The Bride Sale

by Candice Hern

  But it was not all fantasy.

  The fearsome Mrs. Bodinar was no figment of Verity’s imagination, and stood in sharp contrast to the amiable staff. She glared, she sneered, she huffed, and she generally made herself disagreeable. When she spoke at all, when they took meals together in the evenings, it was to offer some criticism or to make some remark about having to share a roof with her son-in-law’s trollop.

  Verity had chosen not to respond to such attacks. She wasn’t sure what to say in any case. Agnes Bodinar surely was not the only one at Pendurgan who assumed Verity was Lord Harkness’s mistress.

  So far, however, she was not.

  The fact was, she rarely saw him. He spent much time away from the house, apparently at the mines, and kept very much to himself when he was at home. But when she did see him, his presence still had the ability to unnerve her.

  He watched her. She constantly felt him watching her with those cool blue eyes in a way that made her decidedly uneasy, in a way that made her think he would surely come at night to claim his rights, by purchase, of her body.

  He had not done so, however, and Verity did not know what to make of it.

  She watched him, as well. She often caught herself studying his long elegant fingers with their dusting of dark hair, or his angular profile with the strong, almost Roman nose, or the blue-black sheen of his longish hair in the candlelight, or the oddly attractive sprinkling of silver at his temples. He was not handsome in any sort of conventional way. Even so, there was something compelling about a face with cynical, vivid blue eyes set amid hard planes that might have been carved out of the local granite.

  She ought not to notice such things. She ought to keep far away from him, for an air of danger hung thickly about him.

  Perhaps that was what drew her, what fascinated her. He was dangerous, like no one she had known before, and she did not know when he might make his move. So there could be no complacency at Pendurgan until Verity understood this dark stranger and the role he intended her to play.

  She arranged the broom stalks in the basket along with the other plants she’d collected and began the walk back to the house. She would go by way of the rear entrance to drop off the plants in the makeshift stillroom she’d arranged in one corner of the old kitchen. Tomorrow she would use the broom and comfrey roots to instruct Mrs. Chenhalls and Gonetta in the preparation of various oils and decoctions for stiff or swollen joints.

  The wind whipped her skirts as she walked up the narrow, winding path through an archway in the old stone wall. Broader paths, lower walls, and open gateways led finally to the rear of the house and the kitchen garden. The wind picked up and blew strongly against her, almost taking off her bonnet. Verity dipped her head and held down the brim of the hat, using it to shield her face. Fighting her flapping skirts and the cloak billowing behind her like a sail, she hurried along with bowed head, following the familiar gravel path through the herb garden.

  “Here now, what’s this?”

  Verity bumped against something solid and found that her blind steps had led her straight into the barrel chest of a man. He grasped her elbows to steady her, and she looked up into the eyes of Rufus Bargwanath, the steward at Pendurgan. She had been introduced to him briefly a few days earlier by Mrs. Tregelly but had not seen him since. He was a burly Cornishman of middle age with thick brown hair peppered with gray, a slightly bulbous nose, and a florid complexion. She had disliked him on sight.

  He had a small office in the kitchen wing and must have stepped outside without Verity seeing him. He kept one hand on her elbow while he removed his hat with the other. “Ah. Mrs. Osborne, is it not?”

  A sneer curled his lip as he emphasized the word “Mrs.,” and a twinge of alarm crawled up Verity’s spine. His indolent gaze roamed over her body and came to rest on the basket clutched tightly against her breast. Verity became uncomfortably aware of the strong wind molding the thin woolen dress against her body like a second skin. She squirmed, but his grip held firm.

  “I had not realized Harkness had put you to work in the kitchen,” Bargwanath said. He did not speak in the friendly broad Cornish of the Chenhalls family but in a rough, gravelly, thoroughly unpleasant voice with only a hint of the local accent in the long vowels. He gave her elbow a suggestive squeeze. “I thought he had other plans for you,” he said.

