Read Parthena's Promise Online
Authors: Valerie Holmes
Parthena's Promise
© Valerie Holmes 2016
Valerie Holmes has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
1815
Breathing the fresh cold air into his lungs, Jerome rested against the wall of the old inn. He could hear the drunken banter from within, the raucous laughter and shouts of men celebrating their freedom with the women, but to him it was a cacophony of peace. These noises were far removed from the sounds of cannon shot ripping through screaming bodies, or the cries of death. He rested his eyes a moment, trying to blank out the visions he had seen; visions that haunted him. Jerome tried to breathe in the familiar country smells of this North Yorkshire market town, to blank out the memory of the burning smoke that seemed to cling to his nostrils, or worse, the smell of blood and death. His senses were being slowly cleansed of the hatred that he had heard pouring out of men’s mouths for the past five lonely years; it evaporated like his breath in the chilly air.
What was it the recruiting sergeant told the young men whom he enlisted? “A battlefield was where camaraderie and honour was at its highest.” No, he thought, it was a deafening, mind-blowing place, where a soul could be destroyed, and they soon found out the true reality as the bodies fell at their sides. He had been one of the “lucky” ones – he had survived. Jerome longed for one thing only: to find his true love, a life-partner to cherish. Someone who would share his lonely moments, remove the pain of isolation and fill his home with warmth. Someone, whoever and wherever she was, would hold him like they needed him; not just his ability to hunt, skirmish and keep men in order like the army had, but truly want him – Jerome Fender. But that person would have to be very special, because more than anything he wanted to rekindle the dormant feelings in his heart again. Was it too late? Had his heart hardened beyond a point where he was able to experience true love? Or was his head now cynical beyond understanding finer feelings? How would he ever keep a young maid interested in him by holding trivial conversation, when he had returned from war? He remembered little of parlour games and the habits of polite society. Jerome only wanted to own and work his own small portion of land, growing crops to feed his family; it was a romantic notion, but one that had kept him sane in between the insanity of battles. He loved the area, as it brought back childhood memories of growing up on their northern estate until they were made to leave to return for the season in London. He shook his head; he liked to breathe fresh air.
Now he had set his task, he was going to find her, this elusive butterfly bride who would flutter into his life, love him for who he is and not what he has, and stay with him for the duration. He shook his head again and laughed. God, if his men knew what had become of their battle-hardened Captain they would mock him mercilessly. Next he would be writing verse and reading the love sonnets of the great bards. At a time when so many men were returning to the country desolate, in an equally lonely or needier state than he, Jerome was fantasising about finding a soul mate; some managed it, and some never could.
It was as he gazed up at the starlit sky, enjoying the moment of peace, that he realised even his own family would think him completely mad. His mother would possibly abandon him as the black sheep and his younger brother would take delight in his great fall from grace as he stooped below his station to actually work the land. He was a returning hero, whom his brother preached about as if he idolised him – which ironically his God did not allow. However, Jules did not idolise him, but had been jealous since childhood of his spirit and place as the first-born male. Images of his mother sprang into his mind. She would never understand that, with his education and inheritance, he craved to be free of it all. The time to settle and to be at one with the land – not fight over it, but work it – was now. It was in that moment, as a revelation broke through his thoughts of what he had considered was possibly the first sign of madness, that Jerome first saw her approaching.
The young maid walked towards him like a faerie in the night. She appeared to be light of foot, even if her feet were wearing a pair of boots. Not his “butterfly”, but certainly a sight to behold. Her fair hair was neatly swept into a bun at the nape of her neck, topped by a small bonnet barely covering the curls that threatened to escape from its side. Yet she held her head erect, not exactly confident, but strangely proud. She looked cold as she wrapped herself in an old shawl, which she nervously allowed to slip off her shoulder as she approached him, revealing a thin muslin dress beneath.
He didn’t want to be a part of the noise and bustle inside the inn, among the heady smells of the drunken gathering, although it was so different to the bedlam of war. So Jerome stood his ground and watched her approach with interest, taking in the slight, yet curvaceous contours. His longing for a woman had definitely deepened. Was he so desperate for female company that at the first sight of any wanton wench his mind began to romanticise? He had definitely been away too long.
