one did the best one could. And the eggs would surely gain her a promise from Mrs Berryfield to attend Sunday Services.
Eggs were not as plentiful now that the weather had chilled. In fact, she moved to the trees lining the road so she’d be out of the wind. The dark clouds threatened, and she hoped to make it back home before the rain.
Stepping up to the road, she crossed, planning to take the short path to the woods to reach the furthermost tenant on the old earl’s land.
Then she saw a bundle of clothing lying on the ground. No one tossed the wash about like that. She moved one step closer, staring.
Brown. Brown hair. Still looking fresh from a morning comb. But it couldn’t be, because the rest of him—the rest of him splayed about. His head was face down. And blood, brown. Dried.
She couldn’t move.
Another funeral for her father to perform. Another widow needing courage and someone to listen to her pain. Rebecca didn’t want to walk forward. Then she’d discover if it was Mr Greaves or Mr Able. They were the only two men with a head of hair that colour, except theirs always stuck ragged from their hats. She needed to know who it was. The family would have to know.
The dead man groaned, just the tiniest bit, and she dropped her basket.
‘Mr Greaves? Mr Able?’ she called out, voice screeching into her own ears.
He didn’t move.
She took a step forward. No answer. Oh, my. She’d forgotten about Mr Renfro and he had eight children. ‘Mr Renfro?’ The words wobbled from her mouth.
He was quiet as a tomb. She was going to have to turn him over and she hated the thought of touching Mr Renfro, even dead. He smelled worse than a sweat-soaked draught horse. She didn’t know how Mrs Renfro did it.
She clamped her teeth together. Putting her boot solidly on the ground, she stepped forward.
His big bare feet tangled in the grass. His boots had been stolen. Shivering, she darted her eyes to the trail, fearing the thought of someone watching her.
The birds still sang and a breeze wafted through the air.
Moving forward, she nudged her own boot against the muddied toe. ‘Pardon.’
She was going to have to touch him. It wasn’t good for a man to touch a woman unless they were married, but women were granted no such favours where men were concerned.
She knelt on the ground, took in a deep breath and pushed at his shoulder to move him over. He didn’t budge. She tried again and then looked the length of him. He wasn’t Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Mr Renfro overshot the door frame and had to duck when he stepped inside, but the stranger looked too precise for Mr Renfro.
She leaned in. He didn’t smell like Mr Renfro. Even covered in dirt and mud, this one didn’t have an odour. She touched the one bit of skin she could see, near his neck. Cold.
Instead of pushing, she reached across his back. She grabbed his shirt shoulder in one hand and the waist in the other and pulled. He flopped over onto his back, and she plopped to her bottom. She shut her eyes when she saw his face. She took two deep breaths before she could look at him again. His nose was to the side and so was his jaw. His eyes—she didn’t know if he could even open them or not. His face could have once belonged to Mr Renfro, Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Then she looked him over again. He only wore a lawn shirt and his trousers. His clothing had been stolen. Or, it had been taken so he would freeze to death.
His eyelid fluttered and one eye opened a slit. She didn’t know if he could really see her. Then his hand reached up and touched her wrist.
She didn’t know what to do. She clasped his fingers. He squeezed, then relaxed his grasp.
‘I must get you help,’ she said. ‘I must. I’ll only be gone a moment. I can find a cart.’
He squeezed again. She hated to leave. But she had to. Both his eyes opened now. And she could have sworn he winked at her before shutting his eyes again.
But she didn’t want him to die in the brambles. She didn’t really want him to die in the vicarage either, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had.
She stood, took off her coat, put it around him and ran, whispering prayers under her breath.
Mr Renfro’s house would be her best choice. He could carry the man to the vicarage and he’d have no trouble straightening the man’s nose back in place, something her father could never do. One of Mr Renfro’s sons could help. The stranger needed to be straightened out before they buried him and Mr Renfro would have plenty of help to hold the man down if he fought.
He wasn’t sure if he lay in a bed or a coffin.
Buzzing. Bees or flies. No, a woman’s voice. An upset woman. Fox didn’t open his eyes at the noise. Everything hurt too much for him to care. If they were going to kill him, he just hoped for them to hurry.
The woman’s voice again and then a man’s. But the man’s voice softened. Concerned. Not angry. Not violent.
‘I did find out who he is.’ The male again. ‘I spoke with the servants at the earl’s house, letting them know we have criminals on the loose, and I have the victim here.’
‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘Well, Mrs Pritchett didn’t want me to know, but the earl sent them a letter telling them to brighten up a room for...a new vicar. Said to expect him any day now.’
‘Oh, Father...’ The word ended in despair.
‘Now, Rebecca. The earl only wants the best. Don’t look so upset.’
‘I’m not.’
The room was silent. Nothing. Then the rustle of clothing, someone moving, stopping at his side. He tried to open his eyes.
‘Are you the new vicar?’ the soft voice asked. Even in the blackness surrounding him, he could tell she leaned over him. The perfume of lilacs and just-cooked porridge touched his nose. She wasn’t anyone he knew.
But even the scent of his favourite flower didn’t ease the pain in his face. His eyes hurt and they wouldn’t open properly. He couldn’t open his blasted eyes.
He just wanted to rest. Rest. He needed to tell her.
He parted his lips to speak. Pain hobbled his words. His breath rushed from his lungs to throat and even thinking ached his head. He clenched his fist, barely trapping bedclothes in his hands. Rest.
But the first part of the word was too hard to speak. He couldn’t talk with her. The feeling of bones crashing together tensed his body.
‘Are you the new vicar?’ she asked again.
Rest. He wanted to rest, but it hurt too badly. He pushed out as much of the word as he could. ‘...esss...’
The woman spoke. ‘He said yes’
He didn’t care who she thought he was. He hurt worse than he’d ever hurt when he awoke after going twenty-four hours with nothing to sustain him but brandy. That hadn’t been this bad. He wanted to ask for brandy. He really did. He wanted to tell them he’d pay a hundred pounds for a good brandy to wash the taste of blood from his mouth. Or at least make him forget it.
‘His lordship has been saying for quite some time I should take a pension. We knew he was hoping to find a new vicar, Becca.’ A man’s voice. The man’s voice rumbled again. ‘He said that was part of the reason he was travelling. It’s to be expected.’
‘I know,’ she said.
The woman leaned in again, touching the bed, jostling Fox. Pain shot through the top of his head. She was going to kill him if she didn’t stop moving him.