Tom nodded her on.
“All this time, I kept trying to remember who was in my shop that day. Just before I found the letter. I knew Mrs. Whalley was there because she spilled her coin purse and we never could find her last sovereign.”
“Who else?”
“There was Mrs. Hardy come to loan me the ginger I asked for, then a couple of the Stanton daughters, then …”
Tom’s back arched a little tighter. “Then who?”
“I am not saying he might have … that it was him who left the letter.” Mrs. Musgrave cuddled Lenox into her cheek with a torn look. “It was Mr. Willmott. And I am still not quite certain why in the world he came.”
The small tap at her door was too soft to be Lord Cunningham and too patient to be Uncle. Meg waited until the fourth knock before turning from her bedchamber window. “Who is it?”
“Tillie, miss.”
“I do not wish to see anyone.” All day long, she’d remained here. Ever since she accosted Lord Cunningham in the library. Ever since the truth about Tom—about herself—spiked like a mountain in the valley of her chest.
Somehow, locking herself in kept everything out.
The danger.
The choices.
What she would do—what sheshoulddo—when she left this room. Why had Tom not come for her? She’d watched the drive for hours. She’d stared at the gates, anxiousness pulsating through her body.
He never rode through.
She wasn’t certain he ever would.
Emotions roiled through her, and she twisted her hands. This was madness. That she should fear now, of all times, that he would not return. Even if he did, was she obligated to regard her previous commitment to Lord Cunningham? What would his lordship do when she left? Penrose Abbey would grow bleak. He would feign indifference, move about this empty house, riffle through his books—then he would wake up one morning and Violet would be dead.
Threads of duty convoluted around her, because no one would be here to comfort him.
He needed her.
She needed—
“Miss?” Tillie again. A muffled noise, then, “S–sent this up for you, his lordship did. Says you should be eating something.”
Meg pulled open the door. “Tillie.”
The platter shivered in the girl’s white hands. Her mouth was twisted, sour. Her frame a little hunched. “Sorry, miss. I just … I just …”
“Here.” Meg grabbed the platter and scooted it away. She touched the girl’s arm. “What is it? Are you ill?”
“Yes.” Tillie muttered a swift apology, then ripped from Meg with a frantic, blubbering gag. She doubled over in the hall and retched. Then circled her stomach with a moan. “Something be wrong,” she gasped. “With … all of us.”
Tom stood for too long outside the white iron fence. The house glowed this time of evening—the whitewashed brick luminous, the open windows candlelit. Pleasant sounds vibrated from within the parlor.
One of the twins pounding a buoyant tune on the pianoforte.
Someone nattering.
Mr. Willmott shouting a hearty story that garnered a cheering laugh from all gathered round him.
Not him.Tom shook his head, gripped the cold metal of the fence. He was unsettled, a storm brewing in his chest—perhaps because the house he was about to invade exuded so much calm and normalcy.
He pushed through the gate anyway. His steps were weighted, and when he rapped on the door, his stomach fell a little as all the cheerful noises faded to stillness.
