The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (26 page)

“Looking at the level of that water, I’d say we won’t be leaving here until tomorrow at the earliest. It’s not dropping yet, but it’s stopped rising.” He squatted down and began to stack the wood in the box next to the hearth.

She nodded and went on busily pinching out little lumps of dough.

He finished stacking the wood and brushed off his hands. “What are you doing?”

“Making dumplings for our dinner.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down to watch her. She rolled out the lumps of dough into small circles, placed a dab of creamy green mush in the middle, then folded them in half, sealing the edges with some beaten egg.

“Never seen dumplings like that before.”

“They’re Chinese.”

“Ah.” He watched as her hands moved deftly. Flatten, dab, fold, seal. The crescent-shaped dumplings multiplied rapidly. It was quite soothing to watch, but Freddy wasn’t in the mood for being soothed. “You know, Damaris, for a girl who’s normally quite good about grasping the nettle, you’re being remarkably reluctant to face the truth of our situation.”

Her mouth flattened. “I’m not going to marry you.”

“There’s no choice, not for either of us. If we don’t, you’ll be regarded as a fallen woman, and decent women will shun your society, while I’ll be branded as a scoundrel.”

“We agreed this arrangement was a temporary thing only. A pretense.”

God, but she was stubborn. “Yes, but the flood has changed everything.”

She wiped her floury hands on a cloth. “I don’t care what people say about me.”

“Nor what they say about me, apparently.”

That gave her a jolt, he saw. She hadn’t considered it from his point of view. She gave him a pleading look. “I could make it clear that you offered for me and I refused.”

He tamped down on his anger, telling himself she didn’t understand the implications, that she was an innocent and had been raised in another culture. It didn’t help. “You would tell the world that you would rather be branded as a scarlet woman than marry me? How very flattering.”

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” She shook her head, as if she were having a silent argument with herself. She finished the last of the dumplings, covered them with a damp cloth and began to tidy the table. “Surely people will forget after a week or two. You know how society moves from one scandal to the next.”

He clenched his fist. Her stubborn refusal to face facts infuriated him. “I don’t care. You and I will marry—no argument. If you cannot bear me to touch you—and I don’t believe that for a minute”—she flinched—“then we will have a white marriage. But marry me you will.”

“I can’t.”

At the despair in her voice, a possibility occurred to him for the first time. “Are you—you’re not married already, are you?”

“No. But there are reasons why I cannot . . .”

“What reasons?”

She shook her head and started wiping down the table. He snatched the cloth and threw it across the room. “Dammit, Damaris, if I’m to be known as a scoundrel who ruined the reputation of a decent young lady, the very least you owe me is an explanation.”

She gave him a long, troubled look, then seemed to crumple. She lowered herself onto the chair and said wearily, “That’s just it, I’m not a decent young lady. The very opposite, in fact.”

“If I could but know
his
heart, everything would become easy.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

“I
’ll explain, but first I’ll make us some tea,” she said.

Freddy was about to put out his hand and stop her, but changed his mind. Women sometimes found comfort in such rituals, and tea might bring a little color back to her cheeks. That paleness worried him.

I’m not a decent young lady. The very opposite, in fact.

What the hell could she mean by it? The opposite of decent? That was nonsense, for a start. He’d known a lot of women, of various characters and from all walks of life, and Damaris was one of the finest, most decent people he’d known.

He watched her making the tea—well, not proper tea; it was another collection of dried green bits. God knew what it would taste like, but if she made it, he would drink it. It was her way of delaying the inevitable.

Judging from her expression, it was serious, this reason of hers. At least she thought it was.

What could she possibly have done that would make her ineligible for marriage? Because that, beneath it all, was what she was saying—not that she wouldn’t marry him, but that she couldn’t.

Finally, just when he was about to put his foot down and insist that she stop messing about with blasted herbs and tell him what the hell this was all about, she brought the teapot and two cups over and sat down again at the table.

“It’s a long story,” she said.

“I don’t mind.” He didn’t care how long it took, as long as he learned what could have put that bleak look in her eyes. Worse than bleak. Stark despair.

At the prospect of marrying him.

Damaris stirred her tea slowly, wishing, praying there were some way she could avoid telling him this. Wanting to put off the moment when the kindness and concern would fade from his eyes and be replaced by . . .

Pray that when she was finished he would not look at her the way Papa used to look at Mama. With resentment. And disgust. Papa had no respect for Mama, none at all.

Now, on the brink of opening herself to the same condemnation, she wondered how Mama had borne it all those years. She would have been less lonely living alone, without a soul to talk to, than living with Papa and his righteous contempt.

No decent man could respect a woman who came to her marriage bed tarnished. Impure. And worse, driven still by the lusts of the flesh.

And though Damaris had tried all her life to do the right thing, now she was just as tarnished, just as impure and fallen as Mama—more so, probably.

