She inclined her head, matching his coolness. ‘It is not for me to say what we shall do, sir. Nor must you feel any responsibility to ensure I am entertained. I am, after all, a serving maid.’
He felt the sting of her rebuke and the force of the unseen wall now standing between them.
So be it. Miss Jane Bailey, for all her gifts, would be gone from his life in a matter of weeks. No one but the two of them would ever know what had passed between them.
He stared out at the passing hedgerows, unseeing.
Her opinion of me will not affect the course of my life, nor my reputation. It matters not a jot.
* * *
‘Oh, how wonderful!’
Jane could not stop herself from giving voice to her enthusiastic response. The views were stunning. From their vantage point on the medieval walls Jane could see all of Lincoln spread out below them. The day was bright and cold, but her cloak was wrapped tightly around her and her bonnet gave some small protection from the biting wind. They had already seen the cathedral, and the remains of the Bishop’s Palace, and had now climbed up onto the walls.
She had stumbled slightly on the way up, and Mr Kendal had instinctively reached out to steady her. The grasp of his hand on her elbow had been brief, and at the time welcome, yet it had left a now familiar tingling awareness in its wake.
Since that moment earlier in the carriage, when he had touched her cheek, she had been intensely aware of him. Her senses seemed attuned to his presence, tracking his whereabouts and his distance from her. She was entirely consumed by this new consciousness, and at the same time mystified by it.
After enjoying the prospect they walked together to the Below Hill side of the city, towards Cornhill. The market was a busy press of people, goods and livestock.
Jane and Mr Kendal ambled together among the traders and stallholders, Mr Kendal stopping to converse with a wool merchant. Jane listened with interest as they spoke together. Mr Kendal displayed great knowledge on wool quality, the dyeing process, and eventually asked the man about his sources for imported wool, including merino.
Ah! she thought. That has been his purpose all along!
Watching his handsome features become so animated was strangely diverting. Absentmindedly she eyed some beautiful shawls, trying to disguise the fact that all her attention was on Mr Kendal.
At this moment he was to her right. There was less than a foot of space between them, and out of the corner of her eye she could see his arm and the front of his coat. Unfortunately her bonnet prevented her from seeing more. She was becoming quite adept at keeping her head respectably straight ahead while her eyes glanced sideways for any glimpse she could manage.
She opened her reticule without looking, as if checking what coins she had. Yet her mind was entirely focused on Mr Kendal.
Robert. His name is Robert.
A thrill went through her.
Stop! she told herself.
Yet she could not. Would not. It was as though his touch on her cheek earlier had awakened within her an entirely new self.
He likes me. Or does he?
She had thought so, but then he had become distant.
Am I flattered? Is that it? He is such a fine gentleman, and so handsome. For him to notice a simple serving maid is a compliment. But I should not be conceited!
She frowned. Mama would warn her to be on her guard against flummery and coaxing.
She considered this.
His touching my face was an impulse of the moment, nothing more.
Even at the time, although withdrawing in confusion, she had instinctively known there was no ill intent behind it. Having served in the Grant household, she had seen for herself what evil looked like. Mr Kendal was a man of honour, unlike Master Henry. Mr Kendal, she knew, was not the sort of man to press unwanted attentions on a woman, or to seduce an honest maid with flattery and charm. She need not worry on that account.
Daringly, she tried to imagine what it would be like to be intimate with Mr Kendal. Her heart began to race and her breath to quicken as she imagined his strong arms enfolding her, his mouth approaching hers, the weight of his body pressing on her...
Oh, Lord, no!
In her mind Mr Kendal’s face was abruptly replaced by that of her former employer. Henry Grant had continually seduced, attacked and abused women—including some of the maids. She shuddered.
It is happening again!
Suddenly, and for the first time in at least a year, she found herself back there again, in that awful moment...
She sits sewing quietly in the housekeeper’s parlour and Master Henry appears out of nowhere. At first she is simply confused. Why is the master below-stairs? Then she sees the intent in his eyes and tries to run. Hampered by her skirts, she is not swift enough. He catches her and overpowers her, despite her screams of fear.
Who would save her? Who would stop him?
He inches her backwards until she feels the table behind her. His hand is grabbing her breast. It hurts. Now he presses her down, using his weight to pin her while he fumbles with his breeches. She has seen enough animals mating to dimly understand what will happen next.
‘No!’ she screams, still fighting and struggling to get away. ‘Master Henry, please, no!’
But he is bigger and heavier and immensely stronger.
He laughs. He throws his head up and laughs.
She feels physically sick. Fear has made its way through every part of her. Soon he will have his way, and she is powerless to stop him.
Then somewhere far, far away she hears Mama’s voice. ‘You disgusting animal!’
There is a sound—the slap of liquid on solid—then a foul stench.
With an enraged roar he levers himself upright, momentarily abandoning his assault on Jane. Free of his weight on her chest and hips, she takes a quick breath before rising swiftly. Her limbs are weak, but escape is her first priority.
