by Robyn Carr
Rodney wondered at her reaction and then reached up to scratch the back of his neck. Just the thought of the periwig that was the fashion now made his skin itch all the more. “A wise decision, lass. I am loath to return myself.”
“You live there?” she asked.
“At the moment. I don’t imagine I’ll stay.”
“You are a nobleman?”
“I?” he laughed. “Sailor, soldier, friend, servant. Aye, I am more servant and friend now, since fighting is over for me. Servant to a young noble without enough money.” He shook his head. “But he’s a good lad and strong. It’s only that things don’t go his way.”
“Well, my sympathy to you and your young lord, sir,” she said primly. “For myself, I’m due in the common room before Armand comes for me with a stick.”
“You can’t possibly want to go back in there.”
“And where, then?”
“You aren’t frightened?”
“Of them?” she laughed. “Armand won’t let them hurt me. A broken wench does not serve well and ofttimes flees with the first man asking.”
“You speak so well,” he told her. “For a country lass who was raised with simple folk, you speak as one educated.”
“I can read,” she boasted. “Though there is little to read,” she added with a shrug. “And I can cipher a bit. The first family to house me were educated. He was a teacher once. But I was not to stay with them long. They had too many to feed.” She seemed to be saddened for a moment and then brightened again as she looked at him. “I thank you. I’ve worked hard to remember.”
“It shows that you’re bright.”
Her smile was sweet and genuine. It occurred to Rodney that she had not smiled inside the inn. That missing softness had made her seem somewhat plain, but when she smiled she was lovely and fresh looking, the only real country beauty he had seen.
“Thank you again, sir,” she said, lifting her skirts and moving past him to the doors of the inn.
Rodney sighed his pleasure. Meeting Alicia was the one happy part of his discouraging journey. He found her unexpectedly refreshing, and so capable of managing her life.
When he found his stabled horse, he fondly stroked the animal’s neck and thought of the women whose paths he had briefly crossed. There was Charlotte, whose flight indicated she did not want a husband selected by the king. And the aging aunt, whose barely audible words from her bed drew pain in Rodney’s heart. She spoke of years of imprisonment with a spoiled and ungrateful child. And there was Alicia, a bright and commanding lass of fair looks, whose lot it would be to live out her years in a simple cottage with nothing out of the ordinary taking place in her life.
When his head finally rested on the soft hay, the weariness from his traveling and his disappointments seemed to hit him all at once and even sleep came with difficulty. Just before his eyes closed he had a peculiar sensation. The women he had encountered, even though he never actually met Charlotte at all, were miles removed from one another. Yet in his mind their lives seemed to touch in a strange and unsettling way.
In a room that had been converted from a loft, there were two straw pallets, one small window, a coffer, and some scattered bundles of clothing. A dried bunch of mayflowers with ribbon streamers hung from a nail on a high beam; they had died as rapidly as the dream they came with.
Four serving girls lay on the two mattresses, their bodies in neat parallel lines to conserve the tiny space. The night was done; dawn was just breaking. The noises in the common room below them were low and infrequent, and the four maids lay exhausted in this insignificant room.
Alicia’s eyes were not closed. She looked upward at the weathered beams. A squeaking she had heard before caused her eyes to shift and she saw the long, tubular tail of a rodent as he skittered across a beam. Life was predictable here. There were mice in the attic, chores in the morning, and little to look forward to.
There was a memory that was vague enough to be a dream, something stuck away in the back of her mind, that had given her comfort in the moments before sleep since she was a very little girl. It had to do with a red cloak. She remembered the fabric as being smooth and delicate, and the inside was deliciously warm. And when wearing the cloak she was always happy because she was always going someplace.
Associated with this wrap was a woman’s face. She was ivory-skinned and gentle, with tender eyes and fair hair. The eyes were troubled and tinged with tears. She wore a velvet dress that was so soft that Alicia could almost feel the fabric against her cheek when she thought about it. And with the feeling against her cheek, she could remember gentle stroking of her hair and the sound of the woman’s voice, and her words singed her memory. “You will be so beautiful. I can barely wait to see...”
“But I am not beautiful,” Alicia thought with a sense of guilt and betrayal. “She would have been very disappointed.”
Alicia liked to imagine that this woman was her mother, but reality insisted that it might not be so. Other women had cared for her during her early years and had been kind and dear, though there was no kinship.
She remembered stone walls, high and gray, and floors the same color. There were trees, but she was not sure if she ran among them and hid behind them or simply viewed them from a coach or window. Nothing she had seen since resembled this memory.
The clearest image was of a boy. Freckles spotted his nose and cheeks, and his eyes were the same pale blue as the woman’s. He wore a white linen shirt and a brown wool jacket that was richly sewn, but he took care of it poorly—she could remember extra stitches and patches. And his hands were clumsy. He, too, was associated with the red cloak because he often buttoned it around her neck as he scolded her. “Now, be still, you mouse. Be still or I’ll swat you good.” Even now the remembrance gave her chills because there was love in his scolding, laughter in his voice.
