Shadows, birthed by the approaching evening, would make navigating this maze a challenge. Good thing Mrs. Makin wasn’t here to witness her flight.
“Miriall?” Roland’s voice, while demanding, at least sounded far away. If he checked her chamber first, then mayhap the study, she’d have plenty of time to rush out and escape to the church. She’d take a dark, creepy sanctuary any day over spending an evening with Witherskim. And if she was found out, how could her brother fault her for spending time with the Lord in prayer?
For oh, yes, she would pray—for Witherskim to go away, for her brother’s senses to be restored. Pray that, for once, life would take on some portion of normalcy, that she might live out her days in peace at the rectory.
Ouch! Her hip cracked against the table’s corner, stopping her short. That would be a lovely shade of purple on the morrow. She rubbed the bone with one hand, then scooted ahead.
“Miriall.” This time her brother’s voice came from the direction of the study.
Hurry. Hurry. She yanked open the back door.
Dark eyes blinked back at her, cavernous with pain or perhaps from starvation. The man standing before her was a suit of skin hung on bones. She’d seen fatter orphans in London’s alleys.
“Please, Miss—”
“Miriall!”
Footsteps from the corridor drew closer. As much as she’d like to help the scarecrow in front of her, she did not have time for a beggar. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Please—” The word rattled from deep in the man’s chest, unleashing a fit of coughing.
Great. Which was better company—a groping princox or a vagabond with consumption? She pushed the door nearly shut, only inches remaining to seal it. Perhaps if he thought she’d close him out, he’d leave. And quick.
But his boot filled the gap.
Frowning, she flung the door back open. “Go away!”
Startled, the man straightened, placing one hand against the doorjamb for support. “Please, Miri.”
A jolt shot through her.
Only her younger brother ever called her that.
8
Miri stood tiptoe, looking past the beggar’s shoulder, desperate for a glimpse of Will. Twilight painted the yard with a monotone brush, making it hard to see much past the woodpile. She squinted, yet clearly no one else accompanied the beggar. Ignoring the unwashed odor of the man, she leaned closer, giving him no chance to misunderstand her words. “Where is Will?”
He averted his gaze. “I—”
“Miriall!”
Roland’s footsteps entered the kitchen, slapping the flagstone floor with determination. The last time he’d caught her helping a vagrant, she’d suffered a lecture on how poverty was a judgment of God, not something to be interfered with. Her knees yet recalled those enforced hours of repentance.
Stepping back, she pelted the beggar with directions. “Go to the church. The key is atop a grey stone set out farther than the rest.” Hopefully he heard that last bit over the sound of her slamming the door.
“What are you doing?” Though the words were innocently phrased, Roland’s tone bludgeoned.
She turned and flattened her back against the oak. Evening shadows twisted her brother’s features into a severity that made her glad for the support. Though her mouth dried, she forced lightness to her words. “I heard you at the front door, which reminded me that with Mrs. Makin gone for the night, I’d promised to lock up the back.” For an added touch, she smiled.
He frowned and folded his arms, not buying the explanation she sold.
Bolstering her resolve for the horrid words she’d say next, she lifted her chin. “I am free of duty now and for the rest of the evening.”
Free? Hardly. Not if Roland and Witherskim had their way. She bit the inside of her cheek lest the thought fly out her mouth.
Roland stepped closer and grabbed hold of her upper arm, yanking her from the door and out of the kitchen. “Good. Master Witherskim is waiting.”
Before she could catch her
“Miriall?” Roland’s voice, while demanding, at least sounded far away. If he checked her chamber first, then mayhap the study, she’d have plenty of time to rush out and escape to the church. She’d take a dark, creepy sanctuary any day over spending an evening with Witherskim. And if she was found out, how could her brother fault her for spending time with the Lord in prayer?
For oh, yes, she would pray—for Witherskim to go away, for her brother’s senses to be restored. Pray that, for once, life would take on some portion of normalcy, that she might live out her days in peace at the rectory.
Ouch! Her hip cracked against the table’s corner, stopping her short. That would be a lovely shade of purple on the morrow. She rubbed the bone with one hand, then scooted ahead.
“Miriall.” This time her brother’s voice came from the direction of the study.
Hurry. Hurry. She yanked open the back door.
Dark eyes blinked back at her, cavernous with pain or perhaps from starvation. The man standing before her was a suit of skin hung on bones. She’d seen fatter orphans in London’s alleys.
“Please, Miss—”
“Miriall!”
Footsteps from the corridor drew closer. As much as she’d like to help the scarecrow in front of her, she did not have time for a beggar. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Please—” The word rattled from deep in the man’s chest, unleashing a fit of coughing.
Great. Which was better company—a groping princox or a vagabond with consumption? She pushed the door nearly shut, only inches remaining to seal it. Perhaps if he thought she’d close him out, he’d leave. And quick.
But his boot filled the gap.
Frowning, she flung the door back open. “Go away!”
Startled, the man straightened, placing one hand against the doorjamb for support. “Please, Miri.”
A jolt shot through her.
Only her younger brother ever called her that.
8
Miri stood tiptoe, looking past the beggar’s shoulder, desperate for a glimpse of Will. Twilight painted the yard with a monotone brush, making it hard to see much past the woodpile. She squinted, yet clearly no one else accompanied the beggar. Ignoring the unwashed odor of the man, she leaned closer, giving him no chance to misunderstand her words. “Where is Will?”
He averted his gaze. “I—”
“Miriall!”
Roland’s footsteps entered the kitchen, slapping the flagstone floor with determination. The last time he’d caught her helping a vagrant, she’d suffered a lecture on how poverty was a judgment of God, not something to be interfered with. Her knees yet recalled those enforced hours of repentance.
Stepping back, she pelted the beggar with directions. “Go to the church. The key is atop a grey stone set out farther than the rest.” Hopefully he heard that last bit over the sound of her slamming the door.
“What are you doing?” Though the words were innocently phrased, Roland’s tone bludgeoned.
She turned and flattened her back against the oak. Evening shadows twisted her brother’s features into a severity that made her glad for the support. Though her mouth dried, she forced lightness to her words. “I heard you at the front door, which reminded me that with Mrs. Makin gone for the night, I’d promised to lock up the back.” For an added touch, she smiled.
He frowned and folded his arms, not buying the explanation she sold.
Bolstering her resolve for the horrid words she’d say next, she lifted her chin. “I am free of duty now and for the rest of the evening.”
Free? Hardly. Not if Roland and Witherskim had their way. She bit the inside of her cheek lest the thought fly out her mouth.
Roland stepped closer and grabbed hold of her upper arm, yanking her from the door and out of the kitchen. “Good. Master Witherskim is waiting.”
Before she could catch her
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