Page 27 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Twenty

Marguerite moved the candlesticks further down the counter so she could search through the wreckage, but still she found no note.

She huffed out a breath and rose from the floor, bringing an armful of ribbons and gloves with her.

It would be far easier to put the store back to rights with the morning light, but she had to be certain they had not missed anything.

It would seem they hadn’t. Samuel had interrupted the person in the middle of their threat, and they had left.

She would never know if that had always been the intent or not.

Bending to pick up more gloves, fans, and shawls, Marguerite scowled.

What purpose had this served? Had they meant to disturb her peace?

Frighten her into recognizing they were increasing their actions each time they came into her home?

She swallowed. It was frightening. Whoever this person was, it felt as though they had designed an elaborate parlor game with her life. What would be next? When would it come? Who or what would be damaged?

Her eyes sought the parlor door as she chewed her lip. Perhaps if she…but no. She had no mode of communication, no way to accept the trade this person had proposed.

Furthermore, she did not have the diamonds they were after.

Marguerite picked up her candlestick and walked through her shop, making certain each window and door was secured tightly. She had taken to wedging a chair beneath the door handle at night, for it was the only way she could fall asleep.

That, and keeping a gun beside her pillow.

“Claude,” she called, making her way toward the parlor. The cat was lounging in her favorite place on the sofa. A candle still burned on the table, and Marguerite left it. She checked the window, found it locked, and reinforced it with a wooden dowel Jacob had provided for her.

With a hesitant glance over her shoulder, Marguerite crossed the room and set her candlestick on the floor.

She knelt before the worn, aged trunk and lifted the lid, the smell assaulting her at once and making her think of the family she had lost. Sorrow touched her heart like an old acquaintance, but the feeling was familiar, weakened with age.

Lifting a boy’s shirt aside, she pulled one of her aunt’s gowns from the trunk and brought it to her nose.

Amidst the dust and age, she inhaled the familiar scent that brought her family close to mind.

When she had gifted Jacob with a sleep shirt for his young apprentice well over a year ago, she had told him it had belonged to a nephew of hers, for fear that the truth would reveal how very long she had been separated from her family.

Now, she wondered why she had lied so many times to so many good people.

What had she accomplished by putting them at a distance? No one in Harewood truly knew her. She had not allowed them to. While she had made friends, she still could not pass the barrier into closeness because of the walls she had erected.

Marguerite gently replaced the gown and lifted the stack of clothing, moving it aside until she found the small, gilded jewelry box at the bottom.

It contained clippings of her cousin Claude’s hair and a necklace of stones he and Marguerite had made when they were small and did not understand the cruelties of the world.

She removed the necklace and replaced the jewelry box, putting everything back where it was. To have her mother’s trunk returned would have been a joy beyond measure. The clothing, the memories, the scents…Marguerite would give much for those things.

But she could not allow this madman to win. Could she?

Blowing out a huff of air, she closed the lid and rose. “Come, Claude. It is time to sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

Marguerite had been wrong. In the light of the fresh morning sun, the shop looked significantly worse.

Claude followed her and jumped onto the counter, walking along the piles she had placed there last night.

She first walked to the front door and removed the chair from where it had been wedged, then set about tidying the disarray.

It took far longer than she had anticipated, but by the time she received her first visitor of the day, order had been restored. Claude chose the moment the door opened to slip outside and disappear, but Marguerite did not blame her. She would have liked to breathe the fresh air as well.

The morning passed with a slow stream of visitors with varying needs. Two fittings for stays, one new design for a day dress, and a woman in need of a long-sleeved pelisse who could not make up her mind on a fabric.

By the time the noon hour came and went, Marguerite was more than willing to place a sign on her door, lock it, and walk across the street toward the inn to visit with the cook .

The taproom smelled of rich meat and freshly baked bread. She was tempted to remain for a meal, and her stomach could sense it, gurgling its agreement. A handful of patrons sat at the tables, but they were otherwise empty.

Mrs. Leeks noticed her straightaway and crossed the dim room, wiping her hands on her apron. Her frizzy blonde hair was fading to gray and scraped back into a knot. She looked tired but well.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Leeks,” Marguerite said. “I have your…items.” She passed over the brown paper-wrapped parcel containing two new chemises.

The woman took it without so much as a blush. “Come with me. Your food is in the kitchen.”

Marguerite’s stomach rumbled again. Mrs. Leeks glanced down at it, lifting an eyebrow. “You want to stay for some ham?”

“There’s no need. I am about to receive ham from you now, I think.”

“Not cooked, you won’t.”

Weary exhaustion bent Marguerite’s shoulders. “Perhaps something small, then. I haven’t the time to fix anything.”

“I’ll wrap it for you to take with you. How does that sound?”

