by Ash Krafton
She couldn’t bear the sight of the lines of soldiers, young men marching off to their deaths, for King and Country.
Senza crossed the Channel into France in early 1921, wandering deep into the Provençal hillsides, running from the conflicts of war. There, the last half a century had seen a revival of rural traditions, of conservative life, a way of living that beckoned to her with its long-ago familiarity, its scrapbook-heart. She longed to submerge herself deep in the countryside, pretending to be a child once more.
She’d long since shunned her gowns and her fine boots, instead dressing in simple garb. Plain cotton dresses of weathered white, sturdy leather shoes. Her jewels had long been stowed away, their hard glint and glimmer too painful a reminder of the years she’d left behind. Now, she tucked simple daisies into her long braid, spots of sunshine against innocent petals. She melted into the thin villages that hummed with pleasant pastoral melodies, hard work and meager luxury.
An inn at the edge of one such village caught her fancy. What drew her to it, she could not say; its plain-plastered walls and lumbered frame, its simple beaten roof. It simply had a heartbeat beneath the surface, a heartbeat she could not ignore. She turned her head toward the inn as if hearing a faint but familiar voice and, without a further thought, she went inside.
Seating herself at the table, she waited for the inn keeper to approach for her order. But no man came.
No one came at all. The place was empty. Curiosity led her to the door near the bar and the kitchens within. “Hello?”
Her voice echoed through the room, unanswered. A pot simmered in the fireplace, however. That, at least, was some sign of life.
The door to the back yard stood wide open. A stables took up a large part of the yard. No one out here, either.
The aroma coming from the pot took her attention again, and her stomach grumbled. She unclipped her purse from her belt and set it on the edge of the worktable before reaching for a metal bowl. A ladle hung on a hook from the front of the fireplace. Another look around, and she delayed no longer.
A thick stew, beef and potatoes, carrots and onions and celery, with plenty of ground pepper. Stout stuff. She scooped a generous portion into her bowl and procured a fork from a side table. Clean enough. Wasn’t like a little dirt would kill her, anyway.
She speared a chunk of meat, tender from a good long turn on the fire and blew on it. Anticipating the first taste. Her mouth watered.
“What are you doing in here?”
A stern male voice snapped her attention up and she froze. Very carefully, she turned, fork still raised.
He seemed to be a little older than she appeared, twenty at most, but several inches taller. Clad only in work pants and a torn tunic, soiled with the laborings of a farm-hand, he must have come in from the stables. A shock of blond hair, more suited for a tow-headed youngling, did little to soften the look of harsh reprimand on his face. His fists, bunched, ready for conflict.
One of those fists held a pitchfork. A sharp one.
She eyed him carefully, not wishing to test his manners. “Eating?”
The pitchfork lifted as he advanced a step. “We don’t tolerate thieves.”
That word. She exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the thread of worry that insinuated itself through her stomach.
“I paid.” Her eyes locked on his, and she tipped her head. “There. On the table.”
He crossed the room in three swift strides and picked up her purse. His brows lowered as he hefted it, weighing it. “What’s in here, rocks?”
Suspicion cast a shadow across his eyes and he tugged open the strings, up-ending the contents into his palm.
Silver coin. And lots of it. His eyes practically bulged at the sight.
Apparently, it was coin enough to relieve the tension of the confrontation. Senza slowly lifted the fork to her mouth and took the now-cooled bite, allowing him time to decide what to do next.
She sincerely hoped he was done with that pitchfork, though. She’d survived a single blade before, but three? A forever full of holes didn’t exactly thrill her.
“I think your tongue is broken.” He slid the coins back into the purse and plucked out a small coin. “I’ve had that stew today. It isn’t worth this much.”
He walked to the door and leaned out, resting the pitchfork against the side of the building. “Sorry about this. We don’t get many in here for lunch. Come, sit down.”
He tapped a side table that stood beneath the window, and shrugged. “Or you can go out to the tavern. Wherever.”
