The innkeeper narrowed his one good eye, looking her up and down with a cruel, shrewd expression. “Nay, lassie. I’m in no need of help. I’ve got more than I need as it is and canna be held responsible for yet another.”

Her face fell. It had been a long two hours, and her feet ached terribly—but no worse than her heart, which was bruised and battered and ready to give out after experiencing so much rejection. She had never known there could be so much harsh cruelty in the entire world, much less in one single village.

Not everyone had been as short-tempered as the owner of the inn in which she currently stood. There had been a little kindness, a little concern for her. But only a little. Not enough to outweigh her growing despair.

To despair was to turn one’s back on God. Wasn’t that what the deacon had so often reminded her and her sister when Mother’s health had been at its worst? There was no room for despair in a heart closely connected to one’s faith in the Lord. Or so she had been told so many times.

Where was that loving God of hers as she stepped out of the inn and into the cold, darkening day? Had He turned His back on her? Why? What was so sinful about wanting a better life for oneself? What was so dreadfully wrong with refusing to accept a few meager crumbs?

There was nothing back in Thrushwood. Nothing for her, nothing for Beatrice.

Certainly, they could have scraped by. Margery might have taken in sewing and mending, and Beatrice might have taught the village children, though it would’ve been nearly impossible to earn a living when they lived so remotely. They would’ve needed to find another home, but they had no money with which to purchase one.

She knew that most women of hers and Beatrice’s age would be of a mind to find husbands—and that might have been a worthwhile course of action, too, had there been a single prospect anywhere nearby.

Again, without access to the rest of the village, there was no way for either of them to meet a worthwhile suitor except on Market Day—and even then, until Mother’s passing, it had only been possible for one of them to go to town at a time while the other stayed behind to care for their invalid.

Beatrice was nearly twenty-three, while Margery had celebrated her twenty-first birthday over Christmas. Who would look at them and consider either a desirable match, with no dowry and what little was left of their farm?

They had no other family, no friends in the town. Nothing at all but each other. The situation had proven itself untenable long since, and it had been a harsh winter full of nothing but snow and bleak prospects for the future after their mother’s passing.

It was then that Margery had made up her mind, and not even her beloved sister could force her to think otherwise once she’d set a course of action.

She was beginning to question the wisdom of her stubbornness.

The activity in the village was lessening as the sky darkened, and Margery supposed this was because the evening meal would soon be enjoyed by many. The village’s inhabitants were preparing to go about their warm, comfortable lives, while she continued to wander to yet another business and accept yet another rejection.

Surely, there had to be an end to this. Surely, not everyone could turn her down.

The weight of her sorrow suddenly felt so heavy, she leaned against the nearest wall for support. It was as if she could no longer stand on her own. Was this the sort of thing people went through all the time? How did they live through it without dissolving into tears on a constant basis?

The sting of tears made an unwelcome presence behind her eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away once they began to course down her cheeks. What difference did it make? No one would notice. No one would care if they did. How many crying women had leaned against this very wall? It was probably a common sight.

Her feet ached horribly, the leather sewn to the bottoms of her stockings unsuited to such heavy use. Every stone and pebble made itself known, digging into the soles of her feet and adding to her growing misery.

To her surprise, Derek came to mind.

Where was he? Why had she been so eager to be rid of him? He was smart. He knew she’d made an unwise decision, but she had been too stubborn and foolhardy to see it for herself.

He might be able to help her find a place to spend the night, as she was nearly exhausted and didn’t know where to start or what a fair price would be. She’d be taken advantage of, for certain. It had been weeks since she’d had a good night’s sleep and the lack thereof was beginning to catch up with her.

It was growing dark, the days still short, and it was of no surprise when a fine mist began to fall. Why not? It was in keeping with the way the day had turned. If the skies had opened and a deluge had drowned her, she wouldn’t have been surprised.

Would she be forced to beg on the streets? She’d seen more than a handful of beggars on her travels, sitting in slop and wearing nothing but the thinnest of rags. Their wasted, bony bodies smeared with dirt and dust and the foulest-smelling waste, holding their hands out, trying to smile though their mouths held few teeth.

Would that be her fate? Would Beatrice ever know what became of her?

Or would she fall so far as to work as the woman she’d accidentally watched earlier in the day, the one who had mated with the strange man in an alley? A shudder of disgust ran through her, and she shook her head. No, never, not ever. Not even if she were on the brink of starvation.

Was that what the woman she’d seen had once told herself? She was certain that no one grew up wishing to be that sort of person, someone forced to sell their body for money. Something must have happened to force her into it.

Would that be her own fate?

“No,” she whispered, pushing herself away from the cold, now wet, stone wall with one shaking hand. No, she would not allow her life to come to that. There had to be a way to survive. She would not allow herself to fade into nothingness, to become just another faceless wretch with nothing and no one.

She would not allow Beatrice to spend the rest of her life wondering what had happened to her sister. She’d blame herself, Margery was certain. She would be of a mind that were it not for her, her sister would never have taken such a risk.

Beatrice would die blaming herself.

Not if Margery could help it.

She squared her shoulders, pulling the wet hat more firmly over her head as determination surged through her veins.

All that was left to do was to put one foot in front of the other.

So, she did.