The Bride Sale

by Candice Hern

  Dreams of banging kettles and crowds of leering people pushing toward her—closer, closer, closer—disturbed her sleep, and her own screams brought her awake. After two such nightmares, she had given up and moved to the chair, where she sat and spun fantasies about the new life ahead of her. But her thoughts kept returning to the master of Pendurgan.

  Lord Harkness was both intriguing and a little frightening, but perhaps one was the same as the other. Last night she had sat in this same chair by the fire and waited for him to come. Still unclear why he had purchased her—but certain he must have some kind of sinister motive, she expected that he might come to her in the night.

  Instead, he had left her alone.

  He had been toying with her. Surely he suspected she would try to leave. Why else would he have been skulking in the library at that ungodly hour? He sat there the whole time as calm as you please, as though he had expected her. And he had called her name from behind the library door before he could possibly have seen her. How had he known it was she?

  He had looked almost ghostly when she entered the room, a dark silhouette against the fire behind him. With the light coming from behind, she could make out little more than the arrogant line of his jaw and the languid tilt of his head. But she had needed no firelight to know his lip was curled in a disdainful smirk. The very air had crackled with his mockery.

  Verity rose from the chair, stretched her stiff muscles, and walked to the window. She drew back the heavy curtains to find morning had indeed broken, tinting the gray sky a pale pink in the east. The view she met brought her up short and a tiny gasp escaped her lips.

  This could not possibly be the same desolate place she had been brought to the previous evening. The vista that stretched before her was lush, green, and wooded. Terraced lawns edged with flowers dropped away from the house and gave way to a plantation of trees, some still awash in their autumn colors.

  If not for the girl’s words the night before, Verity could easily have believed she had dreamed the whole trip to Cornwall and now was back in Berkshire.

  If the rest of Cornwall looked more like this than like the colorless granite town where she had been auctioned, she might find some pleasure in starting a new life here.

  Her trunk still stood near the foot of the bed. The clothes she had bundled and worn for her attempted escape were still flung in a corner. She untied the bundle and had begun to toss the clothes in the trunk when a soft rapping on the bedchamber door startled her out of her work. Recalling the strange woman in black the night before, she froze.

  The little maid, Gonetta, walked in, and Verity let out her breath with a whoosh.

  The girl bobbed a curtsy, her eyes downcast. “I come to see if ’ee did be awake yet,” she said. “I brung some hot water.” She walked to the washstand and set down the brass canister. She tested the water and let out a soft sort of wail. “Ea, it do be cool already! I must’ve took too long.”

  She looked up with an expression of such distress it appeared she might burst into tears. “I had to go…I went somewheres else first and I hadn’t ought to have done that. I be right sorry, ma’am. I’ll go get more and do bring it right up.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. This water will be just fine.”

  “It won’t be no trouble,” the girl said, her voice high-pitched and unnatural.

  “Thank you, but this water will do very nicely,” Verity said. “It was kind of you to bring it.”

  Gonetta looked up and watched as Verity flung more clothes into the trunk. “Here, now,” the girl said in a shocked tone. “Wot yer doing? Y’ain’t leavin’, is ’ee?”

  “Yes, Gonetta, I am. Lord Harkness has agreed to drive me to Bodmin today. I have decided I would be more comfortable making my own way rather than living off my…my cousin’s charity.” She did not know why she felt obliged to explain anything to this young servant, but it just seemed to burst out.

  “Oh,” Gonetta said, her tone now almost desolate. “I be right sorry to hear that, ma’am. Right sorry. Here, let me help ’ee with them clothes.”

  The girl moved to stand in front of the trunk and pulled out one of the wrinkled dresses. She shook it out, turned to the wardrobe, and hung it up. When she had repeated the process with two other dresses, Verity put a hand on her arm to stop her.

  “Gonetta,” she said, “I am going, not staying. The dresses must go into the trunk, not the wardrobe.”

  The little maid looked up at Verity and her face crumpled. “Ea, Miz Osborne,” she wailed, “I do be so sorry. It be just…j-just—” She dropped her face into her hands and began to sob.

  Good heavens, what was all this?

