by Robyn Carr
Enid tried fruitlessly to occupy Jocelyn with gentle pursuits. Lady Anne had been a skilled needlewoman; but Jocelyn had learned the rough, solid needlework that saw a seam rejoined and a ragged tear patched. Over and over she was given sewing that required a delicate touch, but it had to be ripped out and redone in the end. In one of these sessions, Jocelyn ventured a question to the old housekeeper and reaped one of her rare moments of gentle compassion. “Enid, should he return with a bride, what am I to do?” she asked haltingly.
Enid touched Jocelyn’s cheek in kindness and said, “Then, child, we’ll find you another abode and fit you well as we can. But I think he wouldn’t shock us with a bride; I think he would send word.”
It was the sixth day and the seventh and then the eighth day of October. She rose each morning with a hope and a fear that this would be the day, dressed with great care, and prayed that no one noticed her unreasonable state of nerves. As she sat in the newly remodeled sitting room, struggling with slate and the few spelling words she remembered, Enid entered. The woman was wearing a frown and was obviously distressed.
“There’s a man below to speak with you, Maid Jocelyn.”
She looked up, startled. “Who would it be, Enid?” she asked in complete surprise.
“He says he is Master Cross Tyson. He waits in the courtyard near the road.”
Jocelyn stood immediately, dropping her slate to the floor and then, flustered at her conduct, retrieving it quickly. “Where?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard.
“By the road,” Enid repeated. “He won’t enter the house. Who is this man, Jocelyn?”
“He is my—that is, he is a friend of my father’s.”
“Your father? But you have no family.”
“That is, he was. He was a friend of the family.”
“Should you be seeing him alone? Could he wish you harm?”
“Oh no, Enid,” she promised. “Oh no, he is quite safe. I must speak with him.”
“You should take Avery with—”
“No, Enid, please,” she said suddenly. Then, trying to calm herself, added, “He is a man from the village in which I lived. He knows I am here and I suspect he brings word of the village. Please, dear Enid, I should see him privately.”
“I don’t like this sort of thing,” the woman snorted.
Jocelyn nearly laughed. This sort of thing, she thought. Enid was truly more gracious about her position of mistress here than about Cross’s visit. And Cross and Enid shared much the same values—she would not disapprove of him if she knew him.
Cross waited at the end of the drive near the road, standing beside his cart, which was laden heavily with bales of barley and bags of apples. He was obviously taking his produce to a market somewhere and took the opportunity to pass Braeswood. A hired attendant stood far away from the cart, clearly making distance upon his master’s request. The boy shifted uneasily in the afternoon sunshine while Cross paced back and forth in front of his cart.
Jocelyn felt a strange stirring of emotions as she walked toward him. He was a large man; more stocky than Sir Trent. His face was thick and his arms were huge, like young tree trunks. He could not be called homely with his hefty build and thick, unruly brown hair. Indeed, he was considered both handsome and rich by many peasant women. At the age of two-and-thirty, he was a strong, able, clean, and prosperous man who had not hurried into wedlock, but worked hard at building a farm of comfortable means. His house actually had five rooms.
Village women had thought her quite crazed not to be ecstatic and hysterical with joy that Cross and John Cutler had reached a bargain over her hand. She, meager of dowry and young, should have been enthusiastic about such a match. And perhaps she would have been, had she been older and concerned that no good match was in the offing. But she had known Cross for a long time, and most of what she knew was that he thought himself so much better and more powerful than she. Long afternoons had been spent in which Cross and her father would alternately chastise her for one thing or another and Cross would expound on how his wife would not wear this or his wife would not do that. She had come to think that a domineering and negative father would simply pass ownership over to a harsh and commanding husband.
Once, when they were together in the Cutler house and John and Cross shared a cup, she had walked away from them to do some small chore and Cross had remarked, “Aye, John, they’re breedin’ hips—and I am ready now for sons. A bevy of sons will see my hard work done.” Jocelyn had never experienced a lover’s caress or a seductive phrase. She was certain that Cross considered her “good stock” and did not otherwise care for her.
When she drew near to him now and he noticed her, he turned abruptly to face her and snatched his hat off his head, turning it in both hands anxiously. As he had entered her father’s small house, he’d seemed huge and prosperous, but standing beside his cart of farm goods and dwarfed by the shadow of Braeswood Manor, he seemed meek.
“Maid Jocelyn,” he said as he bobbed, seemingly nervous in her presence.
Jocelyn could readily identify with his discomfort; she felt it too. She feared his criticism and debasement. The only difference between them was that he seemed cowed in the presence of this wealth and prosperity, and she had practiced holding her head high and being proud of herself no matter where she was.
“Master Tyson,” she replied, giving a short bow of her head. “You look very well.”
“The harvest was very good, Maid Jocelyn. I have a knack with the crops, they say. The rains were too heavy, but I had a surplus of grain even so.”
“You’ve always been very lucky with your crops. This means you’re doing well?”
“Aye, better every year. Put a room on, I did. Round to the back o’ the house. And it’s a good room, it is. Large enough for a good winter store.”
“That’s wonderful, Cross. You’re so very rich now.”