  A lecherous grin revealed a small mouth overcrowded with yellowed teeth. His breath stank of tobacco and onions. Verity wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Excuse me, Mr. Bargwanath,” she said, then stepped around him and hurried toward the back entrance. His jeering laughter rang out behind her.

  She raced through the larders and sculleries and into the welcoming warmth of the ancient kitchen. Mrs. Chenhalls stood in front of the enormous open hearth and looked up at Verity’s entrance.

  “Afternoon, Miz Osborne. Ogh! Been out gatherin’ more herbs, have ’ee?”

  When Verity reached the corner where she had stored plants and other materials for her herbal preparations, she set the basket down and pressed a hand to her chest. Panting as though she’d been running, she took a moment to compose herself. She braced both hands against the wooden counter and inhaled the fragrant aromas of roasting meat and freshly baked bread.

  “I’ve been to the lower grounds,” she said at last, then untied her bonnet and hung it on a wall hook. She did not look up as she spoke, knowing her face must still be flushed from the steward’s coarse words. “I found several good plantings down there that will be useful. I will tell you and Gonetta all about them tomorrow, and show you where to find them. If the weather’s clear.”

  Mrs. Chenhalls turned back to the hearth and began adjusting a roasting spit between two stout iron fire dogs angled against the back wall. She chattered on about the capricious Cornish weather while Verity emptied her basket and began to tie the plants and roots into bunches. She only half listened to the woman’s thickly accented words, her thoughts distracted by the disturbing encounter with the steward.

  This was the only time she’d been truly frightened since that nightmarish first night. Since then, Agnes had been merely unpleasant, and Lord Harkness had kept his distance. Though Verity remained wary of both of them, neither had done anything to physically threaten or frighten her.

  Oh, how she wished she was an ordinary guest in an ordinary household filled with ordinary people. Then there would be nothing to stop her from complaining to her host about the steward’s impertinent behavior.

  But there was nothing remotely ordinary about her situation.

  How could she complain about the steward’s insolent manner to a man whose very presence made her more uncomfortable still?

  She fought back the disagreeable feeling of vulnerability. She would not give in to helplessness again. She had come astonishingly far in overcoming her normally submissive nature. She would not give in now.

  Verity finished organizing the plants, a routine that acted as a soothing balm to her taut nerves, then stood chatting with Mrs. Chenhalls about Davey’s progress. The boy was still weak and a hacking cough lingered, but he was much better now that the fever had passed. Verity reminded the cook to keep the boy warm, promised to stop by to visit with him after supper.

  “He’ll be that pleased, he will,” the cook said. “Think ’ee do be his very own ministerin’ angel, re Dhew. He do be awful keen to get out o’ bed, bless him.”

  “Oh, but it is too soon,” Verity said.

  “Aye, but he do be too young to know he in’t quite well yet. If ’ee tells him to stay put, though, he’ll listen. The boy’ll listen to ’ee, if not his own Ma.”

  Verity smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

  She left the kitchen thinking how fond she’d grown of the little red-haired boy who always grinned up at her impishly despite his illness. The small accomplishment of Davey’s recovery banished all thoughts of the wretched steward, and a glimmering of pride brought a smile to her lips as she passed through the Great Hall on her way to the main
stairway.

  The smile faded and her breath caught when she saw Lord Harkness enter the hall from the outside. Verity did not know why he still unnerved her so, when he had not given her any real cause to fear him. She did not, in fact, fear him. What frightened her was her own foolish reaction to him each time she saw him.

  He took off his hat and gloves and placed them on the small table near the door before he turned and saw her. For a long moment, their gazes locked and neither spoke.

  “Cousin,” he said at last, and she let out the breath she’d unconsciously held. He seemed uncertain what else to say; she could have sworn he was as uncomfortable as she was. It puzzled her to think why.

  “How is your patient?” he asked.

