Jayne Fresina

by Once a Rogue

  She thought of his hands. Despite those scarred knuckles, they were incredibly gentle and soothing, when they wanted to be.

  “He tells me he’s done with fighting now. Claims he’s ready soon to settle down with a wife,” his mother said. “Thankfully. I’m surprised he managed to keep all those fine teeth in his head.” Then she paused, head on one side. “Just like his father. My Will always had very good, strong teeth.”

  Lucy nodded solemnly. Mistress Carver talked of her husband often that day. It seemed her son bore many resemblances to his father and Lucy supposed this was why the old lady let him get away with his cheek. It was no cause for her to do the same though, she reasoned.

  At the end of the first long day, she asked if she might have a bath. The old lady looked surprised, but told her where to find the copper tub. “John can help you carry it in when he gets back from the fields. I’m afraid my back won’t take the strain. But if you start heating the water by the fire now, it should be ready for you by then. There are two buckets in the store shed.”

  Perhaps a bath was not necessary after all. Stupidly, the work involved hadn’t occurred to her, but there were no maids here to obey her every whim.

  “Well, I suppose it is only a little dirt,” she muttered. “It can wait.”

  Mistress Carver smiled kindly. “Light the candles then, will you, dear. If John sees them in the window he’ll know it’s time to come in for his supper, otherwise he’ll stay out there all night.”

  She looked around and saw a few stumps on the mantle. “These are almost used up. Shall I get new ones out?”

  “Gracious no, dear. There’s a good few hours left on those.”

  Biting her lip, she quickly gathered up the stumps, lit them in the fire and then set them in holders by the windows. She felt stupid, lazy and naive, but Mistress Carver good-naturedly ignored her many stumbles.

  Lucy had imagined on her first day that all the rising early and working hard was merely John Carver’s plan to crush her spirit and prove a point, but as each subsequent day passed much like the first, she realized this was their life, no scheme for her undoing. It was their everyday routine, and now hers too.

  Gathering her dogged strength, her courage and a considerable helping of competitive spirit, she got on with her new tasks.

  Chapter 9

  John reluctantly conceded that Nathaniel’s trollop was not so useless after all. She threw herself whole-heartedly into the chores he gave her, no matter how demeaning and dirty. It wouldn’t last, he reassured himself. But whenever he gave an order and she set her mouth in a determined line, eyes smoldering with defiance, like a sun-lapped forest soon to be consumed with flame, he knew she would prove him wrong if it killed her. He’d never known a woman so tenacious. On the outside she was small and delicate; on the inside she was strong as an ox.

  She puzzled him, intrigued him, challenged him.

  He didn’t like the way she answered back with her quick tongue, as if she thought he was her servant. She criticized his manners, called him ungrateful and suggested he didn’t appreciate his own mother. Even when she should be exhausted after a long day’s work, she often still had breath to argue with him.

  John was accustomed to women who did what they were told, thankful for his notice. It was true his mother had her moments of sauciness, especially after a cup or two of plum wine, but she generally understood it was best to keep him in a good temper. To have the table set for supper when he came in, to have his clothes clean and dry when he needed them, his boots brushed and set by the warm fire on cold mornings. His mother knew how to take care of him, and had done so for thirty years without feeling the need to question or raise her voice much. Even the occasional threat of a smack across the head with a ladle was never actually carried out.

  Nathaniel’s trollop appeared to take issue with this.

  “Your mother is a sweet, loving woman. You should be ashamed of how you treat her. You take her for granted.”

  “Who asked your opinion?” he growled, at which she merely pursed her petulant, resolute lips and spun away in a flurry of muddied petticoat.

  In his opinion, he treated his mother very well indeed. He worked hard, saved money, kept the house and farm maintained, even let her keep brewing plum wine, against his better judgment. So where this impertinent Friday wench came by the gumption to shout at him and tell him he was a “spoiled rotten little bugger,” he could hardly guess.