She noticed a pair of three-legged stools near the table and wondered if her skirts would cooperate enough for her to sit. “No. Here is fine, if that’s acceptable.”
“It’s where I eat, so that’s fine by me.” He returned to the fire, filling a dish for himself. Grabbing a loaf of bread from the warming shelf, he took a seat next to her and sawed off a hunk of bread. He set it next to her plate before cutting a second for himself.
Crusty on the outside, warm and light on the inside, and oh, the fragrance—Senza cupped the bread in her hands, inhaling deeply. Grandmother had baked bread such as this. Amazing that a simple scent could bring back so faded a memory, making it new again.
“Hungry?” He spoke around a mouthful, enthusiasm showing in his eyes.
She grinned. “I haven’t had something like this for a long time. I’d forgotten how hungry I was.”
“You must have been starved, if you were brave enough to eat this.” He used his bread to scoop up a chunk of stewed vegetable. “Where you from? You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
She’d never seen anyone eat with so little decorum. It was noisy, and chaotic…and charming.
“Oh, I’m not.” She broke off a soft corner of her bread. “I lived in London.”
He whistled in admiration. “Fancy city.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“Me, no. I lived here my whole life. Lots of folks move away and go to the city. Maybe not all the way to your fancy London, but there’s others. Like Paris, you may have heard of it?” His teasing grin disarmed her. “Not too many pass through this way anymore. You’re the first in a long time.”
“Does the master take lodgers? I need a place—”
“You’d be lucky if he ever lets you leave.” He laughed and spooned up another hunk. “He hasn’t had a lodger in weeks.”
They finished their meal without Senza catching a glimpse of the inn keeper. The man gave her a key to the back room, the largest and the brightest, and carried her bags up for her. Seeing her settled, he excused himself and went back out to the barn, picking up where he’d left off to give her lunch. She could see him through the open windows of the loft, pitching fresh hay.
Eventually, she grew bored and wandered downstairs. Still no innkeeper. The kitchen, though, still had a wash tub full of dishes. Senza rolled up her sleeves and tackled them. Dishes done, she scrubbed the tables, cleaning off the sideboard where she and the stable boy had eaten, then the broad work table, still coated with flour. That done, the floor seemed most deserving of her attention and she swept and mopped until her arms ached.
Senza wiped her brow and surveyed her work. It had been a long time since she had done anything taking exertion. Gusting out a breath, she felt the locket warm, sending out a heartbeat that throbbed into her chest. Closing her eyes, she pressed her hand over her heart. It had caught her unexpectedly.
“Are you all right, mademoiselle?” The young man stood in the doorway. “My. You’ve been busy. Haven’t seen this room so clean since the master’s wife passed.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I was bored—”
“Don’t apologize, miss. I’m sure the master will consider your tab paid up a day or two.”
“Perhaps not.” A grumble of a voice came from the door to the dining room. “You have a guest, Gehring?”
“No, master. You do. I rented number three to Miss—”
“Senza,” she whispered
to him.
“Miss Senza here, sir. And it seems she knows how to properly clean the iron, too.”
Senza curtsied, eyes down. She’d watched Cook clean the kitchen iron her whole life—
Her whole natural life. And that was so very long ago. Funny, how some things one never forgot.
She lifted her gaze enough to peer at the master. The innkeeper surveyed Senza, scrutinizing her dress, her shoes. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be cleaning in the kitchen. But if you know how to fill a glass with ale, you might help out at dinner tonight.”
He jerked his head toward Gehring. “He makes for a loathsome barmaid.”
A barmaid? Her? She had been raised in proper society, the eldest daughter of a wealthy trading captain. What would her father say if he saw a tavern wench in her place?
What, indeed? She was a thief, a killer, a liar, a demon. Deep in her heart, she knew she was no longer her father’s daughter. She was no one’s. And if she wanted a roof over her head, a bar maid was more honorable than a courtesan, if not quite as extravagant.