“Aye, the richest farmer in Tristan Bend. Even further,” he added, giving his head a sharp nod.
Jocelyn wondered at his fidgeting, for she had never seen him any less than completely self-assured. He was a powerful figure in their village and people ran to do his beckoning. He had the esteemed reputation for owning his own stock and paying his rent and tithe with some ease, making him envied by the villagers. Villagers hurried for the lords and dames as well, because they’d be whipped or otherwise punished for failing to do so, and those noble passersby were scorned and disliked. And to the contrary, the very poor were given no attention at all. But Cross Tyson was one of them, a commoner, and he was successful.
“I hope you have some word of my family, Master Tyson,” she ventured.
“Aye, they’re fit enough,” he said.
“Peter?” she questioned.
“Safe home and grown a hand taller since you left.”
“Good. He was not in such poor condition, then?”
“Aye, he was. He was marked with the lash and Kerr relished it. But he was held nine days full and fed while he was there. He only looks slight.” Cross smiled. “But he’s a strength and quickness he don’t show.”
“Nine days,” she faltered slightly.
“Aye. You were gone a full three when he was returned to the village by use of a cart. He’s well and strong again. Worked the harvest, he did.”
Jocelyn’s face took on a look of puzzlement. She remembered clearly waiting for Sir Trent to see her, then being drawn into the house and fed and dressed, and then, much later, bargaining with her very virtue for her brother’s release. “Are you certain about the time, Cross?” she asked.
Cross looked fairly rattled before he spoke. It didn’t appear as though the question was hard for him, but the answer. “Aye, Jocelyn, dead certain, I am. I came to your village when you were gone and was there when Peter returned. I know the days and marked them well.”
“Well, then—” She stopped herself suddenly, thinking that this was not something to confide to her former betrothed. But the truth was clear to her. Tr
ent had freed her brother before pressing her maidenhood. She wasn’t certain if she had been tricked, or if she was the beneficiary of a reprieve.
He had offered her a chance to leave the house and she still accepted her fate. Had she gone, she would have found her favor granted nonetheless.
“You look well, Maid Jocelyn,” Cross said, his words cautious and stilted.
“I am in the best of health. My father?” she asked.
Cross hung his head. “He’ll come ’round, give ’im time.”
“Then he’s very angry?”
“He’s a hard man, Maid Jocelyn. He’s taken it that you’ve gone awhorin’ for his lordship and won’t listen to any denial. He needs only to see you to know that—”
“No, Cross. That wouldn’t do.”
“But it’s plain you’re in a decent service to him and have your self-respect. You couldn’t be about nothing so bad as old John thinks and still looking so …”
There was a note of desperation in Cross’s voice that Jocelyn had never heard before, and she found herself suddenly filled with pity for him. He seemed so eager for the news that she was still a wholesome virgin and that they could all go back to the way things were. But she dashed his fantasy quickly, and when she spoke, his face held first shock and then devastation. “No, Cross. It is too late for any of that.”
He hung his head for several long moments. His nervous fidgeting immediately stopped, and when he finally raised his head, his eyes were filled with a sorrowful disappointment. He looked at her long before he spoke again; this time he was mild but once again the determined man she had earlier known.
“Maid Jocelyn, it does not wear well on me that when I could pay you court, I did not. I paid my court to your pa, since he was the one to name me with or without you. But I passed my chance to speak for you direct, part because I am old and stubborn and part because you are so young. And you wouldn’t know, but I’d not practiced with the maids. I spent my youth and the past ten years at work.”
Jocelyn felt herself begin to glow a bit at the tenderness of his words and his sincerity. She had never known him to say anything sensitive at all. He had spent long months mimicking her father’s caustic and often cruel remarks—and she thought he scorned her and found her unfit.
“Did you know I cared for you?” he asked.
She was surprised at the question, nearly as much as she had been startled by his confession. “Why, no, Cross. I didn’t think you were fond of me at all.”
“I don’t make excuses for it,” he insisted. “But I could’ve married a hundred times. I’ve got myself a good plot of land and a decent house. I even have money with a goldsmith now.”
“That’s very good for you,” she said, feeling somewhat embarrassed and out of place. She had never had anyone defer to her before, as if she deserved an explanation, as if she were a worthy person who would require much humble persuasion. And yet here stood this handsome and prosperous man, even by her current standards, playing his court and plighting his troth.
But she was unstirred except to feel some sympathy for him. She pitied him in that he seemed to be suffering some loss, and she was rather amazed that it would be her.
“I waited too long to seek a maid, and paid no mind to bidding for your hand. I would have you know. I … odd’s blood, you were the prettiest and smartest in five townships. I was too smitten to speak the truth.”
“Cross,” she gasped. “I?”
“Gemini, you knew it well enough. Most of the men old enough to hold a plow and young enough to walk without a stick had an eye for you.”
“But I … Truly, this can’t be so. I was never spoken to!”
“Aye, and who would speak and tangle with the likes o’ John Cutler? But you’re a fair lass and it’s not been unnoticed. And to see you’ve come to the likes of this makes me turn in guilt that I did not stop you.”
