The Secret Life of Lady Evangeline

by Jan Davis Warren

  As Evangeline drew closer, she noticed the nursemaid’s smudged and filthy dress had a large tear at the shoulder.

  The girl turned and saw her.

  “Sister, I’m so glad…” She hurried over to her. “Please. I can’t…” Her words dissolved into sobs, and she shoved the child toward Evangeline, who dropped the basket to grab the baby. The little girl reached out for Evangeline and clutched her neck. Her green eyes were puffy and her cheeks were flushed from crying. The toddler shoved the middle-two fingers of her left hand into her mouth and cuddled closer to Evangeline, quieting immediately, except for an occasional hiccup from crying so long.

  The distraught nursemaid sunk to the floor and rocked back and forth covering her face with her hands. Her loud sobs echoed through the low rafters.

  A quick perusal suggested the disheveled girl was in a state of nerves with no apparent wounds or injuries. Evangeline turned to Griswold who stood in the doorway, cursing at the young woman to be quiet.

  “Fetch me some fresh water from the well, and I’ll mix a draught to quiet her.” Evangeline rocked the toddler in her arms.

  He hesitated.

  “Or you can continue to listen to her distress.”

  He glared at the distraught woman with his hand on his dagger. With a permanent scowl etched into his hard features, he turned and stomped out the door grabbing an empty bucket on his way.

  With him gone, Evangeline seized the private time to study the little girl in her arms…her little girl. She’d recognized the truth the moment she’d looked into the child’s eyes. The child snuggled against her side and quieted, though it was obvious by the stench she needed to be changed. Finding a clean nappy was another matter only accomplished after the nursemaid finally responded to Evangeline’s plea and pointed to a woven hamper in the corner. It contained nappies, towels, soap, lotions, and other basic necessities. Being a child of the realm, no doubt more elaborate attire was packed into a trunk somewhere.

  As Evangeline gathered what she needed from the basket, the brigand returned. He set the bucket on the floor with a thump hard enough to splash water on the floor, then stood with arms crossed, defiance etched on his face.

  “Thank you.” Evangeline barely contained the rebuke boiling up within her. She blew out the breath she held. With the baby on one hip, she mixed the draught needed to quiet the nursemaid.

  Only because of Griswold’s threat to cut her throat did the nursemaid finally drink the liquid down. Although the fuss she made about its taste, one would have thought she was being poisoned.

  A short time later, blessed silence reigned. The herbal mixture did its work and the girl snoozed, prone on the floor in the corner near the fireplace.

  By the stench and the dirt covering her face and hands, the child needed a bath. With Griswold as her shadow, she found the attached kitchen and searched the cupboards for a large washtub. A quick glance outside the window revealed a summer kitchen, which would have been used to cook on during the hot days to keep the heat outside, but it was in shambles and unusable.

  A fire burned in the large kitchen fireplace, and a large iron pot hung on a swivel hook, with water boiling. The kitchen was tidy and ready for use. She had a hard time believing one of the brigands had done this. Who else might occupy this home?

  “What’s you goin’ to cook?” Griswold stared into the pot of boiling water.

  “Fetch more water.” She dipped enough water out of the iron pot to warm the small wash tub she found hanging on the wall. She needed to cool it with water from the well. “First, I need to bathe the baby.” She turned and held the empty bucket out to Griswold, ignoring his howl of protest. “Or you can hold the child while I fetch the water.”

  “Bathin’ leads to consumption. You don’t want the little tike to die…or starve to death, do ye?”

  She tapped her foot and motioned for him to take the empty bucket.

  “Donkey dung.” He growled but took it. A few more of his favorite curse words accompanied his trek out to the well and back.

  Evangeline added more kindling to the dying fire, which increased the heat in the kitchen, making her wish she could remove at least her veil, but she dared not.

  “I’m done being your servant. If you need more water, fetch it yur-self.” Griswold set the empty bucket down and stomped outside.

