by Karen Brooks
Paul had been the only one to give her any attention, and then in a manner she couldn’t comprehend or change, no matter how often she pleaded or transformed her ways. It was as if her mere presence provoked something in him beyond reason.
But all that was in the past now as she stood in the dark courtyard and tried to shrug off the after-effects of her exhausted slumber and take in her imposing surrounds. It wasn’t until the housekeeper, a regal woman with bronze skin and a white cap over tightly coiled black hair, stepped forward that the silence was broken. Sweeping Rosamund from top to toe with flashing eyes, she dropped the slightest of curtsies and muttered what might have been ‘my lady’ but sounded more like ‘malady’.
Her action woke the other servants from their stupor and they bowed, curtsied, scraped off caps and mumbled greetings as they shot Rosamund sidelong glances, taking her measure and behaving as if she was an infection, not a person. Not that Sir Everard noticed; he had turned aside to speak to another man who was quickly introduced as the steward, Wat Smithyman. Of middling age and slightly stooped, with a vivid scar cleaving his left cheek, he stepped briskly past her, swinging his arm so hard she felt the rush of air against her ear, and shouted above the ruckus of the horses, church bells and the cries of the nightwatchmen beyond the gates. It wasn’t until two young men shot out of the shadows that she understood what he was doing.
When the assorted trunks, barrels and sacks were unloaded from the carriage, including Rosamund’s meagre burlap, Wat directed the coachmen as they wrestled with the horses to turn the vehicle in the confined space. Finally, facing the street, the driver held the beasts until Wat gave him a purse. Cracking his whip, he rode off into the night, yelling at a poor vendor who trundled his cart past at the wrong moment, causing onions to scatter across the road. From nowhere, beggars and urchins appeared to scoop up what they could. Instead of helping him, Wat supervised the shutting of the gates, only turning away when the latch was finally lowered. Rosamund felt a twinge of pity for the poor vegetable seller.
Satisfied all was under control, Sir Everard waited for Wat to reach his side, then ordered him and Jacopo to follow, sweeping past Rosamund as if she too was simply something he’d purchased on his journey and was to be stored until required. With a wry smile at the truth of the thought, Rosamund watched as Sir Everard pulled the housekeeper to one side and muttered in a low voice. When the housekeeper turned towards her, eyes narrowed, a glint of what looked like triumph on her face, Rosamund knew she was the subject of the hurried conversation. Would Sir Everard ever admit how he met her and the bargain he’d struck with her mother? And, if he didn’t, would Jacopo ever tell?
God forbid if the servants found out… She glanced at the housekeeper, who watched Sir Everard as he disappeared from sight, the lanthorn she held aloft shining in her face. Disapproval emanated from her like a strong perfume.
Sir Everard’s voice carried from inside the house. ‘Any more letters arrive in my absence?’
Whatever Wat replied was indistinguishable. Soon, the only sounds were the grunts of the men stacking the barrels and sacks on the other side of the courtyard.
Rosamund longed to stretch, rub her hindquarters, examine this place to which she’d been brought and ask the thousands of questions fluttering around in her mind. Only, she didn’t dare. Stifling a yawn, she waited.
The housekeeper gazed at her. Rosamund tolerated the brazen study, determined to neither move nor comment. Instinctively, she knew this was important. With a small harrumph, the woman finally lowered the light and gestured for Rosamund to precede her.
‘The master is a busy man,’ she said. Her voice was lilting, deep and musical. ‘He’s been gone for over three weeks. Much has happened in his absence and not only here, it seems.’
So this was how it was to be. Rosamund was an event, unexpected and unwelcome. She took a deep breath and, though she tried to summon a smile and bring a lightness to her tone, found it difficult.
‘Then,’ she began, pleased her voice was steady, ‘I am fortunate indeed in having so conscientious a husband.’ There, that little reminder wouldn’t go astray. She faced the housekeeper and, tilting her head, looked straight into her face. In the shifting light, her features were patrician, the cheekbones high and wide, the unhappy mouth full. The contrast between the Puritan white of her collar and cuffs against her skin was striking. ‘And to have you to introduce me to my new abode. That is, if you would be so kind as to do so?’ She smiled.
