Читать книгу A Wager for the Widow - Elisabeth Hobbes - Страница 12

Chapter Five

Her heart thumping, Eleanor banged the door closed behind her and leaned back heavily as though Rudhale might attempt to barge his way through at any moment. She raised a hand to her neck and was unsurprised to feel her skin hot to the touch, a telltale prickle of a blush creeping across her chest. Her hand was trembling and she clenched her fist tight.

Jennet was emptying Eleanor’s travelling chest with her back to the door. At the sound she jumped, her head twisting round to where her mistress stood.

‘You startled me, my lady. Is something the matter?’ she asked in alarm.

Eleanor smiled faintly at the absurdity of her behaviour and shook her head. The steward might be egotistical and his words far too personal for comfort, but there was no reason to suspect he would commit so violent an indiscretion. Really, she was not herself this morning.

She crossed the room and sank on to the low folding stool in front of her window, rummaging on the ledge among the boxes until she found the green glass bottle containing her favourite scented oil. She dabbed a drop on her temples, inhaling the fresh aroma of lemon balm, and slowly her composure returned.

Jennet came and knelt at her side. ‘My lady, do you remember the man on the ferry—?’ she began. Eleanor cut her words off before she could continue.

‘I know.’ She nodded. She took Jennet’s hands. ‘You must not tell anyone what happened. I have spoken to him and told him I will not discuss the matter again...’

Her voice trailed off as she thought back to the conversation. Never before had she spoken in such a manner to anyone, least of all a man! She reminded herself that until she met the steward there had never been any cause to do so.

Even so, she could not blot out the vision of Rudhale’s eyes penetrating her with such open, honest desire. He had made his attraction perfectly clear and it unsettled Eleanor deeply. Even more troubling was the constriction in her belly whenever she was in his presence, as though a fist was wrapping her stomach around itself and pulling her closer to his reach whether she willed it or not.

‘My lady?’ Jennet prompted.

Eleanor realised with a start that she had been staring at the wall, seeing nothing for who knew how long. She shook her head and smiled at Jennet.

‘I could not have made myself any clearer. If Master Rudhale has anything of the gentleman about him, that should be the end of it,’ she finished.

Drawing a deep breath she picked up a book and began to read. Becoming engrossed in the subject, she soon forgot about Rudhale. When a knock at the door brought her mind back to the present, it never even occurred to her to worry whom it might be.

Jennet rushed to the door and the wise-woman from Tawstott Town followed her into the room. Eleanor beamed at the thickset, wispy-haired woman dressed in black. Joan Becket had brought all of Lady Fitzallan’s children into the world. A close friend of Lady Fitzallan, she still maintained an interest in the lives of the three who had survived.

Crossing the room, she curtsied to Eleanor and kissed her hand. ‘Eleanor, good to see you again. Someone told me you’ve got yourself injured.’ Mistress Becket smiled.

Eleanor’s hand instinctively moved to her ankle. Mistress Becket’s eyes followed her action and she nodded.

‘Well, let me have a look and I’ll see what I can do.’

Eleanor lifted her foot on to a stool and unrolled her stocking. Anne must have told their mother, of course. The girl was incapable of keeping anything a secret. Eleanor frowned to herself. No doubt she would be called to explain what had happened before long.

The examination was quick and a mild sprain the verdict. Mistress Becket smeared a foul-smelling poultice of crushed comfrey and nettle leaves over Eleanor’s ankle. She bound it tightly with thin straps of flannel and stood back with a smile.

‘Walk lightly for the next few days. Borrow a stick from your father and you won’t have to spend your days hiding away in here.’

Eleanor reached for the purse that lay on her table, but Mistress Becket held up her hands.

‘The payment has already been settled,’ she told Eleanor as she wiped the remaining mixture on a cloth and packed it into her basket.

‘Did Mother pay you?’ Eleanor asked, surprised.

The old woman’s eyes twinkled. ‘Not her,’ she said with a grin.

‘Who, then?’ Eleanor asked curiously. Mistress Becket’s fees were not cheap and Anne was unlikely to have the funds or inclination to pay. Becket smiled as she reached the door.

‘Why, by the person who asked me to attend you, of course,’ she said with another grin. ‘Master Rudhale.’

Eleanor leaned back in her chair, her mind in a whirl. She ordered Jennet to find her a crutch as the wise-woman had recommended. She could barely contain herself while she waited. The words on the page jumbled themselves in disordered sentences. She tried to calm herself with embroidery, but found the threads knotting under her touch. Twice she stabbed her finger and she finally flung the cloth on to the bed and settled for staring out of the window at the clouding sky until the maid returned.

* * *

Eleanor found the steward in the rear courtyard supervising deliveries of grain. He had his back to Eleanor and at first was unaware of her presence. She had intended to confront him immediately, but instead held back, curious to see him at work. She watched as he gave orders to the two servants. He spoke in a quiet voice and from the expressions on the faces of the other men he commanded their respect. He stood with his wax tablet in hand, tallying up the sacks as they were hefted from the delivery carts and carried into the granary.

