Jayne Fresina (11 page)

“Welcome to Souls Dryft,” he said.

Already down from the cart, he raised his hands to help her out. Too overcome with nerves, she chose to make her own way, shoving his hands aside. “I can do it. Mind my gown. Your hands are dirty.” She realized the redundancy of her caution almost immediately when she remembered her earlier escape on a dung cart, but it was too late to take it back. Out of habit, she’d brushed him aside, a woman who preferred folk to keep their distance. Sitting too close to him on that cart had already done enough damage, now at least she was in control again of her own body.

A deep frown darkening his face, he watched her clamber awkwardly to the cobbles without his help.

Giving her no time to look around or tidy her wind-blown dignity, he herded her onward, sweeping his arms at her as if she was a stray sow, driving her down the step and through the entrance, where ivy hung thickly, mingling with fragrant, twisty strands of honeysuckle. “Make haste, Friday wench,” he declared. “I’m hungry for my supper.” So she stepped down into the house for the first time, entering another new chapter in her life.

“I’m home, Mother,” he yelled. “Hope you made a good supper. We’ve got a guest tonight and she needs a good feed to put some fat on her bones.” And then he laughed, as she flung a scowl over her shoulder. “Looks like hunger puts her in an ill-temper too, but I’ll soon spank that prissiness out of her with my filthy hands.”

Chapter 8

Snoring loudly, a huge hound stretched out across the warm hearth, but hearing John’s voice it woke, scrambled up and let out a deep, excitable bark. It galloped across the flagstone floor and John made a great fuss of the beast, rubbing its big head, kissing its nose, while it stood on a huge pair of back paws, thrusting its full weight into his chest.

“This is Vince,” he introduced his dog proudly. “Short for Invincible. And this, Vince, is Lucy Friday, apparently a stray wench no one else wants and so falls to our care. Much as you did, fool beast.” He grinned wryly. “Though she’s more particular and remarkably proud for a mutt.”

The dog turned its attention to her, sniffing the dung on her skirt and whimpering in excitement. Lucy inched away, sliding around the long trestle table, almost backing directly into an old woman who stood there, watching.

“What’s all this then, John? What have you brought home this time?” The woman’s eyes were very dark, but keen and sharp as a blade, cutting her up one side and down the other. Despite her evident age, those eyes were surprisingly youthful, holding the same spark of wit Lucy detected in John Carver. More than simple good humor, it was a lusty, mischievous curiosity in the unusual.

“This, Mother, is the Friday winch, of Nate’s listed possessions,” John explained. “He meant to write ‘wench.’”

There was barely a glimmer of surprise to change her expression. “Friday wench indeed. He’s never so organized with anything as he is the women in his life!”

“She claims to have nowhere else to go,” said her son, still petting his dog, “I couldn’t very well leave her there could I? If he ever returns to find her lost, he’d never forgive me. No, he left her to my care, so I suppose we must take her in and feed the wretch.”

“I’ll not be a burden,” Lucy blurted. Hungry and overly tired, her manners were drawn very thin and brittle. “I shan’t stay long…”

Abruptly his mother took hold of her chin, examined her face and, after a moment, duly proclaimed her a “well-favored” young woman with good color and very fine features. “Where did he find you, then?”

Lucy had no answer. How she came to be among Nathaniel Downing’s shabby possessions was a tale she meant to keep secret, but the question raised many unpleasant memories, of Lord Winton’s angry face leaning over her, his features strained tight, his hand raised to strike again, cameo ring gleaming in the candlelight.

“Who knows where he found the wench?” John exclaimed. “Nate spends his time and his coin in a lot o’ whore houses.”

“John!”

“’Tis true, Mother. You know how he is. Never passed up a pretty face and a firm set o’ bubbies.” He stretched his arms overhead. “No need to put on airs and graces for Nate’s trollop, mother. I’m sure she’s heard worse. Now where’s my damned supper? Since I’ve now got two women in this house, perhaps I’ll finally get fed when I’m hungry.”

His mother ignored him, gently squeezing Lucy’s hand. “My nephew Nathaniel is like me,” she whispered. “He never would turn his back on a stray. No need to blush, my dear, I won’t press you for answers. We’re all entitled to our secrets. What would life be without them?”

