by Shea,Lisa
She smiled in appreciation. “Oh, Roger,” she praised, “it is lovely. You have outdone yourself.”
Berenger raised an eyebrow. “Then it shall be yours,” he offered simply.
Jessame put her hands up before her in refusal. “I would not do that,” she countered. “That was made especially for you, and a cross should be personal. I could not accept.”
Berenger turned back to Roger. “In that case, I would like to commission a matching one for this lady.”
Roger spoke before Jessame could interject. “Certainly,” he agreed. “It would be my pleasure.”
Jessame blushed and dropped her eyes. The cross was indeed beautiful, and it had been many years since she had possessed anything even half as fine. She had spent her last pennies on the scarf she wore as part of her disguise. “I appreciate it, but I am afraid I cannot afford -”
Berenger shook his head. “I insist,” he gently interrupted. “Besides, would you deprive Roger here of the work and income?”
Jessame’s face flamed. “Still, there must be some way I could repay you.”
Berenger’s face went still, then he responded in quick staccato. “You could sit with me on the bench before the church.”
Jessame blinked at his terseness, then realized with shock what it had sounded like she’d offered. If her face could have turned more red, she would have been a fully formed raspberry herself.
Her tongue tangled on her words. “Oh! I didn’t – I mean …” Her throat closed up and she looked helplessly down at the table.
Berenger let out a breath, his tension easing slightly. His eyes slid to the side for a moment. “You said you were … new … to the area, but still, you must have become familiar with the locals as you have settled in.” His eyes came to meet hers again.
“A bit,” agreed Jessame hesitantly.
Berenger’s voice became distant. “Perhaps you could fill me in on the last ten years. It seems as if much has changed since I left.”
A wave of pain swept Jessame when he said those words, the pain she pushed down each morning, that haunted her each evening as she climbed into bed.
He had left.
Maybe she would finally find out why.
Her voice was hoarse when it finally emerged from within her. “Certainly, if that is your wish.”
Berenger handed the cross back to Roger and then motioned with one hand. Mutely, Jessame followed him out into the sunshine, across the corner of the small green and to the long granite bench which fronted the quiet stone church.
She eased down onto the sun-warmed seat, settling her skirts around her, and in a moment Berenger was lowering himself beside her. Suddenly it could have been ten years ago, the pair sitting on her front steps, looking out across the quiet day and sharing their innermost thoughts.
She shook herself. She was not immersed in her wistful dreams of a childhood long since gone. He was back. He had returned from a decade of combat, from hard fighting and desperate battle in far-off, distant lands. And she …
Angst coursed through her. She looked down at her hands, weaving her fingers into each other, drawing in a deep, shaky breath.
Berenger was looking somberly out over the green, and his voice was low and quiet.
“Where would you like to begin?”
Why did you leave me?
The question spun within her, wild, scorching, searing every corner of her soul with its white hot edges. With years of effort she tamped it down, pressed it back into its corner. She had to maintain her disguise. She had to start slow, quiet, to ease into the discussion.
Jessame’s eyes scanned the green and came to light on the small, neatly kept building to the left with daffodil yellow curtains fluttering in the window. That seemed a safe enough topic to start with.
“Well, there is Mary, our town seamstress,” she stated, her voice softening. “She is a dear woman, and it seems sheer misfortune that she is still alone after all these years. She does not have the stunning beauty of some others, to be sure, but she is quiet, dependable, and loyal. She gave up her own dreams to care for her six brothers and sisters.”
“It seems as if Roger has become fond of her,” mused Berenger.
“I have been encouraging that,” agreed Jessame, nodding. “She deserves to be loved, as does he. Both are gentle souls.”
“What happened to Roger? He must have been in his late twenties when I left, and I thought he had several women interested in him at the time.”
Jessame glanced down the road to the north. “There was a fire out at the Prescott farm, and a child was trapped in the attic area. Roger raced up to save her and was hit by a falling beam. His recovery took months. It seemed the local women suddenly found other interests that persisted even after he had healed.”
Berenger’s voice was even and cool. “Women can be a fickle lot.”
A hot flare dashed through Jessame’s soul, and she bit it back with effort. Had she not agonized over his departure for years? Had she not looked each day for his return? She turned her head away, giving herself time to regain her composure.
A lilting comment floated from down the road. “Oh look, dear sister,” came a woman’s voice. “It appears our town wander-woman has been upset by Berenger. Maybe there is something we can do to assist.”
Jessame forced herself to remain silent as Lady Cavendish and Cassandra approached the church, each more resplendent than the previous night. The sun shone off their golden blonde hair, and their aqua colored dresses almost shimmered in the streaming light.
Berenger stood, bowing to the two women. “It is a delight to see you,” he greeted them.
Lady Cavendish gave her sister a gentle squeeze on the arm. “I am sure that Mary will take all day getting my orders done properly, so I believe you should wait here and pass the time talking,” she suggested with a bright smile. “I imagine you know your way home again.”
“That I do!” agreed Cassandra with laughing eyes. “Your home is one of the largest in the area; it is hard to miss!”