She had not played with him, or if she had, she had no memory of it. Once, he had clutched her fiercely, let her go abruptly, and, in his laughing, scolding voice, pushed her away. “Now, get where you’re going, and be good or else.”
And that was all there was. Next was the Thatchers’ farm. He was a teacher and his wife had babies and did laundry for the lady in the manor house. They told her what little she knew about herself. She had been found near their humble home with a woman who told them only Alicia’s name; no family name or location of her birth. The woman had suffered through some dreadful accident and was injured. Her head was cut and her arm broken. Days must have preceded the Thatchers’ discovering this poor woman and her young charge, for not long after they were taken in and cared for, the woman died. All Alicia had to remind her of that day was the dress she had been wearing; a white slip made from fine linen and sewn with some lace. It must have been the finest thing she owned, but it was soiled and torn badly from some unexplained journey and accident. There was no red cloak.
The Thatchers were good to her and adopted her as their own. Mr. Thatcher taught her to read and cipher when she was just a tot and encouraged her to call him Papa. But the children became too many and the cost of feeding them too much. Alicia was sent to friends in another shire who promised to care for her.
Her stay there was short since the cost of caring for her soon stretched their compassion to its limits. They passed her along to a couple traveling through their shire who had lost their daughter and yearned for a replacement. For two years Alicia struggled to fill that empty space for them, but their constant criticisms proved she had failed.
Osmond and Mae, the fourth couple she came to live with, were at least honest about their needs. The miller and his wife had four sons. The sons would work the mill and fields, but alas there was no one to help poor Mae with the household. And so they took Alicia in. And while Mae was kind enough, it was clear Alicia’s position was to work for her food and lodging.
Osmond’s brother, Armand, owned the Ivy Vine and needed help during the demanding summer months. Alicia was sent, and the money she earned helped Osmond manage his m
ill and feed his sons. She would return one more summer, and then would be either married to a local or told to leave and make her own way.
Marriage to a country farmer did not frighten her, for she thought she needed little to be content in life. Just once she would like to be chosen rather than thrust on someone who had to take care of her, but there was little chance of that, especially in marriage. With no family, no dowry, and, from her point of view, nothing much in the way of looks, she imagined it would not be easy to find herself a husband. And he, whoever this husband would be, would likely beat her soundly when he discovered she was not a virgin.
She had learned her lesson painfully and would never again wager any dreams on the lust of a man. It was the summer before that she learned love could be quick and ruinous. Young Lord Perry, a nobleman recently returned to England, rode through their village on his way to London. His rich clothes, fine horse, and full purse had the immediate attention of all the maids, but his eyes were turned toward Alicia.
“Do the young men tell you that you’re beautiful?” he asked her.
She was taken aback by his question. He had only just arrived at the inn and the other maids were angry that Armand selected Alicia to serve his drinks and food. “No,” she answered truthfully, her voice soft and surprised.
He caught her hand and his eyes were laughing. “They’ve missed you altogether then,” he said. “They must fear marriage or love. You are beautiful.”
His words lunged at her heart, for not only had she never been considered pretty, she was not well liked. Minor kindnesses shown to her were rare, and the people she lived and worked with scorned her, calling her prideful and smug. She had very little to boast—clothes that were worn and did not fit, no time to primp, and no possessions to enhance her appearance—so this man’s flirtations sent her fleeing him without even a thank you.
She was forced to return to bring his food and keep his mug filled, and in a very short time he learned her name and she his; and something that caused her heart to flutter and her mind almost to disfunction had happened between them.
When his meal was finished he caught her hand again. “Will you sit with me for a minute?” he asked her.
“Armand will beat me if I sit,” she confided. “I am here to work, not to talk to our patrons.”
“Beat you?” Lord Perry shuddered. “God’s bones, I’d kill any man that laid a hand to you. You’re too beautiful to strike.”
Alicia only shrugged. Everyone was beaten for unfinished tasks and laziness, not to mention stealing or defiling a person or property.
“When will you talk to me?” he asked her. “I’d like to walk with you and know you better.”
“I cannot leave,” she insisted. “I told you, I’m here to work.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“In the morning after the cleaning I have my own time, but not much.”
“It’s settled then,” he announced. “I’ll stay an extra night, and in the morning you can show me the country.”
She remembered this stroll down country roads and through the woods as being an enchanted time, and remembered only recently that they had talked only about him. She did not blame him for that, since what could interest him about a country girl? When he told her he intended to stay yet another night so that he could be with her again, she was frozen with joy and lost a second night’s sleep.
Visions of passion and love consumed her. She hurried through her morning chores and stole away from the inn before anyone had time to ask her where she was bound. She worried only briefly about being caught and punished. This once, lolling about the countryside with Lord Perry was more important than fearing Armand’s beatings.
“Will you stay in the country and raise up a band of brats for a farmer?” he asked.
“I imagine I will—when you’ve gone.”
“Ah.” He laughed. “Then you think I’ll leave you? You’re so foolish, Alicia, if you can’t see that I love you. You’ve hurt me badly now.”
