Page 38 of The Remarkable Myth of a Nameless Lady
“There is much I no longer know about you,” he said, and his eyes glittered cruelly as he pushed himself off the fence, shoving past her to walk into his own home, shutting the door behind him.
She stared a long time at that door, but could not make herself go near it. The fact that he’d closed it the way that he had, left her imagining the latch in place, and the sure humiliation of begging to be let in. He wanted that, she realized, for her to grovel to come back home. The errant child who could not obey a simple command. Resentment bubbled away inside her, like a pot ready to spill over.
You’ll not get the satisfaction!She was no child, and she was tired of being trodden beneath his boots. Compensating for his destitution and the lack of sway he held over his peers, he sought power and control in the only place he could find it with any consistency—in beating his weakly daughter.But no longer… you will kick me to the ground no more. You will not leave another bruise on this face; you mark my words!
Alicia looked around at those she had called friends, the neighbors she had known her entire life, and felt surrounded by strangers. There was not a person here that would give her a bed for the night unless she begged for it. Alicia stared at them, hearing the sobs from inside the Moore house, knowing that while his death had not been her fault, she would carry the blame for it regardless.
She had nowhere to go. Alicia bit back her own sob, for she knew her tears had no place here. To give in to them now would be to show her selfishness to the world. What right did she have to cry over her own lack of a bed, when Elias would know only a final resting place in the churchyard?
Chin up, Alicia turned and walked back the way she had come. With nowhere else to go, her only thought now was to find shelter for the night. The evenings were still chill. And she would rather have frozen out here than gone a-pleading at her father’s door.
In the pocket of her apron, Alicia had a single coin. She had not even worked long enough to earn her first week’s pay. Thankful that she had at least this much, she found her feet carrying her to the Inn. She had a right to a drink, same as anyone else, did she not? Head high, she crossed back over to the other side of the street, her feet taking her down the familiar path she had trod many times before.
The crowd had been dispersing for a while and a somber group gathered around the tables nearest the fire. Still, the room had a cozy aspect to it that came of long familiarity. Alicia sank gratefully down on a stool in the corner and ordered a bowl of well-watered down stew to warm her.
The innkeeper himself served her. “We dinna want no trouble here,” he said to her, not unkindly. “I would suggest you eat and go.”
That he would take her aside in such a manner was truly the last straw. Alicia stared at the stew, suddenly not hungry. She made herself eat it all the same, every bite, knowing she would need the nourishment if she was to figure out what she was doing next. By the time she finished, the room was filled with the eerie quiet that came from a dozen pairs of eyes watching her as though she were the one who was the enemy.
She would have to go home after all. Even if it was only to stay in the wood-store beside the cottage until the sun rose, and she could find the will to leave this place for good.
Sad, defeated, Alicia left the inn to travel home. A wind had come up, cold and blustery. Thankfully, it and the late hour had driven the villagers indoors. The sun was setting as she reached her own gate.
Alicia stood a long moment staring at the cottage, seeing it for the first time as others must, with the worn, tumbledown aspect to the place. Her father had quit keeping the place up when Adam died.
With a sigh, she pushed the gate open, only to find a boy seated on the ground just inside, playing with the old cat who her father kept to chase off the mice.
The boy scrambled to his feet, his hand slipping inside his jerkin to present her with a folded paper. “From the Duke,” he said, and with a jaunty tip of his cap, he slipped out through the gate and over to the Moore house where his horse still waited. She watched him ride out, in a sort of a daze, before unfolding the paper, tilting it to better read the words in the dim light.
Come tonight.
There was no signature, or even further instruction. But the Duke didn’t need one. The impression of his ring in the wax at the bottom was identification enough, and if she were right, she knew where.
She would be a fool to go.
What am I if I do? Can I still love my father and my country when I am starting to wonder if they might be wrong? Or must I give up both for the sake of doing what’s right?
Alicia stared up at the house, seeing the dull flicker of light in the window. She pictured her father by the fire, morose and sullen. Likely drinking heavy spirits, alone. To come home would be at his sufferance.
The boy was at the crossroads just outside of town. He had an extra horse waiting for her, a warm cloak draped over the saddle for her use. Still somewhat dazed, Alicia allowed the boy to help her to mount.
Chapter 29
There was an hour until the evening meal. Jacob straightened his cravat as he walked, glancing uneasily out the window at the purpling sky. How long until sunset? At sea he could estimate, here on land it was a harder task. Maybe before the evening meal, maybe more. Or maybe less.
By now she would be waiting for him. Jacob strode with his teeth clenched until he could feel the muscle twitching in his jaw.
“Jacob!”
The cry came from behind, high-pitched and feminine and extremely unhappy.
“Mother.” He said the word simply, taking a breath before turning, unhappy to be stayed in his progress when time was so fleeting. “Was there something you needed me for?”
He spoke with rigid formality, ending with a short bow. Perhaps he would not have been so stiff had his mother’s voice not held such a note of sharp censure. That she was furious was evident in the way she pursed her lips when looking at him, as though she had eaten something very sour. Her eyes were hard, her entire body held with a rigidity that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with barely suppressed fury.
“I wish to talk to you,” she started without preamble.
Jacob could well guess what about. “I daresay we will talk at dinner, Mother. If there are details about the party this weekend or the ball two days’ hence, I imagine there are any number of ladies present who would delight in being of assistance. I know little about ballrooms.”
