“Keep it.”He closed her fingers back over the glittering stones.An innocent like her could never conceive of the consequences, if he were to accept.Her father would accuse him of stealing, no matter that it had been a gift.
“If you’re planning to keep watch over me, then you’ll need a reason to return.”She placed it back in his palm.
He hadn’t considered it in that light.“You’re right.”The necklace did give him a legitimate reason to return, and so he hid the jewelry within his pocket.
“Return in a day or two,” she ordered.“And I’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your assistance, whether or not it’s needed.”
He wouldn’t accept any compensation from her, though his funds were running out.“A reward isn’t necessary.”
“It is.”
In her green eyes, Michael saw the loss of innocence, the devastating blow to her future.Yet beneath the pain, there was determination.
She crossed her arms, as if gathering her courage.“I won’t let my father destroy my future.”Her expression shifted into a stubborn set.“And I won’t let him destroy yours, either.”
The older woman wandered through the streets, her crimson bonnet vivid in the sea of dark brown and black.Michael pushed his way past the fishmongers and vendors, minding his step through Fleet Street.
Mrs.Turner was lost again.He quickened his step, moving amid sailors, drovers and butchers.At last, he reached her side.
“Good morning,” he greeted her, tipping his hat.
No recognition dawned in her silver-gray eyes, but she offered a faint nod and continued on her path.
Damn.It wasn’t going to be one of her better days.Mrs.Turner had been his neighbor and friend for as long as he could remember, but recently she’d begun to suffer spells of forgetfulness from time to time.
He hadn’t known about her condition until he’d returned to London last November.At first, the widow had brought him food and drink, looking after him while he recovered from the gunshot wounds.He’d broken the devastating news of her son Henry’s death at Balaclava.
And as the weeks passed, she began to withdraw, her mind clouding over.There were times when she only remembered things from the past.
Today she didn’t recognize him at all.
Michael tried to think of a way to break through to her lost memory.“You’re Mrs.Turner, aren’t you?”he commented, keeping up with her pace.“Of Number Eight, Newton Street?”
She stopped walking, fear rising on her face.“I don’t know you.”
“No, no, you probably don’t remember me,” he said quickly.“But I’m a friend of Henry’s.”
The mention of her son’s name made her eyes narrow.“I’ve never seen you before.”
“Henry sent me to fetch you home,” he said gently.“Will you let me walk with you?I’m certain he’s left a pot of whisky and tea for you.Perhaps some marmalade and bread.”
The mention of her favorite foods made her lower lip tremble.Wrinkles edged her eyes, and tears spilled over them.“I’m lost, aren’t I?”
He took her hand in his, leading her in the proper direction.“No, Mrs.Turner.I won’t let that happen.”
As he guided her through the busy streets, her frail hand gripped his with a surprising strength.They drew closer to her home at Peabody Square, and her face began to relax.Whether or not she recognized her surroundings, she seemed more at ease.
Michael helped her inside and saw that she was out of coal.“I’ll just be a moment getting a fire started for you.”Handing her a crocheted blanket, he settled her upon a rocking chair to wait while he went out to fetch more coal.
After he returned to her dwelling with the bucket of coal, he soon had a fire burning.Mrs.Turner huddled close to it, still wearing her bright red bonnet.He’d given it to her this Christmas, both from her love of the outrageous color, and because it made it easier to locate her within a crowd of people.
“Why, Michael,” she said suddenly, her mouth curving in a warm smile.“I didn’t realize you’d come to visit.Make a pot of tea for us, won’t you?”
He exhaled, glad to see that she was starting to remember him.When he brought out the kettle, he saw that she had hardly any water remaining.There was enough to make a pot of tea, though, and he put the kettle on to boil.
“You’re looking devilishly handsome, I must say.”She beamed.“Where did you get those clothes?”
He didn’t tell her that she’d loaned them to him last night from her son’s clothing.Bringing up the memory of Henry’s death would only make her cry again.