“Very practical. Thank you, Mrs. Leeks. Our arrangement is working nicely for me. It is so difficult for me to make time to go to the market.”

“You’ve no need, dear. Not when I send my boys anyway.” She hefted a full basket and plopped it down in front of Marguerite. “Now wait a moment.”

Marguerite looked at the overflowing basket holding all manner of fruits, vegetables, and meats. She was certain it contained more than the money she provided could pay for. Next time she sewed for Mrs. Leeks, she would need to include something additional as well.

“Here you are,” Mrs. Leeks said, holding a paper-wrapped bundle forward. “Not much, but you look tired, dear. ”

“I haven’t been sleeping well. What do I owe you?”

Mrs. Leeks puffed a stray hair from her face, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

Marguerite tried to give it back. “I cannot accept.”

“You will. It is my way of thanking you. I do not have the time to come and be measured and choose fabrics and all that rubbish, mind. You do me a great service, and I’ll show my gratitude in the only way I can.”

The woman was formidable, her wide eyes brooking no argument. Marguerite swallowed the emotion clouding her throat. “Thank you.”

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Mrs. Leeks dug in her pocket and lifted out a letter, sealed with a name written on the front. “Someone asked my boys in the market to bring this to you. Must have known they were from Harewood, I suppose.”

Marguerite accepted the letter, trying to ease her shaky hand. She turned it over and recognized the hurried scrawl at once. A chill swept through her body, but she did her best to keep her voice even. “Who was it? Did they say?”

“They didn’t know the lad.”

Marguerite could have cursed. Of course, he would sent a boy to deliver the note. The man himself was clearly too clever to reveal his face. She tucked the note into her pocket and lifted the heavy basket with two hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Leeks.”

“You come by anytime you’re hungry, you hear? I will feed you.”

Marguerite nodded, dipping a curtsy before leaving the inn. Warmth permeated her belly from her neighbor’s kindness, and she could not deny the friendship this woman showed her. Perhaps Harewood had supplied more companionship for Marguerite than she had previously given it credit for.

That did not lessen the anxious pestering in her gut, however.

Once she left the inn, Marguerite hurried across the road, gripping her basket tightly despite the slick sweat of her palms beneath her gloves. When she unlocked her shop, she left the sign in the window saying she was closed and took the basket back into her tiny kitchen to store her food.

An onion dropped and rolled across the floor as her grip failed her. She closed her eyes, then retrieved the onion, tucking it into the basket. She would return the basket to Mrs. Leeks another time. The letter was burning through her pocket and her thoughts needed addressing.

Marguerite left the kitchen, lowering herself onto the sofa. She pulled the note out and turned it over.

Marguerite Perreau

Should she be grateful they had not used her birth-given name? She shuddered, bending the paper to break the plain seal, then sliding her thumb beneath it to work the paper free.

It was instantly apparent the letter was long. This was not a one-sentence clue. Given the haste and slant of the words, the writer had been angry when he had penned these words.

A dark smear the width of a thumb ran long the top of the sheet. She touched it, and her finger came away dirty. Rubbing her fingers together, it spread like dirt. She wiped the pads of her fingers on the edge of the paper to clear them and began to read.

I would like to believe you did not set out to trap me, for you were not home when I came by the other night. But upon finding a gentleman in your home, I could do nothing but defend myself, as I am certain you understand.

Marguerite grew cold. The tone of the letter was conversational in a way that implied she knew this person well, that she would agree with their sentiments. She imagined Armand seated at a table, penning these words, and her stomach grew ill.

If I cannot trust you, we cannot trade. I would like this to be easy, Marie-Louise.

You want your mother’s belongings. I want her diamonds.

Give me what I want, and you can have the gowns and ribbons and things which are in her trunk.

If you alert anyone else, we cannot trade.

I will happily burn this trunk to ash. It will be easy.

I have already done so with one item. Do you recall the yellow day gown your mother often wore at home?

There were pink ribbons along the back and lace at the neckline.

I’ve tossed it in the fire and provided proof of such at the top of the paper.

A small gasp left Marguerite’s throat. She recalled the gown easily. Her mother looked radiant in that yellow gown. Like sunshine, she had always thought.

Do you want to continue our trade? Or shall I come and take what I deserve?

I will know soon. If you continue to include other people, I will understand which choice you have made.

But if you would like the contents of your trunk to remain intact, gather the diamonds and prepare to meet me at the Locksley churchyard on Friday.

You will locate the grave for Thomas Kingston near the tall oak tree.

Leave the diamonds wrapped in a cloth within his hands.

If they are not there by Friday at four o’clock, the trunk will burn, and I will come for them myself.

Marguerite lowered the paper and shut her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. What was she going to do?