There was a moment’s hesitation; the eyes flickered. ‘It would be my pleasure, my lady,’ said the housekeeper, her tone suggesting otherwise.
Rosamund swallowed her disquiet. ‘Then, since you are being so agreeable,’ she said, ‘could I also beg your name?’
‘Bianca.’
Rosamund ignored her failure to address her as ‘my lady’ and wondered if this was a jest. Surely, that could not be her name. There was a servant at Bearwoode who bore the same name and she was certain her grandmother had said it was the Italian word for white. Who would bestow such an appellation, a constant reminder of her difference?
‘Bianca,’ she repeated. ‘Pleased to meet you. Shall we?’ Rosamund indicated the door and, before Bianca could move, stepped over the threshold.
Her heart, already beating like a soldier’s drum, flipped. She hadn’t even entered the place and already she’d gone to war.
But at least she’d won the first skirmish.
FIVE
In which a new role is bestowed
Rosamund’s sense of victory was short-lived.
It turned out that they had entered the house from the rear. Led along a dingy corridor, she caught glimpses of a large kitchen from which interesting smells emanated, passed what might have been the main entrance, and went up a narrow staircase. She heard the murmur of male voices behind a closed door on the first floor and assumed that must be where Sir Everard, Wat and Jacopo were closeted. It was dark inside the house, the few candles in sconces casting faint light. She had an impression of many rooms, threadbare tapestries and a couple of portraits, though Rosamund couldn’t discern the subjects. Her boots clanked on the wooden floors in contrast to the silent steps of Bianca, making her feel both clumsy and an intruder. The house was clearly old; the wainscoting had seen better days, the bannister was scratched and the steps worn with the tread of many feet. Lemon and beeswax almost disguised the musty odour that grew as they climbed another cramped staircase. It wasn’t anything a few flowers, a fresh coat of paint and some brighter wall-hangings wouldn’t improve.
Bianca showed her into a room on the second floor, and before she could even remove her gloves, there was a knock and two drudges entered, one rolling a large tub, the other carrying two steaming buckets. They poured the water into the tub and made sure they took a good long look at Rosamund. Barely able to withhold their whispers until they’d left the room, they swiftly returned with more hot water, drying sheets and soap. Herbs and petals were scattered across the bath and a sweet perfume arose. Once the tub was filled, Bianca ordered more water on standby and then dismissed the women. They filed out, dropping curtsies and murmuring ‘madam’ with barely concealed sneers. It took Rosamund a moment to understand the sneers weren’t only directed at her.
She glanced at Bianca who, busy opening the window and admitting some air, appeared not to notice. This was not a happy household. Rosamund’s heart beat a little faster.
Uncertain what to do, Rosamund waited as Bianca lit more candles. Once that was accomplished and the room glowed, Bianca strode towards her and began unlacing Rosamund’s bodice. Startled by the woman’s temerity, Rosamund stepped back, gathering her clothes to her.
‘Wait. What are you doing?’
With a thin smile, Bianca folded her arms. ‘Master’s orders; he said you were to be bathed immediately and your clothes changed. He said you smelled like the Fleet…’
Rosamund gasped.
‘In summer.’
Hea
t rushed to Rosamund’s face as shame filled her body. Even she knew about the Fleet River, how it was little more than a sewer, often choked with the corpses of dead dogs, shit and offal. How could he? How could Sir Everard say such a thing? And to someone who would have to take orders from her, the mistress? A mistress who smelled like the filthiest of waterways. It was too much. Horrified and embarrassed in equal measure, tears welled. But her humiliation was not yet complete.
Knocking Rosamund’s fingers aside, Bianca quickly undid her laces and wrenched the bodice away, screwing up her nose in disgust. She pulled down Rosamund’s skirts and then dragged the shift over her head, tossing the linen to one side as if it were fit only for the rag woman. Rosamund’s cheeks flamed, but what could she say?
It simply wouldn’t do. She had to assert her authority, claw back the ground she’d so recently gained.
