Page 62 of Marry in Secret
Ashendon, of course, didn’t go. Claiming they had no need of him, he took himself off—for a nap, or a hot bath, Thomas suspected, watching the stiff way he walked. He himself was a little stiff, but he hadn’t taken the hiding Ashendon had.
Bird Street was only a ten-minute walk from AshendonHouse. “It’s prettier than I expected,” Rose said as they approached it.
It was small and white, a narrow, three-story building, with five steps leading up to the front entrance. Wrought-iron railings protected the front, with steps at the side that led below street level to a tiny courtyard and an entrance into the domestic area, the kitchens and scullery.
On either side of the front door sat two heavy terra-cotta pots in which sat two wilted bushes. More sad-looking pots were arranged in the little courtyard below—Thomas recognized a bay tree and a rosemary bush among them, all looking distinctly neglected. George immediately decided to weed and water the poor things and commandeered a rather surprised Ollie to fetch and fill a bucket with water.
Inside, Thomas was relieved to see, the house was neat as a pin, a little dusty but otherwise immaculate, though the air was stale with disuse. The ladies explored, directing Thomas, Galbraith and Ollie to open windows to let fresh air in.
It was very much an old lady’s house, crammed with fussy little bits and pieces and a variety of spindly, mismatched, old-fashioned furniture that Thomas wouldn’t be game to sit on. Some of the stranger-looking pieces sported animal heads and feet.
“It’s charming,” Rose declared after the first whirlwind tour. “It has such potential.” She and the other women then went through the house more slowly, room by room, exclaiming, discussing and planning. Rose, having brought a small notebook and pencil with her, listed what was to be kept (very little), what discarded (most), and what was to be done to each room (everything).
Thomas watched, fascinated. It bore some resemblance to a military campaign.
Ollie, having been directed to move furniture, roll up rugs, open windows and carry buckets of water for thirsty plants, suddenly remembered he had an urgent appointment (unspecified) and left.
Galbraith, hands in pockets, leaned against themantelpiece and observed indulgently. “Give the ladies their head,” he recommended. “Lily redecorated my house from top to bottom. Made it a place a man could come home to—wanted to come home to. Turned a house into a home.”
A home. Thomas thought about that. A place nobody could deny him. It had an appeal, even if he hadn’t ever thought of a small fussy house as the kind of home he’d feel comfortable in. He’d always thought of Brierdon Court as home. Until it wasn’t.
“Cal’s a good fellow,” Galbraith continued. “Tenacious, and can be irritatingly dogged when he gets a bee in his bonnet—as he has about you—but I couldn’t ask for a better friend. He’s just very protective of his family, especially his sisters.”
“I know.” Thomas might find Ashendon irritating in the extreme, but he couldn’t fault his protectiveness toward Rose.
“He won’t hold his thrashing against you, either.”
Thomas raised his brows. He’d believe that when he saw it.
“He can be a stubborn bastard, but underneath it all, he’s fair-minded. He knows he forced that fight on you. You warned him. Can’t blame you for what happened.”
Thomas said nothing. He wasn’t even sure what had happened. He couldn’t explain it if he tried.
“Saw a bit of that sort of thing during the war,” Galbraith continued quite as if they were having a nice cozy chat instead of a gratuitous one-sided conversation. “Put a man through hell, and then push him too far and he snaps. So, the galleys, was it?”
Thomas’s head snapped up. “How the hell did you know?”
Galbraith shrugged. “Educated guess. Can’t imagine house slaves being kept permanently in chains, for a start, and those scars on your ankles are from long-term wear. Then there’s the breadth of your shoulders, the state of your hands, general physique. So, I’m right, eh? How long?”
“Three years.”
Galbraith whistled. “You must be damned tough, to survive that long. How did you escape?”
Thomas’s smile was humorless. “A slight irony. We were attacked by pirates. I was, at the time, rowing in a pirate galley.” When he’d been sold, in a vicious act of revenge by his owners ashore, the galley captain had wanted to use him as a navigator—British naval men were valued for their skills. But Thomas had refused to work in the service of pirates so he’d been tossed in the galleys as a lesson. The captain had expected him to relent after a short time at the oars, but...
Ashendon wasn’t the only stubborn bastard around.
At the time of the attack, Thomas had thought his time had come. It was utter chaos, blinding smoke, the clashing of scimitars, the roar of guns, men yelling, screaming... praying. The galley slaves had stopped rowing and sat in their fetters, chained together, unable to move or fight, just waiting to live or die—for many of them it made no difference which.
And then, a giant African, bare-chested and with a gold earring, had leapt down among them and raised a huge, gleaming axe. “Nobody move,” he’d yelled in Arabic. Thomas braced himself. It wasn’t as if he could move—he’d been chained to his oar and his fellow slaves for months. Death by axe would be swift, at least—it was better than rotting in the galleys until he died. Or went insane as so many did.
The axe flashed in the sunlight and came crashing down between Thomas and his neighbor, missing them by bare inches. It severed the chain that linked each row of slaves together—one chain, looped through each man’s manacles, binding them together until someone in the row sickened and died, or went mad and was tossed overboard for the sharks. Sharks always followed the galleys. They were well fed, especially in the summer.
It had taken a few seconds to realize what had happened: the big man hadn’t missed—he’d freed them. Thomas worked feverishly, dragging the heavy chain through each loop—his fellow rowers were panicking, impeding his movements through sheer disbelief and fear. Finally he pulled the chain free and stood up.
The African had moved systematically through row after row, his big axe cutting through the chains that bound each row of slaves. And then, chaos of a different kind as the slaves freed themselves and joined the fighting, barehanded and savage against their former masters.
Thomas learned later that the big man had been a galley slave himself. “Join us and live free,” he’d said to Thomas, but Thomas still couldn’t bring himself to prey on other ships.