  She placed the washtub on the large oak table. After cooling the heated water with the well water, she stripped the baby and placed her inside.

  The toddler loved the water, splashing Evangeline and the floor, though she was not as thrilled to be scrubbed clean.

  “No!” Apparently that was the child’s favorite word, which she’d already used with authority of someone used to getting her way.

  Evangeline’s examination revealed a small, red strawberry-shaped birthmark on the little girl’s left shoulder just like she remembered seeing on her baby at birth. The size and shape of the birthmark were exactly the same as Evangeline’s and her mother’s. In fact, all of the women in her lineage had this same mark in the same place. According to her mother, it was a sign of her royal bloodline, a lineage that could be traced back to the conquerors and monarchy of England.

  The wave of elation that her baby had not died was closely followed by the fear that she would somehow fail to protect her from these brigands. With God’s help she would find a way to free them all.

  The little girl tugged on Evangeline’s habit smiling that she had gained Evangeline’s full attention. The toddler’s eyes were the same forest green as her own, with the exception of golden specks in the center, which were just like Henry’s.

  The golden specks in his brown eyes changed colors with his mood. She quickly shoved away the memory of their molten color of passion.

  Bathing the child filled Evangeline with unexpected motherly emotions. She still had no idea what to call her.

  The nursemaid could sleep for hours with the level of her emotional exhaustion and the sleeping draught.

  During Evangeline’s pregnancy, she and Henry had argued good-naturedly over what to name the baby if it was a girl, but he had insisted it would be a boy. Evangeline smiled at having been right all along.

  Evangeline cuddled her little girl, who was now clean, dry, and dressed in a nappy and cotton cover. Sarah had been Evangeline’s mother’s name and had been her choice if the baby had been a girl. Had Henry remembered?

  “Is your name Sarah?” Evangeline scooped up the little girl and cuddled her.

  The toddler smiled and cooed.

  The matter was settled in Evangeline’s heart. Sarah it would be.

  “Sister.” The Frenchman hobbled into the kitchen with a pail of garden vegetables. “I see you have a way with se bebe, oui?”

  “Buttons, get that food cookin’. I’m starved,” Griswold yelled from the doorway. He glanced over at the toddler, who smiled, waved, and babbled something that sounded like bear. He gave an answering grin and waved back then grimaced, as if appalled at being caught. He wheeled around and stomped back out the door.

  “Let me save some of this hot water for cleaning before you use what you need for cooking.” Evangeline dipped out a pitcher of hot water and set it on the table.

  The Frenchman prepared the vegetables and made soup in the remaining water. Soon, delectable odors filled the room, and a hungry, little Sarah became fussy.

  Nothing could hurry the cooking process, so Evangeline bounced Sarah on her hip while she assisted in the meal by scrubbing the table and searching for dishes and tableware. By the time the soup was ready, the child’s cries had grown loud and demanding.

  “Have patience, little one.” Evangeline giggled as the little girl shoved handfuls of the cooked and mashed vegetables into her mouth before Evangeline could feed her.

  Food was smeared on Sarah’s face and surroundings, including the large apron Evangeline wore. She’d found it hanging behind a cabinet door. It was large enough to protect her habit and was still damp from the bath.
Now it was also adorned with splatters of carrots and green beans. Tummy full, the toddler could no longer fight sleep. Though she was content for now, the babe needed milk to grow strong. After they were freed, she would have all the milk she needed.

  Reluctant to put the child down but knowing it would be cooler for her, Evangeline laid her on the floor near the sleeping nursemaid. She surrounded Sarah with two chairs, turned on their sides, to keep her from getting away if she awakened before the nanny.

  The savory scent of soup drew Evangeline back to the kitchen.

  The Frenchman stirred the contents of the large iron pot, glancing up at her entrance.

  “Sit. I will get you something to eat.” He used an iron hook to swing the steaming pot out of the fireplace and filled her bowl.