She guided Lucy down into a chair, patting her shoulder in a kindly fashion, and thus she was accepted. Just like that. Lucy had never before met a woman so free of judgment.

Clutching her small wooden box of belongings, she looked around the large, open interior of the house and found it tidy, warm and well-kept, much like the old lady herself. The main fireplace dominated the room, an impressive carved mantle in very dark wood and stone that might have been too severe and overpowering, yet the multitude of windows around the house prevented any fear of stifling or any sensation of being closed in. The floor was simple flagged stone, covered with rushes and dried herbs to scent the air. There was a cushioned window seat with several embroidered pillows and Lucy thought how pleasant it would be to sit there on a sunny morning, looking out over the yard. Then she inwardly scorned herself for thinking she had any right to claim a seat in that house, among people who didn’t know her, or the wicked things she’d done.

Mistress Carver was preparing supper in a large pot over the fire, exclaiming they were so late she hoped the stew wasn’t burned. While tossing in a few more herbs from bunches hanging overhead, she turned to her son and bemoaned the fact he’d left that morning with neither coat nor hat. Now he had a wet shirt as a consequence and had probably sat in it all day. He was fortunate, she lectured him, never to catch cold.

“I’m famished, Mother,” he declared, dismissing her concern with barely a thought. “At this rate I’ll die of hunger and then you won’t have to worry about me catching any cold, will you?”

Lucy, too, was ravenous, more so than she’d ever been, and when a bowl of rabbit stew was set before her she devoured it as greedily as good manners would allow. The dog took a liking to her, or perhaps to her foul-smelling skirt, and sat at her feet with his great head resting in her lap throughout the meal. Meanwhile, mother and son discussed the farm and various matters in which she had no part and no understanding. John spoke to his mother in an arrogant manner, often interrupting her sentences and snapping out sullen replies, as if he barely had time to answer her gentle questions. His mother didn’t seem to notice. At least, she said nothing to correct his manner. Sometimes Lucy thought they’d both forgotten her completely; then one of them would glance her way, suddenly remembering her presence.

“If the Friday wench truly means to be of any use, she can milk the cows tomorrow morning,” John muttered at one point, eyeing her across the table as she delicately tore little pieces of bread to mop up the last of her stew, careful not to spill any. “But I daresay she’s not accustomed to rising early.” There was challenge in the way he said it, even a little contempt in his blue eyes.

Taught never to speak with a mouth full of food, she chewed her bread and swallowed before she answered. “I’m glad to help.”

He shrugged, stuffing a spoonful of stew into his own busy mouth. “We’ll see.”

Straightening her shoulders, she watched him eat like a pig at the trough.

“We’ll see if you get up in time,” he clarified. “We don’t work on our backs around here.”

She granted him one of her most disdainful looks, but he shoveled more food into his mouth, unperturbed. Apparently he thought he would talk to her in the same careless, uncivil manner he addressed his poor mother.

“What shall we do with all Nathaniel’s belongings?” Mistress Carver asked, watching her son drain his second bowl of stew and another flagon of cider.

He burped with slow deliberation. “Suppose they can all go in the store shed. The Friday wench with them.”

His mother laughed softly. “Lucy can have your sisters’ chamber, now they no longer have need of it.”

Elbows on the table, he tore into a hunk of bread with his greedy teeth. “Are you sure, Mother? Can we trust Nate’s fancy trollop in the house? She might steal the silver spoons and the pewter.”

This many rude comments in a row, aimed at their guest, was apparently the limit. His mother finally slapped him around the ear, warning him to be polite or he would be the one spending the night in the store shed. Ducking and laughing, he was not bothered by his mother’s threats or her slaps. It was clear, Lucy thought sourly, he ran the roost and had done so for some time. She’d witnessed that flare of cockiness in him before and thought he merely did it to tease her, but now she saw he was accustomed to getting away with things. And why not, she mused, her mood darkening further. Even she, Lucy Collyer with ice in her veins and nothing but disdain for any man who came to court her, once had been unable to refuse this rogue anything he wanted.

No one had ever touched her the way he had. No other man would ever have dared do those things to her. Most were afraid of her haughty demeanor, her scornful tongue, and never got beyond it to find the real woman beneath.

