Jayne Fresina

by Once a Rogue

  Lucy had no answer. How she came to be among Nathaniel Downing’s shabby possessions was a tale she meant to keep secret, but the question raised many unpleasant memories, of Lord Winton’s angry face leaning over her, his features strained tight, his hand raised to strike again, cameo ring gleaming in the candlelight.

  “Who knows where he found the wench?” John exclaimed. “Nate spends his time and his coin in a lot o’ whore houses.”

  “John!”

  “’Tis true, Mother. You know how he is. Never passed up a pretty face and a firm set o’ bubbies.” He stretched his arms overhead. “No need to put on airs and graces for Nate’s trollop, mother. I’m sure she’s heard worse. Now where’s my damned supper? Since I’ve now got two women in this house, perhaps I’ll finally get fed when I’m hungry.”

  His mother ignored him, gently squeezing Lucy’s hand. “My nephew Nathaniel is like me,” she whispered. “He never would turn his back on a stray. No need to blush, my dear, I won’t press you for answers. We’re all entitled to our secrets. What would life be without them?”

  She guided Lucy down into a chair, patting her shoulder in a kindly fashion, and thus she was accepted. Just like that. Lucy had never before met a woman so free of judgment.

  Clutching her small wooden box of belongings, she looked around the large, open interior of the house and found it tidy, warm and well-kept, much like the old lady herself. The main fireplace dominated the room, an impressive carved mantle in very dark wood and stone that might have been too severe and overpowering, yet the multitude of windows around the house prevented any fear of stifling or any sensation of being closed in. The floor was simple flagged stone, covered with rushes and dried herbs to scent the air. There was a cushioned window seat with several embroidered pillows and Lucy thought how pleasant it would be to sit there on a sunny morning, looking out over the yard. Then she inwardly scorned herself for thinking she had any right to claim a seat in that house, among people who didn’t know her, or the wicked things she’d done.

  Mistress Carver was preparing supper in a large pot over the fire, exclaiming they were so late she hoped the stew wasn’t burned. While tossing in a few more herbs from bunches hanging overhead, she turned to her son and bemoaned the fact he’d left that morning with neither coat nor hat. Now he had a wet shirt as a consequence and had probably sat in it all day. He was fortunate, she lectured him, never to catch cold.

  “I’m famished, Mother,” he declared, dismissing her concern with barely a thought. “At this rate I’ll die of hunger and then you won’t have to worry about me catching any cold, will you?”

  Lucy, too, was ravenous, more so than she’d ever been, and when a bowl of rabbit stew was set before her she devoured it as greedily as good manners would allow. The dog took a liking to her, or perhaps to her foul-smelling skirt, and sat at her feet with his great head resting in her lap throughout the meal. Meanwhile, mother and son discussed the farm and various matters in which she had no part and no understanding. John spoke to his mother in an arrogant manner, often interrupting her sentences and snapping out sullen replies, as if he barely had time to answer her gentle questions. His mother didn’t seem to notice. At least, she said nothing to correct his manner. Sometimes Lucy thought they’d both forgotten her completely; then one of them would glance her way, suddenly remembering her presence.

  “If the Friday wench truly means to be of any use, she can milk the cows tomorrow morning,” John muttered at one point, eyeing her across the table as she delicately tore little pieces of bread to mop up the last of her stew, careful not to spill any. “But I daresay she’s not accustomed to rising early.” There was challenge in the way he said it, even a little contempt in his blue eyes.

  Taught never to speak with a mouth full of food, she chewed her bread and swallowed before she answered. “I’m glad to help.”

  He shrugged, stuffing a spoonful of stew into his own busy mouth. “We’ll see.”

  Straightening her shoulders, she watched him eat like a pig at the trough.

  “We’ll see if you get up in time,” he clarified. “We don’t work on our backs around here.”

  She granted him one of her most disdainful looks, but he shoveled more food into his mouth, unperturbed. Apparently he thought he would talk to her in the same careless, uncivil manner he addressed his poor mother.

