“It’s…it’s personal. Private. Not…not something one talks about.”
“Now there is foolishness. Of course one talks about it. It is the most joyful part of life. Why should one not talk of happy things?”
Becoming cross, Verity said, “In this culture we do not do so—whatever you may do in yours.”
He chuckled. “The English. So cold. So secret and withdrawn. I will never understand you.”
“Even my aunt?”
He grinned. “Ah. Mary is a different sort of Englishwoman. She has traveled and learned. She’s thought deeply about what she’s learned. She is, perhaps, not even entirely English anymore?”
Verity ignored that provocative comment and, instead of pursuing a line of thought that disturbed her, asked, “I still do not understand what she did that was so very wicked that that king wishes her dead.”
Rube sobered instantly. “The man is insane. We tried so hard to keep her from going to him. We knew it would not turn out well. And you see it hasn’t.”
Verity’s curiosity led her to insist. “But what happened?”
“His son was ill with a wasting disease. There was nothing anyone could do but he’d heard she was a doctor. When she couldn’t help the lad and the young man died, he accused her of poisoning him. And wished to make an example of her to show what happened to people who displeased him. He meant to publicly torture her and kill her.”
Verity blanched. Her knees felt weak but fortunately she’d approached his bed as they spoke so her chair was conveniently beside her. She grasped the back and slid onto it.
His voice softened. “I should not have been so blunt.”
“Give me a moment…”
He lay there watching her. When she took a breath, whooshed it out and then met his eyes, he gave her a smile. “Better?”
Verity nodded. “I knew she’d been unable to heal the heir but not about the torture. Or if I did, I didn’t really understand? Perhaps didn’t believe…” She thought a bit more. “So that explains the attack on the road? When you were shot?”
He nodded.
“And all that happened years ago?”
“Getting on for three.”
“And he is still pursuing Aunt Mary?”
Rube nodded.
Verity shook her head. “I didn’t understand. I knew she was in danger but I didn’t realize…”
“It is why Jacob wished you and Mrs. Jennings to leave. He feared he couldn’t protect all of you. Mary, you, your Aunt Jenna.”
“And that widow and that Mr. McAllen,” said Verity absently.
“Who?” Rube’s voice sharpened on the word.
“Hm?” She sent Rube a quick glance “Oh, a widow Jacob knew when living in London. But Mr. McAllen lives not overly far from here so I’m not certain how he became involved.” She frowned, wondering if he’d escorted the woman all the way from London. She hadn’t had that impression. “They arrived behind the carriage that brought you back when you were wounded.”
Rube shifted, groaned, a hand going to his shoulder.
“You are in pain?” asked Verity, remembering she was supposed to keep him quiet.
“It isn’t that.” Again he shifted but this time more carefully. “Drat this shoulder,” he said, but continued before Verity could again question him. “Can you be certain they are not emissaries of the bastard trying to harm Mary?” he asked urgently.
“I…think so.”
“Not good enough. Send for Jacob.”
“Now? In the middle of the night?”
Rube frowned. “I don’t know what got into me that I got into the way of that bullet. How stupid of me. How can I care for Mary when I cannot even get out of bed?”
“My grandfather’s ghost won’t allow anyone near her while she sleeps. My aunt told me he meant to guard his daughter. You know he’ll not fail her so you must relax. It is time for you to sleep too. You don’t like it there in that bed, so sleep and rest and get well again. You lost an awful lot of blood, you know. And you suffered the worst fever I’ve ever seen. You can’t expect to recover instantly. You will have to trust the rest of us to see to Mary.”
He smiled but weakly. “Such a scold,” he said. “My father would have you beaten if you were to talk to him that way.”
Verity’s brows arched. “You mean my aunt never spoke to him disrespectfully? From his point of view, I mean? I cannot believe it.”
