The Wrong Bride Read online

  Most of the money that had come as dowry, with Mr. Jones’ and Mistress Sherman’s advice Winnie spent on stock, not too much to start off because they had to be careful of the store of money. And the stock had prospered beyond all their expectations. They all went to the animal auctions and Barnaby and Frances had to agree on a particular purchase or it wasn’t made. And the animals came home to a place that was fresh and clean in that it hadn’t been used as pasturage much for a number of years. Frances had her own ways of feeding animals, and she insisted they not stint. It had paid off, their clean refuse enhanced with good pasture made for fat, beautiful pigs to take to market, pigs that earned top prices. What milk was left over from the making of cheese and butter and splendid syllabubs went to the chickens and pigs, and nothing was wasted. And Frances was a stickler for cleanliness. For her and Winnie, Barnaby had never worked so hard before, and he decided he liked seeing the place brought under strict management, with the animals shifted to fresh pasturage when the old was nibbled down. Lance was the second son of a second son of a viscount, and the place was a bequest to his father from an aunt who had married well and had no children. It had been her summer residence. The house was once a happy place until Lance’s mother died when he was just a lad not much older than Jem the boot-boy. After that happened, his father lost interest in making sure the place was well-maintained. Learning this, Winnie could almost feel a small stab of sympathy for Lance, his older brother having died before Lance came along, with no mother, and with a father who wasn’t available to help him grow up.

  After two days of hard and continuous work, Winnie finally had the cottage in a more livable state. She was amused to find that Barnaby had already started work on the upstairs loft, framing out two small rooms that would serve as a bedroom for a child and a second room for whatever purpose. Winnie would somehow find funds for a small stove downstairs perhaps. The fireplace was in poor shape, though it might be cleaned out and used for extra heat when it was bitter cold outside. But a little cooking stove would keep the place heated otherwise, and it would be much easier for cooking. When Barnaby returned, they would go through the odds and ends in her attics for some furnishings so the place wouldn’t look so barren. Winnie would see a new mattress come in, too, to take the place of the old one now coming apart. Curtains were up, the few small windows cleaned. Winnie felt a surge of pride in looking around. She yawned, suddenly aware of the late hour, so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. Pulling on the old wool coat retrieved from the attics, she trudged home, watered the cob, put him in a fresh stall, and headed for the house.

  Inside, she fumbled around and found a light, took off her coat and hung it on the peg just inside the kitchen door. Thirsty, she took a drink from the bucket of fresh water that was always on the table. Knowing she was dirty, her hair unsightly, she was too tired to bathe. Instead Winnie washed her face and hands and headed upstairs, still dressed in the dirty apron she’d been wearing for a week. Yawning again, she saw a light at the top of the stairs, and it startled her. Heavens, she’d left a lamp burning. Of all the fool things to do! And how unlike her. Winnie stepped through the door of the room and looked around. And screamed. In the room was a man, a stranger. She turned around so quickly her head spun and headed downstairs running for the kitchen, the stranger fast behind her, his boots ringing on the steps and then the floor, so close Winnie could swear she felt his warm breath on her back. Then his hands fell on her shoulders. Heartbeat drumming in her ears, Winnie closed her eyes briefly before they snapped open. “I’m sorry to have startled you, miss, but you need to calm down. I am not going to hurt you.” Gently he took her shaking shoulders and turned her. The man’s lower face was covered in a couple of weeks’ growth of beard.

  “Who…” Winnie licked dry lips,” who are you?”

  “I’m the master of the house.”

  “The…the mas…master of the house?” she repeated dumbly, her voice a mere whisper of fear.

  “Yes, I came in, and no one was home. I was preparing to go to bed. Exhausted I was, you see. But now you’re here, perhaps you could find me a bite to eat?” His warm hands dropped from her shoulders.

  “To eat?”