  “What shall we do with all Nathaniel’s belongings?” Mistress Carver asked, watching her son drain his second bowl of stew and another flagon of cider.

  He burped with slow deliberation. “Suppose they can all go in the store shed. The Friday wench with them.”

  His mother laughed softly. “Lucy can have your sisters’ chamber, now they no longer have need of it.”

  Elbows on the table, he tore into a hunk of bread with his greedy teeth. “Are you sure, Mother? Can we trust Nate’s fancy trollop in the house? She might steal the silver spoons and the pewter.”

  This many rude comments in a row, aimed at their guest, was apparently the limit. His mother finally slapped him around the ear, warning him to be polite or he would be the one spending the night in the store shed. Ducking and laughing, he was not bothered by his mother’s threats or her slaps. It was clear, Lucy thought sourly, he ran the roost and had done so for some time. She’d witnessed that flare of cockiness in him before and thought he merely did it to tease her, but now she saw he was accustomed to getting away with things. And why not, she mused, her mood darkening further. Even she, Lucy Collyer with ice in her veins and nothing but disdain for any man who came to court her, once had been unable to refuse this rogue anything he wanted.

  No one had ever touched her the way he had. No other man would ever have dared do those things to her. Most were afraid of her haughty demeanor, her scornful tongue, and never got beyond it to find the real woman beneath.

  But he had. Nothing, it seemed, stopped John Sydney Carver doing exactly what he wanted. Not even her intrinsic frostiness stood in his way.

  “I suppose she can bed in the house then, as long as she gives us no trouble.” He spared her a dismissive glance. “Best be up in time to milk the cows, wench. Or else.”

  He wasn’t going to get away with it again. “Or else what?” She whipped out the words, sitting very straight in her chair, facing him fearlessly across the table.

  John blinked. His eyes gleamed with sudden intensity above the fluttering drift of candlelight. Clearly he hadn’t expected any questioning from her. “Or you can go back where I found you. I can’t afford to keep another mouth unless the owner of it serves a purpose.” Tearing another bite of bread with his strong teeth, he grinned slowly.

  Watching his churning, smirking lips, she remembered how they’d once kissed her, how his busy tongue had lapped at her nipples and between her thighs with sublime dexterity. When he had feasted upon her as greedily as he devoured his supper.

  Tonight he seemed determined to prick her temper with his brusque gestures and rude manners, challenging her like a naughty little boy, but she knew he could be gentle, seductive, a wonderfully persuasive lover. Raising her eyes a few inches to meet his gaze, she caught a sudden lick of heat, followed by a guilty flicker. She realized her own face was hot and his had turned a brilliant shade. A frisson of like ideas had passed between them, shocking and detailed.

  He coughed, cleared his throat and changed the subject.

  “Those goats are two strong specimens, healthy and biddable. At least Nate left me something of good use. I’ll put them in the small barn, just until we see how they get on with ours.”

  A short while later, observing her yawning uncontrollably, his mother showed Lucy upstairs to a bedchamber. Both her daughters, she explained, were married and lived in the county of Dorset, leaving their old chamber unoccupied. It was a good-sized room with a window overlooking the yard and stables. The floorboards creaked, even when no foot walked over them, and between roof beams the low hanging plaster was thickly veined with cracks that seemed to
spread and change shape as she watched. The chamber had little in the way of comforts, but it was a roof over her head and she would’ve been grateful then even for a store shed with the company of goats.

  “Thank you, Mistress Carver, for your hospitality. I don’t want to be in anyone’s way.”

  “And you’re not. Forgive my son, he has a tendency to let his tongue run away with him and be too sharp for its own good. He’ll cut himself with it one day, and although I await the occasion with considerable impatience, it hasn’t happened yet.”

  And it wouldn’t happen, if no one ever stood up to the arrogant brat. “I’ll not mind what he says then.”

  “See that you don’t. I never do.” The old lady used her candle to light another standing by the bed. “I’m very glad you’ve come, my dear.” She stayed to untie the laces of Lucy’s gown and corset, then she slipped away, closing the door with a rusty creak and a gentle thud.

