The Yearning Heart Read online

  Sir Stephen didn't talk as they traveled. Instead, he removed a ledger from the satchel he carried and turned pages to stare at columns of figures. She studied the uneven features, his well-molded mouth beneath a heavy mustache.

  What would it be like to have him kiss her? Fascinated by the thought, feeling warmth in her cheeks, Rebecca put her hand to her own soft mouth. She had never been kissed. All she had ever done was dream.

  She turned to look out the carriage window. Brown fields stretched in all directions, windswept, dreary fields. Sheep grazed near the road as they came upon a small village.

  “We will have tea and walk a bit to stretch our legs,” Sir Stephen said.

  She didn't answer. She was accustomed to obeying and did not question him even though she didn't want anything. Her stomach craved to be left alone.

  “Hot tea will relax you,” he said as though reading her thoughts.

  It was nearing dusk when the carriage stopped, and Rebecca sat up, startled at the sudden quiet, to realize she had been dozing. She glanced at Stephen who smiled at her. Rebecca smoothed back her hair and tried to smile in return, but her face muscles were frozen.

  Nearby, a few dark shapes of small houses stood near the highway. The inevitable ale sign hung over a rough-hewn building where the carriage stopped. Inside, it was warm and comfortable, the dimly flickering candles giving the hallway a welcoming glow.

  The beaming face of an old woman peeped from the stairway.

  “This way, my lord. I have a comfortable room at the top of the stairs.”

  Rebecca swallowed hard. One room. The time had come when ...

  “We would have two rooms, if you please,” Sir Stephen said.

  The woman looked from Stephen to Rebecca, her mouth opened in mild surprise, but she nodded. “There is another across the hall, my lord,” she said, and Stephen followed the bent figure into the other room.

  Rebecca went into the small clean room, noting the bed with its dark quilted coverlet, a shuttered window barred against the night, one candle casting shadows. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her slippers, so dusty now she could no longer be sure of their color.

  “Mrs. Heaton will bring us tea and stew she has left from the evening meal,” Stephen said from the doorway.

  “I do not wish to eat.”

  Sir Stephen stepped into the room.

  “I will not have your death from starvation on my conscience, Rebecca,” he said. “You will eat, and you will drink the tea.”

  “Very well, my lord.”

  She ate the stew and it tasted good. She took a drink of the tea and immediately, the stew and everything eaten the past week spewed from her stomach. Gagging and coughing, she watched in horror as the mess spread over the spotless wooden floor.

  Then she was being lifted and moved away from the ugly remains of her meal. A soft cloth wiped at her mouth. She pulled away, tried to get her feet on the floor to go look for something with which to clean.

  “Be still,” Sir Stephen said. “Stay there. Do not move.”

  Shivering, Rebecca remained on the edge of the bed where Stephen left her. A few minutes later, Mrs. Heaton came in, clucking her tongue, working industriously all the time.

  “I should ha’ known,” she said. “So pale. So young to be with child.” She clicked her tongue once more. “Men. They know nothing of how to care for a wife when she carries their seed.”

  Rebecca stared dumbly at the woman, and then realized Mrs. Heaton thought her with child. She gagged. Soon enough, it would be so. That's what women were for—carrying cases for man to bring forth sons into the world.

  She thought the woman would never finish cleaning, but still, she was thankful Mrs. Heaton did the job. Papa would have beaten her before making her clean up her own mess. At least, Sir Stephen did not beat her—yet. Mayhap as his wife, she would present a better target.

  “Rebecca?”

  She raised her head.

  “I am sorry, my lord.”

  “I should have known your stomach was not settled enough for food, but you have not eaten since we left Grinwold. I am afraid you will become ill.”

  She was already ill, but it mattered not.

  “How much longer to Glastonbury?”

  “We will arrive late on the morrow.”

  She went completely rigid. Tomorrow night, Sir Stephen would ...

  His hands on her shoulders forced her to look up at him.

