Page 63 of Harpy of the Ton
Chapter Twenty-Two
Why was itthat every time she tried to sweep dust out of a room, it merely swirled around the air, like a cloud of stubborn crows, then settled back where it had begun? But not before filling her nostrils with an acrid scent and clinging to her hair.
She inhaled to let out a cough once more, and her nostrils tickled.
Not again…
She covered her mouth with her hands before she convulsed with a sneeze. Then she removed her hand and studied her palm. A film of sticky dust caked her skin.
Sweet heaven—that came out of her nostrils.
Fighting nausea, she rushed outside, like a drowning man in a filthy pond seeking air before succumbing to death.
Death would be better thanthis.
The air wasn’t that much better outside. It carried the scent of—of what? Horse manure? Cow dung? Rotting meat? Something unsavory—rivaled only by the stench coming from beneath the floorboards.
Stains covered her gown—from when she’d tried to wipe the dust off her hands, and from a dark brown substance that she’d picked up, thinking it was a pile of raisins, then promptly gagged at the odor.
It felt like she’d been working without respite—save for a visit to the privy, which she had no intention of enduring again—for a full day. Yet when she checked the cracked, dust-coated clock over the fireplace, she’d been working less than an hour. Her hands burned from when she tried to wash the apron she’d found in the kitchen, and the heels of her feet chafed from rubbing against the insides of her shoes.
Falling into a river seemed a vacation in comparison.
She held up her hands—hands that, according to him, had been used to years of toil. The skin glowed red, as if lit from inside, and her whole body felt as if she’d been run over by a carriage.
Footsteps approached, and she darted back into the kitchen. There was only one way her humiliation could get any worse—and that was to be seen by others.
She sat at the table and pushed aside the dirty plates from last night’s meal. Cleaning those was item seven on the list. She pulled out this list and read it again.
She’d only completed—no, attempted—the first two items. Perhaps she could try the third.
Stoke the fire.
Whatever stoking was. She’d seen a pile of logs at the back of the building, but there were no identifiable means with which to light them.
Damn you…
She hesitated. What was his name? Lawrence.
Damn you, Lawrence. You’ve told me what to do, but not how. I can’t remember.
She scrunched up the paper and winced at the soreness in her palm.
“Damn you!” she cried. “I can’t remember!”
She placed her head in her hands and succumbed to the tears, each shuddering breath sending an ache through her lungs.
“I don’t know what to do!” she said. “Sweet Lord—won’t anyone help me?”
Rap-rap-rap!
She glanced up and drew in a sharp breath.
A young woman stared at her through the window. She knocked on the glass again. “May I come in?”
Bella rose and backed away. But the woman had already seen her. Hiding in the shadows would only give her more to gossip about.
I don’t want any more gossip in the village about your wayward ways.
