Gemma had readily jumped off with the others until, on the road again, she had witnessed a woman sitting on the bench’s end seat almost tumble off the swiftly moving coach. The woman had nodded off and the driver had swerved.
Fortunately, the quick-witted passenger behind her caught her arm and saved her. Otherwise, the poor woman would have been left behind in the night. From that moment on, Gemma was determined to hold her seat in the center of the bench.
While Gemma had found it impossible to sleep, the large man to her right curled over until he was practically slumped into her lap, snoring heavily. He also smelled. The smaller man on her left kept jabbing her with his elbow until Gemma had decided to jab back.
Now, after twelve exhausting hours, she faced the walk to Maidenshop. Lifting her heavy valise over one shoulder like a sailor carrying his seabag, Gemma considered herself blessed it wasn’t raining. This trip was hard enough.
On the Mail, she’d whiled away the time dreaming about what she might do with The Garland. Now it took all her energy to keep moving forward.
Then, just when she thought she couldn’t take a step more, she reached the outskirts of the village. There was the spire of the church and down theroad she could see the whitewashed walls of The Garland. Her step quickened. She’d made it.
The tavern was a rabbit warren of rooms under a thatched roof. It was a masculine establishment. There were no embellishments such as a welcoming garden by the door. There was a sign, made of aging, splintered wood with the outline of a garland on it. The appearance of the building was spartan and the message clear: people came here to drink.
Gemma started to turn the handle of the heavy wood front door, but then stopped. She needed to be grateful. She closed her eyes. “Thank you, Andrew. May you give your blessing to me as I build a new life.”
On that earnest prayer, she opened the door and stepped out of the late-morning light into the darkness of a closed tavern.
When last she’d been here, Andrew had been busy baking rook pies and preparing for a lecture the Logical Men’s Society, a local club of gentlemen, was holding.
Apparently, the village doctor organized it. “He is excited for the lecture. He’s one of those men who likes to think. However, most of the lads will be here for the ale and my rook pies,” Andrew had bragged to her.
“Well, perhaps they will learn something,” she had replied.
“You have to be sober to learn,” had been Andrew’s response.
She remembered that so clearly, just as shecould recall the smell of the baking pies, the late-afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, the neat tidiness of the tavern’s main room, and a sense of peace. The peace was what she’d been moving toward, she realized. She was searching for a haven.
That was not what she walked into.
It was as if she had inhabited a storm in London only to be blown into this place eerie in its silence—and destruction. A pack of wolves could not have caused so much damage.
The rooms of the tavern ran into each other under the low ceiling. There was the main room with a bar, tables and chairs, a taproom, and the kitchen. When she’d visited last spring, the place had the same spare furnishings and decoration but had reflected Andrew’s pride of ownership.
Now the seating was jumbled and out of order as if chairs had been tossed around by a giant hand. The tables appeared sticky with spilled drink, and the hearth smelled as if it had not been cleaned since Andrew had died. The ash was at least six inches deep. An effort had been made to shift down the pile for making a new fire only to spread cold ashes out on the floor. Footsteps had walked through it and could be traced around the room.
Ale tankards were everywhere, lining the bar, stacked on a table, thrown on the floor...
And the air had the wretched smell of stale drink, old ash—and urine.
She covered her mouth with the scarf around her neck and pushed open the nearest window. That is when she noticed that someone had put a hole in the glass pane.
Her uncle would weep to see his inn now. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes for him. He had always been so proud of his establishment, and now it was in shambles.
Against a far wall was a chair splintered into pieces as if thrown in anger, and she’d wager it wasn’t the only one with broken rungs. Soot covered the walls and here and there were handprints. On another wall, behind the bar, someone had made marks as if keeping score.
Gemma dared to move toward the bar and glanced behind it. She wouldn’t be surprised to see a body sleeping there. Instead, pewter tankards had apparently been stacked for a bowling game. She hesitated to imagine what had been used to throw at them. The cups that Andrew had once polished until they shone were tarnished and dented as if they’d been the target of many games.
She moved to the taproom that separated the main room from the kitchen.
When last she’d been here, there had been numerous kegs stacked against one stone wall. The kegs were still here except they had been emptied and left in a haphazard fashion so that she had to pick several up and pile them in a corner in order to pass through the room.
A tapped keg rested in a set of brackets to hold it on its side for serving. She turned the spigot and only a few drips came out. They’d drank their fill of every drop in the place and left the tavern a disaster.
She brushed the tap’s stickiness from her gloved hands and peeked around the corner. The kitchen, too, was a mess, although Gemma was no longer reacting with surprise. Still, it was better than what she’d seen in the main room. At least the furniture was not in pieces.
Brown pottery plates, some crusted with food, covered the table and cupboard. The hearth was poorly kept but the ash was not as deep. Gemma walked in and looked over the pots and plates on the table. There were signs that mice and who knows what else had been feasting here.
She glanced over at the oven built into the hearth that had been her uncle’s pride. She wondered if anyone had used it since his death and was thankful to see the kettle still hung from a hook over the firepit. Gemma remembered the evening she’d spent with him.