  Lucy sat on the bed, in her petticoats and shift, her mind too busy to rest now she was alone. Her earlier tiredness had vanished. If she lay down in bed, she knew she would toss and turn restlessly. Instead she mulled over her new predicament.

  Hmm. John Sydney Carver.

  He was extremely dismissive, because he assumed she was his cousin’s mistress and therefore of less consequence to him than a pair of goats, from which he would at least get milk. But what a hypocrite he was, to be disdainful of his cousin’s “trollop,” when he was not above visits to a bawdy house and nights of unbridled lust with masked ladies he never expected to see again. There were two sides to him and she’d seen them both.

  Low voices crept up through the floorboards and so, still too restless to lie down, she took the candle and tiptoed onto the landing. Creeping along barefoot, she made her way to the railings at the top of the staircase and knelt there. The door below was left ajar, or else knocked open slightly by a draft. A soft orange wedge of firelight slipped through the gap and lit the bottom few steps.

  They spoke quietly, but she heard their words clearly now and, just as she suspected, they spoke of her.

  “It’ll be a welcome change for me, John, to have another pair of hands around the house.”

  His reply was curt. “She won’t stay long, Mother. The moment she sees what real work is, she’ll be off. You’ll see. A woman like that isn’t made for life on a farm.”

  “Mayhap you underestimate her.”

  “Seen her hands? Lily-white and soft as fallen rose petals. From the look of her, she’s never done an honest day’s work. Did you see her face when I told her how early she’d best be up for the milking? I’ll wager she’s never been out of bed before noon, nor had her hands on a cow’s teat.”

  “I daresay her talents lie elsewhere.”

  Abruptly he laughed.

  “Now get those thoughts out of your head, John. You know what I meant.”

  It spat out of him as if he’d tried, and failed, to hold it in. “I’m surprised my cousin still has the strength to handle a wench like her at his age.”

  “Strength is one thing Nathaniel never lacked. Restraint, yes. Good sense, yes. Strength of will, no.”

  “But why only on a Friday?” he mused. “If she was mine, I’d want her every day of the week.”

  Lucy almost dropped her candle. The slender flame rippled madly, pushed and pummeled by her breath.

  “Variety?” His mother chuckled. “Nathaniel would never be content with one woman. He always feared he might miss something. Just like his father, your uncle.”

  “Or else she had other…commitments…on other days.” She heard his chair scrape across the flagged floor. “I daresay he’s not her only lover. He couldn’t have kept her in all that finery,” he added grumpily. “Nathaniel seldom has two coins to rub together.”

  “Well, she’s a very lovely girl, to be sure.”

  He made some sort of peevish grunt in reply.

  “And sweetly-mannered,” his mother went on. “So there’s no need for you to be coarse around her, John.”

  “I’ll be the way I am,” he replied, contentious. “And she can put up with it, same as anyone else. If she doesn’t like it, she can leave can’t she?”

  His mother said nothing.

  “She must have some well-heeled patrons in addition to my cousin,” he added, “so why was she so eager to come here anyway?”

  “Escape?”

  She froze. Had his mother read it in her face when she’d examined her so thoroughly before?

  “Whatever her reason, ’tis what Nathaniel wanted. I couldn’t leave her there, could I?” Again he seemed to want reassurance and, at the same time, to absolve himself of any blame for her presence there.

  “Of course, John. You wouldn’t leave her behind.” His mother’s tone was quietly amused. “I suppose Nathaniel left her to you for a reason.”

  “Then she can stay for now…on a trial basis. But she won’t stay long. Not when she has a taste of real work.”

  Those soft hands, of which he was so scornful, tightened around her candle. Thought she might be frightened away did he? Trial basis indeed!

  * * * *

  “No, no, no!” he lectured, shaking his head. “The cow decides when you’re done milking. Keep going, Friday wench.”

  Shoulder pressed to the beast’s warm flank, she continued the milking and when he heard the steady hiss of milk into the pail, he nodded sharply. “Ol’ Buttercup must like those tender hands of yours, she’s not usually so generous.”