The sky had been darkening steadily and large drops of rain began to fall. Rudhale slipped his note tablet into the leather satchel that crossed his chest and, joining the two servants, hefted a sack across his shoulder. He lifted the burden without apparent effort and an unexpected shiver ran along through the length of Eleanor’s body as she recalled him lifting her equally as easily on the ferry.

Despite the bitter coldness of the day, he was wearing no cloak over his wool doublet and the contours of his torso were evident beneath the slim-fitting garment. An unwilling smile formed on Eleanor’s lips as she watched. Rudhale turned towards the granary and noticed Eleanor for the first time. The steward’s expression had been one of concentration, but as he saw Eleanor his eyes widened and his face relaxed into a grin. She forced the smile from her face, unwilling for him to see it. Still carrying his sack, he strode to Eleanor.

‘I did not expect to see you here, my lady,’ he said in surprise. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

‘I need to speak to you,’ Eleanor said firmly.

Rudhale glanced at the sky. ‘As you can see I am rather occupied and you are at risk of getting a soaking for the second day running. Might I suggest you return to the house and I will find you once I am done?’

Eleanor folded her arms and looked at him defiantly. ‘No, I want to speak to you now. Leave the men to work without you.’

To Eleanor’s surprise Rudhale shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry, Lady Peyton, but this is too important. I cannot afford to have a month’s worth of grain drenched, even for you.’

He walked to the granary, his shoulders set under the weight of his burden. Eleanor watched him go, his dedication to the task unexpected. She took a step back towards the house, then wavered. The rain was coming down faster now. She had no wish to get wet, but no man would order her around in that fashion. She stood her ground, leaning on the stick for support and wishing she had brought a cloak.

Rudhale returned from the building empty handed after a few moments and found her still standing there. With a stern look he dipped his hand into his satchel and handed the wax tablet to her.

‘Stay if you must, but if you insist on waiting at least be of assistance to me.’ He nodded his head towards the granary. ‘Stand in the entrance and tally the sacks.’ He walked on without waiting for her response and heaved another sack from the cart on to his shoulder.

Eleanor wavered, her pride rebelling at the way he ordered her, but if she returned to the house she did not know when they might meet again so she made her way to the granary and stood inside the entrance of the stone building. She did as Rudhale asked, adding her own precise marks next to the neat lines of his tallies. Her sense of organisation took over and she happily instructed the servants and steward how best to proceed. The cart was soon emptied and the sacks stacked neatly on the stone shelves in the granary.

After a few words of thanks, Rudhale sent the cart driver and servants on their way. He walked back to Eleanor and stood beside her, brushing his hands briskly down the length of his arms and torso to brush the worst of the rain off. Eleanor found herself following the movement closely. She raised her eyes to meet his. Droplets of water glistened in his beard and hair. He cocked his head to one side and ran a hand through his hair, watching Eleanor closely. She held the tablet out and he took it. His fingers touching lightly against her hand for the briefest moment and Eleanor shivered.

‘Thank you for your help,’ Rudhale said. ‘You have saved me a degree of trouble. I am in your debt.’ He walked into the granary and shifted a sack further on to the shelf.

His words reminded Eleanor why she had come and she followed him inside. The storeroom was shadowy, the only light from the open door and the small holes around each wall. The air was sweet with the scent of grain and she took a deep breath.

‘It is I who am in your debt,’ Eleanor said. ‘I have come to settle it now.’ Her hand moved to the pouch on her girdle. ‘How much did Mistress Becket charge you?’

Rudhale raised an eyebrow at her words. ‘You owe me nothing,’ he said. ‘I summoned her to attend you. I will pay for it.’

‘I didn’t ask you to do that.’ Eleanor put her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘What right do you have to act on my behalf in such a way?’

Rudhale moved closer to her. ‘I did it because I could see you were in pain and did not believe you would take care of it yourself. I’m right, aren’t I?’

Eleanor’s mouth dropped open. She closed it quickly and took a step back, surprised at the gentleness in his voice. ‘Even so, that is no business of yours.’

‘The responsibility for the injury was mine,’ Rudhale said firmly. ‘The decision to ask Mistress Becket was mine. The cost will be mine also.’

Eleanor dug her hand into her pouch and produced a groat. She held it out to Rudhale. He folded his arms and set his jaw, eyeing Eleanor defiantly.

‘Take it, for goodness’ sake,’ she exclaimed, her temper rising. ‘I don’t want your money. I can afford to take care of my own affairs.’

‘Your father pays me well. I am not as poor as you suppose,’ Rudhale said scornfully.

‘That isn’t what I meant!’ Eleanor grimaced as she realised how her words must have sounded. She lowered her voice and said, ‘I refuse to be under obligation to any man.’

At her tone Rudhale’s expression changed. He looked at her quizzically. ‘There is no dishonour in doing so,’ he said, his voice earnest. He looked away as though deep in thought, and when his blue eyes slid back to Eleanor’s they gleamed. Eleanor’s throat tightened.