And she had a horrid suspicion she was also driven by the lusts of the flesh.

She stirred her tea, feeling his gaze on her, but unwilling to meet it, dreading the moment the kind light of concern would fade from his eyes.

She traced the grain of the table with her finger, trying to decide how to start—where to start, because it was complicated. “You know I lived in China.”

He nodded. “Yes, with your missionary father.”

“I told you Papa died, but what I didn’t say is that he was killed. Murdered.”

“Murdered?”

She found a crack in the grain of the timber and ran her fingernail along it, back and forth, concentrating as she spoke, as if the story she told was about someone else, not herself. “Yes. I wasn’t there when they came—I was at the market. . . .” She told him how she’d seen Zhang Liang and his soldiers riding out but hadn’t realized the significance of it until she’d heard the old lord, his father, was dead.

Her shopping had fallen in the dust, unheeded, as she’d realized where the soldiers must have been going.

She told him how she’d run and run, with a stitch knifing into her side, and how she’d stumbled the last few yards on shaky, exhausted legs, up the crest of the hill that overlooked the valley, and had seen the pall of smoke hanging over the mission.

In a voice that sounded wooden to her ears, she described how she’d found their little church looted and destroyed, the children gone—she knew not where, whether they’d fled or been taken by the soldiers. And how she’d found her father’s body sprawled in the mission courtyard—beheaded.

He frowned and reached for her hands at that point, but she waved him off. She’d never get through her story if he touched her, she knew.

She told him how she’d buried Papa. There was nothing to be done about the children—she was helpless in that too. But on reflection she decided the soldiers would not harm them. If they’d intended harm, surely there would be small bodies in the dust along with Papa’s. No, it was only the foreign devils they were after.

She was the only one left. She told him how she’d set out to walk to the coast, hoping to find a European ship to take her home—yes, she still thought of England as home, even though she had no memories of it, and no relatives.

She described how she’d walked for days—no, she didn’t know how many, she’d lost track of time—and how, to her joy and relief, she had found an English ship. But that by that time she had nothing left, no food, no money to pay for her passage, only the clothes she stood up in—Chinese peasant clothes—and her mother’s locket.

She traced the crack in the wood over and over, wishing she didn’t have to tell him this part, but knowing it was the whole point of the story.

It was hard to find the words—no, not the words; it was the will to speak them she lacked. The words themselves were simple.

She told him how she’d spoken to the captain and explained her situation. “I offered to work my passage, cleaning, cooking, mending the sails or whatever.” It was important that he understand that, that she had offered honest work in exchange for her passage. “And the captain agreed.”

She still hadn’t looked at him. He’d gone very silent. He wasn’t stupid; he could see what was coming.

She paused, wishing he would speak and save her the pain of telling it in all its sordid detail. She’d never told anyone this part of her story, had hoped she’d never have to.

But he said not a word to spare her.

She told him how seasick she’d been for the first few days. “It’s not only carriages I get sick in,” she said ruefully, but really she was putting off the moment.

And, judging from the tension that seemed to fill the cottage, he knew it.

She moistened her lips and forced herself to continue. “After a few days at sea I became accustomed to the movement of the ship. I was able to stand and keep food down. One of the sailors told me to clean myself up, that the captain had sent for me.” She swallowed. “I was told to report for duty. He—the captain was . . . he was in his cabin.

“And then . . .” She swallowed, and traced the grain of the table with her finger, pressing her fingernail into the tiny crack as if it could somehow swallow her up. She still couldn’t look at him. “And then he told me the . . . the manner by which I was to work my passage. He said I had three choices.”

There was a long silence.

“What were the choices?” His voice sounded hoarse.

She swallowed again, with difficulty, and tried to meet his eyes but failed. “He said I could become his—his—”

“I know what he meant. What were the other two choices?”

“If I didn’t choose him, he would hand me over to the crew, for the same purpose.”

He swore. “And your third choice?”

“To swim for shore.”

“After several days at sea?” He swore again.

She nodded and forced herself to spit it out. “And so I made my choice, and though I know it was cowardly and contemptible, in the same circumstances, I would make the same choice again.” She braced herself for his reaction, but he said not a word. Had he not understood what she’d done? Did he expect her to say it? To admit every ugly detail?

Papa would have.

So, in a hard little voice, she forced out the words that would complete her confession. “I chose the capt—”

He reached across the table and took her hands in a warm, firm grip. “No, Damaris, you chose
life
. And
no one
could blame you for it. No one, least of all me.”

They weren’t the words she’d been expecting. Not remotely. She forced herself to look at him then. His eyes were blazing blue with some unknowable emotion. His hands gripped hers tightly, so tightly it almost hurt.

“You did the only thing you could.
No one
would blame you. I certainly wouldn’t.”

She searched his face, not entirely trusting the truth of what he’d said. “I was always taught ‘death before dishonor.’”

