Calico Road (27 page)

Damnation, what ill chance had brought her here today? He came to Halifax so rarely, mainly to buy books.

He was very sure that his half-brother wouldn’t like it when he heard of the encounter and rich men could so easily cause trouble if they wanted to.

Well, just let the arrogant sod try!

Only Jethro hadn’t seemed quite as arrogant last January when he came in for his free pot of beer. Toby was always surprised he bothered. But this time he’d talked a little, stiffly, then softening as he spoke of his son.

On that thought Toby frowned. He’d been a bit slack lately, spending more time than he should have done with his books. Thinking of possible trouble made him realise how easy it would be for someone to break into the inn. Maybe he should do something about that, put in a couple of stout doors between the various sections, with bolts on them? It wouldn’t cost a lot.

They’d have to kill him to get him out of his home now. He loved it there.

But Jethro’s wife had a bonny face. In other circumstances Toby would have liked her, he was sure. And she’d looked happy, which said something for his brother’s behaviour as a husband.

Eh, what did he know about that? He’d still not met a woman he wanted to wed, to Phoebe’s immense disappointment.

There must be something wrong with him.

Days blurred into one another for Meg after she left Northby. Sometimes she found shelter for the night; sometimes, if it was fine, she lay behind a wall or in a crevice in the rocks. She didn’t seem to feel the cold any more, or care if her clothing grew sodden with rain.

When people tried to speak to her she turned away, not wanting anything except the wildness and space of the moors. The only time she went willingly to settlements was in search of food. She preferred to sneak into a barn or make a nest in a haystack on rainy days.

A man tried to rob her once and instinct made her pull out the sharp knife she carried in her pocket and threaten him. He laughed at her, so she slashed his face for him. Then he stopped laughing. She wasn’t afraid of him, taunting him as the blood ran down his face. ‘Come at me again and I’ll cut you to ribbons.’

He could have taken her still, for he was stronger than she was. But he didn’t. He backed away then strode off along the path.

Once she came to her senses, she realised the risk she had taken. But at the time she’d felt quite confident about her own power to defend herself and so had driven him away. What the incident did was make her realise she wasn’t going to kill herself – not yet anyway. Perhaps not ever. If she did, who would remember little Nelly? It seemed very important that she keep her daughter’s memory alive.

Occasionally Meg found her senses for long enough to realise that this life couldn’t go on, that winter would come and with it snow and cold. Then something would remind her of Nelly and the wildness would flow through her again, sending her striding off across the hills.

On one of her more sensible days she sat down to count her money, dismayed to find how few coins were left. She didn’t even know where she was and sat gazing round in puzzlement. Where had she been? What had she spent the money on? She had only the vaguest of memories of the past few days – or was it weeks? And even those memories were as grey and shifting as dream images.

She became aware that it was raining and that she was soaked to the skin. Her bundle was heavy with moisture. But she couldn’t seem to move on, just sat there in the rain, her face lifted and her tears mingling with the water falling upon her.

Toby was driving back from Halifax after a fruitless search for a maid when he saw a woman sitting huddled on a rock a little way off the road. He’d normally have passed by because you couldn’t help every penniless vagabond you met, but something about her reminded him of his mother, he couldn’t say what, just that there was a resemblance. Perhaps it was because they were both thin and dark-haired, or perhaps it was the way this woman held herself. Something, anyway. So he reined in his horse and called, ‘Are you all right?’

But she didn’t seem to hear him. He studied her, noting the sodden clothing and distant expression on her face. Was she a madwoman? He opened his mouth to tell the horse to walk on, but at that moment she shook her head in exactly the same way his mother had always shaken hers when she was puzzled – and he was lost, knew he simply couldn’t pass this particular beggar by.

He secured the reins and put a nosebag on the mare. There was nothing to fasten the cart to, not out here on the tops, but Bonnie wouldn’t move away if she had something to eat. She was a plump greedy animal, given the chance, and he knew he spoiled her. But he enjoyed having an animal of his own. He spoiled the stable cats too, putting food down for them in the winter.