Mama is standing before him, white-faced yet defiant, a now empty chamber pot hanging loosely from her hand.
‘How dare you?’ He lifts his right hand and punches Mama hard, in the stomach. She doubles over, retching.
‘Mama!’
Fear for her mother propels Jane forward. Her entire body is shaking, yet somehow she reaches Mama. They cling to each other, yet Jane is numb. She cannot feel the warmth of Mama’s body against hers.
Master Henry lifts his hand again and Jane swerves instinctively to avoid the blow.
‘I want a bath. Immediately!’
Jane stares at him blankly.
‘I said, I want a bath now!’ His words sound like the roar of a wild animal.
Jane nods, still overwhelmed by terror.
He leans forward. ‘I shall finish with you later.’ His voice oozes menace.
Jane is completely frozen with fear. She cannot move, think, or speak. As he stomps away, the world turns black...
Chapter Nine
Robert reached for her, managing to catch her as she fell. He could barely think, all his attention sharpened on Jane.
‘Over here, sir!’
The trader he had been talking to pointed to a small chair at the back of his stall. The ground was muddy, so he could not lay Jane down there. He carried her to the chair and sat, still supporting her in his arms.
How pale she looks!
Her beautiful skin was ashen, her body limp. He felt helpless. Gently he straightened her bonnet, in case it should cause her discomfort. As he did so her eyes fluttered open. His heart lurched as he beheld the dazed fear in her eyes. She struggled to be free and he loosened his embrace.
‘You are safe,’ he muttered hoarsely as she rose to a sitting position. ‘You are safe.’
Her breathing was rapid and he could tell her pulse would be tumultuous. She swayed slightly, dizzy with her sudden change in position
. Immediately he steadied her with a firm hand on her arm.
‘Slowly,’ he advised. ‘You will faint again if you rise too quickly.’
Part of him was aware that he was holding Jane Bailey in his lap, but he could not think of that now.
‘Here is your reticule, miss.’
The trader was brushing mud off her silken purse, which had fallen to the ground open. Some coins fell from it as he picked it up and he scrambled to collect them and return them to their rightful place.
‘Thank you.’
Her voice was tremulous, and her hand shook as she accepted the reticule. Robert could feel that she had begun to tremble all over. Instinctively, gently, he wrapped his arms around her. This seemed to be her undoing for she began to cry, great sobs heaving through her delicate frame.
Robert felt as though his heart must break.
The trader averted his eyes as Robert simply sat there, holding her close. She turned towards him, hiding herself from the interested eyes of the traders and their customers who had come to gape at the spectacle.
Without thinking about it Robert rested his chin on the top of her head as she cried into his chest. Closing his eyes, he directed his mind and his senses entirely towards Jane.
The warmth of her body flowed through him, and he knew he was also sharing his heat with her. Her hands were fisted against his breastbone, her elbows tight by her sides. Great sobs racked her body, and each sound she made pierced him with pain. This was the self-possessed, steady, serene Miss Bailey, momentarily broken by some evil act that he could only guess at.
Her cry had been telling: ‘Master Henry, please, no!’
She had gone rigid beside him, her reticule falling unnoticed from her hand. He had tried to speak to her but she had simply stared at him, her eyes huge and sightless. She had called out once, then a moment later had collapsed in a dead faint.
Eventually she quietened, her sobs turning to hiccups and then ceasing entirely. She muttered something to his chest.
‘I cannot understand you,’ he said gently. ‘What did you say?’
She pulled back a little, but did not look up. ‘Handkerchief.’
Unlocking his arms from about her, he fished for his handkerchief and handed it to her.
She blew her nose and dried her face before looking at him. His hands now rested uselessly in his lap, though he wished he could embrace her again.
Finally her eyes met his, inches apart. The intimacy was unbearably wonderful. Perhaps she felt it too, for she flushed and quickly stood, resting her right hand briefly on his knee in order to lever herself upright. Immediately she swayed and her pallor increased.
Leaping to his feet, he gently took her elbow and stepped to one side. ‘Be seated, Miss Bailey.’
She all but collapsed on to the chair.
Bending down, so he was at her level, he spoke softly to her. ‘You have sustained a shock. It is best to rest here until you are feeling better.’
She nodded, seemingly unable to speak. She was shivering and her hand was cold.
‘I have brandy, sir, if the young lady wishes?’ The trader was back with a stoneware flask.
‘That might be just the thing!’ He offered it to Jane, who hesitated, then took it.
She spluttered a little, then sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. ‘Please tell them to stop looking at me,’ she murmured.
Robert nodded to the trader, who went to scatter the spectators with a few polite words.
‘They are gone,’ he confirmed.
She nodded and opened her eyes.
Robert asked the trader for one of his cashmere shawls. The man reached for the nearest one, but Robert stopped him. ‘No, not that one. The blue.’
He passed it across and Robert draped it over Miss Bailey’s shoulders.
I was right—that blue is exactly the same shade as her eyes.
