He sat, and he poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the table, and he watched her slender little figure standing nearly on tiptoe to peek over one large black pot into the other behind it. The spoon shook in her trembling fingers. Her shoulders shuddered. He’d made her cry. And that, he just could not take.
Quietly he rose, picked up a dishtowel, and rested his battered hands on her elbows. “Miss, are you all right?”
He nudged her gently toward him, but she would not move; she did not stop stirring.
He looked around the kitchen cautiously. Cupboards with painted sliding doors, shelves, and a large window lined the wall flanking the washroom door. On one end of the kitchen was a door to the pantry, from which the lower level, where store rooms and the quarters of the house servants lay, could also be reached. The door to the hallway, which lead to the dining room where the Fieldstones had their meals, was on the opposite end.
The fireplace, almost big enough for Venture to stand in, was at the end of the interior wall closest to the pantry. Pots and pans hung on the wall around it. On the other end of that wall were the long oaken table and benches where the servants ate.
He listened for a sound from the hall or the washroom. Hearing nothing, he took a deep breath. “Turn around. Look at me, please. Jade.”
When he said her name, she allowed him to turn her away from the fire.
He dabbed clumsily at her tears with the dishtowel. “I’m sorry, Jadie.” He lifted a lock of her hair, which was dangling dangerously close to the simmering wine sauce, and tucked it behind her shoulder. “I didn’t mean it. About this being where you belong . . .”
“I know. But you mean the rest.”
Venture’s shoulders sagged. It was the honorable thing, anybody would say so—to treat his mistress as his mistress. The right thing. So why did it seem so wrong every time he tried to do it?
“You’re right, Vent. I should grow up and stop putting you in such a difficult position.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did,” she insisted, her lower lip quivering again.
He hung his head, for he knew that in his own way, he had. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what the right thing is to do,” he whispered. Sometimes he just wished a voice from heaven would shout orders to him; then at least he would know whether he was in defiance of them or not.
She dumped the spoon into the sauce pot. “I just want my best friend back.”
“We’re not little kids anymore. Things can’t stay the same.”
“I know they can’t. But Vent, I miss you.”
He slid his arms around her and pulled her in. But nearby, the dining room door clattered, and Jade jumped back.
“Go!” she snatched the dishtowel from him and gave him a shove.
He ran for the washroom, grabbed his boots, and was going to leave and worry about putting them on later, but Mrs. Bright bustled into the kitchen, followed by Connie and Viney, one of the other servant girls.
“Miss, let’s have a taste of that sauce.” Mrs. Bright stopped mid-step. “Vent, is that you?”
How did she always know? He poked his head through the doorway, avoiding Jade’s eyes—avoiding all of their eyes. “Hey, Mrs. Bright. Just washing up before I head home. See you in the morning.”
“Home? Who’s home?”
“Justice,” he answered a little too quickly. He looked down as he slipped into his boots, to hide his eyes from Mrs. Bright. Already he felt the weight of the lie.
“Your brother? Today’s their anniversary. Last I heard he was planning to take Grace out for once. They aren’t fighting, are they?”
“No . . . I think her sister’s coming over for supper instead. I really better get going now. Bye.”
He snatched his dirty shirt and dashed out the back washroom door before Mrs. Bright could protest.
He was too hot and his hands pained him too much to give the dog a good chase, or even to throw a stick for her, but she followed him home just the same, while his heart thumped and his head throbbed with knotted thoughts, trying to sort things out.
Venture found Justice in the bedroom, standing over the wash basin, combing his hair.
“You’re not eating at the Big House tonight?”
Venture shook his head.
“You know I’m taking Grace out, right?” Justice set down the comb and adjusted his good shirt. “She’s taking the baby to her sister’s right now.”
Victory was nearly six months old, and Justice hadn’t taken Grace out since she was born. “Yeah, I know. I’ll just find myself something to eat.”
Venture headed for the hearth and cupboard in the adjoining room, which served as their sitting room and kitchen. Off this room was a little alcove into which Venture’s bed was built.
Justice followed him. “Hey, Vent, you want to come with us?”
“Grace doesn’t want to baby-sit me.”
Justice’s chiseled features softened. “Grace loves you.”
“So let’s keep it that way. You’re supposed to take her out. And not with your little brother.”
“You’re not so little anymore, and I’ve missed too much.”
Venture turned away and began rummaging in the cupboard. He’d prefer a fight with Justice to this kind of talk. But Justice let the silence hang there, until Venture had to give in and say, “Too much of what?”
“You being little.”
Venture raised his head up, glanced at his brother, then plunked a dented tin cup, plate, and knife on the table. “You’ve done exactly what Mom would’ve wanted you to do. And I’m doing fine. I got five years of tutoring. Who in our family could ever say that?”
“I know the Fieldstones have been good to you, and I’m thankful for that. But you’re my family. I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re not. Me getting married, having Tory, that didn’t change that.”
Venture took a step closer to Justice, thought about putting an arm around him, then shrugged instead. “I know that.”
