He released her hands and slapped her. “You know nothing of love. Mary teased me time and again, saying it was only a matter of time before we could be together. Always a girl I could not touch. What a fool I was, this entire time she was throwing herself at some other man.”

  Poppy trembled, holding a hand to her stinging cheek. “Tom…”

  He raged, “If it hadn’t been for you, Mary would never have thrown herself at another man.”

  “You blame me for Mary’s behavior?”

  “You are so rigid in your opinions of what should be right, she would never have railed against it so. This entire circumstance is your fault.”

  He shoved her against the wall. She squeaked in alarm as he clamped a sweaty hand over her mouth. She bit down on his fingers and drew blood.

  “Ow! Bitch!” He took hold of her hair and slammed her head against the wall.

  Stars filled her vision as she bounced off the wall, groaning in pain.

  Tom punched her in the gut and knocked the wind out of her. He stood over her, and her right knee lifted and kneed him in the groin. He jerked in pain and reached for her, but she batted his hands away and hit him with her fist. He smacked her across the cheek and reached for her. He pulled her up, wrapped his fingers around her neck and squeezed. “See you in hell, Poppy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tom’s hands, rough with the cuts inflicted from caltrops and a dead girl, now squeezed the life out of her.

  “Die, Poppy. Die for me.”

  She flailed at him, clawing at his face. He cursed and squeezed harder, his rough fingers pressing her aunt’s pearl necklace into her skin.

  Poppy struggled to breathe and gasped for air. She beat at Tom, but her vision began to grow dark and her limbs started to feel heavy and slow. Then she socked him in the eye, drawing blood.

  He rocked back. “Bitch!”

  She fell back and he pressed against her with renewed force. He spat at her and dug his fingers into the soft skin of her neck, pressing into her throat.

  She took one breath after another, swatting at him. But it was no use. Tom was winning.

  His fingers entangled in her aunt’s necklace, tearing apart the fragile string of pearls that scattered, flying around them.

  A dark figure flung open the glass door and lunged at him, wrestling man to man. The stranger punched and gave a fast uppercut to Tom’s chin.

  Tom fell against the glass door, shattering the thin glass panes. Night air and broken glass flew into the main room, interrupting the frivolity of the dancing within.

  Screams and cries filled the air, and Poppy fell to her knees, coughing, as Tom scrambled to his feet and into the room, blood streaming from his shirt cuffs and slivers of glass falling in his wake.

  “Stop him!” a familiar voice cried.

  Poppy blinked up at the sight of Constable Dyngley. He called out, “Mr. Jenkins, arrest him. He tried to kill Miss Morton.”

  Gasps and shrieks sounded. More than one woman swayed, feeling faint.

  “Come here.” Mr. Jenkins came forward.

  Tom came up against the surly faces of two men and became cornered by a pugnacious third. His face red, Tom snarled, holding his hurt eye, “What are you doing? Get out of my way. She attacked me! The little wretch! Poppy tried to kill me, just like she did Mary!”

  “Tell it to the magistrate,” Mr. Jenkins said, pinning Tom’s wrists behind his back. Tom spat on the floor, earning himself a cuff on the head from Jenkins.

  Outside on the balcony, Poppy coughed and took in great heaving breaths, her gloved hands pressed against the icy wooden floorboards.

  “Poppy, are you all right?” Constable Dyngley knelt and put a gentle hand on her back. He grinned at her in the darkness, his brown eyes glittering. “He nearly had you.”

  “I’m fine.” She croaked, a hand flying to her bare neck. “My aunt’s necklace. It’s broken.”

  Her aunt’s pearls lay scattered on the floorboards, solitary testaments to Poppy’s fight for her life. She looked at them sadly.

  “Don’t speak. You’re hurt. I’m sure your aunt will understand.” Not removing his hand from the small of her back, Dyngley took her chilled hands in his and helped her avoid the broken glass, her slippers crunching on a few shards. She gave him a grateful smile and received a glance in return, making Poppy’s chest fill with warmth.

  Inside the bright light of the main room, they watched as Tom struggled, and was soon overpowered by Mr. Jenkins and his assistants.

