The Bride Sale (4 page)

“Verity Osborne,” was all she could manage.

“You can call yourself anything you bloody well like,” he said in an angry tone. “Anything, so long as we can get the hell out of this rain.”

“Verity Osborne,” she repeated, relieved at the more controlled tone she'd managed. The tiny vic
tory gave her the will to stand taller and actually look him in the eye.

“Fine,” he replied sharply. “Splendid. But you will be
Mrs
. Osborne while at Pendurgan. There'll be the devil of time explaining your arrival in any case,” he continued in the same angry tone, brushing away the rain from his face. “But I refuse to have it put about that I have brought an unchaperoned young
miss
into my home. God almighty, that's the last thing I need.”

With that, he tugged again on her arm and led her to the big doors that now stood open. A plump, silver-haired woman in a dark blue dress and white apron held the door. “My lord!” she exclaimed, her hands fluttering in agitation. “Come in quickly before you catch yer death.”

Lord Harkness pushed Verity ahead until they were safely inside an enormous hall. The woman looked at her quizzically. “My lord?” she asked.

“Is the yellow bedchamber made ready for a guest, Mrs. Tregelly?” he asked in a curt, sharp tone as he removed his hat and shook the rain from his coattails.

“Yes, my lord,” the woman replied. “'Twas only last week we aired the mattresses and laid down fresh linen.”

“Good. This is Mrs. Osborne. She will be staying with us for a while. Tomas, bring along her trunk and show Mrs. Osborne the way to the yellow bedchamber. Mrs. Tregelly, a word, if you please.”

Without so much as a backward glance at Verity, he left the room. Mrs. Tregelly regarded Verity with a puzzled look, and then followed Lord Harkness. Ver
ity stood in the entry hall, dripping rain all over the floor, and prayed the woman would come back. She had seemed so…normal. Grunting, the ginger-haired footman heaved the trunk onto his back. “This way, ma'am,” he said.

Tomas, moving slowly with his heavy burden, led Verity across the broad hall. A fire in an enormous fireplace at one end provided the only light. It was difficult to make out details, but the room appeared to have a high beamed ceiling and dark paneling halfway up the whitewashed walls. Above the paneling, on every wall, hung row upon row upon row of swords, pikes, battle-axes, spears, rifles, and pistols of every kind. Scattered among the weapons were bits of armor—breastplates, helmets, and shields. Everything was polished to a sheen and glistened in the light of the fire.

“There be a candle on table just over there, ma'am,” Tomas said, nodding toward a long trestle table placed against one of the walls. “Gets fair dark in these hallways. Best if 'ee takes a candle.”

Verity picked up the candle and lit it by the fire, then followed Tomas as he led her into a dark corridor. They came at last to a stairway, the poor footman grunting and gasping with his burden. After a moment to catch his breath at the top of the stairs, he led her down another hallway and finally to an open doorway. “Here 'tis,” he said, and stood aside waiting for Verity to enter. She hesitated, loath to go willingly into what might be her prison cell. At Tomas's plaintive look, she straightened her shoulders and walked into the room. The footman followed quickly
behind and, with a groan, deposited her trunk near the foot of the bed. He then quickly set about making a fire in the fireplace.

“Is there anything else 'ee needs, ma'am?” he asked after he had initiated a roaring blaze.

Verity glanced about her. It was not at all what she had expected. “No,” she said at last, still unprepared to trust her voice with more than a word or two.

“Very good, then,” Tomas replied. “They dines at six, ma'am. It just be getting on five, so 'ee has a chance to rest up a bit. I'll make sure someone comes to get 'ee just afore six.”

He bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Verity sank down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. It was a comfortable, if old-fashioned, bedchamber. The furnishings looked to be of a style at least a century old, heavy and dark. The bed and the windows were curtained with exquisite crewelwork on faded yellow cloth. The coffered ceiling was low, and the walls were hung with tapestries. The overall effect was dark, but somehow almost cozy.

But the chaos of her emotions robbed her of any sense of comfort. Seemingly normal servants, the offer of dinner, this lovely old room—none of it was in keeping with the forbidding granite exterior, the sinister-looking hall of weapons, or the mysterious master of Pendurgan himself. Which was the true face of Pendurgan? And which was the true nature of her own fate?

