The Bellerose Bargain Read Free Page A

audible words from her bed drew pain in Rodney’s heart. She spoke of years of imprisonment with a spoiled and ungrateful child. And there was Alicia, a bright and commanding lass of fair looks, whose lot it would be to live out her years in a simple cottage with nothing out of the ordinary taking place in her life.
    When his head finally rested on the soft hay, the weariness from his traveling and his disappointments seemed to hit him all at once and even sleep came with difficulty. Just before his eyes closed he had a peculiar sensation. The women he had encountered, even though he never actually met Charlotte at all, were miles removed from one another. Yet in his mind their lives seemed to touch in a strange and unsettling way.
    In a room that had been converted from a loft, there were two straw pallets, one small window, a coffer, and some scattered bundles of clothing. A dried bunch of mayflowers with ribbon streamers hung from a nail on a high beam; they had died as rapidly as the dream they came with.
    Four serving girls lay on the two mattresses, their bodies in neat parallel lines to conserve the tiny space. The night was done; dawn was just breaking. The noises in the common room below them were low and infrequent, and the four maids lay exhausted in this insignificant room.
    Alicia’s eyes were not closed. She looked upward at the weathered beams. A squeaking she had heard before caused her eyes to shift and she saw the long, tubular tail of a rodent as he skittered across a beam. Life was predictable here. There were mice in the attic, chores in the morning, and little to look forward to.
    There was a memory that was vague enough to be a dream, something stuck away in the back of her mind, that had given her comfort in the moments before sleep since she was a very little girl. It had to do with a red cloak. She remembered the fabric as being smooth and delicate, and the inside was deliciously warm. And when wearing the cloak she was always happy because she was always going someplace.
    Associated with this wrap was a woman’s face. She was ivory-skinned and gentle, with tender eyes and fair hair. The eyes were troubled and tinged with tears. She wore a velvet dress that was so soft that Alicia could almost feel the fabric against her cheek when she thought about it. And with the feeling against her cheek, she could remember gentle stroking of her hair and the sound of the woman’s voice, and her words singed her memory. "You will be so beautiful. I can barely wait to see..."
    "But I am not beautiful," Alicia thought with a sense of guilt and betrayal. "She would have been very disappointed."
    Alicia liked to imagine that this woman was her mother, but reality insisted that it might not be so. Other women had cared for her during her early years and had been kind and dear, though there was no kinship.
    She remembered stone walls, high and gray, and floors the same color. There were trees, but she was not sure if she ran among them and hid behind them or simply viewed them from a coach or window. Nothing she had seen since resembled this memory.
    The clearest image was of a boy. Freckles spotted his nose and cheeks, and his eyes were the same pale blue as the woman’s. He wore a white linen shirt and a brown wool jacket that was richly sewn, but he took care of it poorly—she could remember extra stitches and patches. And his hands were clumsy. He, too, was associated with the red cloak because he often buttoned it around her neck as he scolded her. "Now, be still, you mouse. Be still or I’ll swat you good." Even now the remembrance gave her chills because there was love in his scolding, laughter in his voice.
    She had not played with him, or if she had, she had no memory of it. Once, he had clutched her fiercely, let her go abruptly, and, in his laughing, scolding voice, pushed her away. "Now, get where you’re going, and be good or else."
    And that was all there was. Next was the Thatchers’ farm. He was