Page 35 of The Forgotten
“Shall I help you dress, lady?” Petra asked as she set the pitcher down.
“Hmm, look at her,” Lady Blythe said, as if speaking to a third person in the room. “So cool, so aloof. When all the while she’s been laying plans and looking to take my place.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t take your meaning,” Petra replied, confused by the venom in Lady Blythe’s voice.
“Don’t you?”
Petra remained silent. Lady Blythe was not one to hold back. She would vent her anger on Petra no matter what she said, so it was safer to remain quiet and keep her distance. She still remembered the sting of Lady Blythe’s belt when she was a girl. Lady Blythe didn’t beat Nan as often, simply because she lacked the energy, but she made up for it with scathing tongue-lashings that left the girl in tears and trembling with fright at the thought of being thrown out with only the clothes she stood up in.
“It seems that my son wishes to marry you. ‘You are a fool,’ I told him. ‘An ungrateful wretch, who wants to throw away all that had been done for him.’ But he won’t listen. His mind is made up. What have you done to bewitch my Thomas?”
“I’ve done nothing, lady. I have given him no encouragement.”
“You better not have, or your back will be striped like a tiger’s. Ever see one of those? No, I thought not,” she answered herself. “My Thomas can have any girl he wants. A girl of breeding and means, a virgin whose womb is fertile and ripe for planting. He could still have sons. Instead, he wishes to marry a lowly nobody. And not just a nobody, but a nobody who is too old to bear children and has three whelps of her own to support. You are of low birth and advanced years. You have nothing to offer a man of his stature.”
“No, lady, I don’t,” Petra agreed. Lady Blythe’s bluntness was cruel, but everything she said was no more than the truth.
“You will refuse him, you hear?” Lady Blythe demanded. “You will not give him any hope.”
“And if I refuse to refuse?” Petra asked, taunting the old woman despite the consequences. She couldn’t afford to lose her place, but even a woman of her station was entitled to some pride.
“Then I will convince him to wait until June to wed. He will change his mind by then, you can be sure of that, my girl. He’s no fool, but it’s been a long time since he’s had a woman in his bed. He’s not thinking straight. I will tell Robert to bring Thomas a whore, a dozen whores, if that’s what it takes to cool his lust. He’ll forget all about you then, you’ll see.”
Petra looked at the old lady and let out a giggle, which she immediately stifled by clamping a hand over her mouth and pretending to cough. The notion that it would take a dozen whores to turn Thomas away from her was laughable. She was no great beauty, nor was she young and pure. She was a mother of three; married, widowed, and battered by life. Surely there was no need for such extreme antics.
“Am I dismissed from my position, Lady Blythe?” Petra asked, not wishing to suffer any more abuse if she were to be let go anyway.
“No, you are not! You will continue with your duties and remain by my side where I can keep an eye on you. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, they say,” she replied, her eyes narrowed with dislike.
“Am I your enemy then?” Petra asked. Lady Blythe was clearly more threatened by her chances with Thomas than Petra previously imagined. Was it possible that Thomas truly loved her? What a strange and unexpected turn her life had taken since Cyril died. Lady Blythe didn’t reply, her silence signaling that the conversation was at an end for the time being.
“I’d like to wash now. Take out my blue gown and woolen stockings. I’m cold.”
“Yes, lady,” Petra replied. She was as distracted as Nan while she helped Lady Blythe dress and escorted her down tobreak her fast. She had to talk to Thomas, but for the life of her, she didn’t know what to say. The sensible thing to do would be to accept his proposal and get on with her life, but her encounter with Avery made accepting Thomas seem like a betrayal of all of them.
THIRTY-FIVE
“The master wishes to see you,” Nan announced as she shuffled into the kitchen with an empty basket on her hip, having finished hanging out the laundry in the yard. Her normally sallow cheeks were rosy with cold, and her hands were nearly blue after handling wet bed linens and Lady Blythe’s underthings. She set down the basket and held her hands out to the fire, sighing with contentment as they began to regain their normal color. “I saw him coming out of the stable,” she added.
“How did he seem to you?” Petra asked, wondering if he regretted the argument with Lady Blythe and was perhaps already reconsidering his intentions toward her.
“Sore-headed and shame-faced,” Nan replied. “Serves him right for drinking like a peasant.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Petra laughed. Nan really was too outspoken at times, a trait that earned her the back of Lady Blythe’s hand at least once a week.
“’Tis the truth,” Nan shrugged. “I saw him being sick behind the stable. If I ever marry, I’ll find a man who has an aversion to drink. Nasty, it makes them, and violent.”
“Was Lord Devon violent toward you?” Petra demanded. Nan shook her head, and Petra suddenly wondered what Nan’s life had been like before she came to serve Lady Blythe. Nan had her opinions and was always up for a gossip, but she never talked about herself. Petra always assumed that there wasn’t much to tell, but perhaps she was wrong. Some memories were too painful toshare. Could be that this place was a refuge for her as much as it had once been for Petra herself.
“Lord Devon is the exception. He gets maudlin when he drinks, but not belligerent, like some. You know how men can get when their blood’s up. They need to kick and punch someone, someone who’s too weak to defend themselves and won’t put up much of a fight. Can’t have their manhood challenged. Can they?” Nan asked with disgust. “That’s about the only thing I recall about my father—his fists, and how often he used them.”
Nan wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the hunk of venison she planned to make for supper. She skillfully impaled it on a spit and positioned it above the flames, where it would roast until suppertime, filling the house with its appetizing smell. If Thomas was too unwell to eat, Nan would get a nice portion for her own supper, since she ate whatever was left over from the mistress’s table.
“You’d best go see him now. He said he’d be waiting in the parlor. Likely wants to say his piece before his mother wakes from her nap, the old sow.”
Petra couldn’t help smiling at the girl. Nan had spirit; she’d give her that. It might not serve her well when it came to staying in Lady Blythe’s good graces, but perhaps saying what was on her mind made her feel a little less downtrodden. “All right, I’m going,” Petra replied and left Nan to her work.
Petra tried to push aside a feeling of apprehension as she hurried toward the parlor, but she couldn’t help worrying. If Thomas still wished to marry her, she’d feel beholden to him, and if he’d changed his mind, she might lose her position. Neither outcome would bode well for her. Petra entered the room and approached slowly, not wishing to disturb Thomas, who sat staring into the flames, his expression pensive.
