Fairer than Morning by Rosslyn Elliott Page B

smell was not right—it was not honeysuckle, but instead the faintest fragrance of roses and warm skin.
    â€œCan you open your eyes?” she whispered.
    He cracked them open. It was Miss Miller, her pretty face pale with horror. He closed them again.
    â€œDid your master do this?” Her voice quavered a little. He felt another gentle touch on his head. He couldn’t bring himself to answer.
    He heard a rustle as the sound of her footsteps moved away, then returned. Coolness touched the sting in his scalp. She was gently swabbing at the cut, holding something very cold on it. The throbbing eased a little. He moistened his dry lips so that he could speak.
    â€œYou must go.” He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see the disgust that must fill her at the sight of his bloody, filthy state. “It will be worse if he finds you.”
    â€œHow can he do this?” she said. Then after a pause, “I have something for you. I will give it to you when you are better. Perhaps it will help you in some way.”
    â€œGo,” he groaned, afraid Master Good might return at any moment. A tiny warm droplet fell on his cheek. A tear . A feather-touch brushed it away.
    Then with another rustle she was gone, and he heard the door close.
    He knew she was wrong and that nothing could help him. But the warmth of her tear lingered on his face and slipped down inside him to the dark, empty places, where it carried for a moment the honeysuckle smell of summer.

Eleven
    A NN SLIPPED IN THE DOOR OF DR. LOFTIN’S HOME, grateful that the hallway was empty. Will’s bloodied and sad face lingered in her mind’s eye; it wrung her heart and forced tears to her eyes. She still clutched her handbag with Will’s letters inside. They would have to wait for another day.
    Hoping she could get to her room unnoticed, she hurried down the hallway into the front foyer. But as she passed the drawing room, Dr. Loftin’s voice came through the open door.
    â€œMiss Miller?”
    She froze, arms crossed, head down to hide her dismay. She did not want to stop, but she could not be rude to her host.
    â€œIs something wrong?” She heard the rustle of a newspaper, then his leather soles tapped toward her across the marble floor. She lifted her head to see him standing beside her, his brows knit together in concern, his wrinkles deepened around his eyes.
    â€œMaster Good is—” A sob rose in her throat and kept her from saying any more. She covered her face with her hands.
    â€œWhat is it? What has happened?” The doctor’s voice was soft. The comforting strength of his arm circled her shoulders, steadying her.
    â€œMaster Good is beating his apprentice. I just found him on the ground in the barn. He was barely conscious.” She took the handkerchief he had produced for her, wiped her eyes, and dabbed at her nose.
    The concern on his face gave way to surprise. His lips parted as if to ask a question, then he paused.
    Her face warmed—of course the doctor wondered why she had been in the barn, but he was too much the gentleman to ask.
    His face sagged in sorrow. “I suspected as much. But Will has never said anything. Nor do I think he has any recourse under the terms of his indenture.”
    â€œBut there must be something we can do for him.”
    â€œI don’t know that there is. It’s a sad fact of indenture that some masters abuse their apprentices. The law turns as blind an eye as if it were a father beating his son. The cause is immaterial; Master Good can say what he wishes about the reason for it, and any judge will believe him.”
    â€œBut he could kill him.”
    â€œYes, and would probably get off scot-free for that also. Dead apprentices tell no tales.”
    â€œWhat about the other apprentice I saw with Will? Can’t he be a witness?”
    â€œHe would face the same difficulty. A master’s word carries more weight. And then Tom would no