Verity sat unmoving on the bed for several minutes, too unsettled to stir. She considered unpacking her trunk, just to have something to do, to help keep
her mind off the events of the last few hours. But to unpack would be tantamount to admitting defeat, to accepting this strange and dreadful situation. She lost track of time as she sat there on the bed, her mind a blank, as though waiting for someone to tell her what to do.

Finally she rose mechanically, untied her bonnet, and placed it on the bed. Then she removed her damp cloak and draped it over a chair near the fire. She had held her hands out to the flames to warm them when she heard the door behind her open. Startled, she straightened and turned around to find a dark figure silhouetted in the door frame. It was a woman, tall and thin, with her arms folded across her chest. She stepped into the room.

The light from the fire showed her to be an older woman with a pinched face and silver hair swept up in a style of some thirty years ago. She wore a simple black bombazine gown with no more ornament that a stark white fichu at the neck. She made an altogether strange and startling appearance, and Verity stared at her as though she were an apparition.

“So,” the woman said at last, her voice dripping with disdain, “you are the one he brought here.” Her eyes raked Verity from head to foot in a most insolent manner.

Who was this woman? Her manner of speech, if not her words, was refined, without the thick Cornish accent of Tomas or the softer Cornish of Mrs. Tregelly. She was certainly not a servant—a servant would never use such an impertinent tone. Unless, of course, it was directed to another servant. That must be it. Despite the comfortable bedchamber and ap
parent hospitality, she was to be a servant after all. But what sort of servant?

Unnerved by the woman's brazen scrutiny, Verity could only stare.

“Hmph. And you're not even pretty,” the woman said, her sharp gaze taking in Verity's soaked hem and flattened hair. Unconsciously, Verity smoothed back stray wisps of hair at her temples and tucked them behind her ears. Why did this peculiar old woman care so much about her looks? Unless…unless she was being inspected for her suitability in a role where a woman's looks, and body, were of primary importance?

“Nothing like Rowena. Nothing at all.
She
was a beauty.” The woman continued to glare at her in such a disquieting manner that Verity finally dropped her gaze to the floor. “Well, you will discover the truth about him soon enough.” She turned quickly and walked away, the black skirts rustling with her brisk movement. When she reached the door, she paused and looked over her shoulder. “And then, by heaven,” she said, “you will rue the day you ever came to Pendurgan.”

 

Verity sank down on the bed and decided she'd had enough. She must get out of this place. Somehow, she had to escape. There was no one to help her; so she must be calm and she must think, without giving in to the wave of utter helplessness that threatened to overcome her. She was not used to taking matters into her own hands, and had generally allowed others to direct her life—her governess, her father, her husband.

But now she must take charge of her own fate. She was twenty-three years old, healthy, and reasonably sensible. She had never in all her life suffered an attack of nerves or indulged in a fit of the vapors. Now was not the time to give in to weakness.

Verity took a deep breath, pushed herself off the bed, and strode across the room to the door. Had the woman in black locked it behind her? Was she a prisoner? But of course she was—she was here against her will, was she not? It was merely the degree of confinement that was in question.

Verity grasped the doorknob and turned it. The door opened. She uttered a small sigh of relief and stepped into the hallway. It was lighted at intervals by brass wall sconces—and was perfectly empty. She was neither locked in nor guarded.

After one last look down the empty hallway, she quietly closed the door and walked across the room to the windows along the far wall. She swept back the heavy drapery and gazed out. Dusk had settled into darkness, and rain hammered against the mullioned panes, making it difficult to see anything outside. But there were no bars. Just simple, old-fashioned casement windows with ordinary sliding locks that had no more sinister purpose than to hold fast against the wind and rain. There even appeared to be a large tree adjacent to the window, several of its limbs within easy reach.

It was almost too easy.

Was she perhaps overreacting, finding evil where none existed? Could it be that there was nothing truly out of the ordinary about this household, that she was in fact perfectly safe? After all, would Lord
Harkness have made escape so apparently effortless if he truly meant harm to her, to confine her?

