The Wrong Bride Page 6

  “I haven’t? How would you come to know this? You’ve no idea what I’ve gone through, how hard I’ve worked, what improvements I’ve overseen to this place.”

  He lifted a wry eyebrow. “You? Now your little tale surely is being vastly embroidered. I once knew a very lovely girl by the name of Miranda, and she had a skinny, shapeless little sister, I can’t remember her name…”

  Winnie was happy to supply it. “Winifred Agnes Alexander, if you please, and now, what am I to do, since you didn’t have the grace to die in the war like a noble soldier ought?”

  His mouth widening, he smothered a laugh, which irritated Winnie beyond measure. “What would you like me to do, Winifred Agnes Alexander?”

  Her mouth trembling, she replied. “Unfortunately, you cannot return my virginity, but I, I want a divorce!” she finally shouted. “Besides which I want the return of my dowry, and payment for the five years I’ve devoted to your house and its environs.”

  Lance frowned and appeared to be considering seriously. “Hmmm. I’m not sure I can accommodate you straight off. You may have to endure me for a while until I can look into the matter.”

  Winnie, her face astonished, suddenly heaved a sigh of relief. “I will have to settle for that for the time being. Please see you do, Master Lance, but do not take too much time. Perhaps I could get away before winter sets in?”

  His smile was forced. “And to go where and do what, Miss Winifred?”

  She turned from the flippant remark, saying bleakly. “I don’t know. I surely don’t.” Grasping blindly for the peg by the door, she hurried into the old coat and went outside.

  Lance sat on the bench in the kitchen, his face paler than usual. What an extraordinary pickle he’d gotten himself into, and apparently, he’d dragged Miss Winifred Agnes Alexander along with him. He wouldn’t soon forget her remark about him dying, however, he thought with a tightening of his mouth. Somehow, he would repay her for that, all in good time. She might have to wait a very long time to get her due. In the meantime, we’ll see what we’ll see.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They passed the rest of the day in silent and uneasy antagonism. For lunch, Winnie prepared herself cheese, bread, and tea. If he wanted to eat, Lance found he would have to shift for himself. He noticed she hadn’t picked up his clothes off the floor, and once he stumbled over them, he decided to pick them up and remove them to a basket placed on the floor near the armoire, likely for that purpose. His red coat had been brushed, cleaned, and mended and wasn’t the sore article he’d been in the day before. But that act was apparently the last she would do for him. She didn’t make his bed or lay out any of his clothes as she had the first day. She wasn’t his servant, true, but it would have been pleasant to have those few little things done for him. It had been a long time since anyone had waited on him, Lance sighed to himself, but he mustn’t expect it from her. But he would show this girl. He hadn’t had it easy the past five years, either. He’d moved up in rank over that time and saw accommodations rise in about the same proportions. In the beginning, he’d had nothing but his desire to survive.

  After breakfast the next day, Lance had a chance to look around the house while Winnie was busy working, and found himself pleased and, though he tried to steel himself against the feeling, humbled. His home was neat and orderly, even cozy, though there wasn’t an excess of furnishing, no velvets or bullion trim, that kind of thing. The lonely lush feature was the blue brocade covering on his bed. Draperies made of homespun, died blue to match the cover and lined, hung at the sides of the window in folds around light blue muslin curtains. He checked the other rooms, and they were similar, clean but not sumptuous. The library was clean and well-ordered, and the girl, he had to stop thinking of her that way, she wasn’t a girl anymore, had taken a desk and turned the room into her office, two account books neatly placed to one side, pen and inkwell on the other. The fireplace in the room was laid, ready to be lit when cold weather struck. Some evening when she was sleeping on the cot in the pantry, he would sneak a look at the books. He had no idea where they stood relating to income and the like. He’d checked all the rooms upstairs and they were shuttered, except his own, and all were bare-boned but clean. Downstairs, the wood floors were polished, the furniture, too, and in the previously ill-favored sitting room, the upholstery of chairs, a sofa, and two settees had been repaired. Window coverings were hung as in the bedroom, the dining room as well, with lined homespun. With a twist of feeling, Lance recalled how the house had been before his mother died. When winter came, velvet draperies were loosed from gold trim holdings when winter came to keep the house warm. Colorful rugs brightened up the rooms, and fires were lit in every one of them, the house festive during the Christmas season, with visitors imbibing drinks and gathering to sing carols and favorite songs and to swap stories and glad-hand each other. The men gathered in the smoking room after supper, his father’s office and room away from the women, who went into the sitting room to gossip and drink the mulled wine his mother was famous for in their circle of friends. It had been a different world then, he mused. Lance sighed. Gone forever, though, never to come back. At least he, unlike some of his comrades, had made it home and was whole in mind and body, though his injured spirit often lagged dully.

