Page 6 of Her Noble Groom
Chapter four
T homasse rubbed her arms and stamped her feet, trying to get warm. The blanket James had left behind helped stave off the chill, but only slightly.
Her father appeared in the doorway, his clothes soaked and caked with sand, his brow glistening with sweat. “I got the boat up to the cottage. We may need it again.”
Her brow furrowed. “I hope not.”
He scanned the cottage, his gaze lighting on the woodpile. Selecting a log, he tossed it onto the fire. Soon, smoke billowed, filling the room.
Thomasse coughed, and her eyes stung. “Can we not find an inn? This place is not fit for a dog.”
“I am too tired to seek lodging,” her father said, as he threw open the shutters.
Through the open door, she spied James coming down the hill, leading an ass laden with baskets.
“Quick!” Thomasse grabbed the still damp cotehardie. “James is coming. Help me dress.”
Her father helped pull the garment over her head. By the time James arrived in the doorway, she was properly dressed.
James entered carrying two parcels and a jug, and set them on the table.
Thomasse opened the first one and withdrew two woolen blankets, a grey tunic, black hose, a patched kirtle, and a blue cotehardie.
The worn wool felt soft against her skin.
She shook it out, and a brush dropped onto the floor.
She retrieved it, admiring the fine carving on the back.
“How beautiful! This was most thoughtful.”
James’s eyes dulled, and his voice cracked. “It belonged to—my wife.”
“I am so sorry.” She clasped the brush to her breast, realizing the gift had cost him. “I promise to treasure it.”
Her father opened the second parcel, which contained a loaf of bread, a lump of cheese, and some dried fruit.
Thomasse eyed the victuals. Her stomach gnawed, an unfamiliar sensation.
At the moment, all she could think of was stuffing bits of fruit and chunks of bread in her mouth.
But proper manners restrained her. She would not deign to behave like a vagabond.
After all, she was a daughter of the gentry, soon to be betrothed to the son of an earl.
The ass brayed. James stepped outside and returned with a large kettle filled with vegetables and a bucket. “Everything you need to prepare a nice stew.”
“We will repay you for your trouble,” her father said.
“No need. The victuals are compliments of Seigneur de Carteret and his family.”
Her father’s face paled, and something akin to fear flickered in his eyes.
How could a kind gesture cause dread? Thomasse wondered.
James met Thomasse’s gaze. “Might I ask what part of England you hail from?”
“Perchance we can answer your questions another time,” her father replied, his words clipped. “We are quite tired from our journey.”
James gave a brief nod. “If you need anything, I will come by on the morrow.” At the door, he glanced back at Thomasse. “Sleep well.”
Once the door was shut and barred, Thomasse grabbed the bread and tore off a large portion, handing the rest to her father.
She shoved several pieces in her mouth, trying to drive away the hunger.
She lifted the jug of ale and drank until her throat was no longer parched, uncaring of her father’s disapproving look.
Sated, she sat beside the fire to brush out her tangled tresses.
“You were rather rude, Father,” said Thomasse. “James seems a nice sort, and it was very kind of him to bring us food and dry garments.”
“God’s teeth! One cannot be too careful around strangers.” Her father looked at her askew. “Tell me you do not have your eyes on a new beau when you are nigh betrothed. Beware, lest you confuse gratitude with regard. ”
“It is only natural to be curious. He saved my life. Do you think he is the seigneur’s son?”
“He is the groom.”
Her face warmed. How had she missed the clues—the ill-fitting tunic, the scuffed boots? “So you do know him? Why did you not acknowledge it before?”
He rose from the table, snatched a blanket, and picked up a mat. “We met briefly once in London.” Unfolding the mat, he laid it out before the fire and drew the blanket over him. “I am too tired to answer any more questions tonight.”
Yawning, she continued to brush her unruly locks. If they had been home, Agnes would do this for her. A tear slid down her cheek. Faced with everything that had happened the last several days, how silly that only this had made her cry.
She laid the brush aside and pulled the other filthy mat over to the fire. Tomorrow she would clean the cottage, but tonight she needed sleep. Although humble, at least there was a roof over their heads.
In her dreams, she was in the garden of their home in Sussex, walking hand-in-hand with a tall man.
He drew her close, his hand firm, yet gentle.