  “I should never have left you alone with him,” Dyngley said, placing a gentle hand on her back.

  “He killed Mary’s servant,” she rasped. “I didn’t know until I saw his hands. They were cut up from the caltrops, or the maidservant defending herself. I think.”

  Constable Dyngley looked at her, and his hand moved a modicum lower down her back. “I know. His cousin came to me while you were dancing and told me you’d come to see him.”

  Poppy bowed her head. “I’m sorry—”

  “None of that. I know better than to try and stop you. But I do wish you’d told me first, before you—” Her pained expression stopped him mid-sentence. “Never mind. Let me escort you home.”

  Dyngley spied her aunt and uncle across the room and paused, dropping his hand. “Miss Morton.”

  “Yes?” Her heart thumped in her chest.

  “May I have your permission to call upon you tomorrow?”

  Her throat felt raw and abused, but she wished to tell him with all her heart, yes.

  Instead, she nodded and tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.

  He gently led her to her guardians, where her aunt wrung her hands, her feathered hair piece askew. “Oh Poppy! I was worried sick about you.”

  Her uncle frowned severely at the pair. “Constable.”

  “Sir.” He passed Poppy carefully to her aunt as if she were made of glass. “I would recommend the doctor assess her injuries.”

  “Oh, my girl!” her aunt gushed, “you poor thing.”

  Poppy only had eyes for the constable.

  “Forgive me, I have some business to attend to.” Constable Dyngley bowed and received a civil nod from her uncle.

  Hanging onto her aunt’s arm, Poppy listened as Aunt Rachel chattered while observing the constable and Mr. Jenkins supervise Tom’s forced departure. Tom shot her a nasty look as he was pulled away.

  “Come away, dear,” her aunt said, ushering her out of the crowd.

  The assembly rooms’ organizers attempted to revive the evening’s entertainment, but none of the company present desired to dance and so the assembly broke up shortly afterwards.

  Fortunately, the town doctor was present and after some beckoning from Aunt Rachel, looked over Poppy’s injuries. He pronounced her lucky and needing bed rest.

  As they rode in the cart home, Aunt Rachel said, “I never liked that boy. He always was trouble. And to think we’d even let him call at our house! Some people… But the pearls, I am sorry to see them broken. They were a gift, you know.”

  “I am sorry, Aunt,” Poppy rasped. Her fingers touched her neck. She could hear Tom’s curses echoing in her ear and felt the cold, hard crush of the pearls bruising her skin.

  That night she dreamt of Tom’s fingers squeezing the air from her throat, and woke up more than once in a pale sweat.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The next day Poppy slept late. On the doctor’s orders, she was only allowed a lukewarm broth and cool drinks to soothe her throat. She was told not to speak, but just to let it heal.

  That afternoon her uncle came into the dining room as Poppy was slowly eating some broth and said, “I have news.”

  “Oh?” Aunt Rachel asked, putting down her cup of tea beside Poppy.

  “I have just been in town and heard that Thomas Maddox is to be jailed. His family is protesting of course but it’s clear. What with his attack on you, Poppy, he’s admitted to strangling that poor servant girl.”

  Poppy looked at Betsey, who had been serving the tea and broth. Betsey froze, then with her head bent, left the room.

  Aunt Rachel said, “Be sure to wear your best today Poppy, you’re bound to receive visitors.”

  Poppy glanced at her aunt, a spoonful of broth halfway to her mouth. Her dress that day was a simple white muslin bedecked with embroidered flowers. In it, she felt light and fragile, and at that moment missed her purple shawl from Mary.

  “And don’t think I didn’t see the constable’s attentions toward you. So admired! You danced one dance with him and another with Tom, although I suspect if it weren’t for that unpleasantness the constable would have danced another with you.”

  Poppy smiled. She might have been half choked to death, but her aunt still entertained hopes of her making an advantageous marriage.

  “He will come, Poppy, be sure of it. After what you went through last night, he would be a fool not to come asking after your health,” her aunt said.