  She’d called him it twice now: once when he’d laughed because she fell in the dung heap and once when she’d caught and ripped her skirt in the stable door after he let it shut too quickly behind them. Both occasions had been in the midst of an argument. He couldn’t even remember what started it, but it was probably one of her bossy remarks, or one of those imperious gestures she often used to send him on his way. A careless flick of her slender wrist, perhaps. That was always enough to spark his temper. So too was her coy ability to always be just out of his reach, avoiding his touch.

  Lofty and obdurate, she was keen to repudiate anything he said, but it was obvious she had no grounding beneath, no proper education to back her up. For example, she insisted the sun revolved around the earth. Apparently she’d never heard of Copernicus. He wasn’t surprised to learn she thought the world was flat, when everyone should know by now that it was round.

  “Have you forgotten, wench?” he’d yelled at her, “I’m the son of a sailor. I think he’d know more about the world than you would.”

  “Why don’t we fall off, then if the world is a big ball?” she’d yelled back.

  “Sometimes people do. Skinny, light-headed creatures like you, for instance.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense.” And there went the irreverent flick of her fingertips, the toss of her cynical head.

  The Friday wench possessed an oddly scattered stream of ideas, as if she’d been schooled by someone with their own beliefs to promote and no real intent of teaching her anything important or useful. He’d never bothered arguing his point to any woman before now, yet he took the trouble to set her straight. Not that she appreciated the time and effort on his part. He was convinced she frequently fell asleep by the fire in the evenings on purpose. Unless it was sheer coincidence that she began to snore in the midst of his lectures.

  “See mother, I was right. She’ll soon give up when the novelty wears off,” he whispered smugly one night, while Lucy slept by the fire, curled up in the old rocking chair, knees drawn up to her chest, bare toes peeking out beneath the hem of her gown. “She’ll soon start missing her wealthy gentlemen patrons.”

  “I think she likes it here.” His mother bent over her sewing. “She never speaks of any other life left behind.” She swept a fleeting glance at her son. “Or any other man.”

  He fidgeted in his seat, sliding down to stretch his long legs. “Perhaps there were so many she doesn’t remember any one in particular, even my cousin.” He clicked his fingers at Vince, who lay by Lucy’s chair, sprawled over her discarded shoes, keeping them warm for her. The dog opened one eye, flopped his tail lazily and remained exactly where he was.

  “She talks of you a great deal,” his mother said nonchalantly, searching in her sewing basket for more thread. “Never stops asking me questions about you.”

  “What the devil for?” he demanded. “She likes askin’ ’em but she doesn’t answer any herself, does she? I told you, she can’t be trusted.” He knew nothing about this woman living under his roof and she adamantly refused to tell him anything. It was a great thorn under his skin, but he couldn’t very well whip it out of her. He might jokingly suggest it, just to enjoy her outraged expression, but he’d never lay a violent hand on any woman.

  “I daresay she’ll share her past with us eventually.” His mother was distressingly calm, refusing to bide his warnings.

  “Damned wench will run off one day with the plate from the mantle, or steal one of the horses. Mark my words, Mother.”

  “Oh hush! She’ll soon se
ttle in, if you stop badgering the poor girl. A few words of kindness wouldn’t go amiss.”

  He folded his arms, then tried to rest his elbow on the arm of his chair, then shifted position completely, sitting upright and looking for his ale tankard. “Hmph! Settle in?” He looked at her again, where she slept curled up in her chair. “Looks settled in to me.”

  She did, in fact, look as if she belonged there by his fire.

  His mother kept her gaze on her sewing. “Lucy certainly has a very fine, neat stitch. Much better than mine ever was, even before my eyesight began to fail. She’s quick, too. Finished the mending on your shirts for me this afternoon and then asked what else she might do before I’d even threaded my needle.”

  “At least she can do something, then.”

  Once more he tried to get his dog’s attention, but the beast was too content, and beat his tail only once on the flagstones. Clearly decided he was needed where he was, Vince didn’t bother to crack an eye in response to his master’s summons.

