Precious unglued her hand, pivoted, and headed for the study. Pausing, she counted the dents in the fretwork trim surrounding the threshold. At ten, she leveled her shoulders and knocked on Lord Welling's study door.
Nothing. No grunt. No deep voice, full of command, answered.
But no turning back either.
She pried open the heavy double doors and slunk inside. The heat of the room stung her cheeks. The stench of liquor and cigar smoke hung in the air, adding a sheen to the measly candlelight in the corner.
A few more steps and she spied her master.
Lord Wellings slumped at the fireplace. His tall formed hunched over the white wood mantle as the huge portrait of Eliza hung over him. The fastidious man had his shirttails exposed beneath a rumpled waistcoat. A cranberry coat lay dumped on the floor. His head, crowned with thick brown hair, sat tucked in one arm. A clear goblet hung from the other.
How drunk was he? Could she reason with him cast to the winds? The first day she saw him, his lean face held a hardy laugh. His wit, Mr. Marsdale said, could dice up a hard turnip. Maybe liquor slowed his brainbox down enough to agree to anything.
"Aw, Eliza's Precious Jewell. My Precious Jewell."
His voice with the stiff accent would be perfect for sermon-making. The authority in the deep tones prickled her skin, made her feel as if she'd been caught being naughty. She nodded. "Yes, sir."
He downed the amber contents of his drink then pounded the mantle. "Isn't—" A hiccup left his pursed lips. "Isn't your job to see that the child sleeps? Madame, aren't you missing a moment to mother him?"
Was he taunting her? Why? It was her responsibility to see about the child. His harsh tone almost sounded jealous. That couldn't be right. Alcohol was an evil thing.
"What does the mouse want?”
She should just say it. Give me papers to keep me free, off slave ships, and out of brothels. Then no man could have the right to touch her. Looking into the baron's red-rimmed eyes, the words stuck in her craw. Courage dropping away, she turned. "Good night."
"So the mouse is running away? Fine. Leave me, too."
She weren't a rat, nothing that low. She fiddled with the pocket of her apron then rotated to face him. "You drink too much drink. There's no reasoning with a bottle."
Like a foaming wave at the ocean, laughter poured out of him. "Tell me something that's not so obvious." He straightened and waved her forward. "You should drink with me too. You know what tonight is?"
Of course she did. Everyone in Firelynn Hall knew. Precious just stared at him.
He grunted hard and eyed her too. "It's the day I let your Miss Eliza die."
Thunder crashed outside, and his hand closed tight about the glass, breaking it. Red poured from his palm. "Augh. Bloody thing."
Precious dashed to his side and drew his hand up in her apron. "Foolhardy man."
He winced, snatched his hand away. "I chose to go to my uncle, to do his bidding. Who knew they'd both die that night?"
She felt for him, remembering the arguments Eliza had had with the master about who he loved more. Sympathy ate at her gut, but it disappeared when Precious spied her pristine apron darkening with growing red spots. "You fool. You’re bleeding to death."
Charging him, she seized his palm, and plucked out two shards of glass. The fire spit at her as she tossed them to the hearth. "You think dying will bring her back? Nothin' will do that."
His deep blue eyes beaded as he yanked his back arm. "That hurts, woman. Leave me. Let me drink to my lady gone."
Droplets trickled onto his waistcoat as he gazed at Eliza's portrait. The eyes formed of paint seemed focused on him, probably disgusted at his drinking.
The proud man would bleed to death and, with the smears on her apron, she'd be blamed. Precious came in here for freedom, not a heap more trouble. She grabbed his hand again and bound it tightly, wrapping it around and around in her poor apron. "You got a boy. Eliza's son needs you."
Lord Welling stopped fidgeting and let her tie a knot. His bloodshot eyes widened and seemed to settle on her face. "Well, as I leave to go defend my uncle's work, it will be you who cares for him."
"He's a good boy, but he'll need his pa to make him a good man."
"How can I show him that? I scarcely remember what that is."
A final knot secured the makeshift bandage. The cuts of the glass had gone deep. "Start by not going to Africa. It's a bad place." She bit her lip, but the words burned too much to be silent. "My grammy talked of how it changed when y'all came."