  In any other situation, Verity would not have thought twice before putting her arms around the girl and comforting her. But there was nothing normal about this situation or this place. She was not prepared to trust anyone at Pendurgan. This might be some charade to put her off-guard.

  Yet the girl seemed genuinely distressed. Sobs wracked her small frame in a manner Verity was almost certain could not have been pretense.

  After an uncomfortable moment, Verity touched Gonetta’s arm and guided her to the edge of the bed. With a nod of her head, she indicated that the distraught girl should sit down. “There now,” Verity said, somewhat awkwardly, “what’s the trouble? I hope I have done nothing to—”

  “It be n-not about ’ee, ma’am.”

  “Oh.”

  Gonetta looked up. “Oh, I m-meant no d-disrespect, ma’am. I be right sorry ’ee be leavin’ so soon. I liked ’ee right off, I did. Happy to maid ’ee. B-but that be not it. Y’see…y’see…”

  Her voice became choked with tears and she could not go on. Verity stood back, feeling unbearably oafish, and let her cry, convinced this was sincere anguish and not some calculated deception. She wondered what could have upset the girl so.

  When Gonetta’s sobs quieted to gentle tears, Verity said, “Tell me, please. Tell me what has upset you so.”

  Gonetta looked up, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and hiccoughed. “I can’t help it, Miz Osborne,” she said in a trembly voice. “It be me littlest brother, Davey. He do be real sick and Ma says he be d-dyin’. He be only just gone on five, y’see, and always do be such a hellion, beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. I can’t bear to see him sick and dyin’. Not little Davey.”

  The girl’s sobs tore at Verity’s heart. “What is wrong with him, Gonetta?” she asked in a soft voice.

  “He got the putrid sore throat and it just do get worse and worse. We can’t get nothin’ down him. And now it be gone to a real bad fever.”

  “What does the doctor say?” Verity asked. “Has he given Davey any physicks or other preparations to reduce the fever?”

  Gonetta gave a plaintive wail. “We ain’t got no doctor just now, ma’am. Dr. Trefusis, he had to go to Penzance on some fam’ly business. So we ain’t had nobody to doctor poor Davey.”

  “You’ve had no one to help you with Davey? No one at all?” Verity asked, appalled that no local doctor was available. “Is there no village apothecary?” Gonetta shook her head. “What about local healers, green women, herbalists?” Gonetta furrowed her brow in puzzlement, as though she did not understand, then shook her head again. Verity sighed.

  What should she do? Could she stand by and allow the child to die through sheer ignorance? Verity had some skill with herbs and knew a few remedies that could possibly help the boy.

  Yet to remain and help would delay her departure from Pendurgan. Nothing was more important than to get away from this place.

  Except that a little boy was perhaps dying.

  “What have you been doing to care for him?” she asked.

  “Just bathin’ him to keep his skin cool, givin’ him tea and honey, when he can swallow it.”

  Those things could only make him comfortable. Nothing they were doing would help to break the fever or heal the infected throat.

  She began to pace the length of the room. Any sort of delay almost sc
ared her to death. What if she was never able to leave?

  Dear God, what should she do?

  “I believe I may have something to help him,” she said at last. She could not let the boy die. Gonetta stared at her, wide-eyed. “Do you recall seeing some muslin pouches,” Verity asked, “when you unpacked my trunk yesterday?”

  “Them little sachets, ma’am? I put some in each of the bureau drawers to keep yer things fresh.”

  Verity cocked a brow and almost smiled. Sachets, indeed. Some of them positively reeked. She pulled open each drawer and rummaged around until she had located all her herbal pouches.

  “Does Cook keep fresh honey in the larder, Gonetta?”

  “Aye, she do,” the girl replied with a puzzled look, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “Why?”

  “With this,” Verity said, holding up one of the pouches, “and this one, too, along with a bit of honey, I can make up a syrup that might help your brother.”

  “Truly?” Gonetta asked, her eyes large with wonder. “’Ee can make him better? He don’t got to die?”

  Verity must be careful not to give false hope. She was no magician. “I cannot promise anything, you understand,” she said. “It depends on how far along the sickness is. But I have always had good luck with my hyssop infusions and horehound syrups.”

