Tommy grinned at her unrepentantly, then turned to Kuni. “You have the spoils of war?”
Kuni lifted the sturdy basket Chloe had given her. “Every penny.”
In truth, very few of the coins were pennies. Most were crowns and guineas. The banknotes lay beneath.
Marjorie’s eyes sparkled. “Shall we begin?”
They strolled along the side of the road as though they were just three local ladies, out for an afternoon promenade.
Tommy carried pamphlets advertising a charity endeavor and handed them out liberally to anyone they passed along the road.
“This way,” she explained, “if anyone remembers us knocking up the Goodnights, they’ll think your basket was full of pamphlets, and we were charity ladies begging for donations.”
The Goodnights’ cottage was smaller than Kuni’s private chambers back at the palace, which in turn were smaller than the princess’s dressing room. And in this minuscule cottage lived two grandparents, a mother, and soon to betwograndchildren.
Tommy rapped on the door, pamphlets in hand.
Mrs. Goodnight answered the knock. “May I help you?”
Marjorie stepped out from behind Tommy and whispered, “It’s the Wynchesters.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Goodnight stepped back eagerly. “Please come in and make yourselves at home.”
She led them to a square table meant for four people, and motioned for them to take their pick of six narrow wooden chairs.
“I’ll put on the kettle.”
“Please, you needn’t fuss with tea.” Tommy’s voice was gentle. “If you and your husband would join us at the table, we have news we think will interest you.Goodnews.”
Mrs. Goodnight’s hands fluttered. “He’s out in the garden, collecting raspberries. It’s Victor’s birthday tomorrow, and although he must work like any other day, I thought if I made some warm bread for him and his favorite jam, perhaps his birthday could still be special. But now…”
She pressed her fingers to her throat and hurried from the cottage to find her husband.
Mr. Goodnight rushed into the cottage with his wife on one arm, a bucket of berries on the other, and a face full of hope. “What can be done? What have you heard?”
“Sit, sit.” His wife nudged him into a chair. “All right, we’re ready. Tell us.”
“First,” Tommy said, “the ‘fines’ Mr. Throckmorten took from your daughter-in-law and the final month’s wages he withheld from your son are not gone forever. We are returning the full sum to you, today.”
Kuni pushed the heavy basket across the table.
Mrs. Goodnight lifted the lid with trembling fingers and gasped. “It’s full of coins and banknotes!”
“What?” Her husband lifted the lid to look, then stared at the ladies in confusion. “This is far more than we’re owed. This is…I cannot even fathom how much money this must be.”
Tommy nodded. “It’s not just yours. It’s everyone’s. The workers at the manufactory. Those who can no longer work, and their families.”
“We’re hoping you and your daughter-in-law can help determine to whom this money belongs,” Marjorie added.
“Of course.” Mr. Goodnight’s voice was gruff. “We’ve known these people all our lives and worked by their sides almost as long. We will return the stolen wages to their rightful owners.”
Mrs. Goodnight burst into tears. “Adella can now afford to leave the cotton mill until after the baby is born. With proper bedrest…Mother and child will live this time. And Victor will be safe at home until then, too.”
She reached across the table and grabbed Tommy, Kuni, and Marjorie’s hands in turn, pressing them tight between her trembling fingers.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Goodnight whispered. “You have answered our most hopeless prayers.”
Kuni’s throat was suddenly too swollen to respond. All she could do was nod.
