Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance)

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Uh? ‘Course you does.” Kerra raised her brows. She shrugged. “I hafta be off an’ check the coach station. Obliged for the company, Mamsell. Remember, if you’re ever in Cornwall, it's Maddie’s Ace in Sidwell village.” She grinned and strolled back over the bridge at a quick gait, vanishing from Bettina’s sight.

  * * * *

  At last at her destination, Bettina prayed that these people would receive her kindly and would be as benevolent as her imagination created them. She patted down her dress, adjusted the hat and hoped her shabby condition wouldn’t repel them. Walking up the steps of number 65, she frowned at the sign posted: Franklyn Inn; Daily and Weekly Rates. She knocked until a squat woman in white cap and apron answered the door.

  “Excuse me, but do Monsieur and Madame Bernard Little live here?”

  “No, Miss,” she replied. “Don’t have no long-term lodgers right now, just the people on holiday. Don’t remember no one of that name. Would you be needin’ a room yourself?”

  “Did they used to live here, these Littles? How long have you had this inn?” Bettina’s heart vibrated as fear crept over her. Armand couldn’t have given her the wrong address.

  The woman called to someone inside, and a tall man came to the door. Bettina repeated her questions for him. “Do they live nearby? Can you give me an address, please?”

  The man’s top lip curled in his glum face. “I did buy this place over a year ago from a couple named Little. They wanted to move out to the country. But I do not know, or least of all care, where they’ve gone. If you have no need for lodging, I’m very busy.” He shut the door in her face.

  Bettina stared at the brass knocker. She doubted he’d find many lodgers with that attitude, then decided the English were a hopelessly crass, ill-mannered culture. She hammered on the door again with the knocker, then using her knuckles. The curtain at the window fluttered, but no one responded.

  She turned and stumbled down steps that seemed to quake beneath her feet. What could she do now with no place to stay and only a few coins remaining? Armand had unwittingly tossed her into a quagmire. Or had it been unwitting?

  “Merde,” she whispered. She whirled about, ran up the steps of the building next door, knocked, and asked if they knew where the Littles had gone.

  “No, no, never spoke to them. They weren’t….” the mousy woman who answered grimaced, “they moved away. But never knew them, good day to you.” The woman slammed her door in Bettina’s face.

  She turned around and gripped the metal stair rail until her fingers hurt. The tawny façades of the surrounding buildings now appeared menacing as they towered over her. Behind every one waited another Englishman or woman ready to ridicule her. She barely registered the queerness of that last person’s response.

  Bettina squeezed her bundle and plodded back across the bridge. She turned left on the road beside the river. The gushing sound pulled at her, matching the blood that roared through her veins. By the time she passed a Gothic Abbey on the right, her eyes brimmed with angry tears. At that moment she despised everything English.

  “Mamsell!”

  Bettina lifted from her haze to see Kerra running from the opposite direction, her valise bumping off her shins. Bettina’s relief to see her surprised her—a familiar face in a land of hostile strangers.

  “What happened to your friends? Weren’t that the right place?” Kerra asked when she scampered up, gasping for breath.

  Bettina sucked in air, almost unable to form the words. “They are gone … moved … no one knows … ma foi, I cannot believe it.”

  “Gone where? Weren’t they waitin’? You be crying?” Kerra poked her little face toward her like a curious kitten, then put an arm around her and hugged her.

  Bettina wiped her tears on the rough canvas. “They did not know I was … on my way.” She shriveled in confusion—and in shame. She regretted her earlier casual dismissal of the young woman. The hug felt comforting.

  “Sounds awful. I’m in a fix, too.” Kerra scrunched up her mouth. “Don’t have enough for the coach fare. I’d paid all the way to Bristol. They said they couldn’t do nothin’ about us being ‘asked’ to leave the other. Thought I’d go back to the tavern for a dram, and maybe some food. Come with me, you could use a whistle an’ grub.”

  “No, no, I must decide what to do. Hélas, if they do not live here, I have nowhere to go. I have no one else.” She slipped from Kerra’s embrace, fear tightening her chest. Her dress’s neckline, stiff with perspiration, chafed her collarbone. “I wish I could go home, to France.”