She lifted her face, awaiting his kiss. Their eyes met.
But they did not belong to Arthur—or Jack.
They were amber. Startled, she awoke, her heart racing.
Had Agnes and her father been right? Were her affections so fleeting?
She tossed and turned, willing sleep to return, her mind disturbed as she tried to grasp the significance. Dreams were strange things, weaving together memories and imaginations—but always with meaning.
L ight filtered through the cracks in the shutters, waking Thomasse. Every muscle in her body ached, and she wondered if the bruises and tenderness would ever go away. Yet she must confess, sleeping on the thin mat with a roof over her head was preferable to bare, wet ground beneath the sky.
She rolled over. Her father’s mat was empty. He sat at the table, dressed in the gray tunic and black hose, inspecting the fishing net.
Thomasse sat up and stretched. “Good morning, Father.”
He grumbled something she could not make out.
Scrambling up, she joined him. “What are you doing?”
He waved a hand over the net. “Trying to figure this thing out. I have never fished with a net before. Thought I might try my hand.”
“To what purpose?”
“You know I can never bear to be idle.” He scooped up the net and tossed it onto his shoulder. “I shall return in a few hours.”
When he had gone, she removed the garments from the parcel James had delivered the evening before.
Although worn, at least they were not torn.
She slipped the cotehardie over her head and drew in the laces.
Digging through the pile of discarded garments, she rescued her stockings and pulled them on.
Her boots were still damp, but given the circumstances, she was grateful to have them at all.
Her stomach rumbled, followed by pangs of hunger. She grabbed the remainder of the bread, tossing it aside when she could not bite through it. Unfortunately, stale and hard, it was only fit for feeding the swine.
Upon searching the cottage, she found nothing with which to clean it other than the bucket. With nothing to occupy her hands and no one to talk to, she ventured outside.
Overhead, gulls soared and shrieked, and the salt air smelled fresh after the smoky cottage.
She climbed to the crest of the hillock behind the humble dwelling.
To the west lay an endless expanse of water; to the south, the green hills were dotted with grazing sheep; and to the north, the sandy shore gave way to rocky cliffs.
Looking eastward, a stream wound lazily through a grove of alder trees just beyond the base of the hillock.
To the south stood the family chapel, and a bit farther on, what appeared to be a stable.
To the north was a cookhouse with a brick oven out front.
Two men were pulling bread from it, the aroma wafting on the breeze made her mouth water .
Across the green sat the manor house built of brown stone. Not a grand structure like their home in Sussex, but compared to the modest cottage, it looked like a mansion. A group of soldiers dressed in blue tunics gathered near the door.
She sat beneath a tree in the grove and watched two lads fighting with wooden swords on the green.
They were of similar age, one with dark shoulder-length hair, the other with sandy locks.
These must be the seigneur’s sons. Maybe there were other children her age, a daughter perchance, whom she could befriend.
The door of the manor house opened and two soldiers walked out and joined the others. Together, they strode toward the stables and soon were riding away down the pathway.
She turned back to watch the boys who had finished their game. They hurtled in her direction. She sprang up and ducked behind the tree, embarrassed by her faded attire.
They sat on the crest of the hill and chattered like monkeys. “One day, I will be a knight like my father,” the dark-haired boy said.
“Not me. I intend to own a ship and sail the world,” the lanky, sandy-haired lad replied.
The dark-haired boy punched the other in the arm. “Impossible, William. You shall be reeve when I am seigneur.”
William shrugged. “What is wrong with dreaming of bigger things?”
“We cannot always get what we want,” the dark-haired boy replied. “After my sister died, I wished for another sibling, but my prayers were never answered.”
That told her all she needed to know. There were no children her age at the manor. A branch cracked behind her, and she whirled about, slamming into something hard. She stumbled backward.
A firm hand grabbed her arm. “My apologies. I did not mean to startle you. I was just heading to the cottage to see if you needed anything.” She glanced up to find a wide grin and amber eyes alight with amusement. “I see the clothes fit,” James said.
Her face heated at the memory of last night’s dream. “They will suffice until I get new gowns,” she replied primly .
A twisted smile replaced his grin. He pivoted and strode back toward the stable.
Her cheeks burned. How ungrateful she must sound! She owed him so much—her life, last night’s supper, even the clothes she wore. But should she beg his pardon?