“Thank you.” He gave her a brisk nod and took to his heels again, haring out of the yard.
She waited until her heart ceased its hammering, then extracted the goose. With one hand clamped firmly over its beak, she hurried indoors.
As the goose struggled in her grasp, she knew she should be considering the practicalities of hiding and feeding it until Christmas. But her mind was clamped like a limpet on the shocking reappearance of Myall Farrar.
He looked as lithe and powerful as he’d ever been. During the shipwreck at Southwold, back home in Suffolk, she’d seen him hefting kegs and barrels of liquor as if they weighed nothing. He’d carried her, too, behind a grassy sand dune, so they could kiss and whisper sweet nothings to one another, as drunken youths and maids were wont to do.
But now, he was a man full-fledged, and much had changed about him. In those few moments when she’d dared to raise her eyes, she’d noticed he wasn’t dressed in the finery befitting a wealthy wool merchant’s son. His shirt cuffs, where they protruded from his unadorned doublet, had brown ink stains on them, and his boots were scuffed and worn. Had some disaster struck him, as it had her, and reduced his circumstances? She was desperate to know.
She’d also spotted some peculiar marks on his face. At first, she’d thought it was a trick of the light, or that he was wearing his hat at an odd angle. But when he’d turned to go, the shadows hadn’t moved.
Regardless of how poorly dressed he was, the essence that was Myall Farrar remained. If anything, it was intensified by the fact that he was now a man, without the bloom of youth on his face. He looked strong, rugged, determined. And, curse it, as eminently kissable as he had been all those years ago.
Her heart had sped up again. Was it from fear, because she’d stolen his goose? Or burning attraction, the first she’d felt for any man since Walter de Glanville had taught her to hate his sex?
Whichever it was that had so affected her, to see Myall again could end in disaster, whether he recognized her or not.
Chapter Two
Myall paused to catch his breath. The few citizens of London still on the streets at dusk stared at him suspiciously to see what he’d stolen—and then behind him, to see who he was running from. No one was carrying his goose or looking any more furtive than usual. There was no sign of any disturbance, nor any goose-like noises to be heard.
By the flickering light of a sconce, a peddler was busy piling his ribbons, knotted biscuits, marchpane shapes, and cobnuts back into his tray, but he paused when he saw Myall.
“Has a stray goose come this way?” Myall asked, pointing up the street ahead.
“Sugared rose petals, Sir? A pot of marmalade, made only with the best quinces, from Portugal? How about a needle case for your wife, or a teething ring for your babe?”
Of course. No one hereabouts parted with information if it wasn’t to their benefit. “I’ll have a knotted biscuit if you please.” He fished a coin from his hanging pocket.
The fellow bit it and hunted for change. Myall waved a hand at him. “Nay, nay, keep it. ’Tis the season of goodwill, after all.”
The man brightened. “Why, thank you, and God bless you, Sir. Nay, no goose, I’m afraid. If it had come this way, I’d have seen it, for sure. But if you lost it around here, it’s probably already gone into someone’s pot. If you mean to go any farther in search of it, best keep one hand on your pocket, and the other on the hilt of your sword. Folk about here are apt to take advantage once darkness falls. The Watch can’t be everywhere at once.”
Crestfallen, Myall thanked him and turned back, absentmindedly chewing on his knotted biscuit. Gazing about him at the buildings, he could see the peddler was right—this area was one in which it was unwise to be alone, or unprotected, after dark. The upper floors of the timber-framed buildings jettied out so much that they almost met overhead, and the dark shadows between them vibrated with danger. One would need to be tough in both body and spirit to survive in such a place.
He was thankful he hadn’t fallen this low after the terrible row with his father. An excellent reader with good penmanship, Myall had managed to find employment, although the change to his way of life had been soul-destroying. He’d only done what had seemed right to him at the time, but the consequences of his heroic act had been disastrous. He’d been cast adrift for saving a life. An unjust fate, by anyone’s standards.
