Corner of the Housetop: Buried Secrets (32 page)

Now that he was thinking about Mrs. Worthington, Derek's chewing slowed as he mulled over the previous night thoughtfully. Ideas that he'd been too tired and preoccupied to examine were coming to him at a rapid pace. The look in Jonathan's eyes. The way the old woman shrank away from her beloved son. Not that Derek blamed her he wasn't even the subject of the man's fury and he'd nearly thrown himself down the stairs just to get out of sighting distance.

I guess maybe he is protective of Catherine
, he mused, recalling his earlier thoughts that Jonathan did not pay his wife nearly enough care or attention.

Smirking a little, Derek recalled the look of abject terror on Mrs. Worthington's face. It wasn't something he ever expected to see again, and so he wanted to make sure he had a complete recollection of it.

"It's weird, though. You'd think pet Jonathan would like being in Mother's good graces. He always used to care a lot about what she said and thought of him."

Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth looked at him quizzically.

"He was a lot like Gabriel, only not so stupid," he mused. Derek sighed. "Oh, well." Eating the last of his bread in two, large bites, he stood up and hunched his shoulders to stretch his aching muscles as much as he could. As sore as they were, the stiffness that was settling into them felt worse.

Derek rested the shears on the ground and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. This was hardly turning out to be the triumphantly defiant event he'd planned to himself over breakfast. Instead of marching out to the bushes and trimming them with perfect precision, he'd found himself struggling to lift the bulky shears enough to cut back the offshoots on the top of the line of shrubs. Luckily, Mrs. Worthington hadn't been out to see him doing his chores. Somehow, he didn't think his, "Have a good day," comment would be as effective coming with a wince while sweat poured down his face.

"She'd have a right good laugh," he grunted bitterly. Sweat was trickling down between his shoulder blades, making his lash marks itch and burn.

When the bushes were trimmed, he started towards the shed to put the shears away.

Then, a swim,
he told himself consolingly.
A very long, uninterrupted swim.

Derek took out his shed key and unlocked the door. He didn't bother lifting the shears to their hook, but instead leaned them against the wall. He'd hang them later. He did take the time to search the disorganized mess for a new shovel. The one in the stables that he used to clean the stalls was rusting and the nose was jagged and useless. At last, after several minutes in the sweltering heat of the shed, he found what he was looking for. Stepping back out into the relative cool, Derek closed the door and locked it. He started around the front of the porch, but missed a step as he heard Catherine's voice.

"I feel better today. I want to have a picnic lunch. It would be nice to be on the lawn, sitting in the grass."

"It rained this morning, darling," Jonathan answered gently. "You'd get all wet. See how it is tomorrow."

"I want to picnic before my parents leave."

"Tomorrow," he repeated.

Trying not to look at them in the hopes that they wouldn't look at him, Derek kept his head down, eyes trained on the ground in front of him, as he hurried across the drive in front of the porch.

"I'd like to have Derek? What's that on your "

Pretending he hadn't heard her wispy voice, Derek quickened his pace (effectively telling her that he had, indeed, heard her) until he reached the top of the knoll. Safely on the other side, he breathed a shallow sigh, because a deep sigh would have hurt too much.

When he reached the stables, he leaned the new shovel against the wall by the door and climbed to the loft. His wounds were stinging even more than earlier. While the thought of cool water was tempting, he couldn't help but think that the effort of actually getting down to the river might not be worth it. Derek fell onto his bed on his stomach and he could not for the life of him think of any reason good enough to get back up.

Several minutes passed, or several hours: Derek wasn't sure. He was too lost in a haze of pre-sleep to notice the passing of time.

He was jolted out of his doze by a deep voice.

"Derek?"

Derek looked towards the ladder and sat up quickly, unaware of pain due to the start of seeing Jonathan standing at the edge of the loft. How had he not heard him come up?

"What?" Derek asked, shifting himself so he was sitting on the edge of his hay mattress.

"Take off your shirt," Jonathan ordered evenly, his expression blank, or possibly accusing.

Frustration building in him, Derek glared up at the man defiantly. Was there no end to the man's desire to see him suffer?

Jonathan stared back with a steely glint that stated all too clearly that defiance would not be tolerated.

Resolved to the inevitable, Derek stood quickly, a low growl of annoyance and pain escaping his throat. He pulled his shirt off over his head and held it loosely in his right hand. "Is that all?"

"Turn around," he ordered in the same tone.

Derek's fist clenched around the wet fabric of his shirt. His face colored with humiliation, he turned slowly. He stood facing the wall for several seconds, focusing all his attention on a knot in the board above his bed. He didn't think he could stand it if Jonathan said anything. The heavy silence that filled the room became unbearable.

"Happy?" he snapped.

"Who did it?" Jonathan's voice was odd.

"Devon."

Two heavy footsteps echoed in the thick air of the empty loft, then stopped abruptly, as if their executor suddenly changed his mind. A moment passed.