“That is settled, then,” insisted Lady Cavendish. “You two have fun!” Her gaze slid over Jessame with disdain, and then she was moving on toward the sewing shop, her pace quickening.
Cassandra walked daintily over to the center of the stone bench. She then lowered herself down right between the other two, giving a slight wriggle to move Jessame aside, settling herself in with a contented smile.
She turned to Berenger with a warm gaze. “Well, my dear Berenger, what is it that we are discussing?”
Berenger seemed unruffled by the turn of events and nodded to his new guest. “My friend was just telling me about the townsfolk, to help me catch up on current events.”
“Oh! Well, then, I can certainly help with the latest gossip,” offered Cassandra excitedly, leaning forward toward him. “I have been quite immersed in it for the two months I have stayed with my sister, as she settles into her new married life here.” She laid a hand on his arm, her eyes shining. “For example, have you heard yet about the crazy people up at the Dwinnell estate?”
Jessame winced, keeping her head turned away. She wished she could turn into a church mouse, scamper into a quiet nest of grass, and hide away from the world and its judgments. From the distant corner of her mind she heard Berenger ask for Cassandra to continue. She wrapped her arms around her midsection, willing herself not to hear.
Cassandra, if anything, became even louder. Jessame wondered if the girls playing across the green could hear them, if the blonde’s voice was carrying clear across to every corner of the town, to the front stoop of her home, which now held only her ailing father, the cook, and one man-servant.
“Well, certainly, that family believes it is far superior to anyone else,” stated Cassandra with certainty. “They refused to come to my sister’s wedding in May. Can you imagine that? It was the celebration of the century!”
She turned to lean against Berenger, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “No visitors
are allowed through their doors. They never go out. Nobody has seen them in years. Apparently they are too high and mighty for the rest of us.” She sniffed with indignation.
Berenger’s voice held concern. “Nobody has seen them at all?”
Cassandra shook her head vehemently. “Certainly my sister and I have seen neither hide nor hair of the family since we came to town, despite sending several invitations. My brother-in-law claims that they have not left their lands in over six years now, not since before the old priest died and the new one took over. Only their servants come in town occasionally, to buy supplies or to sell off old, unwanted items. They are undoubtedly stocking their home with even more luxurious items from London.” She gave a tinkling laugh. “Word has it that the father’s pride has swollen to such heights that he refuses even the slightest contact with us mere locals.”
Berenger’s voice was low. “And the girl …?”
Cassandra laughed out loud. “Girl? Old hag, more like it. Jillian … Jessica … whatever her name is, none will have her from what I hear. Teeth falling out, hair turning white, she and her father are wasting away with their servants, clinging to misplaced ego. Good riddance to them, I say.”
Jessame’s face burned with shame, but she held her tongue. None of this mattered. She had a task to complete, and the wild rantings of one woman counted little against …
“Oh,” continued Cassandra, her voice infusing with delight. “And I have not even told you the best part yet. Apparently the cook’s daughter – a woman that Jocelyn grew up with and even befriended! – is a whore! A spread-your-legs woman who crawls the streets only one town over!”
Jessame could take it no longer; a flood of red hot metal was coursing through her veins and would shoot out her fingertips if she did not immediately get away. She stumbled to her feet, murmured some apology which she barely was able to put together, and in moments she was striding down the dirt path toward her small cottage, her fists clenching and unclenching as she went.
Of all the stupid … idiotic … hare-brained … the woman deserved to be … she drew in long, deep breaths, forcing herself to breathe, stalking further and further from the village, her thoughts whirling like a cyclone through her head.
There was a hand on her arm, and she spun instantly, her hand dropping to the dagger she kept on her hip, pulling it out and forward in a flash. She froze, her breath coming in long draws.
It was Berenger before her, his brown eyes shadowed with rich concern. He put his hands up in a show of retreat.
“I did not mean to startle you,” he offered, his voice tight. “I only wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Yes … well …” Jessame found she still could not talk, not dissemble, not with the heat blazing like wildfire through her veins.
Berenger lowered his hands. “She should not have spoken so callously about your profession with you sitting right there,” he continued, his face tense.
“What?” asked Jessame in confusion. Her thoughts were being juggled in ten different directions and she struggled to rein them in to a semblance of order. “No … well, I mean, I expect that kind of talk,” she stumbled.
Berenger’s eyes were sharp on her, and she turned away, looking out down the road to where it turned around a stand of elm. He was so close, she could almost feel the heat from his body. In the past he would draw her in when she was upset, hold her gently, assure her that everything would work out.
And then he had left her.
His voice was familiar, so familiar, and she felt herself being wrapped by it. “Maybe, then, you know Sabina? The girl that Cassandra was talking about?”
Sharp pain jagged into her heart and she sank down into the grass at the side of the road. In a moment he was sitting beside her. They could have been tucked alongside her trout pond, just as they had for so many years, side by side, sharing secrets and supporting each other. The years slipped away like beads of dew from morning grass.