It would be nice to earn her way instead of waiting for her deceitful dark seducer to provide her means of living. This was something she could do on her own, a good something. Finally. The dark clouds of her useless future dimmed, a dearly-missed light once again touching her world.
She nodded and took an apron from the table. Rustic homespun and dyed a warm orange. She shook it out and wrapped it about herself. “I imagine him too broad about the waist for the apron to gracefully hang.”
Gehring chuckled. “You have no idea.”
“I’d be happy to help, master. And thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet, mademoiselle.” He turned to leave, waving her to follow him. “You haven’t met the locals.”
If he’d meant to frighten her about the locals, he’d succeeded.
Having avoided large groups of people since her days in London, she neither liked crowds nor trusted them. However, ten minutes into service and all thoughts of gruesome horror had disappeared as quickly as the ale. The locals adored her.
They were a rough-hewn crowd, farmers and smiths and simple folk who took their meal with the company they shared. Some were hired laborers with no family of their own waiting with supper at home; others were young couples who gathered at the inn for repast. Provence in 1921 seemed a land apart from time, casual and relaxed in their country manners. Good natured and roaringly boisterous, they welcomed Senza.
Their lingering gazes and effluent friendliness was simply more of the same she’d endured all her life. She smiled and blushed and fluttered coquettish eyes. Her beauty was a charm. This was the reason she had chosen this half-life.
And a smile from a farmer was the same as a smile from a lord’s son, when it came down to it. What she didn’t notice, at first, however, were the tiny smiles from Gehring, whose eyes never forsook her. He sat on the shadowed steps and watched over her. She remained nonchalant, pretending not to notice.
Inside, a tiny glow of happiness. Gehring was charming and sweet and the way his eyes followed her felt nearly tangible.
It was a comfort, one she hadn’t known for many, many years.
By the next evening, news of the new barmaid had spread and the house was doubled as folk came out to see the new face. The innkeeper had to scramble in the kitchen, cutting vegetables to stretch the stew.
The third night drew so large a crowd that late-comers had to stand at the bar and settle for a small plate of gravy bread. Considering the woman behind the bar, those latecomers considered themselves the luckiest in the house.
Senza had a smile and a quip and a laugh for each of them. The innkeeper stood near the hearth, raising his glass to her at intervals with a curt nod. She was a beauty, a jewel that kept the tavern full. She was coveted and adored and if she lay her hands on a patron’s wrist or their shoulder, it elicited whistles and envious looks from the others while leaving the recipient looking slightly dazed.
“Star struck,” they would tease, aiming a good-natured elbow to the ribs. The affected man would recover and the evening would go on. The happy patrons left after midnight, tired, full of ale and hearth bread, and feeling as if they’d gazed at an angel all evening.
The innkeeper was ecstatic and he knew who to thank. After bolting the door and putting up the chairs, he brought out two bowls he’d kept in reserve and beckoned to Senza. “Sit, girl.”
Senza did as he bade, not even wishing to correct his impression of her age. The master himself looked a time-worn fifty, maybe sixty years young, and she doubted he’d believe her claim to be old enough to be his mother.
As if she’d tell him. A lady never revealed her age, especially if she would be held up for comparison.
Or, worse still, witchcraft. Superstition ran rampant in the simpler ruralities.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she tugged loose the strings and pulled it over her head. She folded it into a tidy square and left it on the bar before sitting demurely across from him.
“You might as well come, too, Gehring.” The innkeeper eyed the boy. “We need to discuss arrangements.”
“Sir.”
“Gehring here has worked in my stable since he was old enough to swing a rake. I don’t think you’ve ever seen this kind of business, have you, boy?”
He bore the term “boy” with a good-natured shake of his head. “No, sir.”
“Which makes me think that either a lifetime of toiling in the kitchen has yielded a culinary prodigy, or…” The master tipped a nod at Senza. “They come for the ambience.”
