He nodded too. “As does everything else, I imagine. This must be gravely overwhelming.” He glanced at the breakfast spread with disinterest. “I confess, I am not hungry. Are you?”
“I could not eat.”
“Then we must do something to distract you. Something that shall make you more comfortable. The library perhaps. What do you say?”
She told herself to deny him. Somehow the need to resolve this—to heal herself and remember who she was—chiseled at her with painful urgency. She didn’t wish to squander time in the library. She wished to find answers.
“I confess to being intelligible concerning many topics. A gift my father passed down to me. But like him, I am not quite as adept at interpreting matters of the heart.” He crossed the table and held out a gloved hand. “Tell me what is wrong, tell me what to do to remedy it, and I shall oblige.”
“There is nothing you can do.”
“Then please.” He tugged her up. “Do your best, if possible, to smile. We shall go to the library, and for a little while we may convince ourselves all is right and well in the world. Would you be so kind as to grant me that small favor?”
“Very well.”
“I fear you have already failed.”
She lifted a brow.
“To smile,” he urged.
The last thing in the world she wanted to do. But he had given her so much and asked so little, so she tucked her arm in the one he offered, glanced up at him, and thought of the only thing that made her happy.
A pink pinafore, white puddle ducks, and a loving voice speaking her name.
By all that was holy, she would find such a voice again. If that person was still out there. If they still loved her. If anyone loved her.
Her heart panged, but she smiled.
All night long, Tom had watched her from the rickety wooden chair in the corner of Meade’s chamber. Even with the window open, the room smelled of man—unclean bed linens, sweat, and lingering cheroot smoke.
Joanie was used to the tiny cottage bedchambers, always swept clean by Mamm. The house had smelled of fresh bread in the morning. Everything had come alive in such a sleepy haze as nine children laughed and fussed and scampered about to do their sunrise chores.
Tom rolled a kink out of his shoulder. He stretched his arms.
He should have already been gone.
First to find the ratcatcher, if the rat could be found. Then to search more villages—north, south, east, west of here. Tom had the whole world to comb.
He couldn’t just sit here.
And he couldn’t leave.
Sucking air in his cheeks, then blowing it out, he finally reached for the letter. He flicked it open with dirt-stained fingernails. He needed to bathe. He needed to eat. He needed sleep.
The sight of Mamm’s handwriting sucked him into a painful vortex of comfort and angst. He smoothed out the wrinkles.
Tommy, I would have posted the letter, but since you never answered my last, I thought it might be wiser to deliver it with Joanie. Your father and I discussed everything two nights ago. He has been sick for many years now, and I am tired. Many of the girls are married now. Your brothers Isaac and Moses are off to sea, and the two youngest remain with me. You may not have known, but your father took another wee one some time after you left. More than anything, I wish to remain here at the farm. It will not be easy to leave Caleb. I visit him often. Joanie planted marigolds on his grave. I suppose, with both her and I gone, they will die now. I am departing soon with the wee ones to Edinburgh, where I shall live with my sister, though she has only room for the three of us. Joanie is eleven now. She will be married soon and it is my wish that you watch over her until she does. She is a good girl.
Tom turned the page and swallowed.
I am sorry you did not get to come home before the house became empty. It would have been good to see you once more. Your father died this morning. Most of what he inherited from his parents has dwindled, especially these last years with his sickness, but enough remains to see the children and I comfortable. Joanie has a bank note in her coat pocket. Your father felt at least this should go to you. Our heart loved all our children, but you and Caleb were our blood. I wish I had not lost you both.
The bed squeaked.
Tom hesitated, blinked hard, then lifted his eyes.
Joanie sat up in bed, hair pushed behind her big ears and a look of bashful uncertainty pinkening her cheeks. She was pretty. From the first time Papa had brought her home, after discovering her destitute in a pile of newspapers behind the village wheelwright’s, she had possessed a plain but pleasant look about her.
