Sixteen

Shaking, Genevieve melted into Lord Bowles, his arms banding around her, strong enough to keep her from falling apart. Reinhard and Mr. Beckworth growled words back and forth, their voices fading to the tune of boots smashing through the forest. It was only a matter of time before Lord Bowles would let her go. He’d have to. Mr. Beckworth would be the voice of reason. There was no fighting the rule of law. She was a lowborn woman of questionable upbringing.

She’d fought hard for her freedom and lost.

Who could defend her?

Rough wool scratched her cheek, and she faced inevitable facts. Mr. Beckworth would return from escorting Reinhard to the road and promptly remind his lordship to let her go. They had a business to build, and she was a lawbreaker. Her presence here did nothing to help either man.

Eyes closed, she let herself have this moment. The strong chest she leaned against moved with a steady flow of breaths. She was safe in the woods with him.

“They’re gone.” Lord Bowles gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s go back to the cottage.”

Wind stirred branches and bit her ankles, yet she loathed leaving the cocoon of his arms.

“Tell me everything,” he said against her hair. “No more secrets.”

No more secrets.

Wool rubbed her cheek. The burnished curl that hung behind his ear was inches from her nose. Lord Bowles steadied her against him and guided her through the forest. Each step was bittersweet because he truly believed they’d find a way out.

They tromped through the woods, her feet heavy. Beyond the trees, candles lit the back parlor windows. So cheery. Lily and Ruby had to have done that parting kindness before they left for the day.

They walked through the garden, laundry hanging like white flags around them. Lord Bowles had used those linens to care for the horses. In one night he’d begun to heal so many.

What did he think he could do for her in one night?

Gravel crunched underfoot, the pale stone path wending around to the cottage door. Inside, Lord Bowles scraped his boots on his grandfather’s old iron boot-scraper and slid free of his coat, but she stood still.

“Aren’t you going to hang up your cloak?”

She gripped the wool. “I’m…I’m cold.” The simple words were all she could manage. Her lips trembled. Her body didn’t want to move.

Mr. Beckworth stood in the parlor doorway. “Come warm yourself by the fire.”

“I should pack my things.”

Lord Bowles grabbed her shoulders. “You’re not packing anything. Do you hear me?” He shook her. “Tell me where to find this contract.”

She licked cold lips. Her fogged mind registered his snappish voice. “It’s in my chest. Where the doll is.”

“Go sit.” He stalked off, telling Mr. Beckworth, “Give her some brandy. There’s a bottle in the kitchen.”

Mr. Beckworth, bless his heart, was building a roaring fire in the parlor. The orange glow shined off freshly mopped plank floors and bare walls. She wouldn’t have the chance to change them. The luxurious purple settee had been pushed back on the aged tan carpet in the middle of the room, and three plain wooden chairs sat before the blaze. She slumped onto one and stared at the flames. In minutes, a stoneware mug was thrust into her hands and she drank. Brandy. She gulped it down, the oak flavor scalding her throat. Mr. Beckworth and Lord Bowles talked in the entry hall outside the parlor doorway. They had to be discussing the contract and her, but there was no hope for it. She set the cup on the floor, preparing to rise.

Lord Bowles barreled into the room. “What are you doing?”

“Going to pack.” The brandy’s medicinal work had begun. Parts of her were numb enough to deaden the pain.

“You’ll do no such thing. You’ll stay seated and explain yourself.”

Her eyes flared wide at his brusque tone. Was he angry at the trouble she’d caused? His upset was to be expected…his family circumstances and all. He was a man who needed a scandal-free respite, and she’d brought trouble to his door.

“I’ll not bother you anymore, milord.”

“You know very well you’re no trouble. But you owe me the truth,” he said, rattling the paper. “Who was that man?”

Her spine relaxed against the chair. Lord Bowles’s snappishness wasn’t anger at hiding her indenture. It was…jealousy?

Since coming here, what had passed between them had left a mark. Was it friendship? Was that the name for sitting comfortably with a man and reading with him? For negotiating chamber-pot cleaning with a smile? And the kisses… Was there a name for kissing a man senseless while riding his thigh?

The last part was hot lust. And the idea of leaving Lord Bowles left her cold.