  Lance Brevard frowned. Perhaps the girl was slow. “Yes, please, miss. I’m sorry to have startled you.” He spoke carefully, pacing his words just in case she wasn’t bright. She stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking. He picked up the lantern from the table, struck a light and lit it, held it aloft, doing it all with deliberation so as not to startle her again. “I’ll not ask for much. Perhaps tea or coffee, a piece of bread? I’d be happy with just about anything.” The oval face turned up to him was quite pretty, and now he could see the eyes were a bright blue, almond shaped below brows with just a slight rise in the center. The other features were regular: high cheekbones, a pert nose, thick brown lashes and the skin as white as a sheet. Barnaby had hired a right comely maid. She was still staring at him. But apparently, she was dumb as well as deaf. No, she wasn’t deaf; she had heard him before. “Miss?” His voice hardened when she didn’t respond. “Never mind. I’ll do I myself.”

  Winnie finally found her voice. It was hoarse. “I…I’ll make something. I know where everything is.” He nodded, set the lamp down on the table and sank onto the bench with a deep sigh. “It’ll take a minute to get the stove going…”

  “Never mind that. I’ll take whatever is at hand.” She nodded, looking around as if orienting herself, and left him. From the pantry she brought two pies, one a savory pork pie, the other an apple. She put them on a plate and edged it toward him, watching him warily. Lance smiled to himself. Likely he didn’t look all that respectable. What was left of his uniform was dirty and in tatters, and he hadn’t bathed for weeks, nor shaved. The girl came back from the pantry again and poured a large mug of cider. He picked it up and drank half of it before putting it down. Winnie thought to start up the stove and he watched the slim form work, half-dazed. The cider was sweet and went down his parched throat like the lightest wine. He shook his head. It was wonderful. When Winnie turned back, the pies were gone.

  “Would you like more?”

  He shook his head. “Good, though. Most excellent in fact. You must be Cook.”

  “I do cook, though I am not Cook,” she said crisply, and he nodded with understanding.

  “How is Barnaby?” He made quick work of the rest of the cider.

  “He would be the same to you, I suppose.” Lance frowned again. Her speech was rather fine for a housemaid. Barnaby must have come across a windfall to have hired a cook and a maid as well.

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s gone to take part of the stock to market.” The way she spoke struck him again as odd. He nodded.

  “What’s your name?” He saw the girl freeze up.

  He would know, just as soon as she said her name, and it would all come out. What would he do? Would he do again to her what he’d done before? The small pink tongue came out and moistened her lips. She had a nicely shaped mouth, he thought, nice and pink, like the tongue. “Winifred.” She waited, the color gone again, color he found very attractive, healthy, a mixture of pink and white. Wonderfully English, the complexion of all young English girls, something he’d missed the last five years.

  “Winifred,” he repeated. She waited for realization to hit him, waited for the astonishment, the surprise. After long moments, it dawned on her that the name meant nothing to him. And it was her turn to be shocked. He didn’t remember her! “Well, Winifred, I desperately need a bath. I don’t know what the hierarchy is around here now, but I should like it very much, if, in the morning, you might be able to scare up enough water to see I have a bath. I would be much obliged. Could you do that?”

  Winnie barely opened the mouth she’d closed in dull perplexity. He didn’t even know her! “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Good girl. You wouldn’t know if I have any clothes left here, would you?”

  “I shall try to find somethi
ng suitable,” she managed, almost choking. There had been a few shirts and breeches, a couple of waistcoats, and another couple of coats. All of it had been cleaned and put away soon after Winnie had come, but she could easily retrieve it once she remembered where the pile of his clothes had been put.

  “I will leave the boots outside my door tonight. You might clean them for me, if you please.”