No, no, no,
she thought, giving herself a mental shake. She could not allow herself to become complacent through the lack of bars on the windows and the absence of guards at her door, nor by the genial footman and sweet-faced housekeeper. She would not be lured into believing in her own safety. It could be a ruse. A trap. A trap that would be sprung once she had become comfortable, resigned, vulnerable.

No. She would persevere. She was going to leave—this very evening, if possible.

She peered out the window, squinting against the rain. No doubt the view was every bit as forbidding as it had been from the carriage. But Verity was willing to brave almost anything, just to be free of this place and this untenable situation.

She started at a loud rapping on the bedchamber door. Before she could respond, it was opened by a young girl with unruly wisps of red hair peeking out from beneath a mobcap.

“Evenin', ma'am,” the girl said with a wary smile. “I brung hot water an' such for 'ee.” She entered the room and placed the steaming brass canister on the washstand, along with a stack of white towels and a bar of soap.

Verity stared at the girl. What was this? Another seemingly friendly face and false amenities to lull her into comfort?

But hot water and soap sounded like heaven on earth. Verity felt not only grimy, but violated by the events of the day. Nothing would feel so good as to wash it all away.

The girl raised questioning brows at Verity's silence. “Thank you,” Verity murmured. Though tension still gripped the back of her throat, only the slightest tremble colored her voice. Perhaps the girl would not notice.

“I'm to help 'ee unpack, too, ma'am, an' to see that ever'thin' be comfort'ble for 'ee.”

So Verity was not to be a servant. But if not a servant, then what? The only answers that came to mind fueled her determination to flee.

“Thank you,” Verity said, her voice still more tentative than she would have liked. She drew the curtain back down over the window, realizing she could see nothing to help her in her plan. She needed information. Perhaps the girl could be useful, if Verity could get her to talk. “Thank you,” she repeated, more controlled this time.

“Mrs. Tregelly, she do say I'm to maid 'ee whilst yer at Pendurgan, ma'am,” the girl said and bobbed an awkward curtsey. “My name's Gonetta.” She stood facing Verity, hands behind her back, head lowered.

“A pretty name,” Verity said. “Most unusual.”

The girl shrugged. “'Tis but an old Cornish name, ma'am. Common 'nuff round these parts.”

“Not common to me, I'm afraid,” Verity said, reaching for any topic that might get the girl talking. “I've never been to Cornwall, and so the language and names are quite new to me.” She attempted a friendly smile.

The girl smiled readily in return. “I do hear tell,” she said while fussing with the towels, “that folks from up country do find it hard to get their tongues
round our words ofttimes. But don't 'ee be worrin' none. If 'ee do be stayin' awhile, 'ee be gettin' used to it soon 'nuff.”

Staying awhile.

“Meanwhile, 'ee just tells us to slow down when our talk's not so clear. Now, me brother Tomas—he do be the footman what brung yer trunk up—he don't be sayin' much anyhow, so 'ee ought not have no trouble wid him. But me…Ma tells me I do rattle on fast as can be most times, but I'll try to be extra careful with 'ee, ma'am, 'ee bein' a foreigner an all.”

Al tray tuh bay exter cawrfil wid ee, mum, ee bain ah furriner an awl
. The accent was thick and unusual to Verity's ear, as hard to decipher as that of a Yorkshire-man.

It was difficult not to smile at this seemingly ingenuous young girl, regardless of her role in this drama. But Verity had her own role to consider, and not necessarily the one assigned her. She would never have thought herself capable of dissimulation of any kind, but at the moment she thought she might be capable of any number of things, just to get out of here.

She forced a wider smile. “Thank you, Gonetta. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. And I am—”

“Miz Osborne. I do know all about 'ee, ma'am.”

Verity winced as though slapped. Of course, she would already be the subject of servants' gossip. What must they all think of her, a woman purchased at auction?

“Ma do say as how 'ee be his lordship's cousin and all,” Gonetta went on. “And as how 'ee lost yer husband real sudden, like. I do be right sorry to hear that, ma'am. And as how 'ee had no place else ter go.
'Tis a real shame, 'tis, all that grief and hardship fallin' down on 'ee all at once, like.”