention.
He’d whispered to Caleb or pulled one of the girls’ braids or sprawled out on his back and counted the cobwebs in the rafters. The same restlessness soared through Tom now—but with poignancy and unshakable power.
He shoved the book away from him.
Then stretched across the table and pulled it back. He took a seat and riffled through the pages. He stained them wet until the candle flickered out.
Nighttime air played with the tendrils of her hair. If she were the girl who remembered the alley, perhaps this would be frightening. Perhaps it should be anyway.
