The Bride Sale

by Candice Hern

  “I had not realized you had rules,” she said, a note of challenge in her voice.

  “Only the normal ones, the ones any lady would understand.”

  “How dare you!”

  That had done it. “You know very well how I dare,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said. “How silly of me. I am your property, am I not? I shall take more care in the future.”

  “Don’t be foolish. I do not own you. I thought I made that clear the first night. But I am responsible for you, so long as you remain under my roof.”

  They walked on in silence. Verity kept up a brisk pace, her strides long and her shoulders rigid. So much pride!

  “Damn it,” he said at last. “I’m sorry. I should not have scolded you.”

  “No, you should not.”

  “I’ve had a…a difficult day,” he said. “My temper is on edge. Forget what I said.”

  “Then I may return to St. Perran’s, alone, when I please?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, his voice sharp with impatience. “Do as you wish.”

  “I am only trying to help your people, my lord.”

  The more she helped, the more entrenched she would become in all their lives. And the harder it would be ever to let her go.

  “Why are they afraid of you?”

  Her question shook him. He had deliberately avoided being alone with her, all the time believing it was his infernal attraction to her he wanted to forestall. But it was more than that. It was this directness. He had seen it every time they’d spoken more than a few words, from that first night in the library when she had tried to sneak away. Beneath all the other excuses, it was this about her, more than anything else, that made her dangerous. He had feared she would inevitably come to this question.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “You should be.” He strode ahead and walked the rest of the way in silence.

  During the next several days, Verity often found her heart thrown into a wild disorder. She did not know what to make of James. That day at Grannie’s, when he had ridden out of the churchyard on the black gelding, there had been the apprehension that always affected her in his presence, as well as a fleeting moment of fear when the women had run from him. But there had also been a niggling little spark of pleasure at the sight of him.

  He had looked magnificent and handsome sitting atop the sleek black horse. It was the perfect mount for him, she had decided as she watched him swing out of the saddle with a fluid grace, for he was equally dark and sleek.

  She had no right entertaining such wayward thoughts, considering her situation and his reputation.

  All good sense was tossed away, however, when he smiled at Grannie Pascow. Her traitorous heart had melted a tiny bit. He had a beautiful smile, one that broke across the harsh angles of his face like a sunrise. Clearly, he did not often smile. His face did not bear the creases of laughter. Instead, the lines around his mouth and nose were marks of the scowl he wore so frequently. What a pity, she thought, when the smile so much more suited him.

  Could a man who harbored such a smile, a smile that went all the way to his eyes, be so very wicked? There was so much she wanted to know, but no one was willing to tell her.

  Not even the man himself. He had never replied to her question. It appeared he wanted to keep her at arm’s length through fear. He wanted her to be afraid of him. Why? James Harkness was a man wary and watchful. It was as though he held on to his control with a firm grip, afraid to let go, afraid…of what?

  She had been back to St. Perran’s several times, delivering her herbs and remedies, and providing instructions in their use. And the women had opened up to her about many things. She learned a bit about each family, about their joys and their sorrows. She got to know the children. She learned about each tenant farm’s capacity and about each miner’s pitch. They all seemed to turn to stone, though, on the subject of Lord Harkness.

  Even Grannie Pascow was reticent. The oil had worked wonders on her joints, and she claimed to feel as spry as a young colt. Verity sat for hours at Grannie’s hearth, listening to colorful tales of Cornish saints and sinners, of piskeys and tommyknockers. Whenever Lord Harkness was mentioned, though, Grannie steered the conversation in other directions.

  Since no information was forthcoming from any quarter, Verity was forced to come to her own conclusions.

  He had good, loyal servants at Pendurgan. The cottages and church at St. Perran’s were kept in good repair. He provided employment for both men and women at his mines. He provided a school for the children and paid the teacher’s salary.

  If Lord Harkness was so evil, would he take such care of those in his employ, or show concern for the children’s education?

