by Shea,Lisa
Jessame shrugged, her face pinkening in embarrassment. “I am afraid this dress is all I have which is suitable for the event,” she admitted.
“Then we shall go as we are.” He offered an arm. “If you are ready?”
Jessame slipped her hand into the nook, felt the warmth and comfort and security of being at his side, and they headed back out onto the warm summer’s path.
*
The party was in full motion by the time they crested the hill and approached the large house. A vibrant backdrop of crimson peony bushes edged the main garden area. Servants moved to and fro carrying platters of elegant wine glasses and slices of apple. Laughter rang out from all sides, and Jessame was pleased to see Roger and Mary standing close together by the bowl of strawberries, their faces glowing in the streaming sunlight.
Cassandra’s blonde curls bounced as she appeared at Berenger’s side “There you are!” She drew him close with eager excitement. True to her word, she had changed outfits, now decked out in a lavish, rich crimson dress the color of the peonies which surrounded the swirls of people. Delicate buds decorated the neckline of her outfit, and a small bloom was nestled in the flowing golden waves of her hair.
She leant against Berenger, her eyes full on his. “My dearest Berenger, there are so many people I want to introduce you to. Come with me!”
He gave a bow of apology as Cassandra drew him away, and Jessame was alone. She felt as if she were at the center of a cyclone, with whirling and spinning going on all around her, but a stillness occupied her immediate area, a sense of quiet and peace.
To one side was young Baldric, the lad carefully lifting two glasses of wine and focusing on them as he slowly made his way through the throng. Over there was Hosea, the dark-haired laborer, steadily stuffing strawberry after strawberry into his mouth with grimy hands.
A sharp voice sounded at her right. “You missed the best wine.” Lady Cavendish moved into view, her elegant lavender tunic embroidered down each sleeve with a line of tiny heather flowers. “We are down to the most inexpensive wines now, given the influx of unexpected guests.”
Jessame found herself smiling gently, the babble of happy voices and the drifting clouds overhead drawing her into a sense of peace. “And yet the guests are content,” she calmly pointed out. “They have wine, they have food, but best of all, they have the company of friends. In the end, that is what really matters.”
Lady Cavendish’s brow furrowed into a ploughed field of wrinkles. “In London, there would be an outraged swell of activity by now. The party goers would be seeking to relocate somewhere else with a top notch selection of vintages.”
Jessame glanced over at her. “In London they have many of their priorities askew,” she countered. “Here it is good friends that matter the most. Wine will come and go. Food changes with every season. It is the friends by your side who you can rely on, who will comfort you on those dark, lonely nights.”
Lady Cavendish looked lost in thought, and then the crowds swirled and ebbed, and she was pulled away toward the left. Jessame saw Mary and Roger through the crowd, him offering her a fresh glass of wine, her taking it from him with a shy smile. In another corner, Father Stockman was standing before an elderly widow, listening with a patient smile as the garrulous woman poured out an enthusiastic tale.
A husky grumble sounded from her right. “Ah, my dear, that dress looks absolutely divine on you.”
Jessame smiled up at Lord Cavendish, curtseying. “Then I am glad I chose to wear it to your party,” she murmured, her eyes twinkling with the knowledge that she had little other choice. “Congratulations – your event is an immense success. You have outdone yourself here today.”
His sharp eyes barely moved from hers. “That is all my wife’s doing,” he muttered. “That woman could spend a year’s income on a soirée, and be back the next day for more money. I think she believes I am made of gold.”
“You used to throw extravagant parties years ago, or so I hear,” she countered with a smile. “They were quite the talk of the village.”
His eyes grew misty. “Ah, but those were proper events,” he remembered fondly. “The men were the focus; we would sword fight and wrestle. The women would watch in appreciation. That is how a party should be.”
Berenger moved to stand beside the two, nodding welcome to Lord Cavendish. “I remember my father bringing me to your tournaments when I was quite young. They were true spectacles.” He handed a glass of wine to Jessame, and she nodded her thanks, taking a sip. The rose colored drink was delicious, and she sighed in appreciation.
Lord Cavendish had turned to Berenger. “Aldric was the best wrestler around,” he offered heartily. “The man was built like a bull, all muscle, with the hot passion to use it. His strength was legendary for miles around. I would wager even a full grown bear could not stand up to his strength and ferocity.” His mouth quirked up into an appreciative smile. “Your father was the reason we had to end the contests. None around were willing to wrestle Aldric after he broke the miller’s leg in two places.” He chuckled fondly at the memory. “That man could certainly be a wild animal when he got going.”
“And I recall you had quite the skill with the blade,” praised Berenger, turning the subject. “I hear tell you won more times than not.”
Lord Cavendish beamed with pride. “That I did,” he agreed, puffing up. His eyes swung to hold Jessame’s, and his face glowed. “There was a time, my lass, when women sought me out for my talents – my strength and my skill. I was the best with a sword for as far as a man could walk in a day. In any direction.” He looked around him, his eyes apparently seeing his days of glory, the peony-circled area turning for a moment into a sparring ring. Then he sighed, taking in the villagers, and slowly the fire in his eyes faded. “All long gone, I am afraid.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Now I am seen as little more than a bank on two legs, always open for withdrawals.”