  Poppy ate quickly and fixed her hair, taking pains with her appearance. Her long brown locks would never be fashionable, but her cheeks held a rosy bloom, and her eyes glittered with intelligence and if she looked closer, confidence.

  She traced the ugly red bruises dotting her throat and wished for a high-necked dress to hide the evidence of Tom’s attack. And the one who mattered most had already seen the damage. The big question preying on her mind was, would he come?

  That afternoon they did entertain some people, mostly neighbors and a few parishioners come to ask after Poppy’s health. Word had spread overnight that Tom had killed the servant and tried to kill Poppy at the dance. More than one came calling partly to see the marks of Tom’s hands on her neck, Poppy mused.

  One familiar face was a pleasure to see, however.

  “Hello,” she rasped as Nicholas Turnbull entered the sitting room.

  “Miss Morton, I am glad to see you looking so well. But your throat.” He surveyed her. “I see the rumors are true, Thomas Maddox did try to harm you last night.”

  She nodded and gestured for him to sit.

  He politely refused her aunt’s offer of tea. He said, “I expect you’ll want to know about this morning.”

  She looked confused. “This morning? What happened—oh. Yes.”

  Aunt Rachel looked at them. “What are you talking about?”

  Nicholas looked at Poppy for confirmation. She said, “You can tell her. She’ll hear soon enough anyway.”

  “Tell me what?” Aunt Rachel asked.

  “The dean’s daughter at Cambridge, the one you discussed with me at the dinner at my aunt’s, we found the man who besmirched her honor.” He looked down at his hands, gripping his polished walking stick.

  “You have? Who? Is it someone we know?” Aunt Rachel asked.

  “I’m afraid it is Mr. Neville Conn.”

  Her aunt’s mouth dropped open. “No.”

  “It is true. I did not know for certain until the dance, but in last night’s post, I received a letter. The girl’s sister confirmed the nature of their relationship, and we have a note from him to her.” He stared at his polished black boots.

  “Oh my word. I must tell your uncle immediately.” Aunt Rachel quit the room, her slippered feet thudding up the creaking stairs.

  Nicholas smiled at Poppy. “I also came to tell you, Neville didn’t show up this morning.”

  “That doesn’t overly surprise me.”

  “Nor I. The more I learn of him, the more I am convinced of his deficient character,” he said, “Neville is nowhere to be found. I suspect he has left the area.”

  Mr. Turnbull did not stay long thereafter, only to pay his respects. Poppy was sad in a way to see him go.

  But as the latest pair of visitors bid them good day and Betsey left to refill the teapot, a familiar knock came at the front door. Betsey answered it and in walked the constable.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, giving a short bow. “I have something you were looking for.” He stepped aside and let enter…

  “Upon my word,” Aunt Rachel said, rising to her feet.

  “Mary!” Poppy surveyed her former friend. There stood Mary, looking smart as ever, with an obvious swelling in her belly, pushing her dress forward.

  “Heavens, child, the entire town has been looking for you.” Her aunt continued, “Do sit down.”

  Poppy stayed standing until the visitors had taken spots on the green, stuffed sofa across from them, and sat.

  Mrs. Potter’s cheeks held bright red spots and she looked everywhere but at Poppy’s eyes. Constable Dyngley perched on the edge of his seat while Mary reclined against the sofa, helping herself to a second pillow. She flashed her bright brown eyes at the party and smiled. A moment passed before she said, “I suppose you’re all wondering about me.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Rachel said. “Wherever have you been?”

  “It is a very great secret.” Mary smiled, patting her hair.

  “We had to keep quiet, you see, for fear Tom would know Mary was still alive and come after her,” Mrs. Potter said, a red flush crawling up her neck.

  “But why did you not tell the constable? He would have protected you,” Poppy said.

  Mary threw a hand in the air. “What do I care for stuffy constables? They are nothing but trumped-up village idiots and undeserving second sons. You cannot trust them. Except you, of course, Constable.” She smiled at him sweetly.

  He looked unamused. “I am a second son, Miss Pendle.”

