No Choice but Surrender (7 page)

Quickly she
retrieved,
her lock of hair from his palm and turned away, embarrassed by her fear and by the look of disbelief and guilt in his eyes.

"You find me unattractive?" He spoke to her rigid back. "I have my faults, but I didn't realize that that was one of them.

"I have no desire for a man's attentions, whether he be attractive or not. I thought I made that clear in the gallery." She was completely still and refused to look at him, hoping he would go away and leave her alone.

"I see." He sounded agitated. "Where did this unnatural abstention come from?"

"I need not answer to you," she retorted, still facing the mantel.

"No. But one day you'll wish you did, my lady. There has never been a woman who rejected my lovemaking. And I swear you will live to regret it."

"So you threaten me harm if I don't comply?" She spun around to face him, anger vivid in her face. "How like a man!"

"I have never harmed a woman. But there are other ways to make you suffer, ways that can be just as devastating. You deny your womanly feelings, but there is a weakness in your shaky armor. I shall find it. And when I do, I shall be merciless." He walked to the door and bade Orillion sit. He parted, saying only, "Sleep well, Lady Brienne. I hope you enjoy your chastity tonight." Then he looked about the dismal room and shut the door behind him.

When the door closed, she heard the thump of footsteps on the stairs. Satisfied that he had left the stable block, she cracked open the door, only to find Orillion still sitting sentinel on her threshold.

Not bothering to close the door again, she made a silent oath and walked back into the little room. How would she ever make it through the night?

She sat on the little oaken stool; her mind went over and over again all the day's strange occurrences. Unusual things were definitely going on at Osterley, but she was sure of only one thing: that she was a pawn in a game that this man, Avenel Slane, was playing with the earl. And she knew that she would have to get away from the estate at all costs, because whatever was going on, the end was bound to be catastrophic, with
herself
caught desperately in the middle.

Her body and mind were exhausted; sleep got the better of her, despite her denials. Resigning herself to the sagging bed, she used the pink polonaise as a pillow and as a barrier against the mattress's strong smell of mildew. She curled up in a ball, trying to fight off the cold and her loneliness, and found some small comfort in her determination to leave at the latest by tomorrow. She finally fell asleep by visualizing her old house in Tenby: the design-painted walls of the room off the street and the roaring fires that were always so cheerfully tended to ward off the chill.

She wasn't aware of the creature that came to join her later that night. Only slightly did she feel the thump when Orillion jumped up on the bed. But she did feel his blessed warmth as he curled up beside her, his canine instinct had decided there was no need for both of them to be cold.

The kitchen was like a madhouse that evening at Osterley. Not only was the cook busy over her fires, trying to make even the blandest of English fare memorable and appetizing, but every servant from liveryman to ladies' maid wandered in and out of the great room; each divulged the latest tidbit of information on the new owner and his desires. The lowliest scullery maids paid avid attention to small details because they knew that even they had to make Avenel Slane happy.

"You ha' be'er get tha' taken care oove, Annie. Orr ya might find tha' lazy arse o' yours ou' on the streets." Fergie Mclnnis brought in the heavy sack of stone-ground barley and placed it near the back of the kitchen. He stood silently and looked at Annie, who was slowly eating a huge Sally Lunn.

"And what concern is it of yours, Fergie?" Annie took another small mouthful and chewed the bread carelessly.

"The man made a special request, Annie." The cook spoke up, carefully peeling a pile of baby carrots. "We've all got a lot to lose. I myself have been a jittering bundle of nerves ever since he set afoot in the house. We've got to please the man— there's nothing more to it. But so far you're the only one he's asked to do anything. We just want to make sure it gets done."

"I'll be takin' my own time on it," Annie said, her voice full of rage. She threw the Sally Lunn into the fire nearby and stood watching as it smoked and burned. "How could he ask me to go and wait on her when she's living in the stables
? 'Tis beneath me."

"She is Lady Brienne, the daughter of an earl. Waiting on her is not beneath anyone, except perhaps those of her peerage, of which you are not." The cook finished her peeling and changed the subject. She placed the carrots into a well-salted pot of water and cooed, "Fergie, love, 'tis mean I've been to you today, what with the cakes that burned and the bread that didn't rise. But I've a request for another pound or two of that sugar, if you would be so kind." The cook looked at her large Gaelic husband and lowered her lashes rather demurely for her three-and-fifty years. But Fergie merely blushed at her unusual affection and complied, obviously happy to please her.