Jerome studied her and swallowed. How he longed to hold a wife in his arms knowing the fighting was definitely finished, that peace of being in his own home, safe and no longer alone – but it was a wife he sought, not a whore. He had a deep yearning that only a good woman could fill, not a fleeting tryst in the night. Jerome sighed and let out a slow breath. She was a pretty one and fresh of face, definitely not a woman who had been working the night for long. She crossed the cobblestone road to stand boldly not two feet from where he propped himself against the wall of the inn.
“What’s your name?” Jerome Fender asked, as she stopped and looked at him. Her words of reply formed a gentle mist as she spoke. She must be so very cold, he thought. He was, and he was wearing a lined greatcoat.
“Miss… I mean, Thena, sir,” she said, in a delicate voice. It was polite; gentle, not heavy with the rough drawl of a local inn wench as he had expected.
Under the glow of the oil lamp that swung gently in the breeze above the corner of the inn, which lit its name: The Hare and Rabbit, Jerome stared into the rich blue eyes of the woman who was before him. He glanced down at her lovely lips, the gentle line of her neck and the curve of her bosom as she breathed deeply. The fabric of her bodice stopped his eyes falling upon what was moving rhythmically in and out beneath it, but he could soon correct that, he had no doubt, if he was inclined to pass a coin or two her way.
“Thena,” she repeated again.
Jerome looked at her, intrigued, as her face tilted up to meet his gaze, her eyes heavy lidded, her cheeks flushed. She played the innocent maid well, he thought. But no wench approached a man in the street at this late hour of the night unless they were out to earn some pennies by selling their bodies to the highest taker. The little minx, he thought, as she gently licked her lips, and then nervously swallowed.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Here, sir? You are?”
“Mr Fender, Jerome Fender.” He smiled at her, wondering why she cared what his name was.
“I have only just arrived. I was promised work, but the family who was to employ me had moved on, so I tried finding employment in the mill town, but they are full as it has been taken by returning soldiers and now… I have nothing and I …”
Large soulful eyes stared at him obviously wanting him to offer her charity, help or perhaps a bed for the night.
“Oh, you’ll have no trouble finding work in there... A beauty like you! I thought I hadn’t seen you serving in the tap room before, so what are you doing out here in the cold of the night? You’d have plenty of offers inside. At least five more men returned today and there’ll be more tomorrow. You could be kept busy all night if you liked.” He had stood forward, intuitively leaning so that his mouth was only inches from hers, their lips so near. He had spoken honestly, but her face showed her shock. Or was it genuine fear at what he had intimated? By the moonlight her eyes almost glistened; with tears or the cold? He wondered which.
“I need work. I have nowhere to go and I thought that you, perhaps, were also looking for…”
She turned her head away, tantalisingly, teasingly, he thought; very clever or stupidly naive. If only she knew his heart was no longer a soft caring one. It once took in the plight of waifs and strays, but he had seen too many. The world was full of grieving lost souls, or so it seemed. Women left in captured villages. Wenches who followed their men across a continent in a war they had never imagined, to be widowed and left with little choice, forced to find another to care for them, or worse, take anyone who needed relief.
Jerome knew she had not entered the building. Perhaps she was hoping he would answer her silent plea to find herself another man. “You have not asked for help inside yet?” Was she trying to find herself just one man? Perhaps she realised he was a soldier just returned who wanted a wench to keep only his bed warm. Was that her game? If it was, then, should he? Could he? But no, a temporary bedmate was not what he sought, but it would be a safer place for her to lay her head than taking her chance with any Tom, Dick or Harry.
“No, sir, I was too scared and I…” She swallowed, and he noticed that her hand was trembling slightly as she pulled her shawl back upon her shoulder.
“You meet some unsavoury characters out here; they’re not all gentlemen.” He smiled and placed a hand on the wooden frame of the back door to The Hare and Rabbit.
“Like you, sir?” she said. An anxious tremble entered her voice. She was either genuinely in diminished circumstances or a damned good actress. Jerome was wondering which was true.
