The Barefoot Princess

by Christina Dodd

  He hunched his shoulders, thrust his hands in his pockets, and strode toward the pub.

  That building had light enough, but the windows were covered with oiled cloth rather than glass. He could hear voices and the clink of pewter, and his mouth watered at the idea of good English ale from a country pub.

  But he couldn’t go in. The place hummed with voices; it sounded as if everyone in the village was within. Certainly Jermyn hoped so, for if that was true, Amy’s thug was in there.

  Jermyn leaned against the wall by the window. He would wait until some sturdy oarsman came out. Then he would be on his way across the channel to the mainland, to his home and bath.

  He huddled into his coat and smiled into the mist. He enjoyed imagining the look on Lady Disdain’s face when she got to the bottom step and saw the empty cot.

  Of course, she might make an excuse not to come down tonight. He’d made her a happy woman and at the same time scared her out of her wits. She’d been as amazing as he had imagined, and when it came to Amy his imagination had been both fertile and diverse. But holding her in his arms had been almost as satisfying as dipping his wick in another woman’s lamp, and that made him realize he couldn’t have Amy hanged.

  To do so would deny him his pleasures.

  So tomorrow was going to turn out differently than anyone could imagine. Uncle Harrison would hear from his very displeased, very much alive nephew. Miss Victorine would get a stern talking-to from her lord. And Lady Disdain—

  “Will they get any money out o’ this kidnapping, do ye think?” A man’s voice. A disturbingly familiar man’s voice.

  Jermyn’s head snapped around. He moved closer to the window.

  “I’m fearing fer the whole project.” Another man’s voice, also familiar.

  “I told ye we shouldn’t get involved.” A woman’s voice, lamenting and accusing.

  “Ye’re not involved.” Another woman, her voice tart and snappish. “No one will accuse ye o’ anything. You’ll not be punished at all—but remember this—if this had worked, ye’d have profited.”

  “I never asked fer money!” The first woman yelped like a kicked puppy.

  “Yer cottage is as bad as any in the village. Do ye think we’d let it fall down around yer head? Ye’d have let us fix it fer ye, but don’t ye worry. We’ll not drag ye under int’ our hash.”

  “Mertle!” Jermyn recognized the deep male voice. He’d heard it just this afternoon up in Miss Victorine’s kitchen. Amy’s thug. The tall man who’d helped with Jermyn’s kidnapping. “Mrs. Kitchen doesn’t deserve such a tongue-lashing.”

  “Well! I should hope not!” Mrs. Kitchen huffed.

  Rather pointedly, Mertle said nothing.

  “He hasn’t always been this way.” A different man’s voice, yet somehow familiar. Deeper, with almost no accent and the slight quaver of age. “Do you remember, Pom, when you were lads together romping about, and you and His Lordship explored the cliff at Summerwind Abbey? The cliff above the ocean?”

  As Jermyn strained to remember who this might be, the pub collectively started to chuckle.

  “Ah, nay, ye don’t have t’ tell that story.” It was the deep voice.

  Pom. Jermyn remembered Pom from his childhood. They’d been the same age—and even then, Pom had been a big guy. A gentle lad, but three inches taller and already rowing out with his father after the fish.

  Now, remembering that day Amy had drugged him, Jermyn realized Pom wasn’t big anymore. He was a giant.

  Jermyn flexed his fists.

  The older man continued, “The two of you started jumping off the cliff onto a rocky ledge not far below, and the old lord saw you and thought you’d both fallen to your deaths.”

  “When we crawled back up to the top, Lord Northcliff caught us by our jackets and exercised his good right arm on our backsides.” Pom sounded pained, as if he remembered the lesson as clearly as did Jermyn.

  The pub rocked with laughter. How could they know the way Father had looked, so pale and livid Jermyn had been frightened? And when Jermyn had tried to explain they had crawled all over the cliff and knew where to jump, Father had roared, “The wind and the waves are always crumbling the rock away, and I’ll be damned if I let the ocean take you, too.”

  It was the only time Jermyn remembered hearing his father refer to the tragedy of his mother’s disappearance, and the only time he showed the pain she caused him.

