Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) by Diane Scott Lewis Page B

Five
     
     
    Bettina reassessed the value of sidesaddles as she limped back out with Kerra to retrieve the horse. The animal resembled gray bones, withered on hooves; foam dripped from his mouth. She stroked his velvet nose. “Kerra, where do we keep our cheval ? He needs food.”
    “Is that what you named him, Shevall? A bit peculiar, ain’t it?” Kerra snorted, her hands on her skinny waist. “You French has a strange language.”
    “Not exactly. It means—”
    “I’ll show you where to put Shevall. Come on around.” Kerra led her to a small stable behind the inn. A rusty pump with a wooden bucket hanging from it divided the yard between the inn’s rear door and a ramshackle stable. A fringe of hawthorn trees directly behind the stable marked the beginning of the hill’s incline.
    Bettina stared up at the mansion that dominated its summit. “What is that château?” She saw Kerra scrunch up her face. “The house up on this hill?”
    Kerra’s round eyes glowed. The stable door, half open in her grasp, clunked shut. “Oh, now that’s Bronnmargh, the Camborne manor. Don't too many go up there. They say Mr. Camborne murdered his own wife sometime back. Choked an’ buried her—she ain’t been found yet. Quite the scandal it be. But he wouldn’t admit to none of it, o’ course.”
    A chill rippled through Bettina when she glanced again up the slope. She rubbed her aching neck and found herself too weary for lurid gossip. Her legs shivered beneath her, calves rubbed raw from riding. She let the matter drop, to Kerra’s obvious dismay, and pulled open the stable door. Coughing in the dust-strewn air, she unsaddled the horse, haplessly christened Shevall.
    “Say, brat, give this horse some hay an’ water,” Kerra said to a twig of a boy who busily mucked out a stall.
    “You back so soon? What happened?” the boy asked, a smirk on his angular face.
    “Never you mind.” Kerra stuck out her tongue, then turned to Bettina. “This be Morley. Morley, this is Mamsell Laurant. You treat her nice.”
    The two women re-entered the inn through the back door, and Maddie directed Bettina to a tiny, windowless room off the kitchen. The narrow bed, rickety washstand and two pegs on the wall did little to cheer her up. Although a warm, dry place for her brief habitation, it looked more a deserted pantry than a bedchamber.
    Bettina sat on the straw mattress, kicked off her slippers and rubbed her feet. She dropped her head in her hands and assured herself this position was temporary. She’d earn enough money, find a way to contact her mother, and together they’d establish a new life somewhere, if returning to France proved too dangerous.
    Unable to resist, she pulled up her legs and laid her head on the pillow.
    “Roust up, Maddie wants you in the kitchen.”
    Bettina blinked as Kerra shook her. She groaned and crawled from the bed’s brief comfort. Patting down the wrinkles in her dress, she stuffed her feet in her slippers and stumbled out the door.
    “You can help in here,” Maddie said, tone officious. “Ann’s our cook and kitchen worker, she’ll show you what to do. When you be done, you can sweep the floors, strip the beds upstairs, then boil the laundry that’s piled here by the door.”
    “All of that is needed to be finished today?” Bettina rubbed her face.
    “You come to work, didn’t you?” A flicker of impatience crossed Maddie’s face. “There be a lot more than that. Oh, and a lodger vomited on the rug in number two. You’ll need to scrub it with some vinegar. Best tie up that mop o’ hair. Ann, find her a cap or scarf.”
    With a grim smile, Maddie deposited her with a tall, older woman whose long face scowled in disapproval. Ann shoved a bowl of potatoes and a knife into her hands. “Start peeling, girl. Then you can chop them onions over there.” She dug around in a cupboard and tossed her apprentice a frayed cap.
    Bettina inspected the cap for vermin before she tugged it on