by Aileen Adams
It wasn’t going well. Anyone with eyes could see it. Every time she left an establishment, no matter the nature of business conducted within its walls, she left with her head hanging low—lower, in fact, with each passing rejection.
He was watching her spirit crumble.
And there was nothing to be done about it. She was bringing it on herself, insisting that her way was the only way. That instead of going home, back to where her life made some semblance of sense, she should wander the streets of a foreign country and ask for work in an accent which gave away her English heritage. She wasn’t even Scottish. Another mark against her, in their eyes.
He hadn’t had the heart to tell her that, for there was nothing she could do about the land in which she’d been born. Not that it would’ve mattered, at any rate—she would’ve brushed off his warning just as she’d brushed off nearly everything else he’d offered. Stubborn thing.
Stubborn enough to keep going, in spite of her obvious fatigue and the way she limped along on pained feet. In spite of mist which was slowly turning to rain, she walked on.
She deserved better than what was happening to her. There had to be a better way.
What would Broc think?
Derek was certain he’d hear all about it on returning to the room they’d found in one of the village inns. A small, dingy room, but better than some of the ones they’d made use of in the many ports and harbors they’d dropped anchor in over the years.
Men such as they didn’t need comfort. It was warmth and protection from the elements which mattered. The roof didn’t leak, and there were no holes in the walls or floor. There was a fire in the small, stone hearth built into one wall. That would do.
He hadn’t been able to stay, however. After quickly washing up and changing out of his travel-soiled tunic, he’d headed back out into the village to find the lass who had made such an impression on him.
Broc had held his tongue.
Wise of him.
That would not be the case on Derek’s return, of course, but he was prepared for that.
The rain dripped down the back of his neck, rolling down beneath his tunic. The elements had never been a problem for him, seeing as how he’d spent so much of his life out in them. Either on the battlefield or on the sea, a man could expect his share of water soaking into his clothing. It was of no difference to him.
He knew it made a difference to her, but she didn’t show it as she rounded a corner and continued out of sight. He followed, but only when he knew she was unaware of his presence. She would make a scene if she knew.
The last thing he needed was to be placed in the stocks as punishment for harassing a defenseless woman.
The rain and the lateness of the hour meant a thinning of the number of villagers on the streets. Those still walking along the narrow, increasingly muddy streets paid no attention to just one more wandering woman, her head hanging low as she hurried to the next welcoming doorway. She’d already visited nearly the entire village, and he wondered how many options she had left.
Could he make it to the next business before she did? Perhaps he could persuade the owner before she arrived. What did he have to offer? Money? Some. He’d never been one to overlook the power of a well-worded bribe.
She paused in front of a tavern, on the other side of the village from that where they had started out together. Unlike the one closest to the docks, this looked like a much rougher establishment. Profanity and high-pitched, drunken laughter poured from the open door.
Was she mad? Why would she even slow her pace in front of such a place? She was clearly a woman of faith, unaware of the uglier aspects of life. The way her face had paled when she’d realized what the couple in the alley were doing together.
And she thought she could keep a handle on herself among a group of bawdy drunkards?
This would never do. He hurried his pace, lengthening his stride in his haste to reach her side before she went in. It would mean revealing himself to her and facing her anger, but he would have to take that chance.
He was too late. She was inside, disappearing into the jostling crowd of men who stood shoulder-to-shoulder.
“Damn her,” he muttered, kicking at a stone to vent his frustration. He could wait outside, listening for any sound of distress coming from inside.
Or for any sounds of increased mirth, for a man whose blood was heated by drink was more likely to find it amusing when a smaller, defenseless creature was cornered.
Would they dare do such things to her? Were they the sorts of animals who would take advantage? He’d seen enough to know not to underestimate the ability of a man—or woman—to forget their better nature and become little more than a greedy, vicious beast.
If he went in there, she would know he was following, and she might raise the attention of those around her. And they might decide to punish him for it. He could handle himself against even a handful of men, but more than that?
And with the aid of drink?
Across the muddy street, a light blazed in the window of a wool spinner. He was fairly certain that Margery hadn’t paid a visit there, and the woman who inevitably owned the shop would be more likely to take on the help of a young lass in need.
He hoped.
He hurried across the street, keeping an ear out for anything coming from the tavern as he did. There was still a chance for something unpleasant from the men inside.
The old woman who worked the spinning wheel appeared to be closing for the night, winding up one last batch of yarn before blowing out her candles and retiring to what appeared to be her living quarters above the shop. He couldn’t see much of her face, her back turned to the door, but he hoped for a kind one. He hoped she was kinder than the others Margery had dealt with throughout the day.
She was.
She was also shrewd.
“What are you able to give me for the girl?” she asked, looking Derek up and down. One corner of her mouth quirked up in a sly grin beneath her long, hooked nose.
“What do you mean?” He’d expected nothing less—but he’d assumed it would be him offering money, rather than the old woman demanding it.
