“All I know is that this way will lead to quite a lot of grief for you.” Mother Wren shook her head again and sighed.
Anna led the way into the kitchen, and the two women prepared a thin beef tea. Anna carried it and the little brown bottle of medicine up the stairs to her room. Quietly, she cracked the door open and peeked in. The woman stirred feebly and tried to raise herself.
Anna put down her burden and crossed the room to her. “Don’t try to move.”
At the sound of Anna’s voice, the woman’s eyes flew open and she looked around wildly. “W-w-who are—?”
“My name is Anna Wren. You’re in my home.”
Anna hurried to bring the beef tea over to the woman. She put her arm around her patient, gently helping her to sit up. The woman sipped the warm broth and swallowed with difficulty. After she had drunk half the cup, her eyes began to close again. Anna lowered her back to the bed and gathered up the cup and spoon.
The woman caught her with a shaking hand as she turned away. “My sister,” she whispered.
Anna knit her brow. “Do you wish me to notify your sister?”
The woman nodded.
“Wait,” Anna said. “Let me get a bit of paper and pencil so I may write down her address.” She hurried to her small dresser and tugged out the bottom drawer. Underneath a stack of old linens was a walnut writing case that had belonged to Peter. Anna took it out and settled on the bedside chair with the writing case on her lap. “Where shall I address a letter to your sister?”
The woman gasped out her sister’s name and place of residence, which was in London, while Anna noted the address with a pencil on a scrap of paper. Then the woman lay back, exhausted, on the pillow.
Anna hesitantly touched her hand. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Pearl,” she whispered without opening her eyes.
Anna carried the writing case from the room, shutting the door gently behind her. She ran down the stairs and went into the sitting room to compose a letter to Pearl’s sister, a Miss Coral Smythe.
Peter’s writing case was a flat rectangular box. The writer could place it on his or her lap and use it as a portable desk. On top was a hinged half lid that opened to reveal a smaller box for quills, a bottle of ink that fit next to it, and papers and other miscellaneous things used for correspondence. Anna hesitated. The writing case was a handsome thing, but she’d not touched it since Peter’s death. While Peter lived, it had been his private possession. She felt almost a trespasser using it, especially as they had not been close toward the end of his life. She shook her head and opened the case.
Anna wrote carefully, but it still took several drafts to compose a letter. Finally, she had a missive she was satisfied with, and she put it aside to take to the Little Battleford Coach Inn tomorrow. She was putting the quill box back into the walnut writing case when she realized that something was jammed in the back. The quill box would not fit in. She opened the half lid all the way and shook out the shallow case. Then she felt with her hand at the back. There was something round and cool there. Anna gave a tug and the object came loose. When she withdrew her hand, a little gold locket nestled in her palm. The lid was prettily chased with curlicues, and on the back was a pin so a lady could wear it as a brooch. Anna pressed the thin wafer of gold at the seam. The locket popped apart.
It was empty.
Anna snapped the two halves back together. She rubbed her thumb thoughtfully over the engraving. The locket was not hers. In fact, she had never seen it before. She had a sudden urge to fling it across the room. How dare he? Even after his death, to torment her in this way? Hadn’t she put up with enough when he lived? And now she found this little wretched thing lying in wait all these years later.
Anna raised her arm, the locket clenched in her fist. Tears blurred her vision.
Then she took a breath. Peter had been in his grave over six years. She was alive, and he had long ago turned to dust. She inhaled again and unfolded her fingers. The locket gleamed in her palm innocently.
Carefully, Anna placed it in her pocket.
THE NEXT DAY was Sunday.
The Little Battleford church was a small building of gray stone with a leaning steeple. Built sometime in the Middle Ages, it was terribly drafty and cold in the winter months. Anna had spent many a Sunday hoping the homily would end before the hot brick brought from home lost its heat and her toes froze completely.
There was a sudden hush when the Wren women entered the church. Several swiftly averted eyes confirmed Anna’s suspicion that she was the topic of discussion, but Anna greeted her neighbors without any indication that she knew she was the center of attention. Rebecca waved from a front pew. She sat beside her husband, James, a big blond man with a rather stout middle. Mother Wren and Anna scrunched in beside them on the bench.
“You certainly have been leading an exciting life lately,” Rebecca whispered.
“Really?” Anna busied herself with her gloves and bible.
“Mmm-hmm,” Rebecca murmured. “I had no idea you were considering the world’s oldest profession.”
That got Anna’s attention. “What?”
“They haven’t actually accused you of it yet, but some are coming close.” Rebecca smiled at the lady behind them who had leaned forward.
The woman drew back sharply and sniffed.
Her friend continued, “The town gossips haven’t had this much fun since the miller’s wife had her baby ten months after he died.”
The vicar entered and the congregation quieted as the service began. Predictably, the homily was on the sins of Jezebel, although poor Vicar Jones did not look like he enjoyed delivering it. Anna had only to glance at the ramrod-straight back of Mrs. Jones sitting in the front pew to guess who had decided on the subject matter. At last the service came to a dreary close, and they stood to exit the church.
“Don’t know why they left her palms and feet,” James said as the congregation began rising.
Rebecca looked up at her husband with fond exasperation. “What are you blathering about, darling?”
“Jezebel,” James muttered. “Dogs didn’t eat her palms and the soles of her feet. Why? Hounds not usually that particular about their victuals, in my experience.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes and patted her husband’s arm. “Don’t worry about it, darling. Perhaps they had different dogs back then.”
James didn’t look very satisfied with this explanation, but he responded to his wife’s gentle nudge toward the door. Anna was touched to note that Mother Wren and Rebecca arranged themselves on either side of her with James guarding her rear.