Chelynne (61 page)

Rodney stuffed the last of his stew into his mouth, and it was in his mind to find a soft pile of hay in the stable for the night. Geoffrey was a good man, and it pained Rodney greatly to think of yet another disappointment for the lad. He had lost not only his mother and father, but three brothers and a sister as well, some from the wars, some from the chaos of the Restoration. To lose this fortune might tip the cart, and cause the young man to despair.

He stood wearily, shaking his head at his own thoughts. As he moved in the direction of the keeper, the lass called Alice bumped into him as she rushed by.

“Your pardon, sir,” she said quietly, moving past him.

He watched her take her tray filled with pitchers of ale and mugs through the room. She was a pleasant change from the typical country girl, and he momentarily wished he were a younger man.

Rodney stood before the keeper and shook a few coins from his purse into his hand. At the sound of bellowing and laughing in the rear of the room, he turned to see a man, sodden with liquor, holding the struggling Alice clear of the floor. She kicked and squealed, her actions anything but playful. One pitcher of ale was rescued by a companion of her attacker, but the other fell from her tray and soaked her skirt and the floor.

“Will you be stopping that?” Rodney asked the keeper.

“Let ‘em ruffle her feathers a mite,” he returned bitterly. “Miss High and Mighty.”

Rodney returned the coins to his leather purse and fastened it again to his belt. His eyes narrowed and crinkled at the corners as he fit the innkeeper with a glare. He turned and slowly threaded his way through the men, harlots, and wenches to get to the rear of the room. Alice’s furious struggle seemed only to heighten the men’s enjoyment of holding her.

By the time Rodney reached the scene, Alice was being held firmly on a seated man’s lap, one of his arms holding her firmly and the other arm lifting a tankard of ale to his lips. Alice let her elbow fly, taking the man who held her in the chin, upsetting his ale, and blasting his head backward. He half rose with an angry growl and stood face-to-face with Rodney.

Rodney was not young, but he was large and could cast an angry stare that had frozen opponents earlier in his life. He shifted and raised his shoulders slightly, drawing his hands together as if he were more than ready for a fight. He lowered his voice and looked directly into the man’s eyes. “Let the lass go,” he said evenly. The table became silent for a moment. “Now,” he advised.

Rodney was prepared to follow his words with action, for that was the way of such a place. But the man who held Alice shrugged and unlocked his hold. The maid straightened herself, brushed at her wet skirt, and walked rather casually away from the scene, never looking back or around. Rodney followed her with his gaze. Even under these conditions she seemed not to be stressed. It was a trait that he had admired in many men but had seen in very few women.

The evening had cooled and the sky was clear. Alice stood near the corner of the inn and took a deep breath, trying silently to count the stars. She knew she would be allowed a few moments to collect herself, but no more. And she would not press the issue. It was easier to return to the common room on her own mettle than to have Armand come to the door and shout for her. It would be “Alice.” He refused to use her real name, as did the other tavern wenches. “Alicia,” she would correct them, but it had a lilt to it that these folk and others before them could not adjust themselves to.

She thought of the young minstrel’s song, the words having long ago fled her mind, but the melody with her still. She plucked at the leaves of a bush and hummed softly. For a moment there was no loud inn, no groping hands, and no dismal future. Alicia had the night, the cool, fresh air, and a simple tune.

A low chuckle behind her caused her to turn abruptly. In the dimness of the night she could not see his face clearly, but she knew the man who stood there. She felt immediately safe in his company, for it had been only moments since he had come to her aid.

“I followed you here to help you dry your tears,” he said with some mirth in his voice.

“And why would I cry?” she asked.

“Many a maid would be reduced to tears by such careless handling,” he said.

She laughed at his concern. “Here? Do you think that is the first time?”

“My name is Rodney Prentiss, miss. I watched you in the common room.”

“I am Alicia, sir. And I thank you for your help.”

“Alicia?” he asked, puzzled. “That is not what the innkeeper called you.”

“Of course not. Armand does not use my given name.”

“And why?”

“Because it would please me,” she said with a shrug. “I can recall few who would use it. Alice is more common.”

“But it is important to you...”

“Aye.”

He cocked a brow and looked at her closely. Her depth immediately intrigued him. “Tell me why it matters so much, fair Alicia.”

“It is the only thing my parents gave me that I still possess. I was separated from them early in my youth and have no memory of either father or mother. But the woman who cared for me, God rest her, gave only my name to the family who took me in. I choose to keep it for that reason.”

“And your family?”

“I assume they are dead.”

“A sad assumption. Whom, then, do you call family? The innkeeper?”

“Armand?” she laughed. “Oh, no, the family I live with only sends me to him in the summer. I serve the food and ale and do other chores. The money is badly needed. Every summer since I was twelve.”

“The family you live with?”

“It is the fourth family I have lived with. Or, fifth, perhaps, since certainly I lived with my parents for a time. I find it hard to call anyone family…”

“You don’t belong here,” he said flatly.

She laughed lightly. “I have never belonged anywhere. But someday I will find my place. There must be a place right for me.”

“I have been looking for such a place myself,” Rodney said, laughing also. “Have you been to London?”

Her face seemed to close at the question. A frown replaced the prettiness of her smile. It was as if the question had been taken as an insult rather than common curiosity. “That is not the place,” she said.

Rodney wondered at her reaction and then reached up to scratch the back of his neck. Just the thought of the periwig that was the fashion now made his skin itch all the more. “A wise decision, lass. I am loath to return myself.”

“You live there?” she asked.

“At the moment. I don’t imagine I’ll stay.”

“You are a nobleman?”

