He was rocked in a stone kitchen - a fool

- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

 

After a morning of watching Load Ashwicke hit almost every tree in Smallcombe Woods except the one he was aiming at, Keziah’s temper was wearing thin. She knew that this was mostly out of guilt; after all, it was her father’s machinations putting the poor duke in this untenable position. But there was another part of her which was more than a little frustrated that the duke’s words were only too accurate.

He was not the hero she needed, or indeed had hoped for.

Far from it.

Whilst in a ballroom or at a party, she had little doubt that he was in his element. He was clearly the height of fashion, and she didn’t doubt that he danced admirably and was a most entertaining and attentive partner. Indeed, she suspected he was very much in demand, and would be even if he wasn’t in possession of an enviable title. That, however, did not answer the current predicament. No amount of exquisite cravats or shiny boots were going to extricate him from this affair. So she could perhaps be forgiven for wishing the young man sitting beside her and looking every bit as dejected as she was had been a rather more muscular and fearless warrior type who would save her and himself at one and the same time.

But if wishes were guineas, she’d not have a care in the world.

Keziah sighed and took a bite out of a slice of cold chicken pie that went some way to raising her dwindling spirits.

“I am sorry.”

Keziah rolled her eyes and wished the duke would stop apologising. She knew it wasn’t his fault as such, even though she couldn’t help but blame him a little, but apologising every five minutes didn’t help and quickly became tedious, to say the least. She couldn’t help but think that it would do the man rather a lot of good to get angry.

“It’s fine,” she muttered, though she was aware that her tone suggested it was anything but.

She looked up as he handed her a plate of fruit cake and noticed that he had carefully removed all of the cherries with a small pocket knife that he was now tucking away. It was a silly thing, really, but she suddenly felt her eyes prickle. She knew full well she was being ridiculous but … no one but Molly had ever noticed such a frivolous thing about her, but Lord Ashwicke had.

After lunch was over, they returned to the job at hand, and Keziah endured the next hour with growing impatience until she noticed that Lord Ashwicke was squinting.

“Can you actually see the tree?” she demanded, stalking up to him and staring at his face as though the answer might be written there.

He coloured a little, and she refused to notice that it was really rather endearing.

“Well,” he said, and stared down at the pistol rather than meet her eye. “I can see the tree but … it is a trifle blurry.”

“Oh, good Lord,” she said, throwing up her hands. “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

For a moment, a flicker of indignation was seen on his face, but it was replaced by a rather sheepish expression. “Well, dash it, a fellow doesn’t like to illustrate all of his weaknesses before a lady.”

“No,” she replied, folding her arms. “He’d prefer to make an utter cake of himself by missing the blasted tree nine times out of ten.”

She saw a rather pertinent retort leap to his lips, but apparently the duke remembered he was a gentleman and swallowed it down. It struck her, then, how very different a man the duke was from her father. If she’d spoken to him like that, she’d likely have felt the back of his hand at the very least. Yet Lord Ashwicke would not so much as raise his voice to her. The chasm of difference between them was so vast that she couldn’t quite comprehend it. She did realise she was being rather hard on him, however, and if he could hold his tongue then … well, she should at least make the effort.

“Perhaps you could consider having your eyes tested?” she said, keeping her tone mild and trying not to find any amusement in the abject horror in his expression at the idea. She bit back a smile and added, “You need not wear them in public, only for hitting a target. You know … if perhaps your life depended on it?” He glowered a little at that and now she couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, come, your grace, surely you’re not prepared to die for fashion’s sake?”

He made a noise of disgust and stalked away to replace the pistol in its box. “Of course not,” he said, sounding a touch impatient. “I’m not an utter fool you know.”

“I never suggested you were,” she retorted, moving to gather up the picnic things and smiling to see the little parcel of sugared almonds he’d made for her.

“Oh, no,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. “Not out loud, at any rate.”

She realised, then, that she had hurt his feelings and felt a twinge of guilt for it. Stowing the biscuits in her reticule and putting the last of the picnic things back in the hamper, she got to her feet and walked over to him. He was putting on his coat, with some difficulty, and she reached up to adjust his collar, smoothing out the fine material until it lay quite flat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quiet. “I know I’ve been impatient and … oh, quite hateful, I don’t doubt.”

“Oh, no …” he began, his natural politeness obviously making it impossible to agree with her.

“Oh, what a rapper,” she said, laughing despite herself. “You know as well as I do that I’ve been a positive tyrant.”

He grinned at that, and Keziah had to admit that he really did have a very charming smile.

“Well, not a tyrant exactly …” he said as she tutted at him.

“Faint praise indeed, your grace.”

“Oh, do call me Ash,” he said, a pained look in his green eyes that was hard to ignore. “You can’t know how tired I get of you ‘your gracing’ me every five minutes.”

Keziah pursed her lips and considered the young duke for a moment. “Very well,” she said, even knowing it was most improper. “When we are here, I shall call you Ash, but,” she added, holding up one finger as he went to speak, “in return, you will stop apologising every time you miss the tree, and you’ll go and get yourself some spectacles so you can at least see the wretched thing!”

