think ya looked the sort. Wot do ya do for the lot of divils?”
The blade sliced through the bread as if through warm butter. I swallowed. “This and that.”
She nodded toward Maria. “Wife?”
“Yes,” I lied. How else could I explain her?
“Tiched, is she?”
I looked at Maria, bundled in the blanket. She stared toward the hearth fire, unblinking.
Sinking back against the chair, I closed my eyes. “Yes. I suppose she is.”
“Bless ’er.” Her broad backside swaying from side to side, she moved to the cot with a bowl of warmed, sweetened milk bread studded with plump, dark currants.
“Hand me yonder gown and be quick ’bout it. She’s shiverin’ cold. And them stockin’s as well. Legs are as thin as willow whips.”
Upon fetching the flannel gown and leggings, I sat on the cot and watched the woman tend to Maria with a gentleness that seemed odd for a woman of her gruffness. She poured warm water from a ewer into a bowl and with a soft cloth cleansed the dried mud from Maria’s feet and legs, her brow growing creased and the hard glint returning to her eyes.
“ ’Ave ya beaten her?” she asked. “Is that why she’s tiched? That why she’s yonder, wanderin’ ’bout in the rain and dark—to escape yer demned cruelty? Because if it is, I’ll run me knife up yer arse s’far I’ll skewer yer foul heart.”
“No. I would never hit her.”
“I s’pose she got them bruises from fallin’ out a tree.”
I turned away, and with elbows on my knees, stared at the floor between my feet. “I would never hit her,” I repeated wearily.
“Ach. I’ve seen the likes of a’ before. Thinkin’ a woman is aught more than a beast of burden. Half starved, she is.”
“She won’t eat.”
“We’ll see ’bout that. Aye, Bertha’ll have ’er right as spring rain in no time.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but all spirit had fled me. My bones ached. Chill had gnawed into my muscles so they burned as if a fiery pike had been thrust through them. And hunger. My belly fisted, and the nausea of complete emptiness rose bitterly up my throat. I looked toward the kettle of boiled meat and potatoes and felt my gut clench.
“If yer hungry, eat,” Bertha declared. “Y’ve the look of a starvin’ calf about ya.”
I stood unsteadily, my gaze still locked on the bubbling mélange, helped myself to a heaping bowl of it, and tore a portion of warm bread off in my hands.
Bertha continued to gently bathe the muck from Maria’s arms and legs. “Are ya homeless?” she asked.
“Homeless?” I tore a piece of bread off with my teeth.
“Are ya deaf as well as daft? Are ya homeless? Ya said ya toiled fer Salterdon. Did the divil cast ya and the gel out?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Word gits round, aye. T’old place has gone to rack and ruin since t’old man died. Heard the demned duke has gone poor as a beggar. Serves him right, I says, though me hoosband says we aught to pity the bugger. Him who got no conscience or common sense don’t know when they is well off. Man who ain’t forced to work for his meat and tators can’t appreciate the fine rewards of his labor—of knowin’ he’s earned his bread and butter.”
She stood erect and made a noise that caused me to turn.
“Where are yer children?” she asked.
“There are no children.”
“No?” She shook her head, bent, and examined the pale skin of Maria’s lower belly more closely. Her expression softened. “Poor lass. Right bonnie little thing, ain’t she? Reminds me of me own….”
She straightened suddenly and looked away, her eyes pooling. She dabbed the corner of her apron to them and took a quivering breath.
I was not one for conjecturing on the thoughts or feelings of a human, man or woman. In truth, I had rarely cared—too wrapped up in my own life to give a damn about others. Aye, I had been a bastard about it. But something in the woman’s faraway look evoked a sting of piteous curiosity in me.
“Have
The blade sliced through the bread as if through warm butter. I swallowed. “This and that.”
She nodded toward Maria. “Wife?”
“Yes,” I lied. How else could I explain her?
“Tiched, is she?”
I looked at Maria, bundled in the blanket. She stared toward the hearth fire, unblinking.
Sinking back against the chair, I closed my eyes. “Yes. I suppose she is.”
“Bless ’er.” Her broad backside swaying from side to side, she moved to the cot with a bowl of warmed, sweetened milk bread studded with plump, dark currants.
“Hand me yonder gown and be quick ’bout it. She’s shiverin’ cold. And them stockin’s as well. Legs are as thin as willow whips.”
Upon fetching the flannel gown and leggings, I sat on the cot and watched the woman tend to Maria with a gentleness that seemed odd for a woman of her gruffness. She poured warm water from a ewer into a bowl and with a soft cloth cleansed the dried mud from Maria’s feet and legs, her brow growing creased and the hard glint returning to her eyes.
“ ’Ave ya beaten her?” she asked. “Is that why she’s tiched? That why she’s yonder, wanderin’ ’bout in the rain and dark—to escape yer demned cruelty? Because if it is, I’ll run me knife up yer arse s’far I’ll skewer yer foul heart.”
“No. I would never hit her.”
“I s’pose she got them bruises from fallin’ out a tree.”
I turned away, and with elbows on my knees, stared at the floor between my feet. “I would never hit her,” I repeated wearily.
“Ach. I’ve seen the likes of a’ before. Thinkin’ a woman is aught more than a beast of burden. Half starved, she is.”
“She won’t eat.”
“We’ll see ’bout that. Aye, Bertha’ll have ’er right as spring rain in no time.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but all spirit had fled me. My bones ached. Chill had gnawed into my muscles so they burned as if a fiery pike had been thrust through them. And hunger. My belly fisted, and the nausea of complete emptiness rose bitterly up my throat. I looked toward the kettle of boiled meat and potatoes and felt my gut clench.
“If yer hungry, eat,” Bertha declared. “Y’ve the look of a starvin’ calf about ya.”
I stood unsteadily, my gaze still locked on the bubbling mélange, helped myself to a heaping bowl of it, and tore a portion of warm bread off in my hands.
Bertha continued to gently bathe the muck from Maria’s arms and legs. “Are ya homeless?” she asked.
“Homeless?” I tore a piece of bread off with my teeth.
“Are ya deaf as well as daft? Are ya homeless? Ya said ya toiled fer Salterdon. Did the divil cast ya and the gel out?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Word gits round, aye. T’old place has gone to rack and ruin since t’old man died. Heard the demned duke has gone poor as a beggar. Serves him right, I says, though me hoosband says we aught to pity the bugger. Him who got no conscience or common sense don’t know when they is well off. Man who ain’t forced to work for his meat and tators can’t appreciate the fine rewards of his labor—of knowin’ he’s earned his bread and butter.”
She stood erect and made a noise that caused me to turn.
“Where are yer children?” she asked.
“There are no children.”
“No?” She shook her head, bent, and examined the pale skin of Maria’s lower belly more closely. Her expression softened. “Poor lass. Right bonnie little thing, ain’t she? Reminds me of me own….”
She straightened suddenly and looked away, her eyes pooling. She dabbed the corner of her apron to them and took a quivering breath.
I was not one for conjecturing on the thoughts or feelings of a human, man or woman. In truth, I had rarely cared—too wrapped up in my own life to give a damn about others. Aye, I had been a bastard about it. But something in the woman’s faraway look evoked a sting of piteous curiosity in me.
“Have
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