by Once a Rogue
“It didn’t worry you last Sunday when you and your mother went without me.”
“Well, it bothers me now,” he muttered.
There was no way around it. He was apparently ready to face the inevitable gossip at last.
Mistress Carver had not expected her son’s sudden turnabout either and she fretted that there wasn’t enough time to sew Lucy a plainer gown. She advised her to wear a cloak over her flamboyant frock and try not to pay heed to any of the looks they were bound to get. They seldom had strangers in the village, she explained, and John had given no explanation for her presence in his house. The village gossips, left to their imaginations, would doubtless let them run wild.
On this sunny day, sweltering under her cloak, Lucy quickly discovered John Sydney Carver was the most sought after bachelor in Sydney Dovedale and the surrounding villages. Not only hard-working and respectably prosperous, he was, of course, exceedingly pleasant to look upon. Being a supposedly reformed rogue made him doubly irresistible. Every woman, unmarried or not, eagerly watched him enter the church and subsequently took note of her trailing along behind.
Immediately she felt their suspicion and distrust. Surely, if she were in their shoes, she would react the same. But her empathy was wasted. It won her no points with them and, in fact, the more sorrowfully apologetic she made her expression, the deeper their frowns. To make matters worse, when she stumbled over a chipped floor tile, John put his hand on her arm and never let go again until she was safely seated at his side. The audible, anguished sighs drifting over the heads of the congregation raised the temperature to an uncomfortable degree.
Two women watched her closely. One was a brunette, lushly curvaceous and bordering on blousy. The other was fair, rather prim and very upright. Later she learned the fair-headed creature was Alice Croft, long considered the front runner in pursuit of John Carver. Her bosomy friend was Bridget Frye. Lucy attempted a friendly smile, only to be rebuffed at once by both young women. They turned their backs, their heads instantly bent together as they whispered.
John seemed oblivious to it all, his gaze on the parson, hands on his knees, tapping lightly with his fingers, no doubt impatient to be busy again. On his other side, his mother sat with her eyes closed, as if asleep. No one dared reprimand her. At her age, as she’d said to Lucy, she got away with a great deal more than most.
Sitting quietly, hands in her lap, Lucy paid only scant attention to the sermon, taking everything in: the dusty floor tiles, the damp, stately stonework and the bejeweled sunlight winking through the stained glass window above the pulpit. How many generations of Sydneys had sat their proud posteriors in that chapel, she wondered, remembering the man beside her was a direct descendent of Norman knights and barons. Her own family history was nothing compared to his, for her father, despite his wealth, was a mere parvenu, always striving to better his place in life, using his children to make alliances with old nobility.
John brushed the folds of her skirt and she knew his leg must have moved closer. Whether or not it was an involuntary motion, she wasn’t sure. There was nowhere to move away–a stone pillar blocked her left side. And then his knuckle moved very slightly, stroking her thigh through layers of skirt and petticoat, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead, feigning innocence and dutiful attention to the parson.
Again his finger moved, slower this time, more definite so she couldn’t possibly mistake it for any sort of accident.
Squeezing her legs together, she moved as far as possible against the stone pillar. Now his brows knotted, his jaw twitched. He slid just half an inch after her, pretending to stretch out a cramp in his knee, then his shoulder.
It was much too hot in that cloak. She might faint, and what would be worse? To faint in the chapel and possibly cause John Carver to carry her out in his strong arms, or be stared at with disdain, as she was already? Her choice made swiftly and in some desperation, she slid the cloak from her shoulders as carefully as she might to avoid any additional attention. John ceased tapping his knee. At least now he’d stopped touching her, but she cringed under the sharp, envious gaze of several young ladies, whose lips were quickly pursed in agreement about her. It was truly astounding how much trouble a little bosom might cause, even when doing nothing spectacular, only sitting precisely where God had put it. Even the parson momentarily lost his place, mopping his eyes with a kerchief before he found the use of them again.