  After the house tour, Lance went outside to find Winifred struggling to load what looked to be small pieces of furniture into the cart, while the cob stolidly waited. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking these to Barnaby’s, fixing up his cottage as a surprise.”

  Lance hurried to the cart. “Here now, allow me to help.”

  “I can do it. The job is almost finished, anyway.” She stood back after putting the last piece in the cart, put her hands on the slender waist and breathed heavily. “I just need to take breath.”

  “You ought to have called me. I would have been glad to help.” He looked in the cart. “Where did you find these?”

  “They’re from the attics, most of them, or they’re extra or odd pieces from some of the rooms. They may need a bit of repair, that kind of thing, but Barnaby’s handy that way.” Winnie took one last breath and made for the cart. “I’ve been bringing them down one by one to put in the dining room until I could take them today.”

  Lance put his hand out. “I’ll drive. I wouldn’t mind seeing old Barnaby’s cottage, and I can have a look at the land along the way.”

  Winnie frowned, the little lines marking her fine brow, her jaw beginning to set. “I…very well, I shouldn’t say no.”

  “It’s a fine day,” he said jumping into the driver’s seat and offering a lift aboard. Hesitantly, reluctantly, Winnie put her hand in his, and Lance couldn’t avoid feeling the roughness.

  “We might as well appreciate it, because we won’t likely have too many left before winter arrives.” He nodded and pulled her up. She looked away hurriedly from the curious eyes and settled down in the narrow seat with barely enough room for two, and she was slim. It was far too intimate for Winnie. Lance turned to her just as she looked at him, and his smile for her was warm. She caught her breath and turned away quickly without returning the gesture, and Lance flicked the reins. With a little jerk, the cart started. Winnie put her hand down, clutching the edge of the seat to steady herself as they jostled together, often touching at the shoulder or seat. She heaved a sigh of relief when they reached the cottage. Before she could climb down, he had anticipated she wouldn’t want his help and was quick on the ground to help her. She muttered her thanks awkwardly. While she watched wordlessly, Lance began to unload the cart, putting the pieces down at the head of the front gardens, then taking them to the front stoop, closely followed by Winnie. Lance turned suddenly and Winnie almost ran into him. The blue eyes were wide and wary as she stepped back hurriedly.

  “You know, Miss Winifred…” He stopped, considering. “Perhaps I ought to stop calling you that, since you’re not officially a miss, but I have the feeling you wouldn’t like Mistress Brevard. What does
Barnaby call you? I shall do as he does.”

  “He calls me Winnie.” She smiled to herself. “I usually call him Mr. Jones.” The humor brought a sparkle to her eyes. “He still thinks of me as a girl, since I came to him that way in his mind.” She sobered and her eyes lost the shine of humor. “I wonder how he’ll address me now you’re home.”

  “Winnie. Yes. I like that. Little Winifred.” He breathed in the clear air and looked at the front of the cottage, then his brown eyes swung back to her. “Very well, if you don’t object, I shall call you Winnie, and I wouldn’t mind if you called me Lance.” Winnie wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was a little too intimate or informal since their situation wasn’t resolved. She’d already made clear her preferences: a divorce, the return of her dowry, and some compensation for the years of her labor.

  “I would prefer Master Lance. Since Barnaby is our lead in this matter, and it is what he calls you. It retains a bit of formality for the time being,” Winnie said primly.