When he got closer to the stranger he saw she was weeping soundlessly, pain in every line of her body. ‘What’s the matter, love?’ he asked gently.

She blinked and very slowly turned her head towards him. ‘She’s dead. My little Nelly’s dead.’

‘Your child?’

She nodded and gulped, making such a sad sound in her throat that he had to put his arms round her and pull her to him, had to. ‘Eh, I’m sorry about that.’

He felt her sag against him, limp and boneless suddenly, and when he looked down he saw she’d fainted. How thin she was! How sharp her features and sunken her eyes! Everything about her was cold and wet. How long had she been out here in the rain?

He talked as he picked her up. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold sitting out on the moors on a day like this, lass. Come home with me and do your weeping by my fire.’

She didn’t respond so he started walking back to the cart, astounded to discover how light she was. He tripped once in the rough tussock grass and nearly sent them both sprawling. ‘Hey up, lad!’ he admonished himself. ‘Slow down or you’ll hurt her worse.’

But what could be worse than to lose a beloved child? Not much!

When he laid her in the back of the cart she sighed and opened her eyes, but closed them almost immediately.

‘I’m so cold,’ she said in a rusty whisper of a voice. ‘So very cold.’

‘Lie still and I’ll fetch your bundle, then we’ll get you to a fire.’ He raced over the uneven ground and came back again with the dripping bundle, his own hair and clothes wet now. Putting up the tailgate, he snatched the nosebag off the horse and tossed it into the cart anyhow in his haste to get the woman back to the warmth of his inn.

Clambering up on the driving bench, he picked up the reins and shouted at Bonnie to walk on. When she set off at her usual amble, he shook the reins to make her move more quickly. She hardly increased her pace so he took the whip and cracked it in the air over her head. Surprised by this, she picked up speed at once and within a few minutes they were home again.

The rain was still coming down heavily, beating at him as he picked up the woman and carried her into the house place by the side door.

Phoebe stood up and gaped at him. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I found her on the moors. She’s just lost a child, I think, and she’s half-crazed with grief.’

‘Then she needs to be put in the poorhouse. That’s where—’

‘
No!
We can look after her here, surely? I’ll just see to the horse and come back. Can’t leave poor Bonnie standing out in this.’

‘What’s got into you, Toby Fletcher?’

But he was gone.

Phoebe looked at the waif he’d brought in and clucked in dismay at how wet and thin she was. She began to strip off the sodden clothes, then carefully edged the woman’s unconscious body down on the rug in front of the fire.

By the time Toby came back in she had the stranger wrapped in a blanket, had pulled out one of the bricks they always had heating at the back of the oven for travellers and wrapped it in a piece of old blanket before putting it at the stranger’s back. The kettle was just on the boil and the teapot was out on the table.

‘Shall I carry her up to one of the bedrooms, Phoebe?’

‘No. We need to get her warm again. Best to leave her here by the fire for a while.’ Then she became aware of how wet he was too and began to scold him. ‘You go and get those wet clothes off at once.’

But she was coughing even as she scolded and he was worried about leaving her to nurse the woman from the moors. He changed his clothes, went to serve the customers in the public bar, but sent everyone home earlier than normal. And whenever he could, he went into the house place to help Phoebe.

The stranger regained consciousness but was so feverish she didn’t seem to know where she was or what was happening to her. She drank the broth Phoebe urged on her spoonful by spoonful, though, and her colour was definitely better.

But Phoebe was looking so exhausted now that Toby insisted she go to bed and leave everything to him. It didn’t take much persuasion to make her do that, which showed how bad she must be feeling. He brought down his own blankets and a quilt to lie on, then stretched out on the floor near the woman. Best keep her next to the fire where she would stay warm.

He grinned as he pulled the covers up and settled himself for sleep. He had all those rooms and several spare beds, and here he was, sleeping on the floor.

But he had to be there in case the poor creature regained her senses.

