by Shea,Lisa
Cassandra’s voice carried back to her in a low murmur. “Ah well, I suppose my private talk with you will have to wait until later,” she offered sadly. “Here comes my sister now.” There were footsteps on the outside steps, and soon the pews were filling up with townsfolk.
Jessame looked up as Roger slid into the pew next to her, Mary following close behind. His eyes went to hers, and his brows furrowed in concern.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, looking over her face.
She nodded, wiping self-consciously at her cheeks. “It has just been a long morning,” she explained, turning her eyes toward the front of the room.
He did not look as if he believed her, but he honored her privacy. They sat quietly as the room filled with people. Soon Father Stockman was preparing for the service at the altar.
Her mind went back to her prayer, her plea for help, and how Berenger had been right there, waiting for her. Something tickled at her mind about how he had looked at her, at the tone of his voice when he had called to her, and she flushed with warmth, nestled with a sense of personal connection.
Maybe Mary had been giving her a sign? Maybe she should turn all of her worries and plans and troubles over to Berenger, and ask him for his assistance?
Father Stockman was moving his way through the mass, but Jessame’s thoughts were deep within herself and she barely heard him. She knew what would happen if she opened herself to Berenger and told him everything. First, he would be outraged that she had stooped to playing at a harlot. He had seen her only as a quiet, gentle, carefully braided girl in a well-kept home. He would never accept her as the wanton, flirtatious trollop who laughed loudly at parties.
Even if he were able to get past that issue, what would he have to say about her using herself as human bait for a madman? She knew without question that he would be furious and demand that she return to the safety of her father’s house.
She sighed. Yes, he might offer to try to track down the killer himself. But how could he possibly do that? The criminal had left no trace of himself at the previous four murder sites. The girls had been fully clothed and unmolested. The sheriff had no idea what type of weapon had been used, other than that it was blunt. There were no clients in common as far as could be told. She had a feeling that the murders would simply continue to keep happening. How many more women would die needlessly?
Jessame stared down at her hands, a heavy weight settling onto her shoulders. She trusted in Mary, had faith in the message she had been given, but it seemed to only lead to failure. She would be locked back in her father’s home, alone, isolated, decay creeping in with every passing hour. Sabina’s killer would go free and would be able to strike again at his leisure. And Berenger would lose all respect for her …
The tears started up again, and she brushed them away with a resigned movement. If this was the path she had to go on, then she would have to learn how to accept it. It would just take time. Maybe in a few days she would begin by …
There was a noise from the altar area, and she looked up. Father Stockman was facing out over the group, preparing to offer his personal sermon. She sat up in her pew, giving him her attention.
“My dear friends, I would like to ask Lord Cavendish to come up and share with you the story he told me Friday night at the tavern. It struck me so strongly at the time that I asked him if he would be willing to share it with you all, and he has graciously agreed.” He stepped back, and in a moment Lord Cavendish was moving up to the podium, his elegant mustard-colored tunic fitting well against his sturdy form.
“Actually, this was Father Gilman’s fault,” he explained with a quirk to his smile. “Our previous priest had overheard some of this conversation in the tavern years ago. He had apparently told Father Stockman about it before he passed away. Our dear father then asked me to explain more of what had gone on. So this tale goes back a few years.”
He looked out over the well lit room. “A friend of mine was walking down the western road with his wife, a fine woman with a gentle nature. I happened to be coming the other way, returning from some errand. I saw my friend ask his wife a question. When she did not answer quickly enough, he hit her. I quickly intervened, inviting him over to the tavern for some ale, and suggesting she head on home. Both readily accepted my offer.”
He rested his hands on the sides of the podium. “After we had settled into a table and been served our drinks, I gave my friend this advice. Never hit a woman. Every day is precious, and life is short.”
Jessame looked at Lord Cavendish in surprise. The man’s eyes glowed with strength, and he clearly cared about this topic. Yes, he had been flirtatious before, and openly displeased about his new, luxury-loving wife. But Jessame realized that she might have jumped to conclusions about him as a result. Perhaps all husbands would be less than thrilled to discover their new wife could go through money the way lesser women went through grains of wheat.
“It was this conversation that Father Gilman overheard,” continued Lord Cavendish. “After my friend had headed home, Father Gilman came over to thank me for my intervention. He said that every one of us must do our duty, each day, to help those around us. We all owe it to our community as true Christians, to keep one other safe.”
He nodded to Father Stockman, and the hall echoed in appreciative applause as the older man regained his seat by his wife in the front pew. She gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder as he settled in.
Father Stockman moved to stand before the podium, his eyes moving across the hall, settling onto each corner of the room before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was heavy and somber.
“There is a reason I had Lord Cavendish share his story,” he stated, his eyes shadowed. “I am afraid, my dear friends, that I have some sad news to share.” A concerned murmur rippled through the hall, then silenced again. “I am sure we all know about our dear member Sabina, and how she strayed from the path. I have just heard tragic news from Father Xavier, a fellow priest.” He let out a long breath, looking down for a moment. “It seems that Sabina was killed about a month ago. She was apparently slain by one of her clients. That makes her the fourth girl in as many months in that profession murdered.”