  Lance chuckled, and dimples appeared as they looked into each other’s eyes. Winnie turned away first. “Yes, until we decide what to do with ourselves. I don’t wish to start proceedings right off, Winnie. It may seem selfish to you, but I need to rest, to recuperate, to think, to consider my own state.” He was about to tell her that he might not be able to withstand the upheaval. He wanted, in fact desperately needed, a quiet, settling time. “I am a little like you, I think. I too, was abducted and spent the last five years in a kind of hell. But at least you had a decent habitation and food and the like…”

  Winnie interrupted. “Yes, I did, and I will take that into consideration when we come to terms. However,” she couldn’t resist adding solemnly, “you deserved your fate. I did not.”

  His face became rigid, the smile vanished, the lazy, warm light in his eyes fled. “Damnation, Winnie! You are the most unfeeling, inflexible person of the feminine persuasion I have ever met, I vow. If you’d any idea of the suffering I and my fellows endured, you might not be so unbendable.” He was furious that his overture of some sort of friendliness between them had been swiftly deflected. “On the other hand, I must doubt that supposition. You’re a hard, frigid woman. I’ve done some poor sod a good deed by removing you from the marriage market.”

  His look of disdain disappeared as he turned his back and started to walk off, leaving a startled and shamed, red-faced Winnie behind. She swallowed. No one deserved the end some of the soldiers came to. She’d heard tales of deprivation of all kinds, especially short rations, of execrable weather, of long, hard, forced marches, of poor medical care, of blood and death in awesome numbers. He was right about part of what he’d said. Once he was gone, Winnie had suffered nothing except hard work. Her eyes narrowed to slits, her mouth tightened. She was not hard, nor frigid, and he was insulting to her in the worst way! Thinking this made her feel a little better about herself, though she still carried in her soul a residue of his condemnation. She was not hard, had as soft a heart as anyone, more than most, really, and as for her being frigid, she knew what the meant but not if she were guilty of it. But, if so, wasn’t it his fault?

  Winnie carried the little tables, shelves, vases, lamps, a chipped washbasin, a pitcher, and other assorted odds and ends into the cottage and distributed them in what she hoped was a pleasing arrangement. To her, the additions made the little house seem more snug and welcoming. Perhaps she would pick a few of the bright asters and marigolds, and, too, a few of the last roses, and fill the vases. But now, after her confrontation with Lance, she was too tired. Besides, Barnaby would be back tomorrow, likely late, and she could do the task in the morning after chores.

  At his house, Lance walked briskly past the kitchen door and down the lane to ease his anger. Winnie was the most stiff-necked, unforgiving woman and he needed to expel some of his frustration. After the long walk, turning back and taking in the view, he began walking more slowly. How pretty the house looked, the front lawn mowed by sheep, this part of the mellow brick house edged by neatly trimmed bushes, fronted by a wide swath of lavender, which was in turn bordered by patches of marigolds the length of it. Whoever was responsible for the arrangement was to be commended. It was most attractive. When he returned Winnie was at the house and avoided looking at him. Unsmiling, he followed her inside, and wonderful aromas coming from the oven assaulted his nose and made his mouth water. Winnie must have put whatever delectable food was cooking on early in the morning. Lance was starving, and the obstinate woman likely wouldn’t share with him that meal. For breakfast, he’d found the last of the savory pork pies and that would have to do. She hadn’t been thoroughly unreasonable, though, because there was a large pot of fresh coffee that couldn’t have been provided by anyone but her. He sat down and poured himself a cup of the coffee, now stale, but he’d had worse. Much worse, in fact. Many times, he’d had nothing for dinner, and little for breakfast or supper, perhaps just stale biscuit and watered-down tea.

  Lance watched as Winnie silently brought plates and set them down, one on her side, the other on his. The setting finished, she took a cloth and turned to the oven, opened it and took out a pan with two glistening, crisply browned, salted and seasoned chickens roasted on a bed of browned potatoes, onions, and carrots. It was too much for one person. If only she would share, he would forgive her any of that earlier nonsense. She edged one of the plates in front of him without gazing at him and sat down in front of the other after bringing a pitcher of cider and pouring some into cups. “Thank you.” Winnie didn’t reply, only bowed her head for a few silent minutes before beginning to eat delicately while he tore away at his food and stuffed his mouth. “Mmm…so good,” he said, munching away, finishing his meal before she was halfway through hers. He noticed she saved back half of hers. “You’re a very decent cook, Winnie. It isn’t a skill most women of your class have.” He drank the rest of his cider and stood to pour himself another.