His eyes moved to hold Berenger’s, and a stern warning echoed in them. “I hear you did well for yourself in the Holy Land, and were amply rewarded for your exceptional service,” he stated in a low tone. “You be cautious. Women will be drawn to that wealth; they will seek to drain you dry of every last drop.” He gave a resigned shrug. “It is in their nature. They are impetuous and covetous.”
His eyes moved to a point behind Berenger, and he sighed, shaking his head. “Speaking of which …”
Berenger and Jessame turned as one, curiosity in their gazes. A procession of servants was wending its way through the party bearing silver platters piled high with delicacies. There were sugared oranges, a fragrant plum pudding, and pears poached in wine. Two sturdy lads carried a full roast pig swinging from a pole. A lovely red-headed maid hefted a large wicker basket overflowing with breads of all shapes and sizes. And then, the pièce de résistance …
Jessame’s mouth fell open, and a wave of sadness cascaded over her. A sturdy matron pushed a small cart on wheels before her. On it, an elegant silver platter held a dead swan, the white feathers resplendent in the summer’s sun, the arched neck elegantly beautiful.
They mated for life.
Her breath eased out of her in a long sigh. The dead swan’s corpse grew in her vision, its dull eyes unable to take in the world around it, its beautiful wings never again to open and soar. This might be the male of the pair, once proud and protective, now slain for the most foolish of reasons. And somewhere out there, waiting, ever waiting, was the female, hoping against hope for her love’s return. She would pine away forever, and there would be no respite.
Jessame pushed away the pain, taking in a deep breath, willing herself to look away. She had to maintain her front. The killer could be here, somewhere in the crowd, and she had to do her part to draw him in to her. Every day could bring her one step closer to victory.
Her eyes scanned the crowd. The procession had ended at the banquet tables, and a pair of young men moved to lift the platter of the white bird high overhead before lay
ing it with a flourish at the center of the display. Standing alongside was the proud blonde, her head held high at the display she had made to her community. The portly matron from Berenger’s party was right at her side, face properly shining with amazement.
Lady Cavendish looked with satisfaction across the presentation she had created, and then her shrill voice cut across the garden. “My dear husband, where have you gotten to? You simply must come and take a look at the new carriage the Gilroys have brought with them. We must have one of our own!”
Lord Cavendish growled, turned, and strode in the exact opposite direction.
*
The sun was a fading fuchsia glow on the distant horizon as Jessame and Berenger made their farewells. In a few minutes they were strolling down the quiet, shadowed path toward their homes. She found the silence easy and made no move to break it, falling into the rhythm of their foot falls on the soft dirt road. It startled her when Berenger’s voice intruded on the silence, his question low and deep.
“So, any visitors planned for tomorrow?”
She blushed, the nature of her disguise suddenly coming back to her. She shook her head sharply. “No. I am going away for two days,” she stated. “I will be back Wednesday morning.”
“Oh? Making a house call?” His voice was mild, but she sensed an undercurrent of tension in his question.
“Yes,” she agreed, unwilling to go further. It was one thing to lie to him about her occupation. That was something she had accepted she would have to do to the entire village to make this work. But to start piecemealing deceptions together for day to day events; that was much harder for her to accept.
She realized that it was a sin of omission to refuse to tell him the truth. Morally that was just as bad as outright lying. She closed her eyes for a moment. There was only so much she could handle at once. She had to accept this as the price she would pay to find justice for the women slain.
They came around the bend to her cottage, and the moonlight grazed the rose bushes which stretched on either side. The gentle burbling of the stream beyond could just be heard in the quiet night air. The hearth’s embers gave a gentle glow to the small cottage, and her heart eased with its warm welcome. She found herself hoping against hope that he would ask to stay for a while, to sip a mug of ale with her, and tell her of his travels in the Holy Land.
What had he seen in those exotic landscapes so far from home? What interesting locals had he talked with?
Had he missed her?
Berenger drew to a stop, his eyes staring at the door before him. He looked at it for a long moment. Then, finally, he turned, bowing slightly. “I shall leave you here; I am sure you have things you need to prepare for your trip. I wish you a safe journey tomorrow.” His face was lost in the shadows. He turned away, and in a moment he was striding off into the deepening darkness.
Jessame watched him go, loss and loneliness growing with every step he took. When his body faded into the depths of shadows, she found herself simply standing there, staring at the hollow of ebony where he had eased from her sight, hoping against hope that he would reappear. If she stood there long enough he would be back, his eyes shining in warmth, his smile gentle, and she would run into his arms, be drawn into his embrace, and everything would be all right.
But there was nothing. Only the gentle burbling of the stream behind her and the twit-twooo of a tawny owl high in a distant tree. A soft breeze blew against her face, and it was almost a caress, sending a fierce longing to spiral within her soul.
God’s teeth, but she missed him.
He had been right there, before her, and yet it was as if he looked through her, judged her merely by the profession she held and the outfit she wore. She could hear the tightness in his voice, see the strung tension in his shoulders which had once been relaxed and carefree.
