by Hart, Amelia
She huffed up a hill, finding it more of a challenge than her city-bred legs had expected. Through another field she went. The cows in it gazed at her curiously. She watching them with a wary eye, and when the closest started to meander in her direction she picked up her skirts and scuttled for the next gate, miring in mud and wallowing on regardless.
As the glow of exercise warmed her body, her hysteria waned.
The air was warm, if still damp. The birds sang in the trees and the fields, and oh, what a pleasant, sweet sound the river made. It was amazing how good the breeze tasted away from the smoke and smog of London. She had never known how stinking and polluted the city until she had something with which she could compare it.
There was a copse of trees at the top of the next hill, so she aimed for that. When she got there she was pleased. It was a high point, and the view from the edge of the copse was delightful. There was a glade within, and a fallen tree might have provided a seat if it were drier. Currently the general squelchiness of the place defeated lounging, but she would return another day when the sunshine would make it a bower.
She would bring her workbasket. For small pieces she could work as well here as anywhere and oh, what a difference it would make to be outside.
As she looked out from under the shelter of the leafy canopy, she saw two fine horsemen ride past, a field and more away. It was a picture that delighted the eye, the smooth canter of the thoroughbred hunters, the effortless control of the powerful gentlemen. She smiled a little at the sight, so much more fitting here amidst this wilderness than in the manicured parks of London.
The dark-haired man looked a great deal like . . .
But no it was not him of course. How could it be? Only he was unpleasantly omnipresent, everywhere in her thoughts and her imagination. It was natural enough he should leave an impression, she supposed. As if the press of his bare skin against hers had engraved some subtle mark even deeper.
Her first – and destined to be her only – lover; for all her days. Forever. Natural but hardly desirable that she should think of him.
What she needed was forgetfulness. A quiet and willing spirit shackled to a calm small life. Happiness in the little moments, the new freedoms of being here, and a turning away from the bigger dreams she had once had, and the brief hours of that one strange night where her questing self had encountered something . . .
Enough with that. She was spending too much time alone. Inside the wilderness of her own head, building fantasies out of something which had never been more than a means to an end.
He was a dissolute gentleman, free to squander a fortune on a toy. He had treated her kindly enough, but with no nobility.
He was really nothing out of the common way. Any man might have brought her the same pleasure. It was a body’s clever trick for encouraging the getting of children. Nothing more.
See, even now, the thought of him, the sight of a man who looked like him, made her body flush and tingle suggestively, all heat and desire for more of what it had enjoyed so briefly.
Stupid, hedonistic, lustful body that would happily see all a ruin for a chance to sink back into those arms, feel the heat and power of masculinity, defining her womanliness and giving it meaning by its sheer contrast. A body that would seek to lose reason and control in a reckless struggle for pleasure.
And being poetic about her base lust was perhaps the greatest depravity of all, she thought sardonically.
A fallen woman indeed. That was the meaning of the phrase. It was her, standing under trees on the edge of a field as sunlight broke through the clouds, watching the light hit the broad shoulders of a dark-haired man growing small in the distance, and mentally stripping him bare and placing him in a bed with her so she could use him for her delight.
That was why no decent man wanted a fallen woman.
Chapter Eleven
Melissa completed the seam with a sigh of relief, tied a knot and snipped off the hanging thread. That was an end to it, and she was delighted to get to finish this putrid puce gown. It was beastly ugly. She could not imagine wasting money on something so hideous.
If she was running Miss Parsit’s shop there would be no patron stepping out in a dress such as this. No matter what the fashion plates might say. It was depressing to put so many hours into the creation of it. The sooner it was worn to rags, the better off the world would be.
Still, she need never look at it again, other than perhaps an occasional glimpse of some unfortunate local lady with more money than taste. She folded it carefully into her workbasket, wrapped in a plain white cotton cloth to protect it from snags or a rain shower.
From a hook she took her small bonnet, smiling with pleasure at the pretty thing. It was made over from one that had sat in Miss Parsit’s shop for heaven only knew how long. The spinster had given it to her, clearly unable to sell it. It had been ludicrous to start with. She had stripped it right back, taking off the now unfashionable trimmings and the virulent mustard fabric. Then she covered it with some leftover green satin and added a wide, gauzy ribbon to tie it under her chin. It looked very fetching. She tucked her hair up inside it and spread out her modest gauze collar carefully, making the most of the tiny ruffle she had allowed herself.
With her basket slung over her arm, Melissa stepped out into the sunshine. She caught her skirt up in one hand to hold it clear of the mud. As she walked down the street with her brisk, upright step, she exchanged smiles and nods with those who acknowledged her. Of the five people she passed, only three: the baker’s son, Miss Parsit’s niece and George the farmer, who brought a brace of hares to the widow’s door every Tuesday. A friendly place the little village might be, but she was a working girl and must keep to her own kind.
Miss Parsit’s small shop was not far. Before she entered, Melissa was careful to clean off her boots with the boot-scraper placed strategically at the door.
“Good morning,” called a voice from the back room of the shop, as the bell over the door tinkled with her entrance.