  His mother had provided Lucy with an apron to wear over her gown, but even this didn’t save that good scarlet damask from the stains of one morning in the farmyard. She’d been up since cockcrow and John put her to work at once. Breakfast, apparently, was not to be had until later, although he’d already taken a ladle of milk from her bucket and drunk it down thirstily, offering her none. When some dripped down his chin, he pulled his shirt over his head and used it to wipe his face. It was a swift, unconscious gesture, but with his finely-sculpted torso revealed so unexpectedly, Lucy forgot the task at hand and stared.

  “I suppose you’re thirsty,” he remarked, noticing her peering up at him. “But you can wait for yours until you’re done with your duties.”

  After the milking, there were eggs to gather and hens to feed, followed by mucking out the stable, the goat pen and the pig sty. Manure, gathered in a wheelbarrow, was taken to the pile beside the store shed and kept until it might be needed on the farm or garden. Lucy had never been so filthy in her life. She would now recommend the experience most heartily for rousing a goodly appetite. And a hot temper. By the time he found nothing more for her to do outside, the sun was high and her belly made as much disgruntled noise as the pigs. When the farm workers began to arrive at the gates, he hurriedly shooed her inside, out of sight.

  “You can eat now,” he muttered, as she stood before him, beaten and bespattered, but still having the strength to scowl. “Go on into the house. Mother will feed you.” With his dog trotting at his side, he walked away, whistling and swinging his arms. Not a word of thanks.

  After breakfast, Mistress Carver took her through the household chores, but she was not such a hard master as her son. That morning John had rarely spoken to her, except to give a command or chide her for being slow, but once he was gone to work on the farmland, which kept him absent for most of the day, the women of his house were left to work at their own pace and even, God forbid, to chatter. They shared a luncheon of cold meat, cheese and cider, which, for the first time in her life, Lucy thoroughly appreciated. In her previous world, food was brought to her and sometimes, if she was hungry and in the mood, she ate it. Seldom did she taste it, never had she considered all the work that went into bringing it to her.

  Later, as they gathered herbs in the sun-drenched garden, Mistress Carver told her stories of John as a young boy. Apparently not always this hard working, disciplined farmer, he had been a wild, unruly youth. Her daughters, she told Lucy, were already grown up when she
had John. A pleasant surprise, he was much beloved by her husband, whom she blamed for spoiling the boy.

  “John was an incorrigible little monster for most of his childhood,” she said, shaking her head at the memories.

  He hadn’t changed much then.

  “Would never do a thing he was told and always might be found in scrapes of one kind or another. His father thought it all most amusing.” Captain Carver, she explained, had been away at sea for most of John’s youth. “Leaving me to the thankless task of raising the little devil,” she added. “After my husband died, John made an abrupt change. Suddenly he was the man of the family. Since then he’s thought of naught but this farm. I like to imagine he makes amends to me for all he made me suffer when he was a young lad. Oh, such a child he was, such a trial on my patience!”

  She told Lucy how, when he was only thirteen, John stood on his pew in church one Sunday to call the parson a “scurvy, prattling knave.” He accused the man of stealing from the collection to keep several “saucy harlots” and more than one local widow in new petticoats. His mother explained how John always kept a long list of people he disliked and to whom he would never, in his own words, “give time o’ day”. He thought nothing of expressing his opinions, however unwelcome, quite frankly and without the slightest fear. Anyone with whom he took offense, anyone who quarreled with him, usually ended up with a black eye. His visits to the local tavern had always ended with a stumble home across the common, while he loudly sang slanderous rhymes about any villagers who met with his wrath.

  “Many a time I sat up into the small hours, waiting for that boy to find his way home,” his mother said, shaking her head. “Wondering who he’d found to pick a fight with now and if, one day, his opponent would win. They never did. Perhaps if they had, once in a while, it might have taught him a lesson.”

  Lucy was amused to hear all this. Now, when he lectured her, turning up his nose, she would laugh inwardly, imagining him as a wild and wayward young savage, running naked around the yard as, according to his mother, he often had as a boy.