“Oh, baby,” Verbena crooned, not knowing which of the girls she was talking to. “He’s just hungry.” Another excuse piled on so many years of excuses.
“Julius and Matthew are hungry, too,” Lizabeth snapped, the red blotches on her face growing into hot anger. “And they don’t throw their food, or hit you.”
“Father is bigger. He needs more food.” It was a pitiful try, and Lizabeth was smart enough to see right through it.
Shouting came from the coop. “Stay here!” She pointed Lizabeth back into the house. “No matter what you hear, you and Annabelle are to stay in the house. No matter what.” One glare, as fierce as she could make it, but she dared not wait any longer, the voices were getting worse.
Matthew shrieked, “No, Father, no!”
And the musket boomed.
The girls’ screams started again. “Stay!” Verbena snapped over her shoulder, and forced her legs down the stairs and across the yard. Chickens scattered from behind the stable, squawking and flapping, their fat bodies getting in her way like a small swarm of awkward giant bees. She flapped at them with one arm as her other arm clutched that burning spot in her side, but she could not stop.
She rounded the old stable corner right into a brawl of arms and elbows. Something hard slammed into the side of her face. She reeled off and pitched to the side. Images flashed, Father and Julius fighting over the gun, the barrel pointing straight up in the air, a puff of smoke coming from its end, Matthew grabbing at the musket’s hot barrel and leaping back, everyone seeming to get taller and farther away. Her body impacted, seeming to bounce and roll, her limbs loose, floating above her as if disconnected, her arms could not work to make the awful movement stop, her whole midsection went cold, and the world went dark.
CHAPTER 5
At the sharp crack that broke the morning quiet, Damon pulled the horse up. Shouts followed that single gunshot, and then the screaming of children.
Sounds that had no place in a fresh English morning.
He followed the panicked cries, pushing the horse along the fence to the gate and through.
The house around which the cries emanated needed paint and probably more: two full stories and a small attic, a gabled roof that looked as if it leaked, a side portico that sagged.
He heard another scream coming from behind the house, back of a weathered shed that may once have been a stable but that now housed chickens. As he rode up the short drive he could smell the birds before he saw them.
He rounded the corner of the shed and hauled on the reins just in time to prevent his stallion from trodding on a familiar yellow gown dotted with pink. Two little barefoot girls hung onto each other, their screams getting louder with every breath.
A burly man and a tall blonde boy, almost of age to be a man himself, both grappling over a gun pointed straight in the air, froze in place. They all seemed to notice his horse at the same moment. Blessed silence fell from the girls.
Damon wished he had brought his own weapon. “What is the meaning of this?” The words seared the air in the voice that had kept his entire battalion under control. He swung from the horse and leaned down by Verbena’s body, his bad leg at an awkward angle, one eye on the ugly scene in front of him.
There was no blood, at least none Damon could see. The horse stood rock-still, he was the one who trembled. He reached for Verbena’s neck, hoping, praying for the pulse. At first he did not feel it, his hand was shaking and his own heart beat too loud. He took another breath, closed his eyes for the merest moment, and there it was, strong and steady.
“It is a good thing she is still alive,” he snarled as he stood and walked with measured steps toward the duo, neither one ready to relinquish the weapon. “Give that to me.” He grabbed the long gun by the still-hot barrel and jerked it free. The boy backed away, glaring between him and the burly man equally.
With the gun safely away from the pair of idiots, he switched his own glare between the two. “One of you had better have an explanation.”
“We did not shoot her.” That from the boy. “She came around the corner and ran into us and fainted.”
As explanations went, that one was sadly lacking. “Explain the bruise on the side of her face.” The two miscreants looked down at her as if he had said something remarkable. He would find out the rest once Verbena was awake and out of danger. “You,” he pointed at the older man. “Pick her up and carry her into the house.” At least that would keep the man away from the gun.