Justice would always regret not being there at the worst of times. The unspoken guilt carved a line in his forehead that only ever appeared when he was talking to Venture about the past. There was nothing you could have done, Venture wanted to say. Nothing anyone could have done. But the words stuck in his throat, and a part of him, a part he’d tried to bury under reason, still popped up from under a heap of common sense and said that those words were not true at all, that someone could have done something, that he, Venture, could have done something.
“Justice,” he finally managed to say, “I know you love me.”
CHAPTER NINE
Venture barely heard Justice knock on the wall next to his curtained-off nook and call, “You up, buddy?” as he did every weekday before leaving for work.
Venture answered with his usual, “Yup,” but then slipped right back into slumber.
He felt a jolt, realized Justice had whacked the back of his head with the flat of his hand. His eyes snapped open. Justice tugged him by the twisted blankets, which Venture had fitfully thrown off and pulled back on countless times, owing to the conflict between the growing heat of the summer morning and his habitual inability to sleep without being at least partially wrapped up. Justice’s yank on the tangled mess of quilt and sweaty feet and rumpled hair sent him tumbling in a heap onto the groaning, dusty wood plank floor.
“Justice!” Grace said. “What are you doing to him?”
“Up now?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m up, all right?” He moaned, pushed himself up, and unwound the bedclothes from his sluggish limbs.
“It’s an hour past sunrise! I have to go, and you’re going to get a thrashing.”
“Oh, no.”
He’d overslept more than half an hour. He’d tossed and turned all night thinking about Jade, and then fallen asleep just before dawn. He would have to do without breakfast now, and still he’d be late. He rushed to put his clothes on, grab the worn bag Grace shoved at him, and run,
rather than walk, the mile-and-a-half down the hillside to training.
Venture reached Beamer’s in record speed, sweating and clutching his side. Warm-ups were well underway. He shouldered the door to the training room open, keeping his eyes down. He set his bag down as quickly and quietly as possible, stuffed his pendant inside it, and brushed the dirt off his bare feet, then rubbed hurriedly with a towel at the stubborn bits clinging to the moisture under his toes.
Venture knew what was required of him. He began doing push-ups, all the way down and all the way up, his back perfectly straight. Fifty push-ups for every exercise he’d missed. Altogether, two hundred. Few men could even claim to be able to do two hundred push-ups without stopping; fewer could actually perform the task to Beamer’s standards. As Venture pushed up, his eyes locked with Colt’s. Colt smirked and nudged Border, who was doing leg-lifts next to him. Venture was going to have to do those too, along with all the other exercises he’d missed, once he had the push-ups out of the way. And the longer he took to do his push-ups, the more exercises he’d miss . . . and the more push-ups he’d have to do. It didn’t pay to be late to Beamer’s.
Venture did another push-up, and felt his blisters burst open, then the raw skin underneath rub off with the friction against the canvas. No matter how much care they took, grit found a way to be tracked onto the mat, and now it was grinding into his broken skin. He tried not to think about the pain, about Border and Colt. He focused on counting. One hundred-seven, one hundred eight . . .
“Goodview! What’s the matter with your boy?”
“I don’t know, Coach.”
Beamer and Earnest approached, while he continued doing his push-ups, praying to be ordered to stop.
“Up, Delving. You’re bleeding all over my mat.”
“I’m Sorry, sir,” he said, although there were already plenty of old red-brown stains on the mat. New, bright red smears streaked the dingy canvas under and around where his hands had been. Blood stained the front of his shirt where his chest had met the mat as well.
Beamer nodded at Earnest, who returned the gesture.
“Let’s see your hands, Vent,” Earnest said.
Venture held them out, his arms trembling with exertion and pain.
“How did you get mat burns like that just from doing push-ups?”
“I had some blisters before I started.”
“From what?” Beamer said.
“From working this weekend, sir.” Venture felt the heat of embarrassment in his cheeks. He’d brought his status to the attention of the whole center again; everyone was watching. A soft ripple of laughter came from Border and Colt’s direction.
Beamer raised his bushy eyebrows, then said to Earnest, “Get him fixed up and get this mat cleaned up. I want to see him in my office in five minutes.”
Earnest glowered at Venture. His tardiness, coupled with the bloody hands, which made Earnest appear neglectful, reflected poorly on his trainer. Heavy-hearted, Venture followed him to the little alcove where the healing supplies were kept.
“Why didn’t you have me wrap you before you started? Now I have to clean up you and the mat.” Earnest poured a stinging, vinegary concoction the boys called liquid punishment over his palms and rubbed it in roughly with a towel.
Venture fought back a gasp and forced himself to hold his hands open. “I’m sorry.”
He knew better than to complain or to point out the trouble he would’ve invited had he taken the time to wrap his hands. Earnest was mad enough already; the excruciating absence of his usual care in treating his wounds made that clear.
“The gods only know what Beamer’s got planned for you. Better start praying to Felsan for mercy.”
Earnest capped the bottle and tossed it aside, and Venture, who had no intention of calling on the god of pain and death for leniency, let out a breath of relief—until Earnest began to pull a long strip of cotton wrapping around his hands, tightly, mercilessly.