He shook his head. There was no point in fretting about the past—he couldn’t change it, nor could he change his father’s mind. Since the man spent most of his days in a drunken rage, he couldn’t be persuaded to listen to reason. It was little wonder Myall’s sister, Helena, had left home at the same time as him. No one wanted to share a house with a father who was always in his cups.
It had been desperately hard at first, trying to exist without Father’s financial support. But Myall had been fortunate enough to be taken on as a lawyer’s clerk, and Helena seemed content to cook and keep house for him. He knew, however, that she couldn’t wait until the day she had a household of her own to run.
A pox on that goose! The creature had bitten through its leash when he wasn’t looking, and had disappeared into London’s maze of streets. It had cost him an entire month’s salary. Factor in the money he’d spent on Helena’s new gown, and there was barely enough left for a minced tart to share at Christmas.
He took another bite of his knotted biscuit. It was as hard as nails, but he understood the peddler needed the money, so he would make no complaint. What must it be like to be a street vendor in London, out in all weathers, virtually begging for trade? He had to make sure that never happened to either himself or Helena. That’s why impressing her suitor, Sir Aidan Blake, was so essential. That was why he’d bought the new gown, and why he’d purchased the goose, so the Christmas dinner he meant to provide in their humble abode would secure the interest of Sir Aidan. Add to that Helena’s culinary skills, and the man would be sure to take her, with or without a dowry. Although Myall hadn’t entirely given up hope of their father loosening the purse strings once Helena was betrothed.
A distinctive sound brought him to a sudden halt. Was that a hiss?
Myall had just drawn level with the yard where he’d seen the beggar woman earlier. Surely, the noise had come from the building to which the yard belonged. There was no glass in any of the windows, only waxed cloth—or nothing at all. His goose must be in one of the rooms.
Marching into the house, he pounded on the nearest door. There was the sound of a scuffle within, another hiss—rapidly cut off—then the sound of furniture scraping across an earthen floor.
What? He was being barricaded out? Proof of guilt, if any was required. Whoever was in that room had the bird and knew damned well they must give it back or face the wrath of the law. Helena’s dreams of marriage, children, security, and wealth would be crushed if he couldn’t foster a good match with Sir Aidan. He must have that goose at all costs.
He knocked again, but all was quiet. A loutish-looking fellow with a filthy apron and unlaced doublet sauntered past in the passageway, giving Myall a gap-toothed grin.
“Good evening to you, Sir. Don’t waste your time with that one. Her legs are clamped as tight together as a dog’s jaws around a bone. I can find you better sport if you like.”
Myall scowled and shook his head. How dare anyone suggest he was looking for a whore? The man shrugged his shoulders and continued on his way.
There had only ever been one woman for Myall Farrar. It was a long time ago now, but the pain was still keen—he’d ruined things by being too bold with her. That was what drink did to a young man. That was why he now detested it so much, and why it had cut like a knife each time his father broached another case of Malmsey wine and drank himself into a stupor.
Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, Myall applied his shoulder to the door and heaved with all his strength. It gave easily, and he cannoned into the room, just in time to see a small truckle bed speed across the floor and stri
ke the wall opposite.
Thankfully, the female occupant of the room had not been standing in the way. She was too busy sitting on the other bed, wrestling with a heaving sack.
His goose. The guilt on her face said it all.
Her face. Myall suddenly felt sick, as if his stomach was being squeezed in a giant fist. He knew that face.
“Julia?” His voice sounded all wrong, as if it came from someone else’s throat.
The woman glared at him, angry rather than surprised. Had she recognized him earlier, then? Why had she not spoken? Then he remembered what he looked like—and knew the reason.
“What of it? What do you mean by crashing into my room in so ungentlemanly a fashion?”
It really was her, Mistress Julia Wentworth. His jaw dropped. She still had the same high cheekbones, the same kissable bow-shaped mouth, and enticing blue eyes. He remembered the beauty spot on one cheek, a tiny flaw that added fascination to an otherwise perfect face. A face he’d kissed on that one magical night, a face he still saw in his dreams.
