Page 107 of By the Sword
‘Can I see her, Bet?’
Bet stiffened and shook her head. ‘Not while the old lady lives and breathes. She would call the soldiers as soon as she laid eyes on you.’ Bet paused. ‘I tell you what. Come tonight. When you see the light go out upstairs, knock twice on the kitchen door and I’ll let you in.’
Jonathan smiled. Bet the schemer had not changed.
They parted at the church door. Jonathan took his evening meal before returning to the street to wait for Bet’s signal. He lurked in the shadows in the cold for hours but when the tiny light in the upstairs window went out, it took him all his courage to knock on the door.
Through the kitchen window, he could see Bet setting the dough to rise for tomorrow’s bread. Brushing the flour from her hands, she opened the door to him. ‘Come in and warm yourself,’ she said.
Although the rain had abated, it had been a long, cold wait and he accepted the offer of the fire.
‘Is she here?’ he asked, his voice tight with anticipation.
‘Aye, upstairs in her bed asleep. I’ll go and wake her.’
Jonathan caught Bet’s arm as she stood to leave. ‘You’ll not wake the old lady?’
‘Bless you, no. I’ve given her a sleeping draught that would fell an ox.’ Bet winked.
Jonathan stood by the fire, every nerve in his body strung to breaking point. Even facing battle he had never felt so ill.
My daughter… Tabitha.
The name spun in his mind as it had done since he had spoken to Bet that afternoon. What could he say to her to make amends for an absence of so long?
It seemed an age before Bet returned, leading the child by her hand. Tabitha’s long, dark hair cascaded from beneath her nightcap and she clutched a ragged dirty doll of sorts.
She yawned and rubbed her eyes, blinking sleepily in the light of the kitchen as she looked at the tall, strange man by the fireplace with the same curious gaze that she had used when they had met in the street.
Jonathan searched her face, taking in every detail. She had Mary’s heart-shaped face but the hazel eyes and dark hair were his legacies. He did not doubt that Tabitha was indeed his child.
Bet laid a hand on the child’s shoulder and said, ‘Now, Mistress Tabitha, this is your father, Sir Jonathan Thornton.’
The child looked at her, then up at Jonathan. The sleep had gone from her eyes and they were bright as she scanned his face. She looked up at Bet, a frown puckering her forehead.
‘Is he really my father?’
Jonathan, normally at ease with children, suddenly felt inadequate. He hunkered down, bringing himself to the level of the child and said softly, ‘I am your father, Tabitha.’
Her reaction was not what he had imagined in the long wait to meet her. He had pictured shyness and disbelief but the small face contorted with anger and she flew at him, her fists flailing against his chest.
‘I hate you, I hate you,’ she screamed.
‘Hush, child,’ Bet scolded, twisting her hands in her apron. ‘You’ll wake your Grandam and there’ll be hell to pay for both of us.’
Jonathan gently disengaged the small virago and held her at arm’s length. She glared at him, her chest heaving and tears splashing on the flags of the kitchen floor.
‘Shh,’ he said, bringing his finger to his lips. ‘Bet’s right, your Grandam will punish us all if she sees me here.’
At the second mention of her great-grandmother, the child’s sobs ceased and she stared, still gulping, into her father’s eyes.
‘Tabitha,’ he said, making sure he held her gaze, ‘why do you hate me?’
She hiccupped, and the rage in her face subsided to be replaced with fear. ‘You’re the devil. You killed my mother.’
‘Is that what Grandam told you?’ he asked.
She nodded.
