Yearning Heart (3 page)

Men fought the fire, passing buckets of water from hand to hand as students watched. Rebecca, standing near a small desk not yet ablaze, spied the vellum pages curling at the edges. She grabbed them, protecting them with her heavy woolen gown. She started to hand them over to someone but was paid no attention. She held the treasured writings to her for a long time, and then quietly went back to her room and hid them in the case with unused clothing.

A secret smile curved her lips now as she gently covered the pages with old clothing. They were hers. She would never leave them for papa to profit from. Even if Sir Stephen took them later, she would rather give them to him than to Sir Oliver.

A plain brown, woolen dress, a linen chemise, a black skirt and white high-necked top were placed over her prized possession. Her black slippers were dusty, having been worn only to church. She wiped them with her hand, made a trough on either end beneath her clothing and poked them down. There was a red shawl, the only colorful piece of clothing she owned. She rolled it into a corner under the dark dress.

A hesitant knock came at the door.

“Come,” she said, and her mother stepped into the room. They stared at each other, and then Rebecca ran into her arms.

Lady Elizabeth patted her shoulder.

“It is best for you, Rebecca.”

“But, Mama, I do not wish to go with him. I know nothing. I...”

“Papa has made the bargain, Rebecca. You have to go.”

“But—can you not—please, tell papa it is not right to, to trade me. For what? More land? I have never seen this man, Mama, and I do not wish to marry him.”

Eyes bright with tears, she pleaded with Lady Elizabeth, knowing it would do no good. It was the way of the master. His word was law. Elizabeth had never defied her husband. What he decided would take place, no matter the pain for Rebecca.

“You will be happy with Sir Stephen. Papa says he is a rich man and influential with the king.”

Rebecca sniffed and pulled away to look up into her mother's vacantly pretty face. Lady Elizabeth had never been her champion where papa was concerned, but at least, she lamented not the fact she had given birth to a daughter instead of a son—the way papa did. Elizabeth had taught her to cook, how to plan good meals, to sew, to garden, but they did not talk of a girl's duties in marriage. Marriage to a stranger.

“It is far away, Mama,” she said in a small voice.

Lady Elizabeth nodded, and Rebecca waited for a word of reassurance.

When none was forthcoming, she said, “Will Richard come to say goodbye?”

“I think not, Rebecca. He must go to Worcester trading today.”

Her throat tightened as she turned away from her mother. She would not,
would not
, let them see her cry. Mayhap it was best not to see Richard. Had he known about Papa's bargain? No. No, Richard would have told me. He would have objected.

Sadness such as she had never known settled in her heart at the thought of not seeing him again. She would miss Lady Elizabeth, of course, but Richard was her staunchest support in the cold Grinwold family. If she had but known she wouldn't see Richard again, she would have hugged him more tightly ere she left him.

* * * *

Rebecca stood stiffly by as Sir Stephen's driver lifted the one case to the top of the carriage. A hand touched her arm, and Sir Stephen helped her inside. She turned once to look for Lady Elizabeth, but her mother was not there. Sir Oliver stood smiling benignly at the prancing horses in front of the carriage, but he did not look at Rebecca as the driver shouted to the team, and the carriage lurched into motion.

Rebecca huddled in the far corner of the carriage, looking across the cold, winter-dead fields. They looked as she felt—abandoned.

“I thought you were eighteen,” Sir Stephen said after they had traveled miles in silence. “You are young.”

“I will age in time, I should imagine,” she said, still turned away from him.

Long fingers lifted her chin and directed her to face him. Deep blue eyes beneath thick brown brows smiled at her, and a wide mouth opened slightly to reveal white teeth, one of them crooked out of line with the others.

“I daresay that is true.” A slim forefinger brushed across her mouth. “It will be all right.” Abruptly, he released her chin and looked toward the road in front of them. “Try to rest. It is a long journey.”

They stopped at a roadside inn for the night and were served cold lamb and dark bread by the innkeeper. Rebecca was surprised when Sir Stephen bade her goodnight and went into a room across the hall. She had no idea what to expect from this stranger but assumed he would take her body whenever he pleased. He had paid for her, had he not? He was not required to wait for marriage to sleep with her.