  “Rest tonight. You will be all right once we get you settled in your new home.” He spoke as to a small child and brushed his mouth across the top of her head. “Go to sleep now. I will see you early the morning.”

  * * * *

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  * * *

  Chapter Two

  They reached Glastonbury late the afternoon of the third day of travel. It was raining and colder than when they left papa's house. The horses pulling the carriage snorted and blew mist from their nostrils as they struggled up the steep hillside to reach the dark gray building overlooking a rocky cliff.

  Rebecca eyed the forbidding structure that stood in silent vigil over the waters of the rugged coastline. Several outbuildings loomed a distance away from the main house.

  “We are home, Rebecca.” Sir Stephen's voice was gruff as though expecting an argument.

  Her mouth twisted. Did not papa tell you he never allowed argument? She wanted to ask. She accepted his hand as he helped her from the carriage. Her legs trembled mayhap from weakness. She still hadn't eaten.

  He led her, without speaking again, inside the rough stone house, into a high-ceilinged hallway with a stained glass window letting light in from the top of a stairway. If the outside presented an imposing, almost hostile appearance, the inside of Sir Stephen's home welcomed her. The wide hallway was not cluttered with dark, ugly furniture as Grinwold was. Instead, there were wall hangings of bright wools, resembling paintings she had seen of rugs from the unknown country of Persia.

  Chandeliers, a dozen amber candles shining in each of them, hung from wide-spaced beams. The stairway curved after six steps, reaching the second floor way above them into another wide hallway. She could see two doors closing away other rooms.

  To their right an archway led into another high-ceilinged room where she could see a harp, dark shiny strings reaching higher than Rebecca's head. She stared, fascinated by the same type instrument Sister Emilie had taught her to play after her book lessons were finished. For that one reason, she had loved the strict discipline and did well in school work in order to be allowed to continue playing. Her fingers tingled, remembering the lilting tunes Sister Emilie had taught her to play.

  “Welcome home, Sir Stephen,” a soft voice tinged with an Irish lilt said.

  Rebecca turned to see a tall, red-haired woman standing in the doorway just left of the bottom stair step.

  Stephen smiled, his expression relaxed and warm as he said, “Malvina, this is Lady Rebecca. She has not been well and will need a bit of care before she can hold food.”

  He took Rebecca's cold hand, rubbing it between both of his.

  “Malvina is your personal maid, Rebecca. Whatever you need, ask her.” He bent to touch her cheek with his lips and his warm breath stirred a tendril of hair pulled loosed from the combs. “Rest before dinner.”

  It was an order, but Rebecca cared not. She was exhausted. She followed Malvina's black clad figure up the stairs, turned once to look back at the vast expanse of hallway. If the house was built on the same scale, it must be furlongs wide. The beauty and luxury took her breath. Papa's house was comfortable, but this ...

  Stephen stood near the steps looking upward, and he met her quizzical glance with his own solemn one. She stopped to stare down at him. He was a man of culture, a handsome man, presumably with plenty of wealth or land or both. Why did he choose a plain, sixteen-year-old daughter of a landholder as his wife? He must be more than twice her age, but wives die young, Lady Elizabeth had said. Childbirt
h, disease, beatings ...

  According to her stolen manuscripts, there was love and romance to be found with men. According to Lady Elizabeth, such things were hard to come by. Standing there in the strange house, staring down at a strange soon-to-be husband, Rebecca thought her mother more right.

  Malvina moved ahead of her and entered a room at the end of the long hallway. Rebecca followed to stand just inside the door, her gaze taking in the mellow warmth of the room. The oil wick in a milk glass lamp gave off enough light so she could see the bed cover of pale orchid with green sprigs laced in tiny white blossoms. The heavy chest was covered with a matching cloth, and two milk glass lamps sat on each side of the beveled mirror.

  Malvina opened the clothes case and pulled out the ugly garments, one by one. Rebecca watched her, tempted to laugh at the disapproval on the older woman's face.

  “Will my lady sleep in this?” she said, holding up the rose-colored gown.