He chuckled. “It is amazing what a man will put up with when it is Mary,” was all he said and broke off to yawn. “Very well. I can do nothing. I must trust you all. But if anything happens to Mary…” His mouth firmed and his eyes had a hard look to them. “Well, there is one irrational king who will find that sometimes he has reason to fear for his life…”
Almost before he finished speaking his eyes closed and Rube fell asleep. This time he remained asleep and Verity, after a time, moved the shaded lamp so the light would fall on the page. She read far into the night.
* * * * *
The king’s remaining emissary brooded. He had been trained from an early age to do as he was told, to follow orders and, except for determining how to follow them, not to think for himself. But he was alone now. His master had undoubtedly died days ago. How could he even know what his king wanted when they no longer had contact? How was he to know if new orders arrived? But what could he do if he did not go on trying to take captive the woman, try to return her to his king who would make what life remained to her a living hell? He shivered, thinking of the way she’d be treated.
If he returned without her then it would be himself turned over to the torturers. He’d suffer in her place…and someone else would be sent to capture her.
The former slave groaned. There was no escape. He must try again, must make a new plan, hire new blackguards and not fail. Because if he failed here he’d also fail his wife and children at home.
That sent his thoughts in a new direction. He hoped his wife and children were safe. Had the messengers done as he’d asked? Had they taken the packets he’d sent by them to his wife? Or had they stolen the gifts that would keep his secret loves safe? The man sighed. And brooded. And wondered what he could possibly do now that those guarding the woman knew he was, once again, after months of doing almost nothing, plotting to gain control of the woman’s person.
Chapter Twelve
Melissa stood by her bedroom window and watched the men she now knew were not gardeners pretending to care for perfectly tended flowerbeds, prune bushes that needed no pruning, scythe grass that needed no scything… A man had been shot, had nearly died… She bit her lip. She didn’t want to find herself in danger, didn’t want to live in fear, but where could she go? What could she do other than stay here and try, on those rare occasions he was anywhere near her, to seduce Jacob away from his inheritance? Even though she knew he’d not be seduced—at least not by her. She thought of young Verity. Pretty Verity. Passionate Verity… And, as was her habit, turned away from thoughts that displeased her.
Turned them toward Lester… Oh, if only Lester were not so…bitter? So distrustful? So…nasty. Yes, nasty. Their walk… She had had such high hopes. He had seemed more…mellow? Had even hinted he wished to be private with her. But then… She turned on her heel and, with uneven jerky movements, paced the open stretch of floor between the window and the door.
I don’t want to remember what he said. I don’t want to think about it.
But how did one shut off the words in one’s head? How did one forget? And why could Lester not accept that she had had no choice? None. That she never had a choice… Bitterness flowed into her, filling her.
Why am I so unlovable? Why can no one ever love me?
The thought was a wail through her mind and, for a moment, she wanted nothing more than to throw back her head and scream out all her frustration, her fears, her…her loneliness.
And then she did. “Oh God, I am so alone.”
The man outside her door, his hand raised to knock
, hesitated. The hand dropped. Lester McAllen, a faint frown creasing his high brow, backed away and turned and, musing on what he’d heard, returned to his room. Not the words so much but that there had been true anguish in them. He was surprised that the woman he thought her to be could feel anything that deeply—even something so selfish.
She was young when we fell in love. Young and untried and, for the most part, untrained. So what did I see in her that it still hurts? It wasn’t merely a lust for her or I’d not have hurt for so long. So what do I remember that might explain it?
They’d grown up neighbors but it wasn’t until she was almost sixteen that she suddenly, between one of his visits home and the next, bloomed into womanhood, an enticing alteration in his old playfellow that instantly roused certain emotions. He smiled wryly. That was lust. At least in part.
But it was far more complicated than that and Lester forced himself to recall the bits and pieces of time they’d stolen. They’d walked the Downs, for instance, exploring the world of nature. It had been new to her. He remembered her wide-eyed amazement at the intricacy of a tiny spring flower, how she’d innocently admitted she’d never really looked at a flower, never seen how complicated they were, how beautiful—not just for making a bouquet, but in and of themselves.