“Our paths have crossed,” she admitted hoarsely, remembering the moss green of her eyes, the vivid life of her dreams. “Sabina had more lust for life than any other woman I knew. She was positive she would have everything she wanted from this world. She would race stallions in Venice and sample spices in Portugal. She had her whole life of adventures planned out.” A tear slipped out of one eye; she absently wiped it away. “To have her end up like that … it was not fair. It was just not fair.”
Berenger’s voice was quiet, soft, almost hesitant. “Sabina had a family who cared for her and a stable surrounding. What caused her to go from that to selling her body?”
Jessame dug one toe into the soft dirt, her shoulders hunching. “The same old story that replays time and time again. She trusted her heart and soul to a man, and that man let her down. He abandoned her.”
Berenger paled, but she barely saw it. She was reliving the talk she had had with Sabina’s landlord when she had gone with Millie to collect the body.
“Apparently, once Sabina accepted that her love would never return, she swore she would never rely on a man again. She would earn her own coin, pay her own way, and stand on her own two feet. But she could not sew, nor cook. She felt, if she were to be independent, that she had no other choice of profession.”
Berenger’s voice was tight. “There is always another choice.”
Jessame snorted in disbelief. “That is easy for a man to say,” she objected. “You can just run off to fight in the Crusades whenever the whim strikes you. But women? We are trapped in our situation, unable to stir, unable to even leave our village. Maybe her choice was the only real one she had.”
“But to sell your body for money …”
Heat flared in Jessame’s cheeks. “And is it that much better to kill people for money? At least in our profession nobody is hurt.”
Berenger’s response was terse. “Nobody but the woman.”
Jessame surged to her feet. “Apparently few care what happens to a whore,” she snapped. She brushed down her dress, then turned to Berenger, who had risen beside her. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to do. Good day.”
She turned and strode down the path, and to her relief she did not hear his footsteps following her. She made the short distance to her cottage in record time, closing the door behind her, sliding the bar across. She took in long, deep breaths, allowing her heart to settle into a more even rhythm.
He had not heard that Sabina had been slain, but she knew that news would reach him soon enough. Would he then feel honor bound to interfere, to prevent men from reaching her doorstep? He could destroy all she had worked so hard to set up, this lair to draw in and capture whoever had done these vile deeds. She had been fortunate that the news had not spread yet, but it would come soon enough, on the lips of a passing tinker or traveling priest.
She dropped her head, resting her hand on Millie’s oak box, her eyes welling with tears. Once the news broke, poor Sabina’s name would be dragged once again through the mud, the subject of tsk-tsking and sermonizing. Had the girl not gone through enough in her brief and difficult life?
She found herself taking the box from the mantle, moving to sit on her bed, to cradle it in her lap. They had been so close, but also so different from each other. Where Jessame had cherished the quiet fishing pond and peaceful evenings of stargazing, Sabina had strained at the bit like a racehorse focused on the win. If Jessame ate four peaches in an indulgent afternoon, Sabina would force down five, cramming every last sliver into her mouth, nursing her bloated stomach for hours afterwards.
When Jessame had finally built up the courage to jump the waist-high stone wall alongside the well, Sabina would not rest for weeks. She drove herself like a madwoman, practicing day and night, and finally she dragged Jessame to the side of the stables to witness her victory. While Jessame watched with open-mouthed panic, Sabina spurred her horse into a gallop, built up a running start across the full length of the pasture, and then burst in a vault over the shoulder-high paddoc
k gate. Jessame could still remember the scraping noise as the horse’s hooves slid along the top of the wood, and the furious shout as Millie had come running from the house, her face white with shock.
Jessame looked back down at the box in her hands, stroking the dark wood top. Sabina had been bursting with dreams, positive beyond all reckoning that life would give her everything she demanded of it. When the handsome stableboy had arrived from London, Sabina had been drawn to him instantly. Every spare moment had been spent in his presence, and soon she was mimicking his rough accent, rattling off the names of city streets and famous people as if she had seen them herself.
It was only weeks later that she had claimed him for her own and had begun making her plans to see the world. He would take her to cruise the Thames in London, to explore the twisting streets of Paris, and to soak in the ancient wonders of Rome.
Jessame sighed. She remembered so clearly warning Sabina to take it slow. The lad was handsome enough, but he had only been in town for a short while. What did they really know of him besides the tales he told, where he always seemed to be the hero? It was one thing to relax in the tavern with him on a rainy afternoon, becoming lost in his outlandish stories of distant adventure. But could Sabina trust him in a more serious situation?
Sabina had laughed at Jessame’s concerns, a knowing sparkle in her eye. “I always have a back-up plan,” she assured Jessame, patting her heart. She wore an ebony cross there, one Millie had given to her when she was quite young. Cassandra had been intrigued by that motion. Sabina’s time in church seemed more about escaping chores than absorbing virtuous thoughts. It seemed, though, that at least some of the sermons had affected her. She seemed quite convinced that her life was being watched over.
Jessame signed in sadness. Sabina had believed with all her heart in the power of her destiny. She had trusted completely in the ability of her stableboy to help her fulfill her dreams. To think that the young man would have used her so callously, to abandon her like that …