“Julia Wentworth, by my soul.”
“Are you just going to stand there gaping at me? You insult me, Sir.”
He struggled to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Yet, the pain around his heart could not be denied—it really was her. Why was she dressed like a pauper and living in this freezing, dingy room? It must be some kind of jest or masquerade. He’d always thought Julia the type of girl who enjoyed making mischief at others’ expense.
After all these years thinking about what he would say or do when he saw her again, his wits failed him.
“How now, Mistress Wentworth. How do you fare?” was the best he could manage.
She tutted angrily at him, and the sack wriggled.
“You can see exactly how I fare. Now go away, Myall.”
“So, you do know me then, despite the scars.” It still seemed impossible that he should have found her again.
“Of course, I know you. But I don’t appreciate you charging into my lodgings like a bull at a gate. Get thee hence.”
“But you have my goose,” he blurted out. A pox on’t! He hadn’t meant to accuse her—though the truth was painfully obvious.
“What, this goose? Nay, ’tis mine. I’ve been trying to calm it so it will go to sleep.”
“You’re keeping a goose in here?” He glanced around the room. In very truth, it looked more fit for fowl or fiend than an English gentlewoman.
“I’m sure you won’t mind me taking a look.” He thought for a moment. “My goose had a bare patch in the middle of its breast.”
He saw her turn pale. Judging from the state of her, she desperately needed the bird. But so did he. He moved closer.
“Let me see.” He held out his hand.
“I imagine I can’t stop you when you’ve set your mind on a thing. Very well.” Julia lifted the sack, releasing a furious bundle of feathers and attitude. Myall managed to establish that it was, indeed, his goose—just before it nipped his fingers.
“Ouch!”
Julia looked smug. “If it was your goose, would it attack you so?”
He had to move fast to reach the open door before the goose did. Once trapped, it flounced around the room, not allowing him anywhere near. He was being unmanned by a bird in front of the one woman for whose good opinion he’d always hoped.
“’Tis my goose, and you know it,” he complained, sucking his fingers. “That bare patch is plain for any to see.”
“Are you telling me there’s only one goose in all of London with a few breast feathers missing?”
She was standing face-to-face with him now, knuckles on hips, displaying those luscious curves that he remembered with such startling clarity. Although generally, she was thinner than she had been. Hardly surprising, considering the life she appeared to be leading now.
He softened his tone. “Julia, I need that goose back, if you please.”
“I need it, too. It came onto my land, so it’s my property now. I’ve confiscated it.”
“If you wish to abide by that rule of the law, then, strictly speaking, it would be your landlord’s—as I presume that you’re merely a tenant here. But we both know it is my goose.”
“It doesn’t want to be yours.”
The bird now sat on the truckle bed that Myall had sent flying, and fixed him with a demonic eye.
“How would you feel if I fetched a constable—or several, in fact, to reclaim my property?”
“I should have known that you’d threaten me—despicable, cowardly fellow that you are. I used to think you better than other men, but now—”
Shock, wounded pride, and agonizing hurt clutched at him, and he could barely breathe. Or was the breathlessness because her face was so close to his that it would take a mere tilt of his head to kiss her?
Damn everything to hell. He was fighting with the only woman who’d ever made him happy. No man in his right mind would do that.
“Enough.” He spun on his heel and stalked out of the room, not bothering to close the door. The goose could do what it pleased. Let Fate decide.
If it weren’t for his disfigurement, Julia would surely never have been so cruel, so insulting. His father had been right. He’d been a fool to risk his good looks and ruin his chances of a match with a woman of quality. Julia’s reaction to him was all the proof he needed.
Let her have the accursed goose if she needed it that badly. At least he’d never have to set eyes on her again and suffer the agony of a wound that had never fully healed.
Chapter Three
“Oh, Mistress—we shall dine well on this.” Hal’s dirty face glowed with pleasure.