He was silent for a moment before holding out his hand to her. She slipped her hand in his and was a little surprised by the warmth and surety of his grasp. “Deal,” he said, beaming at her.

“Thank heavens for that.” Looking up, Keziah frowned as she noticed large, bruised-looking clouds had started to roll in, covering up the previously clear blue sky. “Oh dear,” she said, wondering if they’d make it home in time. “I think we’d better make haste.”

They piled their belongings back in the carriage and Ash harnessed the horses to the curricle with what even Keziah had to admit was great speed and skill. She had long admired his way with the horses and the effortless manner in which he handled them in harness. He really could drive to an inch, and if things were different she would have long since begged that he teach her how. As it was, she satisfied herself with watching his long, elegant hands holding the reins, and the expertise with which he guided his matched greys around a particularly narrow and winding lane.

Huddling back under the awning of the curricle, she hoped that she could make it back to the house without getting soaked through, but looking at the increasingly sombre-looking skies, she thought her chances were diminishing by the second.

“I think perhaps I should take you into town,” Ash said, as if reading her thoughts. Keziah looked around to see him watching the skies with misgiving, but she shook her head.

“No, we dare not risk it,” she said, certain that it wasn’t worth the prospect of being discovered. “If my father sees us together, he’ll know I’ve betrayed him, and then …” Keziah faltered as she considered what would happen next. She swallowed hard and shook her head. “It’s too dangerous,” she said instead of illustrating the nightmares that might await her. “I assure you, I can withstand a bit of rain. I won’t shrink, you know.”

Ash grimaced as a faint rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. “I’m afraid it will be rather more than a bit,” he said.

“Set me down here,” she said, scrambling from the curricle before he had a chance to get out and help her. “I don’t know when I can get away next,” she added, raising her voice over the sound of the wind, which was picking up, the thunder rumbling in an ever more ominous manner overhead. “I’ll send you a note.”

“Very well,” Ash replied, his expression filled with concern. “You will take care?”

She nodded at him, finding herself happy to note that there was some other person in the world other than the devoted Molly who cared at all for her happiness and well-being.

“I will. Goodbye, Ash.” She caught the fleeting glimpse of a smile at hearing her use his nickname, and then she was off and running as fast as she dared as the rain began to fall in earnest.

***

Soaked to the bone and shivering enough to rattle her teeth, Keziah forced herself to go around the longer route to the back door in the hope of avoiding her father. Hopefully, he was out wooing the unfortunate Lady Ashwicke, but he had a nasty habit of appearing when you least wanted him, an omnipotent sixth sense that she had long had cause to curse.

Her instincts were immediately set on alert when she heard the quiet sound of sobbing as she crept in through the kitchen door.

Keziah paused, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling as something told her to take great care.

“Molly?” she said, her voice quiet as she stepped further into the room. The range was dying, the heat from it nothing near as hot as it should be for the coming meal, and no candles lit. Lightning flickered outside, casting the gloomy kitchen with a strange blue light that only served to make her heart beat faster. She moved further into the kitchen, closer to the scullery, hardly daring to breathe. “Molly?”

“Miss Keziah!”

The voice of her abigail rang out, plaintive and full of panic. Before Keziah could even react, a strong hand grasped her around the arm and dragged her forward into the scullery, shoving her with such force that when she was released, she stumbled and fell to the ground. In the next few seconds she registered the terrified, tear-streaked face of her maid, her arms clutching her knees to her chest as she cowered in a corner, and the face her of father, his eyes dark with fury.

“Well, daughter,” he said, his tone making her breath come fast as fear squeezed at her lungs. “I think you have something to tell me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Keziah said, knowing she must at least try and discover what he knew or suspected before she decided what to say. Before she could demand what on earth he’d done to Molly, as she could see the poor girl had a bloody nose and what looked like the beginnings of a black eye, she was hauled to her feet. As ever, she was startled by the speed with which such a large man could move, and she didn’t even see the hand that struck out at her. The blow made her ears rings, the sting of it making tears prickle at her eyes.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“I didn’t tell ‘im nought,” Molly cried as Keziah stumbled backwards, clutching at the wall to stop herself from falling.

Keziah put her hand to her cheek, pressing it against the heated skin to try and stop the burn of his attack. “I met someone,” she said, throwing the words at him in fury. If there was one thing she knew about dealing in lies, the closer you kept to the truth, the better it was. “Why should you have all the fun?” she added, sneering at him with contempt despite her terror. If he suspected her of crossing him, she feared what might become of her and Molly. There had never been much in the way of fatherly feelings from her sire, and she doubted he’d keep her around if she wasn’t at least useful to him.

“A beau, eh?” he said, and Keziah swallowed as she saw the darkling look in eyes as he moved towards her. “You couldn’t wait until I had things arranged and you could make your come out? You little slut.”