About to protest her treatment, Rosamund glanced at her bodice and sleeves lying on the floor and saw the state of the cuffs, the ingrained dirt in the laces, the encrusted mud on the hem of her skirt — her Sunday best. Then, she caught the odour rising from her body. Dear God. Sir Everard was right. She stank. Even though she’d washed, it was only the parts of her the public saw. While she’d good reason not to attend to her ablutions, that was between her and God and no-one else. It had served its purpose.
No more.
Naked now except for her boots, she saw herself through others’ eyes. The runnels of filth sitting inside her elbows, the smudges between her full breasts and around her knees; the muck around her navel, the dirt she knew rested between her toes. Why, she was no lady, and certainly no fit mistress for this house or this majestic tawneymoor, who not only smelled of violets and wild roses but who wore clothes so clean a saint could have donned them. No wonder she turned up her nose, looked at her with such disdain, and spoke with musical contempt.
How could Sir Everard have borne to share a carriage with her, let alone wed her? He’d slept not to avoid conversation but her scent.
Bianca gathered Rosamund’s clothes into a bundle and tossed them towards the hearth. Rosamund was sure had a fire been lit, they would have been cast upon the flames. In an effort to wrest back some dignity, she took off her boots herself.
Without giving away what she thought of the scuffed and worn footwear, Bianca pushed them aside with a sweep of her ankle.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let’s sweeten you up.’
Bianca held Rosamund’s arm as she stepped over the rim of the tub, her thumb compressing a fresh bruise. Rosamund sucked in her breath and tried to extract herself from the firm hold. Bianca gripped tighter. Tears spilled and she stared in abjection at Bianca’s dark fingers against her pale skin. Following the direction of her gaze, Bianca seemed to see not just Rosamund’s arm, but her flesh for the first time. Eyes of a startling turquoise widened. Her grip loosened, and she slowly extended Rosamund’s arm towards the light. Without saying a word, she lifted it higher, turning it slightly and studying the inside slowly. Standing in the tub, the water reaching her knees, Rosamund could hardly object as Bianca wordlessly circled her. With fingers as gentle as the first snowfall, she coolly touched each and every mark upon Rosamund’s body. Some were old and faded, others newly wrought. Rosamund felt her skin begin to goose, her nipples firm.
She didn’t say a word, but by the time Bianca had finished her examination, her features were cast more softly.
‘My lady?’ she whispered, gazing up at Rosamund with huge, all-knowing eyes. Why, her lashes were longer than Mabel the cow’s and curled like Jacopo’s. ‘Who would do such a thing to you?’
‘The grazes upon my arms, the gash upon my forehead —’ her fingers danced over it, ‘are the result of my carelessness.’
‘They are not what I am referring to, signora.’ Bianca frowned. ‘These,’ she elevated Rosamund’s arm higher, exposing bruises, a series of raw lines made by a switch, a bite mark upon her breast, ‘are no accident.’
Rosamund’s throat constricted. She swallowed and breathed slowly, forcing herself to calm as Bianca lowered her arm.
‘It’s all right, Bianca,’ said Rosamund quietly. ‘He… he can hurt me no more. My… my husband has seen to that.’
‘The signore does a good deed then?’ Bianca’s slight inflection suggested surprise.
Their eyes met and for a second, something inside Rosamund unfurled and reached out. Bianca’s lips parted and an odd look crossed her face before it just as swiftly vanished, replaced by a brittle, hard expression. Disappointment drowned the tentative connection, and Rosamund’s eyes began to sting.
Before she could rub the feeling away, or even dare to try to recapture the moment, Bianca pushed Rosamund down into the water, dousing her thoroughly from a nearby pail. Spluttering as hair and water streamed into her eyes, Rosamund pushed the soaking strands from her face as Bianca attacked her with soap. Forgetting the bruises and scrapes she’d touched with such tenderness only moments before, she washed her mistress as if she were a piece of laundry, eliciting shrieks and objections. The louder Rosamund cried, the more vigorously Bianca scrubbed. Old wounds reopened and blood streamed into the water, staining it. Her bruised hind found no respite against the solid bottom of the tub.