"Y'all?" His stiff accent, sort of questioning, sort of condescending, grated on her ear. He wiggled his fingers within the wrapping of her ruined apron. "You mean the slave traders, those y'all? The house of Welling never participated in such transactions."
No, they just inherited slaves by marriage. The baron's hands weren't clean. They were wet in the stains of it, like now with his own spilt blood. She swallowed the irksome thoughts and focused on Jonas. That would be a reason for the man to stay. "Your son needs you here. There's nothin' worse than not seeing your pa. Even just a notion or whisper of him in passing, day to day is better than never."
His face scrunched and then tilted up toward Eliza's picture. "She hated it here. Thought the weather too foul. I should've listened and made her last years more pleasant."
That didn't make sense, but that's how guilt worked. She eyed his very lean cheeks, ones missing his laugh dimples, through the lace of her floppy mobcap. He was tall, too tall. "She was very pleased to be a baron's wife."
"Pleased? Was she pleased, waiting for my return from tending to my uncle's affairs? Was she happy waiting for the accoucheur to deliver the babe alone? Was she pleased she never got her title, dying before my uncle? Only a few hours separated them from Heaven's gate. Well, at least she made it in."
Men were dumb about birthin'. "That baby didn't wait. Some women weaken in the process. It takes all they have to give life. The Lord just—" She snapped her mouth shut as a belly full of laughs rolled out of his lips.
"Stop, Jewell." He wobbled over to his sideboard and pried at the glass top of bottled spirits. The makeshift bandage must've prevented him from getting a good grip and popping it open.
She plodded across the thick carpet, coming again within a few feet of him. "You can't need more."
"I surely don't want less." His eyes widened and he drew himself up as if her boldness had suddenly penetrated his drunken brain. "I didn't ask you to be my keeper."
"But you're mine.
A lazy smirk appeared, making his eyes a darker shade of blue.
Such a turbulent river stirred within him, and sometimes it pulled her like undertow, but Precious didn't like swimming or drowning. With a shake of her head, she looked away to the floor. "That's what I came to discuss before you are off to who knows where."
He set down the bottle and rubbed at his neck, shoving his loosed hair to the side. He wore it longer than most, giving him more of a pirate look like in the stories Eliza read. "I was wondering when the mouse would say her piece."
With a tug, he whipped off his rumpled cravat. "You've been skulking about ever since I returned to Firelynn Hall. Something tells me you have an ask. Say it."
He'd noticed her. Had he seen the many times she let her courage slide away? Not again. She planted a hand on her hip. "I need my papers, sir."
His eyes blinked, his forehead riddling with lines. "What papers?"
"My freedom." Her voice sounded horrible, hollow and low. A quick cough and a short breath allowed her to strengthen her tone and appear strong. "I need papers to show, to get my next employment."
"You need no other possibilities. You work for me." He pulled his massive arms together, almost missing the elbows he now cupped. "Why should you work elsewhere?"
"The missus. She gave me my freedom that horrid night. Mr. Palmers was there. He heard it."
The baron took a step backward, planting his foot close to the sideboard, almost
falling. "You sly thing. You use the anniversary of her death to coerce me."
"I speak truth." She picked up his brandy container and shook it. "The only things you listen to are these spirits."
He reached for it and, as if swimming in a mud hole, he stumbled forward with arms flying.
She put her hand on his chest to steady him.
He seized her arms, drawing her to his side. One massive arm pinned her against him. The buttons of his onyx waistcoat smashed into her cheek.
His breath was soaked in liquor, blended with the hint of vanilla of his skin, the scent of ash and soot from the roaring fire. "Mouse, give it back."
His words heated the crown of her head and his arms tightened about her. Shocked and shaking, she twisted and pushed to get free, but there was no budging from the baron's death grip. "Let me go."
