Honor in the Dust (7 page)

“Let me alone, Mother. I'll never forgive him.”

Leah's nostrils flared with barely disguised disgust. “Bitterness will kill as surely as a sword, Edmund. It might not be as quick, but it destroys as surely as poison or a dagger in the heart.”

“Be that as it may,” he returned, “my heart remains unchanged. Claiborn and his wife are not welcome here. Now depart in peace, Mother, and send a maid with some medicine for this headache.”

Lady Edith Winslow studied herself in a mirror. It was made of the finest polished metal and, unlike mirrors of less quality, managed to reveal something of a person's appearance. She turned and viewed herself from another angle, then moved her face close to study her features. For a woman of thirty-four years, she had few wrinkles, far fewer than many a younger woman.

“Ellen,” she called. When the maid appeared, she helped Edith with her hair. She accidently jabbed her with a pin, and Edith cursed and slapped her face. The girl almost fell, as clumsy as she was simple. “Get out! Get out!”

The girl ran from the room and almost collided with Ives, Edith's nineteen-year-old son from an earlier marriage. He laughed. “Why don't you get a whip, Mother?” he said, leaning against the door frame. “You're going to hurt your hand slapping her face like that.”

Edith glanced at her son, her mood lightening just from his presence. He was not tall but he was lean and had a fine head of dark hair. “If I had a whip, I'd use it on Edmund,” she said quietly.

“Good. Give him a smack for me, will you? I'm tired of the fellow.”

“Keep your voice down, Ives. What if he heard you?”

“Oh, he's hiding, Mother, or drunk as usual. Don't fret.” Ives selected a juicy pear from a tray of fruit and bit into it. “A new dress?” he mumbled, appraising her from head to toe.

“Edmund is taking me to the king's court.” She laughed suddenly. “But don't mention it, Ives. He doesn't know it yet.”

Ives took another bite of the pear, still studying her with admiration. “You have certainly brought Sir Edmund Winslow to heel. Can't call his soul his own.”

“It wasn't difficult. The man has the backbone of an eel.”

“When will you force him to name me his heir?”

Edith turned back to the mirror and repositioned the comb in her hair before answering. “He still has visions of his own son, his own flesh and blood. But trust me, he'll never get him.”

“You're not too old to bear a child.”

Edith turned. There was a cruel smile on her lips. “I'm taking precautions.” She came over and put her hand on Ives's cheek. “I'll say it again. In time you will be Lord Winslow. That's all you need to know.”

Ives appeared unconvinced. “What about Grace, Claiborn's wife? You think Edmund's still in love with her?”

“It wasn't love spurned, Ives, it was a man's pride put down.”

“It's been long enough. Perhaps he'll forgive them. That would put our plans in jeopardy.”

“Oh, he won't ever forget what's been done. I'll keep his hate alive.”

Ives studied his mother for a long moment and then asked, “Did he ever love you?”

“No.”

“And you? Have you ever loved him in any way?”

“No, my sweet boy, I entered this marriage as he sought to enter into a marriage with Grace—as a benefit to my family, to me. As Edmund once said to me, love has no place in such arrangements. It only leads to disappointment.”

Stuart Winslow's heart beat fast from the thrill of adventure and the deadly fear of being caught. The two emotions stirred him as he crouched in the high grass, watching Mead Oakes. Oakes was thirteen, three years older than Stuart. He had persuaded Stuart to come with him to snare rabbits. Stuart had snared rabbits before, of course, but never on Rolf Hyde's land, where it was clearly forbidden. He had refused at first to come with Mead, but the older boy had convinced him that there would be no danger.

“Old man Hyde won't be there, and we're heading toward his fallow land, anyhow. Nobody will see us.”

Against his better judgment and without telling his mother, Stuart decided it was worth the risk. The two had left early in the morning, and they had snared three fat rabbits with little trouble. Now, however, with the sun coming up, Mead said, “I guess we'd best leave. You take one rabbit and I'll take two, since I'm the oldest.”

“All right, Mead, but what about that other snare?”

“Let it go, Stuart. It's too dangerous.”

“I thought you said Mr. Hyde was gone.”

“He's got gamekeepers, though, ain't he? Anybody caught poaching will get the whip or be put in the stocks. Remember
what it was like when they put Fred Jimmerson in the stocks? He had his head sticking out, and everybody pelted him with dead rats. Somebody threw a rock and knocked his eye out. No, it ain't worth it.”

“You go on. I'll check and see if I got another rabbit.”

“Better not.” Mead shook his head doubtfully, then turned and made his way out of the field.

