The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters)

by Mercedes Lackey

  Peg stared at the food as if she didn’t believe her eyes. When she made no move to start eating, Spencer put on his most coaxing tone of voice, and said, “Go on, Peg. Eat. The pie, and the pudding. It’s all for you. And all the bread and butter and jam you like, as well.”

  As he had come to expect from workhouse girls, once she started, Peg didn’t finish eating until everything on the table was gone. She even picked up her plate and licked it clean, which didn’t surprise him in the least. These workhouse girls didn’t have any more manners than a dog. And when she was done, old Kelly put the dirty dishes in the sink then seized the girl by the elbow and got her up out of the chair. The girl followed her, unresisting, to the bathroom.

  Spencer went to his study, where he waited for Kelly to return. Meanwhile, he studied his notes. It never hurt to refresh his memories, after all.

  Kelly returned about the time he was finished and, as was usual, sat herself down without an invitation. He looked up and smiled at her, and set aside his notes. He allowed behavior that would have been unthinkable in an ordinary housekeeper. This project would not have been possible without her full knowledge and assistance. She was as much a partner of no indifferent skill as she was his housekeeper.

  “Put the girl to bed,” she said shortly. “Exhausted. Ain’t been that long since she lost ’er brat, an’ they musta put her straight back to work. Reckon she’ll sleep till breakfast.”

  “Is there anything in the wardrobes that will fit her?” he asked.

  Kelly pulled at her lower lip as she thought. The old woman had once been a beauty, but her looks had gone long ago. Her big eyes were surrounded with frown lines, her neck looked like a chicken’s, and her blond hair was like dry straw. Fortunately she knew better than to try her wiles on him, but he’d caught her trying to flirt with some of his underlings as if she was still twenty. Pathetic. But he never told her so.

  “Reckon so,” she said, finally. “Can always put a sash ’round ’er, and she ain’t gonna need a corset.”

  “Good.” He linked his fingers together and stretched them. “She seemed rather emotionless and not very bright. How long do you think I’ll need to woo her?”

  Kelly pulled at her lip again. “Gi’ ’er two days with food an’ rest, then start. Reckon it won’t take long.” She shook her head. “It’d be better if ye didn’ ’ave t’woo ’em. Quicker.”

  “But I must have their complete assent in the ceremony,” he pointed out, and she nodded.

  “Yew know best,” she agreed. “I jest want ’im back. Things is gonna fall apart soon without ’im.”

  He sighed, but she was right. He simply did not have the strength of character, the charisma, or the blinding intelligence that he did. “Well to that end, did she talk in the bath? What did she tell you?”

  For the first time Kelly cracked a smile. “Did she talk! Fust ’int I was gonna be nice, an’ she wouldn’ shut her mouth!”

  What Kelly had to say was very enlightening, and gave him a clear path for winning the girl over to him in the shortest possible time. She’d gone to the workhouse as an orphan at six, and the workhouse had been a terrible shock to her. She’d been sent out to work in service at age thirteen, one year before she would officially have been deemed a “woman” and sent to the adult women’s section of the workhouse. At the time she’d been grateful she wasn’t being sent to a factory. But no sooner had she arrived that the master of the house had forced her to accept his advances, and had continued to have his way with her until they were caught by the mistress.

  When she’d been sent back to the workhouse, she’d discovered she was pregnant, and almost immediately lost the fetus. Spencer suspected the workhouse nurse had probably dosed her with something to get rid of it. They’d have wanted to put her back out to work as soon as they could, and no one would take a girl with a big belly.

  Kelly had coaxed this part of the story out of her by dint of lying. She was very good at making up whatever tale would extract a girl’s history the quickest. Her ability to lie was a talent that Spencer valued immensely.

  “Well, that seems simple enough,” he said, when Kelly finished the last of her story. “Is the girl at all religious?”

  Kelly rolled her eyes. “It’s all tears and contrition with ’er,” the old woman told him. “She thinks ’twas ’er fault ’er master ruined ’er.”

