The Braeswood Tapestry Page 3

  Before Peter was born, Cutler was already disappointed in what his seed had wrought. That Jocelyn was born the eldest was one rub, but that she was not acquiescent to discipline, not quiet and soft like her mother, created further problems. Peter, on the other hand, was sensitive and emotional from his birth.

  Jocelyn had her mother’s raven beauty and clear blue eyes, but that was as far as the resemblance went. She was neither docile nor eager to please. She pressed her parents’ boundaries as a rule, disobeyed with ardent determination, and investigated everything with brazen daring. She was too bullheaded to cry when she was whipped and too curious to be frightened of a ferocious thunderstorm. John Cutler experienced constant frustration at this challenge. He did not see that Jocelyn was in every way her father’s daughter.

  Until Jocelyn was nine years old, Emily Cutler was the buffer between father and daughter. Loving John so deeply, and reminding him nearly daily that in most all things he was a stubborn old mule, she could ease the friction between the two. She was the only person who could persuade John in any direction. But when Emily died, leaving four children for John to raise, the cushion that kept father and daughter at civilized odds was gone.

  John was so hard to please that Jocelyn often thought she hated him, yet there was always something passionately embedded in them both that kept them struggling toward some measure of love. It was as if they each knew they were but opposite ends of the same rope. The more ardently John pulled at one end, Jocelyn pulled at the other. Invariably, the rope slacked and the two went crashing together. For all their struggles, John would not ease, and although Jocelyn tried to please him, she never quite accommodated his expectation of a shrinking, docile maid.

  At the question of her marriage to Cross Tyson, Jocelyn had many misgivings. Cross was the logical choice her father would make for more than the reason of money and property—Cross was so like John Cutler they could have been brothers. Although Jocelyn never voiced a protest, she saw herself moving through her entire life with the same frustrations as she’d had in her adolescence. When John and Cross were together in her company, they each, in their turns, ridiculed her for everything she did and seemed to bolster each other as they individually struggled to control her. If she did not betray her womanhood by speaking on the subjects of politics and war, then she did not defer in her prayers as she should. She was chastised for her curiosity about sinful pastimes such as dancing and theater, for not showing appropriate respect for the virtues of penance and suffering, for asking questions of every shop owner she visited, and for coveting money, though she intended only frugality.

  And if no altercation took place, she was punished for running when she could take small feminine steps instead.

  Just the same, and seeing no alternative, Jocelyn would have married Cross Tyson as her father wished, and become, as her father often suggested, “his problem.” But then she had faced Stephen Kerr’s assault and her life flashed before her eyes. A woman frightened of the lord’s power might flee into the safety of a well-equipped marriage. But with Tyson, Jocelyn saw that she would be constantly assaulted, whether the blows were physical or emotional. Whoever of these men managed to claim her, it was only to beat her into a certain submissiveness. No man she had ever known had appreciated her strengths. And for that she suddenly grieved.

  The days with her father were over now. Whatever had generated the conflict that tore at them for so many years, her marriage to Cross Tyson would not heal it. That alliance would only play out more of the same, and there seemed little reason or reward in disappointing another man for many endless years. Stephen Kerr could victimize her before she found a choice … or, she could choose her conqueror and perhaps, if she were very clever, name the trade for her brother’s life. Perhaps John Cutler would one day forgive her and even thank her for her efforts.

  Jocelyn stood before the Wescott manor and studied each twisted vine as if she would become a part of it. The mere fact of its existence gave her pleasure, but the difference between this manse and the Dearborn estate brought elation.

  Dearborn had been polished like any sparkling gem, the shrubs and trees cut back to expose the gray walls, the lawns trimmed and the roads leveled. Many gilded coaches carrying aristocratic personages visited the place. It was almost too clean and manicured. Kerr had named the estate, saying it was “dearly born and loved.” It was pretentious and fastidious—pleasing the eye and senses in such an obvious way that few were aware of the absolute filth in the values of its inhabitants.

