The exchange wasn’t without mishaps, earning Griffiths’ ire. Already she’d burned bread and served rancid cider while Titus dropped crockery, including a Delft tobacco jar. He’d even spilled gravy in a man’s lap. Since Griffiths showed no signs of hiring more help, she prepared for a long, grueling season when the tavern was busiest. But she would keep Titus’s spirits up if she could. He was the sweetness in her world, her one tender tie.
That night she climbed the stairs to her attic refuge while the bar continued merry below. Lodgers came up and down the stairs, seeking their rooms or another drink or just the cooler air of the porch. Pressing a hand to her pinched back, she wished for a bath. Grease clung to her, her apron and petticoats stained and spotted beyond repair. At least Bleu hadn’t seen her like this. She had no one to be presentable for once he’d ridden away, no reason to take pains with her appearance, and no time for it.
She could hear Titus toss fitfully on his bed as hot air pressed down on them beneath the eaves despite their open windows. Tonight the top floor was an oven, and the dog days of July and August had yet to come.
Still, I will be thankful.
She was whole-bodied and well. She loved the child in the next room with all her heart. They had both escaped death that dreadful Sabbath day. For now, that was enough. Someday she would be free of this, free of Griffiths’ leering looks, the endless, relentless drudgery of tavern life, the ongoing fear of punishment.
She sat near an open window, hoping for the slightest breeze. Weary as she was, her thoughts still swung to Bleu. Was he safe? How far down the valley was he? Did his heart leap at the thought of seeing his sister and her family again?
Lying down atop the cornhusk mattress, she dozed then jerked awake at a troubling sound. Had the door rattled or had it been a bad dream? Sensing a presence on the other side, she sat upright. The door rattled again. Someone waited, trying to gain entry. No lodger had ever disturbed her before. Most didn’t know about the hidden back stair.
But now Wade Griffiths did.
If not for Bleu and the bolt, he could have simply pushed the door open. She started to shake, the night more frightful than it had ever been before. She was nearly as afraid as she’d been in the cornfield that day.
Yet spared by Bleu. And a blessed bolt.
11
Bleu crossed Opequon Creek and took a little-traveled deer trail to reach Winchester, the county seat. On a rise north of the settlement sat Fort Loudoun with its barracks, storehouses, and well.This vile post,Colonel Washington had called the square garrison with its diamond-shaped bastions and twenty-four cannon built a few years before.
Once the site of a former Shawnee village, the settlement now held a courthouse, an Anglican church, a jail, and a great many poorly built houses. He rode down a main thoroughfare, looking for lodging. Within a half hour he’d secured a room at theGolden Buck Inn, a handsome two-story stone building on Cameron Street that reminded him of theRose and Crown. With Windigo stabled, he was free to seek the courthouse.
As he walked toward the unfamiliar building, he weighed what he was about to do. Since leaving the crossroads he’d not had a moment’s peace. Brielle’s stoicism at his leaving hadn’t fooled him though she’d tried to put up a brave front. Titus’s outright dismay hadn’t left his mind either.
How was it possible to become so attached to two strangers in so short a time? One in particular? He, a soul who roamed far and wide, rootless and homeless, caught between two worlds in a sortof no-man’s-land, had experienced something he had no words for in any language.
Seemingly overnight theRose and Crownhad become less than respectable. A brawl broke out in the tavern yard over an accusation that someone had cheated at cards. Pewter candlesticks from the public room and a ham from the smokehouse were filched. Griffiths’ mood became fouler and Brielle and Titus more chary.
A blur of heated days passed. And then at midnight, once again, they climbed the stairs to the attic though the bar below refused to quiet, surely disrupting lodgers’ sleep. Never had she wanted the older Mr. Griffiths back more than now. At least he maintained order. Never had he tried to enter her room be it daylight or dark. Once a sort of refuge and reprieve, nighttime held a new danger.
Bidding Titus goodnight, she slipped inside the dark, humid space. When she raised her hand to draw the bolt her fingers met rough wood instead. The sudden plummeting in her stomach made her nauseous. Her safety—her slim security—vanished. In the pale moonlight through the window she saw that the bolt Bleu had put in place was missing. Never had she dreamt that possibility. It turned her to ice despite the stifling attic.
She wasted no time, crossing over to knock softly at Titus’s door. “Needs be I sleep in here tonight.”
Yawning, he nodded and pulled out his trundle bed as she entered. “You sleep on the topmost mattress and I’ll lie nearer the floor.”
But would this deter Griffiths? Titus’s door had no lock, no bolt…
In minutes he was asleep, his steady half-snore like the rasp of a saw. Eyes wide open, she listened for a footfall, a creak on the stairs. Tomorrow she would rise even earlier, emptying chamberpots and scrubbing floors and washing linens. She needed rest to face whatever needed facing, yet fear kept her from it.
An hour passed. She could tell by the slant of the moon. The slightest noise sent her heart racing. The footfall she dreaded was heard around three o’clock. A slow, shuffling step that bespoke an abundance of ale and ill intent. She heard the familiar groan of her door as it pushed open.
Breathless, her pulse ticking so hard it hummed in her ears, she summoned the only defense she had. Into the darkness of Titus’s unlocked room she whispered the words she’d stitched onto a sampler she’d worked by her mother’s side long ago.
I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep; For thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.
Brielle pulled bread from the bake oven and sensed someone behind her. Setting the loaf on the trestle table, she met Griffiths’ irate gaze. His bloodshot eyes were mere slits, his clothing disheveled. Reaching into his pocket he withdrew the iron bolt and tossed it onto the table with a little clatter.
“Don’t lock me out, Miss Farrow.”
Fury blotched his face scarlet. She took a step back, glad the table was between them or he might have struck her. Suddenly tongue-tied, she swallowed nervously. Perhaps silence was the best answer.
“Where were you last night?”
She didn’t look at him. Taking up a knife, she began slicing roasted meat she’d pulled from the spit. “I slept elsewhere for my own wellbeing.”