  “Excellent. I think a combination of God sent me to redeem you, with God wants you to be mine, will be the swiftest path.” He smiled at the thin harridan sitting in his best chair. “You’re invaluable.”

  “Pish,” she replied. “Since I ’spect we’ll be eatin’ supper alone, will cold tongue an’ pickles do?”

  “Admirably,” he replied, and she got up, smoothed down her dress, and left.

  But he did not. Instead, he sat back in his chair to contemplate the work ahead of him for the next week. And it would most certainly be a great deal of work, work he was growing weary of.

  He didn’t like young girls at the best of times. His taste was for solitude. On the rare occasions when he felt the need to exercise other bodily urges, he liked beautiful, mature, attentive, silent women, women who got on with the important business of arousing him without any unnecessary chatter. There were several such at his favorite brothel. All attractive, all clean and sweet-smelling, always freshly bathed, always exquisitely dressed (even if they were not wearing much), and not one of them demanding anything more of him than his money.

  These girls were so needy. The best of them had been like the last one he’d bought from her parents—silently accepting their fate, delighted it was better than anything they’d ever experienced before, and perfectly obedient. Perfect obedience was all he needed.

  The problem was the girls like this one—broken things that had to be coaxed back to life, then convinced they should give him their trust and devotion. But he couldn’t buy girls from willing parents too often, and he was running out of poor neighborhoods in London to prospect for them in. The broken discards were common—just as easily bought from a workhouse, and with no more questions asked—but they required so much more work.

  He was sick and tired of it. He wanted his old life back. He longed for the day when this would be over, when he could rid his house of gowns and girls, when he could go back to his studies, sifting through the mysteries of life and death and life beyond death. Back to when he would be required to practice his art no more often than every fortnight or so, and be paid handsomely for doing so.

  He knew why he was doing this. Kelly was right. The Organization, traumatized, and shaken by losing its leader and half its members at a single blow, was close to falling apart.

  And without the Organization, he would not have the pleasant way of life he had become accustomed to. Not for long, anyway.

  And he was tired of all of the killing.

  No, that wasn’t exactly true. It wasn’t the killing he was tired of. It was the mess and cleaning up afterward that he was tired of. Granted, he used his Elementals for it, rather than actually doing the work with his own two hands, but it was still an effort to control them. The more blood they absorbed, the more difficult they became to handle.

  Kelly could do that, but he preferred to handle it himself. She was an Earth Magician—not a Master, so he had to invoke Elementals for her and bind them to her, but once she had them under her control, she ruled them with a fist of iron. Never once had he seen her domination of them slip for even an instant. But those were Elementals he had never allowed to taste blood. He didn’t think she’d be able to control the ones that had so easily.

  Still, even without that assistance, she was a fine underling who very much appreciated her easy life with him. Although she was his “housekeeper,” in fact very little of the housework was actually done by Mrs. Kelly; most of it was accomplished by her Earth Elementals. The only thing she did herself was cooking, in part because she enjoyed it, and in part because she was particular about her food, and it wa
s just easier for her to make it herself in order to get it done the way she liked it.

  If there was a girl in the house, Kelly would feign doing the work, but it was all pretense. Ordinary people couldn’t see the Elementals, and usually the girls were so preoccupied with their new circumstances that they didn’t notice Kelly wasn’t actually doing anything if they saw her “working.”

  And of course, if there wasn’t a girl in the house, Mrs. Kelly could simply sit back in a chair and enjoy a nice cup of tea, a biscuit, and an illustrated magazine while the Elementals did her bidding.

  It was an excellent arrangement for both of them. He had reliable, trustworthy help, while not taking the risk that an apprentice with potential equal to his would decide to challenge him. That, after all, was how he had gotten as much power as he had; he had challenged, beaten, and killed his mentor, and taken his power and his Elementals. But a mere magician couldn’t possibly challenge a Master, and wouldn’t try. And she got Elementals to command, as many as she wanted or needed, plus a very comfortable living situation.

