She beamed in delight. “I just baked them this morning. Millefruit biscuits.”
Once she’d fetched two glasses of milk and biscuits enough for ten of them, Tom reached into his pocket. He slid the note across the table.
“What is this?” She plucked it up. Some of her color drained.
Silence.
Tom cupped his hands around the cool milk, eyes steady on her face, as an erratic pulse beat at his throat. “Well?”
“I cannot imagine why this … I mean, whatever could I have to do with it?” She dropped the note, as if the touch of it burned her. Her eyes pooled tears. “I must go and see to Mrs. Whalley. She would never ring the bell, but I am certain she shall need my—”
“Ye’re upset.” Tom bounded to his feet and stopped her before she reached the doorway. A touch to her arms confirmed what he already suspected: She trembled.
“Look what you have made me do. Now I am crying again like a silly old fool.” She waved an anxious hand. “I do not want anything to do with this, Tommy. Not anything at all.”
“Ye know something.”
“No.”
“Meg needs you.” He tried to bite back the passion heating his voice. “Ineed you. If ye have any idea who wrote such a letter, then maybe ye can—”
“I do not know who wrote the letter.” Her voice gave out on the last word, and she turned back to the kitchen. She went to the cupboard, where Lenox napped on the top shelf, and pulled out a pottery bowl without disturbing him. She lifted a folded piece of paper. “I only know I received one too.”
Candlelight wavered across Tillie’s face, accenting deep shadows beneath her eyes. She crept closer to the bed. “Very sorry, miss, to disturb you. Are you certain you be awake?”
Meg laid a hand across her thrashing heartbeat, willing the fear to settle. She’d awoken the same time the door whined open. She’d fought with the coverlets. Then battled the scream in her throat—half wondering if it would make any difference.
If she was going to die, she might as well keep her dignity.
But it was only Tillie—dressed in an age-yellowed nightgown and matching night cap—holding out a dripping candle and looking for all the world as if she had just received a fright herself. “At first I thought we would be robbed. I was ever so terrified and would have woken his lordship, but then I recognized the horse.”
“What horse?”
“The one what brought you home the other night.” Tillie slipped closer to Meg’s side, her whisper quickening, “So’s I went to the door, on account of him knocking so loud it might near rise the dead. And he said that I should fetch you. And I said that Miss Foxcroft be sleeping, but he said it didn’t matter ’cause you would have to leave now if you was to make it to church.”
Church? Tom McGwen wished to take her to church?
“What time is it?”
“Several hours before dawn.”
“I thought so.” Arguments slid to the tip of her tongue, all the reasons she could not possibly go with him. The hour was too early; Lady Walpoole would likely faint; Lord Cunningham would scowl his disapproval.
The words never came out.
Instead, she threw back the coverlets and took Tillie’s candle. “Help me dress. Hurry.”
“You mean you be—”
“Any gown will do. I expect I had not an impressive wardrobe at my uncle’s apothecary shop, and no one ever minded then.” She had to admit there must have been a little freedom in that. Wearing whatever you wished. Slouching, if you chose. Leaning in and gulping down your tea instead of raising it to your lips and sipping like a pretty little painted puppet.
Five minutes later, she was dressed in a simple yellow gown with a light blue spence jacket, her hair twisted back in a loose chignon. “Gloves?”
“These are soiled, but—”
“Never mind. They shall do.” Meg hurried for the door but turned back with a sharp breath. “Tillie? You shall tell Lord Cunningham where I’ve gone?”
“Yes.” Uncertainty crimsoned her cheeks. “I hope he shan’t be angry.”