  Kerra’s eyes glistened with compassion. “I know, Mamsell. I been drug through it, too. Life ain’t easy. I bragged about the men, but weren’t as bad as it sounded. A girl hasta get a good job, or a rich husband.”

  Bettina rubbed her temples and pushed back her greasy hair. “What is this ‘job’?”

  “Aye, you know … work, labor.”

  “Un travail? What could I do?” Bettina choked back her tears. A harsh reality, but ladies of her class were only groomed to be wives and hostesses. That had been the goal when her life started out. As for the rich husband, she dreaded the type of spouse she might attract in her present condition.

  “I'm set to work back at Maddie’s, if I can get there. She said business be promisin’ afore I left. Say, maybe she can give you something to do, too.” Kerra flashed her impish grin.

  “What kind of something?” Bettina asked, still dazed. A large coach-and-four clattered by over the cobbles. The footman clinging to the back yelled for them to keep out of the way.

  Kerra urged her over to stand in the shadow of a building. “I dunno, cleaning up, making beds. Can you cook?”

  “I have never tried.” She couldn’t think of any skill that might help her. Embroidering, deep curtsies, the proper way to walk in a gown, would put no food on the table, or roof over her head.

  Kerra squeezed her shoulder. “Fie, Maddie’ll find some job you can manage.”

  “Is there nothing but being a maid or a cook?” Neither occupation appealed to Bettina in the slightest, but other arrangements could be made. The idea of having to work for her living had never occurred to her before today. The Littles were supposed to shelter her until she could return home. “How far is this Cornwall?”

  Kerra raised her pointed chin, narrowing her eyes. “Another several days. But that kind of work’s respectable enough.”

  “It is that far? Mais non. I need to stay in Bath and try to find these people.” Bettina sighed, her frustration pinging up her shoulders and neck. “Is Cornwall a fine city like this? I might have a proper chance here.”

  “Cornwall ain’t no city. But Bath’s a costly one. Can get unruly with these summer crowds, ain’t safe for a girl all by herself. If you’re found loiterin’, they’ll put you in the workhouse. An’ you don’t never wanna end up there,” Kerra spoke with blunt concern. “It’s worse than a prison.”

  Bettina sorted this through her frazzled mind. She still dreaded the idea of another long trek. “I do not know. I might find a job here, could I not?”

  “No one in this fancy town would hire you lookin’ like a ragamuffin.”

  Bettina didn’t need a mirror to verify what that meant. She remembered the leering men she had encountered and added the shadowy threat of the workhouse. At least with Kerra she had a person familiar with the country and the prospect of not starving. “How do we travel to Cornwall? I do have a small amount of money.”

  “I saw a man selling a bag o’ bones horse near the tavern where the coach leaves from. Said he’s desperate to feed his ailin’ wife. I know we can get it cheap, saddle and all.” Kerra nudged Bettina with her elbow. “We can travel together, can’t we? Pitch in and buy supplies for the ride out to the coast?”

  “It is so much to think about.” Bettina swayed, the papers rustling in her arms.

  “Come round now, sometimes too much thinkin’ gets you in worse trouble. We’ll indulge one night and get a room outside
o’ town where it be cheaper.” Kerra slapped her on the back.

  Bettina winced. She wondered if another innkeeper could be rude enough to evict two young women under suspicion with no ‘menfolk’? The coaching inns had been vulgar enough. She could pretend that Kerra was her servant. Resisting the urge to scratch under her arm where her stays chafed, she forced her mind to focus on something pleasant. “We will find a place with a hot bath, oui?”

  “Not for me,” Kerra snickered and rolled her eyes. “But if it’ll make you happy.”

  * * * *

  In the room that night, after a much-needed bath, Bettina touched the necklace she wore tucked beneath her chemise. She caressed the long gold chain with its enameled and diamond, opal studded salamanders. Guilt tugged at her that she thought it repulsive. It was a last gift from her father, and she knew she could never sell it to rescue herself. She stared at the envelope she’d carried from France and hoped the information wasn’t too crucial. Had she put anyone in danger by failing as a courier? Perhaps she needed to know what was inside.