She stared at the fire. “His name is Reinhard Wolf. He’s Prussian. Three years ago, he started coming to the Golden Goose. He’d meet other gentlemen of quality and some”—she huffed weakly—“clearly not.”

“He sought you out.”

“No. He wasn’t there for the women, milord, but he did watch me.” She smoothed her skirt. “It was a long time before he spoke to me.”

Mr. Beckworth turned a chair around and straddled the seat. “How’d you come to sign this?” He held up the damning contract, her copy with its torn indention notched in the corner.

Time slipped past, flashing pictures of her life in recent years. Working late nights behind the stage. Mopping ale-soaked floors in the early-morning hours. The dark, windowless garret she shared with her mother. The leaky roof. Bed ropes squeaking from her mother and her gentlemen callers in better days.

In time, the bed ropes creaked for other reasons. The putrid sores. The agony of pained joints.

“Reinhard knew about my mother. When she got sick.”

Mr. Beckworth folded his arms over the back of the chair. “I’m very sorry to hear that, but how does that connect with this indenture?”

She blinked, her eyelids heavy. “Because everything started with my mother’s illness. She had the French pox.”

Mr. Beckworth’s face was a stoic mask upon learning the woman he’d hired wasn’t the person she’d presented herself to be. Yet she saw no judgment in his eyes. Lord Bowles stood quietly by the fire. He knew parts of her lurid tale, but laying her life open all at once—as she was about to do—wasn’t the same as piecemeal conversations.

“There were costly liquid mercury treatments, but they helped my mother.”

“All paid for by a Prussian benefactor?” Lord Bowles bit out.

“No. Paid for by me.”

The lines around his mouth tightened.

“She died, and my money ran out,” Genevieve explained. “I’d been saving it to strike out on my own and find an apprenticeship with a clockmaker. I wanted a different life.”

“You’d be older than the typical apprentice.” Mr. Beckworth and his practicality.

“I’m a hard worker. I’d prove myself.”

“I’m sure you would,” he agreed quietly.

She linked her hands. Heat radiated from the fire, touching her ankles the same as other nights reading here with Lord Bowles. How could a woman of twenty years feel so worn out? For every step she took forward, life battered her, denied her the simple pleasure of a better future. But she refused to feel sorry for herself.

“Mr. Millburn, owner of the Golden Goose, knew my mother wanted me to have a better life. He said he had a way out for me.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I’d need references from respectable employment before seeking an apprenticeship.”

“And the indenture?” Mr. Beckworth prompted.

“Mr. Millburn brought me the contract. He told me it was the first step.”

“This Prussian… Did he force himself on you?” Lord Bowles asked.

She stared at the fire, bitter laughter spilling from her. “Reinhard Wolf never forced himself on any woman. He doesn’t have to. Believe me, many tried to get his attention at the Goose.”

Lord Bowles balled his hand on the mantel. “Then his attentions were well received.”

“At first. I was flattered.” She winced, bruised by the ugly admission. “I signed the indenture because I thought it was for one year.”

Mr. Beckworth coughed, shifting in his chair to deliver a gentle lesson. “I’ve never heard of that kind of arrangement. Most indentures go to the colonies for seven years’ service.”

Her mouth twisted bitterly. “I should’ve known when I was presented with something too good to be true. Reinhard promised employment as his housekeeper. It would be the beginning of a new life.” She stared into the fire, sad and lost. “All negotiated by Mr. Millburn.”

“But you signed it. Your signature is right here.” Mr. Beckworth tapped her name scrawled across the bottom. “And it says your name is Genevieve Turner.”

“I know.” The writing was large, the letters ill-formed. “Please forgive me for deceiving you. I had to travel under a false name.”

Lord Bowles faced her, the harsh line of his mouth softening. “Because you had no idea what you were agreeing to.”

Her shoulders slumped at the first signs of understanding from him.

His eyes lit tenderly. “Some mark the contract with an X when they can’t read or write.”

She’d been proud to be able to write her name that day. At the time, it was all she could write. “I was a fool.”

“You’re young,” he countered. “Forgive yourself this folly.”

“Before I signed the indenture, I asked Mr. Millburn to read it for me,” she said. “I trusted him.”

“And this man, Reinhard Wolf, who you thought was helping you… What happened between you two?” he asked softly.