  Lance saw her face, a lovely one now he’d had a chance to thoroughly peruse it, suffuse with pink. She stared at him with some dark emotion. She didn’t like him, not at all. That much was clear from the angry patches of color that checked her face. Perhaps he was asking too much of her. Well, he’d make it up to her later, try not to expect too much in future, be light on her, not burden her with so much all at once. At this moment, unfortunately, his needs were great. He stood to leave and turned. He could almost feel the resentment in the middle of his back where he knew she was looking at him. His jaw set. Servant she might be, she needed to have a better sense of what was expected of her, of her place in this house, or Barnaby would have to find another. He strode upstairs with an irritated tread, leaving a pile of clothes on the bedroom floor. He threw himself under the covers. By the time the heat of his body had warmed the bed, a very short time, he was fast asleep.

  Down in the kitchen on the opposite side of the house, Winnie, although exhausted, paced the floor, shaken and unhappy. What would happen to her now? All the work, all the tiring effort to make this a decent habitation, all undone in the space of a few minutes. The monster was back. She hadn’t exactly wished him dead, but she couldn’t truthfully have mourned that event either. Winnie sighed, her mind too muddled to do much more thinking. Dear God. You must have a terribly wicked sense of humor, though I cannot at the moment laugh. Perhaps one day, when I am old, I might find humor in this. She added fuel to the stove and undid the ties to her apron, hung it on the peg on top of the moth-eaten coat and went into the little pantry that used to be Mistress Sherman’s bedroom, pulled back the covers, took off her sturdy but old shoes, and lay down fully clothed. Nature took over in short order, and though she tried to persist so as to think about her situation, sleep overtook her thoughts and she slept like one of the dead.

  It was late the next morning when Lance woke and burrowed his head deep into the covers. His bed was most comfortable, and there hung on the pillows and sheets a light, most pleasant scent. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept so well. But now he was awake, he felt the urge to relieve himself and got up. Light was streaming in through the single window in the outside wall, and it illuminated the room. His eyes adjusting, he turned and found the very picture of a cozy, well-appointed bed chamber, nothing like the way he remembered. At the end of his bed, folded neatly, were clean clothes. First though, he needed that bath, and he rummaged groggily but could not find his old robe, shrugged, tugged on his dirty breeches and went downstairs, stumbling once or twice as he tried to wake up, following the delectable aromas that issued from the kitchen. The girl he’d met last night wasn’t there, but while he was looking around, the door to the outside opened and she came in, carrying a bucket of water which was placed on top of the table.

  Lance decided to be affable, remembering her off-putting attitude from the previous evening. “Good morning, Miss Winifred.” She shuttered those bright blue eyes and looked away from him, turned to the stove to flip the little cakes cooking on the griddle, their surfaces and edges crisp and brown.

  “Which d’you want first, breakfast or bath?” The question was asked matter-of factly.

  His mouth watered. “Breakfast, I think.” She looked at him blankly before turning to the little cakes and started to pile them on a plate, spreading a knife full of butter between each one, then, when four cakes were stacked, she took a small pan from the stove and poured thinned, warm strawberry preserves on the top, which ran down the sides and dripped into the shallow well of the plate. She placed this on the table, turned and poured a large mug of steaming, aromatic coffee that she set beside the plate.

  “Cream? Sugar?” He shook his head and sat down. The girl turned back to the stove and bent to take warmed pies from it and set them beside the plate of stout cakes, a wedge of them already on his fork.

  “Um.” After the first bite, he could forgive the haughty little maid anything.

  Winnie poured a pot of hot water into the already partially filled washtub. “I shall leave you to your ablutions,” she said, whisking out of the room without another word.

  Ablutions. Methinks the young maid has a high opinion of herself, Lance thought, but then he became immersed in the act of eating sublime food for the first time since he’d come home. The pies had a flaky, perfectly browned crust that tasted as if they were fresh-made, though he knew they must be at least a day old and merely warmed, and the coffee had the taste of some spice added that caused him to savor the first cup and pour himself another. “Ah, perfect.” If the girl who wasn’t the cook could do this well and take care of the house, he could put up with a little chit who didn’t consider him her better. She was worth every penny Barnaby paid her.