  “Improving. The fever has passed and now he must simply regain his strength, poor thing. But he is a fighter, I think.”

  “Yes, the lad’s a true Cornishman. We’re a tough race.” Some unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes for an instant, then disappeared. “Most of us,” he said. “Thank you again for being such a help to him.”

  “It was my pleasure,” she said.

  “Was it?” His eyes narrowed and regarded her intently. “I wonder.”

  Verity tried, she really tried, to hold his gaze, to demonstrate some of the new backbone that had lately made her so proud. She did not want him to know how much he rattled her. But she was no match for those cold blue eyes and had to look away.

  “If you will excuse me,” he said, “I have work to do.” He walked past her toward his library. She heard the door close behind him.

  She wished she knew what he was thinking, what he wanted of her. Anything was better than this uncertainty. At least she had held his gaze, she thought as she approached the landing on her way upstairs to her bedchamber. But was it due to strength of will or simple fascination for a man who was still little more than a dark stranger?

  Silly girl. This old place was growing on her all right. It was making her foolish.

  “And what could you possibly have to smile about?”

  Agnes Bodinar stood on the landing looking down at Verity. She wore her usual black dress and familiar black expression. Her mouth puckered with disdain, and the contemptuous look in her gray eyes caused Verity to halt in mid-stride.

  “Well?”

  “It was nothing,” Verity replied. She gripped her bonnet tightly in both hands and stood her ground, just as surely as she had with Lord Harkness. “Nothing at all.”

  “Hmph!” Agnes snorted. “I should hope not.” She stepped off the landing onto the stair where Verity stood and brought her face to within inches of Verity’s. Verity sucked in her breath and inhaled the fragrance of face powder and starch. The older woman’s eyes narrowed, her brows knit together so tightly they formed deep furrows down the center of her forehead.

  “You’ve no cause to smile. You’re not safe here,” she hissed, wagging a bony finger next to her nose. “He’s evil, I tell you. Evil!”

  She leaned away from Verity and eyed her from head to foot. “I don’t care what lover’s lies he may have whispered in your ears, or how much he’s paying you. I’m only telling you to be on your guard if you know what’s good for you. The man’s a devil! He means you nothing but harm, mark my words.”

  I thought he had other plans for you, the steward had said.

  “You should leave this place,” Agnes continued. “Leave while you can.”

  Verity turned away from Agnes and bounded up the stairs. When she reached her bedchamber, she slammed the door closed and sank heavily back against it.

  Yes, she ought to leave. These shifts between normalcy and nightmare and back again were too much for her. She thought again of sinister plots, of attempts to so confuse her that she didn’t care what happened.

  She would leave this place after Davey was fully recovered. She could not bear this bizarre game of wits any longer. She wasn’t yet certain what the stakes were, but she knew they were high. And she was bound to lose.

  The problem was, she did not know what sort of loss she faced. Would she ultimately lose her life? Would she merely lose her virtue? Or would she finally, inexorably lose her mind?

  Thick smoke filled his nostrils and burned the back of his throat. The night air throbbed with the ceaseless din of gunfire. Shot and shell whistled through the ranks, but James held his men back while the first column stormed the breach. Through the veil of smoke and screaming men, he watched as the brigade was cut to shreds by the French guns.

  A handful of intrepid souls scrambled across the trenches dug on either side of the breach where two twenty-four-pounders hurled grape at the attackers. After two more shattering rounds, the big guns fell silent. With only their bayonets, the stubborn men of the 88th must have dispatched the gunners. It was time to move. At Picton’s signal, James waved his men forward onto the ramparts.

  “Go!” he shouted as they ran past.

  And then the earth exploded beneath him.

  Balls of fire fell at his feet, and a heavy, sizzling mass knocked him to the ground. Pain in his left leg shot all the way up his shoulder and down again. Flames erupted all around him, catching everything combustible and sending off smaller explosions every few seconds. Two burning figures ran toward him, completely engulfed. Was one of them Hughes, his sergeant?

