by Maren Smith
Still on the balcony, Grete vanished into Varden's room only to reappear a moment later. She dropped Godfrey's shirt over the rail. It landed in a puddle on the cobbles. As he approached it, Godfrey glared at Mallory, then bent to pick up his shirt. Without a backwards glance, he stalked up the front steps and disappeared inside Cadhla.
Less than an hour later, dressed once more in the comforting folds of her nightgown, Mallory watched from the ramparts as Godfrey and his retreating soldiers kicked up thick clouds of dust behind them. Beside her on the soldiers’ walk, Abigail was weeping.
"Are you satisfied now?” Abigail asked bitterly. “He's worth more than the lot of you put together and you've cast him to the wolves!"
"It's not too late for you to go with him,” Mallory snapped.
The older woman drew herself up stiffly. “You will never have that satisfaction!"
She stormed back along the wall and into the castle, leaving Mallory to watch the road alone.
A deep rumble of thunder rolled through the dark clouds overhead. A tiny raindrop splashed across the bridge of her freckled nose. Several more hit the wall, wetting the stones around her hands. Then the heavens gave way. A torrent of rain fell like a thick gray veil across the treetops, bending their branches toward the ground and turning the dusty road to mud. The courtyard quickly cleared as servants and soldiers sought shelter. Aside from the guards on duty, who couldn't leave, Mallory was the only one left outside. Her hair and nightgown were soaked in seconds but still she stayed on the wall, watching the road.
Varden was nowhere in sight.
Mallory didn't realize Kenton had come up behind her until he lay a heavy black cloak around her shoulders and drew the hood up over her head.
"Her Grace will catch her death if she stays out in this,” he said mildly. Then, for clarification, he added, “And I do mean you, by the way."
"It's always raining,” Mallory complained.
Kenton shrugged. “It's excessively foggy in the summertime as well. Sometimes you cannot see farther than an arm's length in front of you."
Clutching the cloak closer, Mallory sighed. “Where is he now, do you think?"
"Getting drunk.” Kenton was matter-of-fact.
Mallory turned on him, eyes burning with tears that she stubbornly withheld. “Godfrey crawled into my bed, not the other way around. I didn't ask him there. It was not my fault!"
Black eyes boring into hers, Kenton was silent for a long time. “I didn't say it was. But I sympathize with His Grace's point of view, considering Claire's past. Her relationship with Godfrey always was—to put it mildly—stormy. This would not be the first time a little rough play entered their bedroom. So, I also know how it must have looked to His Grace."
Mallory blinked. “You said Claire's past, not my past."
Kenton leaned close to her. “This is the longest conversation I have ever had with you. Do you know why?"
She shook her head.
"Because duchesses do not speak with slaves.” Kenton smiled dryly. Very dryly. “The very first day Claire arrived here, that is what she told His Grace when I offered to introduce the staff. Understand though, Lady Mallory, that my heart is not involved. I can afford to see things more clearly than His Grace."
"Do you think he'll ever see me clearly?” she asked softly.
"Up until this morning, I thought you were bringing him around quite nicely."
They stood in the rain, watching the road together.
Mallory rubbed her arms, shivering. “He's probably drinking it up with some blonde floozy in a cheap two-bit bar."
"Ah, that would be either the Vulgar Crown in Wooler or the All Knight Drunk in Candlewick."
"Do you think I should go after him?"
Kenton shrugged with his eyebrows. “That is entirely up to you, Your Grace. However, I have already called for a carriage and it should be ready within the half hour."
Wiping the tears and rain from her face, Mallory marched back along the soldier's walk, up the steps to Varden's room, then into her own. Grete was in her chair by the fire, cutting out the seams on a full pink and yellow gown. Mallory stopped beside her. “What are you doing?"
"The colors have faded. The Dowager requires the gown turned. She has given me four days to do it."
Mallory snatched the gown from Grete's hands and stalked to the outer hall. Throwing the gown onto the floor, she slammed the door behind her.
"What are you doing?” Grete asked, eyes wide with alarm. “I'll be dismissed!"