In his raised pew at the front of the chapel, Lord Mortimer Oakham, recently returned from London, actually went so far as to open the little iron fretwork window separating his person from the unwashed mob, and peered out slyly. When he caught Lucy looking back at him, he quickly shut his window, only to re-open it a few moments later.
“Best steer clear of him,” Mistress Carver whispered a warning from the corner of her lips, leaning across his son. “They say he has an eye for the ladies and an appetite for trouble.”
Lucy caught John Carver’s steely-eyed gaze fixed upon her, particularly on the parts of her revealed by the dropping of her cloak.
Apparently Lord Oakham wasn’t the only soul with such an appetite.
* * * *
“Had to show off, did you?” John hurried her along toward the gate after church. Another angry gaze directed at her gown explained further, just in case she might have failed to understand his meaning.
“I was hot,” she protested, heartily sick of his pious expression.
“Hot indeed! If you’re looking for a new protector in Sydney Dovedale, you’d best think again. No one here has the coin to keep a strumpet like you, so you may as well put all that away.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of Alice and her father, who approached the gate at the same time.
“Mistress Carver,” Alice exclaimed with a note of forced cheerfulness, “I’m glad to see you recovered. I didn’t think you’d be out today and I was on my way to bring you calves foot jelly, a great restorative for the blood.”
John’s mother looked surprised. “You were? How sweet of you, my dear.” Both she and Lucy glanced at John’s unusually pale, angry face. Lucy frowned, but his mother swiftly hid her moment of confusion and covered for her son’s lie. “I’m feeling much improved. Am I not, John?”
He nodded, fiercely examining his scarred knuckles.
“Thanks to our extra pair of hands,” she added jauntily, dragging Lucy forward. “This is my nephew’s ward, Lucy Friday. Lucy, this is Alice Croft and her father, Adolphus Croft of Bay Brook farm, just over the other side of the village.”
Alice had a pinched face and close set eyes which, even as they tried to avoid looking, stared hard at Lucy’s scarlet gown, particularly its low-cut bodice. Her mouth finally wedged itself far enough open to mumble a greeting, which Lucy returned with far more warmth, hoping the girl would see she had no design on John’s affections.
Not far behind the Crofts came Bridget Frye and her brother, who Lucy had briefly met in the fields the day before. Martin Frye was evidently a forward young man and a fearless opportunist. Immediately he engaged her in conversation, asking how she liked the village, what she thought of the parson’s sermon and whether she liked kittens, since his cat recently birthed a large litter. He completely ignored his sister’s dark frowns and hard pinches, much to Lucy’s amusement. John eventually pried her away.
“Best be going,” he muttered, steering her into the shadow of the gate, cutting her conversation off mid-sentence.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Friday,” old farmer Croft exclaimed as she was whisked by, her feet barely allowed to touch the ground. “I hope you mean to stay a while, my dear. Your presence certainly brightened the chapel today. Such a change it is to see a pretty face in the village.”
She thanked him for his kind comments, even as John gripped her around the waist, thrust her under the gate arch and out into the lane. Alice looked askance at her father, then at John, before she walked away toward the village, a slightly wilted slope to her sh
oulders. Instantly Lucy felt compassion for the girl, knowing all too well what it was like to be unappreciated by one’s father.
Still pondering poor Alice’s predicament, she was almost trampled into the grass by John following so closely on her heels. In the distance, she now heard a male voice calling out above the general clamor of villagers, “Mistress Carver! Mistress Carver!”
She twisted around to see who it was, but John tugged her along the lane with no further delay, clearly intent on ignoring those shouts. His mother hurried after them, chiding her son for making an unnecessary scene at the gate.
His haste was all for naught, in any case. Lord Oakham’s horse soon caught up with them, clattering around in the dirt until they were forced to stop. Introductions were now inescapable, and since John kept his jaw stubbornly tight, his mother stepped up to the task.
