Page 7 of Her Noble Groom
She had been taught common folk lacked the sensibilities of gentlefolk, but his reactions spoke of emotions that ran deep.
Unwilling to leave things as they were, she hastened after him. “James, wait.”
He did not slow his pace as she followed him to the stable, chiding herself for her rudeness.
“Will you show me the horses?” she asked timidly.
He handed her some parsnips from the basket near the door.
She wandered down the row of stalls, admiring the horses, stroking their noses, and offering them treats. “I had a dappled palfrey until a few days ago. Her name was Freya.”
“That explains your ease around horses.”
An awkward pause stretched between them. Thomasse broke the silence. “I noticed a group of soldiers leaving earlier. Is it too presumptuous to ask why they were here?”
“Jersey was recently invaded by the French. I suspect their presence is something to which we must become accustomed.”
Without warning, a black hound bounded around the corner. He jumped up and licked her face. Thomasse shrank back against the stall door.
“Down, Puddles.” James’s voice was firm. Glancing at Thomasse, he said, “He will not hurt you.”
Puddles gazed up at her with innocent eyes.
“You two have just met, but it appears Puddles is already enamored with you.” James gave the dog a playful shove. “Move along, boy, I saw her first.”
Thomasse laughed. “I am flattered. A maiden enjoys having men vie for her attention now and then.” She tapped her temple. “How shall I choose between you? ”
The twinkle returned to James’s eyes. “A pity if I lost out to a dog, but it would not be the first time.” He ducked around the corner and returned with a towel. “I know ’tis for the horses, but it will do the trick.”
As she wiped the slobber from her cheek, her stomach rumbled.
His brow wrinkled. “Have you eaten today?” When Thomasse shook her head, he continued. “Go ask for food at the cookhouse.”
“It would not be proper. I have yet to meet the seigneur and his family.”
“Our seigneur keeps an open door. Strangers are welcome to dine without invitation.” He offered her his arm. “You can go alone, or, if it makes you more comfortable, I can accompany you there. However, I cannot stay. Will you be able to find your way home?”
“I hope so.” A vision of her comfortable chamber at their home in Sussex rose in her mind. “I sincerely hope so.”
H er hunger satisfied, Thomasse returned to the cottage. From the doorway, she spotted her father, his hair windblown and clothes disheveled, dragging the boat across the sand. From a distance, he looked like any other fisher. She ran to meet him. “Did you catch anything?”
“Unfortunately, no.” His shoulders were stooped, his walk unsteady. “It is harder than it looks. I tried asking for help, but I cannot understand a word these fishers say.”
“Certainly, you will fare better tomorrow.”
They walked the remaining distance to the cottage in silence. Inside, her father flung himself into a chair while Thomasse opened the shutters to let in more light.
The sun shining directly through the window revealed thick layers of grime covering the worn furniture and the dishes and utensils stacked on the rickety sideboard. Thomasse cringed. The place was scarcely habitable.
She was grateful that Eleanor and Maud were travelling separately, and did not have to endure such indignities .
On the table sat a hemp sack containing a variety of vegetables and a loaf of bread. James must have brought them while she was at the cookhouse. “I guess I need to learn to cook.” She pulled out a roundish green item, eyeing it with suspicion. “I do not even know what this is?”
“I believe it is a cabbage,” her father replied. His eyes drooped. “Consider this part of your adventure.”
She removed the remaining vegetables; onions, garlic, parsnips, a variety of beans, and a lone turnip. “I thought adventures were supposed to be fun.”
He managed a wry smile that did not reach his eyes. “It is all in your perspective. This is bound to be short-lived, so let us enjoy pretending to be peasants.”
“Let us hope so.”
“Once King Henry ar—” He cut himself off, lips pressed tight.
“What do you mean?”
“I have said too much already. Nothing to concern yourself with.” He crossed his arms. “Now, we were discussing supper.”
Knowing she would get nothing more from him, she fetched the bucket beside the door. “I discovered a stream just over the hill. If you tend the fire, I will fetch water.”
She loaded two bowls, spoons, and cups into the bucket. Then added a knife and a ladle before heading out the door.
When she reached the crest of the hillock, the manor’s supper horn blew. Peasants and a few soldiers in their blue tunics converged on the manor from every direction. She was grateful for the privacy while she washed the dishes; it spared her the humiliation of being seen doing servants’ work.
She plunged her hands into the icy stream, scraping at the hardened-on bits of dried food with her fingernails. When finished, she filled the bucket with fresh water and trudged back over the hillock to the cottage. Her hands, red from the cold, stung as they warmed.
A fire blazed in the center of the floor, and a smoky haze hung over the room. Her eyes itched and watered. She coughed. It was hard to determine what was worse, the chilly air outside or the acrid air within. “Something must be wrong. Surely people do not live like this? ”
“Just be thankful for a roof over your head.” Something was different in his tone and demeanor, whether wistful or resigned, she was unsure. But she could not shake the feeling that he was hiding something.