"Perhaps not yet," Annie said smugly, puckering her upper lip, which to her pride and joy held three natural moles. She had been proclaimed a lusty sort because of them, but this never seemed to bother her; rather, she thrived on hearing herself described that way.

"Not ever, Annie Peters." The cook gave her a stern look. "I never have known where you've gotten such airs."

" Tis
just that I know better than to lower myself."

"Well, you had better lower yourself now because the Lady Brienne is sitting in the block waiting for you, no doubt. I don't know what kind of game she and the Master Slane are playing, but there will be hell to pay if you don't heed his request." The cook gave her another foreboding stare and then turned busily to her carrots, which were just coming to a simmer.

"Who will miss the task left undone?" Annie whined. "The only one who will be the worse for it is the Lady Brienne herself. And as I see it, a less influential creature does not exist if she has been abandoned by Lord Oliver and taken up living quarters in the stable."

Getting no argument from the cook, who was too busy with meal preparations to listen to her any longer, Annie watched her for a few seconds more and then sullenly left the great room. Once in her own room, she shed her clothes and slid her body beneath the wool coverlet. She fell asleep instantly. Her thoughts were not on Brienne Morrow at all.

Early the next morning, as the mist still clung to the flat yellow fields, Brienne was rudely awakened by a loud banging on her door. When her eyes opened, she saw that Avenel had entered her room and was standing near the doorway watching her.

Tiredly, she pulled herself up to a more dignified sitting position. She wanted to reprimand him for his uncivil entrance. But then she noticed the stretched-out form of Orillion lying so close to her that her long, dark red tresses spilled over his sparkling white fur. Soon the dog's large tail began to thump as he watched her, sending clouds of gray dust into the air from the dirty feather mattress.

"Whatever is the meaning of this?" She looked at Avenel, her eyes still glassy and full of sleep. She could see that he was angry, but for what reason she could not be sure. She hadn't ventured or strayed from the block all night.

He didn't offer a word of explanation for his strange behavior. He merely stood there looking furious. He noticed every detail of her appearance, from her bed-mussed glistening hair and her loosened stays to the soot-colored smudge left on her cheek where it had rested on the mattress.

"Has anyone been here to see you?" he asked abruptly, his eyes flashing cold and white.

"I've had no visitors." She started to stand, pulling the sides of her violet wool dress as close together as she could, since fastening it would be impossible with her stays loosened.
"Except, I might add, for your mange-ridden cur.
And I do believe that you've been here too frequently for my taste." She turned away from him and tried futilely to relace herself. Bailing at that, she said crossly, "Haven't you the decency to leave me alone while I am in this state of dishabille?"

" 'Tis
not often a man chances to see such sights." She heard him laugh, and she turned a cold eye on him.

"As I said last night, you are a beast and have absolutely no manners." She faced him, but feeling like a coward, she took two steps backward; she recovered the fallen shoulder of her dress that exposed the creamy skin of her shoulders and much too much of her full, curving breasts.

At this last comment, he laughed all the harder, saying, "I thought our kiss in the gallery was quite polite. But do you desire further proof of my manners?"

"No, for you would only prove your lack of them," she quipped hastily, hoping he would go and leave her in peace.

"Perhaps."
He smiled and moved closer to her. "But then, an English maiden cannot expect county behavior from a colonial."

"A colonial?
You?
You're as English as I!" She spoke up from amazement.

" Tis
true, I am a Brit. Perhaps even more than you," he said thoughtfully. "But I can truthfully say I am an American also, for I was born and raised in the beautiful colony of
Maryland
."

"Then it's no wonder you're a barbarian! Being raised in that war-mongering, savage, hell-begotten place! I've heard that even the richest of them live like peasants of the previous century, so ungracious and backward are they." She raised her head slightly in a superior manner; her heart was gladdened somewhat to know that she, despite all her misfortunes, at least had had the privilege of an English upbringing.