Oakham was a slender fellow, with soft features and slumberous, pale blue eyes shot through with vivid red, but when they fixed upon Lucy they became more awake and attentive. He stayed mounted, obviously thinking himself above the Carvers in consequence. In the midst of aimless, stilted conversation he leaned down gallantly to kiss Lucy’s hand, exclaiming she was a welcome addition to the village scenery. As he spoke, she knew, with a terrible pinch in her belly, that she’d heard his listless voice before. Those indolent, blood-shot eyes peering down at her were equally familiar.
She curtseyed, her mind scrambling, her gaze searching the ruts of dried mud at her feet.
“Have we met before, Mistress Friday?”
For a moment her world went black. An eclipse of the sun, of her new life.
They would come for her now. She would be discovered.
Her mouth was dry, her nerves stretched to snapping point after a morning subjected to hard stares, nasty whispers and surreptitious strokes of one roguish finger. “I think not, sir.” Sobs stuck in her throat and she feared they made her voice sound strained, tense.
“Something about you seems familiar to me.”
She felt John’s stern scrutiny fixed upon her. His disapprobation was a palpable force.
“No, sir. I’m sure we’ve never met.”
Lord Oakham’s horse jibbed sideways. “Ah well, I shall look forward to furthering our acquaintance now, Mistress Friday. You mean to stay long in Sydney Dovedale?”
“She’s only staying until my cousin comes back,” John intervened, stepping between her and the horse’s flank. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve work to do.”
“On the Sabbath day, Master Carver?”
“A working farmer gets no day of rest, only an hour or two. We can’t all be gentlemen of leisure.”
Much to Lucy’s relief, John’s mother politely drew the conversation to a halt by inviting Lord Oakham to visit when he was next out for a ride. The man accepted, bowed his head and then rode back toward the chapel. Before the dust from the horse’s hooves had settled, John took Lucy’s arm and steered her onward.
“Oakham’s eyes were nearly popping out of his skull,” he complained, surly and cross. “Even old Croft…I’m not havin’ any o’ that. You’re in my charge ’til Nathaniel comes back. He left you to me.”
“I’m not a piece of property,” she exclaimed. “Stop pulling me about!”
“I saw you fluttering your lashes for Oakham. Soon picked him out as your next quarry I suppose. Well, you’re in for a surprise, wench, because he hasn’t got a pot to pee in, no matter how fine and fancy he dresses.”
“Let go of my arm! How dare you!”
He looked over his shoulder to where Alice remained in the lane with Bridget Frye, both of them watching the little tussle take place. Finally he released her.
“I daresay Alice will be one soul heartily pleased to see your cousin return from sea,” his mother observed wryly.
“As will I,” Lucy agreed under her breath.
She didn’t expect John to hear, but he had. “What’s the matter, wench? Tired of play-acting at last? Missing all the attention from your fine and fancy gentlemen who…”
She lost her temper then. It had been close to boiling over all day and she was in the mood for a scrap, so she stopped dead, swung around and screamed. Until then, she never knew she had it in her – so much passion and stifled frustration dying to be heard. But it came out now, every hurt and chafing resentment she’d never allowed herself to feel before.
Several pigeons took flight from the nearby hedgerows and somewhere in the distance hounds set up a rowdy howling.
His mother quietly laughed, shook her head and strolled onward, leaving them to do battle in the lane.
“What the devil was that for?” he blustered, glancing over his shoulder again to see who heard.
“All those wicked, derogatory comments, John Carver! I won’t put up with it. I am not a trollop, I am not your cousin’s mistress and I am not in need of another protector. Neither am I your responsibility!” She turned on her heel and followed his mother, who was already a good distance away.
He quickly caught up with her.
Prepared to scream again if necessary, she was shocked when he said nothing. Instead he awkwardly measured his steps to hers and they walked on for a long time in heavy silence.
* * * *
John knew he couldn’t believe a word she said, but he hoped she was not Nathaniel’s mistress. If that barrier might be removed, he could, perhaps, allow himself to regard her with less animosity. Finally, needing some way to hold her back, not daring to reach for her hand, he caught the pleats of her skirt. “If you’re not his mistress, why were you with my cousin’s possessions?”
