Page 9 of Her Noble Groom

Chapter six

B y the time Thomasse awoke the next morning, her father had already gone. How could she remain angry with him when he rose before dawn each day to fish, just to keep food on the table? He was doing his best given their new circumstances.

Unfortunately, his catches did not leave enough to sell in the market.

His lack of success made it necessary for her to find work.

Not wanting to injure his pride, she had not spoken of it.

Being thus debased could not be easy for him.

But hunger and a desire to survive spurred a person to do things previously unthinkable.

She dressed quickly and headed over the hillock, hoping James might be of help. She found him brushing down the beautiful black stallion. The horse snorted and stamped when she entered the stable. James glanced up, his expression worried. “Is something amiss?”

She fumbled with the laces of her cotehardie, unable to meet his gaze.

She never dreamed she would need to do something like this, and she needed to gather her courage.

“I come for a favor. My father and I cannot continue to live off your generosity. Do you know where I might find work?” When James did not answer immediately, she turned to leave.

“Pay no heed. It was wrong of me to ask.”

“Look at me,” James said, softly. She looked back and met his gaze. “Work is not something to be ashamed of. My mother could use another spinster.”

Thomasse wrung her hands, embarrassed by the need to admit her own inadequacy. “I know nothing of spinning.”

James smiled. “My mother is a patient teacher. ”

Thomasse relaxed and timidly returned his smile. “And it is better than toiling in the field.”

“Indeed. When I finish grooming Magnar, I shall take you to her.”

She settled onto the bench near the door to wait.

James whispered to the high-strung stallion as he placed the halter over its head.

She watched, fascinated by the deftness of his hands and his connection with the horse.

But then she began to notice other things—the wave of his brown hair, the ripple of his muscles beneath his tunic as he strapped on the saddle.

She looked away when he gathered the reins and led the horse from the stable, not wanting him to know she had been staring.

Outside, she heard the murmur of male voices.

Unable to suppress her curiosity, she peeked around the door.

James was assisting a man onto the stallion.

The stranger’s face was well-favored, his bearing and fine garments bespoke his nobility.

Given James’s deference, he must be the seigneur of the manor.

She ducked back behind the wall, her thoughts whirling.

As a gentlewoman, work among the common folk could only be a temporary solution. If she and her father never returned to England, this man might prove an important connection—perhaps even the key to securing her future by finding a suitable husband among the isle’s landed gentry.

James reappeared and beckoned her to follow. He closed the stable door and pointed out a path. “This one leads to the village.”

They meandered along the path, passing flocks of sheep grazing on the low hills.

A tall alder tree shaded the green where the fields gave way to the village.

Ahead, several women holding clay pots were lined up at the well, and just beyond lay the mill.

The curve in the road hid a row of gray stone houses to the left, and various establishments on the right.

The clang of the blacksmith’s hammer mixed with the acrid smell of molten metal and burning wood. The aroma of roasting meat and brewing ale drifted into the street from the tavern, along with bursts of laughter and the hum of conversation.

Along the roadside, a man pulled fresh-baked bread from a brick oven, while a woman stood nearby with baskets of vegetables for sale.

The door of the cottage at the end of the street stood open. Several women and young girls chattered noisily in Jèrriais as they worked. Her heart sank. How was she to fit into a world where she did not belong ?

A tall woman in a gray kirtle and yellow apron broke from the group. A blue scarf covered her hair, and her amber eyes matched James’s. They spoke at length. Thomasse understood nothing beyond her name, but she admired the kindness and respect James showed his mother.

After several minutes, James said, “Thomasse, meet my mother, Colette.”

“Welcome,” Colette said in English, and motioned for Thomasse to join the others.

She glanced nervously at James.

He lightly touched her shoulder. “I leave you in capable hands. I shall return later to walk you home.”

She stared at the door for several moments after he left, her nerves jangling.

The one person she felt she could depend on was gone.

She would prove she could learn a new skill, so he would not regret his decision.

This would not be easy, given the language barrier. But what other choice did she have?

J ames strode down the village road to the pathway leading back to St. Ouen’s Manor. His thoughts lingered on the maiden he had just left behind. Her request surprised him, something he would not have expected from the young lady he had rescued a fortnight ago.

Her appearance today, dressed in his wife’s clothes, had been like a dagger to the heart.

He had thought enough time had passed, that those feelings had been buried forever.

It was more than just regret and remorse—but guilt over how drawn he was to Thomasse.

For the first time in almost two years, he felt the urge to protect and care for someone—her.

He tried to shake the thoughts from his head, reminding himself of his solemn vow never to let his heart become involved again. He would attribute these feelings to compassion for a newcomer who had suffered misfortune .

The horses nickered when he opened the stable door. He fed each a parsnip, then threw himself into mucking out stalls. Just what he needed. Toil and the aroma of horse dung would clear his head.

When his work was finished for the day, he made the half-hour walk back to his mother’s cottage.

He leaned against the doorjamb and watched Thomasse work. Dropping the spindle, she gave it a whirl, trying to twist the wool fibers into thread. Each time, it wobbled and slowed. His lips twitched, marveling at her perseverance. Despite her evident frustration, she refused to give up.

The bells of St. Ouen’s Parish Church tolled, signaling the end of the workday. The women gathered their supplies and stored them in baskets before quitting the cottage.

Thomasse was the last to put away her tools. Her eyes were dull, her shoulders rounded, and her expression tense.

“Are you ready?” James asked.

She huffed and, pushing past him, marched up the street. He furrowed his brow and jogged to catch up to her. They walked the path from the village mostly in silence, Thomasse not saying a word in response to his questions.

Finally, he asked, “Have I caused some offence?”

She tossed her head. “If you must know, my hands are stiff and my back aches. I tried my best. And you find that amusing.”

“Indeed I do not. I admire your determination.”

She stopped and whirled to face him. “I may not be good with a spindle, but I have other skills. I can read and write.”

“Fine skills,” James replied, “although they have no application to spinning.”

She lifted her chin and continued down the path. “Whatever you think, I am determined. If I can learn to read and write, I can learn to spin.”

“I have full faith in you, otherwise I never would have brought you there.”

Her face softened. “No one has said that to me before. It means a lot.”

The path turned, and the manor house came into view. She touched his arm. “Thank you. I can find my way home from here.” She ambled down the path leading up the hillock toward the bay-side cottage. When she reached the crest, the breeze caught her skirt, revealing shapely ankles and calves.

His arm still tingled where she had touched it. Dare he admit how much he had enjoyed her company? It was as if her touch had cracked the protective wall he had so carefully built. He could not allow it. Such an opening could put his heart in danger.