  “She’s good company for me, John. I miss having your sisters around and since you won’t bring a wife home…” She let her words trail off, concentrating on her sewing. He’d never seen his mother this enthralled by a row of stitches, he thought wryly.

  There was a long pause. He studied his grimy fingernails. “I suppose she can stay if she’s some use to you, Mother.”

  “No more trial, then?”

  Again he eyed the sleeping girl before resuming perusal of his fingers, picking out a bothersome splinter. “As long as she behaves herself and stops quarreling with me she can stay.”

  “Thank you, John. You are kind to your old mother. I can see what an inconvenience it must be for you, having a young woman like Lucy around, but you make this noble sacrifice for my comfort.”

  When he slid his mother a sideways glance, she hid her smile, bent over her sewing again. He let it pass, not particularly eager to discuss his reasons for keeping Nathaniel’s hussy in his house.

  The young woman curled up in the chair now snored gently, hands twitching in her lap.

  “Should be in bed, poor thing,” his mother exclaimed, setting her sewing aside. “I’ll wake her and tell her to go up.”

  “No.” John stood quickly. “Don’t wake her. I’ll take her up.”

  “Oh…well…if you think that’s best.”

  He did. The Friday wench was always moving nervously and usually away from him. To have her comparatively yielding and pliant in his arms was a rare opportunity. He worked his fingers to the bone every day, why not have a little reward at the end of it?

  Slowly and carefully, he lifted her out of the rocking chair, one arm under her knees, the other under her shoulders. Vince scrambled to his feet with a low, questioning woof.

  “Hush, fool beast!”

  Might have been a warning to himself, as well as Vince.

  She was very slight, needed feeding up. Her body shifted in his embrace, her head rolling against his shoulder. When she murmured his name, it was so soft he couldn’t be sure it was even his, but he didn’t want her dreaming of anyone else. Instinctively he nestled her tighter against his body. In response she threw one arm around his neck and her breath warmed his skin. His heartbeat quickened.

  He daren’t look again at his mother. She’d been acting oddly ever since he’d brought Nathaniel’s Friday wench home, more oddly than usual and she’d always been a trifle eccentric. His mother liked the girl already, it seemed, but then Nathaniel’s Friday wench was another stray in need of a home, and in his mother’s opinion there was always room for such in that house. He sincerely hoped the hussy’s rebellious quarrelling wouldn’t stir his mother to similar mouthiness. One had to be careful with women in groups, so his father had always said.

  Vince followed only to the foot of the stairs and then sat, his duties relinquished. He entrusted her to the care of John’s arms.

  Carrying his warm bundle up the narrow stairs, he moved slowly, fearing she’d wake and wonder what on earth he was doing with her, but he needn’t have worried. She was deeply asleep, too tired to feel any jostling. With one foot he nudged open the door to his sisters’ chamber, took her inside and laid her gently on the bed, almost afraid to breathe. The sky was bright with moon and stars that night, lighting the chamber even without candles. She liked the shutters open, he’d noticed.

  Suddenly the house, usually full of creaks and groans, was quiet, watchful and waiting. The little white cap she always wore was nudged slightly askew, exposing the side of her smooth cheek and a little of that midnight hair.

  Fighting the sudden urge to kiss her, he compromised by reaching down, touching her hair. Strange texture. He frowned. She dyed her hair? Of course, women in her profession used all manner of artifice.

  She squirmed and stretched, sighing in her sleep. One word slid from her lips and into the hushed stillness of the chamber.

  “Lance.”

  John straightened up, hands limp and heavy at his sides. He would not be tempted from his new path by this Friday wench. No indeed.

  Battling the demon jealousy, he struggled for several minutes and then walked out, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving her to those passionate dreams of some other man. As he suspected, Cousin Nathaniel was not her only lover.

  But although his doubts were proven, it did nothing to subdue his strange torment.

  * * * *

  Busy with her tasks each day, Lucy had no chance to explore far beyond the gates. They were generally kept shut to discourage wandering in any case, but from her chamber window she could see a quarter mile up the slight hill, to the rugged outline of an ancient flint tower. She learned this was once home to the Barons Sydney, the old feudal overlords and a family from which Mistress Carver was descended.