"She can't dismiss you if I don't want you to go,” Mallory said. “And I really don't want you to go. In fact, I have a favor to ask you.” She came to take the older woman's hands in her own. “Do you still have that green dress I gave you?"
Grete looked surprised. “Of course. Do you want it back?"
"No, but I do want to borrow it, which leads me to my favor."
"You have but to ask."
"I'm going after Varden,” Mallory said. She took a deep breath. “I need your help to make me look beautiful. Like a real lady should look in this century. Can you make me look like a real lady?"
"I thought you would never ask!” Grete raised her eyes heavenward. “Finally, we can be rid of that damned nightgown! We can even fix your hair, if you like. His Grace will fall at your feet, begging for forgiveness!"
Mallory couldn't imagine Varden falling at anyone's feet, but she liked the image. “Then make me beautiful, Grete, before I change my mind."
Little did she know that those words would give Grete a license to inflict pain, beginning with the whalebone corset. And when Grete pressed her knee into Mallory's back, forcing her up against a bedpost as she cinched the strings tighter and tighter, Mallory lost all the excess air in her lungs in one loud, unladylike gasp. With each jerk and pull, her waist was reduced to four inches smaller than Mother Nature ever intended the human waist to be. Her back was forced into rigid straightness. She could barely breathe and the parts of her breasts that were not pressed flat to her chest by the bands of whalebone were pushed up over the top of the heavily starched bodice.
"I'm dying,” Mallory groaned.
"Beauty is pain,” Grete replied, completely unrepentant.
A crinoline was fastened round her waist, creating a large bell-shaped frame that swung gently from side to side as she moved. A lightweight wool petticoat was pulled over her head and rolled down over the frame. Another made of blue taffeta was laid over that. Then Grete brought out the green dress. The skirts were swept up behind her and tied back at her sides to expose the taffeta petticoat beneath, and the outer sleeves were tied into place. Mallory smoothed her hands over her skirts while Grete adjusted and readjusted her chemise above the bodice. In her time, a gown like this would have been worth a fortune. She twirled around in place, the taffeta and silk feeling sinful against her skin. It was hard to imagine Claire suffering through this torture on a daily basis, but she had to admit, the dress was prettier than the nightgown.
The stomacher was the final attachment to be fastened over her bodice. Made of steel splints, mother-of-pearl, and finely trimmed satin, it tapered to a point well below her hips, making her bound waist seem even smaller and narrower than it already was. It both looked and felt like a knight's breastplate.
"I feel like I'm heading into battle.” Mallory rapped it with her knuckles. “Can this thing stop bullets?"
"Don't be silly. Sit down.” As Mallory sat in one of the chairs, Grete removed a heavy wooden chest from the wardrobe and set it on the stool in front of the fireplace. She opened the box. Jewelry.
"Let's not go nuts,” Mallory said. “I don't want to get robbed the second I step outside."
"You'll be well protected, don't worry.” Grete picked through and discarded a variety of hair ornaments before settling on an emerald studded comb.
Grete brushed Mallory's hair and pinned the fiery mass into a high bun on top of her head. The final crowning adornment was a black opal brooch pinned t
o her stomacher and nestled between the pale mounds of her breasts.
"To draw his eyes,” Grete said.
"Do you think he'll like it?"
"It's a pleasant change from those nightgowns, certainly.” After fussing with her wayward bangs, Grete paused. Her cool, wrinkled hands rested against Mallory's cheeks as she studied her creation critically. “There. Look in the mirror and tell me what you think. Have I done too little? Would you like more?"
Mallory stood up and went to the mirror. As heavy as the gown was, the bell-shaped crinoline helped to keep the extra weight evenly distributed, and it swayed with a fluid, graceful motion as she walked. Her reflection in the mirror was stunning, but instead of being pleased, Mallory felt almost sad. Her former body would never have compared to this, not with its boyish frame and plain, unremarkable features. She drew as deep a breath as the corset would allow and smiled. “I wanted to be beautiful. You've certainly done that. Thank you."
