What have you brought home this time?” The woman’s eyes were very dark, but keen and sharp as a blade, cutting her up one side and down the other. Despite her evident age, those eyes were surprisingly youthful, holding the same spark of wit Lucy detected in John Carver. More than simple good humor, it was a lusty, mischievous curiosity in the unusual.
“This, Mother, is the Friday winch, of Nate’s listed possessions,” John explained. “He meant to write ‘wench.’”
There was barely a glimmer of surprise to change her expression. “Friday wench indeed. He’s never so organized with anything as he is the women in his life!”
“She claims to have nowhere else to go,” said her son, still petting his dog, “I couldn’t very well leave her there could I? If he ever returns to find her lost, he’d never forgive me. No, he left her to my care, so I suppose we must take her in and feed the wretch.”
“I’ll not be a burden,” Lucy blurted. Hungry and overly tired, her manners were drawn very thin and brittle. “I shan’t stay long…”
Abruptly his mother took hold of her chin, examined her face and, after a moment, duly proclaimed her a “well-favored” young woman with good color and very fine features. “Where did he find you, then?”
Lucy had no answer. How she came to be among Nathaniel Downing’s shabby possessions was a tale she meant to keep secret, but the question raised many unpleasant memories, of Lord Winton’s angry face leaning over her, his features strained tight, his hand raised to strike again, cameo ring gleaming in the candlelight.
“Who knows where he found the wench?” John exclaimed. “Nate spends his time and his coin in a lot o’ whore houses.”
“John!”
“’Tis true, Mother. You know how he is. Never passed up a pretty face and a firm set o’ bubbies.” He stretched his arms overhead. “No need to put on airs and graces for Nate’s trollop, mother. I’m sure she’s heard worse. Now where’s my damned supper? Since I’ve now got two women in this house, perhaps I’ll finally get fed when I’m hungry.”
His mother ignored him, gently squeezing Lucy’s hand. “My nephew Nathaniel is like me,” she whispered. “He never would turn his back on a stray. No need to blush, my dear, I won’t press you for answers. We’re all entitled to our secrets. What would life be without them?”
She guided Lucy down into a chair, patting her shoulder in a kindly fashion, and thus she was accepted. Just like that. Lucy had never before met a woman so free of judgment.
Clutching her small wooden box of belongings, she looked around the large, open interior of the house and found it tidy, warm and well-kept, much like the old lady herself. The main fireplace dominated the room, an impressive carved mantle in very dark wood and stone that might have been too severe and overpowering, yet the multitude of windows around the house prevented any fear of stifling or any sensation of being closed in. The floor was simple flagged stone, covered with rushes and dried herbs to scent the air. There was a cushioned window seat with several embroidered pillows and Lucy thought how pleasant it would be to sit there on a sunny morning, looking out over the yard. Then she inwardly scorned herself for thinking she had any right to claim a seat in that house, among people who didn’t know her, or the wicked things she’d done.
Mistress Carver was preparing supper in a large pot over the fire, exclaiming they were so late she hoped the stew wasn’t burned. While tossing in a few more herbs from bunches hanging overhead, she turned to her son and bemoaned the fact he’d left that morning with neither coat nor hat. Now he had a wet shirt as a consequence and had probably sat in it all day. He was fortunate, she lectured him, never to catch cold.
“I’m famished, Mother,” he declared, dismissing her concern with barely a thought. “At this rate I’ll die of hunger and
“This, Mother, is the Friday winch, of Nate’s listed possessions,” John explained. “He meant to write ‘wench.’”
There was barely a glimmer of surprise to change her expression. “Friday wench indeed. He’s never so organized with anything as he is the women in his life!”
“She claims to have nowhere else to go,” said her son, still petting his dog, “I couldn’t very well leave her there could I? If he ever returns to find her lost, he’d never forgive me. No, he left her to my care, so I suppose we must take her in and feed the wretch.”
“I’ll not be a burden,” Lucy blurted. Hungry and overly tired, her manners were drawn very thin and brittle. “I shan’t stay long…”
Abruptly his mother took hold of her chin, examined her face and, after a moment, duly proclaimed her a “well-favored” young woman with good color and very fine features. “Where did he find you, then?”
Lucy had no answer. How she came to be among Nathaniel Downing’s shabby possessions was a tale she meant to keep secret, but the question raised many unpleasant memories, of Lord Winton’s angry face leaning over her, his features strained tight, his hand raised to strike again, cameo ring gleaming in the candlelight.
“Who knows where he found the wench?” John exclaimed. “Nate spends his time and his coin in a lot o’ whore houses.”
“John!”
“’Tis true, Mother. You know how he is. Never passed up a pretty face and a firm set o’ bubbies.” He stretched his arms overhead. “No need to put on airs and graces for Nate’s trollop, mother. I’m sure she’s heard worse. Now where’s my damned supper? Since I’ve now got two women in this house, perhaps I’ll finally get fed when I’m hungry.”
His mother ignored him, gently squeezing Lucy’s hand. “My nephew Nathaniel is like me,” she whispered. “He never would turn his back on a stray. No need to blush, my dear, I won’t press you for answers. We’re all entitled to our secrets. What would life be without them?”
She guided Lucy down into a chair, patting her shoulder in a kindly fashion, and thus she was accepted. Just like that. Lucy had never before met a woman so free of judgment.
Clutching her small wooden box of belongings, she looked around the large, open interior of the house and found it tidy, warm and well-kept, much like the old lady herself. The main fireplace dominated the room, an impressive carved mantle in very dark wood and stone that might have been too severe and overpowering, yet the multitude of windows around the house prevented any fear of stifling or any sensation of being closed in. The floor was simple flagged stone, covered with rushes and dried herbs to scent the air. There was a cushioned window seat with several embroidered pillows and Lucy thought how pleasant it would be to sit there on a sunny morning, looking out over the yard. Then she inwardly scorned herself for thinking she had any right to claim a seat in that house, among people who didn’t know her, or the wicked things she’d done.
Mistress Carver was preparing supper in a large pot over the fire, exclaiming they were so late she hoped the stew wasn’t burned. While tossing in a few more herbs from bunches hanging overhead, she turned to her son and bemoaned the fact he’d left that morning with neither coat nor hat. Now he had a wet shirt as a consequence and had probably sat in it all day. He was fortunate, she lectured him, never to catch cold.
“I’m famished, Mother,” he declared, dismissing her concern with barely a thought. “At this rate I’ll die of hunger and
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