  “My point entirely! But anyway, I couldn’t trust a soul, not after what happened to poor Margie.” She looked at Poppy directly. “You understand.”

  Poppy gripped her knee, squeezing hard.

  Her aunt cleared her throat. “Of course. You must look after your own safety. We had no idea he was such a blackguard.”

  “No, nor I. It is strange how someone you know and trust for years can fool you.” Mary pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, embroidered with the initials of E.P., and dabbed at her eyes.

  And can play you for a fool, Poppy thought. “I am glad you are safe.”

  As the ladies drank tea, Constable Dyngley said, “I have news regarding Mr. Thomas Maddox.”

  Mary uttered, “Oh, I don’t want to hear a word about that odious man. He tried to kill me.”

  “And Miss Morton,” he added.

  “No. I won’t hear of him. He used me, betraying my affections when he only had murder in mind.” She gave a shiver that ran down her body, worthy of the stage.

  Poppy had no doubt the movement was meant to attract whatever man was in the vicinity and draw his attention to her body. However, in this instance, her belly was distended, so Constable Dyngley’s eyes wouldn’t be able to miss the signs of her pregnancy.

  The constable said, “I can return later if you would prefer.”

  “No, no, don’t leave on my account. Tell us your news if you must.”

  The constable said, “I only report what I assume will become commonly known.” He looked at Poppy. “That night at the dance, his cousin, Will Shaw, came and told me about your questioning him about the caltrops he’d made. He’d thought nothing of it until he’d spoken to men in the pub and heard about the caltrops causing the accident.”

  “He was innocent?” Poppy asked.

  “Yes. He knew nothing about the business. Will Shaw had had no idea about their involvement in a crime, much less a murder. And Mr. Jenkins spoke to the farmer who owned them. Mr. Wright loves historical objects. Fancied himself a collector of sorts. He never imagined that anyone would steal them from his field to cause havoc on the main road. He was also in bed the night of the accident, which his wife can attest to.”

  “Shocking,” Mary said, drawing attention to herself. “And what of Tom?”

  “He will go to prison to await his sentence. But I expect he will hang for murder.”

  “Oh!” Mary uttered, murmuring into her handkerchief. “How horrible.”

  All eyes turned to her. She said, “I remember, now. At the dance, the very one you and I disagreed at, Poppy, Tom took me aside and asked me to marry him. I thought it was a great joke.”

  Poppy and the constable exchanged a knowing look. “Then what?” Aunt Rachel asked.

  Mary gave her a small smile. “He refused to believe me when I told him no. Indeed, he told me if I did not agree to marry him, then he would kill me. He told me I would always be his. I begged to get away from him and ran to you then, to ask you to tell him I was not interested.”

  That was contrary to Poppy’s recollection, but out of courtesy to Mary, she did not contradict her.

  Mary added, “But then we had our little disagreement, and you spoke to me so hurtfully…”

  Poppy stiffened.

  “But I am due for my confinement soon,” Mary rubbed her stomach, “these past few weeks I have lived at my cousins’ and have hardly seen a soul. I have lain awake for nights on end, fearing for my life. I did try to warn you about Tom, but I hear you jumped at the chance to be alone with him.” She shot Poppy a sly glance.

  Her aunt let out a noise of astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

  Poppy flushed with embarrassment. “You are mistaken. He asked me to dance. Then he said he asked for a quiet word alone. We were such good friends, I thought nothing of it. I didn’t know he was a killer until later.”

  “Well,” Mary said. “I’d hoped that our little tete-a-tete had convinced you to swear off Tom, but you didn’t listen. I wanted you to get away before he did something.”

  “Miss Pendle…” The constable started, his eyebrows furrowing. His mouth set into a hard line.

  “You said all those things to scare me?” Poppy said.

  “Of course I did. I was looking out for you, you’re my best friend.” Mary said. “Besides, it was all well and good anyway, for you are well enough and Tom is in jail. Everything turned out well in the end.”

  She looked so earnest, Poppy realized Mary probably believed the lie she was telling.

  But as convincing as her friend was, she knew that no true friend could have been so hurtful.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23