  The home of Trent Wescott looked like a castle raised out of the ashes of hell. It was overgrown, but deliberately so. The roads to the house were not hidden, but neither were they tended to impress visitors. The flowers grew amidst the thorny bushes and the trees were allowed to scrape the stone walls.

  Kerr’s lawns were populated with peacocks and dotted with ornate fountains. Wescott had no expansive lawns preceding his front door. Ducks from the nearby lake meandered around the bushes. Birds had built nests in the thick vines that covered the walls. It touched Jocelyn in the same way the thick woods and swamps had. It seemed honest. As a very small child, she had climbed onto her mother’s knee and asked if they were poor. Her mother told her they possessed riches untold, and Jocelyn, curious and often impulsive, wanted to know where the riches were hidden. “In Papa’s fields,” her mother laughed. And then she touched Jocelyn’s forehead with soft lips and said, “It is only that I value Papa’s green fields more than Lady Waverly’s jewels. Would I trade Papa’s love and honest labors for a bag of rubies, Jocelyn?”

  Now Jocelyn tucked her curls under her cap. Lifting the heavy knocker, she let it fall against the oaken door several times. A man of perhaps forty years with graying hair finally pulled open the thick door.

  “You come to the front of the lord’s house, boy? There’s a door through the cookhouse for the lackeys.”

  “In the back, sir?” she asked.

  “Aye, behind the new wing,” he snapped, closing the door stoutly.

  Jocelyn felt a certain pleasure in being denied admittance through the front of Wescott’s house; she would see more of the estate by walking around it. Furthermore, she felt somehow unworthy of him. It was the dark power of his house and his reputation that fed her curiosity and determination.

  She had turned and was about to go to the back entrance when she heard a creaking behind her. The servant had begun to open the door again.

  “What do you want here? Food? Lodging?”

  She turned quickly back to him. “I’ve come to see Sir Trent, milord, to offer labor in return for his favor. I am in his debt for a kind deed.”

  The butler threw back his head in laughter that was spontaneous and genuine. His legs were bowed and his shoes scuffed, but otherwise his appearance was decent. He had not the polished demeanor of a Dearborn servant, and his hair was out of order, but he could be called tidy by country standards.

  “Wescott? A kind deed? I doubt it highly. What was the deed?”

  “I’ll speak naught of it,” she said easily. “ ’Twas when he came between me and Stephen Kerr. That is all.”

  “Ha,” the man laughed. “That explains it. Go away, lad. He meant you no particular kindness … he simply hates the bastard. Go home and tend your goats.”

  “Not until I’ve paid my debt,” she announced.

  The man caught the door he would have closed and looked at Jocelyn very curiously. He thought her too pretty for a bootboy but didn’t mention it. Instead he questioned her. “You’re not afraid to come here?”

  Jocelyn shrugged. “Should I be?”

  “You’re not from this burg. The people from outside this burg are fearful of Sir Trent.”

  “You know every person in his town?” she questioned.

  “Aye. To the last.”

  She thought for a moment. “No. I haven’t been very much afraid.”

  “It’s a dark house,” the man said, rolling his eyes slightly, indicating the pr
operty that surrounded them.

  “Shall I go to the back, sir, and ask the cook for a service to Sir Trent?”

  “No,” he said. “No, let me ask him about you. Maybe I’ll have a chore for you in a moment. Wait here.”

  The heavy door closed and Jocelyn stood looking about the front of the house. She scratched at the burrs that clung to her stockings and irritated her ankles. She had been fearful from her experience the night before and had darted off the roads and into the brush at the first sound of any passersby. Thorns and weeds had attacked her clothing.

  Peter’s trousers were snug and uncomfortable. She had never before worn britches; skirts and chemises were her usual attire. After just a few hours in these clothes she could better understand their usefulness—there was greater freedom in her movement. But she hadn’t gotten used to the binding feeling of having her legs covered. Sir Trent’s servant thought her a lad, so the disguise proved effective, but she thought it would be impossible to fool Trent Wescott for even a moment. It didn’t matter. She had intended no foolery.