Grete blushed.
"Surely I've said thank you before."
"'Get out of the way, old cow,’ was more likely."
"Claire didn't deserve your kindness.” On impulse, Mallory reached into the jewelry box and dug until she found the comb that looked the most costly. Diamonds glittered in the light of the fire.
"Would you prefer to wear that instead?” Grete asked.
Mallory picked up her hairbrush and gestured to the stool. “Sit down."
Grete took a step backward. “What are you doing?"
"Sit,” Mallory said again. “I command it, and we nobles always get our way. It's one of the few things I've learned since coming here."
Grete slowly lowered herself into the chair. Her unease was obvious as Mallory unfastened her long, graying hair and gently brushed it down her back.
"I'm not used to being a lady's maid,” Mallory said as she twisted Grete's hair into a loosely fastened bun. She worked the comb in while the other woman watched in mute wonder.
"I am not a lady,” Grete finally said.
"You should have been."
She touched the comb. “It looks silly in this old woman's hair."
"I think it looks handsome, surrounded by dignified gray. I'll bet John Huckle likes it, too."
Grete jumped up from the stool as if the chair had burned her. She rapidly paced the floor, stopped to look at her reflection in the mirror, then paced again. “I can't accept this. I'm a simple baron's daughter. It's beyond my station. The Dowager—"
"The Dowager can suck an egg for all I care,” Mallory cut in smoothly. “It's my comb. I can give it to whomever I like."
Grete stared at her as if she could not comprehend what had just happened. Abruptly, she turned and walked to the wardrobe to fetch a dry cloak for Mallory to wear. She cleared her throat. “I hope your evening goes well, Your Grace."
Mallory closed her eyes. “If it's not going to offend anyone's sensibilities, can you please just call me Mallory? No title or anything. Just Mallory."
"That would be highly improper."
"I'm an improper girl. How about when we're alone? I want to hear someone say my name and mean me. The real me."
For a moment, Grete looked as if she would refuse. Throwing both her hands and her gaze to the heavens, she capitulated. “Lady Mallory, then. You had better go, or His Grace will be too drunk to reason with."
* * * *
The smoke in Wooler's only tavern, the Vulgar Crown, was thick enough to cut with a knife. It made Mallory's eyes water and her throat ache. How Varden could stand the smell she didn't know, but there he was at a table playing cards and smoking a pipe with five other men of obviously better means than those drinking in the tavern around them.
But for the barmaid, Mallory was the only other woman in the entire lower floor of the tavern. Upstairs, however, there were four scantily clad women leaning on the railing and calling to the drinkers below. As Mallory watched, one woman bent over the railing and adjusted her bosom in her bodice for the benefit of a drinking patron. The man promptly finished his ale and went upstairs to her. The two then disappeared into an empty alcove, the woman drawing the curtain closed behind her.
Mallory turned her attention back to Varden in time to see the young barmaid bringing a new round of drinks to his table. Though she looked barely fourteen, she flirted openly with him, brushing her breasts along his arm as she set his drink in front of him. To his credit, Varden paid her no attention.
Wiping the rain from her face, Mallory did her best to rub the smoke from her eyes with the inside fold of her cloak. She then wrung the excess water from the hem to the floor. No one moved to approach her. In fact, most turned back to their drinks and tale telling without paying her much attention at all. Mallory supposed the large, brightly adorned Michadle insignia on the cloak she wore had something to do with that. Or it could have been the four burly and well-armed escorts that Kenton had bullied her into bringing along, three of whom stood behind her, while the fourth waited with the carriage.
Gathering her skirts and her courage, Mallory stepped over a man lying passed out and facedown on the dirty wooden floor. She had no idea what she was going to say when she got to Varden's table, but if that barmaid whispered one more thing in his ear or brushed her practically bare breasts against him just one more time, she was going to give him a blistering earful.
As she approached the table the game came to its conclusion, and one of the well-dressed gentlemen got up with a weary sigh.
"Come on, James,” another of Varden's companions said with a groan. “Don't quit now. The night has just started."