  “I suppose my lady will, Malvina, since that is all my lady has.”

  Rebecca sat on the bed, running her hand across the rich material.

  “Tell me, Malvina. Why has your master chosen me as his bride? I bring nothing, not a dowry, not even knowledge of what a bride does with a husband.”

  Malvina stared.

  “You are married to Sir Stephen?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh.”

  Malvina turned away to hang dresses in the closet, which ran the width of the room. The maid worked quickly, not looking at Rebecca, and when her task was completed, the clothing took up a pitiful amount of the generous space.

  “Oh, what? Oh, what in the world does Sir Stephen want with this ugly child? Oh, how could Sir Stephen be taken in by such innocence? Oh, she must be with child and Sir Stephen is a true gentleman and has taken the blame?”

  Rebecca slid off the bed and walked across the room so when her newly assigned personal maid turned, she was directly in her path.

  “Oh, what, Malvina?” Her head reached only to Malvina's straight nose, so she had to tilt her head backwards to see the other's expression.

  “I, I'm sorry, my lady, I meant no harm.”

  They stared at each other, and then Rebecca smiled and retreated to the bed. It was none of Malvina's affair what her master did. Like Rebecca, she had no say in the matter. Rebecca was so tired, she did not care what Malvina thought, cared not what Sir Stephen would do with her, did not care if they dumped her over the cliff into the waters below them, did not care ...

  She flung herself on the bed, buried her face beneath the ruffles on one of the plump pillows. As she lay there, she felt the dusty slippers being removed and her woolen hose pulled from stiff legs.

  “I will pour my lady's bath,” Malvina said. Her footsteps moved away.

  After a moment, Rebecca gave a shuddering breath, got up and followed Malvina into the anteroom. Mayhap a bath would rid her of grime, but would it ease a sore and uncertain heart?

  The enamel on the tub matched the bed cover, pale orchid with green sprigged leaves. She shrugged out of the scratchy wool skirt and white high-necked blouse, and stood still as Malvina unfastened the chemise and slid it away, pulling the next layer of clothing off along with it, leaving her thin body completely exposed.

  Rebecca had never undressed before anyone save Lady Elizabeth, but she offered no objection, as Malvina looked her over. What difference? Next, it would be Sir Stephen ...

  Tears tightened her throat, but she swallowed over them, refusing to let her maid see she wished she were back at Grinwold even with papa's disapproval.

  The water, bubbling with something Malvina sprinkled into it, was hot. Thankfully Rebecca sank beneath it, leaning her head back over the curved edge of the tub. She kept her eyes closed as the woman rubbed her body with a thick cloth, passing it between small breasts as though they were not there. Over her belly, her thighs, her feet. It was a luxury just to lie there and let someone wash her, something she had never experienced. She could almost laugh, thinking of papa parting with enough money to have servants other than Nora, their one maid, to take care of everything at Grinwold.

  When she finally emerged from the tub, scrubbed and pink, Malvina covered her with a thick wrap.

  “Sir Stephen brought a bowl of gruel and a muffin he wishes you to eat.”

  “Sir Stephen cooks?”

  Malvina giggled. “No, my lady. Cook thought perchance Sir Stephen would reach home today and kept things warm. There's more solid food if you can abide it.”

  Rebecca walked barefoot into the bedroom and looked at the steaming tray by the table. Her stomach rolled in protest.

  “You eat it, Malvina,” she said. “I just want to sleep.”

  “Perhaps not until Sir Stephen comes to say goodnight.”

  “You tell him for me,” Rebecca said, let the wrap drop from her body and slid between the heavy muslin sheets. They smelled of moor winds and damp sunshine.

  Please don't let him touch me tonight, she pleaded to that God she prayed to occasionally. Please.

  “I prefer you to say your own goodnight, Rebecca.” A quiet voice spoke from the doorway.

  Malvina had conveniently disappeared.

  Rebecca watched Stephen cross the room, met his dark blue gaze with her own rebellious one, and wondered how long he'd been there before he spoke. She was too tired to care.

