The Bride Sale by Candice Hern

she’d arranged in one corner of the oldkitchen. Tomorrow she would use the broom and comfrey roots to instruct Mrs. Chenhalls and Gonetta in the preparation of various oils and decoctions for stiff or swollen joints.
    The wind whipped her skirts as she walked up the narrow, winding path through an archway in the old stone wall. Broader paths, lower walls, and open gateways led finally to the rear of the house and the kitchen garden. The wind picked up and blew strongly against her, almost taking off her bonnet. Verity dipped her head and held down the brim of the hat, using it to shield her face. Fighting her flapping skirts and the cloak billowing behind her like a sail, she hurried along with bowed head, following the familiar gravel path through the herb garden.
    â€œHere now, what’s this?”
    Verity bumped against something solid and found that her blind steps had led her straight into the barrel chest of a man. He grasped her elbows to steady her, and she looked up into the eyes of Rufus Bargwanath, the steward at Pendurgan. She had been introduced to him briefly a few days earlier by Mrs. Tregelly but had not seen him since. He was a burly Cornishman of middle age with thick brown hair peppered with gray, a slightly bulbous nose, and a florid complexion. She had disliked him on sight.
    He had a small office in the kitchen wing and must have stepped outside without Verity seeing him. He kept one hand on her elbow while he removed his hat with the other. “Ah. Mrs. Osborne, is it not?”
    A sneer curled his lip as he emphasized the word “Mrs.,” and a twinge of alarm crawled up Verity’s spine. His indolent gaze roamed over her body andcame to rest on the basket clutched tightly against her breast. Verity became uncomfortably aware of the strong wind molding the thin woolen dress against her body like a second skin. She squirmed, but his grip held firm.
    â€œI had not realized Harkness had put you to work in the kitchen,” Bargwanath said. He did not speak in the friendly broad Cornish of the Chenhalls family but in a rough, gravelly, thoroughly unpleasant voice with only a hint of the local accent in the long vowels. He gave her elbow a suggestive squeeze. “I thought he had other plans for you,” he said.
    A lecherous grin revealed a small mouth overcrowded with yellowed teeth. His breath stank of tobacco and onions. Verity wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Excuse me, Mr. Bargwanath,” she said, then stepped around him and hurried toward the back entrance. His jeering laughter rang out behind her.
    She raced through the larders and sculleries and into the welcoming warmth of the ancient kitchen. Mrs. Chenhalls stood in front of the enormous open hearth and looked up at Verity’s entrance.
    â€œAfternoon, Miz Osborne. Ogh! Been out gatherin’ more herbs, have ’ee?”
    When Verity reached the corner where she had stored plants and other materials for her herbal preparations, she set the basket down and pressed a hand to her chest. Panting as though she’d been running, she took a moment to compose herself. She braced both hands against the wooden counter and inhaled the fragrant aromas of roasting meat and freshly baked bread.
    â€œI’ve been to the lower grounds,” she said at last,then untied her bonnet and hung it on a wall hook. She did not look up as she spoke, knowing her face must still be flushed from the steward’s coarse words. “I found several good plantings down there that will be useful. I will tell you and Gonetta all about them tomorrow, and show you where to find them. If the weather’s clear.”
    Mrs. Chenhalls turned back to the hearth and began adjusting a roasting spit between two stout iron fire dogs angled against the back wall. She chattered on about the capricious Cornish weather while Verity emptied her basket and began to tie the plants and roots into bunches. She only half listened to the