The Virgin's Auction Read online

  Chapter Nine

  When the village bell finally tolled the hour of two Melissa was sitting inside the carriage, waiting. Peter arrived within moments of the two short chimes. He took his seat silently, and gazed out of the window at the cobbles of the yard. The coachman was a good few minutes more. Finally he came and stuck his head inside to check that his two passengers were present and accounted for.

  “All ready then? Good, good,” he said, and went off to climb up to his perch.

  For the rest of the afternoon they drove, and into the evening and then the night. By the time they reached their destination it was fully dark and the inn where the coachman pulled up had only one lamp lit to welcome in travellers. He came to open the door for them.

  “End o’ the road,” he announced. “You’ll be wantin’ to stay ‘ere for th’ night. It’s no’ th’ only inn, but it’s the best one.” Melissa pressed a coin into his hand, hoping that he would not talk of his passengers to anyone for the hopefully short time he would take to forget them. He tipped his hat to her with the first signs of geniality he had shown.

  “Thankee, Miss. ‘Appy travels.” He took the two bags that Peter handed down and carried them inside the inn. Then he climbed back onto the carriage to drive it round to the coach house at one side of the building.

  Melissa procured two rooms, taking care to soften her speech so it did not sound too well educated. The chambers they were given were small and slightly dusty, the sheets clean but clammy and unaired.

  That night she slept restlessly, waking up over and over again. Finally dawn came and she crawled out of her bed and slowly washed and dressed, full of dread at all the uncertainties that lay before her. Now that they were here in Bourton-on-the-Water, her first priority must be to get work for them both.

  She decided to start by making inquiries with the innkeeper. With that in mind she went downstairs, reminding herself to be appropriately deferential and to drop her clipped speech for a country accent as much as she could manage.

  He was sweeping out the common room when she found him, but he stopped to lean on his broom as she approached, as if glad of the interruption.

  She tried to imagine Hetty, to stand and talk as the house servant might. “Excuse me, sir,” she said with a tentative smile, head inclined downwards, looking up through her lashes. “Do you know of any work available in the neighbourhood?”

  “An’ ‘oo might be askin’?” he replied genially.

  “Catherine Merry,” she said, bobbing a curtsey as a serving girl would, “and my brother, Trevor.”

  “Wha’ sort of thing ‘ave you in mind?” Absently he scratched at his head.

  “I’m an excellent needlewoman. Something along that line for myself. My brother’s bright and willing. He could turn his hand to almost anything, I’m sure.”

  She had not struck it quite right, she thought as his eyes narrowed and his head reared back to take a better look at her. It was more difficult than she had imagined, to drop the vocal habits of a lifetime. “Hmmm,” he said, and she held her breath.

  But then he left off his examination of her and tilted his head back to gaze at the ceiling for a long moment, clearly ruminating on her question. Inspiration struck him.

  “You migh’ ask Mistress Parsit if she’s got use for another needle,” he said, clicking his fingers together and then pointing them at her. “She’s a powerful busy woman, tha’ one. Makes all the dresses an’ fripperies for th’ fine ladies, an’ keeps th’ shop what sells the goods for all th’ rest. As for your brother,” he pursed his lips and rubbed his chin, “does ‘e know ‘ow to deal with ‘orses?”

  “No, sir. But he could learn. He’s a fast learner,” she offered with a hopeful smile.

  “No’ for what I’m thinkin’ of.” He smiled at her good-naturedly. “Any road, ‘e could certainly ‘elp out with some of the village ladies plantin’ their spring gardens. Then you can be keepin’ an ear out for somethin’ more permanent.”

  “And who should we see about that?” she was trying to speak more slowly, as he did, to relax into her words as if she had all the time in the world.

  “Better be askin’ Mistress Parsit when you sees ‘er. She’ll know better than me.” He accepted her thanks and went back to sweeping.

  At that moment, Peter stuck his head through the doorway. He saw her and made as if to duck right out again, but Melissa called him back. Reluctantly he came, pulling at the bottom of his jerkin.

  “Let’s have a nice breakfast together,” she said with pretended cheer, determined they would get on pleasantly, even if they disagreed. All they had was each other. They must work together. She must find a way to get his compliance.

  Her advantage was he was stranded her without money or other resources, and she held the purse strings. He was totally reliant on her for food and lodgings, and he was smart enough to figure that out. A growing boy like him could not go long between meals without feeling the pinch.

  He subsided into a nearby chair with neither protest nor enthusiasm.

  “Now, I’ve spoken to the innkeeper. He says there will be villagers who want help with the planting of their gardens. That should give you something to do while we look for a more permanent place for you.”

  Peter gazed moodily at the tabletop and said nothing.

  “If anyone asks you your name, tell them it’s Trevor Merry. And call me Catherine.”

  Still he said nothing.

  “Did you hear me, Peter?” There was an edge to her voice, and she discovered her own patience with him was paper thin. She longed to slap some sense into him.

  “Yes.”

  He was still looking down, so he didn’t see her glare. After a moment she schooled herself back into apparent calm.