  And what about her? He still had not come to her bed, and she decided he had no intention of ever doing so. Since he obviously had not purchased her for his own pleasure, it could only mean he had done it to rescue her from a worse fate.

  Verity found it difficult to reconcile all this evidence of decency with the general attitude of the local people and their concern for her safety. What did they fear? What did they know that they weren’t telling her?

  Verity considered the question as she walked up the back stairs to the room where Davey slept. She had discovered a patch of coltsfoot near the river embankment a few days earlier. Pleased to find this herb that could be very soothing to a sore throat, she had prepared a new infusion for Davey.

  She knocked quietly before entering. Tomas sat by his brother’s bedside and rose at Verity’s entrance. The little boy was tucked up to his chin in wool blankets. A shock of bright red hair fell over his forehead, and the freckles splattered across his nose and cheeks stood out like paint flecks against the pallor of his skin.

  “Good afternoon, Davey,” Verity said. “I’ve brought something for you.” She handed the steaming cup to Tomas, who placed it on a small table next to the bed.

  “Hullo, Miz Osborne,” Davey squeaked. His throat was still raw and it obviously pained him to speak. “Somethin’ good this time, I do hope? No more nasty-tastin’ stuff?”

  Verity chuckled. “I don’t believe this will taste nasty at all, Davey. I’ve sweetened it with honey for you. It should help your throat feel better. You’d like that, would you not?”

  “Sure would,” he croaked. “It still do hurt real bad.”

  “I know. Here, let me help you sit up and we’ll see if this helps. Tomas, I will stay with him for a while if you like.”

  Verity sat on the edge of the bed when Tomas left, helping Davey take the sweetened infusion, one small sip at a time. She chattered to him between sips. She spoke of the Kempthorne children and Gwennie Nanpean and Benjie Spruggins and other children she’d met. Davey knew them all and had his own stories to tell, but Verity kept feeding him sips so he would not talk too much.

  After an hour or so, Gonetta entered the room. “Davey boy, y’ain’t been talkin’ Miz Osborne’s ears off, has ’ee?”

  Verity reached up and wiggled her ears. Davey dissolved in giggles, which turned into a hacking cough. Verity held him up straight with a hand at his small, bony back until the coughing subsided. He sank against the pillows, pale and weary.

  “You rest now, Davey,” Verity said. A rush of emotion for this child welled up in her throat as she tucked the blankets up around his ears.

  “Come back?” His voice had become a hoarse whisper.

  “Of course I’ll come back. But you must sleep now. Gonetta will sit with you for a while, all right?”

  He shook his head and offered a wan smile. His eyelids slowly drooped shut, and he was almost instantly asleep.

  Verity rose to leave. She told Gonetta about the new infusion and when to administer it again.

  “Thank ’ee, Miz Osborne. ’Ee been such a help.”

  Verity shrugged and smiled down at the boy, then left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She took the service stairs down to the
main level. When she passed the Little Parlor, she saw Anges Bodinar seated on a small divan, an embroidery hoop in her hands. She looked up at Verity’s approach and waved her inside.

  Verity groaned silently. Encounters with Anges were never pleasant. She gritted her teeth and entered the parlor.

  “You’ve been with Cook’s boy again, have you not?”

  “Yes,” Verity replied. She stood just inside the doorway with her hands clasped tightly behind her back.

  Agnes snorted, then returned her attention to the embroidery. “You spend far too much time with that young scullery rat.”

  “He’s a very sick little boy.”

  “I thought he was recovered,” Agnes said without looking up, a sarcastic edge to her voice. “According to Cook, you miraculously cured him.”

  “I only helped a little, in the absence of a doctor,” Verity said. “But it is a serious illness, especially for a child. He will be some time in recovering.”

  “And I presume you mean to stay until he is fully recovered?”

  “I gave Mrs. Chenhalls my word.”