“Yer tunic is a fine shade of blue,” she mused, scratching her jaw with one bony-knuckled finger. “It takes a fair bit of silver to purchase such a finely dyed tunic.”
He should’ve dressed far more plainly, it was clear. “I’m not a wealthy man—I had a thriving business, but—”
She had no intention of listening to his story. “If you want the girl to have a position with me and a place under my roof, you need to be willing to pay a bit for the favor I’m doing for you.”
“How much?” he asked, wishing he had taken the time to count the coins in his pouch before entering the establishment.
Her eyes narrowed as she considered this, weighing her chances of fetching a good price. “Sixpence,” she finally decided.
He gritted his teeth against the epithets ready to fly. Sixpence? The woman should be fined for robbery. Still, it would mean decent work for Margery and the potential to live a somewhat safe life. A life she could feel secure in.
He’d never known a woman who wanted or was able to earn her own living. The women he’d known had worked, of course. From dawn until dusk, in most cases. In those instances, the work had been done in return for a good or service. The laird’s protection, or that of a husband or father. The exchange of eggs for grain, washing for mending, fresh vegetables from one’s personal garden for freshly baked bread from a neighboring home.
Never because a woman needed to support herself, alone. Perhaps that, too, was part of what unsettled him so about Margery’s insistence that she find a position. He’d certainly never met anyone like her before—not a bad thing, upon reflection, as his heart would like as not had given out long since from the strain of attempting to protect her from herself.
He kept one eye on the tavern across the street, from which she had still not emerged. “You’ll tell her nothing of this?�
� he asked.
“She’ll be none the wiser.”
“All right.” He handed her the coins, barely refraining from throwing them in her smug face.
She was making his life easier by taking the question of the lass’s safety off his mind, after all. “I’ll send her over to you right away.”
He rushed out, intent on saving Margery from whatever she might be battling inside such a rough, threatening place. Images ran through his mind, none of them pleasant and most of them making his stomach roil in rage.
He’d only just reached the door, elbowing his way past two rough, filthy drunkards who could hardly keep their feet on stumbling out, when a third figure slammed into his chest and nearly knocked him on his rear end.
Not that the person who ran into him was overly large—more that they were in an awful hurry and had taken him by surprise. It wasn’t often that a person didn’t look where they were going and slammed into him. He was a fairly large man and difficult to miss.
When he made out the identity of the offending figure, he rolled his eyes toward the cloudy sky.
Of course, it was her. Running with the hat pulled low over her eyes.
“What are you trying to do?” he gasped, rubbing the spot where she’d struck him with her shoulder.
A shoulder she was rubbing, wincing as though in discomfort.
When she heard his voice, she lifted her head in order to look him in the eye. “Oh! It’s you!”
In the glow of lantern and firelight coming from inside the tavern, he caught the sight of high color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eye. For the briefest moment, he considered that she’d been imbibing while inside—then immediately dismissed the very notion. Not her.
“Yes, it’s me, and you nearly crushed my chest,” he grumbled, eyeing her up.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m glad to see you! I want you to be the first to know.”
“To know what?”
She lifted her chin even farther, resting her hands on her hips. “I’ve found myself a position. With real wages and a room, to boot!”
His heart sank. “What do you mean?”
“A position! Work!” She looked and sounded nearly ready to hug herself, she was so pleased.
He blinked, struggling to make sense of what she was claiming. “Hold on. You mean in there?” He jabbed a finger toward the tavern, from which shouts and laughter were still heard.
She didn’t so much as flinch. “Yes. Where else?”
She was so… matter-of-fact about it all. How could she possibly be so? “And you accepted this position?” he blurted, incredulous.
“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve been looking all day, and it’s cold and wet out here, and I need a place to stay and coins in my purse. Who am I to turn down a warm room?” She looked at him as though he’d gone mad, which was perhaps the most unbelievable thing of all.
“It’s true that I’ve never been in your exact situation,” he began, struggling against the urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her into some sense rattled around in her head. “I can understand the appeal. However… this sort of place? A lass such as yourself?”
She sighed. “I can ill afford to be choosy at this juncture. And, frankly, I should’ve known better than to think you would be proud of me for doing this all on my own. For a man who doesn’t know me, you have far too many opinions on the way I should live.”
“For a wee lass who’s seen nothing of the world, you seem to be overconfident in your ability to handle yourself.”
Her chest puffed out, her nostrils flared, and it was clear that she was about to unleash her wrath on him.
Until her chin quivered.
“I should’ve known better,” she muttered, her voice shaking with barely suppressed emotion. “I do not know who told you I needed your constant assistance, but I can assure you now that it isn’t necessary. I no longer require you. I do not want your help.”
His thoughts went back to the woman who currently held his sixpence. “But—”
“I do not want your help. I do not want you at all,” she whispered in a rush, as though she were about to cry and didn’t want him to see.