“He was kind to me…fatherly.”
“Fatherly?” he exploded scathingly. “I know my cousin and he’s never been fatherly in his life.”
“Well, he was to me. He was to me!”
John saw the damp beads caught on her lashes. “It was you in the bawdy house. Confess!” He wanted to hear her say it, needed her to admit what they’d had.
She blinked, one tear shaken loose to roll slowly down her cheek. “It was not me. It was another girl, a very different girl.”
He wanted to lick the tear from her face. “She was a virgin who wanted me to take all, leave nothing behind.” When she tried wrenching her skirt free, he held tight, determined and considerably stronger than her. “Where did she go when she left me?”
“She disappeared forever and she’s not coming back again, so you’d best forget you ever saw her. She’s forgotten it easily enough.”
He leaned back, swaying slightly on his heels.
“You won’t find her again.” The words choked out of her. “It was for one night only, remember? She doesn’t generally consort with knaves like you.”
Finally he released her skirt. “So how much do you charge?” He straightened his shoulders, feeling the need for all his height.
She faced him boldy, chin up, eyes afire. “I thought you had no intention of paying for it?”
“I don’t. Not in coin. But you’ve taken plenty from me in kind already. Time you paid me back.”
“I’ve earned my keep since I came here. If anything, you,” she pointed at his chest, “owe me!”
“That’s a matter of opinion.” Horn-mad, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her hard against his body. “I’ll write out a bill for what you owe me and you write out yours for what you charge for a few nights, then we’ll see. Measure for measure.”
“A few nights?” she gasped, winded. “I thought it was just one you wanted.”
“I’ll take as many as I can get. As many as I can afford, if you can deign to lift your skirts for me again so prettily as you did once before. Swine-herd.”
He expected her to rail at him again, but now she was still, doe-eyed, very small in his great shadow. Hands pressed to his chest, making some space between them, when she spoke, it was barely audible. “All the coin in the world wouldn’t tempt me to share a bed with you again. You’re rude, obnoxious, arrogant and so full of
yourself you need bursting with a pin, or one day you’ll explode with all that hot air.”
But he saw another emerald tear glowing in the corner of her eye and he almost relented, almost forgave her. Once again she brought out his masculine instincts to protect and cherish. He wanted to kiss her, let his tongue plunder as it did before.
“Besides,” she whispered haltingly, watching his lips as they hovered above her, “you’re a reformed rogue John Sydney Carver and sworn to celibacy, so I hear.”
She was right, he shouldn’t be doing this.
“So you’d best take your hands off me,” she added, firmer this time, a slight tone of reprimand. “And let me go, before you do something we’ll both regret.”
“Ah yes, I forgot. My hands are too dirty for you.” Slowly he ran those unclean hands down her back and grabbed her bottom. Knowing it was wrong didn’t make it any easier to resist. As she squirmed, still pushing at his chest, he lowered his lips to the side of her neck and kissed her.
“John Sydney Carver,” she exclaimed. “And on the Sabbath, too!” Somehow she got away from him and then she was off again, running away down the lane. He quickened his own pace, but out of pride didn’t break into a run until the house was in sight. She got there first, slamming the gate, latching and bolting it from the inside, pronouncing breathlessly, “You will not come in until you apologize for calling me a harlot.”
“This is my house!” He was incensed. “And you are a harlot.”
She backed away from the gate, sticking out her tongue, actually laughing. Now, where formerly there were tears of pique, her eyes were warm with mischief.
He yelled for his mother to open the gate, but she’d disappeared. These women had formed a conspiracy against him, it seemed.
Flushed from the pace of her run down the lane, Lucy laughed so hard she could barely stand up.
Until she saw him climb the gate, agile as a tom cat, and then her mirth vanished.
He swung himself over the top bar, dropped down into the yard and stepped purposefully toward her, rolling up his sleeves.