The excited hum of conversation immediately sprang up all around Jessame. The blood drained down through her feet. All hope evaporated as if a morning mist had been hit by the full sun.
It was all over. All her plans and work and effort, it was all for nothing.
Father Stockman’s voice cut across the chatter. “I have said before that we must forgive girls who find themselves in these dire straits. It is even more important now that we heed this call. We must come together as a community and protect our most vulnerable member.” His eyes moved with serious intent from pew to pew. “Whatever you might feel about how she has chosen to live her life, we owe it to ourselves as Christians to watch over our lost sheep. That is why I beg of you - If you see any stranger in town, if you spot any suspicious behavior …”
Iron claws of panic took hold of Jessame’s chest, and cold metal flooded her veins, coursing through her fingers and toes. Every eye in the room had turned to gaze at her, many with pity, some with concern, a few with disapproval.
She had to get out.
She stood abruptly. Roger and Mary rose with her without a word, moving down the pew, escorting her out through the main doors and into the bright summer sun.
“I have to get home,” she found herself gasping. Steel bands were constricting her lungs, preventing her from breathing.
“Yes, of course,” offered Mary immediately, no hesitation in her voice or step as they set into motion toward her house. “Do not worry about a thing,” she continued as they strolled across the common and toward the quiet dirt path. “We will figure everything out.”
Jessame knew that Mary and Roger were beside her every step of the way, and yet she felt utterly alone as they walked down the wending path. If the townsfolk were going to be watching over her every move, houndi
ng any man who attempted to get near her, her mission was now being pulled to a grinding halt. Sabina’s killer would go free. Sabina’s spirit would never be avenged. All she had risked had been for nothing.
Her small cottage came into view, and she thought about the mantle within, the tokens for each of the girls who had been slain. Those innocents would never have justice. She had failed them.
She thought of the small box, and suddenly a fresh panic swept over her. It was Roger’s creation. If he came in, he would see it, would recognize it and wonder where it had come from. How could she explain having Millie’s box in her possession? The layers of lies were suddenly overwhelming. She could not think; she could not process a single additional item.
She stumbled to a halt in the small grassy area before the cottage. She was completely lost. She had no idea what to do next.
Mary looked at her, her eyes rich with concern. “Besame, would you like …”
The sound of striding footsteps came up the dirt path behind them, and a strong voice carried across the summer’s air. “I will take things from here,” Berenger announced in a voice which brooked no argument.
Roger and Mary turned, looking over at the new arrival. Roger spoke first. “Are you sure? We are more than happy to …”
“Yes, I am absolutely certain,” interrupted Berenger, his eyes steady on Jessame. “You can head back to town. We will be fine here.”
Jessame felt the two pairs of eyes swivel to look at her, but she kept her gaze on the ground, unable to move, unable to think. In a moment Roger and Mary had turned to walk back toward town, their footsteps soft and gentle as they faded into the distance.
Berenger tenderly took her arm, and in a moment they were in motion, going through the door of her cottage, and he was seating her on her stool, pouring her a mug of mead. She drank it down thankfully. She took in a deep breath, letting it out.
Berenger went to stand by the mantle for a moment, fingering the wooden box, before turning back to her, his eyes rich with concern. “I am so sorry to hear about Sabina,” he offered, his voice low. “I know you two were very close. To think that she was murdered …”
Jessame looked down at the mug of mead, running her finger down the textured surface of the pottery mug. She felt again the frustration and hopelessness. Sabina had been killed, and the murderer would go free. She had failed.
There was a strangled groan, and Jessame glanced back up at Berenger, watching as his features moved from compassion to dawning understanding and fury.
“You knew that she had been killed all along?” he cried out in disbelief, taking a step toward her, and she shrank back against the table. “You were aware of what happened to her - and yet you still embarked on joining this profession to earn money?”
Jessame could not bring herself to shake her head, could not continue to lie to him. Berenger’s mouth hung open in shock for a long moment.
“Are you utterly insane?” he finally was able to grind out, his eyes sweeping around the small room and back to her. “I would have given you the money! If you felt you had to earn it, there were countless other ways to go about it, ones which did not involve this risk!” He began walking around the room with quick movements, running his hands through his hair in agitation. “There is no way – NO way – you are remaining here on your own. I am taking you back to your father’s house, and we will figure out what to do next.”
Jessame’s mind struggled to find some way – any way – to save the situation. She flailed at her cover story, looking for some way to stall. “But London is so far away, and if -”
Berenger spun on her, pinning her with his eyes. “Your father’s house is only three miles north from here,” he corrected her with a snap.
Time staggered to a halt; realization flooded in on her. He knew. He knew who she was. He knew that she was the quiet girl of the past, her green prim dress traded in for a revealing red one, her carefully braided hair now loose and wild. He knew everything.