Stuart knew exactly where the snare was, and he wriggled through the tall grass until he found it. His heart gave a lurch when he saw that there was a rabbit in the trap. He broke the neck with one expert blow of the heavy stick he carried, shoved the rabbit into his sack, and felt a sense of victory and satisfaction. He played games with himself sometimes, and now he was pretending that he was a noble knight who had overcome some fierce mythical beast. Perhaps his mind was too much on that imaginary scene, for he was not aware of the man who stood before him until he was less than five feet away.

“Poacher, eh?” The speaker was a tall, heavyset man with cruel eyes and a twist to his mouth. “I know what to do with poachers. What's your name, boy?”

“Stuart Winslow.”

“Come along. I'll go tell your people you'll face a poacher charge. You know what poachers get, don't you?”

Stuart could not even answer, he was so terrified. The man took him by the arm and dragged him along.

Grace watched Rolf Hyde's eyes. They were a murky brown, and she read in them the lust that she had often seen in the eyes of men. She had heard that Hyde took advantage of his young female servants and also some of the older women at his country manor. He was a wealthy man, and now there was triumph in his look.

“So I caught him red-handed, and here's the evidence,” he
said, lifting the two dead hares. “I'm going to take him to the sheriff.”

“Please, Mr. Hyde, don't do that. He's only ten.”

“That matters little. Poaching is poaching.”

Grace forced herself to plead. She saw that Hyde was moving closer to her. Still holding Stuart with his left hand, he reached out with his right to trace her chin and said, “Of course, maybe I could forget some of the boy's lawbreaking—if you'd show a man some kindness.”

Disgust swept through Grace. “There's nothing for you here, Mr. Hyde,” she said in a determined voice.

Hyde's face flushed. “Then I'll take the boy down to the sheriff.”

Grace watched them go, helpless. “If only Claiborn were here!” But he was not. Once again he had gone to serve with a small army that was engaged in one of the innumerable wars that the Irish seemed to carry on at all times. He'd promised to return to them here, at her aunt's farm … a month ago. “I don't know what to do. They can't put Stuart in jail or in the stocks. They just can't!”

The hearing was held in a relatively small room built for several purposes. Linton Stowe was the justice who was listening to Hyde's charge. Stowe was an older man with silver hair and clear blue eyes. He had the reputation, Grace knew, of being a fair man.

“All right, Mr. Hyde, what is your charge?”

“Well, I caught the boy red-handed, and there's the two rabbits he poached from my land. No excuse, Justice.”

Stowe studied Stuart, and Grace followed his gaze, swelling with pride over her fine-looking boy. He was tall for his age, with a thatch of auburn hair and bright blue eyes. She thought she saw the justice's eyes flash with compassion.

Hyde threw a malevolent glance at Grace and said, “I went to tell his mother, and you know what she dared? She offered herself to me if I would let the boy off! Of course, I wouldn't do that. It wouldn't be right,” he said with false morality.

“Mrs. Winslow, you may speak.”

Grace stood on her feet. She faced the magistrate, her voice not loud but filled with certainty. “My boy did break the law, and I have the money to pay the fine. The vile thing that this man said of me is a lie.”

“She's a whore and a liar!”

Stowe hesitated, then said, “In view of the youth of the young offender, I'm going to take the fine and release him to his family.”

“She's naught but a whore!” Hyde roared. He turned and shoved his way out of the room. He was followed by a short man with hazel eyes who grabbed him by the arm and turned him around while he was still within earshot of Grace.

“Are you looney, man?”

“What are you talking about, Tillford?”

“You know who her husband is?”

“Some kind of a soldier fellow,” he said dismissively.

“Claiborn Winslow. He's a demon with a sword, and when he comes home and finds the man who's called his wife a whore and a liar in public, why, he'll cut his heart out!” Tillford glanced back at Grace. “You'd better go back and make it right.”

Hyde hesitated a moment. With a curse he turned and walked back over to her. The justice looked up, and Grace remained silent.

“Sir, I fear I let my anger get the better of my judgment.”

“And how is that, Mr. Hyde?”

“Well, I said some things about the lady here that weren't true. I have a bad temper, and sometimes my mouth seems to have a mind of its own. So, Mrs. Winslow, I'll ask your pardon.”

“Granted,” said Grace carefully.

“Very well, then. I think it's wise that you made this right,” the justice said. He turned back to Grace. “Take the boy and go home. But, Son, if I ever see you here again, it won't be as easy for you. Mind that you never appear before my bench again.”