“Ye looked at Meg like ye dinnae even know her.”
Mrs. Musgrave went into the larder and came back with a bowl of pears. She rearranged them in the bowl, and when she finally looked up, her wrinkled lips formed a devastated line. “Perhaps I do not know Meg. Perhaps you do not either.”
“Ye cannae mean that.” War raged in his chest. He stepped closer. “Meg wouldnae do such a thing. If I have to prove that to you and whoever wrote this note, I will.”
“I do not wish it to be true.”
“It isn’t.”
“All these years, I had this prick. Right here.” She clutched her heart with white-boned knuckles. “I knew something was not right. I felt it. And for the first time, I think I know why.” She reached for the note, cradled it against her as if it held the keys to the world. “You are a good boy, Tommy. I do not wish to see you suffer more than you already have.”
A muscle jerked in his jaw.
“But like you, I have realized I must find whoever wrote this note. I must discover the truth.” Her entire body trembled. “Whether you believe it or not.”
CHAPTER 16
They should go back. If Lord Cunningham had not already sent an army after her, he would if she was not returned before dark.
For the second time today, Tom grabbed her hand. She thought to protest, but the gesture seemed more practical than affectionate. From the millinery shop, he’d dragged her to the smithy, where they’d eaten warm pasties with Meade and Joanie. Then on to the graveyard, where he’d shown her Mr. Foxcroft’s tombstone. Then the curiosity shop, where they’d piddled about and purused the old and scruffy treasures.
His fingers were strong, almost too strong.
The alley narrowed, then opened up to weathered quays and a translucent green sea. He jogged to the end of a wharf, freed her hand, sat, and dropped his legs over the edge.
She remained standing. “I think it time we depart.”
He patted beside him.
“I am in earnest.”
“Sit down with ye before I throw ye in.” Ever since their departure from the millinery shop, he had been distracted, his brow a little heavy, as if his mind were solving problems elsewhere.
Now, his eyes lifted to hers in full attention.
A faint pricking sensation breezed the back of her neck, and she threatened her lips not to return his grin.
He raised a brow, as if giving her one last chance to comply. Had he always been so demanding? Or she only more indulging?
“Oh, fine.” She plopped down next to him, sighing away her frustration. “You realize, of course, I shall never hear the end of this from Lord Cunningham.”
“Yer uncle always survived. I think yer lordy will too.”
“Were we so imprudent?”
“Depends on who ye ask.”
“What if I ask you?”
He took off his coat, tossed it beside him, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “I think ye worry about it all too much. Ye were happy. ’Tis all ye need to know.”
“Surely, you cannot blame me for my inquiries.” She stared out across the water—the blue-orange evening sky melting into the horizon, the seagulls mewing above them, the anchored fishing vessels bobbing in the waves. “It is not enough to know I was happy. I must knowwhyI was happy in order that I might be so again.”
“I’ll tell ye how.”
“How?”
“Find out what makes ye get out of bed in the morning.” He shrugged, smiled. “My Mamm used to write things. I had nae time for words when I was wee, but she’d sing them to me at night or say them in my ear when she was scrubbing me clean.”