"Of course.
Tis so ungracious they
are,
that you in your finery would put them all to the blush." He grabbed at the loose material of her dress and held it up to her, showing not more than one ragged flounce at the elbows and a worn, unembroidered petticoat of the same violet wool as her gown. "Do tell, Lady Brienne, what is your secret? I am sure your dowdy American cousins would like to know how you manage to stay atop the fashions of the
ton."

"Stop this, I tell you!" she cried, pinkening all the way down to her breasts. "Perhaps I've not the most fashionable gowns, but at least I'm not a heathen American!" She grabbed the wool from his grasp and fought the urge once again to slap his arrogant face.

"Heathen!" he exclaimed incredulously. "You may call them that only if that's your name for beauty and heart! American women are not like these pale, insipid, whimpering little wallflowers you English call the fair sex. Why, I've seen better flesh on my Arabian mare!"

"Pale and insipid?" she whispered, too incensed to shout. She looked at him and speechlessly tried to fight back with an expression of complete disdain. But once again he let out an inappropriate laugh.

"You, my little wildflower, I have forgotten. You are the exception. You put on airs as if you were a queen. But alas, what a wretched state your kingdom is in!" He ran a strong, work-worn hand over her knotted and tangled hair and gently touched her cheek where the dirt from her bed had smudged it. She pulled back from his touch; this seemed to make him grow thoughtful. "Ready yourself now. I'll have the maid draw you a bath and bring a tray to your room—your room back in the house."

"I'll not be going back to the house. I am leaving. As I said last night, you'll not be keeping me here." She looked at him defiantly. She knew she was small—especially in his presence —but she was determined that her stature would not make her remain a prisoner.

"And where are your funds—your means to get away?"

"I have the means. Not much, but enough to get me where I am going." She thought of her mother's comb and the pain of having to pan with it. It would be difficult to sell it, but not as difficult as remaining at Osterley with this Colonial brute and her father's imminent arrival hanging over her head. She gave a small sigh and stated, "Now, if you will leave me so that I can complete my toilet—"

"Would this be pan of your plans?" Avenel reached into his waistcoat pocket and held out a brilliant gold comb set with eight large square-cut amethysts, sprinkled with at least a score of tiny pinpoint diamonds. She could not stifle her gasp. Unmindful of her state of undress, she ran to her bag and shuffled through it, desperately searching for her mother's piece. When she could not find it, she searched for her miniature. She whispered a quiet prayer when she spied it among the folds of her handkerchief.

"Give that back!
You have stolen it from me!" she cried in abject frustration.

"Stolen it? Why, one of my men found it on the other side of Osterley's gates, apparently lost by some thoughtless maiden. You don't mean to say that this lovely piece belongs to you?" he taunted.

"You know it does! Please give it back to me. It's all I have in this world."

"All the more reason to keep it then, my lady
. 'Tis a valuable piece.
More precious than you could know," he said enigmatically.

"You must give it back. It's mine!" She tried to keep despair out of her voice, but it was too difficult. He knew as well as she did that without her comb she would have no means to leave at all.

"Prove it."

When his command met a mute response, he looked her over; his mercurial meanness returned. She once again tried to pull her dress together with shaky fingers, but somehow she felt his eyes would have seen more than she wanted them to even if she had been properly laced.

"It's mine!" she gasped as she watched him leave.

Before he departed, he tucked the comb securely back into his waistcoat pocket, saying, "There will be a warm bath and some breakfast waiting for you in the yellow bedroom whenever you are ready to come back."

Leaving her behind, he walked out the door and down the steps to the stableyard. She cursed him silently as she watched him from the grimy leaded window make his way through the stable block. Finally he disappeared under the portico of the main house. But she continued to stare at the house until the sporadic morning sunshine burned off the last of the mists and then vanished itself under a heavy sky of gray.

The servants' quarters beneath the house were as quiet as the Roman catacombs when Avenel walked through them.

"A foin day to ya', Master Slane.
And what biddin' may we do fer ya?" Among the silent crowd of servants, Fergie tipped his lambskin wig and waited for his master's answer.

"I've come to speak with Annie, the little ladies' maid," Avenel said, holding his anger at bay. He looked through the group but did not seem to find the one he was searching for.