  Agnes stabbed at the stretched fabric with her needle. “Too bad,” she said. “You ought to have left by now.”

  Verity walked into the room and took a seat across from Agnes. She was going to get the truth of out of the old shrew if she had to sit here until the sun went down.

  “Why are you so anxious for me to leave?” Verity asked. “Is it because of your daughter?”

  “Of course it is!”

  It had been a shot in the dark, but it seemed to have hit its mark. Agnes must see Verity as a threat to her daughter’s memory. Or perhaps she simply did not like the idea of anyone taking her daughter’s place at Pendurgan. “You need not worry on that score,” Verity said. “I assure you, despite what you may believe, I am in no way—in no way—replacing Lady Harkness in this house. Do you take my meaning?”

  “Hmph. As if you could.”

  “You have nothing to fear from me, Mrs. Bodinar. I may have come here under…unusual circumstances, but not for the purpose you have supposed.”

  “Great heavens! Do you think I care if you keep that monster’s bed warm at night?” She yanked her needle through the fabric with such ruthless force that Verity thought she would surely ruin the piece. “I only warn you not to trust him.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because of who he is and what he’s done, of course.”

  This was the opening Verity had been waiting for. “But I do not know who he is or what he’s done,” she said.

  The embroidery hoop dropped to her lap and Agnes looked up at Verity, astonishment in her face. She blinked like an owl surprised in daylight. “You do not know?”

  “No.”

  “But everyone knows.”

  “Everyone around here. I am new to Cornwall.”

  Agnes gave a weary sigh and resumed her stitching. “Then I suppose it is left to me to tell you,” she said.

  Verity sat silent, hands folded in her lap, perched on the edge of her chair like a pigeon, waiting for Agnes to go on.

  “He was fine before the war,” Agnes said at last. Her voice had lost some of its sharpness though her eyes remained hard. “They married young, he and my Rowena. They had known one another most of their lives and Rowena was bound and determined to have him. Frankly, I would have preferred it if she’d married Alan Poldrennan. Such a nice young man, and he’d been pining after her for years. But Rowena’s heart was set on James.” She hunched a shoulder and gave a little sigh.

  “My husband’s mine, Wheal Blessing, was in the district, not far from here,” she continued. “Old Lord Harkness was still alive and running Wheal Devoran with a firm hand. He and James did not always agree on things, so James ran off and joined the army. It was during one of his leaves that he and Rowena married. Wheal Blessing finally played out and was closed, and we lost everything. Soon afterward, my husband died, leaving me nothing but an empty hole in the ground. James offered me a home here, said he wanted me to keep Rowena company while he returned to the army.”

  Her brow puckered and she stared off into the distance, as though she’d forgotten Verity was even there. After a moment, she literally shook herself free of whatever memory had taken hold.

  “He came home on leave as often as he could,” she went on. “Trystan was born in 1809. Rowena was blissfully happy. But then James was wounded and sold out. He was not the same man when he came home in 1812. He was hard and cruel. Irritable and vicious-tongued. He made Rowena miserable.”

  Harsh loathing filled Agnes’s eyes. She held Verity’s gaze for one long moment before speaking again.

  “And then he killed her,” she said.

  “What?”

  “James Harkness killed my daughter. And even worse than that, he killed his own son as well.”

  “Are you certain?” Gilbert Russell paced the length of the Turkey carpet in his friend’s study. “It is the same man?”

  “There is only one Lord Harkness of Pendurgan,” the other man said. “It says here he inherited the title some eight years ago from his father. Besides, the father would have been too old to be your Lord Harkness. It has to be the same man.”

  Gilbert could not believe what he was hearing. He had finally admitted to his friend, Anthony Northrup, what he had done with Verity and where he had got the money to pay off Baldridge. He had thought to unburden himself, to purge himself of this awful thing he’d done to his poor wife.

  Tony was one of the few people who knew Gilbert had a wife at all. That’s why it had been so easy. A few weeks away in Cornwall and no one the wiser.

