Because of You (3 page)

Yale hunkered down, his back against the trunk of the hemlock, and stared off in the direction of the decorated iron doors guarding his family’s vault. The damp cold seeped up through his boots, but he ignored the discomfort.

He didn’t know what to do or where to go, other than he needed to stay here and keep a silent vigil. It was a sign of respect for the man who had been his father.

It was the only thing he could do.

Miss Northrup didn’t go to bed immediately, but spied on him from the dark window. So she knew he hadn’t left. He could feel her presence, disapproving but curious.

What would she say if she knew his true name? What a twist that fact would give her bib
lical lesson. The prodigal son returns, but instead of the welcoming arms of his father, he finds an empty life.

At last she determined that he meant no harm and returned to her bed. Yale concentrated on the vault. He was not a praying man…but that night he learned to pray.

In the wake of a bleak dawn, Yale rose. His joints were stiff and aching from the cold. His years in the tropics had thinned his blood. He walked the length of Sproule to the Bear and Bull.

As a boy, he and his father had visited the inn a time or two—but no one recognized him now. They all thought he was dead.

Yale registered under the name Marvin Browne, ordered a bottle of brandy to warm his blood, demanded privacy, then did something he hadn’t done since he’d awakened aboard that ship eleven years ago. He got good and properly drunk.

When he finished that, he ordered another, pausing only long enough to compare his life to the empty bottle. As twilight of his first day home approached, the lonely coldness of the night before seemed to have settled in his bones and made them heavy. He closed his eyes and passed out into blessed unconsciousness.

And that was when the fever started.

John Sadler, the innkeeper, didn’t know what to do. Mr. Browne had come down ill. At first, Sadler had suspected the man was little more than passed out drunk.

However, in the early hours of the morning, the sound of his retching woke both John and his wife.

“He’s only getting what he deserves,” his wife said. “A man shouldn’t drink like that.”

John wasn’t so certain it was only the drink.

When Mr. Browne didn’t make an appearance at breakfast, John decided to wake him. “It will serve him right for keeping us up half the night,” he told his wife, and she agreed.

He pounded on Marvin Browne’s door, but there was no response.

He beat his fist against the door again, harder.

Nothing.

He turned the handle. There were no locks on the doors at the Bear and Bull. The inn was too small and out of the way for such an expense.

John walked inside and quickly backed out.

“The man’s bloody sick,” he told his wife.

“How sick?”

“I don’t know, but he looks close to dead.”

“Then let us send for Miss Northrup,” his wife said. “She’ll know what to do.”

“Aye, she will.” He dispatched his eldest son to go and fetch the vicar’s daughter.

S
amantha scraped the bottom of the tea drawer and managed to collect only the most pathetic pile of leaves in the bottom of her cup. The water in the kettle was already boiling hot and she dearly needed a good strong cup of tea.

It was so cold today, she’d been forced to use some of her precious fuel and build a fire in the kitchen hearth. She even wore both her dresses, a trick she’d learned from exercising the strictest economies over the past year. One was the black mourning dress she’d just set aside, and the second was a serviceable brown dress. She wore it on top because she was heartily sick of black.

She felt bleary-eyed and cranky. After her adventure the other night with Marvin Browne, she’d spent a good portion of yesterday running errands and nursing the Chandlers’ youngest daughter, who had come down with the fever. She should have slept soundly last night. In
stead, she’d tossed and turned, her mind full of worries.

It had all started when the ladies of the village, led by Squire Biggers’s wife, had paid her a morning call. Apparently, a village meeting had been held at the Bear and Bull on Monday night. Samantha had not been invited to the meeting because it was about her.

After drinking the lion’s share of her meager supply of tea, the village women had announced that a vote had been taken and it had been decided the time had come for Samantha to leave the vicarage. Her mourning was over and the new vicar, who’d recently married, wished to move in.

Remembering their ultimatums, Samantha caught her hands shaking as she carefully poured the cup half full of boiling water and let it steep.

Of course, she had been expecting such a decision. By rights, she should have moved from the vicarage after her father had died—but she had nowhere to go. Her mother had been an orphan, and her father’s family had all passed on before him.

She’d hoped perhaps the village would offer her a cottage. After all, it would only be right, since her father, who had always worried over their penury, had spent the majority of his living to help feed and clothe the poor.

But upon his death, the villagers seemed to
have forgotten all Vicar Northrup had done for them…or else they considered letting Samantha live in her home during her time of mourning to be repayment enough for his lifetime of service. Her own charity and nursing skills they took for granted.

For a moment, her thoughts strayed to Marvin Browne and their strange meeting in the graveyard. A bit superstitious, she realized his appearance had been the first warning that her life was about to change.