She undressed, drawing on the only sleeping garment she possessed, a rough material of an ugly shade of rose. Some distant cousin had left it with Mama and nothing was to be wasted, so she now owned the plainly made wrap. It was warm, the only worthwhile thing about it.

She turned back the woolen quilt, crawled into bed, and hunched against the pillows, her arms around knees drawn up to her chest. A hard lump formed in her throat, and her eyes felt tight. There was little love at home to miss, but at least the small bedroom was her own, with its bright coverlet Lady Elizabeth made while she carried Rebecca for nine months.

And Richard. She sorely missed him already. Would he forget her immediately as she knew papa would?

A knock sounded at the door and made her jump. Her heart thudded, and she didn't answer right away. Sir Stephen was coming to claim his rights.

“Rebecca?” a quiet voice said, and then the door swung open to reveal the man who would soon be her husband. His big frame filled the doorway, and he lowered his head to enter without bumping. He stood just inside the room, staring at the small figure huddled on the pillows, missing nothing in the forlorn face with tear-bright eyes.

“You are comfortable, Rebecca?”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered over the pain in her throat.

Two steps brought him to the foot of the bed.

“Do not cry, Rebecca.”

She shook her head, afraid to speak.

“How old are you?” he said, pursuing his earlier question.

“Sixteen, my lord.”

He frowned and uttered a word she did not understand, but he continued to look at her. “Do not be sad to leave your family. We will visit them within the year.”

“Yes, my lord.”

It wasn't papa and mama she missed. It was the warm aloneness of her room, the wide-open fields she roamed, dreaming and singing soft melodies she built in her head. And, if she found Richard on the far side of papa's land, joining him to eat fruit as he rested or just being quiet and comfortable together.

Richard had never wished she were another brother or criticized her for her lack of restraint as she ran through the fields or rode bareback on one of the horses left to pasture.

An odd gentleness filled Sir Stephen's face, then he straightened to say roughly, “Goodnight, Rebecca. We leave at first light.” He left her, closing the door quietly behind him.

She let go her breath and lay back, dragging the cover over her. Soon, Sir Stephen would not leave her at night. Soon, he would stay and ... she squeezed her eyes shut.

What will it be like to have a man touch me so? she wondered. The poems and songs Sister Emilie read aloud in school awakened her romantic dreams. The manuscript pages spoke of tender love, of touches and affection between man and woman. But she was a bought and paid for wife. There was no love or tenderness to be hers. Only to be claimed by her lord and master. Sir Stephen was big, he would hurt her.

Her hands moved over her small body, over barely existing breasts, a flat stomach with bones protruding on each side, thin legs. She knew a man coveted mostly that part between her legs. She touched herself hesitantly, drew in her breath and pulled her hands from beneath the covers. She could not imagine how it would feel for a man to put his big hands—and more—on her. She shivered and covered up, head and ears. Soon, she slept.

* * * *

Rebecca couldn't eat the next morning. Her stomach seemed to be in knots and her throat too tight to let pass anything other than the strong tea served by the innkeeper. Sir Stephen watched her small efforts but said nothing.

Outside, the sign overhead rasped and groaned as the wind whistled around the corner of the old inn. Clouds hung low overhead like gray drapes. She looked at the sky as their travel cases were loaded onto the top of the carriage. Sir Stephen helped her aboard, springing lightly behind her. She felt old and heavy and ugly, a parcel traded to the highest bidder. The weather, angry and dark, matched her mood.

Sir Stephen didn't talk as they traveled. Instead, he removed a ledger from the satchel he carried and turned pages to stare at columns of figures. She studied the uneven features, his well-molded mouth beneath a heavy mustache.

What would it be like to have him kiss her? Fascinated by the thought, feeling warmth in her cheeks, Rebecca put her hand to her own soft mouth. She had never been kissed. All she had ever done was dream.

She turned to look out the carriage window. Brown fields stretched in all directions, windswept, dreary fields. Sheep grazed near the road as they came upon a small village.

“We will have tea and walk a bit to stretch our legs,” Sir Stephen said.