"Sorry, old man,” James replied. “The cards simply aren't falling in my favor."
"That's because you're not dealing,” the other man grinned.
"Neither are you,” James said. “Which explains how I managed to stay in the game this long."
"Time to retreat and recoup your losses,” Varden said, tossing his cards back to the dealer and raking the winnings to him.
"Just what I was thinking,” James said with a good-natured smile. He clapped Varden on the shoulder. “Enjoy your night. Think of me fondly while drinking your whiskey and fondling your women. Poor James, forced to return home to his dear, sweet, shrew of a wife. She is never happy unless I bow my head and lend an ear to her saintly nagging. Madeleine is convinced that all this midnight debauchery, as she calls it, endangers my immortal soul. What can I say? The poor thing is Catholic."
Good-natured laughter accompanied James as he turned to go—all but Varden, who barely cracked a smile. “Ah, yes. The blissful infatuation of newlyweds."
"Go and enjoy her, then,” a third man at the table said. “Have fun while you still can. Before you become as soured against women as this one.” He gestured to Varden, who glared back but said nothing. As James walked past her, he executed a smart bow to Mallory and disappeared into the rain.
"Where are we going to find another pigeon to pluck at this time of night?” one of the remaining men asked.
"You must be drunk.” His companion glanced around the bar. “Wooler is a farming town. It doesn't have any pigeons."
Another tossed his cards on the table. “Well, I guess we're all in for an early night, then. Between the Spaniards and the Scots, you'd think we could keep things livened up around here!"
Mallory cleared her throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen."
Though he sat with her back toward her and she couldn't see his face, she did see Varden's hand freeze in the act of stacking his coins. He stiffened in his chair before turning halfway around to glare at her. She came up to the table, stopping a short distance from Varden's chair. “I couldn't help but overhear that you're in need of a pigeon. Mind if I join you for a game or two?"
"Yes, I mind,” Varden snapped.
"No, of course not,” the others assured her, grinning at Varden even as they quickly scooted their chairs closer together to allow more room for her wide hooped skirts.
"I mind,” Varden said again, glarin
g at each of his companions in turn. “Go home, Claire."
Mallory took a seat next to his. She looked at the young gentleman next to her. “I don't believe we've been introduced.” She held out her hand. “My name is Mallory."
"Thomas, Your Grace.” The young tow-headed man bent to kiss the backs of her fingers. “We actually did meet, very briefly, at your wedding. Isn't it Claire?"
"Please, call me Mallory."
"You are not playing,” Varden said again, a little louder. He was ignored.
"The other's just a pet name.” She smiled and bat her eyes at Varden. “I'm Claire and he's the ogre. It's a little joke between us. Isn't that right, my loving ogre?” He looked ready to grab her by the neck and strangle her. She blew him a kiss and turned to the next man. “My real name is Mallory. And you are?"
"Morgan."
"No wife of mine is going to gamble in a common tavern as if she were one of the whores that attend it,” Varden snarled, his teeth clamping down on the end of his pipe.
"Be quiet, Varden. You're making a scene."
His expression darkened, and his nostrils flared. He leaned over the side of his chair, beckoning her with one finger to do the same. She obligingly followed suit and he said, softly, “If you don't leave now, very shortly you'll find yourself running all the way back to Cadhla with me chasing you."
"I'm not leaving,” she said, just as softly. “So quit asking."
She straightened in her chair and continued gathering names from around the table.
"Basil,” the spindly gentleman said. He was a narrow-faced, bespectacled man who would have looked more comfortable as a clerk in an office rather than in a bar called the Vulgar Crown. The last player was Edward.
"So.” Mallory cracked her knuckles. “How much to start?"
"Oh, this is a friendly game, really,” Morgan said before Varden interrupted.
"What money do you have to play with?” Varden demanded.
"You still owe me the fines from our divorce.” Mallory stood up, and before Varden realized what she was doing, reached across the table and neatly relocated half of his money to her side. “So, since the money problem has been resolved, let's play cards."