He paid the trader and waited. Gradually some colour returned to her cheeks.
He could tell when her self-awareness started to return. Her hands began to twist the handkerchief in her lap, and after a time she looked at him.
‘Mr Kendal, what an idiot you must think me! To become vapourish for no reason... I—’
‘Do not be distressed, Miss Bailey. It is clear to me that you had reason. Someone, at some time, hurt you, and I believe the memory of it assailed you again just now.’ His voice was thick with emotion.
Who the hell is ‘Master Henry’ and what evil did he commit?
She nodded, her expression bleak. ‘It has been many years—I was seventeen. I thought I had recovered, but very occasionally the memory takes me over. It has never before occurred in a public place, however. When I think of my behaviour just now—fainting and crying like a child—I can say only that I am mortified, and truly sorry for subjecting you to such an ordeal.’
He waved this away. ‘In truth, Miss Bailey, it is not I who has suffered any ordeal. I count it an honour to be able to assist you today.’
Seventeen. She was just seventeen? Hell and damnation!
She shook her head, but did not argue the point. ‘Shall we return to the inn now? I feel quite recovered.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you certain? Very well. If you will stand...?’
Gently he took her arm, although she seemed fairly composed. After a brief argument over the shawl, which she tried to reject, they bade farewell to the trader. They moved slowly through the market, conscious of the interest of some people around them.
As they walked back towards the Above Hill part of the town, where the gentry and the clergy resided, he kept a close eye on her and was encouraged to see that she maintained a reasonably healthy colour. Still, he was relieved when finally they reached the inn and went inside.
Pleading tiredness, Jane ascended to her chamber for a lie-down before dinner, while Robert stayed in the taproom, enjoying a home-brewed beer and considering the day’s events.
Helpless rage boiled within him as he recalled that moment when he had heard her cry and realised she was living through the memory of a foul attack.
But what had brought it on today?
There could be only one thing. His mild advance earlier, touching her cheek without her say-so, must have...
Lord!
He allowed himself to feel the full force of his guilty conscience. He had not had permission to touch her earlier, and it surely was no coincidence that memories of a harsher event had taken her over soon afterwards.
He must be resolute from now on and maintain a distant friendship with Miss Bailey rather than anything more intimate—for both their sakes.
Draining his mug, he stalked outside and stomped his way to the walls, attempting to purge himself of the restlessness that consumed him. If only he could gallop it off on his stallion! But, no, Blacklock was at home in the stables at Beechmount Hall.
Returning in time for dinner, he was surprised to find he remained anxious about Miss Bailey’s wellbeing even after two hours of frustrated walking around the streets and parks of Lincoln.
She joined him late, flustered. ‘I am so sorry, Mr Kendal. So rude of me to keep you waiting!’
‘Not at all.’
Despite his earlier determination, he could not prevent his heart from dancing a little on seeing her again. Her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed a little distracted, although thankfully otherwise calm.
He resisted asking after her health, knowing she would not want to be reminded of the incident earlier. Instead, smilingly, he enquired, ‘Did you, by any chance, go to sleep?’
Her colour deepened. ‘I did. The landlady had to shout to wake me up.’ She patted her hair. ‘I must look shabby...’
Her hair was, in fact, a little out of place, but it served only to increase her beauty.
He avoided saying so, commenting only, ‘Indeed
you do not! Now, please be seated and I shall help you to whatever dishes you fancy.’
In the event she ate very little. Her hand shook slightly as she sipped her wine, spilling a couple of drops as she did so. His lips tightened as he witnessed this evidence of her ongoing distress.
Seeing him looking at her, she flushed and reached for her reticule. Her handkerchief was not there.
‘Oh! My handkerchief must have fallen out when it—when I—’ She broke off, dipping her fingers into the deepest crevices of the silk reticule. ‘Oh, no! It is lost too!’
He handed her a napkin. ‘What have you lost? Something important?’
She looked crestfallen. ‘No—at least only important to me.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘My mother wrote me a note on the morning I left Ledbury House. I put it in my reticule for safe-keeping. It must have been lost at the market.’
‘I am sorry for your distress. Shall I go and search for it?’
‘Of course not! Why, it is full dark and we leave at daybreak. No, it is gone.’ She gave a small smile. ‘Besides, I know what it said.’
He did not argue further, and tried to divert her with talk of his wool business. To his surprise she engaged readily, having many opinions—and sound judgements—on the best fabrics for dressmaking.
It proved an excellent way of soothing the uneasiness between them and restoring a more distant equilibrium than that which had been building before today.
‘I should look into cotton, too, if I were in such a business,’ she declared. ‘Why, the variation in quality is truly shocking! If you could source good-quality cotton in the latest fashions every dressmaker from here to London would be seeking it!’
‘Strangely, I have actually been looking at cotton recently. Now, tell me, just what are the current fashions for cottons?’
Two hours passed, then three... It was only when the clock struck eleven that she started, rose, and announced that she must retire.
Rags-to-Riches Wife Page 8