She didn't answer. She was accustomed to obeying and did not question him even though she didn't want anything. Her stomach craved to be left alone.

“Hot tea will relax you,” he said as though reading her thoughts.

It was nearing dusk when the carriage stopped, and Rebecca sat up, startled at the sudden quiet, to realize she had been dozing. She glanced at Stephen who smiled at her. Rebecca smoothed back her hair and tried to smile in return, but her face muscles were frozen.

Nearby, a few dark shapes of small houses stood near the highway. The inevitable ale sign hung over a rough-hewn building where the carriage stopped. Inside, it was warm and comfortable, the dimly flickering candles giving the hallway a welcoming glow.

The beaming face of an old woman peeped from the stairway.

“This way, my lord. I have a comfortable room at the top of the stairs.”

Rebecca swallowed hard. One room. The time had come when ...

“We would have two rooms, if you please,” Sir Stephen said.

The woman looked from Stephen to Rebecca, her mouth opened in mild surprise, but she nodded. “There is another across the hall, my lord,” she said, and Stephen followed the bent figure into the other room.

Rebecca went into the small clean room, noting the bed with its dark quilted coverlet, a shuttered window barred against the night, one candle casting shadows. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her slippers, so dusty now she could no longer be sure of their color.

“Mrs. Heaton will bring us tea and stew she has left from the evening meal,” Stephen said from the doorway.

“I do not wish to eat.”

Sir Stephen stepped into the room.

“I will not have your death from starvation on my conscience, Rebecca,” he said. “You will eat, and you will drink the tea.”

“Very well, my lord.”

She ate the stew and it tasted good. She took a drink of the tea and immediately, the stew and everything eaten the past week spewed from her stomach. Gagging and coughing, she watched in horror as the mess spread over the spotless wooden floor.

Then she was being lifted and moved away from the ugly remains of her meal. A soft cloth wiped at her mouth. She pulled away, tried to get her feet on the floor to go look for something with which to clean.

“Be still,” Sir Stephen said. “Stay there. Do not move.”

Shivering, Rebecca remained on the edge of the bed where Stephen left her. A few minutes later, Mrs. Heaton came in, clucking her tongue, working industriously all the time.

“I should ha’ known,” she said. “So pale. So young to be with child.” She clicked her tongue once more. “Men. They know nothing of how to care for a wife when she carries their seed.”

Rebecca stared dumbly at the woman, and then realized Mrs. Heaton thought her with child. She gagged. Soon enough, it would be so. That's what women were for—carrying cases for man to bring forth sons into the world.

She thought the woman would never finish cleaning, but still, she was thankful Mrs. Heaton did the job. Papa would have beaten her before making her clean up her own mess. At least, Sir Stephen did not beat her—yet. Mayhap as his wife, she would present a better target.

“Rebecca?”

She raised her head.

“I am sorry, my lord.”

“I should have known your stomach was not settled enough for food, but you have not eaten since we left Grinwold. I am afraid you will become ill.”

She was already ill, but it mattered not.

“How much longer to Glastonbury?”

“We will arrive late on the morrow.”

She went completely rigid. Tomorrow night, Sir Stephen would ...

His hands on her shoulders forced her to look up at him.

“Rest tonight. You will be all right once we get you settled in your new home.” He spoke as to a small child and brushed his mouth across the top of her head. “Go to sleep now. I will see you early the morning.”

* * * *

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Chapter Two

They reached Glastonbury late the afternoon of the third day of travel. It was raining and colder than when they left papa's house. The horses pulling the carriage snorted and blew mist from their nostrils as they struggled up the steep hillside to reach the dark gray building overlooking a rocky cliff.

Rebecca eyed the forbidding structure that stood in silent vigil over the waters of the rugged coastline. Several outbuildings loomed a distance away from the main house.

“We are home, Rebecca.” Sir Stephen's voice was gruff as though expecting an argument.

Her mouth twisted. Did not papa tell you he never allowed argument? She wanted to ask. She accepted his hand as he helped her from the carriage. Her legs trembled mayhap from weakness. She still hadn't eaten.