in Will’s satchel. “You’re allowed to be greedy and grasping. You’re allowed to be cross with him. That’s sometimes what love is. It’s not all sweetness and light.”
“Sometimes when he looks at me, I worry that all he sees is what happened on the ship. And I’m afraid that he left me because he’s afraid that watching him die will be what finally breaks me. That’s why he avoided me last autumn, and that’s why he’s doing it now.”
“Are you certain that isn’t what you’re afraid of? Because I’ve seen him look at you, and there’s no way he’s thinking of the Fotheringay. He looks at you like you’re a miracle, like something precious and maybe a little fragile—fragile in the way that something priceless is, not like some old doorknob that’s about to fall off. Not broken,” he said firmly. “I think he loves you exactly as you are. You should hear how he talks about you. His face does this thing, where he’s all wide eyes and bafflement.” Hartley seemed to realize what he was saying. “It’s all very disgusting, actually,” he sniffed. “In any event, you should get out of my kitchen and go tell him all these absurd things.”
“Thank you.” Will planted a kiss on the side of his brother’s head, and then laughed when Hartley wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Chapter Twenty-One
Martin had twenty shillings and a few pounds in bank notes. It was more money than he had carried in years and the clink of coins in his pocket made him feel perversely adult. Here he was, three and twenty, and for the first time he felt fully in charge of his own destiny.
He also had four books from his aunt’s library, several sets of clothes that he supposed would do for a rural convalescence, as much camphor and willow bark as his aunt could purchase at eight o’clock in the morning, and a tin of tea. He supposed people had started out on far less.
Foolishly, he had hoped that he would feel better as soon as he stepped out of the carriage, that the first breath of fresh air would restore him to some semblance of health. Instead he coughed, and there was blood on the handkerchief, and this was—well, it was not ideal, but it was what he was working with, and he was going to keep working with it because the alternative was not worth thinking of.
The Tanners’ cottage was a five minutes’ walk from the inn. He knew he could walk that distance without coming to any harm, but he was being careful, so he gave tuppence to one of the boys who loitered around the inn and told them they’d have another tuppence if they came back with Miss Daisy and her mum. Then he took his hat off, straightened his shoulders, and took a seat at a table near the door. He felt exceptionally visible, especially without the shabbiness of his old clothes to give him cover. Anyone who had believed him to be plain Mr. Smith would have plenty of time to recognize him as an Easterbrook. But in order for his plan to work, he had to be as honest and upfront as possible, so he gritted his teeth and let people look.
When Mrs. Tanner and Daisy entered, he paid the lad who had fetched them and then gave Daisy another tuppence to bring his satchel to the cottage. That, he figured, would give him enough time to have the conversation he needed to have with her mother.
“Is Mr. Sedgwick with you or is he coming later?” Mrs. Tanner asked. She had immediately taken stock of his fine clothes and probably also noticed his pallor.
“It’s only me for now, which is why I wanted to speak to you. My health has taken a turn and I need someone to look after me. I thought Daisy could do it, for whatever wage is customary. It would be light work as long as I don’t get much worse. She’d only need to look in on me a few times a day, do the wash, and bring supper. If I need the physician, she’d be the one to fetch him. But if I get worse, I might need nursing, possibly overnight, and that’s where things get difficult. She’s young and I wouldn’t wish for anything untoward to be said. That’s why I’m speaking to you first, instead of to her directly.”