  Bettina glanced at Kerra, who was already snoring in the bed she insisted they share, then broke open the wax seal. A sheaf of blank papers spilled out onto the floor.

  Chapter Four

  With no sidesaddle, Bettina straddled the gray gelding like a boy, her thighs gripped on the leather. She didn’t know what a horse was worth in England—and the owner had acted confused about the value of her gold louis—but this emaciated beast seemed worth but a few sous. Familiar with horses, she’d insisted on taking the reins, desperate to have some control in the bizarre direction her life had scattered.

  She’d ridden on her family’s country estate during the summers. She pictured her mother’s last wave from Château Jonquiere. Maman would never find her now. Bettina’s fury over Armand tricking her stung like glass shards in her stomach, but it kept her sadness at bay. His reasons seemed incomprehensible.

  “Ain’t never had my own horse.” Kerra’s valise poked into her spine. “It’s nice ridin’ up this high. Like a queen.” She squirmed her skinny body behind her and talked on. Bettina concentrated on the warmth and movement of the horse, her mind tangled up with thoughts until it felt numb.

  At nightfall, Kerra urged her into a grove of beeches, behind a pungent hedgerow. “We’ll camp here like them wild gypsies.”

  Bettina had never slept outside, but dismounted and unpacked the supplies they’d purchased: vegetables, an iron pan, tin plate, one bent fork—the only implement left.

  “Here’s a blanket, we didn’t think to buy one o’ them. Did that man leave anything else in these saddlebags?” Kerra dug around. “I have my tinderbox.”

  “I hope he left a bottle of wine and roast veal.” In the shadows, Bettina rubbed her chafed inner thighs. She unsaddled the horse and led him to a creek to drink. He seemed a dull, docile animal, as bemused by his situation as she was over hers. She stroked his soft nose.

  Kerra filled her flask. “Wish it were brandy. Gather some wood, we’ll start a fire.”

  “Could we not find a cheap inn?” Bettina gathered dry leaves and twigs into a pile. “Anyone might come upon us here.”

  “Nay, this will do fine. Needn’t waste no money.” Kerra plopped down the tinderbox, removed flint and steel, and drew a spark to light a cloth scrap. She tossed it into the tinder and stirred it around until it caught. Smokey flames crackled and sizzled.

  This task always looked simple when others performed it. Bettina had seen the servants at home light many a fire, but never bothered to attempt it herself—not when someone always rushed to do it before she even needed to ask.

  She sat on the hard ground, her buttocks already sore from the ride. The trees loomed around her, their branches like woody arms grasping above. She longed for a chamber pot to relieve herself, instead of crouching behind a trunk like an animal.

  Kerra dropped potatoes and green beans into the pan with a dab of water. “Too bad meat’s so expensive. We shoulda bought some lard.” She half fried, half boiled the vegetables over the fire. She dipped the pan and plopped the mass into the plate.

  “Eat your fill, then pass it to me, an’ I’ll eat mine.” Kerra shoved the plate at her.

  Bettina had little appetite but managed two forkfuls. The mixture tasted bland without butter or salt, but it warmed her stomach. She’d watched Kerra shop at the open air market, and appreciated the skill it required to haggle over the prices.

  “No, don’t wipe off the fork. You got a sickness I might catch?” Kerra took the plate and scooped right in. “Now me and Maddie, we practically raised ourselves. She’s seven years older ’an me. Was seventeen when she went to work at the inn—the best server they be gettin’.” She slurped another mouthful, food dribbling onto her chin. “Have you brothers or sisters?”

  “No … I am the only child.” Bettina sagged in more isolation. She shifted on the stony ground, listening to the evening sounds in the rare moments Kerra fell silent.

  “Want more?” Kerra slopped another forkful into her mouth. “You didn’t eat much. Maddie won that inn in a card game, if you can imagine. The old coot who owned it, Mr. Whitecomb, he drunk and gamed himself to ruin.” Kerra stopped and belched.