  Evangeline sat at the table. She brushed her hand over the rough, hand hewn surface. Not as large as those at Brighton Castle, yet the length would have easily accommodated the farmer’s large family and a few guests.

  “Sorry, Sister, there is no fine china in which to serve you.” He set the wooden bowl before her.

  “Thank you, but nuns have very simple needs. This is lovely.” She bowed her head and thanked the Lord for the food and asked a blessing over the hands that prepared it.

  The man mumbled something. Evangeline looked up and saw him cross himself before he turned away. His show of a religious upbringing made her wonder. If she could gain his trust, would he aid in their escape?

  Griswold and the man they called Fisher gathered in the sitting room to eat their meal. Their loud arguments, over being left behind guarding prisoners until their boss returned, filtered into the kitchen. Evangeline ate in silence, her mind cluttered with how best to deal with these cutthroats to escape. Should she put a sleeping draught in their water, escape, and go for help? She could take her child, but her conscience balked at leaving Henry and the nursemaid behind.

  Each hour brought a greater chance of being discovered by the patrolling guards, but could she keep little Sarah safe if a battle ensued? Did this Frenchman know who hired them? Could she get him to tell her?

  The Frenchman leaned on a crudely fashioned crutch to stabilize him while he stirred the pot then added a pinch of herb or two after every taste.

  “This is very good.” She savored another bite. “With your cooking skills, you could work for royalty and live a far less dangerous life. Why are you running with this gang of cutthroats?”

  He glanced toward her. Heat flushed his face, or was the cause anger, or maybe guilt? He’d turned away too quickly to tell.

  “I was once in charge of the whole kitchen for a very rich man. But his daughter and I…” He shrugged. “Amour.”

  “You fell in love?”

  “Oui.” He glanced up, suspicion in his eyes. “You speak French?”

  “Oui.” The rest of their conversation was carried out in French with low tones that would not carry to the other room.

  “These men call me Button, but my real name is François Burdo.” He limped to the table and eased into a chair across from her, pain etched on his face. He swiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  Even with all the doors and windows open, the heat from the fire made the kitchen almost unbearable.

  “You must let me care for your wound.” Evangeline noticed the swollen leg, and the bandage could not hide the blood that had seeped through. Not a good sign.

  “I am a dead man no matter what.” He shrugged with indifference. “Deverow will kill me if I’m not able to travel when he returns. If I’m caught, I’ll be hanged.”

  Having finished her soup, Evangeline pushed away from the table and knelt before him to examine his leg.

  “I must soak this with warm water to remove your bandage.”

  He barely winced as she did what was necessary.

  “How did this happen?” She studied the deep cut about half the length of his calf. The area was inflamed and tender to the touch. She unlaced his boot and removed it, revealing swollen toes.

  “His Lordship struck me with his sword.” Francois winced as Evangeline examined the wound, which should have been doctored and sewn together within hours, not days. Francois would have an ugly scar…if he lived.

  She knew all too well about the scars of survival.

  “During the battle and kidnapping?” She retrieved her basket of herbs and bandages.

  “I had not intended to hurt his Lordship, but only to aid another. I rode too closely and…” He sucked his breath when she packed the mixture against the wound and wrapped a cloth tightly around his leg.

  “You need to keep off it as much as possible to allow the poultice to work.” She finished then rubbed freshly peeled garlic over her hands to cleanse them and rinsed in hot water before returning to her chair. At the convent, Sister Agnes had insisted garlic was a gift from God with its heavenly properties that repelled disease and had numerous other benefits if used properly.

  “You haven’t answered my question. Why do you stay with these…?” She waved her hand toward the other room, where the men continued to argue with raised voices.