“What do you want? To whore yourself? Are you that desperate?”
He heard her gasp and she instantly stepped backwards. It was then that two men pushed the door of the inn open with the force of their bodies as they continued their brawl out into the street. He was momentarily knocked against Thena. He grabbed her shoulders and she his waist. They had to cling to each other in order to keep their balance and not fall in the fouled street. Jerome spun her around away from the doorway as onlookers poured out jeering and egging the two drunken soldiers on. They would no doubt be battered and bruised by morning, but all men had had enough of killing this night. Their fight was just a brawl.
“I’m sorry,” she said, as she clung to him, his coat forming a layer of warmth around them both, trapping their body heat inside.
“It was not your fault.” He still held onto her shoulders as he looked down at her anxious eyes. She steadied her body against his, but straightened as soon as she regained her balance and composure. Thena stared into his eyes, she stepped back leaving a void in her place in the cool of the night air, as he somewhat reluctantly let her go. She quickly grabbed her shawl, which had slipped to the ground; her hands clung to it as she took another step away. Thena wrapped it tightly around her slight frame and backed further off. Her eyes still fixed on his; she hardly blinked as he held her gaze. Beautiful eyes, they were striking even in the poor light of the moon and the lamp, yet he knew not why.
Jerome saw her mouth moving before he realised she was still trying to tell him something. He saw her swallow as she hesitated before completing whatever it was she intended to tell him, but the noise of the brawl drowned out her words.
“What did you say?” Jerome said.
She blinked, but did not reply.
“Do you want to go inside? I will get you some food and we can talk away from this commotion,” he shouted as she continued her retreat. “You do not need to fear me. I can help you.” Jerome heard the words coming from his mouth and had no idea why they should. Why would he help her? The air must be addling his wits, or perhaps it was his other notions – his loneliness.
“No… I’m sorry,” she shouted back to him. “I will repay your kindness… I promise!” she managed to shout above the baying crowd nearby as the fight continued unabated.
“Wait!” he yelled. A cheer went up. One man lay face down in the dirt groaning, the other had his hands raised high.
Jerome could not cross the street after her, as part of the group jostled to return to their drinks. When they had it was too late, she had turned and run away, lost into the darkness of the night.
Jerome hesitated. For a moment he was going to follow her, at least try to by running in the direction she had gone, but another crowd of revellers had spilled onto the road and had grown in number, blocking his way and vision of his little faerie friend.
The man who had been thought to have been knocked out cold stood up in a blur of confusion and hit out at another who was not his opponent. A new fight ensued, only this time others joined in. After some moments of watching, the two-man fight spread to six, eight, and more. Jerome tired of it all and went back inside the inn. Whoever this “Thena” was, she was gone and perhaps it was for the better. He could not take on the cause of every deserted wench. They were many as were the widows and the young lovers whose men would never return to them, or if they did, never as they were in mind and body before they went to war. Jerome decided that he may as well sleep off the last of this strange evening and plan upon what he should do next in the morning when he had a clearer head.
The problem he faced was answering a simple question: should he go back to the “civilised world” of London to have his mama scout for a suitable match for him, or find a woman he could truly love by himself? He would think on it – or rather sleep upon it.
*
The next morning shone no more light onto his predicament, as the day was dull and grey. Rain would come soon and be heavy, he decided. It was only when he put his coat on and wanted to venture out, curious to see if the faerie of the night reappeared in the daylight hours, that he realised his coin purse was missing. He glanced around the room, on the small side-table, in his bag, on the window seat, but could not see it. He sighed and tried to retrace what he had done the evening before in his mind. Jerome thought hard and clearly remembered standing outside the inn gazing at the stars with his hand in his pocket holding the purse as he pondered and considered what he truly wanted in life. Then he remembered the woman coming to him, like a vision. Next the fight broke out, pushing the inn door open wide with a clout that bound him and the faerie together in his arms. He definitely remembered the warmth they shared, when realisation dawned upon him. What was it she shouted into the night? Yes, of course her words made sense now… “I will repay your kindness… I promise!” She promised! “The little bitch!” he spat out the words, and knew instantly what he would do next.
