help."
"Alicia?" he asked, puzzled. "That is not what the innkeeper called you."
"Of course not. Armand does not use my given name."
"And why?"
"Because it would please me," she said with a shrug. "I can recall few who would use it. Alice is more common."
"But it is important to you..."
"Aye."
He cocked a brow and looked at her closely. Her depth immediately intrigued him. "Tell me why it matters so much, fair Alicia."
"It is the only thing my parents gave me that I still possess. I was separated from them early in my youth and have no memory of either father or mother. But the woman who cared for me, God rest her, gave only my name to the family who took me in. I choose to keep it for that reason."
"And your family?"
"I assume they are dead."
"A sad assumption. Whom, then, do you call family? The innkeeper?"
"Armand?" she laughed. "Oh, no, the family I live with only sends me to him in the summer. I serve the food and ale and do other chores. The money is badly needed. Every summer since I was twelve."
"The family you live with?"
"It is the fourth family I have lived with. Or, fifth, perhaps, since certainly I lived with my parents for a time. I find it hard to call anyone family…"
"You don’t belong here," he said flatly.
She laughed lightly. "I have never belonged anywhere. But someday I will find my place. There must be a place right for me."
"I have been looking for such a place myself," Rodney said, laughing also. "Have you been to London?"
Her face seemed to close at the question. A frown replaced the prettiness of her smile. It was as if the question had been taken as an insult rather than common curiosity. "That is not the place," she said.
Rodney wondered at her reaction and then reached up to scratch the back of his neck. Just the thought of the periwig that was the fashion now made his skin itch all the more. "A wise decision, lass. I am loath to return myself."
"You live there?" she asked.
"At the moment. I don’t imagine I’ll stay."
"You are a nobleman?"
"I?" he laughed. "Sailor, soldier, friend, servant. Aye, I am more servant and friend now, since fighting is over for me. Servant to a young noble without enough money." He shook his head. "But he’s a good lad and strong. It’s only that things don’t go his way."
"Well, my sympathy to you and your young lord, sir," she said primly. "For myself, I’m due in the common room before Armand comes for me with a stick."
"You can’t possibly want to go back in there."
"And where, then?"
"You aren’t frightened?"
"Of them?" she laughed. "Armand won’t let them hurt me. A broken wench does not serve well and ofttimes flees with the first man asking."
"You speak so well," he told her. "For a country lass who was raised with simple folk, you speak as one educated."
"I can read," she boasted. "Though there is little to read," she added with a shrug. "And I can cipher a bit. The first family to house me were educated. He was a teacher once. But I was not to stay with them long. They had too many to feed." She seemed to be saddened for a moment and then brightened again as she looked at him. "I thank you. I’ve worked hard to remember."
"It shows that you’re bright."
Her smile was sweet and genuine. It occurred to Rodney that she had not smiled inside the inn. That missing softness had made her seem somewhat plain, but when she smiled she was lovely and fresh looking, the only real country beauty he had seen.
"Thank you again, sir," she said, lifting her skirts and moving past him to the doors of the inn.
Rodney sighed his pleasure. Meeting Alicia was the one happy part of his discouraging journey. He found her unexpectedly refreshing, and so capable of managing her life.
When he found his stabled horse, he fondly stroked the animal’s neck and thought of the women whose paths he had briefly crossed. There was Charlotte, whose flight indicated she did not want a husband selected by the king. And the aging aunt, whose barely
"Alicia?" he asked, puzzled. "That is not what the innkeeper called you."
"Of course not. Armand does not use my given name."
"And why?"
"Because it would please me," she said with a shrug. "I can recall few who would use it. Alice is more common."
"But it is important to you..."
"Aye."
He cocked a brow and looked at her closely. Her depth immediately intrigued him. "Tell me why it matters so much, fair Alicia."
"It is the only thing my parents gave me that I still possess. I was separated from them early in my youth and have no memory of either father or mother. But the woman who cared for me, God rest her, gave only my name to the family who took me in. I choose to keep it for that reason."
"And your family?"
"I assume they are dead."
"A sad assumption. Whom, then, do you call family? The innkeeper?"
"Armand?" she laughed. "Oh, no, the family I live with only sends me to him in the summer. I serve the food and ale and do other chores. The money is badly needed. Every summer since I was twelve."
"The family you live with?"
"It is the fourth family I have lived with. Or, fifth, perhaps, since certainly I lived with my parents for a time. I find it hard to call anyone family…"
"You don’t belong here," he said flatly.
She laughed lightly. "I have never belonged anywhere. But someday I will find my place. There must be a place right for me."
"I have been looking for such a place myself," Rodney said, laughing also. "Have you been to London?"
Her face seemed to close at the question. A frown replaced the prettiness of her smile. It was as if the question had been taken as an insult rather than common curiosity. "That is not the place," she said.
Rodney wondered at her reaction and then reached up to scratch the back of his neck. Just the thought of the periwig that was the fashion now made his skin itch all the more. "A wise decision, lass. I am loath to return myself."
"You live there?" she asked.
"At the moment. I don’t imagine I’ll stay."
"You are a nobleman?"
"I?" he laughed. "Sailor, soldier, friend, servant. Aye, I am more servant and friend now, since fighting is over for me. Servant to a young noble without enough money." He shook his head. "But he’s a good lad and strong. It’s only that things don’t go his way."
"Well, my sympathy to you and your young lord, sir," she said primly. "For myself, I’m due in the common room before Armand comes for me with a stick."
"You can’t possibly want to go back in there."
"And where, then?"
"You aren’t frightened?"
"Of them?" she laughed. "Armand won’t let them hurt me. A broken wench does not serve well and ofttimes flees with the first man asking."
"You speak so well," he told her. "For a country lass who was raised with simple folk, you speak as one educated."
"I can read," she boasted. "Though there is little to read," she added with a shrug. "And I can cipher a bit. The first family to house me were educated. He was a teacher once. But I was not to stay with them long. They had too many to feed." She seemed to be saddened for a moment and then brightened again as she looked at him. "I thank you. I’ve worked hard to remember."
"It shows that you’re bright."
Her smile was sweet and genuine. It occurred to Rodney that she had not smiled inside the inn. That missing softness had made her seem somewhat plain, but when she smiled she was lovely and fresh looking, the only real country beauty he had seen.
"Thank you again, sir," she said, lifting her skirts and moving past him to the doors of the inn.
Rodney sighed his pleasure. Meeting Alicia was the one happy part of his discouraging journey. He found her unexpectedly refreshing, and so capable of managing her life.
When he found his stabled horse, he fondly stroked the animal’s neck and thought of the women whose paths he had briefly crossed. There was Charlotte, whose flight indicated she did not want a husband selected by the king. And the aging aunt, whose barely
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