  “Should there be trouble, I’ll take responsibility for everything,” the quavering old voice said. “If His Lordship hears that I led my sheep into rocky pastures, surely he’ll—”

  “Hang ye instead o’ us?” Mertle’s voice again. “We’ll not stand by fer that, Vicar.”

  Ohh. Vicar Smith was the one who wanted to take responsibility.

  “We’re in this t’gether,” Mertle said. “We did it t’ help Miss Victorine, t’ help ourselves, and t’ right a great wrong—”

  “And t’ save His Lordship’s soul.” That deep male voice again.

  Save my soul? Jermyn could scarcely believe the impertinence.

  “Aye, Pom, that, too,” Mertle agreed.

  “I’d say we were trying to save Mr. Edmondson’s soul, too, but I fear that’s a lost cause,” the vicar said wryly.

  “Aye, and there’s some o’ us more concerned about His Lordship’s soul than about Mr. Edmondson’s.” General laughter followed Mertle’s pronouncement.

  So they didn’t like Uncle Harrison. After this week, Jermyn admitted to more than a slight niggle of unease about him, too.

  “I’ve never heard o’ a whole village being hanged, so I think we should trust t’ God His Lordship will have mercy,” she said in a forcedly cheerful tone.

  Jermyn waited to hear someone agree that he would, indeed, have mercy.

  Instead, Miss Kitchen said, “He’s not like his father. He’s like his mother, running away from tiresome duties he doesn’t want t’ perform. He won’t have mercy. He won’t even know what they do t’ us.”

  When Jermyn slipped back into the cellar, the broken manacle still rested on the floor, his cot was still rumpled from his tussle with Amy, the stove still gave off its warmth, the chessboard was still set up awaiting a new game.

  Nothing had changed. Miss Victorine and Amy hadn’t realized he had escaped. The room looked exactly the same.

  It was the world that looked different.

  His mother.

  Sitting in a chair, he removed his boots and thrust them, with their betraying wisps of grass and dirt, under the cot. Going to the cabinet, he wiped away all evidence of his escapade.

  He hung his greatcoat over the chair, and reaching for one of the towels set out for his ablutions, he dried the mist from his hair.

  He sat in the chair, and the gibe returned, relentless, distasteful.

  He’s like his mother, running away from tiresome duties he doesn’t want to perform.

  Standing, he paced across the room, then back again.

  How dared that woman compare him to his mother? Why had everyone agreed? He was like his father. How could they not see that? He looked like Father. He rode like Father. He had the same pride in the Edmondson name and the Northcliff title.

  But the villagers thought he was like his mother.

  How could they say that?

  With relentless logic, he answered his own question.

  They didn’t know who he looked like or what he took pride in. They hadn’t laid eyes on him for eighteen years. All they knew was that he had neglected his duties.

  He had. Not Uncle Harrison. Jermyn had. For Jermyn’s father would have never allowed another to assume the responsibilities of the marquess of Northcliff, no matter how closely connected he was. True, Uncle Harrison had been handling the family fortune when Father was alive, too, but Jermyn knew his father had insisted on a quarterly accounting from his brother. Father had personally employed a steward to manage the estates, and that steward had reported to him, not Uncle Harrison. Perhaps
Father done so for a reason. Perhaps he hadn’t completely trusted Uncle Harrison.

  For good reason, if what Jermyn had heard tonight was true. The villagers were destitute and so desperate they were willing to help Miss Victorine kidnap him as a way of seizing control of their destiny. Now they faced certain disaster—deportation, hanging, the workhouse—stoically and together. Well, mostly together. Mrs. Kitchen had made her displeasure clear, but she’d been the lone disgruntled voice.

  As much as Jermyn hated to admit it, Lady Disdain was right. He was a wart on the noble ass of England.

  But he was not like his mother. He had wiped every bit of that woman’s treacherous influence out of his mind and his heart.

  He was like his father. He had strayed from the proper path, but he would take the reins in his hands starting now.

  So how did he intend to start?