Earnest moved to tie off the second hand, but Venture couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled it back. “I got it.” He took the end of the wrap in his teeth and pulled it tight. “I’ll clean up the mat.” He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of a bandaged hand.
“No, you’ll go in there and find out what the blazes Beamer wants you to do, and whatever it is, you’ll do it right or I’m the one who’s going to hear about it. He’s waiting for you.”
Beamer leaned back in his office chair and folded his long, muscular arms behind his close-cropped, graying head. “Why were you late this morning?”
“Sir, I’m sorry. I overslept.”
“You overslept? Why?” Beamer leaned forward. His pale blue eyes probed Venture sharply.
“Why, sir?”
“Yes, why? You’ve never been late before. Have you just now decided to become lazy?”
“No, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Beamer nodded. Venture wondered what that meant, but remained silent.
“How many boys do you think are in that room right now?” Beamer gestured in the direction of the main training room.
“About a hundred, sir?”
“One hundred-eight. How many boys do you think I recruited to come here?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“One. You. And when you were just eleven years old. About the same age as your master’s daughter at that time, right?”
“Sir?”
“Grant Fieldstone brought his little daughter to me. Wanted to enroll her in self-defense classes immediately. An unusual request coming from the father of such a young, such a privileged girl.” Beamer spread his palms on the desk, then said quietly, gravely, “He told me what happened. It’s hard to imagine such a young boy trying to defend her, not even stopping for a broken arm or broken ribs.”
Venture stared at Beamer, stunned, sick at the memory. For a long time, he couldn’t speak. When he did, he looked down at his whitened, tightly wrapped hands. “I didn’t know you knew about all that.”
“‘All that’ is why you’re here. They were all what—three years older than you? And when help arrived, you were standing on your feet, with a broken arm and a broken nose, and cracked ribs, not begging them to leave you alone, no. Screaming at them that you were going to kill them all.”
“Sir, I wasn’t trying to be brave. I just really did want to kill them. At the time, I mean—”
“I think rage was well-placed and downright useful, just the right thing in that particular situation, don’t you?”
Venture couldn’t answer. Rage. Rage was exactly what he felt, every time he thought of them. It mattered little that they’d been punished severely. He couldn’t help thinking that it would have gone much differently if they’d tried to attack Jade now. Sometimes that reassured him, knowing what he could do, and sometimes it scared him, wondering what he would do. For a part of him still wanted to kill them all. He hated them, and he hated himself for that, for hatred was a foul thing, too. His mother had taught him that.
“I told Mr. Fieldstone his servant boy had an uncommon fighting spirit that would benefit from training. He agreed. I offered to have you trained free of charge, so long as you demonstrated enough potential, but he wouldn’t have it. Said he’d like nothing better than to pay your way.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m grateful for all Master Fieldstone has done for me, and to everyone here who teaches me. I’ve been working hard all this time to show it. I promise you, sir, I won’t let you down again. I’ll work even harder—”
“Do you really think you can work harder, Delving?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I hope so. And I hope you’ll be able to fight with those hands, because you’re going to be spending the day with the elite class. Tell Earnest I said he should go with you. Harper will take care of his boys.”
CHAPTER TEN
“He said to do what? Are you sure?”
“He said for me to get over there and get my butt kicked and for you to come c
lean up the damage. Earnest, I haven’t even eaten today. What am I going to do?”
Earnest crossed his arms and stared Venture down for the second time that morning. “You are not going in there with an attitude like that. That’s not who you are. You’re Venture Delving. I’m going to wrap your hands a little tighter, and you’re going to do whatever those boys do in there, and you’re going to make it look easy, no matter how hard it is. You’re going to hang in there until someone tells you to stop, because—” Earnest took Venture’s head between his palms, forcing him to look at him. “Because I know you can do this Vent, and I want Beamer to know it too.”
Venture paused at the door to the elites’ training room. How many times had he stood there and watched through the little window in the door, wishing he could be one of them? Even the youngest among those boys had nearly a year of elite training and tournament competition that he’d missed out on, that he’d never have. He’d thought he might still have a chance against them, but—this might be his only opportunity to face them, and he had to do it in such a pitiable condition. If he couldn’t pull this off, he’d never hear the end of it.
“So it’s not the best day for this.” Earnest thunked him on the back. “You’re starving, you’re tired, your hands are a mess. Forget about all that and be a fighter again. Just for today, let me see you be a fighter again.”
Earnest opened the door and Venture followed him into the elites’ training room. The air was even thicker, hotter, inside than it was in the rest of the center; this room was much smaller and the eighteen elite fighters grappling all around him had more energy between them than the hundred others he had just left behind in the main training room.
Beamer nodded to him expectantly as he came in. He blew his whistle and called out, “Everybody line up, smallest to tallest.”
“Beamer finally have the sense to realize you’ll never be a guard?” Colt, now fifteen and all muscle, bumped Venture’s shoulder, hard. “You don’t belong here either, except to get a nice beating before you say good-bye to this center for good.”
Venture Untamed (The Venture Books) Page 7