  She wondered briefly if her father thought of her or considered her safety. It plagued her, as she supposed it always would, that her father considered her selfish and indulgent and giving no thought to anyone’s happiness but her own. She had wondered, so often, how he could put such energy into protecting her virtue and lecturing her on the proper ways of a woman, only to discount and deny her in the very next breath.

  Reminding herself that their conflicts were no longer an issue, she prayed once more that Peter would be freed and her family would find some peace and happiness with the help of Sir Trent. Then, she thought, she would be free of the torment of her family’s indifference, having done a good turn through sacrifice.

  The door opened and the butler looked at her harshly. “He’s busy and has nothing for you. He says forget any favor. ’Twas what I expected; he meant no special kindness … any peasant boy between him and Kerr would profit. He is helpless to battle. He cannot but fight the bastard. Go home and tend your garden.”

  “Then I would ask another favor and offer service in payment,” she said boldly.

  “Lad, you are from another country, eh? You ask a favor of Sir Trent?”

  “Aye. My brother is a prisoner of Lord Kerr and I have no other way to help him.”

  “Do you know of Sir Trent?”

  “I’ve been told he is rich and a fair landholder,” Jocelyn lied easily.

  The man leaned against the door in astonishment. “You are not afraid, are you?”

  “Afraid?” she asked. “Why?”

  “I suppose you are the first to ask anything at all of Wescott. Don’t you suppose he might beat you?”

  Jocelyn smiled suddenly, completely amused by the gentleman. So much more was clear to her than would be expected of one so young. He was certainly not afraid of his master, but he was accustomed to seeing fear etched on the faces of Wescott’s tenants. He must know she would not have come if fearful of a beating; if it pleased Wescott to beat her, she would relish it. Anyone who would boldly draw a whip to Stephen Kerr, sending her down the road to her village without thought of demanding repayment, deserved some measure of her respect. She had already decided that Wescott did not beat innocents but laid his hand harshly to wickedness.

  The house was dark and grim and Wescott was fearfully strong, but she was determined to try to enlist his aid at any cost. And if that could not be, she considered herself at least a worthy sacrifice.

  “Will you ask him again if he will help me?”

  “Never. Not once since I’ve been in service to him have I asked him the same question twice. He’d break my head. Go home, he says he’s no use for you.”

  “I’ll wait until he has a chore for me. Would you have me wait at the back of the house?”

  He answered her with a perplexed frown. His eyes showed a curious admiration for her. “No. If you mean to wait, wait where I can see you. When it suits me, I’ll ask him again.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m glad to wait … but should I stay through the night?”

  “He seldom requires chores in the night.”

  “Would you have me at the door in the morning, sir?”

  “What the blazes do you want here?” he asked, frustrated by the noble mien of the peasant boy.

  “I’ve said it simple, sir. He’s the only man I know of who can help me. Except, perhaps, you.”

  “Go home. I think he’ll not be bothered with you. He leaves the Kerr family alone as much as he can. Go home.”

  He slammed the door and she stood for a long time watching it, wondering if it would open again even if it was just out of curiosity. But the door remained closed.

  Jocelyn found a pile of hay in the rear of Wescott’s handsome stables, and it made a decent bed. The night had a fierce chill. She was discovered in the early morning by the smithy, who rousted her rudely and shook her, demanding her reasons for sleeping there, and when she explained she had nowhere to go and hoped Sir Trent would put her to work, the man softened.

  “I couldn’t pay ye fer labors the master hasn’t asked me t’get, but I can give ye the same pile o’ hay in the stalls while ye wait,” he kindly replied.

  “My thanks.” She smiled, thinking herself doing better already.

  “And there’ll be a horse blanket about that ain’t to no use, if you pay close mind.”