“There was no dishonor in what you did,” he said softly. His thumbs caressed her hands. “Only desperation. And a desire to live. The dishonor was entirely that swine of a captain’s.”

She tried to swallow but there was a lump in her throat. She wanted to believe him, but a lifetime’s experience had taught her the opposite was true. The woman was always at fault. Always.

“Is that your reason for refusing to get married?”

She nodded. “I realize that virginity is a requirement for marriage, that no decent man could respect a woman who came to her marriage bed tarnished and impure—”

“Who told you that piece of nonsense?”

She blinked. “My father.” Repeatedly.

“Well, forgive me, but if that’s what he thought, the man was a fool. Granted, some fellows prize virginity in a bride, but that’s usually about securing paternity, of the first child, at least. And because some men are clumsy brutes and prefer their brides ignorant. Besides, I’m somewhat of a rake, which means I’m not a virgin, either. Which makes us equal.”

She shook her head. “It’s different for men, as you very well know. You’re not taking me seriously. I would rather live alone than live without respect.” As Mama had.

He frowned. “I’ve already said I don’t blame you. No one could possibly blame you for what happened.”

She could not quite believe him. She lifted her chin and said half defiantly, “I would do it again if I had to, so though I was shamed by the captain, I am not ashamed of my decision. And I won’t be
forgiven
for it.” Because the forgiven one was always in the wrong. Forgiven didn’t mean forgotten. Papa had forgiven Mama, but he’d never forgotten, not for a minute. She’d had to endure his forgiveness daily.

His eyes warmed. “My dear girl, I wouldn’t dare.”

There was a short silence. “Are you . . . are you laughing at me?” She couldn’t believe it.

He squeezed her hands. “Not precisely laughing. Smiling a little at your fierceness, perhaps. There’s no need for it, truly there isn’t. You don’t have to defend your decision to me. I thoroughly approve it. Where would I be if you’d believed that ‘death before dishonor’ nonsense, for instance?”

She decided to take him literally. “For a start, you wouldn’t be stuck in a cottage, cut off from the world by floodwaters and being compromised into a marriage you never wanted.”

“Exactly,” he said cheerfully. “I did mention that I enjoy a little adventure from time to time, did I not? I have no regrets at all about this one. And neither should you. Let us make the best of the situation life has presented us with. Speaking of which, are you going to do anything with those alleged dumplings, or are they meant to be served dry and cracked around the edges?”

She glanced at the dumplings and tucked the damp cloth over the few that were exposed to the air. She didn’t understand this man at all. He seemed not to take her situation at all seriously. She told him so.

“Oh, make no mistake, my dear, I take what was done to you very seriously. Very seriously indeed.” She glimpsed a flash of ice in his eyes, but then they warmed as he said, “But as far as I’m concerned nothing you have told me presents any barrier to our marrying.”

It was a sliver of hope but she couldn’t count on it. “Then let me tell you the rest,” she said. She had hoped not to have to tell him this last part. “When we landed in England, instead of setting me ashore, as he’d promised, the captain told me he had found me a job. And then he laughed.”

She still felt ill, remembering the moment she’d realized. Her shock, and momentary disbelief, followed by helpless, bitter fury.

What a fool she’d been to believe that such a man would keep his word to a friendless girl.

“He’d sold me to a brothel.”

Freddy made some sort of incoherent noise. She glanced at him, but he shook his head. “Go on.” His jaw tightened, as did his grip on her. It crushed her fingers a little, but was oddly comforting. Connection, instead of repudiation.

“Of course I refused. I tried to escape, to get off the ship myself, but he was prepared for that. He had me bound and gagged and carried ashore wrapped in an old blanket.” The blanket was moldy and damp and the stench of it made her sick. “My first sight of England was from the inside of a brothel. From a locked room.”

He swore. “The bastard!”

She forced out the words that still scalded her with shame. “He told me, as they carried me away, that I was born for it.”

“The swine will die for that,” he said quietly, and then he fixed his gaze on her. “Of course, you do know there’s not the slightest word of truth in what he said.”

She ran her tongue over dry lips. “That day at the lake, you said—”

“I know what I said, and it’s not the same thing at all. I’ll show you what I meant, and it’s a world away from whatever that bastard told you. But first, finish your tale. You’re almost done now—and you need to tell me, I know, though it will change nothing, I promise you. Now, how did you get out of the brothel?”

She hesitated. This was not only her story to share; others were involved. “Will you give me your word of honor that what I tell you will go no further than this room?”

He gave a curt nod, and then, when she still waited, said, “Of course you have my word. Go on.”

“Jane had also been taken to the brothel by force—she’d been drugged and kidnapped. She was an orphan too, but unlike me—and unbeknownst to her kidnappers—she had a sister in London—Abby—and she convinced a maidservant to send word to her. Daisy—she was the maid—helped us escape. She came with us.”