"Shhh. You're talking too much." With his free hand, he slid his fingers down the length of her back. She could feel his pinkie tracing the eyelets of her corset. Squirming, she tried to shift to keep him from picking at the ribbons of her undergarment. Being fully clothed didn't stop her panic, and she rocked and pressed against his iron-like embrace to be free. Never, ever did it settle into her head that Lord Welling was like the rest; a man who took what he wanted.
Brain swimming in sea of choice brandy, Gareth Conroy, Lord Welling, held the thief in place. How dare the wench take his bottle and taunt him with it? He searched a little more, here and there, until his fingers claimed the dimpled glass from her fidgeting hands. "There, now I've found it."
He released his grip, and the mouse scampered away. Must be the effects of the drink, but did the girl look scared? She couldn't have thought to keep it all herself. He sloshed the bottle. Amber honey flooded to one side then the other. There was enough to share.
Bosom heaving, she moved out his reach and trembled by the fire. "I need my papers." Her voice almost sounded as if she were choking.
With a grunt, he pivoted and put his full concentration on liberating the stopper. Another second or two of quick jabs popped the top, flinging it with a thud to scamper across the waxed sideboard. His vision made it split into two, so he let it be and poured a glass. "The morning papers have upset me of the riots, but they are nothing to be frightened of. We are safe here."
Before he could fix his lips to the wiggling goblet of needed joy, the mouse came closer again. Her roasted-almond complexion bore hints of red along her cheeks. And, upon further inspection, he realized her curves held a sizeable endowment, not at all the scrawny thing that accompanied his wife from the Carolinas. "Miss Eliza gave me my freedom. Would you ignore her dyin' request, too?"
He swallowed a gulp of fire, but his nerves felt doused with kerosene. His temper, which had deflated in his game of find the bottle, now raged anew. The maid's word too held accusation. And it made the cold stuff in his veins burn. "Be careful, madam. I'm indulging this interruption to my privacy, but even amusements have their limits."
The censure in his voice did the trick. The pert Jewell lowered her chin as she clasped a wavering hand.
It must be the brandy, for something in him suddenly saddened at the loss of her fire. He lifted the glass again to his lips but stopped. Perhaps if he kept from further soaking his brain, he could figure out why the mouse ran in here. Was she dashing for a clock? He put down the liquor. "You were very dear to my wife. I'd find you in each other's confidence. I watch you sometimes with Jonas. Same love."
Jewell's countenance lifted, full lips parted, and a resilient voice sounded. "Was always the way with us, since I could remember. That's why she freed me. You must make it right."
Now the mouse gave orders? The blend of audacity and humble pie tweaked his humor and his pride. "Lady Welling didn't have the power to free you. Let me acquaint you to English law. Once a woman marries, all her money, possessions, even her rights become her husband's. So how could my wife give what she didn't have?"
Thunder boomed, and the girl's chestnut eyes widened so much that flecks of emerald and gold showed, just like Eliza's. He reached for the girl to catch a part of his late wife, but Jewell ran.
She passed through the patio doors, the one leading to the smallish garden and then to alley. From the popped opening, the wind hissed and spit into his study.
The fool girl left him for the rain and the evils of dark London streets. He wobbled to the glass panes and leaned against it, staring at the sea of blackness, but couldn't find her. The buckets of water dumping from above hid her. Yes, God was good at taking things away from Gareth.
A jolt went through him as he turned and witnessed his Eliza's painting bearing down on him, judging him for things out of his control.
Gut burning, he put his sore palm to his head and tried to block the disappointment his love had had in him and his own noisy conscience.
The cackle of taunting thunder forced him to swivel back to window. How could he let Jewell go and take the last traces of Eliza, too?
Chapter Two: Danger in The Streets
The rain soaked through Precious's blouse down to her corset, icing her skin. The harshness of the cold water couldn't chill the fright pushing in her lungs, unable to break free. And though Lord Welling didn't mean no harm, his grip on her waist intensified the fear trapped in her flesh. Would the nightmares ever go away?
Her slippers slapped at the sidewalk, and she slowed her steps. Lord Welling weren't a brute. Eliza would've said something. Maybe.
No, he was just a thief who stole her hopes. Her heart slowed as she stopped running. Nobody chased her yet.