“Oh, Cross, you mustn’t think so. It was naught of your promise that made me flee. Nor did I loathe marriage to you. It was for the sake of Peter and my father. And you see, I am not unwell nor harmed. Call it done and go lighter of heart. It is very kind of you to tell me how you felt.”
He drew himself up, standing tall and straight as if intent on some grand task, and spoke over the top of her head. His voice seemed directed more to some passing cloud than to her, for his eyes were cast upward and his chin was riding high. “I’m fully a man and can admit my mistakes and show compassion for another. Even though your virtue is of some question, I will make my offer of marriage good. In due time we’ll all forget what has passed.”
Jocelyn looked up at him, while he seemed unable to meet her eyes until she spoke her answer. Her attention was drawn away by a cloud of dust that signaled an approaching horseman some distance down the road. Then she was caught by that sight and not Cross’s words. She watched the rider come closer until Cross, distracted by her silence, looked at her and then at the rider.
Her heart began to beat more rapidly as she reasoned it must be Trent. She didn’t know whether to flee into the house, begging Cross to leave quickly, or race toward Trent and throw glad arms around him. At a loss, she simply stood, and when Cross finally looked back at her, she spoke.
“My father, Cross. What does he tell our neighbors?”
He struggled for a moment and then blurted out the truth, finding no way to avoid it. “He tells them you ran away with a traveling group and to him you are dead. It was only to me that he told the truth.”
She felt her eyes begin to tear, for it was clear he was as good as his word; she was no longer a daughter in his eyes.
“Our marriage will set it aright, and ’fore the first child is born, the old man will come ’round. Jocelyn?”
She shook her head sadly and caught herself trying to monitor the rider while looking at him. “It’s too late,” she said softly.
“Think hard on it, Jocelyn,” he begged, becoming distressed under the strain of the horseman’s advance. There was no longer any question of his identity; the dark hat and cape and the fiercely large stallion all belonged to Wescott. “You may not have another offer for a decent life and a good marriage.”
“You would soon regret this generosity, Master Tyson. I can’t in good conscience allow it.”
“If you fear him, we could—”
“I don’t fear him,” she shot back, a little surprised at the strength in her voice.
Trent slowed his horse as he neared the cart and came into view of the house, and Jocelyn pulled her cape more tightly around her. The afternoon wind whipped her skirt around her legs, molding it firmly against her, and her hair blew in lazy curls about her face.
“Jocelyn,” Cross said hoarsely, leaning close to her and showing true urgency as Trent bore down on them. “I would not hold this against you. You must believe me. I … I …” He paused, looking as though he must gather strength. “I want you.”
Behind Cross, Trent stopped his steed and dismounted, taking the reins and walking slowly toward them. His features were stony and glum, and in addition to being dirty from a long ride, he looked angry and tired.
Jocelyn slowly shook her head at Cross, who shifted uncomfortably. Before she could say another word, Trent was beside them. He looked at the farmer, eye to eye, for they were near the same size, and then his countenance was on his mistress.
“Welcome home, my lord. I would like you to know Master Cross Tyson.”
Trent gave a brief nod of his head, studying the man intensely. His dark eyes were small with displeasure, and the fix of his mouth was anything but friendly. Cross made a good and noble show of standing still and tall, feigning pride under this wealthy man’s rigid appraisal, and for that Jocelyn was indeed proud of him. He was a good and decent man and she felt a pang of regret that he had never spoken for himself before.
Trent let his eyes pass to Jocelyn and spoke slowly. “Will I see you within?”
“Aye, milord,” she answered quickly. “A moment, I pray.”
None of the questions that had plagued her for many weeks were answered with his homecoming, and with Cross so near, she could hardly ponder them well. That Trent was eager to be home was shown by his swift travel of the road, but there was little pleasure for him when he arrived to find his mistress with her former betrothed. She had named him for Trent before, and he clearly remembered the relationship now.
When Trent had passed them, she gave Cross some of her attention again. “It’s so very strange, Cross,” she ventured lightly. “For many years, since my mother’s passing at least, I longed for love in any cloak. I would have thought myself grand to have someone as good and powerful as you beg a favor from me. Truly, I did not know you held any feelings from which I might weave dreams of a pleasant life. And now … I’m sorry, it just wouldn’t do.”
“I would love you,” he said, his voice deep and mellow. “I would speak vows of loyalty and honor before God. Even so,” he added, letting his eyes drift toward the house.
“But I cannot. And in good faith, I cannot forget that I am soiled and you deserve a pure bride. No, Cross. I will not change my mind.”
She thought she saw a glimmer of moisture in his eyes, but averted her own lest he be shamed by it. She was therefore not looking at him when she heard his question.
“You love him?”
She had not dared even propose that question to herself. It seemed ludicrous even to consider her own feelings, since he pulled the strings on which her mere existence dangled. The very thought made her give a little laugh. “Oh, poor maiden that would put any credence in love of Sir Trent,” she heard herself say. “You know what I am,” she said snidely. “My father says I am dead, the servants call me by less kind names. What matter how I feel?”
“It matters to me,” he said softly.
A fat tear born of emotions overtaxed by the recent encounters on that small patch of road began to swell and gather in her eye. “Yes, Cross. I love him.”