A chicken flapped down to the ground from somewhere overhead and landed near Verbena’s slack hand. The man swore as he slapped at another one that followed it. No doubt the flock had taken refuge on the roof of the little shed at his side.
Red rushed up the man’s face, and his lip curled. “An’ who might you be, that you think you can come onto private property and start giving orders? This is my family, and I will take care of them as I see fit.”
This was Mr. Barnes? This flushed and threatening man was Verbena’s and Edeline’s father? Damon glared at him with disgust. “I can’t see that you are caring for them any too well. Pick up your daughter, sir, and get her into the house!”
The blonde boy’s brows were still furrowed in a glare. His face was blotched red, from exertion or embarrassment, it was impossible to tell, and a sleeve hung torn from the shoulder of a shirt that had seen better days. Damon remembered with a flash of sympathy being that age, big enough to try, but not big enough to succeed. As long as the boy did not make any sudden moves, he could be ignored.
Damon kept his attention on the burly man. He was going to be trouble. “I am Damon Thern.”
Mr. Barnes’ face went still, his eyes surprised for the space of a blink before a cold measuring look crept into them. “One of them, are ye? A Lord High Thern. I see what you are doing,” he sneered. “You come onto my land giving orders. This is not France, Mr. High and Mighty Officer, and we are not your troops. Right now this property still belongs to the Barnes and you are the one trespassing!”
“I did not come as an officer,” Damon said with asperity. “I came to help, but now that you bring it up, if I choose, I could have you clapped in irons on any charge I wish. I’ll not ask you again, sir, pick up your daughter and get her into the house!” Damon’s very fingertips tingled with restrained rage.
With a muttered curse, Barnes crouched down and picked Verbena up. She hung limp in his arms. The tall, blonde boy glared at Damon again, and followed the father. The young girls, who had been clinging to each other and hiccupping softly, the final remnants of their screams, looked at him fearfully, turned on their collective heels and raced after their father, their bare feet pattering against the hard-packed earth.
To think, their father and brother had just been fighting over a loaded gun, yet he, who had only come to help, was the greater of two evils.
The big gun, the source of this misery, felt like a familiar friend. His horse, like the trained beast that he was, had stayed close enough that Damon could just reach out and catch the reins. He kept the musket in his hand and turned to follow the family around the small shed. Verbena’s stillness scared him. A young male voice from behind surprised him.
“Thank you for stopping to help.”
Damon spun around, catching himself before he fell.
It was a dark-haired boy. His eyes peered over the horse’s back. “I’m Matthew, and my brother is Julius.”
By the time they reached the house, Damon thought he might know all he needed about Verbena. He started walking, and sure enough, the boy fell in step on the other side of the horse.
“I hope Verbena will be all right,” Matthew went on in a rush, pouring out his dread in time to their footfalls, echoing Damon’s fears. “I would not normally say anything, I don’t talk about my family much,” – Damon bit his cheek to keep the inappropriate smile in check – “but Father kicked her because she cooked porridge for breakfast.”
The urge to smile vanished. Damon picked up the
pace. Verbena could not be left alone with the father this boy described.
“She kept holding her side. We need a doctor to look at her, too, but we – ” Matthew flushed, but once he had started it seemed he could not stop, all his anxieties coming out in a rush, only remembering to hush his voice lest someone hear him, “we can’t afford to send for him. I don’t think he is very good, anyway. That is what Verbena says all the time.” In a belated realization, Matthew suddenly asked as they reached the side porch, “Did you not say your name was Thern? Are you related to the Therns who own the village?”
His voice had gone wary. Damon put his hand on the slight shoulder and said, “Yes. Yes, I am. I’m glad to meet you, Matthew, but sorry for the circumstances.” He looped the reins over the shaky porch railing, grabbed the equally shaky post and climbed the steps. The door creaked open before he reached it, pushed from inside by Mr. Barnes. The door’s hinges caught, shrilly complaining, as Barnes gave a vicious shove for that last inch, and crowded Damon toward the porch edge. Those hinges needed to be oiled at least, possibly replaced, but the man did not seem to notice the sounds.