“At first he was never at his home,” she explained. “I met Elise Sauveterre when she fitted me for a housekeeper’s gown. We became friends, and soon, she was teaching me to read and write.”

Lord Bowles fisted a hand on his hip, his hazel eyes measuring her, pain flickering in their depths. “When did your circumstances with the Prussian change?”

Her head tilted toward his. Not circumstances, rather it was sex and the attachment Reinhard felt for her. Did Lord Bowles compare what went on between them at Pallinsburn with Reinhard’s arrangement? Murky emotions were at play in the parlor. Too many emotions. She needed to tread this conversation with care.

“Last summer. I wasn’t cleaning much of anything and doing little for his household. Then he started to bring me small gifts: a fur-trimmed cloak, pretty hairpins—”

“Which you don’t like,” he inserted.

A smile danced at the corners of her mouth. “He never talked to me like you do. It took a while before he learned that.”

Air stirred between them. Hurts and recriminations melted like wax. Men could be so funny about other men. She’d known Reinhard before she’d ever laid eyes on Lord Bowles, but Lord Bowles had to know he affected her.

“His attentions were obvious,” she said, her gaze locked on Lord Bowles.

His balled fist tightened. “And what did you do?”

The truth would hurt Lord Bowles. Better to cut quick and clean.

“He kissed me one night, and I kissed him back. He and I…we…”

Lord Bowles’s eyes were hooded. Was he thinking the same as her? Of forbidden kisses stolen with the master of the house? To an outside eye, she would be painted a wanton adventuress.

“At first I liked it,” she murmured. “I welcomed his attentions.”

The parlor was very quiet, save the drumming in her ears. The chair creaked beneath her, but not a soul spoke after her bold admission. Sex with Reinhard was more than satisfactory, but she’d not say that aloud. It would hurt Lord Bowles. She stared into the fire, determined to finish this, determined that both men would understand. Women trod life’s thorny patches more often than the stronger sex, dodging unsavory circumstances, making tough decisions they’d never face. Her character was more agile for it.

“I asked about references, but Reinhard kept putting me off. I decided to read my indenture contract and discovered I owed him seven years, not one. Mr. Millburn had deceived me. He traded me like common goods,” she scoffed. “For windows and a new roof at the Golden Goose.”

Lord Bowles averted his eyes, and Mr. Beckworth coughed into his balled fist. They were no different than Reinhard Wolf and Mr. Millburn.

Her laugh was short and bitter. “Don’t worry, gentlemen. You aren’t as bad as them. At least you gave me a say in your arrangement.”

Mr. Beckworth’s mouth pinched. “I-I…”

“It’s fine, sir. I showed up on your doorstep a less-than-honest woman. Elise helped me escape.” She exhaled slowly, the feel of it cleansing for the truth revealed. “She approached your aunt, and here I am.”

“What exactly was Herr Wolf planning for you?” Lord Bowles asked.

“He said when his mission here was done, we were leaving for Königsberg. I’d live in a house and be his mistress.”

“His mission here?” Mr. Beckworth echoed, pushing off the chair.

“That’s what he said.”

“I’d hazard a guess the deception to get you didn’t matter,” Lord Bowles said.

She leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair. “Reinhard thought I’d come around eventually. He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t overjoyed at the plan to be his mistress and live in a nice house in Königsberg.”

“Because any woman at the Golden Goose would leap at such a chance.”

“Women like me don’t get opportunities like that very often, do we?”

Lord Bowles tapped his fist against his mouth. His gaze met hers, dark and hollow. In telling her tale, did he see some of himself in what had unfolded between them at Pallinsburn? Or was he mourning her leaving?

Silence filled the parlor, save the footfalls of Mr. Beckworth pacing the room. He read the one-page contract, scowling at every line. Before her, the fire crackled nicely, but her knees hurt from the tumble in the woods. Her wool stockings rubbed raw skin. Wood fragments stuck to her hem and her hair. She was a mess.

Is this what happens to women who take charge of their lives? Who dare to seek a different path from the one to which they were born?

She stood up. “Now you know why I sought my grandmother. I didn’t have anyone else to turn to.”

His brows raised a fraction. “You could find sanctuary with her now.”

“For how long before Herr Wolf comes knocking?”

“Wait.” Mr. Beckworth held up a hand. “There is one way out.”