Innkeeper leaned over his plate and shoveled up a mouthful of potato. Chewing thoughtfully, he pulled a silly face and nodded. “It’s you, cher,” he said with a laugh. “Definitely you.”
“You are too kind.” She lowered her eyes and dipped her head. “My grandmother hosted large dinner parties when I was a girl. I just pretend to be her. People loved her.”
“And I think they love you, too, cher. Any way.” He shook a spoon at her bowl. “Good work today. Eat and go on up to bed. And don’t worry about the kitchen fire. I’ll start it tomorrow. You deserve a morning off. But I hope you won’t get used to it.”
He lowered his voice in mock warning. “I hope for just the opposite, for a long time to come.”
Senza’s face glowed from the sentiment, far from elegant yet all the more wonderful for the substance. He’d offered her a place here. For a long time to come.
For the first time in a long while, time didn’t feel like so great a nuisance.
The spring passed and the inn resumed a bit of the former glory of which the master spoke so often. They had regular tenants, now, merchants and travelers who stopped on their way from one city to another. The menu improved, as well, when the inn became able to support an actual cook. Mrs. Depeardeaux took the room next to Senza’s and served as kitchen matron as well as night guard, as more than one guest thought themselves superior enough to try their luck with the maid.
Senza would lie in bed, covering her mouth to hide her laughter while listening to Mrs. Depeardeaux’s stern rebuttals. The girl didn’t need a protector. She enjoyed listening to Madame’s creative threats all the same.
One night, a particularly amusing interception stirred Senza from her bed. Unable to lie still again, she perched at the window, admiring the night air and the play of moonlight upon the grass, the roof of the barn close by.
As her eyes adjusted to the inky darkness, the shadows thinned, allowing her to see details in the dark. The open window of the hayloft, the glint of moonlight on the tack and the hay forks and the shock of bright blond hair. Gehring, asleep on his pallet in the loft. His sleeping form made her smile. So innocent, so kind.
During the day, she’d often catch him looking. He’d busy himself with some odd fidgeting. But the fidgeting only lasted so long. He always took another look.
And she always looked back.
Asleep now, he’d never notice her taking
her own long looks. It was her turn.
And she took her time.
She counted his breaths. She noted his arm curled under his head, an uncomfortable pillow. He shifted and rolled, as if his sleep was far from restful. When he sat up, looking around, the moonlight illuminated him from behind, an eerie outline of lunar glow.
And he looked back at her.
She barely could make out his features; she couldn’t see his expression. But they gazed at each other for several minutes, unabashedly. It was their stolen moment. It wouldn’t be tarnished or interrupted or evaluated. They simply looked at each other and Senza knew that it was a moment to be treasured.
After a while, he ducked his head and raised a hand as if to bid her goodnight. Lying down once more, he rolled away, hooking his arm beneath his head once more. Senza took a last look and withdrew from the window, creeping back into her bed.
Sleep would not come. Senza didn’t mind. That moment in itself was dream enough for a night.
Gehring was different after that.
Wonderfully different.
Mrs. Depeardeaux must have noticed the change as well, and seemed eager to nudge it along in the right direction. “I’ve too much to do in this kitchen today, mademoiselle Senza. Here’s the list. Find the boy and have him ready the cart. Go on, now.”
Carefully, she stilled the expression from her face. “Yes, madame.”
Taking the supply order, she went out into the yard, shielding the sun from her eyes, searching for Gehring. The barn. He must be there. Approaching the open doors, she heard the sounds of scraping and thumping from within.
Senza peered in. “Hello? Gehring, are you here—”
Footsteps overhead. She turned, watching the ceiling, trying to locate the sound? Without warning, the lanky boy dropped from the overhead rafter, dangling by his hands.
Senza jumped back, startled and delighted.
He let go of the rafter, landing easily as a cat. He shook his head, sending hay and dust scattering. His hair tumbled into his eyes, as light as a toddler’s, white blond in the morning sunlight. And those eyes—