  Suddenly, the girl was back with clothing on her arm and a glare in her eyes. She left before he could say anything sharp to her as he wished. But the bath awaited him. He sank down into the warm water and began to wash with the soap and cloth she had provided on the chair beside the tub. How nice it would be to be bathed by someone as he had when he was a child and hated it then, but instead he hurried through it before the water could cool off. He stood and picked up the large drying cloth, started at the top, rubbing his clean thick head of hair and working his way down his body. The water was dirty with a ring of scum on the top when he finished. He put his foot on the chair, drying first one side and then the other, put on clean clothes and sighed. Damn! Everything was right with the world for once, and he felt right, too. It was the first time in a long time. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he’d felt so well.

  The coffee was no longer hot, but still satisfying when she came back into the kitchen. “You don’t remember me?” He was taken aback by the question. He ought to remember this girl if he knew her in the past, surely. “Winifred Alexander?” She waited. Certainly, that name ought to ring a bell with him. Instead he looked confused. “Miranda Alexander? Does that name mean anything to you?” He thought before slowly shaking his head. “The most momentous time of my life save the time I was born, and you remember none of it.” Her voice and expression were bitter. She’d lost home, family, almost everything, and she meant nothing to him. Winnie felt like screaming in rage.

  “I think you might have me confused with someone else, Miss Winifred. I have been away for five years. I would remember you otherwise, I’m sure of it.”

  Winnie was stupefied. “I cannot believe it, I simply cannot! It was five years ago, Master Lance, that you invaded our household, the Alexander household, in an alcoholic stupor and kidnapped me away, you and your friend Jaren. I was jostled, knocked about, nearly suffocated, had a miserable headache that lasted a week, and the worst part happened when you brought me here after taking me to Scotland.” Tears began seeping from her eyes and running unimpeded down the comely cheeks while he stared at her. “To think I was the object of such derision and jollity amongst you all. You drew straws, as if I were some puppy, you and Jaren and the smith. And the worst of what happened to me was when I woke upstairs. Then the torment truly began.” It was Master Lance’s turn to look confused as he tried to follow her hoarse narrative. “It was meant to be Miranda, my sister, but she had gone away for the week.” Winnie couldn’t go on, afraid she’d break down and cry, and she wanted none of that.

  “I…I…No, I don’t recall…” He stopped. Little bits and pieces were coming together in his memory to form a picture.

  “You don’t recall! What a travesty! You brought me here after our so-called marriage, and…and…and you raped me!”

  He stiffened. “What? Raped you, you say. What proof have you th
at I…did what you say?” The game was up, however. His memory, parts of it at least, had come back to form a portrait, shadowy and incomplete though it might be. She knew his friend’s name, and he recalled some awful pranks the two of them committed. The girl might well be right. Either that or she’d cooked up some scheme, but for what end he couldn’t imagine. His conscience niggled, though. For what end would a girl go through what she said she had.

  “Oh, that I could so easily forget what happened that time. How fortunate you are,” she spat at him with abject distress. “I can produce a paper that says we are married, and though the spelling is poor it seems a legal document.”

  Lance shook his head. “Well, then, If I was the cause of such distress to you, why didn’t you simply return home?”

  Winnie folded her arms together and looked away from the dark, glittering gaze. “I did try.”

  “And…?”

  She looked at him, her eyes glistening with more tears. “They wouldn’t take me back.”

  The awful man was quiet for a while, thinking. “Besides, a man cannot rape his wife.”

  “Whether she is your wife or no, if you force yourself on an unwilling woman, it, it…it is what I said. And, in any event, we hadn’t a real marriage. It was a joke, just a monstrous, evil joke, of which I was the butt.”

  “Look, ah, Miss Winifred, I don’t know what you expect of me, would have me do. I was a different person five years ago, and I don’t believe you would hold me to some foolish prank committed so long ago, of which neither of us had benefit…”

  “At least I received no benefit from it, just torment and shame and humiliation.”

  Lance frowned. “I cannot undo what was done to you all that time past. And by the looks of things, you haven’t done too poorly for yourself.”