  Now that she had committed herself, she was anxious to get on with it. Perhaps her departure from Pendurgan would be only briefly postponed. Gonetta helped her to dress quickly, and within a quarter hour, she was bending over the young freckle-faced Davey.

  He was tucked up in his mother’s bed in the servants’ quarters. With his hair as red as his sister’s, Verity had no trouble imagining him as a tiny hellion. But not at the moment. A lump formed in her throat as she examined him. Gonetta held a candle close to his mouth while Verity held open his jaw and peered down his throat. It was scarlet as a poppy, but she could see no white patches. Even so, the child was burning up with fever, his breathing raspy. She hoped it was not too late.

  The old woman in Lincolnshsire who’d taught Verity about herbs had often recommended other treatments as well for this type of disease. Verity instructed Mrs. Chenhalls, who was not only Davey’s mother but also Pendurgan’s cook, to bathe her son’s feet and legs with warm water, and then to wrap his throat in wool. This would keep the distraught woman occupied while Verity prepared the herbals.

  With Cook now unavailable, Verity enlisted the aid of Mrs. Tregelly. The housekeeper led the way into the ancient-looking, high-beamed kitchen. A huge open hearth dominated one wall, fitted with a swinging chimney crane and rows of adjustable pot hangers above the low, crackling fire.

  The two women rummaged through the larders and located jars of honey. Mrs. Tregelly grabbed several pots from the wall rack, sending the rest of the cook pots swinging and banging loudly against one another.

  Verity froze.

  Cold wind whipped across her face and her neck was jerked roughly by the auctioneer’s tug on the leather harness. The shouting from below was almost deafening. The crowd pressed in on her, pushing forward with each clang, clang, clang. Closer and closer until she could hardly breathe.

  “Mrs. Osborne?”

  The housekeeper’s words broke the spell. Verity’s hand clutched at her throat, where the harness had cut into her neck. Disoriented, she gazed about the perfectly ordinary kitchen and into the concerned gray eyes of Mrs. Tregelly.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  Verity took a deep, shuddery breath and shook off her lingering uneasiness. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, Mrs. Tregelly.”

  Pots of water were set to boil on the modern close-fire range, oddly out of place in this centuries-old kitchen. Verity opened one of her muslin pouches and sniffed to confirm it was indeed hyssop. She added a small amount to one of the pots of boiling water to begin an infusion. In another pot, she added the horehound in preparation for a honey syrup. For good measure, she added a pinch of horehound to the infusion as well.

  She could have done all this almost mechanically, years of expertise driving her actions. Instead, Verity focused her attention on every simple detail of the well-known process: the crisp leaves crushed fine between her fingers, the precise balance of dried leaves to flower tops, the aroma as the herbs infused the water, indicating the proper proportions of horehound. The simple and blessedly familiar routine pushed the anxiety of delay from the forefront of her thoughts. Here, in this role, she was in control.

  “I do hope this helps the child,” Mrs. Tregelly said. “He be such a wee scamp, and always up to some kind of mischief, but he has a sweet nature, too. It would go hard with all of us to lose him.” She wrinkled her nose at the strong camphorlike odor that now permeated the kitchen.

  “I’ll do my best to help,” Verity said, watching the other pot as the liquid boiled down.

  “’Tis our good fortune that you happen to be here just now,” Mrs. Tregelly said, “with the doctor away and all. And that you brought along all these herbs.”

  “Yes,” Verity replied absently as she checked the steeping hyssop. “I tossed them in my trunk because I did not know—” She had been about to say that she had not known how long she and her husband would be away from home. “You never know when they will come in handy,” she muttered.

  “How is it you know so much about healing, Mrs. Osborne?” the housekeeper asked.

  “Oh, I’m not exactly a healer, Mrs. Tregelly. But I do know my herbs, and some of them happen to have great healing properties.”

  “I’m afraid I know very little about herbs,” the older woman said. “Cook grows some for the kitchen, and I use lavender and sage and such throughout the house to sweeten the air and the linens. But that is the extent of my knowledge, I fear.”