The next blow was harder and she fell in an awkward tumble, crashing onto her shoulder and crying out with the combined pain of his fist and the fall.

“He’s a good man,” she protested, knowing she had to make him believe it if she was to survive. For a moment, the image of Ash flickered into her mind and she wondered what her fate might have held in another lifetime. “He loves me.”

There was a snort of disgust and she shrieked in horror as strong hands hauled her upright once more. Keziah fought to get free even though she knew it was futile. Her father was so much larger and stronger, and then he shook her, so hard her teeth rattled in her head and her brain spun as her stomach churned.

“Who is he?”

The words were harsh and loud, shouted in her ears so loud that the sound of it hurt, her senses reeling from the pain and fear.

“A … a solider,” she stammered. She was pushed then, forced back against the wall so hard her head banged against the wall with an audible crack. Keziah’s knees buckled and she fought the urge to be sick, her mind becoming slow and hazy.

“What’s his name?” he demanded.

Her brain ran in hopeless circles, panic freezing her ability to think.

“B-Bartholomew,” she said, clutching at a name she had seen over one of the shops in Bath. “He’s a captain.”

Keziah hauled in a breath, daring to look up at her father’s face to see if she could judge his reaction. She was certain her heart stopped, her body growing cold as she saw the look in his eyes. Was that the look her mother had seen before she’d died?

“I don’t believe you,” he said, each word precise and filled with malice. “But don’t you worry, my pretty daughter.” He stroked her hair with one large hand in a parody of affection that made Keziah shiver in earnest. “I mean to know exactly who the young man with the fancy curricle was and what you were doing with him. We’ll get to the truth, sooner or later.”

Keziah blanched as she realised she’d been seen. Thank God whoever it was hadn’t recognised the duke, but she knew her father’s tactics, and knew he was right to be confident. She would tell him in the end. There would be no choice.

She had to get out.

Keziah wasn’t sure what happened next, only that she came to on the cold floor, pain searing her head and her side and Molly’s screams filling her ears. Fighting her way back to consciousness, she looked up and felt terror fill her chest as she saw her father staring down at her and moving to pull her to her feet. But then he stumbled, shouting in pain as he clutched at his head, and Keziah saw the terrified figure of Molly standing behind him, her face white as the moon and clutching a heavy iron skillet in one hand.

She was frozen in terror, her expression one of abject horror as Keziah scrambled to her feet.

“Come on!” she shouted, pushing Molly towards the door and hearing the clatter of the pan as it fell to the floor. Keziah ran, dragging her terrified abigail behind her and forcing her protesting limbs to move faster as they raced for the door and out into the storm.

Rain lashed at her face, cold, stinging, and brutal and Keziah was glad for it as it woke her senses, forcing her mind through the fog of pain and injury as she tugged them on further and faster.

They ran from Abbey Green as the lightning split the darkness above, crazing the skies above like old china. Screaming in terror as thunder crashed a moment later, they ran out onto Barton Street, puffing as they forced their way up the hill towards Queen’s Square. The wind buffeted them, making it harder still as they had to fight against it as they ran.

Keziah dared a glance behind her on the square, but the streets were too sombre and the rain falling too hard to make out if there was anyone behind them. Instead she pushed on, shouting for Molly to keep up as the poor girl stumbled and almost fell, yelping in pain and clutching at her arm. Their feet slid on mud and cobbles, their heavy, wet skirts clinging to their legs and making their flight all the slower as they fought against the sodden material.

They saw The Circus up ahead and Keziah kept going, though her body protested, bruised as it was, and her mind seemed hazy as though it grew as dark as the skies overhead. But her fear was a bright light in the gloom and it guided them to the only place she could think to go. The stately buildings blurred around her as they ran, each one leading to the next in a fog of terror and hope.

Finally, Royal Crescent appeared, its grand proportions and elegant sweeping curve promising safety and refuge, if only the duke was at home to receive them. With anxiety clawing at her throat, she realised she’d lost her reticule in the struggle with her father, and with it the duke’s card demanding she be given shelter.

Nonetheless, they ran to the door of the elegant building he’d given as his and pounded on the door, looking behind them and shaking with terror. Molly clung to her hand, and Keziah could feel how hard the poor girl trembled and the way she cradled her free hand against her chest.

The grand door opened and a startled-looking butler gave them a look of utter revulsion and began to close it again, clearly not recognising her from their previous meeting. Keziah could hardly blame him, they were soaked to the bone, bloody and bruised, and likely wild-eyed with terror.

“No!” she screamed, pushing at the door to stop him. “I must see Ash!” The man started at the familiar use of the duke’s nickname and she corrected herself. “Lord Ashwicke instructed me to come here if I was in danger, and I am … Please, please,” she begged. “I am Lady Keziah Todd, Lord Todd’s daughter.”

Whether out of shock or because he was convinced by their words, as he still seemed not to know who she was, the man stepped back. Keziah, who had been braced against the closing door, fell into the imposing foyer, landing on her knees on the cold, marble floor.