  “Murderous heathens?” His tone hardened with conviction, as hard as the look he now gave her. “Do not let my skill with the cooking fool you, Sister. I am a warrior.” He produced a dusty wine bottle from under the table and offered her a drink. “I found this while looking for the spices,” he whispered. His glance darted to the other room. Obviously, he had no plans to share with the others. When she declined, he took a long drink, then another, though the wine did not lessen the anguish that marked his features. “I fled to this country because of my love for a beautiful young woman, and her vengeful father who put a price on my head.” He rubbed his face as if to erase the memory. “I escaped to England where I ran into Deverow and Parker. They invited me to join them.” He shrugged and took another long drink. “He said he had been hired for a job that needed more men, and I was hungry, so…”

  “Where are Parker and Deverow?” Evangeline needed to know exactly how many more brigands she had to deal with.

  “His Lordship mortally wounded Parker when we stopped the carriage.” The Frenchman stared out the open door as if more memories needled him. “Deverow finished Parker off to keep him from talking.” He drew his finger across his throat with no show of emotion. Parker’s death explained the presence of the other dead man on the road with Henry’s driver. What kind of men could kill with so little feeling of regret?

  A chill skidded down her spine. How little they valued human life, not even one of their own.

  “And Deverow?”

  “He’s gone to meet someone.” By his constant shifting and his downcast eyes, it was easy to tell he was hiding something.

  “You are sworn to keep secret what I’ve told you, yes?” He searched her veiled face until she nodded. “Good! Now we must only speak English lest we draw undue attention.” With a shaky hand, he finished off the wine and swiped his mouth.

  “Do you know who paid to have the nobleman and child kidnapped?” She walked to the table where a large wash tub was now filled with dirty dishes and added her empty bowl to the stack.

  “Only Deverow knows. We were ordered not to harm the man, to only take the child.” He turned away from her.

  “And?” Evangeline touched his shoulder, so he would face her. “The truth.”

  “We were hired to kill the little girl.”

  At Evangeline’s gasp, he shook his head. “No worry, Sister. She will be kept safe and well treated. She’s to be sold to a wealthy merchant for his barren wife.”

  “Sold?” Anger filled her voice, as she touched the dagger hidden in the folds of her habit. No one would sell her daughter, this she vowed.

  “At least she will live. If she’s returned, the person who hired us would simply hire another to end her young life.” He shrugged.

  “Button. Stop yur gabberin’.” Griswold appeared in the doorway. Had he overheard?

  Evangeline didn’t wait to f
ind out. Too angry to speak, she put away her herbs, grabbed an empty bucket, and walked outside.

  Griswold appeared in the doorway behind her.

  “Where do you think yur going?”

  “I’m fetching more water to wash the dishes.” She turned toward him and held out the empty bucket to him. “Unless you’d be a gentleman and do it?”

  “Me? A gentleman?” His laughter held no mirth. “Don’t try to escape. You’ll be watched.” He disappeared back into the house.

  At the well, she loosed the rope and dropped the bucket into the inky depths. Before she could draw it back up, a pebble landed at her feet. Startled, she released the bucket and whirled around.

  Helen stepped out from behind a large elm at the edge of the clearing. The muted greens and browns of her livery helped her blend into the landscape.

  After a quick glance at the house, Evangeline motioned her back into hiding. The Frenchman limped outside onto the step.

  “Sister, would you check the garden for anything edible that I can add to the soup?” He grimaced and leaned against the door frame. He spat on the ground then loosed a string of curses in French disparaging his fellow brigands as being too stupid to know the difference between asparagus and milkweed.

  “Oui.” With a nod, she drew the water bucket up and set it on the ground. A glance behind her confirmed no one followed as she headed to the garden.

  Helen would make her way around the house and the burned-out remains of the barn without being seen.

  Evangeline pulled away the vines that partially hid a large woven basket hung on the fence. She paused at the crooked gate to view the overgrown garden. It was as if visiting the neglected grave of a loved one. It choked her with sadness.

  So different now from the last time she had seen this once pristine acreage. She was fourteen and her father had sent Helen’s mother, the head cook, to the farm to buy something special for an unexpected royal guest who had a fondness for roasted peacock. Evangeline had begged to be allowed to go and, to her surprise and delight, her father had agreed.