‘If you wish to repay me, you could do so in another manner,’ Rudhale suggested. ‘As your ankle will be healed soon, you can dance with me on the night of the midwinter feast.’

A long-buried sense of yearning struggled inside Eleanor. The now-familiar sense of indignation she felt in his presence fought back. The indignation won. She squeezed the coin tightly into her hand.

‘I told you before, I never dance. I certainly won’t with you.’

‘Why not?’ Rudhale moved closer again and this time Eleanor did not move away. Rudhale lowered his voice. ‘Are you ashamed to be seen with a servant, or is it my face that prevents you?’

‘Neither!’ Eleanor cried indignantly. ‘Do you imagine me so proud?’

‘What are you afraid will happen if you do?’ Rudhale breathed.

Eleanor swallowed. ‘I am afraid of nothing,’ she said boldly. She ignored the voice that whispered how much of a falsehood her denial was and looked him squarely in the face. She held the coin in front of her once more. When the steward ignored it, Eleanor placed it on the shelf beside the grain sacks.

‘Since my marriage ended I have looked after myself. I do not intend to cease now. Take the money or leave it. It’s all the same to me.’ She walked out of the granary and back to the house, using all her willpower not to turn to check if Rudhale had picked up the coin.

* * *

Will watched Lady Peyton depart. He scratched his beard thoughtfully. Every instinct told him she found him attractive, so why was she so determined to deny the fact? He picked the coin from the shelf where Lady Peyton had placed it. It was still warm from her touch. He rolled it between his fingers, contemplating his next move. This was the second time in one day the infuriating woman had left him standing alone. As long as she kept retreating he could never begin to break down her reserve.

Complimenting her beauty had not worked. Calling the wise-woman should have softened her attitude towards him. She lived alone, with no male company or protection. By rights she should be longing for someone to take care of her. Instead she had insisted on that ridiculous notion of independence. Clearly he would need to use different tactics in this conquest.

He walked back to the house, examining the completed tally. Lady Peyton’s hand was neat and businesslike. He recalled the way she had directed the servants, more enthusiastically than he had seen her do anything so far. A grin spread across his face as a plan began to form in his mind.

* * *

Sir Edgar was poring over a large ledger when Will entered his library. He shut the ledger with a bang and grimaced at Will.

‘Duke Roland’s visit is going to bankrupt me, I fear,’ he grumbled. ‘The costs keep mounting.’

‘There is much to be done before the visit,’ he agreed. ‘I should be happy to have twice the assistance I have now.’

‘Well, I can ill afford to hire anyone else,’ Sir Edgar cautioned. Will’s heart leapt with glee. The baron had practically introduced the subject himself.

Sir Edgar picked up his quill and tapped the end irritably against the table edge. ‘My only hope is that my wife finds husbands for my daughters and makes the expense worthwhile, although I can scarcely afford dowries at this time. Eleanor will have to provide her own, though I’m sure she would be more than happy to do so. Never have daughters if you can help it, young man!’

This was even better, Will thought triumphantly. He fixed his face into a sympathetic smile. ‘It is about Lady Peyton that I have come to see you...’ he began.

‘Eleanor, what of her?’ Sir Edgar peered at Will warily. ‘You don’t wish to marry her, do you?’ He laughed as he spoke, though Will thought he could hear a note of hope in the baron’s voice.

‘I would not presume to reach so high,’ Will declared. ‘I merely came to say that I have noticed Lady Peyton seems rather...’ he searched for a word that would not offend ‘...rather listless and vexed. I wondered if she might need something to occupy her.’

‘I’m sure she does,’ Sir Edgar agreed. ‘If I only had the time or finances to fill her days, I’m sure she would be much happier.’

Will sighed, then his face lit up. ‘I have an idea—!’ he began, then broke off. ‘No, it would never do,’ he said with a regretful shake of his head. He walked to the window and gazed out. From the corner of his eye he could see Sir Edgar leaning forward with interest.

‘If you have something to say, tell me,’ Sir Edgar instructed.

With mock reluctance Will spoke. ‘I have a suggestion that might satisfy all our needs.’

He outlined his idea to Sir Edgar. The baron sat back in his chair, hands together across his belly. ‘Excellent idea, William,’ he said finally. ‘Would you find Eleanor? I shall tell her immediately.’

‘May I suggest Lady Peyton is led to believe the plan is yours alone? After all, it was you who gave me the inspiration and I would not wish to take the credit.’

‘Nor the condemnation if it does not meet with Eleanor’s views?’ Sir Edgar asked shrewdly.

The two men’s eyes met and an unspoken acknowledgement passed between them. The baron recognised his daughter’s temper, too. An unprecedented twinge of sympathy seized Will at the thought of Lady Peyton’s brother and father both conspiring against her. Little wonder she preferred to live elsewhere.

Still, that was not his problem. He had less than three weeks to win his wager. Whistling cheerfully, he made his way in search of Lady Peyton, picturing the look on her face when she learned of his plan.