“Then why were you so glad to see me?”
“I thought…” She bit her lip, shaking her head. “I was wrong. Goodbye. Thank you again, but goodbye.”
She was back inside before he could stop her.
10
Curses on him. Curses forever.
She didn’t know what she’d expected, not really. He didn’t know her. She’d accused him of just as much, hadn’t she?
Why then, had she hoped for him to be pleased for her?
And why did his reaction strike at her heart as it had?
Why had she struggled against the need to cry? He had very nearly broken her down without doing anything other than behaving as he had. He hadn’t laid a hand on her, hadn’t shouted or put her down.
He had only neglected to be happy for her.
So why had a wave of pure heartache hit her the way nothing had since the day her mother died?
Even then, she had expected the day to come. If anything, it had been a blessing for Mama to finally go. She had suffered enough in her life and would go on to her eternal reward, one which she richly deserved.
It had been a dreadful, sad day nonetheless. One which she and Beatrice had ended in Beatrice’s bed, arms wrapped around each other the way they’d slept as young ones. Instead of whispering and giggling, the way little girls did, they had cried themselves to sleep. They were alone in the world except for each other, and they had known it.
Perhaps that was what had struck at her heart so suddenly, out in the wet night with Derek looking down at her in such disapproval: the sudden understanding that she was alone. Truly, impossibly alone. No Beatrice.
And no Derek.
She hadn’t known until just then, that very moment when he had refused to share her happiness, that she didn’t have him, either.
Had she been looking for him when she’d rushed out of the tavern? Thinking back, yes. Yes, she had. Not that she would’ve been able to find him if she hadn’t run straight into him, but the need to see him had been in the back of her mind. The need to see one person who might understand how happy she was just then. Someone who wasn’t a complete stranger.
He hadn’t joined in her happiness.
He had reminded her how silly he thought she was.
She had no one.
The room behind the tavern was smaller than the one she was accustomed to at home, but she’d never required much space. That wasn’t a concern.
The concern was in how alone she was. It had never been more clear than at that moment, sitting in a cramped little room with no windows. Nothing but a straw-filled pallet for a bed, a shelf, and hooks for clothing and a candle. A chipped wash basin and pitcher, beside which sat a small cake of brown soap.
At least the candle’s light added a bit of cheer, reminding her of many quiet evenings spent with her sister, sitting by her mother’s bedside as she’d embroidered or knit or mended. Mama used to scold her for doing such work in low light—it was that type of work one did in the day, in front of a window, to lessen the strain on the eyes.
Mama had scolded her for many things.
Margery shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut as though that would push away the memories. They felt disloyal. A daughter had no right to think such things about her mother. Mama had been sick for so long, she’d naturally been difficult and unhappy and easily upset.
Remembering her life that way did nothing to make her little room seem more cheerful, and that was what she needed. Someplace cheerful. A room to escape to at the end of the day, someplace to be alone and rest.
How exactly did a person cheer up a room so utterly devoid of cheer?
A brisk knock at the door made her jump. The fact that the door swung open at the slightest touch did little to soothe her. She’d have to devise a way to remedy this.
Th
e tavern’s owner stayed in the tight corridor dividing her room from a storage room in which jugs and casks were kept. Besides the tavern itself, the only other room on the bottom floor was what passed for a kitchen—one which, even in her most positive, determined frame of mind, Margery couldn’t help but gag slightly at the sight of. It made her wonder about the food she’d eaten earlier in the day, albeit in another establishment.
“Just wanted to be sure you were gettin’ on all right in here,” he nearly barked in his gruff, abrupt manner. So very different from the men she’d known.
She didn’t move from the bed, sitting with her knees drawn tight together and her back straight. “I’m doing well. Thank you.”
He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. No matter what Derek seemed to believe, she wasn’t without instinct when it came to those around her. The owner, who’d introduced himself as Hamish, was not a threat. His face turned ten shades of red just being so close to where she sat, when a half-closed door stood between them.
“If yer needin’ anything, you can use the broom in the corner to bang on the ceiling and alert me. That’s what the last girl did.”
“What did she need?”
Where had the question come from? She had no idea. It seemed an appropriate thing to ask, since Hamish had brought it up first.
He cleared his throat again—louder, this time. “Och, once, a patron…” He looked at the floor, scuffing it with the toes of his worn leather shoes.
Margery’s head spun. She could almost see it in her head: a young woman, with nothing but a broom to defend herself with, using it to bang on the ceiling to call for help.
“It was only the one time, you understand,” he continued, flustered. “And nothing came of it. I made sure of that, you can believe it.”
She looked at the door again, her forehead creasing.
He took her meaning.
“I can have it repaired,” he assured her. “First thing in the morning, I’ll inquire about a new door with a working latch.”
“Thank you very much,” she breathed, unable to raise her voice louder than a whisper. She hadn’t thought to ask about her security—or whether there would be any at all.