And there had been the time he’d seen the baby fox poke its nose from a den and he’d made her crouch down and keep still. And again that wonderful openness to something new, something wonderful. She had turned quick glances toward him, wide-eyed, awed and full of silent laughter at the kits’ antics as they played in the open area before their lair.
There were other memories. He remembered not just their growing love for each other but how she’d expressed a…a tender gratitude to him for showing her a world she’d not known existed.
Lester paced. And thought. Remembered and wondered, and finally lifted his head to stare at nothing at all. “Can she possibly have lost all that sense of wonder? Is it all gone? Has she become so…withdrawn, so self-centered, she can never go back?”
Yesterday, when they’d walked into the walled garden, she hadn’t found the flower he’d handed her of any interest. Merely twirled it and cast him a glance.
“A hopeful glance? Hoping…what? And what did I hope to find in her?”
Lester sighed. They couldn’t go back. No one could do that.
In his mind, he heard again her cry of pain. That anguish tore at his heart, at the love he’d once felt for her, the love he’d tried to tear from his very soul.
Obviously, the wry thought passed through his mind, I didn’t fully succeed.
Realist that he was, Lester sat himself down, gave careful thought to where exactly his life had come and where he wanted it to go and finally, his decision made, rose to his feet.
They couldn’t go back…but they might go forward.
* * * * *
And at about that same moment, the king’s last emissary discovered he was hungry and went down to the public room to request a meal—although he almost gagged at the thought of the food he’d be given. No fruit. The vegetables cooked with no thought of seasoning or what they looked like or how they would feel in the mouth…and, given the inn’s host’s wife, badly cooked as well. And the meat. So much meat. He sighed and longed for home, for his wife’s gentle touch with the spices, the rich combination of viands that made his mouth water with anticipation… But there was nothing for it. One had to eat.
He paused in the doorway to the public room, wondering why so many women were gathered around one of the tables. He heard a rich male laugh and a teasing comment to the effect that only one could purchase that particular ribbon since there was only one. “A popular color,” said the voice. “Next time I’ll make sure I have more, but which of you will win this one?” he asked and held it up, safe, away from three pairs of reaching hands.
The agent edged nearer, looked between two of the younger women who glared at each other. Each had taken hold of an end of still another ribbon.
An older woman across the table plucked a packet of needles from the litter of goods spread out for viewing and held it up. “How much?” asked the widow, her black garb and gray hair revealing her as such. She was told and, carefully, counted out small coins into the packman’s hand.
“Ladies, ladies,” he chided, turning back to the three who argued over the first ribbon. “You cannot all buy it. You must decide.”
Another woman plucked a comb out of the mess, bought it. Another a silver thimble, a gift, she told a friend, for her goddaughter and, at the other end of the table, another packet of needles was purchased.
The inn’s host came into the room, stopped at his foreign guest’s side and sighed. “It is always the same whenever the packman arrives. There is no work from the women of this village until they’ve spent their last pence, I think.”
“He comes often?”
“Merely twice a year, thank the good Lord. He visits villages and great houses ‘round about and wealthy farmers’ wives. Walking miles carrying that huge pack.” The innkeeper thrust his chin toward a large bundle laid near the man’s feet. “I wish they’d finish fingering his wares and spending their pence. There is work to be done and if someone doesn’t get back to the kitchen, dinner will be ruined.”
The emissary wondered how it could be ruined worse than usual—although it seemed everyone but himself managed to wolf down the offerings with gusto. “I too hope they return soon to their cooking. I am hungry,” he added, turning a quick look toward the innkeeper who still glowered.
After a moment his words registered and the innkeeper looked up. “Hungry? I’ll go dish you up a plate,” he said and disappeared.
Gradually the women left off their ooh-ing and aah-ing and more and more of them departed with their small treasures until only the three young women, all of whom wanted the same ribbon, glared at each other.