"Well, now, she's a bad egg, tha" one."

"Shut your mouth, Fergie Mclnnis!" Annie cried out in her defense, finally coming forward. She was just vain enough to believe that Avenel wanted her for some reason other than to dismiss her.

"There you are, Annie. Will you please get your things and come with me?" Avenel took in the girl's buxom figure. With a trained eye, he noticed that soon all her curves would turn to fat.

"My pleasure."
Snootily, she gave the cook a haughty smile and then turned to retrieve her belongings. The cook watched her with utter dismay on her face, hardly believing the chit could be so obtuse.

"She's got her faults, but deep down, she doesn't mean harm, Master Slane," the cook pleaded the girl's defense.

"She thinks highly of herself. She will get by," Avenel answered tersely, obviously angered by the incident. "I will heed no disobedience in this household. That must be made - clear."

"Yes, sir."
She backed away as Annie once again pushed through the crowd of servants.

"I've come, sir." Annie looked up at him expectantly.

"Then you may go. Please follow Hans out to the gates. He has instructions to give you some funds and a fare-thee-well." Avenel turned to go.

"I'm not to become your—? Why, it's not fair!" Annie shrieked as soon as she realized what was happening. "I'm above all these others. Look there at Maura, will you, or Peg?" She motioned to the other little maids that stood with the group. "They're lower than me, just like the other dirty Irish that run about this place. You cannot mean to let me go!"

" 'Tis
exactly what I mean to do. Good riddance. Hans?" Avenel looked at his hefty Nordic helper. When he nodded, Hans began to escort the maid out of the house—but not before she called
our her
revenge.

"Lord Oliver will hear of this! And when he retrieves Osterley, I shall return. He will not go easy on you for this! I was his favorite, you know. I was his favorite!"

"Aye, a bad egg, tha' one," Fergie was heard to whisper as soon as Annie's shrieks were no longer heard.

"I'm inclined to agree with you," Avenel murmured before he left their quarters.

It was late in the evening before Brienne finally gave up her vigil and returned to the comforts of Osterley. She had withstood her hunger and her worries, but it was the cold that finally forced her hand. When the crisp chill of twilight began to descend on the block, the thought of another night on the sagging rope bed was unbearable. So she gathered her bag— and, for some strange reason, the dirtied and tattered polonaise—and walked back to the house.

The two old footmen discreetly opened the large glass doors from the courtyard as if they had been awaiting her arrival. She merely glared at them as if to say that they too were the enemy. They both looked away and refused to challenge her stares. Satisfied, she made her way back upstairs to the taffeta bedroom, thankfully meeting no one else on her way there.

She entered her bedroom but was amazed at its transformation. All the articles in the room were the same, from the bed hangings and curtains of Chinese painted silk taffeta to the satinwood furniture with its green inlaid acanthus leaf motifs.
But there was a new atmosphere that made it another world altogether.
Where the hearth before lay cold and bare, there was now a crackling fire burning away in its depths. A copper- lined tub brimming with steaming water lay near it, and the room was filled with the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine. The Pembroke table was laid with a snowy linen cloth, and on top of it rested four covered salvers from the eating room; the well-polished silver cheerfully reflected the glow of the fireplace.

Brienne's first thought was that she had mistakenly walked into the bedroom that Avenel was using, but this conclusion was quickly overruled by the room's feminine colors and scents and by the realization that Osterley's new master would surely reside in the state bedroom on the first floor. Her confusion increased when a small, dark-haired young woman stepped out of the dressing room.

"Ah!
Vous etes
Lady Brienne! I am Vivie. Ah"—the small Frenchwoman searched for words—
"je
suis
. . .
ah . . . I
am
voire nouvelle fille de cbambre.
Voire bonne de demoiselle.
Ah!" She gave a small sigh and continued in a heavily accented voice. "Forgive me,
ma demoiselle.
My English is sometimes slow."

With that the maid walked over to Brienne, took the bag from her hands, and placed it in one of the painted beechwood armchairs along the wall.

"You are the new maid? What happened to Annie?" Brienne asked in French. Her mother has insisted on teaching that language to her, claiming it was an essential pan of a young lady's education.