  “Perhaps Cook has some of the best healing herbs right there in her kitchen garden.”

  “Perhaps she does,” Mrs. Tregelly replied. “But likely she don’t know it, else she would have made these concoctions herself to help her little boy.”

  “’Ee could teach us.”

  Verity looked up from her reduction into the anxious eyes of young Gonetta, who had just entered the kitchen. Verity shook her head. “Here,” she said ladling the hyssop infusion into a teacup. “Take this to your brother. Be sure he drinks as much as he can. He will not like the taste, but see that he drinks a good portion.”

  Gonetta dashed away to her brother’s sickroom, her hand covering the teacup to keep it from sloshing.

  While Verity began to mix the reduced horehound liquid with honey, Mrs. Tregelly watched in interest. “It is almost as strong-smelling as the infusion, is it not?” Verity said. “But the honey makes it go down easier. After drinking the hyssop, Davey will no doubt be glad to swallow something sweeter.”

  “Netta was right.”

  “About what?”

  “You could teach us some of your skills. We’d be that grateful. There be no telling when Dr. Trefusis will return.”

  Verity shook her head and continued to stir the honey. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I will not be staying long.”

  Mrs. Tregelly clucked her disappointment but did not press the matter. A few minutes later, Gonetta bounded back into the kitchen. “He do be takin’ it!” she exclaimed. “He don’t like it, but Ma be gettin’ it down him.”

  “That’s good,” Verity said. “Now find me a jar or a crock to hold this syrup. We’ll see what else we can get down him.”

  When they returned to the sickroom, Mrs. Chenhalls smiled up at Verity, her eyes moist with emotion. “Thank ’ee, ma’am, fer helpin’ my boy,” she said. “See here? His breathin’ do be better already. No more wheezin’. He goin’ to be all right now, in’t he?”

  Verity leaned over the bed and touched the boy’s cheek. He’d been bathed and wrapped up warmly. It was much too soon to know if the fever would break. Simply inhaling the steam of the infusion, with its heavy camphor aroma, would momentarily ease the child’s breathing. But it was a temp
orary relief at best.

  “I cannot promise anything, Mrs. Chenhalls. These remedies should make him more comfortable, allow him to breathe easier for a time. But please do not get your hopes up too soon. I cannot guarantee a cure. He is a very sick little boy. We will just have to wait. Now, see if you can get him to swallow a spoonful of this syrup. Then give him more infusion every hour. Be sure it is warm. And give him a teaspoon of the syrup every three hours. If he gets any worse, there are other treatments we can try.”

  “Thank ’ee, ma’am,” Mrs. Chenhalls said. “Thank ’ee. I do be grateful ’ee come to stay with us. Gras e dhe Dhew. Drusona!”

  Verity darted a questioning look at the woman’s daughter, but the girl kept her eyes averted. “She do thank God that ’ee came,” Gonetta whispered.

  “Come along,” Verity said, eager to escape the emotions that tugged at her. “Let me teach you and Mrs. Tregelly how to make more of these remedies, so you can tend to Davey after I leave.”

  Gonetta followed in silence. While Verity gave instructions for making both the infusion and the syrup, Gonetta did no more than nod now and then. Mrs. Tregelly made precise notes.

  “Now, the only problem,” Verity said, “is the supply of hyssop. I have enough horehound to leave with you. It takes very little to make the syrup. But I do not have much hyssop left. Do you suppose your mother has hyssop in her kitchen garden, Gonetta?”

  “Don’t know, ma’am. Wouldn’t know it if I seen it.”

  “But I would,” Verity replied. “Let’s take a look.”

  Gonetta led her to a tidy, prosperous kitchen garden just beyond the scullery door to the outside. There were rosemary, sage, parsley, dill, fennel, thyme, tarragon, lovage, tansy, and lemon verbena. Verity scanned the plantings for the familiar tall stalks of hyssop. Sure enough, there they stood, next to their minty relatives.

  “See here,” Verity said, breaking off a leaf and rubbing it between her fingers. “You have everything you need. This is hyssop, which is used in the warm infusion. But I used dried leaves. You must double the amount if you use fresh leaves. Can you remember that?”