She shook her head. Even when her quest came to an end, there would be no healing of the rift between them. She would never allow him in to see what her household state had become, nor the rough condition of her father. Not after all these years, not after he had turned his back on them, walked down the long, dirt path and out of their lives together.
He had not even turned around. He had not even cared enough to say goodbye.
She forced herself to drop her gaze, to walk into the quiet cottage, and to stir the glowing embers of the fire into fresh life. She took a long look at the row of items on the mantle, then sat down with her wax tablet, stylus in hand.
Carefully, diligently, she added fresh notes by the names, considering every person she had encountered over the long afternoon at the Cavendish party. No person was beyond her consideration. From Father Stockman to young Baldric, every name went onto her list.
She worked with diligent persistence. She had to finish this task as efficiently as she could and bring it to a resolution. She needed to return to her quiet routine, to the safety of her home, to the seclusion that blocked out all other thought.
Chapter 5
Jessame smiled with contentment as she crested the low hill and took in the view of her childhood home. The low, two story building, timber and stucco, was nestled in rolling hill and golden-flowered meadow. The dappled fish pond spread before it in shimmering beauty. A distant part of her mind took in the crumbling stone wall, the failing hinges of the shutters, the cracks spider-webbing throughout the stucco, the falling-out slabs in the stone first-floor foundation of her home. She pushed those details away with well-practiced effort.
She was home.
She half-ran to the ancient, heavy wooden door, knocking loudly with the iron circle which hung in its center. In a few minutes Millie was pulling the door open, her weary face creasing into a smile as she saw Jessame there. The cook pulled her fondly into a warm hug. Her hair had gone even whiter since the last time Jessame had been home, and her once stout body now veered on the edge of emaciation.
“Your father has been asking for you,” Millie warned once the two women had pulled apart. “You best go in to him the moment you change out of those traveling clothes.”
Jessame looked down at the dingy brown dress she had worn for the three mile walk cross country. It was indeed even more layered in dirt than before.
Millie’s voice was gentle. “We can talk later about your progress, and how I can help. For now, you give me both that brown one and the red dress as well. I will get them as good as new before you have to return to the village.” She offered a tender smile. “The green dress your father adores is clean and waiting for you.”
She shooed Jessame down the hall, and in a moment Jessame was in the sitting room which had been transformed into a bedroom for her and Millie to share. They had shut down the upper rooms years ago, selling off the furniture, closing the rooms to conserve heat. When her father’s illness had grown serious he had converted his study into a bedroom, and had not left it in six long years. They had closed the house down around him, cutting back to the essentials, so that now only the pantry, his study, the sitting room bedroom, and Rudyard’s room were kept up. Rudyard had been her father’s man-servant since long before she had been born, and he had loyally stayed at his side when everyone else had fled.
Her mouth dropped into a frown as she shook off the traveling dress and chemise, giving herself a quick wipe-down with a towel before changing into the chemise and green dress she kept for visiting with her father. She did not blame the other servants, of course. They had their own families to think about, their own health and lives to protect. Still, it had been hard, those first few years, to settle into the new routine, to find a way to budget for the medicines and necessities, and to make do with fewer people. And when they had to sell the horses …
For a moment Jessame could feel the passion of riding on Misty’s back, her hair streaming like a banner in the springtime sun, thrilling with the speed. She could almost hear Berenger’s warm call of encouragement at her side as they streaked side by side across the pasture, golden waves of gorse tracing along the fen
ce-line.
She pushed the loss out of her mind with sharp effort. She stood before the small mirror, carefully braiding her hair along the brow, neatening her appearance, bringing herself back into the quiet look she had maintained since her youngest childhood.
Her eyes looked down the dress, to the emerald green color her father adored. “The green girl,” they used to call her in the village, for it was all she would wear, with her neat braids and calm demeanor. Her mouth quirked slightly. It had served her well that the village had been so indoctrinated to her having one look, one character. When she had shown up eight years later with a completely different style and personality, none had even thought to connect the two women.
She pushed open the door to the hall and strode down to her father’s study. She paused a moment, drawing the brightest smile on her face that she could muster, then headed in.
The open windows let in streaming sunlight, and even so the place felt thick with the odor of medicines, dust, and decay. Her father was napping on his couch, a pile of blankets layered over him, and her eyes went to the swabs of white bandages which covered his hands, which wrapped around his face, revealing only the eyes and mouth. She knew Rudyard tended to those daily, kept her father as comfortable as possible in his condition, and yet her heart sank.
His head turned at the movement, and she brought the smile back onto her lips, moving forward to tenderly embrace him.
His voice was a rasp. “Dum vita est spes est,” he quoted, his eyes twinkling with expectant amusement.
“While there’s life, there’s hope,” she responded obediently, sitting down at his side, gently holding his bandaged hand between hers. “How are you feeling today, Father?”
“Better, better,” he coughed, laying his head back against the pillow. “Millie made me a delicious leek soup, and Rudyard has been reading me passages from first Corinthians. I love the summer, when we get so many hours of sunlight by which to enjoy the world.”