“I?” he laughed. “Sailor, soldier, friend, servant. Aye, I am more servant and friend now, since fighting is over for me. Servant to a young noble without enough money.” He shook his head. “But he’s a good lad and strong. It’s only that things don’t go his way.”

“Well, my sympathy to you and your young lord, sir,” she said primly. “For myself, I’m due in the common room before Armand comes for me with a stick.”

“You can’t possibly want to go back in there.”

“And where, then?”

“You aren’t frightened?”

“Of them?” she laughed. “Armand won’t let them hurt me. A broken wench does not serve well and ofttimes flees with the first man asking.”

“You speak so well,” he told her. “For a country lass who was raised with simple folk, you speak as one educated.”

“I can read,” she boasted. “Though there is little to read,” she added with a shrug. “And I can cipher a bit. The first family to house me were educated. He was a teacher once. But I was not to stay with them long. They had too many to feed.” She seemed to be saddened for a moment and then brightened again as she looked at him. “I thank you. I’ve worked hard to remember.”

“It shows that you’re bright.”

Her smile was sweet and genuine. It occurred to Rodney that she had not smiled inside the inn. That missing softness had made her seem somewhat plain, but when she smiled she was lovely and fresh looking, the only real country beauty he had seen.

“Thank you again, sir,” she said, lifting her skirts and moving past him to the doors of the inn.

Rodney sighed his pleasure. Meeting Alicia was the one happy part of his discouraging journey. He found her unexpectedly refreshing, and so capable of managing her life.

When he found his stabled horse, he fondly stroked the animal’s neck and thought of the women whose paths he had briefly crossed. There was Charlotte, whose flight indicated she did not want a husband selected by the king. And the aging aunt, whose barely audible words from her bed drew pain in Rodney’s heart. She spoke of years of imprisonment with a spoiled and ungrateful child. And there was Alicia, a bright and commanding lass of fair looks, whose lot it would be to live out her years in a simple cottage with nothing out of the ordinary taking place in her life.

When his head finally rested on the soft hay, the weariness from his traveling and his disappointments seemed to hit him all at once and even sleep came with difficulty. Just before his eyes closed he had a peculiar sensation. The women he had encountered, even though he never actually met Charlotte at all, were miles removed from one another. Yet in his mind their lives seemed to touch in a strange and unsettling way.

In a room that had been converted from a loft, there were two straw pallets, one small window, a coffer, and some scattered bundles of clothing. A dried bunch of mayflowers with ribbon streamers hung from a nail on a high beam; they had died as rapidly as the dream they came with.

Four serving girls lay on the two mattresses, their bodies in neat parallel lines to conserve the tiny space. The night was done; dawn was just breaking. The noises in the common room below them were low and infrequent, and the four maids lay exhausted in this insignificant room.

Alicia’s eyes were not closed. She looked upward at the weathered beams. A squeaking she had heard before caused her eyes to shift and she saw the long, tubular tail of a rodent as he skittered across a beam. Life was predictable here. There were mice in the attic, chores in the morning, and little to look forward to.

There was a memory that was vague enough to be a dream, something stuck away in the back of her mind, that had given her comfort in the moments before sleep since she was a very little girl. It had to do with a red cloak. She remembered the fabric as being smooth and delicate, and the inside was deliciously warm. And when wearing the cloak she was always happy because she was always going someplace.

Associated with this wrap was a woman’s face. She was ivory-skinned and gentle, with tender eyes and fair hair. The eyes were troubled and tinged with tears. She wore a velvet dress that was so soft that Alicia could almost feel the fabric against her cheek when she thought about it. And with the feeling against her cheek, she could remember gentle stroking of her hair and the sound of the woman’s voice, and her words singed her memory. “You will be so beautiful. I can barely wait to see...”

“But I am not beautiful,” Alicia thought with a sense of guilt and betrayal. “She would have been very disappointed.”

Alicia liked to imagine that this woman was her mother, but reality insisted that it might not be so. Other women had cared for her during her early years and had been kind and dear, though there was no kinship.

She remembered stone walls, high and gray, and floors the same color. There were trees, but she was not sure if she ran among them and hid behind them or simply viewed them from a coach or window. Nothing she had seen since resembled this memory.

The clearest image was of a boy. Freckles spotted his nose and cheeks, and his eyes were the same pale blue as the woman’s. He wore a white linen shirt and a brown wool jacket that was richly sewn, but he took care of it poorly—she could remember extra stitches and patches. And his hands were clumsy. He, too, was associated with the red cloak because he often buttoned it around her neck as he scolded her. “Now, be still, you mouse. Be still or I’ll swat you good.” Even now the remembrance gave her chills because there was love in his scolding, laughter in his voice.

She had not played with him, or if she had, she had no memory of it. Once, he had clutched her fiercely, let her go abruptly, and, in his laughing, scolding voice, pushed her away. “Now, get where you’re going, and be good or else.”

And that was all there was. Next was the Thatchers’ farm. He was a teacher and his wife had babies and did laundry for the lady in the manor house. They told her what little she knew about herself. She had been found near their humble home with a woman who told them only Alicia’s name; no family name or location of her birth. The woman had suffered through some dreadful accident and was injured. Her head was cut and her arm broken. Days must have preceded the Thatchers’ discovering this poor woman and her young charge, for not long after they were taken in and cared for, the woman died. All Alicia had to remind her of that day was the dress she had been wearing; a white slip made from fine linen and sewn with some lace. It must have been the finest thing she owned, but it was soiled and torn badly from some unexplained journey and accident. There was no red cloak.

The Thatchers were good to her and adopted her as their own. Mr. Thatcher taught her to read and cipher when she was just a tot and encouraged her to call him Papa. But the children became too many and the cost of feeding them too much. Alicia was sent to friends in another shire who promised to care for her.