  They could never pull this off if he refused to cooperate. The entire success of her schemes rested upon him.

  “I expect you to do your part, to work hard and willingly. This is our new life and we must find a good place here to do well in it. I will let you keep some of your wages to spend on what you like,” she said generously. “Perhaps there will be a bookshop here, and you can buy yourself some new books.”

  Still he said nothing. Surely, surely her sunny-natured brother would re-emerge soon.

  A woman who looked by her age and dress to be the innkeeper’s wife came at that moment to see what they would like for breakfast. Melissa chose the proffered ham with freshly baked bread and butter, and Peter settled on bacon and eggs, carefully speaking only to the woman and never meeting Melissa’s gaze. The matron gave them a fond smile and bustled off to the kitchen.

  “Why do I need something permanent?” Peter asked in a low tone, before she could say anything more.

  “Why, because you want a regular source of income; and maybe a trade, if we can secure a position for you with one of the local tradesman. But I fear we’d have to pay for that. There might be enough-”

  “I don’t want to learn a trade! We shouldn’t be here, Lissa,” he spoke beseechingly, trying once again to get her to see sense. “Running away is a cowardly, dishonourable thing to do. Can’t you see that? We must go back. We must do what’s right-”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Peter,” she said flatly. “It’s impossible. You have to accept I know best. I can’t tell you the exact circumstance-”

  “What circumstances? What do you mean?”

  “I said I can’t tell you,” she repeated through gritted teeth, finding his persistence unbearable.

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t. Please leave it, Peter. Please.” There was a grimness in her tone, a hint of menace she had never used with him before, never expected to need to use. She felt ashamed, already regretting it, but did not know how to soften it, what to say without giving way. He had to know she was deadly serious, that there was no choice here for him, for them.

  For a long moment he stared hard at her, his eyes disconcertingly fierce in his young face. She looked ba
ck at him, hiding her thoughts and feelings behind an implacable mask.

  He finally relented, lowering his gaze back to the table.

  “A trade it is, then. Or gardening.”

  She felt an enormous wave of relief at his capitulation, reaching out a hand to take his and give it a little squeeze. He did not resist.

  “It will all be fine. You’ll see.” She changed the subject quickly before there could be more unpleasantness, chattering with determined cheer about the beautiful view out the window, the clear sky, the quaint inn. He replied in monosyllables. When their breakfast came, he chewed his way stoically through his serving. She ate hers with more gusto. The fresh bread was very good.

  Once the meal was over they set out into the village, she not taking his arm as she usually would but allowing a careful distance between them.

  By noon, both Melissa and Peter had made a start on their new lives in the pretty village of Bourton-on-the-Water.

  Mistress Parsit was an entirely virtuous spinster, who cast a kindly eye on the tidy and well-mannered young folk on her doorstep. Yes, she had some sewing available for a good seamstress. Not a great deal, but some. Possibly more in the future. It was clear to Melissa that she would only get more work if she completed the first piece well enough.

  As for Peter and his ambitions as a gardener, Miss Parsit sent him to her next-door neighbour to make enquiries. He came back some ten minutes later and told Melissa that yes, there was work for him to do. He would start tomorrow.

  They would not earn much but it was enough to live on for the time being, with some supplementation from her hoard. And Miss Parsit offered to recommend them to her friend who took on boarders. A good word from her would be enough to secure them a place, and for a most reasonable price, she assured them.

  Melissa hoped the price would be much lower than the inn, enough that she could continue to save the rest of her money rather than making inroads. If she did well enough to suit Miss Parsit and was given more work she might even be able to put a little more aside.

  It would take time to learn how to best use and save her money in this new place and life, but she was confident she could do it. She had run the entire household in London and managed the servants on her own wits and what she could scrape together herself or divert from Father. A modest life of few expenses in the countryside should be simple by comparison.

  Once she had that under control she could start to look about for an improved chance for Peter. As a man, his prospects would be far better than hers and they must work together to share an adequately prosperous future.

  If he did not do well she would live always on the edge of destitution. But a clever woman could steer them both – if he would only take her direction again, as he always had before – to do well in life.

  A trade, enough income put by, perhaps they might eventually buy a farm, particularly if his marriage (she suffered a pang as she thought of it) brought him a little money with his bride’s dowry. That was years ahead yet of course, but it was as well to start planning now.

  Brother and sister each thanked Miss Parsit politely, and Melissa was relieved to know however he regarded his sister, he was capable of summoning reasonably good manners to see him through with the villagers. First impressions counted for so much, and once made they would be near impossible to change.

  She came away with a basket laden with material already cut for a sleeve. Her instructions had been very simple and she knew she was on probation. If her work was of poor quality it could be replaced without much expense to Miss Parsit, and that would be the end of her chance to work independently in the village.

  She was confident her abilities would impress. Not one of her friends had ever noticed anything amiss in her homemade clothes, kept up to date by careful consultation of the latest fashion plates in the ladies magazines in the lending library. They had assumed that she, like them, paid for a professional modiste, and she had never corrected that impression.

