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“We’ll need a bonesetter,” she murmured. “I’ll consult Isabel to see if she knows anyone discreet. In the meantime I’ve brought you a change of clothes in case we run into Captain Trevillion again.”
Megs set a bag on the bed and then bustled from the room, leaving him with his stepmother.
“Do you need help to dress?” she asked.
“Makepeace will assist me if I need it,” he said and stood, ready to go find the home’s manager.
She moved next to him, putting her shoulder under his good arm. “Lean on me.”
“That’s unnecessary,” he said stiffly.
She glanced up at him, her eyes sharp. “Then do it for me. Let me care for you, Godric.”
So he did because it was easier than arguing further. She was stronger than she looked, his stepmother, and he stared down at her, puzzled. Why was she doing this?
Her gaze met his, and for a moment she seemed to read his thoughts, rolling her eyes. “Don’t worry yourself over it. You always were such a sensitive boy, reading too much into every little thing and making yourself sick over all possible ramifications. For now just accept that I’m helping you to make your way to the hallway.”
He laughed at that, a soft puff of air. “Very well.”
Outside the home’s sickroom, they found Winter Makepeace leaning against the wall. His dark eyes flicked to Godric’s stepmother. “There are … matters we should discuss before you leave.”
Godric glanced down at Mrs. St. John. “I’ll join you downstairs, ma’am.”
His stepmother pressed her lips together but merely nodded before turning away.
Godric looked at Winter. “My wife brought a change of clothes.”
The home’s manager followed him back inside the sickroom and watched as Godric began picking at the buttons on his leggings. “You rescued nearly thirty girls tonight. Six will need to stay abed for some days, but the rest are in fair condition, all things considered. They mostly appear to need decent food.”
Godric grimaced at the thought of little girls deprived of enough sustenance, then remembered the main part of his worry. “Did Alf tell you where the third workshop is located?”
“He did.” Winter frowned and helped him strip out of the leggings. “But I’m thinking they will have moved after your work this night. They’d be fools to stay and wait for your attack.”
“True.” Godric pulled on a pair of black breeches then looked down at his arm, already swollen. Perhaps if he braced it, there would still be time. “If I went out again tonight—”
“Don’t even contemplate it,” Winter said curtly. “You need to heal before you try again.”
“I need to find those girls,” Godric growled. The buttons of his fall were damnably difficult with only one hand.
“Yes, but becoming further injured—or killed—will do us no good.” Winter hesitated. “There’s one more thing.”
Godric cocked his head impatiently.
“Alf left just after he brought you and the girls here,” Winter said. “But he was agitated. Apparently Hannah, the ginger-haired lass he mentioned before, was not among the girls you rescued.”
“Damnation.” Godric glared at his arm. “Will she try to attack the third workshop on her own, do you think?”
“She?”
Godric nodded curtly. “Alf is a girl in disguise. I should never have brought her on tonight’s mission.”
“You—we—had no way of knowing.” Winter looked thoughtful. “Aye, and now she might be off trying to free her ginger-haired friend by herself.”
Godric had never felt so helpless. Well, that wasn’t correct. The last time he’d felt this way was beside Clara’s deathbed. He pushed the ugly memory away.
Winter looked disturbed. “I don’t think Alf will act on her own,” he said slowly. “She seemed quite respectful of the guards kept around the workshops. And remember: even if she did try something so foolish, the workshop has no doubt already moved.”
Godric nodded, though the reminder was but small consolation. Alf might be careful to project a tough and pragmatic exterior, but she’d put herself at risk to inform on the workshops’ whereabouts—and she’d been truly remorseful about delivering the ginger-haired little girl to one of them.