“Who said you could come in?” Barnes filled the doorway. “You don’t own this place.” Stale whiskey puffed out with every word.
“Are you not even worried about your daughter, Barnes?” Damon’s anger, fueled by Matthew’s confession, was barely held under leash, and Barnes had to feel it. He shifted his grip on the gun, and looked at the man. He did not move beyond that one shift, but he did not have to, he knew Barnes could tell that so much as a single wrong threat and he would swing.
“Fine. Just remember whose house this is.” Barnes stormed off into the house.
Damon stepped over the threshold into a kitchen. Iron pots and pans hung on hooks along the fireplace wall. He got a quick impression of cupboards, but Barnes had moved further into the house. Damon followed the sound of the man’s footsteps through a dining room with a long, scuffed table, the dings and chips proclaiming hard use. Benches ran along the table’s sides, a large functional dark wood chair sat at the table’s far end.
On the floor lay a cracked bowl, and drying splotches of dried oatmeal. His jaw clenched harder. Verbena did not deserve this. None of the children did.
A second door led out of the dining room and into a hallway. Stairs came down from the next floor on his left, and the front door with its tiny vestibule was on his right. Beyond the stairs the hall led to another room, but that door was closed.
Damon looked at the room directly in front of him. Most likely that was the parlor, from the wide doorway with double doors that hung unevenly out of their frame and clearly had not been moved for some time. There was no one to invite him in but he entered anyway, and got a quick impression of old furniture still kept clean, small tables with oil lamps on them, one with a cracked glass chimney. Chairs, an old wingback whose fabric upholstery showed wear, the colors faded from sunlight, the others of solid wood, flat backs and seats without a pillow to soften them, and last, a tired settee to his right where Verbena lay still and limp, the two little girls standing close.
At least her father had not dropped her on the floor.
“It was an accident,” Barnes said, with a quick gaze toward his daughter. The stale scent of whisky drifted past again, stronger inside than on the porch. Damon dismissed him. Father or not, he would be of no help.
One ruffle of Verbena’s yellow gown slid off the edge of the settee. He had not seen any movement to make it shift. Damon’s gaze did a swift examination of her pale face, still and expressionless against a pillow.
Everything about her was still. He was used to wounds that gushed blood, or strangely angled broken bones, but a woman so motionless, so pale? He did not know where to start. With the father standing so close, so intimidating, clearly no one would say more than he had managed to learn from Matthew.
Barnes might have caused even more damage taking her to the house. Broken bones should not be moved, Damon knew, but she could hardly have been left outside in the dirt by the shed, and he could no longer manage a woman even as slight as her.
“Someone bring a bowl of water and a cloth.” He looked around at the anxious faces. Matthew nodded a couple quick bobs of the head, and slipped out, keeping a distance from his father.
A pair of big blue eyes in a sweet young face, one of the young sisters, stared solemnly at him from the farthest end of the settee where Verbena’s head lay. “Is she breathing?” Damon asked the girl.
The little girl nodded and leaned over the arm, easing closer to her sister’s body, not taking her eyes from him. She was afraid, but not panicked.
Verbena’s father kicked her. Damon shook his head. Had this sort of thing happened before? His hands tightened into fists, the one holding the gun could feel imprints of the carving press into his fingers, and forced himself to relax. One of the straight-backed chairs stood nearby. He grabbed it, walked around the settee, and thumped it down by Verbena’s side.
“Send for Doctor Horton,” he said as he sat down, not knowing exactly which of the bodies in the room he was addressing. Damon leaned the gun against the settee between himself and Verbena. If anyone wanted to get at it, they would have to go through him. Wounded leg or not, he knew he could, would, defend her.
“We never call the doctor. The man is a thief. I would not let Horton work on my horse. He won’t leave his house without a coin in hand first.”
