Page 2 of Gambling with the Earl
“A voice that could charm the birds from the trees,” her mother had teased. “A voice that will bring the suitors running.”
The very idea made Kitty snort with derision. There were certainly no suitors running to woo the oldest daughter of Owain the drunkard. No eligible young men breathing kisses over her work-roughened knuckles or whispering terms of endearment into her tousled hair as she kneaded the next day’s bread. Not that she cared. She had neither time nor yearning for love. The only thing that mattered was Rosalind.
A gust of air blew down the stairs and settled around Kitty’s neck and arms, making her shiver inside her chemise. She should have brought a shawl from their bedchamber. Shoreston Manor was crumbling, and although it was early summer, the nightly draughts streaming through the windows and roof retained the chilly sting of winter. Tiredness clung to her bones, as she had been up at sunrise to help Lizzie feed the chickens. In a few hours it would be time to rise again, but until then she could enjoy some undisturbed rest. Her eyelids were already closing as they turned the corner into their shared bedchamber, and she started in surprise as a frantic hammering rose up from the floor below.
Rosalind gripped her arm, unsteadying the candle. “What’s this now?” Her face was tight with trepidation.
“I don’t know.” As calmly as she could, she loosened her sister’s viselike fingers and crossed the room. “Who is it, Lizzie?”
Below she could see the older woman drawing back the bolts from the big front door. Alfred, their one remaining manservant, burst through before Lizzie had the door properly open.
“Where are they—Miss Katherine and Miss Rosalind? We don’t have long.”
“We’re up here.” Kitty took matters into her own hands, stepping onto the landing and peering over the worn, splintering banister.
“You must hide, Miss Katherine.” Alfred, a man who had worked hard all his life and was no longer young, ran a few steps up the stairs and then retreated back down. “Not up there. That’s the first place he’ll look. Lizzie, where can they hide?” he beseeched his fellow servant as he twisted his cap in his capable hands.
“In the pantry, behind the salt barrels,” Lizzie answered quickly, as if this was something she’d given previous thought to.
“Is that really necessary?” Kitty raised her eyebrows, reluctant to abandon the prospect of her warm bed.
“It’s worse than you could have ever dreamed.” Alfred dragged a hand through his wispy curls. Kitty opened her mouth to protest further, but he cut her off with a frantic shout after glancing back through the door. “Quickly now. They’re coming.”
Rosalind appeared at her side and with one accord they joined hands and rushed down the stairs. Lizzie led them along the narrow servant’s passage and through the kitchen to a rickety door at the back. Behind this was a small, cold, stone-flagged room which housed their pickles, preserves and the big wooden barrels used for salting meat. As she ushered them into the claustrophobic space behind the barrels, Kitty heard the march of a dozen approaching footsteps and the low rumble ofa carriage. She crouched down next to Rosalind and reached for her hand.
A door banged and Rosalind whimpered in fright, but Lizzie shushed her. “Not a word,” she urged. “Stay as still and as quiet as you can. Please God they won’t find you here.” She clasped her hands together in a familiar, pious entreaty.
“What do you think is happening?” Rosalind whispered, as soon as the servant had retreated.
Her breath was warm against Kitty’s shoulder. The darkness was absolute. Kitty imagined spiders scurrying around them, but this was no time for childish fears.
“I’ve no idea,” she said firmly, closing her mind to desperate imaginings. The sisters were so close their foreheads were touching. “But we’d better do as he asks. Alfred would never do anything to harm us.”
Rosalind silently nodded her agreement. Years earlier, Alfred had carried them on his back when their little legs had grown tired. He’d pulled them on a sledge made by his own hands and smiled at their gleeful screams when they coursed down the nearby hills covered in snow. He was as loyal and honourable as the day was long—and Kitty and Rosalind were just as devoted to him as he was to them. Just last year his arm had been cut by an axe, but with Kitty’s careful nursing, the old man had pulled through.
For a moment all was quiet, but both of them tensed as they heard their father’s unsteady voice booming through the downstairs rooms.
“Katherine, where are you?”
He was drunk, that much was obvious. His words slurred together. A door slammed shut with such force the whole house rattled.
“Katherine, come to me now.”
Her heart jumped in her chest. Why would father single her out? Rosalind was his favourite, the double of the wife he’d loved. Kitty, he treated little better than a servant. But why would he shout for either of them at such an hour?
Rosalind gripped her hand and Kitty leaned closer to her sister, reassuring her that she would not reply. Footsteps overhead announced their father had entered their bedchamber. They heard him curse when he found the room empty.
“Damnation, Katherine. Show yourself.”
He was angry now. An angry man who was accustomed to getting his way. A great clatter told them he had pulled over their woollen chest. Rosalind stifled a sob and Kitty wriggled until she could put an arm around her, hardly daring to breathe.
The footsteps retreated but sounds of smashing glass and splintering wood still reached them. Kitty put her hands over Rosalind’s ears to protect her from it. Her father had returned from the tavern the worse for drink many times. Lately, his gambling habit had begun to spiral out of control, but thankfully they had little of value left for him to lose.
Would he come to the kitchen? Whatever did he want with her?
Owain never usually ventured into the servant’s quarters. Despite his lowly birth, he held himself in too great esteem to trouble himself with the workings of the house that had been bought with coin grudgingly given by his wife’s family.
Kitty placed her forehead on her knees and breathed deeply, calming her thoughts. Her father had drunk too much ale, that was all. Most likely he wanted her to attend to a tear in his tunic or to prepare him a broth. They would sit here and wait for him to fall asleep. In the morning, all would be back to normal.