  He would remove Uncle Harrison as his business manager and find out exactly what he intended by not sending the ransom.

  He would visit each estate in turn, speak to the butler and the housekeeper, to the villagers, to the farmers, and correct whatever problems had been neglected.

  Before he left the cellar forever, he would seduce Amy…and he even knew how.

  Amy walked toward him, smiling as she discarded her clothing…

  “Jermyn, dear.”

  At the sound of Miss Victorine’s voice at the top of the stairs, he jumped guiltily. Speedily he erased the full-formed fantasy from his mind. He did not want Miss Victorine to know what he was thinking—or what he was thinking with.

  She came down the stairs carrying his dinner tray, Coal padding along on her heels.

  He wanted to leap forward to help her, but he was bound by a broken manacle and a deception, and he had to satisfy himself with taking it from her when she reached him.

  “Dear, I have bad news. Amy doesn’t feel well tonight. I’m afraid you have only me to entertain you.” Miss Victorine blinked at him as if awaiting an explosion of wrath.

  Putting down the tray, he took her hands. “This is perfect. I’ve been wanting to spend some special time talking to you about the village.”

  “I would love that!” Miss Victorine beamed.

  “And would it be possible for me to get paper and ink?”

  Coal slid underneath the cot, and came out with a blade of grass between his teeth.

  “The days alone down here are long. Tomorrow I’d like to write down my thoughts.” Elaborately casual, Jermyn leaned over and snatched the blade out of Coal’s mouth.

  “Of course, dear,” Miss Victorine said. “I’ll fetch you some paper and ink.”

  Equally casual, Coal sank his claws into Jermyn’s hand.

  Jermyn wrenched away. The long scratches oozed blood.

  Coal smirked and licked his paw as if to rid himself of Jermyn’s flesh.

  That blasted cat had a lot in common with Lady Disdain.

  Chapter 13

  That night, Pom staggered as he left the pub. He waved as he went, his silent response to calls of “Good night, Pom!” “Good fishing, Pom!”

  Everybody else in the village remained, even the fishermen who normally went out before dawn to fill their nets. But the others didn’t see the sense in going out tomorrow. They figured they were going to hang soon, anyway. Might as well enjoy themselves tonight.

  Pom didn’t judge them harshly for such thinking. He understood it. He just didn’t agree with it. Until his last breath, he had to keep trying to do the right thing. He only wished he was surer what that was.

  “Ye’ll be all right until I get done working, won’t ye, Pom?”

  He turned unsteadily to face the pub. Mertle stood in the lighted doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. With the light behind her, he couldn’t see her expression, but he knew she was anxious.

  “I’ve found me way home many a dark, foggy night, Mertle, me love. I’ll find it again tonight.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  He couldn’t see her face, but he could see her silhouette and the slight thickening of her waist. “I’ll be fine,” he said softly. “We’ll be fine.”

  “I know,” she said again. “Good night then. I’ll see ye in the morning.”

  He frowned. “ ’Twill be a late night fer ye tonight. Ye sleep tomorrow. I can get meself breakfast and get off t’ the sea.”

  “I’ll fix yer breakfast and send ye off, then I’ll go back t’ bed.” She sounded quite firm about that.

  He knew why. Like every other fisherman’s wife, she knew that any day could be the day the sea claimed her man. So no matter how late she worked at the pub and no matter how early he rose, she rose with him to kiss him good-bye and wish him God speed.

  He couldn’t change her mind. For her, it was the right thing, and he wouldn’t deny her that. “Then good night, love.”

  “Good night, Pom.” She turned back to the pub where men hollered her name and demanded their ale. “All right, me hearties. Here I am!” She shut the door behind her, leaving Pom in the pitch dark with the fog swirling around him.

  Pom felt as lost as he never was on the endless, boundless sea. He blamed his sad humor on the ale. It was unusual for him to drink too much. For one thing, it took too many pints to achieve the desired effect. For another, he always had to rise early in the morning to find the fish.