  And all she had to do was tend to the occasional girls until he disposed of them.

  The fact that she was almost fanatically loyal to the Organization and to him also helped keep her cooperation.

  That brought his thoughts back around to the new girl. Initially, he hadn’t been impressed, but the fact that she’d revealed so much to Mrs. Kelly suggested her spirits would revive much more quickly than he’d first thought.

  It almost made up for being dragged out of the house with no breakfast but a cup of tea and a slice of buttered bread to deal with that wretched thug.

  * * *

  Kelly had been right. The girl slept right through supper, through the night, and only appeared in the morning when Kelly went to wake her and give her something to wear. She turned up at the breakfast table looking very young and vulnerable in one of the white tea gowns he’d bought from secondhand dealers. And pretty in a faded, soon-to-age-into-plainness way. Well now she would always be pretty.

  In fact, he thought he would use that line with her. “You will always be pretty to me.” She’d be even prettier, in fact, with her head in one of his jars.

  She stood uncertainly in the door of the kitchen; he motioned to her to come sit down in the same chair she’d used the day before.

  “Dun think I c’n work in this,” Peg said, looking a little desperate, and plucking at the folds of the gown with one hand.

  “Sit down and have some breakfast, Peg,” he said patiently. “Mrs. Kelly told me all about you. You’re not well, you’re not healthy. It would be wrong, truly wrong of me, to make you work while you are sick. I forbid you to do any work until you are rested and feeling better.”

  The sweet simpering he put on when he made that last statement sickened him. Oh, the things he did in order to achieve his goals!

  She was so startled she actually raised her eyes and looked straight at him with a stunned expression on her face. He smiled at her. “That’s right, you are to rest and eat, and get better. Then we will speak of your duties.” He remembered what Kelly had said about the girl being religious. “Jesus told us that we are to take care of the weak and sick, did he not?”

  To his surprise, she suddenly burst into tears, snatching up the napkin from her place at the table to sob into it.

  He reacted quickly, however, patting her carefully on the back as she sobbed incoherently about being a “sinner” and “undeserving,” and how if he knew how bad she was, he’d cast her out.

  And then she wailed out her misdeed. That she’d let a man have his way with her, and that it wasn’t illness she was suffering from, but the effects of losing his baby.

  Well, now what should he do? This was the first girl that he’d gotten that had ever reacted in this way. He glanced at Kelly, who mouthed the words “blame the man.” Taking the hint, he also took a firm grasp on her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. “Look at me, Peg,” he commanded.

  Instantly obedient, she did. Her eyes, swollen and red, reflected her apprehension and fear. He could guess what she was thinking, that she expected that he’d send her back to the workhouse.

  “I know all about your troubles, my poor child,” he said, in a soft, coaxing voice. “Mrs. Kelly told me what you told her. And I know you are not to blame. Your former master took advantage of the fact that you were under his authority and had to do whatever he told you to do. If you had told him no, if you had fought him, he would have beaten you and done what he did anyway. That was very, very wrong of him, and is a betrayal of his position as a master. He is the wicked one, the evil one, not you. He is the one who will have to answer to God for his crimes, not you. You are the victim. You are to be helped and pitied.”

  She looked at him with mingled hope and doubt, so he added, “If you need me to find a priest to tell you this so that you will believe it, I will go right out this minute and visit my priest at St. Michael’s and convince him to come here to tell you himself.”

  Most workhouses, of course, were associated with the established church, not something like a Methodist chapel, so he was perfectly safe in assuming she’d respond to the word ‘priest.’

  Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him. “Yew’d do that?” she gasped. “Afore breakfast?”

  “I would,” he replied, then transferred his grip from her wrists to her hands, folding them inside his, and looking earnestly into her eyes, thinking as he did so that he was a better actor than most of the ones he’d seen on stage. “But I should think you would be willing to believe me without that.”

  She flushed and dropped her eyes. “I’ll . . . try,” she said.