  “My uncle, God rest his soul, was the last Baron Sydney, the last male of his line,” she told Lucy one day as they cleaned the windows together. “He had no sons to inherit and when he died the property reverted to the crown.”

  “No one lives there now?” There were no lights visible at night and it was a dark, cheerless monolith.

  “At present it belongs to Lord Oakham, but he makes his home at the much more comfortable Bollingbrooke Hall, when he’s here. He’s most often away in London, at court.”

  The name Oakham sounded vaguely familiar, but there were many folk she’d met under her father’s roof. Titled fellows he’d wanted to impress, men who would help him advance in consequence.

  Lucy rinsed her rag in the bucket, taking a moment to put her scrambled thoughts in order. It had never occurred to her she might meet someone in this place who had any connection to London and the life she’d left behind. Summoning every shred of calm, she inquired further about Lord Oakham and learned that John had purchased land from him on several occasions to expand the farm. He’d recently furthered their property with the freehold on ten more acres. In the few years since he’d taken charge of the farm, his mother explained proudly, John had also increased the livestock and hired farmhands. Through his planning and hard work, they now prospered more than ever before and Lord Oakham envied John’s success.

  “But we purchased the land outright and he can’t raise the rents on us, as he can to his leaseholders.” She rubbed hard at a greasy mark on the crooked window. “When he sold that land to my son, Oakham needed the money and quickly. Never seems to have enough to keep him in all his finery, and the queen planned to visit his manor on summer progress with the court. He required a great deal of coin to prepare the place. Then, after all his efforts, the queen changed her mind and traveled elsewhere.” She chuckled at Lord Oakham’s misfortunes. “I daresay, if John looked to buy more land in the future, he wouldn’t turn down the money.”

  Lucy was surprised John had enough coin to purchase acres of land directly. He and his mother always dressed plainly and there was no obvious luxury in the house, apart from its many windows and chimneys, which seemed almost over-indulgent.

  �
�John’s never been one for boasting,” his mother explained genially, reading Lucy’s expression. “But he does well for himself, believes in earning his money. Like his father, he’s never had much time for the nobility, those who inherited their wealth and never worked a day for it.”

  “But he’s descended from barons,” she said, gesturing through the window toward the rugged tower on the hill.

  His mother chuckled. “Best not mention it to him. He’d rather not be reminded.”

  “Why not?”

  The old lady considered for a moment. “I suppose it’s because they lost it all, spent it all, wagered it away and never had the foresight to make more for themselves. They sat back and rested on what they were given. He can’t respect them for that.” She sighed heavily. “He has no time for spendthrifts.”

  What would John think of her, she mused sadly, if he knew the easy, wasteful, sheltered life she’d led in London? No wonder he’d been so scornful of her soft hands.

  Looking through the newly-cleaned window, she watched him cross the yard with Vince trotting amiably at his side. John’s clothes were stained and worn, his boots muddy again, after she’d spent an hour last night scrubbing them clean. But the sun seemed especially bright where it touched him, lighting him up like an angel. The wretched man might claim to have no time for something beautiful, like sunset over the distant ruins, or a jug full of wildflowers that she’d picked beside the gate and arranged for the supper table, but the sight of him certainly gave her pleasure. It swelled inside her more each day, buoying her spirits whenever she saw him. Sweeping the house with his busy gaze just then, he caught her looking and scowled hard to discourage it.

  Her breath formed a slow mist on the glass, until he was obscured from view. He was quite right, of course. She shouldn’t be looking at him, or nursing these wistful thoughts.

  * * * *

  Rather than answer questions regarding Nathaniel’s harlot, John kept her out of sight, making certain his mother confined her to the house and yard. When Lucy asked him one day if she was a prisoner, he assured her she was free to leave any time she wished, but as long as she stayed under his roof he would protect her. For Nathaniel’s sake.