  “Mistress Sherman, our cook at home, taught me after I brought her here. Barnaby, Mr. Jones…” she stopped, not wanting to share anything with him. “Thank you for the compliment,” she said stiffly. Lance, treading carefully, asked when Barnaby might be home. “I don’t expect him home until tomorrow. There’s a fair in town. I’m surprised you didn’t notice the commotion.”

  Lance nodded. “In too great a hurry to come home, perhaps not paying attention.” This was going well. “I appreciate your taking care of my coat, boots, and all.”

  “I didn’t know if you’d want to keep the coat. As a remembrance,” she added when he looked at her curiously.” I would have wanted to burn mine, I think, had I been a soldier.” He chuckled trying to picture Winnie that way, but she slid him a look of annoyance and he stopped at once. “Barnaby told me you and Jaren were tricked into signing on. What happened to him?”

  “Jaren?” Lance sighed. “He made a poor excuse of a soldier, like many others. It takes a year or two of soldiering to make a decent fighter. Jaren didn’t make it that long.”

  “I wish I could say I am sorry, but it wouldn’t be honest to do so. I didn’t know him. But I do hope he didn’t die a horrible death. We all heard stories if we cared to and read the papers when we went to town.”

  Lance’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “At least he did the decent thing by dying in the war, not like me.”

  Winnie frowned. “I didn’t mean it. I couldn’t be so cavalier as to wish anyone dead unless they were horrid criminals.”

  Lance lifted surprised eyes to her pretty, delicate face. “Winnie, this is pleasant. D’you think we might try being a little nicer to each other.” She stared at him. He had shaved his face smooth, revealing a hard-planed face with square jaw, a slight cleft in the chin. He was very handsome, very masculine. It came to her suddenly that he was a man and she was not, and it seemed uncommonly warm in the kitchen and Lance much too close.

  Winnie stood abruptly. “I’m sorry, but I’ve work to do,” she said crisply. “I must finish and haven’t time for pleasantries. I have
to be up early tomorrow morning.”

  Lance bridled at the quick change in attitude before himself to relax. “Very well. If there is anything I may help with, I will.”

  Winnie hesitated a moment before shaking her head. “I think we can sort all out when Mr. Jones returns.” Her tone was business like, clipped, and perhaps a bit too short, but Lance made himself take no umbrage. Winnie put the remains of her meal into a little bowl and placed a saucer on op. She knew he was watching and bit her lip, trying to go about the usual tasks of cleaning up. Winnie became so focused on trying to do everything the ordinary way and not feel deeply the awkwardness being around him made her. She didn’t realize he was gone until she turned, intent on telling him to stop staring at her. He was gone! Goodness, he could be quiet when he wanted. She put on the old coat to go outside. There was a cow to milk, sheep to herd into their fold, and the chickens to be penned in their coop. Much later, after cleaning dishes, Winnie fell into the cot after taking off her apron and changing into a nightshift, relieved that work was done. Cooking pots on the stove soaked in a large pan of water through the night for a good wash or scrape in the morning. It was becoming cool at night, and, really, Winnie didn’t mind sleeping on the cot, since it was the warmest room excepting the kitchen itself.

  Winnie wasn’t in the kitchen the next morning when Lance came there, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. The contents of her bowl from the night before were gone, and he helped himself to coffee kept warm on the back of th stove. He’d slept miserably the night before, had hoped to be up before Winnie.

  Outside, the wind was brisk. Lance looked around and didn’t see Winnie, so he headed to the cluster of buildings behind the tree line back of the house, two sheds, a large stable, a barn, a sheepfold, and the cob let out to pasture. Looking off to one side, Lance saw grazing sheep. Winnie was inside the barn sitting on a three-legged stool and milking a cow in her stanchion, streams of white milk landing with a hiss into the slanted bucket Winnie held between her knees. The cow turned her head and stared at him with huge eyes before losing interest and going back to munching on her hay. “Now, see, here is something I might have helped you with.”