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Instead, he tipped his cap in silence and faced forward, urging the horse on. He fought his desire to look back at her for as long as he could, but when he did finally glance over his shoulder, Miss Hollow—not Morvoren—had finally disappeared over the ridge, taking the remainder of his peace with her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A creaking bed beside her roused Morvoren from her slumber, and she blinked sleepily with a groaning stretch of her arms. The darkness from the night before had alleviated only a shade, and dull light from the still-sleeping sun slipped through the windows.

“Are ye ready, Morvoren?” whispered Poppy nearby.

Morvoren opened her eyes more fully, spotting Poppy near the small wardrobe as she tightened her stays from the front.

Was it time to rise already?

“I can let ye sleep a bit longer,” Poppy offered, “or ye can always come to the cellars later.”

But Morvoren shook her head. “No, I be awake.”

She threw back her covers from the cot the Bosankos had lent her and stepped onto the frigid floor. Together, she and Poppy dressed, though Morvoren’s limbs refused to move as quickly as she wished them to. She had the sneaking suspicion that her sluggishness was due to the two late nights she’d shared in conversation with Poppy. The girl hadn’t been lying when she’d expressed how greatly she loved to talk. Fortunately, Morvoren was more than happy to listen to her.

Once dressed, they joined Mrs. Honeysett in the kitchen, who greeted them with cheerful smiles. “Bit o’ pillas for ye this mornin’, girls,” she said. “Give ye some strength for the long day ahead.”

The porridge sat like thick mud in Morvoren’s stomach, though she willed herself to eat every last bite. She wasn’t used to eating so early—or rising so early, for that matter—but she was determined to earn her keep. Even if that meant joining the women in the cellars she so despised.

After the meal, their small party left the Honeysetts’ home and made their way toward the dock. Morvoren still walked with her ever-present limp, but Mrs. Honeysett and Poppy no longer had to slow their pace in order for her to keep up.

“Did ye sleep better last night, Morvoren?” Mrs. Honeysett asked as they neared the mouth of the cove. “That old cot suitin’ ye?”

Morvoren nodded. “Yes, thank ye.”

“And I trust ye didn’t keep ’er up too late with your chatterin’, Poppy,” Mrs. Honeysett asked with a condemning brow.

Poppy gave a quick shake of her head, then slipped Morvoren a knowing grin.

Mrs. Honeysett watched them with amusement before facing the shore. “Ye’ll be regrettin’ these late nights if ye continue on so.”

“Who could e’er regret speakin’?” Poppy said with a bewildered look.

The three of them reached the dock then, standing back with the growing group of women, children, and a handful of men. Soft greetings around them were delivered amid yawns and bleary eyes. Even the sea seemed hesitant to rise that morning with only its gentle lapping at the dock.

The wind, however, didn’t hesitate to slide its cold draft around Morvoren’s shoulders and nip at her uncovered nose.

“Mornin’, Mabyn, Poppy,” Mrs. Bosanko greeted, coming to stand beside them near the back of the group. Next, she faced Morvoren with a warm smile. “Come to ’elp us with the pilchards, ’ave ye?”

Morvoren nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“We do be glad to ’ave ye join us.”

Morvoren wanted to believe Mrs. Bosanko’s words were true and that she spoke for all the fishermen’s wives, but the steady stream of heavy glances sent her way—some with mere curiosity, others sheer disapproval—made her believe that she might have been wiser to remain tucked away in the Honeysetts’ home.

A voice rose out above the others, clearly intending to be heard. “What she be doin’? She don’t belong ’ere.”

Morvoren’s cheeks burned, despite the frigid sea air. She sought the owner of the voice, finally meeting the gaze of the stocky, middle-aged woman she recognized from the gathering on the beach the week before.

The woman scowled unabashedly at Morvoren, then looked away with a turned-up nose. Most of the group ignored her words, though Mrs. Bosanko and Mrs. Honeysett exchanged worried glances.

“That be Katherine Cardy,” Poppy whispered under her breath.

“Related to Jowan Cardy?”

“’Is mother.”