“But how?” she managed to choke out.
He shook his head at her in amazement, running a hand distractedly through his hair, gazing at her face. “Oh, Jess, how could I not know,” he growled. “I knew from the moment you walked into my home. The way you almost dance as you walk, the playful tilt of your head, that bright sparkle in your eyes, the gentle blush of your lips. That smell you have about you, of sunlight and wildflowers and summer’s dew.”
The corners of his lips turned up into a smile as he remembered. “When you put on that ridiculous accent which came and went at a moment’s notice, and even gobbled up raspberries, I knew you were up to something. So I played along. I thought at first you were just teasing the locals, to annoy Cassandra perhaps. But then I realized you were serious …”
His eyes shadowed again. “Please, Jess, we have to get you back home. I have no idea what you think you are doing, but this is simply too dangerous. I know you said your father was ill. Clearly the house is in need of repairs. I can help out with those. We have to keep you safe.”
Defensive steel shot through Jessame’s spine. He thought he could order her around after having abandoned her for so many years? Her eyes flared with heat. She glared at Berenger with growing fury.
“How dare you,” she ground out, everything overwhelming her at last. “You abandoned me, you turned your back on me and strode away, and now you appear to lecture me on what I should or should not do?” She stormed to her feet. “Where were you when my father fell ill? Where were you when they came to take my beloved horses away? Where were you when my house fell to pieces around me?”
His face went pale, but she was beyond caring. She thought again of the token of love nestled in the wood box, and it was too much for her to take. She spun on her heel, striding out through the door, tears blinding her eyes as she stalked over to the stream, and she drew to a staggering halt, leaning heavily against a drooping willow tree.
The stream moved past her in burbling quiet, and it seemed a long while before there were footsteps behind her, before Berenger came to stand at the banks of the stream, his eyes haunted.
His voice was hoarse. “Jess, I am so sorry.”
Strong emotions welled within her, threatened to overrun her, and she fought them down with every ounce of strength she possessed. Despite every instinct in her bones, despite every scrap of self-control she owned, the words still slipped through her lips, almost a whisper.
“Why did you leave?”
He let out a long sigh, his eyes following the stream, and time drifted by, the water slipping over the mossy stones, the breeze easing through the long, dangling leaves. At last he spoke, and his voice cracked with the tightness of his throat.
“I remember every moment of that day.”
Jessame could visualize it clearly, the summer’s wafting warmth, the laughter and scent of fresh grass. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the memories to come.
Berenger’s voice was low. “When I woke that morning, it finally felt as if the world were settling into quiet. I had a sense that the long traumas of my youth were coming to an end, as if my years of fortitude were being rewarded with a quiet serenity. I still remember the joy in my soul as I came down from my room, as I headed into the main hall to grab an apple before heading out to your house.” His eyes shadowed. “My father waited there for me. He had a strange look in his eyes; serious, foreboding. He stated that his friend from his years in the mercenaries, Zeke, would be arriving that night. He instructed me in no uncertain terms to be home by nightfall, for they had something to discuss with me.”
Berenger pressed his lips together. “I could feel it then, the tension in my shoulders, the darkness settling around my heart. But I pushed it away. It would be the usual night of drunken arguments, nothing more. I had survived them in the past; one more would do little harm.” He ran a hand idly down the hilt of his sword. “And yet, the whole day I spent with you, I could not shake off the sense that something was wrong. A dark clou
d hung over me, and it seemed to gather in fury with every passing hour. By the time the light began to fade, I did not want to leave.”
Jessame remembered with absolute clarity how tense he had been, how he had lingered on leaving, how he had refused to turn when he walked down the long path.
Berenger’s voice echoed her own thoughts. “As I left, the thought drummed in my head that I would never see you again. I had this wild, crazy idea that if I turned, if I took a last look at you, that it would be the last time I ever saw you. I resisted that urge, as a way to break the spell. I hoped that it would ensure that my imaginings were just that - a fantasy caused by too little sleep.”
He shook his head. “When I arrived home, my father and Zeke were already deep into their cups. The moment I stepped into the door, my father called me over, and with no preamble he told me we were bankrupt. Not only were we out of money, but we were in serious debt with numerous local merchants.”
Jessame’s heart went still. “But your home always seemed so well furnished …?”
Berenger’s face was without emotion. “My father maintained that front. The central hall and his office were kept for public viewing. However, the rest of our home had barely two sticks of furniture in the entire space. He had lost it all to gambling or drinking over the years.” His eyes maintained their focus on the drifting stream. “The loans were now coming due, and he was unable to pay them.”
A silence opened between them, and Jessame did not seek to break it. She took in the tense line in Berenger’s shoulder, the tight stretch of his jaw. He would tell this in his own time.
Long minutes passed before Berenger spoke again. “My father told me that our family’s obligations now settled on my shoulders to fulfill. He and Zeke had gone over every option available, and it came down to two choices.”