Page 43 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
The child wasn’t dead, but she knew the vicar would wait until the girl was deceased and then go offer comfort to the grieving. It was up to her, of course, to offer what aid she could. And that meant her cool drink with the special ingredient. Medicine, yes, but she’d learned early that gathering the moss she needed was horrendous work.
Fortunately, she was so bored with Charlie that she went with alacrity, only to begin cursing when she got to Mr. Periwinkle’s trough. The creature was there, clearly distempered from a sore head.
“Serves you right for drinking two buckets of ale,” she groused, then got down into the muck. She’d done this plenty of times, but it never got easier. And if there wasn’t enough here, then she’d have to look in worse places.
There. Mold. On the dark side of the trough. Barely enough for one drink, but maybe enough when added to what she’d made yesterday.
“Soon,” she told Mr. Periwinkle. “Soon, I’ll never have to do this again. I’ll be dressed in silks and talk to earls and dukes. Charlie’s my ‘just in case plan,’” she added as she scraped the mold off. The stench was overwhelming. Muck seeped through the cloth she’d laid down, one she’d made specifically for this purpose—
“Git off me!” she croaked as she kicked Mr. Periwinkle. The damned beast had come snuffling at her privates. She tucked up her legs, knowing that the motion shoved her hair harder against the fabric. Lord, she was going to stink for a week.
Mr. Periwinkle snorted, clearly insulted as she set her feet on his haunches and shoved. He moved, thank heavens.
She went back to her work. A few more scrapes. She didn’t know why it worked. She and the witch-woman had experimented often with various combinations of ingredients. The ones with mold worked. So it was get the stuff or let a child die of fever.
She was nearly done when—
“Ewwww!”
Mr. Periwinkle pissed on her. A hard, hot stream, straight at her face. He’d missed, thank God, but she’d still gotten it full on her chest and shoulder.
“Why you…” She cut off her words in surprise. She’d rolled away from Mr. Periwinkle, and now her new position showed her dark mold deep in the corner crevice of the trough. She’d have to worm her way there, but it was good mold.
Mayhaps, it would keep Sarah alive.
She ignored the stench and the pig as she squirmed her way there. The dress was ruined anyway.
A half hour later, she rinsed off in the frigid stream before tromping to her home. At least Widow Dwight had been away. Her skin wouldn’t survive a second lye soap bath in as many days.
She worked quickly when she got home. The fresher the mold, the better the medicine. She crushed it, mixed it with some berries and other sweeteners for taste, and then poured it in a bottle. She made it to the Grummers with barely an hour of sunlight left.
Betty met her at the door, and her face looked worn. The exchange was done quietly, the payment not enough to cover her ruined dress. But she took what she was offered and didn’t quibble. Not when there was a child’s life at stake.
She was home at dusk, thankful it was summer and the sun set late. “When I’m with my father,” she said to her mother’s portrait, “this will be like a bad dream. I’ll never, ever stink of pig piss again.”
She didn’t stop to rest. If she did, she wouldn’t get up again. She packed what little she had left, ate the last of the food, then put on her worst gown and went to weed her garden.
He found her there on her knees in the dirt. She exhaled hard when she heard his booted step on the road. There were any number of men who might walk by her small home, but it wasn’t anyone else.
It was Mr. Hallowsby, and he was coming to see her.
She kept her rigid back to him and tried to decide how she felt about his visit. She could scream, of course, if he meant to do her harm. But when she risked glancing at him under her arm, she saw his face was set in quiet determination, not anger. And he was calm. On him, calm looked strong and a tad bit regretful.
She shifted further, deciding to face him directly. There was no use pretending she hadn’t looked. He’d been staring straight at her when she risked her peek. So she pushed to her feet and pretended her hands weren’t sweating and her heart wasn’t pounding in her throat.
As she waited, she was excruciatingly conscious of the dirt on her hands and face, not to mention her gown. She’d neglected a bonnet since it was so late in the day, and her hair was flitting everywhere about her eyes. Worse, midges swarmed nearby, making her swipe uselessly at them.
She was a mess, but she’d be damned if she prettied up for him. But she wanted to. Damn it, she wanted to be beautiful for him.
“Soon,” she muttered to herself. “In London.” Everything would be better.
“Hello, Miss Bluebell,” he said in that slow drawl that felt like honey tea on a cold day.
“Hello, Mr. Hallowsby.” She might not pretty herself up, but she would speak perfectly.
“Quite a garden you have there. It’ll be a sight to see come harvest.”
She hoped she’d be back here by then. She would hate to see an entire summer’s growth gone to waste. But then again, it wouldn’t be wasted. Mr. Bray’s family would take what was here and be generous in their thanks when she returned.