She moved restlessly around the small kitchen. There had to be
more
to life. She just didn’t know what “more” was…but she was reasonably certain letting the villagers scuttle her off to live with the two spinster Doyle sisters wouldn’t help her find it.

A part of her yearned for what other women had: a husband, children, a home of her own. But at her advanced age, Samantha knew that would never be.

She lifted her teacup, silently toasted her impending future, and was about to take a sip when someone knocked on the kitchen door.

She was tempted to ignore it. Then a young voice called, “Miss Northrup! Please, Miss Northrup, we need you!”

She recognized the voice. It was Tommy Sadler, the innkeeper’s oldest son. The innkeeper would not send for her unless there was sickness.

Setting her teacup back on the table, she rose
and hurried to the door. A blast of frigid air greeted her as she opened it. “Whatever is the matter, Tommy?” she asked, waving him inside.

The redheaded boy pulled his hat off. “One of the guests has taken ill, Miss Northrup. Pa needs you to come and see the man. He’s been very sick, miss. We fear he’s dying.”

Samantha did not hesitate. “Let me gather my basket and my cape.” Her basket was filled with different medicines, herbs, salves, and, of course, the book from Dr. Rees, the physician in Morpeth, whom she often consulted. She also had her own journal of different remedies she’d found could help.

Tying the ribbons of her black bonnet beneath her chin, she shot a regretful look at her tea. Well, there was naught to be done. The habit of tending the sick ran deep inside her. She would not turn her back, even on a stranger.

Outside, heavy gray clouds threatened more bad weather. Samantha huddled deeper into her cape. The cold seeped up from the hard ground and through the thin soles of her boots.

No one wise would venture out on such a cold day. However, she and Tommy were halfway through the village when a loud “Yoooohooo!” called out to them.

Samantha turned to see Hattie and Mabel Doyle hurry out of their cottage toward her. Both sisters had to be well over fifty years old and looked enough alike to be twins, although most people guessed Miss Mabel was the older by a
year or two. Their shoulders were humped over by age and their huge black capes swept the ground as they scurried toward Samantha, reminding her of nothing less than two fat, happy beetles.

She slowed her step and hid her impatience, unwilling to give the appearance of a snub. Both women were notoriously sensitive—and she might shortly be living with them if she could not think of a way out of the situation. “Hello, Miss Hattie, Miss Mabel,” she said respectfully.

“Good morning! Good morning,” they chimed in unison.

Miss Mabel spoke first. “Where are you off to—?”

“Where are you going?” Miss Hattie added.

“One of the guests at the inn is ill. Now, if you will excuse us—”

“One of the guests?” Miss Mabel said.

“Must be that dark-haired man,” Miss Hattie answered.

“Dark-haired?” Samantha questioned. The memory of Mr. Browne’s thick dark hair flashed in her mind.

“Yes, the one who came to the village yesterday morning,” Miss Mabel said. “Mrs. Sadler said he was waiting on the front step before they’d even risen for the day.”

“Said he drinks,” Miss Hattie offered helpfully, drawing out the syllables as was her custom. “Drinks terribly.”

A hint of foreboding tickled Samantha’s neck.
“This guest at the inn, does he have a name, Tommy?”

“Aye, miss. His name is Marvin Browne. Browne with an ‘e,’” the boy said dutifully.

So Marvin Browne had not left the area. She wondered what had kept him here. It was rare to find a mystery in Sproule.

“Do you know him?” Miss Hattie asked, her eyebrows coming up in interest.

“No,” Samantha said quickly, and then felt foolish. But gossip spread fast in Sproule, and it was usually one of the Doyle sisters who spread it.

She took a hesitant step back toward home.

“Why, Miss Northrup, whatever is the matter?” Miss Mabel asked. “You’ve gone all pale. Are you feeling sickly yourself?”

Samantha shook her head while turning away from their too knowing eyes. “I’m fine, thank you.” She was being a goose.
What was it to her if Marvin Browne had not left Sproule as she’d imagined? Or if he needed her help?

She started walking toward the inn. Tommy and the Doyle sisters followed.

“Silly name, Marvin, isn’t it?” Miss Mabel said, her concern for Samantha vanishing.

“I knew a Marvin Browne, Browne with an ‘e,’ once,” Miss Hattie said.

“You did?” Miss Mabel asked.

“Aye. You did too,” her sister said. “He was tutor for the duke of Ayleborough. Don’t you
remember now? Years ago, when the boys were young.”

“Ohhhhhh, years ago,” Miss Mabel said. “Yes, I think I do remember. Arrogant man, wasn’t he? From London, and kept raving on about how we all talked like Scots and should mind the King’s English. Silly man.”

The arrogant discription fit Mr. Browne, but Samantha couldn’t see the man she’d met the other night as a child’s tutor. Why, that man had almost appeared to be younger than the present duke.