“But, ladies,” laughed the genial packman, “there is only the one. I could cut it… No?” He laughed at their instant response to that suggestion. “Then you will have to toss the dice to see who wins it,” he said as they pulled the ribbon first one way and then another. Gently, he released it from their clutching hands and rolled it around his finger. “Come now. Will you agree to a game of chance, the ribbon to the winner?”
One, the youngest, sighed and turned away.
“She don’t gamble,” said the taller of the two remaining, “but I do. Gimme the dice.”
She rolled. They peered at the cubes. The other one rolled and, gleefully, reached for the ribbon, which was pulled away from her. “It is mine,” she said, pouting.
“I haven’t seen your money, my dear, and until I do…” He held his hand high above his head where, even jumping, she could not reach it. “Sixpence, luv. Only a tiny silver sixpence.”
The girl fell back and glared at him. “You said thruppence for the ribbons.”
“That was before the value of the thing rose so high.”
“I ain’t got sixpence.”
The other woman chortled. “I do. I’ve got sixpence. It is mine then.” She dug into a thin purse and counted out six pennies. “There,” she said.
The ribbon was handed over and the two, squabbling, left the room. The packman seemed to deflate. He sat down with a bit of a thud and wiped his brow, looked up and saw the agent watching him, and grinned. “Glad that’s over. Feared a bit of a dustup there. Ladies sometimes fight over my wares when they want something bad enough.”
The glimmering of an idea seeped into the agent’s head. He patted the table to the side of him. “Come. Sit. I am new to your country and a stranger to all this, so tell me about your life on the road and how you sell your wares. I will buy you your dinner and you can eat while you entertain me,” he added, easily bribing the man to his will.
The packman, never turning down a free meal but willing to pay for it by telling tales, gladly seated himself. His stories were funny or sad but always revealing human nature and, when the agent
still didn’t quite understand exactly how the man made his living, he freely answered the questions asked him. He finished a second mug of the innkeeper’s good ale, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood.
“Thankee very much,” he said. “Very good indeed, but I’ve got to put my feet to the road now. A long way to go yet today.”
The agent merely nodded. His mind was busy considering how he might use his new knowledge as a means of attaining entrance to High Moor Hall. What he’d do once there, he didn’t know. But gaining entrance was the first step. Perhaps if he arrived late in the afternoon…needed a place to sleep? The packman said he often slept in barns and sometimes in kitchens on the floor near the fire…inside the house.
He’d be inside if he managed that. And then surely something would occur to him.
* * * * *
Verity stared at her aunt. “I don’t understand what you mean,” she said.
But Verity’s tone was such that Jenna very much feared her niece understood and was angry about it. The older woman bit her lip. Perhaps she’d gone too far in her wish to see things settled? “What is there to understand? I merely suggested you think about your future, did I not?”
“You merely hinted that I should think about a future with Jacob Moorhead,” said Verity with a bluntness that had her aunt wincing. “You cannot deny that is what you meant. You would see me married to a roué, a gambler, a wastrel? Oh, I don’t know words bad enough!” She grimaced. “Not English words anyway.”
That wry addendum made Jenna chuckle. “You could say what you mean in Italian then?” She sobered. “But that means you know words you should not know, even if they are in a foreign tongue. What was my sister thinking to allow it?”
“My mother thought of very little beyond my father. It was a mutual sort of thing.” Verity, who had been standing by her aunt’s chaise, began to pace. “I want a love like that. Well, not exactly like that, because I hope I’d not forget my children as they often forgot about us, but that special…that very special warmth? That closeness? That utter faith in the other, faith they were there for each other? Always?” Verity drew in a deep breath and turned to stare at her aunt. “It is, I think, a very good thing they both died in that accident, because I do not think the one could have gone on living if the other were dead…or, at the least, live on and retain their sanity.”
The Ghost and Jacob Moorhead Page 16