  Though she could seldom afford good new cloth she had made the most of every bargain she came across, buying always plain colours rather than distinctive prints or figured cloth so each bolt of fabric could be made into several different garments over a period of years, sewing with deep seam allowances so each item could be turned inside out, recut and re-sewn in a different style when it started to fade.

  She and Peter had always shown a good appearance and she was certain she could creditably clothe Miss Parsit’s customers as well.

  That night, after a long day of careful, painstaking sewing while Peter left the inn and wandered God only knew where through the village and bleak winter fields, coming back in the twilight as withdrawn as ever, Melissa set aside the completed sleeve with a sigh. It was as near perfect as she could make it, with fine, even stitches throughout and an embroidered buttonhole at the wrist that had been her own idea.

  She fingered it the flowers on the buttonhole one last time, bit her lip as she wondered if Miss Parsit would be impressed or indignant about her taking the initiative, then resolved she would not second guess herself.

  Not only did the detail showcase a little more of her ability, another would find it difficult to match her work exactly on the other sleeve. She had virtually guaranteed herself the other sleeve to sew.

  It was time to go down to dinner, but she did not want to go. After so many hours sitting here alone, thinking over all that had happened these past weeks, the decisions she had made, the way she had won free despite the odds, how she had ruined herself, she was not fit for company.

  She felt vastly diminished inside, alone and lonely, overwhelmingly sad and regretful. Allowed to finally relax into the meditative task of sewing and unlock the tumult to which she had refused to succumb over these awful days when she must needs concentrate, pull herself together and be strong, she now felt barely able to function. How could she sit in the public room and try to make pleasant conversation with Peter? How could she choke down food when she felt filled to the brim with every dark feeling?

  She startled herself by suddenly bursting into tears. She thought she had done quite enough of that yesterday but it seemed that was only the beginning. Now they were here and safe from Black Jack, she could finally relax. Days of tension demanded an outlet. Initially a stream of tears, her crying became a violent sobbing. She muffled herself in her pillow, desperate not to rouse Peter from his room next door.

  Hysterical, it all flowed from her. Father’s death; the mounting worry over the bills; the terrible interview with Black Jack; the decision to sell herself to raise money for their escape; the night itself, where she had stood on the auction block and heard men bid for her body; the taking of her virginity by a stranger; the loss of her plans for a family in the future; the flight from London and all she had ever known, through the night; the chill distance between her and Peter.

  All came out, washing into an increasingly soggy pillow clenched tight against her face.

  But such grief – however bleak and black – cannot last forever. Eventually the intensity of it passed and she was able to master herself, raise her face from the pillow and hunt for a handkerchief to blow her nose violently. Emotionally, everything seemed dulled and far away. She finished undressing, and climbed into the bed to sleep heavily and dreamlessly.

  Chapter Ten

  It was too little time.

  James ran his hand through his hair, uncaring it spoiled the carefully arranged Brutus over which his valet had laboured.

  Should he cancel his proposed journey to the Cotswolds? Stephie would be pleased. She had thrown a minor tantrum over the absence from town, and only by threatening to suspend her allowance had he brought her to calm.

  He could see the dark shadows under her eyes, the way she was becoming thin under the pressures of the Season. For all she enjoyed it – the bright flame of her spirit aglow – still she had too little moderation. She pushed herself to the limit to accept every invitation, every opportunity for pleasure. He did no
t want her to become ill.

  No, the break was important, quite apart from the foolishness of altering his plans over one elusive woman.

  But what a woman. He lounged back on the leather of the winged chair, staring broodingly at the fire in his study. Even now – days later – he could see her clearly in his mind’s eye; as she had stood on that small stage, brave and frightened and defiant; as she sat in his bedroom, poised, self-assured, bidding him to stop delaying and take his pleasure; as she lay in his bed, sighing and moving as a woman did when she found delight in her body, sweetly languid, soft and welcoming.

  Even just thinking about it made him achingly hard, and he muttered a curse under his breath. He would have found it amusing to have such an intense response under any other circumstances. Amusing and satisfying, a hedonist’s dream to discover a woman who stirred him to such extremes.

  Yet in his case it was the cause of only frustration; for he could not find her and it was driving him insane.

  For a week now he had images of her crowding his head at all hours, his dreams bringing him awake spilling like a stripling boy into the sheets.

  When he had first drifted from sleep in the early hours of morning, the day after buying her, he had reached out his hand, already smiling in warm anticipation of enjoying the next hours of shared decadence. But beyond his body the sheets were cold and empty, the woman gone.

  Melissa, stolen away in the night.

  His body had still worn her scent, honey and musk, a heady sweetness, and he lifted his hand to his nose to savour it more fully. It evoked the memory of her, creating a visceral response that made him grin in anticipation of savouring her again.

  For at that moment – although disappointed to find the room empty and Melissa gone, he thought the loss only momentary. He assumed she would come to him once more, would seek him out and apply for his protection. Why not? He had been gentle and generous. He was well known for open-handedness with his cherie amies. He liked to open his pockets to the dear women, to please them in bed and out.