  He had to help them.

  The smell of burning flesh assaulted his nose and he thought he was going to be sick. But there was no time for such weakness. He had to get to his men. He had to help them.

  But he couldn’t move. Dammit, he couldn’t move. Something pinned him to the ground. He flexed his back to shake it off, and a charred, smoldering arm fell across his face. Shuddering, he flung it away and swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat.

  Still, the burning figures approached. Still, James could not move and the pain in his pinned leg had become an agony. One of the figures screamed his name and collapsed in a flaming heap a few feet away. A horrific wail pierced the air, subsided to a whimper, then fell silent.

  James stretched out an arm toward him. “Hughes!” he cried out. “Hughes!”

  The blackened form of his young sergeant stirred, limbs still licked with flames. The head moved.

  But when the face lifted, it was not that of the young soldier looking back at him. It was Rowena. His beautiful Rowena, her face twisted in pain and despair. James watched in immobilized horror as she sat up. He saw the limp form of their son, Trystan, cradled in her arms. Her mouth formed the word, “Please!”

  He struggled again to free himself, to go to them, but the burden on top of him seemed to push down, push down, until he could barely breathe. He had to get to them. He had to save them. They would die without his help. And Hughes and all the rest. They needed him. They all needed him.

  But he could not move.

  Rowena let out a long, mournful cry, and burst into flames.

  “No!” James shouted, his eyes flying open as he struggled against the weight pushing down on him.

  But it was only the blanket and counterpane, now hopelessly tangled with his thrashing. He fell back against the pillows and let his breath out in a whoosh. His body was covered in sweat and he felt as though he’d sprinted all the way up the hill to Pendurgan.

  Damnation. Would he never be free of the dreams?

  As usual he’d stayed awake last night as long as possible, having learned that the deep sleep of exhaustion, or occasionally of drunkenness, was often dreamless. But sometimes the nightmares came anyway, usually in the morning just before waking.

  The bed chamber door opened quietly and Samuel Lobb entered. “Morning, m’lord.”

  James grunted a reply and burrowed deeper into the pillows, trying to shake off the dream images. But it was useless. They were always there, skirting around every conscious thought during waking hours and interrupting what passed for sleep. They were constant reminders of his weakness, his cowardice, his shame.

  He heard the manservant walk to the
fireplace and begin stoking the coals.

  “Another bad ’un, m’lord?”

  Poor old Lobb had suffered through many a bad night with James. More than anyone, Lobb understood about the dreams. He’d been at Ciudad Rodrigo, though as his batman and not therefore in the thick of fighting. Shortly after the explosion, when the 3rd Division stormed the retrenchments and took the town, Lobb had searched through the bloody, scorched mass of bodies and found James. He had pulled off the charred corpses whose weight had pinned James to the ground and carried his semiconscious employer to safety.

  Lobb understood about the dreams.

  “You’ll be needin’ this, m’lord.” He set a steaming mug on the table next to the bed. Strong black coffee laced with brandy and a few other ingredients that Lobb kept to himself: his remedy for a particularly bad night.

  James shrugged off the bedcovers and reached for the mug. “Thank you.”

  He took a long swallow and let the brandy soothe his nerves while the coffee prepared him to take on the day. He did not know what he would do without Lobb.

  He was suddenly struck by an errant thought. “Lobb,” he said, “I’ve heard it whispered about that Mrs. Osborne suffers nightmares, too. Do you know if it’s true?”

  The manservant pulled a fresh shirt from the clothespress and shook it out. He looked over at James, his brow furrowed as though he was hesitant to speak. James arched a questioning brow. “I believe it was true at first, m’lord,” Lobb said at last. “Several of us heard her cries at night.”

  James winced, wondering what role he played in the woman’s nightmares.

  “But I could not say if it is still true,” Lobb went on. “I have not personally heard her cry out these last few nights.”