Rosamund knew the woman took no pleasure from her ministrations yet could no more prevent her cries than she could the sadness and anxiety rising inside her as pain flared and her modesty and dignity were trampled.
Understanding her objections were falling on deaf ears, Rosamund forced her mouth shut lest she add to the rumours she’d no doubt were already flying about the house, or swallow more soapy water. As Bianca tended her, she began to forget the aches and enjoy the sensation of being clean; the sting of the cloth on her scrubbed flesh, the rawness of grazes exposed, the water lapping them, the aroma of roses and lavender. With each swipe of the cloth, every lathery cloud washed away, it was as if she was cleansed of the last nine years. She imagined every day at the Maiden Voyage Inn, nay, every moment spent with her stepfather and his brutal attentions being purged from her flesh. If only she could do this to her mind, she would achieve peace.
As the second lot was poured over her head, making Rosamund gasp and her eyes fly open, Bianca propped herself on the edge of the tub and began to carefully comb the lice out of her hair.
When she was finally dried, dressed in what Bianca called a ‘housegown’ (a flimsy, apricot gauze procured from God knew where), the housekeeper departed before Rosamund could thank her.
‘The signore will join you in due course,’ she said in her lyrical accent and, without a curtsey or fare-thee-well, shut the door.
A knock followed shortly after and one of the maids entered, a pretty girl with a snub nose, freckles and dimples. Rosamund flashed a smile and scurried forward to help her. Carrying a tray laden with food, the girl shied away from Rosamund’s outstretched arms, appalled. Understanding she’d made another error — the lady of the house did not aid a servant — Rosamund retreated to the cold hearth, watching while dishes and cups were arranged on a small table by the window. When the girl finished, Rosamund thanked her warmly and was rewarded by an astonished widening of the maid’s eyes and the glimmer of a grin before two more maids were admitted, who quickly removed the buckets and tub, exiting swiftly along with the first.
Alone at last, Rosamund stood in the centre of the room and let out a breath so long and deep it was as if she’d held it all the way from Gravesend. Oh, dear God. How could she have thought this might be easy? That she was being rescued? While it was a relief to be free of the Ballisters, they were a known quantity. Surprises were few and far between; she was able to navigate her way through each day and had even accrued allies. Here, she was a stranger cast upon an unfamiliar shore. She didn’t even speak the same language. Not only would she have to accustom herself once more to being served — rather than doing the serving — but Sir Everard owned slaves. Rosamund had heard of the trade in human cargo, the stories of how some city m
erchants and nobles flaunted their newly acquired property, dressing their blackamoors in fine clothes and treating them much as they did their servants, only without the inconvenience of a wage. But she had never thought to see one, or to have one attend to her needs, however grudgingly. Yet, Jacopo didn’t hail from the Africas but Venice. From her accent, Bianca did as well. Well-spoken, clean, and with some authority if their titles were anything to go by, they were not what Rosamund expected. Nothing was.
Taking in the huge old four-poster bed, the diaphanous curtains swathing it, the discoloured blankets and pillows atop the coverlets, she did an inventory of the room, something practical, achievable, anything to ease the tumble of emotions inside. It was at least three times the size of her small one at the inn and though it was darker than her bedroom at Bearwoode, there was much to remind her of it — the decorative mantel, the deep hearth, the wooden armoire, the curtains billowing gently at the window and the landscapes hanging on the walls. It was akin to snatching a moment from her childhood. Her heart contracted. Then, she’d been loved. Then, she’d laughed — and often. Here? She gazed around. What would she do here?
Well, at least she was clean. Smoothing her hands over the gown, she admired her scrubbed skin, though it made her bruises stand out. Raising her hand to her nose, she inhaled deeply. Lifting the long, damp strands of her hair, she studied them. They no longer crawled with vermin and her scalp didn’t itch. That was something to delight in. Spinning in a circle, her arms outstretched, she felt a laugh begin to build; then she remembered the horrified looks of the servants, Bianca’s coldness and Sir Everard’s words, ‘She stinks like the Fleet,’ and the laugh died. She ceased to turn. Crossing her arms, she bunched her fists in her armpits. Sadness welled.