"Put your shirt on." Jonathan's voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

Derek turned around and pulled his shirt on. As he did so, he noticed thin lines of blood on the back of it. Catherine had seen that he was hurt and sent Jonathan to check on him…. His face burned with humiliation.

Jonathan's face was an unreadable mask and when he spoke next it was in his usual, cold tones. "Come with me."

Hesitant, Derek followed Jonathan down the ladder. He hoped he wasn't in more trouble.

With long, impatient strides, Jonathan led the way back to the main house and up the porch steps to the front door. Catherine was no longer sitting on the shaded bench. Pushing the door open, Jonathan stepped aside for Derek to go in first.

Stepping cautiously, Derek did as he was bidden. He was starting to have a very bad feeling about the entire situation.
He can't be bringing me to Mrs. Worthington,
he thought wildly.

"Go downstairs and see Beth," Jonathan ordered roughly. "Have her clean you up."

Startled, Derek could only stammer out, "Y-yes, sir." Feeling a little numb, he walked through the sitting room and into the hall. He turned down the kitchen stairs slowly.

"Atty, if you could Derek? What are you doing in here now?"

"Jonathan sent me down," he explained. "I got a whipping last night and my back started bleeding again when I was trimming the hedges."

"Take your shirt off and sit down," she said, pulling one of the wooden chairs close to him. She busied herself getting a bowl and a rag.

Derek winced as he pulled off his shirt. "You didn't get in trouble, did you?"

Shaking her head, Beth said, "No. Master Worthington was as good as his word about that. But then to turn around and punish you…."

"Wasn't him," Derek said, lowering himself onto the chair sideways so the chair back was on his right side. "Mrs. Worthington must have had a fit that I wasn't in trouble, then sent Devon to do it."

"Mr. Devon?"

Derek shrugged one shoulder. "Not like he had a choice. Could have been easier, though," he lamented with a scowl. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

When Beth finished gathering her things and mixing the powered ointment with a little water to make a thick paste, she pulled the other chair up behind Derek and sat down, setting the bowl and towel on the table. "My goodness, I should say he could have!" she remarked angrily.

"Fifteen, though," he said with an ironic smirk. "Most I ever got at one time."

"Don't sound so proud of yourself," she retorted.

"Promise I ain't." After a second, Derek snorted a little. "Serves him right, though. Now he has to do all the work alone today. And he's been getting right comfortable having me to boss around."

Beth just shook her head and went to work soaking cloth strips in the paste and smoothing them gently over each lash mark. Every now and then Derek would wince at the cold, but it felt good after a moment and his aching muscles relaxed under her familiar ministrations.

"There," Beth said when the last strip of cloth was in place. "Don't move 'til that dries."

While Derek sat there he felt the paste hardening, pulling his skin tight over his muscles. It made him itch and he fought to stay still. Trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation, he asked, "What's for lunch?"

"Sandwiches. There was ham left from breakfast, and I want to use the last of the old bread before I bake any more or it'll go green."

Derek nodded a little, then glanced around as much as he could without moving more than his head. "I guess Miss Catherine is feeling better."

"What makes you say that?"

"She was outside today. On the porch."

Beth made a small sound of what seemed like agreement, then started slicing the bread. She didn't say anything else for several seconds and Derek took that to mean she didn't feel like talking.

Sighing, Derek looked at the rows of preserves and jams that were stacked on the little wooden shelves across the room. As Fall drew nearer, he knew the kitchen would become more and more full of stored food. He'd always liked being down there when the winter stores were full. There was something desolate and lonely about the kitchen when it was nearly empty at the end of winter. He looked back at Beth, who was wrapping four sandwiches in butcher's paper and tucking them into the wicker basket.

"Are they dry yet?" Beth asked.

Reaching over his right shoulder with his left hand, Derek poked at the closest cloth strip. "Pretty much."

"Put your shirt back on, then, and go lie down. Here. Take your lunch with you." She pushed the basket across the table at him.

His muscles held in place by the dried paste, Derek struggled awkwardly to pull his shirt on, then took the basket. "Thanks." As he walked to the stairs, he hoped he didn't run into anyone on his way out. He didn't think he'd get into trouble since Jonathan himself had ordered him into the house, but that didn't mean the initial confrontation might not be unpleasant.

When he reached the top of the stairs, Derek listened closely to make sure he was alone. He heard the tones of angry voices echoing down the hall from the parlor.
That's Jonathan…and Mrs. Worthington.
An intense curiosity gripped him and he glanced at the side door for only a moment before going in the other direction. Leaning against the doorframe, he strained to hear what they were saying, positive they must be arguing about him again.

"I told you no more," Jonathan's deep voice resonated.

"He's mine to do with as I please," Mrs. Worthington returned, her voice rising dangerously.

"He's not yours! He's "

"Don't you dare!"

Derek froze as the lethal tone filled the still house.