Bending over to catch a breath, her mobcap flew with the wretched wind. Everything in her head ached, down to her eye sockets. It was cruel to hope and to have kept freedom pent up in her skull. She should've asked before now and not believed for two years she was free.
Turning her face to the dark night sky, she let the pounding rain drench her cheeks. The sloppy drops spit at her, but something needed to remove the tracks of salt.
Maybe the God Eliza swore was real would do that one thing now; use His rain to cleanse her of hope and despair.
Yet, how could there be a God, and a good one? He let Eliza die. He let a whole world of people be set in chains. "Not fair. When will it be fair?"
The sound of horses' hooves pounded behind her. Her heart slammed against her chest. Lord Welling had sent men to retrieve his property. What punishment would he give his runaway slave?
But where else would she go? The coins sewn into her apron were still at Firelynn, wrapped about the baron's hand. Precious had nothing.
Empty, she turned to surrender, but the carriage passed her by. A sigh of relief escaped her mouth. She was safe for another few minutes, but the dark streets of London weren’t good for black or white, servant or free.
Out of options, she listened to the pain in her temples and plodded back to Firelynn. If she humbled herself, Lord Welling might make her punishment light. He'd already given her the worst blow. What damage could a caning on the backside do now?
Still not free.
Her heart wept on the inside, shuddering her chest. All the plans, the dreams, gone with his words. No, Lord Welling couldn't do more harm.
Brushing at her chin, her fingers caught in soggy flopping hair. Her thick curls spun tighter about her thumb, drawing up and unraveling from the weight of the rain. Goodness, she must look like a wet mop, with her soggy braids slapping at her jaw. What a sad lump she was.
Hunching her shoulders, she walked a little faster. Such a cold she could catch being waterlogged. A shadow moved between houses. She bit at her lip to keep from uttering a shriek. Chiding herself, she pressed forward. Counting at least as many birthdays as Eliza, all eighteen or twenty of them, Precious was too big to be seeing ghosts.
Yet, the thing moved again. The beast or man came out of the dark, his twisted jowls highlighted by a flash of thunder made her arms pimple.
Tugging at the tucker bibbing her neck, she tried to ignore it an
d hurry past.
"Blackamoor." The voice sounded loud and cutting. A man followed. His boots knocked a steady gait behind her. "Come here, you."
What was she thinking or not thinking, wandering the streets of London at night?
Swoop. He jumped in front of her, blocking her way. His eyes held flames. The devil was in him, she was sure of it. "Why not stay and play with Old Jack?"
She shook her head and backed up. "I must be heading to my master at Firelynn."
"Black-a-more, I'll be your master tonight."
Spinning, she dashed to his right. Crunching down, she sprinted and sped as if she were back in the woods in old Charleston, chasing rabbit.
Blam, blam blam. His heels knocked against the cobblestones lining the ground. He reached and clawed at her sleeve. "Wench, I called you!"
There was evil in his voice. It didn't sound human; how could anybody bent on destruction sound otherwise? This attack would be her fault. She'd asked danger to kiss her, to tear at her clothes and make her vulnerable.
She balled her fist about her collar and ran faster. Her skirts were heavy with water, but there was a light ahead. Maybe a groom or stable boy could be alerted in the mews. Yet would anybody care a whit about a runaway?
The sky moaned but the rain settled into a drizzle. A light fog swallowed the earth, but the beast kept chasin'. From the cut of the buildings, Firelynn was only three blocks now. Surely, the library door was still open.
"Black Harriot. Give us a taste of your finery!”
She wasn’t a prostitute. Her ears and her heart burned. Hadn’t she vowed that no one would make her feel that low again?
The man's shadow overtook hers. The stench of gin and sweat caught her as he got a firm grasp of her shoulder.
She struggled and swung with her arms, but her slippers tangled in her wet skirts and she tumbled. Smack, she landed so hard onto the cobbles her stomach deflated like a ripped sack of corn, dribbling pops of air from her lips and nose. Her cheek met a loosed stone and stung. Flat upon the soggy ground, she was helpless and ashamed.
The Bargain Page 2