at her. “Better not get any ideas of tempting me, Friday wench. Leaning all over me…”
She realized how glad she was to see him again, no matter how dangerous it was. It had a dizzying effect, like leaning too far from a window, or spinning around with her eyes closed.
“I’m only holding your arm because otherwise I’d be killed at this pace,” she pointed out. “If I had anything else to hold, I would much sooner cling to that, believe me.”
He stared down at her again, full of suspicion, but he didn’t say anything.
They rode in silence for the remainder of the journey and soon she was absorbed in the beauty of the countryside. The sun, fully out now, showed off with pride, drying John Carver’s sleeve and warming her face.
Captain Downing had often talked about the place where he was raised by his aunt and uncle. He considered John Carver as much a little brother as a cousin and had spoken of him often, but his words had conjured a very different picture, far from the reality. The small, thatched farmhouse she’d expected was actually a large, somewhat cumbersome old building, coated with ivy and topped by a jumble of crooked chimneys rising up into the sky like dark, rooky elms. Surrounding the front yard there were stables and other smaller buildings, all captured within a flint and pebble wall, guarded by impressively ornate iron gates. It was no palace, but it was no humble dwelling, either, and with little beads of rain caught on the ivy, winking in the sunset, it seemed almost alive and breathing.
“Welcome to Souls Dryft,” he said.
Already down from the cart, he raised his hands to help her out. Too overcome with nerves, she chose to make her own way, shoving his hands aside. “I can do it. Mind my gown. Your hands are dirty.” She realized the redundancy of her caution almost immediately when she remembered her earlier escape on a dung cart, but it was too late to take it back. Out of habit, she’d brushed him aside, a woman who preferred folk to keep their distance. Sitting too close to him on that cart had already done enough damage, now at least she was in control again of her own body.
A deep frown darkening his face, he watched her clamber awkwardly to the cobbles without his help.
Giving her no time to look around or tidy her wind-blown dignity, he herded her onward, sweeping his arms at her as if she was a stray sow, driving her down the step and through the entrance, where ivy hung thickly, mingling with fragrant, twisty strands of honeysuckle. “Make haste, Friday wench,” he declared. “I’m hungry for my supper.” So she stepped down into the house for the first time, entering another new chapter in her life.
“I’m home, Mother,” he yelled. “Hope you made a good supper. We’ve got a guest tonight and she needs a good feed to put some fat on her bones.” And then he laughed, as she flung a scowl over her shoulder. “Looks like hunger puts her in an ill-temper too, but I’ll soon spank that prissiness out of her with my filthy hands.”
Chapter 8
Snoring loudly, a huge hound stretched out across the warm hearth, but hearing John’s voice it woke, scrambled up and let out a deep, excitable bark. It galloped across the flagstone floor and John made a great fuss of the beast, rubbing its big head, kissing its nose, while it stood on a huge pair of back paws, thrusting its full weight into his chest.
“This is Vince,” he introduced his dog proudly. “Short for Invincible. And this, Vince, is Lucy Friday, apparently a stray wench no one else wants and so falls to our care. Much as you did, fool beast.” He grinned wryly. “Though she’s more particular and remarkably proud for a mutt.”
The dog turned its attention to her, sniffing the dung on her skirt and whimpering in excitement. Lucy inched away, sliding around the long trestle table, almost backing directly into an old woman who stood there, watching.
“What’s all this then, John?
She realized how glad she was to see him again, no matter how dangerous it was. It had a dizzying effect, like leaning too far from a window, or spinning around with her eyes closed.
“I’m only holding your arm because otherwise I’d be killed at this pace,” she pointed out. “If I had anything else to hold, I would much sooner cling to that, believe me.”
He stared down at her again, full of suspicion, but he didn’t say anything.
They rode in silence for the remainder of the journey and soon she was absorbed in the beauty of the countryside. The sun, fully out now, showed off with pride, drying John Carver’s sleeve and warming her face.
Captain Downing had often talked about the place where he was raised by his aunt and uncle. He considered John Carver as much a little brother as a cousin and had spoken of him often, but his words had conjured a very different picture, far from the reality. The small, thatched farmhouse she’d expected was actually a large, somewhat cumbersome old building, coated with ivy and topped by a jumble of crooked chimneys rising up into the sky like dark, rooky elms. Surrounding the front yard there were stables and other smaller buildings, all captured within a flint and pebble wall, guarded by impressively ornate iron gates. It was no palace, but it was no humble dwelling, either, and with little beads of rain caught on the ivy, winking in the sunset, it seemed almost alive and breathing.
“Welcome to Souls Dryft,” he said.
Already down from the cart, he raised his hands to help her out. Too overcome with nerves, she chose to make her own way, shoving his hands aside. “I can do it. Mind my gown. Your hands are dirty.” She realized the redundancy of her caution almost immediately when she remembered her earlier escape on a dung cart, but it was too late to take it back. Out of habit, she’d brushed him aside, a woman who preferred folk to keep their distance. Sitting too close to him on that cart had already done enough damage, now at least she was in control again of her own body.
A deep frown darkening his face, he watched her clamber awkwardly to the cobbles without his help.
Giving her no time to look around or tidy her wind-blown dignity, he herded her onward, sweeping his arms at her as if she was a stray sow, driving her down the step and through the entrance, where ivy hung thickly, mingling with fragrant, twisty strands of honeysuckle. “Make haste, Friday wench,” he declared. “I’m hungry for my supper.” So she stepped down into the house for the first time, entering another new chapter in her life.
“I’m home, Mother,” he yelled. “Hope you made a good supper. We’ve got a guest tonight and she needs a good feed to put some fat on her bones.” And then he laughed, as she flung a scowl over her shoulder. “Looks like hunger puts her in an ill-temper too, but I’ll soon spank that prissiness out of her with my filthy hands.”
Chapter 8
Snoring loudly, a huge hound stretched out across the warm hearth, but hearing John’s voice it woke, scrambled up and let out a deep, excitable bark. It galloped across the flagstone floor and John made a great fuss of the beast, rubbing its big head, kissing its nose, while it stood on a huge pair of back paws, thrusting its full weight into his chest.
“This is Vince,” he introduced his dog proudly. “Short for Invincible. And this, Vince, is Lucy Friday, apparently a stray wench no one else wants and so falls to our care. Much as you did, fool beast.” He grinned wryly. “Though she’s more particular and remarkably proud for a mutt.”
The dog turned its attention to her, sniffing the dung on her skirt and whimpering in excitement. Lucy inched away, sliding around the long trestle table, almost backing directly into an old woman who stood there, watching.
“What’s all this then, John?