Julia frowned. “Unless we keep it for the eggs. Alas, I cannot tell whether ’tis a goose or a gander.”
“Then we’ll have to find someone who knows, and if ’tis a gander, we’ll exchange it for a goose.”
Then there’d be questions asked about how they’d come by the bird, and they’d be thrown into the Bridewell or some other noisome prison. Julia knew how vile such places were—she’d visited one in rural Suffolk, and that had been bad enough. She’d heard far worse of the London houses of correction.
How simple the world could seem in a child’s mind! It was almost a shame to educate their innocence away. She smiled fondly at Hal as she poured the watery stew into his bowl. In truth, she was far too indulgent toward him, but his company and loyalty were worth more to her than gold. Such a pity he would have to grow up and be sent off to find an apprenticeship.
Though warm, the stew contained a good deal of mutton fat and no meat at all. As she picked a stringy piece of pea pod out of her teeth, she lamented not having her own hearth over which to cook. Having to pay for hot food put such a dent in their meager reserves—but she mustn’t let Hal know how dire their circumstances were, or he’d go back to being a cut-purse.
She’d first met the boy when he’d tried to steal a loaf from her basket. Feeling the movement, she’d caught him by the ear, planning to march him to the nearest constable. Only—he’d been such a pitiful scrap of a thing that she couldn’t do it. The child was an oddity, with sore red patches where once his eyebrows had been, and when he’d told her the heartbreaking story of how he’d lost all his family in a fire, she’d taken him to the nearest tavern and bought him a mug of small beer. He’d stayed under her protection ever since, but she’d never managed to get much of his story out of him. She’d always sensed tears near the surface, so had given up questioning him. Like her, he didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d lost.
It made her cringe to think how easily she’d parted with her coin all those months ago. She’d sold her jewels on arrival in London, and thought herself rich. But then she’d had to budget and plan, to learn how much things cost, to work out how much needed to be set aside for rent and necessities. Her capital wouldn’t permit her to live in idleness.
Her initial scheme to use her skill at sewing and become a seamstress had earned her naught b
ut derision from those who ran the workshops. London, it seemed, was full of disgraced gentlewomen like herself, none of whom had skills to offer other than their abilities with a needle. She’d soon given up and decided to go into business for herself.
Swallowing down a last greasy mouthful of stew, she smiled at Hal. “As soon as we’ve finished eating, I must wash my decorations, or the dirt will dry hard on them, and I’ll never get it out.” She wasn’t looking forward to dipping her hands in freezing water—they were red and cracked enough as it was. But no one was going to buy a holly wreath with a soiled silk ribbon, or an ivy crown that was mired in filth.
Hal made no offer to help, but he dutifully went outside to swill their bowls clean with well water. She winced at the sight of him limping along in shoes that were too small for him, but at least he had shoes. Not all of the London street urchins did. He also needed a decent pair of hose and a doublet that actually fit. She groaned softly to herself—there was so much for which she needed coin, yet she despaired of ever having enough. Should she take a risk, and try selling the goose?
Hal came back in and stacked the bowls on their shelf. It wasn’t much of a shelf, just a plank raised off the ground on bricks, not enough to keep the vermin out. But at least it kept their precious few possessions comparatively clean.
“Shall I take the stew pot back to Goody Clopton?” he offered.
“Aye, off you go.” She settled herself to the task of sorting her wares, separating out those she might be able to sell without having to clean them.
A shadow passed the window and, the next instant, there was a knock on the door.
She froze. Surely, the rent wasn’t yet due?
“There’s no point pretending you’re out or pushing furniture against the door. I mean to talk to you, whether you will or no.”
Her knees shook. Myall! She glanced at the goose, where it slumbered on a sack in the corner. She’d spent an hour that morning picking up spilled grain from amongst the cobbles in the marketplace to feed it—surely, she wasn’t about to lose it after all that uncomfortable effort?
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 58