  “One evening, years later, Whitecomb tried to beat a man who took a fancy to Maddie. She is right comely, my sister. This stranger wanted her to join them playing Brag, what a mistake! Our father be sharp as knives with cards, taught Mads all he knew, when he was around. The stranger kept pushin’ the stakes higher. Old man Whitecomb got drunker. Bet all he had, then threw the inn on top. Were they ever bamboozled when Maddie had the winning hand. Oops, think there’s a crawler in here.” Kerra dug around in the pan, picked something out and flipped it aside. “Don’t look like it had legs.” She held out a forkful to Bettina. “Have another bite?”

  “No, I assure you, you may finish it.” Bettina turned away, bile churning in her stomach. She pressed on her abdomen and thought of the liveried servants who once stood behind her chair, ready to execute her every wish. She prayed this journey—or aligning herself with a person of low character—wasn’t a horrible mistake. She swallowed down her nausea. “You say your sister won the card game?”

  “That she did,” Kerra laughed. “Course she wouldn't o’ kept the inn, I don't think. She felt sorry for Whitecomb, the old ginsoaker. But he told her he were finished and up and left that night. We always thought he’d sober up and come back, but never did. So she renamed it after the ace that won it for her. Be the finest inn in the area, better ‘an the kiddleys in most villages—that’s your common drinkin’ place.”

  The flames crackled before them, pungent smoke drifting upward. The firelight flickered and cast shadows across their faces. Bettina noticed that, at times, Kerra’s infectious smile and bright green eyes gave the illusion of beauty. “You have led an interesting life.”

  “You do what you has to. What other choice be there?” Kerra put the plate down and shook out the blanket. Twilight faded over the trees, and the birds stopped their chirping.

  Bettina hugged her shawl around her shoulders. “You are right. Often you do not have a choice. I have never met … someone like you.” She’d never uttered sincerer words.

  “Ain’t too many exactly like me, if the truth be told.” Kerra scooted closer to Bettina and offered her half the blanket. “So, what’s your story, Mamsell?”

  “What do you mean, ‘my story’?” Bettina had grown used to Kerra’s mangling of mademoiselle, but now her weary senses tensed.

  “A girl traveling in a country she don’t come from … with no family, not a stitch o’ clothes ’cept what’s on her back. If I ain’t bein’ too personal?”

  Bettina remembered her upset with Armand for not letting her pack extra clothes. She fell silent for a moment, deciding how best to reply. She fumbled to loosen the stays beneath her dress, trying to relax. “I would like not to talk about it … if you do not mind.” Armand would have been proud of her disc
retion, but did she care any longer about the devious old man’s warnings?

  Kerra made no comment for several minutes and Bettina felt a stab of guilt that she’d bruised her feelings. Then the young woman snuggled into the blanket, squeezing up against Bettina. “Suit yourself.”

  Bettina stretched out on the ground and managed to grab a corner of the threadbare wool. She crumpled her bundle, now malleable sans papers, under her head and knew suiting herself had nothing to do with it. Armand had fooled her to convince her to leave France. But why?

  Rustles in the bushes, the cracking of dried leaves caused by some prowling creature, and her own worries kept sleep elusive.

  * * * *

  The horse clopped over a stone bridge that crossed what Kerra called the Tamar River. Bettina shifted in the saddle to ease her bruised thighs and stretch her spine after three days of riding. Every inch of her body ached from sleeping on hard earth. The farther from Bath they got, the more she doubted her decision.

  “See them broken chimneys? That’s from abandoned tin and copper mines.” Kerra described the engine sheds, wooden derricks, windlasses and wheel stamps—tracts of land pillaged for the minerals, now scarred and barren.

  They passed a batch of rough-hewn dwellings lumped in a declivity in the land. A group of men stood around a communal fire. A chimney rose up out of a hillside nearby, a pump engine slogging in the background.

  “Look at them, a bunch of tinners slacken off.” Kerra tapped Bettina’s shoulder from behind. “Tinners be our tin miners. We should invite ourselves down. They probably have beer or brandy. I’m dry and could use a tipple.”

  Bettina cringed at this suggestion. Kerra’s unpredictable manner caught her off-guard. “No, we do not need to do that. We cannot approach strange men, it is dangerous.”

  “Who says it’s dangerous?” Kerra’s voice grew petulant. “I don’t let nothing stand in my way for what I want.”