  “Goodnight, my lord.”

  He didn't speak for a long time, his eyes going from the untidy fall of bath-tumbled hair to the faint outline of her body beneath the covers.

  Please don't touch me. She felt sixteen—too young for the world papa had thrust upon her. She must accept whatever Sir Stephen offered, but tonight, she needed to be left alone.

  “You did not eat.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  He tugged the sheet up around a bare shoulder.

  “Mayhap your appetite will return once you are rested from your travels.”

  He didn't smile, but continued to look steadily at her face. She thought this man with the sad eyes did not smile often.

  “Goodnight, Rebecca.” He turned and moved to the door.

  “Why?” she asked of his back.

  He turned. “Why?”

  “What could you possibly have that you would trade to papa for me? You must have wanted badly to be rid of it.”

  “It is between Sir Oliver and me, Rebecca. Do not trouble yourself.”

  She sat up. “How like one of papa's friends. ‘Do not trouble yourself, Rebecca,’ he says, ‘that we trade you between us like an unwanted cow. Do not—'”

  “Be quiet.”

  He was by the bed in an instant, staring down into the pale face, at the blonde hair tumbling past thin shoulders, suspicious moisture brightening her eyes.

  “I will not be quiet,” she said, fists balled beneath the covers. “Tell me, or is it of such little worth you are ashamed to admit it?”

  Why do I argue with this, this child? he wondered and sighed.

  “Nay, Rebecca. You are payment for Sir Oliver's gambling debt. A large gambling debt.” His voice was cold as he grudgingly answered her questions.

  She knew papa gambled. Sometimes she heard Lady Elizabeth quarreling after one of his trips when he must have lost goodly sums of money.

  “How much?” Her voice was only a whisper. How much am I worth? she wanted to know. Papa placed little value on me until now.

  Sir Stephen looked her over for long moments before he finally said, “At the royal court not long ago, I was in several games of chance with Sir Oliver. He knew not enough to quit, and I won a large portion of his land. When it was over, he offered you in exchange for his debts.”

  Rebecca's heart hurt. Sir Stephen could not know how it felt to be bartered by your father for a piece of dirt. She swallowed before she could speak.

  “And you accepted without ever seeing me?”

  Papa came out a grand winner, ridding himself of his biggest liability while retaining his belov
ed land.

  Stephen moved to the door.

  “I remembered seeing you from the holiday ball last Christmas. You reminded me of a small elf.”

  An elf. How quaint.

  “Still you accepted me as payment?”

  “Why not?” His glance strayed around the room and came back to rest on her resentful expression. “These dark halls could use an elf to liven them. I do not need more land, and I can use a wife.”

  Use. He could use a wife. How forthright of him.

  The door closed behind him.

  * * * *

  Stephen frowned as he saddled the giant prancing horse. Why had he made such a remark to that sad-faced child last night? An elfin face with haunted blue eyes—she was that, indeed, but his light words did not make her feel better. If anything, her face twisted as though she might cry. Perchance she would feel better if she did cry. Would not he— taken from everything he loved and was familiar with—taken by a strange man who planned to marry you to settle a debt?

  Many men took advantage of trades and debts to find a wife, sometimes to rid themselves of one. It didn't make him feel better knowing the child in his house did not hold him in high esteem. It did not matter. She was not required to do so. He shook himself to remove the disapproval he felt over his own decision.

  Stephen yanked on the strap beneath the horse's solid chest, and the steed snorted and rolled his eyes.

  “Sorry,” he said. He adjusted the strap to a more comfortable tightness, and then threw a long leg across the saddle.

  “Now, boy,” he said, flipped the reins lightly this time to set the horse off in a slow trot.

  Tor, a light chestnut, carried him easily, taking the trail they often rode over to the cliffs, down the straggly path slanting to the water. Along the narrow beach of pebble-strewn sand, through the mud where water stood at high tide, around the sharp jutting edge of Cloud Reef, so named because low clouds obscured its jagged edge during winter storms.