Samantha shook her head and tried to shut out their prattle. They talked like that all day long. The thought struck her that she would be mad in no time if she accepted her fate and moved into their cottage.

As if reading her mind, Miss Mabel said, “Have you given any more thought about coming to live with us?”

“Yes,” Miss Hattie interjected. “We are excited. I have this pain in my left knee—”

“My back gives me terrible fits,” Miss Mabel interrupted.

“Oh, yes, your back is bad,” Miss Hattie agreed. “But my knee makes it hard for me to walk.” She suddenly started limping for good measure. “It will be so nice when you come to live with us. We’ll never worry about our aches and pains again. Will we, sister?”

“Well, I haven’t quite made up my mind,” Samantha stated tactfully.

“The village has already made it up for you,” Miss Mabel said.

“Aye,” Miss Hattie echoed. “We’re looking forward to your joining us. Three spinster ladies at peace with the world.”

The world suddenly seemed a very small place to Samantha. In a flash of insight, she realized her deepest fear—that she would live and die alone…and she would be very much alone with the Doyle sisters. Everyone avoided them if they could.

This past year had not been easy, but her future loomed even darker.

Fortunately, she was saved from making a comment because they’d come to the inn. She quickly ducked inside the narrow tavern door.

Everything considered, the Bear and Bull did a fair business. Other than the church, it was the social center of Sproule and the surrounding countryside. John Sadler and his family had a reputation for hospitality and a love of gossip, a winning combination for the success of any public house.

Of course, between the Bear and Bull and the Doyle sisters, nothing was a secret in Sproule.

Samantha nodded to John Sadler, who met her at the door, his expression anxious.

“I understand you have a sick man here.”

“I do, I do,” he said, leading her through the open public room with its huge hearth and whitewashed walls. Trestle tables and long benches were the only furnishings. “Miss Mabel
and Miss Hattie, why don’t you take a seat here and Tommy will fetch you a hot cup of cider?”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Miss Mabel said. “But we’d rather see this Marvin Browne.”

“Yes, we want to see him,” her sister seconded, and they followed Samantha and the innkeeper toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms.

Mr. Sadler shrugged. The Doyle sisters were almost impossible to waylay once they’d made up their minds.

His wife’s voice called out, “Has Miss Northrup arrived?”

“Aye, Mrs. Sadler, she’s here,” her husband responded. Birdie Sadler walked into the public room from the back kitchen. “Glad we are you’ve come, Miss Northrup. We’ve been afeared this man’s contagious.”

“How long has he been ill?” Samantha asked, as they led her up the narrow staircase, the Doyle sisters trailing behind. Tommy hovered close to his mother.

“We heard him—” Mr. Sadler made an expressive gesture with his hand. “—Long about the wee hours of the morning. Lost every drop of brandy in him and then some, by the sound of it. Of course, he’d looked like a regular drunk when he came down to buy his second bottle of brandy. Unsteady on his feet and red-eyed.”

“Drink, see?” Miss Mabel said, nudging Samantha from behind.

“Tisk, tisk,” her sister said.

“Had he eaten anything?” Samantha asked, attempting to ignore the comments of her two shadows. They’d reached the short upstairs hall and Mr. Sadler had paused in front of one of the three rooms.

“Nothing at all,” Mrs. Sadler answered.

Samantha frowned. “Why are you so certain his present malady doesn’t stem from the over-indulgence of strong spirits?”

“Mr. Sadler and I have seen more than our fair share of drunks, Miss Northrup,” Mrs. Sadler answered. “This man is sick. When Mr. Sadler went into his room and tried to rouse him, the man didn’t even so much as twitch.”

“His skin is hot to the touch, not like any drunk I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Sadler added. He put his hand on the door. “I’ll warn you now, this isn’t a pretty sight, Miss Northrup.”

“I don’t imagine it is,” Samantha assured him.

“We are prepared for the worst!” Miss Mabel declared almost cheerily.

The innkeeper didn’t bother to knock, but opened the door. Mrs. Sadler stepped aside, but the Doyle sisters pressed forward, craning their necks to see. They quickly covered their noses and stepped back.

Accustomed to sick rooms, Samantha had been prepared for a strong smell. Poor Mr. Browne. Every slop bucket in the room was full. The stench mingled with those of stale liquor and unwashed male.

And yes, it was him. She recognized him even with two days’ growth of beard.

He lay flat on his back, his large frame filling the small bed. The murky light through the shuttered windows did him no good. He was still fully dressed, even down to his mud-caked boots, although his stained clothes were rumpled, as if he’d restlessly tried to remove them and failed. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully, until one noticed the ruddy flush to his complexion or the shallowness of his breathing. A sheen of sweat covered his skin.

Alarmed, Samantha moved closer and placed the backs of her fingers against his cheeks. She could feel the fever radiate from him even before she’d touched his skin.