“It is I, Miss Parsit,” she called back. “I’ve brought the puce dress. It is finished.”
“My, that was quick!” exclaimed the spinster with pleasure as she came into the front room. “Let’s see it then.” She held out a hand expectantly, and Melissa passed her the basket.
“It looks tidy enough,” Miss Parsit said, shaking out the garment. Melissa stood quietly as her employer turned the skirt inside out to check the seams minutely. She even walked over to the window to get a better look in the light. “Well, I must say you do very good work, young lady,” she confirmed to herself with a nod. “Very good indeed.” Then she looked up as something outside the window caught her eye.
“Oh, he’s back again,” she said with a scowl.
“Who is?” Melissa stepped forward to see the person to whom Miss Parsit was referring. But there was little space at the lace-hung window, and the spinster was directly in her way.
“A friend of Mr Mayhew. I forget his name,” replied the woman, sniffing disdainfully. “He must needs descend on Bourton and have the young ladies all simpering and squawking. He has money too. Or so we are told.” And that must explain every fault, her tone clearly said.
Melissa was curious to see this notorious individual, but Miss Parsit showed no signs of moving.
At least, not until she suddenly skittered back from the window with a sharp exclamation.
“He’s coming in here!”
“In here?” echoed Melissa in astonishment. This was an entirely feminine domain.
“Yes! Yes!” Miss Parsit hissed, rounding her counter and busying herself amongst her boxes of buttons as if hard at work.
The bell rang sharply as the door was opened.
“Ribbons is it, George?” came a deep, masculine voice that sounded vaguely familiar to Melissa. “Has another lass caught your eye?” The tone was relaxed and amused.
Into the little shop came a tall man wearing a freshly muddied riding coat.
&nb
sp; “Not I,” he said cheerfully. “I’m planning to trim a dress. A lovely confection in cream and blue. Needlework is very soothing, you know. You should try it sometime.”
The second man laughed a little as he too stepped inside, ducking slightly to clear the doorway. He was as tall as his companion but with broader shoulders. The first man called out a greeting to Miss Parsit, and a request to be shown her array of ribbons. The second glanced at Melissa and then froze, arrested.
Melissa felt the breath stop in her throat. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped.
That face and figure were indelibly burned into her brain. It was the man who had bought her! That very man, standing here in a little dressmaker’s shop in Bourton-on-the-Water.
How unspeakably cruel was fate!
He too was transfixed. “It’s you,” he breathed. “Is it you?” He took a step towards her.
His movement broke the spell. Melissa instantly dropped a veil of confusion across her features. Thank heavens her unthinking response had been to gawk and look foolish. Now she must build on that. She bobbed into a subservient little curtsey.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. I don’ know what you mean,” she said, all bewildered hesitance, pulling her head back into her neck like a turtle, rounding her shoulders and crouching a little inside her skirt to change her body language away from her usual posture and reduce her height. Thank heavens her hair was all ruthlessly tucked away under her bonnet, to give her a suitably modest appearance.
He frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly, his eyes searching her features, “but you look exactly like . . . entirely too much . . . you must surely be?” He was intense.
She continued to stare at him, with a look as vacuously puzzled as she could manage.
His lips tightened, his gaze narrowing even further. Under that steely regard she squirmed internally.
Then suddenly, as if a cloud had passed from the face of the sun, he relaxed and smiled warmly, giving her a wink with the eye hidden from Miss Parsit.
“I’m mistaken,” he said. “It is only a vague resemblance. For certainly, there could be none other to match your beauty.” His dark eyes twinkled at her appreciatively.
She gave an uncertain grimacing smile, like a simpleton, a fading sound between a giggle and a sigh, covered her mouth with one hand and looking down at the floor as if terrified by the attention from so fine a gentleman.
He took another step forward and lifted her chin by placing one finger underneath it.
Inexorably she met his eyes, her own glazed, skittering away immediately, a show of panic as she shrank from him. Inside she was very calm, very still, internal dialogue silenced. Waiting to see what he would do next, this man as dangerous as a keg of gunpowder in her new-made world.
A single darting glance at his face saw him expectant, searching for a hint she colluded with him in keeping their secret from onlookers. His lips were curved faintly as if this were some delightful game.
She gave him nothing, looking away again in the instant, jerking her head to shake off his touch.
Although he released her chin, she felt as if his finger still rested there. As if his warm skin branded her.
“None other in the entire world,” he said. “I bow before it,” he made her a very handsome bow, as if she were nobility.
“Here, James! Stop your flattering and come help me choose!” called his friend in a joshing tone. Melissa looked sideways towards where the friend stood, and was horrified to see Miss Parsit glaring at them.
She stepped hastily back from the man before her till her skirt brushed the wall, her hands balled at her throat and her head turned aside, hiding her face behind the inadequate brim of the bonnet. She could see his figure in her peripheral vision. For a long moment the room was silent as he continued to stand there.
“Ah, I knew you wouldn’t be up to the task,” he finally replied to George, breaking the moment as he stepped towards the pair at the counter. “Let me lend my expert advice . . .”