  But the deed had gnawed at his gut like a tapeworm. He had to tell someone. Who better than Tony, his closest friend and confidant?

  But Tony had just made it worse.

  Gilbert stopped pacing and pressed his hands to his temples. “Good God, what have I done?”

  “It appears, old chap, that you have turned your wife over to a murderer.”

  Verity sat at the tiny desk in her bedchamber and flipped through her notebook. A single candle illuminated the notes she was reviewing. Rain pounded against the window and the wind howled. She had not been able to sleep. Fidgety and restless, she had finally crawled out of bed and decided to go over the stillroom work for tomorrow, to make sure she had all her recipes in order. She concentrated on the herbs needed for her mixtures, hoping to dispel all thoughts of Agnes’s startling revelation.

  Had he really murdered his wife and child? Could she believe Agnes? The old woman seemed slightly mad at times, hateful and bitter at most others. Could the words of such a woman be trusted?

  Dried betony for Robbie Dunstan’s wheezing.

  Once she had made the accusation, Agnes had flung her hoop aside and rushed out of the parlor. She had seemed on the verge of tears. She had lost a daughter and a grandchild, so naturally she would be upset. And perhaps there was some reason to blame James for their deaths. But murder?

  Rosemary for Izzy Muddle’s colic.

  If it was true, if he had killed them, why was he not prosecuted for the crime? Why was he still wandering about free instead of rotting in gaol or swinging from a hangman’s rope? It didn’t make any sense. Agnes must be exaggerating the tale.

  Lovage root for Hildy Spruggins’s stomach.

  But if it was true, it accounted for the way the locals feared him, especially the women. Verity recalled how women had grabbed their children when he had walked through the crowd at Gunnisloe. And how Dorcas Muddle had clasped her baby and run down the village lane. She had not forgotten—would never forget—the whispered words of the people at Gunnisloe, words that had made her fear for her life. The villagers must certainly believe them to be true. But were they, in fact?

  Beech leaves for Sam Kempthorne’s strained back.

  Or was it birch leaves?

  How she missed her modern edition of Culpepper. It had been a gift from Edith and was full of Verity’s cribbed notes in the ma
rgins. When Gilbert had told her to pack everything for the trip to Cornwall, she had not, of course, taken him literally. She had not thought to bring her books.

  So far she had been working from memory, and it had served her well. But if she mistook even one ingredient, the results could be disastrous. Blast! If only she had her books.

  She pulled her wool wrapper more tightly around her, though it was only the sounds of rain and wind that made it seem cold. Just the same, she moved to the big wing chair and pulled it right up next to the fire so she could rest her toes on the grate. She stared into the flames and willed herself to remember the precise ingredients for the poultice for Sam Kempthorne. No matter how hard she tried, though, she could not recall if it was beech leaves or birch leaves she needed.

  What she wouldn’t give for a good English herbal.

  The library downstairs was lined with books, though she had never ventured in to examine them. It was his domain, and she avoided it. But if one of those books was an herbal, it would be a prodigious help to her. What harm could it do to search the shelves?

  But what if Lord Harkness was there? She had heard the servant’s whispered references to “his lordship’s insomnia.” What if she went down to the library now and found him sitting there as he had been that first night? Would she be able simply to wander in and casually look for a book?

  After what Agnes had told her, Verity doubted anything would be so simple again. Now that she knew the truth, or at least Agnes’s version of the truth, she would not be able to look at him again as her handsome, deceptively decent rescuer. He was once again the fearful dark stranger—a murderer?—and she must be forever wary of him.

  But she could not stay closeted in this room. She had made commitments. And she needed an herbal.

  Verity uncurled herself from the chair and retied her wrapper close about the chest. She put on her slippers, took the candle from the desk, and crept out into the hallway and down the stairs to the main level. She slowed as she approached the library door. It stood slightly ajar, and a flickering light showed beneath it. He was there.