But he had. Nothing, it seemed, stopped John Sydney Carver doing exactly what he wanted. Not even her intrinsic frostiness stood in his way.

“I suppose she can bed in the house then, as long as she gives us no trouble.” He spared her a dismissive glance. “Best be up in time to milk the cows, wench. Or else.”

He wasn’t going to get away with it again. “Or else what?” She whipped out the words, sitting very straight in her chair, facing him fearlessly across the table.

John blinked. His eyes gleamed with sudden intensity above the fluttering drift of candlelight. Clearly he hadn’t expected any questioning from her. “Or you can go back where I found you. I can’t afford to keep another mouth unless the owner of it serves a purpose.” Tearing another bite of bread with his strong teeth, he grinned slowly.

Watching his churning, smirking lips, she remembered how they’d once kissed her, how his busy tongue had lapped at her nipples and between her thighs with sublime dexterity. When he had feasted upon her as greedily as he devoured his supper.

Tonight he seemed determined to prick her temper with his brusque gestures and rude manners, challenging her like a naughty little boy, but she knew he could be gentle, seductive, a wonderfully persuasive lover. Raising her eyes a few inches to meet his gaze, she caught a sudden lick of heat, followed by a guilty flicker. She realized her own face was hot and his had turned a brilliant shade. A frisson of like ideas had passed between them, shocking and detailed.

He coughed, cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“Those goats are two strong specimens, healthy and biddable. At least Nate left me something of good use. I’ll put them in the small barn, just until we see how they get on with ours.”

A short while later, observing her yawning uncontrollably, his mother showed Lucy upstairs to a bedchamber. Both her daughters, she explained, were married and lived in the county of Dorset, leaving their old chamber unoccupied. It was a good-sized room with a window overlooking the yard and stables. The floorboards creaked, even when no foot walked over them, and between roof beams the low hanging plaster was thickly veined with cracks that seemed to spread and change shape as she watched. The chamber had little in the way of comforts, but it was a roof over her head and she would’ve been grateful then even for a store shed with the company of goats.

“Thank you, Mistress Carver, for your hospitality. I don’t want to be in anyone’s way.”

“And you’re not. Forgive my son, he has a tendency to let his tongue run away with him and be too sharp for its own good. He’ll cut himself with it one day, and although I await the occasion with considerable impatience, it hasn’t happened yet.”

And it wouldn’t happen, if no one ever stood up to the arrogant brat. “I’ll not mind what he says then.”

“See that you don’t. I never do.” The old lady used her candle to light another standing by the bed. “I’m very glad you’ve come, my dear.” She stayed to untie the laces of Lucy’s gown and corset, then she slipped away, closing the door with a rusty creak and a gentle thud.

Lucy sat on the bed, in her petticoats and shift, her mind too busy to rest now she was alone. Her earlier tiredness had vanished. If she lay down in bed, she knew she would toss and turn restlessly. Instead she mulled over her new predicament.

Hmm. John Sydney Carver.

He was extremely dismissive, because he assumed she was his cousin’s mistress and therefore of less consequence to him than a pair of goats, from which he would at least get milk. But what a hypocrite he was, to be disdainful of his cousin’s “trollop,” when he was not above visits to a bawdy house and nights of unbridled lust with masked ladies he never expected to see again. There were two sides to him and she’d seen them both.

Low voices crept up through the floorboards and so, still too restless to lie down, she took the candle and tiptoed onto the landing. Creeping along barefoot, she made her way to the railings at the top of the staircase and knelt there. The door below was left ajar, or else knocked open slightly by a draft. A soft orange wedge of firelight slipped through the gap and lit the bottom few steps.

They spoke quietly, but she heard their words clearly now and, just as she suspected, they spoke of her.

“It’ll be a welcome change for me, John, to have another pair of hands around the house.”

His reply was curt. “She won’t stay long, Mother. The moment she sees what real work is, she’ll be off. You’ll see. A woman like that isn’t made for life on a farm.”

“Mayhap you underestimate her.”

“Seen her hands? Lily-white and soft as fallen rose petals. From the look of her, she’s never done an honest day’s work. Did you see her face when I told her how early she’d best be up for the milking? I’ll wager she’s never been out of bed before noon, nor had her hands on a cow’s teat.”