Melissa heard no more, for the instant his back was turned she escaped from the shop. The bell rang vigorously at her hasty departure but she did not look behind her. Instead she set off the wrong way down the main street, at just short of a run. A moment later she ducked into the tiny bookshop and hid behind a shelf.
Industriously she perused the dusty covers of the books there.
She had stood on the spot for a couple of minutes when she saw the two men go past the window. The unknown George was talking, waving his arms about animatedly. The other, Carstairs, who had been called James by his friend, had his head up and was scanning the street; as if he was looking for something, or someone.
Melissa shivered. The last thing she wanted was to be of interest to him. Peace and obscurity were what she sought. Not to be pursued by the one man who had intimate personal knowledge she was soiled goods. James. She had not known his name was James.
She struck up a conversation with the bookseller, asking an idle question or two, hardly aware of what she said. He would certainly think her a simpleton.
After allowing a good ten minutes to pass, she edged up to the window to scan up and down the street, still talking to the obliging shopkeeper. The two men were nowhere to be seen. Nodding in a friendly way she bade her new acquaintance good day.
Then she was off back up the street and straight into Miss Parsit’s shop. She had to stay in the spinster’s prudish good books. Making up to dubious gentlemen was no way to do that! Fences must be mended.
She swept a quick look about the shop to ensure it was empty apart from the proprietress. “Thank providence they are gone,” she fluttered breathlessly, putting one hand to her chest in a show of maidenly indignation. “Well I never! I was shocked. I did not know what to do, I’m sure. What should a good girl do when mauled at? I’m sure I don’t know. I’m quite overset!”
Miss Parsit nodded in satisfaction.
“Why yes, my dear,” she said. “Shocking. I was saying just the same thing to myself. You can see why I warned you.” Her tone was conspiratorial.
“I certainly can. Does he live hereabouts?” she asked, on tenterhooks.
“He has come a time or two, visiting with Mr Mayhew.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly. “Such a flutter is made about him in the neighbourhood. It’s not warranted, I must say. His face and figure are so coarse, so boisterous. And he sets the young men up to look foolish, aping him or trying to when they have hardly a penny to do it with.”
“He has certainly earned your disapproval. I must think the worse of him for that.”
Miss Parsit sniffed dismissively, but Melissa saw she was pleased by this flattery. “Not that he cares for our opinions of course. But I cannot abide to watch my nephew spend my good brother’s money on a new coat and hat to be like a prancing folderol from London. And it would curl your hair to hear the lurid things my niece imagines about him. Although,” and here she added as if to give the devil his due: “that may be at least as much about the gothic romances the girl has such a taste for. Awful stuff.”
“Does he stay for long?”
“Oh no, never for long. Two or three days, no more than that. He has an estate somewhat to the north, I believe. I don’t know exactly where.”
“Ah. Well, I shall contrive to stay out of his way,” said Melissa, speaking at least as much to herself as to Miss Parsit.
Chapter Twelve
True to her word, Melissa spent the next two days indoors as much as possible. She sewed with a grim eye on the sunny skies, her teeth gritted as she watched birds flutter about in the trees or fly off as the fancy took them.
She stayed rooted to the one place, industrious, bored and anxious. Through her open window she heard the raised voice of Mr Carstairs more than once as he walked the main street of the village with his friend. They seemed almost to haunt the place. It was really too bad of him. A man should not be so idle.
He did not stand on ceremony, but let himself be introduced to residen
ts of Bourton-on-the-Water. The doctor, the vicar’s wife, others she did not yet know. If she stood and craned her head a little around the corner of the sill she had a fair view without being seen herself. So she watched him a time or two; more than she wanted to, and certainly more than she thought wise.
It would be better not to think of him at all. But of course with him so near that was the next thing to impossible. It was a lucky chance she was working on a sombre navy day gown, so when she stabbed her finger in the midst of her distraction, the tiny bloodstains were well hidden on the back of the dark fabric.
Wretched man!
But luck had no part of it when he caught sight of her returning from Miss Parsit’s shop with more pieces of the navy dress in her workbasket. She saw him in the same instant, gasped and instinctively ran to ground at the widow’s house.
As if the place represented the least safety. For the next moment he was on the doorstep, rapping softly and saying: “Let me in, little flower.”
The knock made her jump wildly. The words seemed intimate, spoken through the closed door only inches from where she pressed up against the inside, chest heaving with fright.
There was no time for missish terror now, though. For at any moment someone might see him and wonder what that fine London gentleman was doing calling on the widow, or maybe her fresh young lodger. It would take less than an instant for cruel minds to find the reason why a man of his ilk might call upon a pretty working girl.
Once her reputation was gone, it was gone forever, and it would not need solid fact to destroy it. Rumour and guesswork were enough. Without a respectable reputation she must leave here and drag Peter onwards to who knew what. How, pray God how might she keep her good name in the face of this threat?
She could not pull him inside now, quickly. Even yet there might be eyes watching him at her door, and she cringed to think how that would be interpreted. There was no choice but confrontation, or he might stand there indefinitely, knocking and calling.