  Jocelyn smiled her gratitude and gave what she considered to be a masculine half-bow.

  “I’d be puttin’ ye to work if his lordship approved it, but ye’re too small fer the stable work here.”

  “I’m stronger than I look,” she replied.

  “Be thankful of the roof I’ll give ye, at me own cost, and git on with ye. I’ll not be workin’ boys too small to be any help t’me.”

  Jocelyn nodded amiably and tried another tack. “It’s near harvest, sir; do you feed the horses apples?”

  The smith looked confused at first and then came his dawning. “Aye,” he smiled. “Ye’ll find ’em in the barrel on the north side o’ the stable.”

  Breakfast then was made of several apples, and she waited in view of the front of the house until the servant spied her and talked to her again. He seemed at least intrigued enough by her diligence in waiting to bring her drink, bread, and cheese, but no word of Sir Trent thinking of a chore.

  Another day and night passed the same, her condition made more comfortable by the generosity of the smith, the kitchen scullery, who discarded the table scraps, and the lord’s servant, who seemed most interested in her perseverance. On the third day and night, Jocelyn saw yet more of Wescott’s grounds and became still more acclimated to living and eating by her wits and quick smile. But she was growing tired and dirty and began to worry if there would ever be an opportunity to ask Sir Trent a favor. And she had begun to worry that Peter might already be dead.

  She dozed off occasionally in the front of Sir Trent’s manor while she waited, springing to her feet when the great oaken door opened. The servant watched her closely and with some pity.

  Jocelyn was considering giving up her hopes. She thought maybe another day might be all this effort was worthy of, when the door opened and she pulled herself quickly up to standing and alert to whomever was leaving the manse.

  When Jocelyn saw the faithful steward come out of the house she began to smile, but the smile quickly vanished when she found his manner brusque and hurried. “Out of my way now. And stand back from the road.”

  Jocelyn stepped away from the man quickly. She heard the sound of approaching hooves and was barely out of the path of a great stallion as it came bounding around the house. A stable boy dismounted and came around to the front of the beast, holding the reins while, with perfect timing, great black boots came stomping out of the house, and with dark cape flying, Sir Trent approached his horse.

  She was slightly cowed at the sight of him for the first time since she had made her decision to venture this far. She had not felt small in th
e presence of the bowlegged servant nor when facing the mansion. Even that prickling fear that stayed with her when she traveled the country roads was not terribly imposing. But Wescott, in all his frightful size and power, caused her to shrink, her blazing blue eyes growing round with some dreadful awe.

  He had put one hand on the saddle when he seemed to sense a presence behind him and whirled to look at her. His plumed hat was low on his forehead and almost covered one eye. He peered at her from under it, his black eyes burning. She could barely see distinguishable space between his brows, thick lashes, and dark eyes. It was only out of the corner of her eye that she saw the long, deadly whip he held coiled in one gloved hand. For an instant she thought it might unwrap itself and lash her.

  He dwarfed his servant and stable boy. His swarthy figure, all clothed in black velvet and leather, was devilishly grim and powerful. He looked only at her face and only for an instant before jerking his head to his steward. “How long has she been here?” he asked impatiently.

  “She? Milord?”

  Wescott chuckled slightly and looked back toward Jocelyn with some humor. He let his eyes go over her leisurely, from the snagged stockings to the linen shirt that was tied over her small breasts. His gaze lingered for a long time on her face, her cheek still boasting a mark from Stephen Kerr’s riding crop, and on the few dark curls that fell around her face from under her brother’s hat.

  “You old fool,” Wescott chided, his voice gruff and deep, but with amusement lying beneath his words. He took two long strides toward her. Jocelyn believed she hadn’t blinked since he had come out of the manor. Her wide, startled eyes were filled with him. She thought he was larger somehow than on the night she had seen him whip Stephen Kerr. He grabbed the hat from her head with a swift motion and her long, dark hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders and down her back.