  But for all his stoic encouragement to the villagers, Miss Victorine, and Amy, he couldn’t escape the truth. They were doomed. Everyone in the village was doomed. His Mertle…his heart broke when he thought of his Mertle. They shared a secret, the two of them. In the fall, they would have a babe. That was why Mertle had encouraged him to help Miss Amy and Miss Victorine.

  “Pom,” she’d said, “we’re starving most o’ the winter, sitting here starving while our gracious lord steals the fish from our nets and the work from our hands. We’ve got t’ do something fer this child, and Miss Amy’s plan is a sound one. Ye think it is, ye know ye do. So let’s not play it safe. Just once, let’s take a chance t’ make our lives better.”

  And Pom, desperately in love with his wife and urgently fearful for the survival of his unborn child, had agreed.

  Now the plan had failed, so Pom drank too much and staggered off toward home.

  That was why he never saw the attack coming. One minute he was passing the end of the pub, the next minute he was sprawled flat on his back in the grass on the side of the road, his jaw aching, a weight kneeling on his chest. A man, unseen in the darkness, held Pom’s jacket in a crushing grip around his neck.

  Gathering his wits, Pom braced himself to attack.

  “You’re lucky I don’t kill you,” his attacker said.

  Pom couldn’t see him, but he recognized that voice. Recognized the tone, the timbre, the aristocratic accent. He eased back onto the ground, his fists slack. No matter what the provocation, he wasn’t going to hit Lord Northcliff.

  Northcliff remained still, waiting for attack. Finally he said, “Well?”

  “M’lord, ’tis good ye got free at last.” Reflectively Pom said, “I thought ye would do it sooner.” He heard the hitch in His Lordship’s breathing.

  “How did you know it was me?” His Lordship loosened his grip around Pom’s collar.

  “Ye’re the only person right now who has reason t’ want t’ kill me. Can’t say that I blame ye. ’Twas a dirty trick we pulled.”

  “That it was.” Lord Northcliff took his knee out of Pom’s chest, but he still leaned close.

  Pom didn’t make the mistake of thinking he could easily overcome him. The way Lord Northcliff held his body told Pom all too clearly that this was a man who wasn’t afraid of a good row. Would like a good row. “I owe it t’ ye t’ let ye take a few licks at me.”

  “Let me?” Lord Northcliff chuckled with unexpected humor. “You know how to take the fun out of a fight.”

  “I can’t hit ye. Ye’re the lord.”

  “But you can abduct me?” When Pom began to explain, Lord Northc
liff said, “No, don’t tell me you want to save my soul, or I will be forced to hit you again and that’s unfair. But I want you to do something.”

  “If I can, m’lord.”

  “I have a letter for my valet.” Lord Northcliff reached into his own pocket, pulled out a sealed sheet of paper, and stuffed it in Pom’s pocket. “Take it to him.”

  Easy for Lord Northcliff to say. He didn’t understand that a fisherman couldn’t walk into a great house and demand to speak with a swanky valet. But Pom didn’t complain. He owed it to His Lordship to do as he wished.

  “In the morning rather than fishing, go to the mainland to my estate. Biggers is an old cavalryman. He rides every morning at dawn. Catch him in the stables.”

  So maybe Lord Northcliff did understand about fishermen and fancy folk. “Should I wait fer a reply?” The ground was getting cold beneath Pom’s back, but he didn’t complain.

  “No, but you’ll row me over the following morning.”

  Pom’s heart sank. He could explain no fish for one day, but how would he explain for two? And he and Mertle had no backup resources—they’d go hungry both nights. The child would go hungry both nights.

  “I’ll pay you for your services,” Lord Northcliff continued.

  “Ye will?” Pom couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.

  “I will.” His Lordship got off Pom. Taking his hand, he pulled him to his feet. “Do as I say and you’ll not get hurt working for me.” Without another word, he melted away into the night.

  Pom smiled in silly pleasure. Perhaps their little kidnapping had gotten through to Lord Northcliff after all. He walked on, a little more steady after his contact with the cool grass and the chill earth. He wondered what the note said. He hoped it didn’t tell him to bring the constable and arrest the whole village. If Pom could read…but he couldn’t.