Matthew appeared in the doorway, his hands full of a dripping bowl and cloth, and cleared his throat. Damon recognized the signal, remembered the boy’s comment. We can’t afford to send for him. The family could worry about their pride when Verbena was well.
“I will stand the cost.” Damon tried to look Barnes in the eye, but the man’s gaze would not stay in one place for any length of time, darting around the room as if following a frantic mouse.
Matthew came the rest of the way in with the bowl. Damon set it on the floor in easy reach. I don’t think he’s very good, anyway. Verbena’s words, supposedly. A handy excuse to avoid telling children they could not afford a doctor.
He squeezed the cloth out and set it on Verbena’s bruised face, but she did not move. Alarm rang inside like a physical bell. He had heard of cases where people never woke up. “Go for the doctor, Barnes! We need him here now!” Damon felt the man’s onrushing sobriety, and knew he was in that period when alcohol felt as necessary as the next breath. He would be useless in a moment. Better to get Barnes out of the house and deal with the children alone. Maybe, with their father gone, the children would be as talkative as Matthew had been.
In his dreams, Damon had never imagined her living in terror and abuse.
“Fine.” Barnes barked the word. “Pay for him. You will see. He is a crook.”
“Take my horse, man, and get the doctor. And know this – ” Barnes looked at him with a hopeful excitement tingeing his face, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I care not if you sleep in the tavern after that, but believe me when I say if I do not see the doctor here in this house within – ” he glanced around and found the nearest clock, noting the time. “Twenty minutes, I will have the magistrate clap you in irons and forget about you. Are we quite clear?”
Barnes nodded frantically, and licked his lips as if already tasting the drink he craved.
“Go!”
Damon hoped Barnes believed his threats. He had meant every word of them.
CHAPTER 6
She was in bed. Why did she not feel like moving, she who was always first to rise? Another moment and she would get up. There was never enough time to lie abed.
A shadow passed over her. Verbena turned to see who it was. Sudden pain brought a gasp. “Oh!” Her head throbbed and one cheek felt hot and tight. The light seeping through her small window burned her eyes.
“Here. Let me help you,” a familiar voice said, and her sister’s face appeared, blocking the sun for a moment. Edeline slid an arm around Verbena’s shoulder. “Damon
sent for the doctor and for me. We’re still waiting for the doctor. I’m so glad you are awake. We were beginning to worry.” She eased Verbena higher on her small bed. It was not comfortable, and Verbena bit back a moan.
She settled against the headboard. “My ribs . . . hurt. Is anyone else injured? What happened? How long have I been asleep?” Moving had started a new pain right . . . there. She held one hand to that sharp stab in her side, but it did not help. Her face seemed puffy around the sore cheek, the words had come out slurred.
“Everyone is well.” Edeline sat down in the small chair by the side of the bed.
Her sister wore a dark blue dress, probably the best she could do until the modiste could get her new wardrobe finished.
Wardrobe! Memory returned in full, mourning and Andrew’s death – and Thomas’s rage and the gun. Sudden fear chilled Verbena, and the angry words of the fight came back. It was not safe for Edeline to be here right now! “Where is Father?” she blurted out, and tried to sit up. The pain doubled, making her gasp. She sank back and tried to catch her breath.
“Damon says there is a ship sailing soon. He promises to get Father a position on it.” Edeline’s face drooped. “Oh, Verbena. I had no idea it was this bad. Julius said Father kicked you. I am so sorry. I have been so selfish.” Her voice was thick with shame and sadness. “Here I complained to you about my situation and you are living with violence and beatings. I’m so terribly sorry. You must think me the most callous person.” Edeline brought one of Verbena’s cold, chapped hands to her cheek.
The tender gesture closed Verbena’s throat. She wished she could hug her sister, ease her self-reproach. Her voice thick, she said, “Oh, Edeline! Not at all! This has never happened before. Truly. Most of the time Father is gone.”
“And you are alone. That is supposed to make me feel better?” Edeline leaned forward, a picture of grief in her dark gown and her sad face.
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