She stopped abruptly and looked up at him. “You love me?”
“I think I knew at once that I loved you. And what am I to do now that you don’t believe me?”
“Good Lord, I can’t imagine,” she returned in absolute seriousness.
He laughed at her and bent to kiss her forehead. “I shall have to take you to London with me and make you my mistress.”
“London, now!” she shrieked. “And to be your whore?”
His eyes were serious and his smile had faded. “Perhaps you’d be little else in all reality—but you don’t know the city, love. Whores have come to a place of distinction there. The king’s mistress all but rules the country.”
“Culver Perry,” she said in an admonishing tone, “if you love me so much, why would you wish for me to be a mistress to any man? I’m good enough to be a wife.”
“It’s truth, Alicia, you are indeed. But I am not able to marry whom I please. I must marry a nobleman’s daughter for lands to add to my family’s estate; otherwise they would disown me and not give me so much as an acre to farm. But they would not keep me from having you. I could dress you in silk, give you a fine home and all my love. Your comforts would be many.”
“I would be alone. What comfort is that?”
“Refuse if you must, but whatever your answer, I have pledged to marry the earl’s daughter and there’s no help for it. I’ll leave you without a fight. But I’d rather take you with me and find some joy in my life.”
Rich clothes and a fine home intrigued her, and being chosen, regardless of what she was chosen to be, made her heart leap with joy. She had a sense of belonging, rather than feeling thrust on a man and left as his burden for a lifetime.
She answered his pleading on a summer afternoon. On a bed of grass near a stream, the promise was sealed with her virtue and he gave his word to take her away in the morning. He seemed well pleased to discover her virginity; it did not occur to her that he was surprised. She was advised to carry on with her chores as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and before the breakfast meal was served they would be on their way. She had followed his instructions carefully.
Alicia did not bemoan her lost virtue at first, because it had in fact been the first time she had been held and loved. There had not been so much as a kiss from a farmer’s son in her life. And Culver Perry’s strong, lean body against her own sent her common sense sailing off on a breeze. Then there was the pain of the consummation and it was over. He did not hold her once the thing was done but quickly donned his breeches and barked at her to get on her feet.
“Up, wench, we can’t be in the woods all day.”
Alicia had obeyed instantly, something she had been carefully taught to do since early childhood. Though she was longing for him to touch her again, she bit back her request and sought to charm him with her obedience. “Do you love me, Lord Perry?” she asked him.
He covered her breast with his hand, and his bewitching blue eyes glittered. “You’re a good wench,” he replied. For at least a day she thought her question had been answered.
At morning’s first light she awoke and gathered her clothing. She dressed quickly and crept quietly to his room, but heard no answer to her light tapping. Inside she found his empty bed and no evidence that he had ever been there. She went to the common room but there was no one about. With a sickening pain growing in her stomach, she sought out the stable. She found only the stable boy doing his early morning chores.
“Has Lord Perry taken his horse out on some errand?” she asked in a stunned but controlled voice.
“Ay, ‘e ‘as at that,” the boy replied. “An’ ‘is things with ‘im. Without a shilling for Armand. Bloke’s run out on the fare,” he said. He continued to rake hay into one of the stalls.
“Perhaps he’ll return to pay.”
The boy laughed heartily at that. “It’s never a poor man what robs Armand, but those what says they’re rich. Bloody nobles.”
Alicia felt her
heart plummet every time she remembered that morning. For a time she actually believed he would return for her and that some noble duty she could not understand had forced him to leave her against his will. But the truth was clear to her before she could delude herself for very long. He had lied so that he could lay with her, and had never intended to fulfill his oaths and promises. She, thankfully, had not confided her troubles to anyone and had not conceived. But something dear had been lost—and it was a great deal more than her maidenhead. She had felt something special and strong; she had trusted and been betrayed. The hope that he would return and attempt to repair the damage done was hard to dispel. But then seldom does a thief return to a debt. More than one debt waited at the Ivy Vine.
Looking back on all this as she waited for sleep to come, Alicia wondered, despairingly, if there would ever be so much as one person in her lifetime who would not use her to his own end.
She turned toward the attic wall and tried to command her thoughts to return to the freckled boy and red cloak. A tear clung to her dark lashes. She strained to think of the gray stone walls and the woman with the pale eyes. Where are they? she wondered. Who are they, and why can’t I remember them—find them? Was it something lived in another life, another time? Her concentration broke, and in the dark, swirling corners of her mind, she could feel and see the walls of the room, and the man’s touch was real, the coarseness of his black hair and the finely honed muscles of his back and arms...his lips and hot breath...the love words and promises that filled her ears and soul as she was brought to exhilarating heights of passion
And in her sleep she released a jagged sob.
About The Author
Robyn Carr is a RITA Award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling author of fifty novels, including the critically acclaimed Virgin River series. Her new series, Thunder Point, made its debut as a #1 NYT bestseller in March 2013. Robyn and her husband live in Las Vegas, Nevada. You can visit Robyn Carr's website at www.RobynCarr.com or follow her on Twitter at @RCarrWriter.