  He carefully hid his elation. She was responding already! Perhaps, despite the coercive nature of the relationship, her former master had awakened her sensuality. If that was the case, this would go much faster. She would not only have her feelings of gratitude to urge her toward marrying him, she would have the stirrings of her own body helping that urge along.

  He let go of her hands. “Good,” he said. “Now I want you to eat your breakfast and grow stronger. Can you read?”

  She should have been able to. The workhouses were supposed to see to it that the children they sent out were literate. But of course, given that the girls were generally destined for a life as housemaids and the boys as factory workers, most didn’t really bother.

  “Not . . . good,” she said, picking up her fork and starting, tentatively, on her eggs. She glanced sideways at him, as if she was still afraid she would find disapproval in his face.

  Of course, he smiled. He would control himself so that she never saw a frown on his face. “That’s all right. I was just trying to think of something you might do to amuse yourself while you rest. Do you knit?” That was usually a skill that the girls were taught in the workhouses.

  She nodded shyly.

  “Well then, I shall give you some knitting to do. I would very much like stockings,” he told her.

  Of course, he didn’t need or want stockings, but this would keep her out of trouble.

  She ducked her head a little. “Oi make good stockin’s,” she managed.

  “I’ll see t’it Marster,” Kelly said, as she brought her own filled plate to the table. He nodded. “I got knittin’ tackle I can share.”

  “In that case I will be in my study.” He finished his breakfast, gave her another encouraging smile, and left the room.

  He almost felt like going back to bed himself. Being nice to that girl was exhausting.

  But she had what he needed. Youth. All the energy of the years she would never live. And of course, her soul, which would be bound to him.

  His lip curled as he thought of the job of work he had before him with her, and he decided, early as it was, that he needed a drink.

  He gave nod to the early hour and poured himself a brandy instead of a whiskey, and instead of sitting at his desk, took his comfortable wing chair and put his feet up on a footstool.
Downing half the glass, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  He heard Kelly come in and shut the door behind her, and opened them again. “Cor,” she said, pouring herself a gin and sitting in the chair across from him. “What a milksop! Surprised th’ work’ouse gave ’er up so easy. She’s just th’ kind uv pathetic little beast they like.”

  “Possibly they felt that having fallen once, she was more likely to do so again, and again, and again, with the same result each time.” He finished the rest of his drink.

  “Big bellies and babbies. More mouths to feed on the parish.” Kelly nodded. “Well, she’s tucked up i’ bed wi’ needles an’ wool, an’ she can knit, at least.”

  He grimaced. “I do not want stockings.”

  Kelly grinned. “I’ll ’ave ’em, then. It’ll pay me for puttin’ up wi’ ’er tears an’ vapors. I tol’ ’er I’d bring ’er lunch an’ supper on a tray.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Mrs. Kelly,” he said, not really objecting, because he wanted to keep his contact with her to carefully measured and calculated moments, and not have to deal with unexpected outbursts like the one over breakfast.

  “’Tis a small price t’pay t’ keep ’er from weepin’ an’ spoilin’ my dinner,” Kelly replied. She eyed him with calculation. “If I was you, I’d go read ’er a bit uv Bible whilst she knits.”

  He groaned, but he knew she was right. The comforting verses, of course. Well he supposed that it all had to even out. That last little girl he’d bought from her parents had been ridiculously easy to process. Slightly less than twenty-four hours, and her head had been in the jar. So, of course, this one was going to be twice the work.

  “Have you any other suggestions, Mrs. Kelly?” he asked. “I bow to your expertise in such matters.”

  As a matter of fact, she did.

  When she finished, he sighed, but he had to admit he agreed with all of the suggestions, insipid as they were. Reading at her bedside would reassure her immediately that he wasn’t going to ravish her. Bringing her a modest little picture or two and flowers to brighten her room was a hint that he felt she was something more than a servant. Praising her knitting would raise her spirits and make her feel that she had accomplishments.