13

M
eg woke and at first couldn’t think where she was. This wasn’t a new experience, it had happened a few times since she’d left Northby, so she didn’t panic. That’s how she always said it to herself, ‘left Northby’, because she had trouble even thinking about why. It could send her into that black place where there was no light, no hope.

Today curiosity pushed that thought away and she raised herself on one elbow to stare round. She was inside a house this time, lying near a fire wrapped in blankets, wonderfully cosy blankets. There was a lamp burning low on a scrubbed wooden table and although the fire had died down the room was still warm. Stretching, she let out a long sigh of sheer relief. She felt quite safe here.

There was a sound behind her and she rolled over quickly to see a man lying on the floor on the other side of the fireplace, wrapped in blankets like she was. Even as she watched he opened his eyes and looked at her. He had such a kind face she still didn’t feel any sense of panic.

‘How are you feeling now, lass?’

‘Who are you? Where is this place?’

‘I’m Toby Fletcher and you’re in my inn. I found you out on the moors yesterday when I was on my way home from Halifax. You had a fever but that seems to have burnt itself out during the night. I looked at you once or twice and each time you were more peaceful and your forehead was cooler.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’ She became suddenly aware that she was naked under the covers and pulled them right up to her chin. Had he undressed her? Touched her?

‘It’s nearly morning and Phoebe will be down soon.’

As his face creased into a smile she lost more of her nervousness. A man with such a warm, friendly face surely couldn’t mean her any harm.

‘We didn’t like to move you away from the fire or leave you on your own, and Phoebe’s not so well, so I stayed down here to keep an eye on you.’ He stretched again and gave a rueful grimace. ‘It’s not the softest bed I’ve ever slept in, though.’

‘Is Phoebe your wife?’

‘No, she’s a sort of aunt. She helps me run my inn.’

He threw off the covers and she couldn’t help shrinking, drawing back from him, though he was fully dressed.

‘Nay, lass, I mean you no harm. But I need to get that fire burning properly again.’

He stepped across her and adjusted the damper of the stove so that the faint red glow at the centre of the fire began to brighten and spread. All the time he continued to talk soothingly, though she couldn’t seem to concentrate on what he was saying. She liked his voice, though, because it was deep and gentle, reminding her of her father’s when he was playing with tired little children before carrying them up to bed.

When she felt herself drifting towards sleep again she didn’t even try to fight it. She was so very tired.

Toby turned round and smiled to see her fast asleep again, her face as peaceful as a child’s, her hair in a tangle and a couple of curls looping down over her forehead. He bent to push them back and feel her forehead again. It was no longer burning hot nor was she sweating.

Who was she? he wondered. And if she’d lost a child, where was her husband? Didn’t she have one or was it just a story she’d made up? No, surely not. You couldn’t feign grief so deep. Moving quietly, he got himself a hunk of bread and slathered butter on it then poured a glass of milk out of the crock on the stone shelf in the pantry. Sitting down, he settled into enjoyment of his simple breakfast.

He was just finishing when Phoebe came down, looking pale and rumpled.

‘How is she, Toby?’

‘A lot better. She woke, talked sense, but fell asleep again quite quickly. And her fever seems to have abated.’

Phoebe bent to check the stranger and nod agreement. ‘I wonder who she is?’

‘I’ve been wondering that, too.’

‘We’ll leave her there for the time being. I can make a start on cleaning the public room.’

He watched her indulgently as she fussed over the closed stove. She took great pride in any improvement he made to the place and kept saying so, but most of all the stove with its capacity for heating water so easily. He sometimes felt he should do more to the place, but then he’d buy a new book, start reading it and go across to discuss it with the Curate. After that any improvements he’d been considering seemed unimportant as he considered the new ideas Mr Pickerling had planted in his mind.

When the weather was warm enough he’d go and sit in the back place with a book on his lap, often not reading it, just enjoying having it with him. He didn’t light a fire in the big fireplace at one end of the main room there because it’d have taken too long to warm the place up and he could rarely snatch more than an hour for himself. They’d strung up ropes for the winter, so that Phoebe could hang things to dry there when it was raining, but she always whisked in and out quickly.