Chapter Twenty-Six

B ella shifted her basket from one arm to the other, wincing at the ache in her shoulder.

“I said you’d bought too many potatoes,” her companion said.

“William’s fond of my potato pie, Sophie, and when they’re being practically given away, I can’t leave them be.”

“Isn’t Mr. Baxter generous with the housekeeping?”

“He gives me what he can.”

Sophie grinned. “I’ll bet he does. I overheard Mrs. Gleeson saying you were the luckiest woman in the county—and she’s a vicar’s wife!”

“Sophie, you mustn’t speak of such things,” Bella said, glancing about. “The women of the village say enough about me as it is.”

“Take no notice. They’re only jealous because you’ve caught yourself such a virile husband.”

“Sophie!” Bella cried. Though she had little understanding of what Sophie referred to, she knew enough to understand it wasn’t a topic on which a young woman should speak. “I trust Sam’s not been taking advantage of you.”

Sophie colored. “Sam’s a good man—he wouldn’t do nothing to dishonor me, but seein’ as we’re betrothed, I see no harm in having a bit of a kiss and a cuddle.” She lowered her voice. “The way a man pushes his tongue into your mouth—I’d never have thought it’d be so…”

“Pleasurable?” Bella suggested, tempering the little pulse of need at the memory of Lawrence’s kiss.

“I’m quite envious of you, having a man to kiss you every day like that. It must be wonderful.”

“It is,” Bella said.

Or it would be if he kissed me every day.

“And then, at night…” Sophie continued. “I know it’s not proper to speak of such things, but I never knew my mother, and my aunt passed when I was young. There’s only Uncle Ned, and I can hardly ask him. I hope you don’t mind.”

Bella glanced at her friend—the eager young girl betrothed to an amiable, soft-spoken young man. Sophie had a life of fulfilment and love ahead, with a man who adored her.

She and Bella were of similar age—perhaps a year apart. But next to her, Bella felt like an aged aunt watching a young girl through envious eyes.

“Does it hurt much?” Sophie asked. “Mrs. Chantry said I’d bleed like a pig on my wedding night.”

“She said what ?”

“Will I bleed every night? I mean—I know I bleed every month, but it doesn’t hurt, least not at the time, though my body aches before.”

“I-I don’t know,” Bella said. “I can’t remember.”

“But surely each night when Mr. Baxter…” Sophie trailed off. “Oh, forgive me! I know I shouldn’t speak of it, but I’m”—she lowered her voice—“I’m frightened. Sam’s a big lad. I don’t know if I…”

Bella took her hand. “Do you love Sam?”

“More than anything.”

“And does Sam love you?”

“Oh yes!” Sophie cried, her eyes glistening. “Only the other day, he walked nearly three miles to fetch me buttercups from the meadow beyond the river, just because I said I liked them. He even fell in the river on the way there.”

Bella shuddered at the memory of water engulfing her—the cold seeping into her bones, her skirts binding her legs, pulling her down, until an explosion of pain plunged her into darkness…

“Bella?”

She blinked and resumed her attention on her friend.

“Will Sam hurt me?”

“No, Sophie dearest,” Bella said, caressing the girl’s hand. “Sam won’t hurt you. He’s a good, kind young man. Lawrence says he’s working hard so he can take care of you after you’re married. But you must be honest with him, as you’re being with me. If you fear anything, you must tell him—if you can trust him.”

“Oh, I can trust him,” Sophie said, her eyes filled with love. “Just like you can trust Mr. Baxter.”

Bella looked away.

How she longed to trust her husband—longed to speak of her fears and to bury herself in those strong arms of his. But save the briefest flash of compassion in his eyes, she saw nothing but deception—as if he could never fully reveal himself to her.

And if he couldn’t trust her with himself—his true self—how could she trust him?

They continued along the road, nearing the inn on the opposite side. A flame-haired woman emerged from the inn, dressed in a bright-green gown. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and glanced about, as if looking for someone. With plump red lips and a rosy complexion, she was the most beautiful creature Bella had seen.

Then her gaze fell on Bella, and her lovely face creased into a frown.

“Sophie, do you know that woman?” Bella asked.

“That’s Amelia,” Sophie replied. “She’s staying at the Oak for a few nights. Never mind her—come and have a look at Hall’s. They’ve got some new ribbons in the window that’ll do very well for my wedding gown.”

“ How do you know her?”

“Uncle Ned’s been visiting her.” Sophie colored and lowered her voice. “She’s one of— them . Take no notice.” Then she slipped off toward the building opposite the inn bearing the sign Hall’s Haberdashers .

Bella glanced at the woman.

Them.

A small, innocent-sounding little word that carried with it a whole host of sins.

Working women , some called them. Mrs. Gleeson, with her more charitable turn of phrase, referred to them as fallen women .

Whores. That was what Mrs. Chantry said—a word uttered in hushed whispers by the village gossips. A handful of them occupied rooms at the inn, providing travelers with comfort—or so Mr. Ryman called it. Of course, the travelers paying to enjoy such comfort were not derided. No—the derision of the world was reserved for the women.

They were no different to wives—they lived in a world ruled by men, and serviced men’s needs. What did it matter whether the man dropped a few coins into his wife’s hand for housekeeping at the beginning of the day, or dropped a few coins into a doxy’s hands after a night in her bed?

It was an act that men and women had shared or thousands of years.

Except she and her husband.

Stop it, Bella—you’re being melancholy.

And envious.

But she envied Sophie. Who wouldn’t envy such a bright young woman with her young man so obviously in love with her? And, as she stared at the doxy standing beside the inn, Bella found herself envying her also. She envied the confidence Amelia exuded as she acknowledged the admiration of the men who walked past—the butcher’s boy whose eyes were as wide as saucers; Reverend Gleeson, who, despite his piety, couldn’t disguise the desire in his eyes; and the man who approached the woman, arms outstretched…

Sweet heaven!

It was Lawrence.

He called out, his deep voice treacherously familiar, and the woman turned toward him, her lips curving into a beautiful smile.

“My Lawrence!” she cried. “I’ve missed you. My bed’s in need of a good warmin’.”

Bella’s chest tightened at the joy in his eyes, and the smile he rarely turned on her.

She fisted her hands, fighting the urge to swing her basket at her deceitful husband. But what would that achieve? Further humiliation as the population of Brackens Hill witnessed his desire for another?

Sophie’s attention was firmly on the ribbons in the window. Bella grasped her arm and pulled her inside the shop. Then she stared out of the window, making a pretense at studying ribbons while Sophie squealed in excitement at the wares on display.

Lawrence was still talking to the doxy. Then he took her by the elbow and glanced over his shoulder, and they hurried inside the inn.

Together.

“Mrs. Baxter, is there anything I can help you with?”

Bella turned to see Mrs. Hall standing beside her.

“N-no, I’m just with Miss Ryman here.”

“Ah yes, Miss Ryman. How are the wedding preparations going?”

“Very well, Mrs. Hall,” Sophie said. “I just need some ribbon to trim my bonnet. Uncle Ned said I can choose anything I want.”

“How about you , Mrs. Baxter? Will you be needing a ribbon?” Mrs. Hall glanced at Bella’s gown, and sympathy shone in her eyes as she studied the frayed neckline and the poorly concealed mend on the sleeve.

“Do buy one!” Sophie said. “If you took that pink one, we could make a sash for your gown. You want to look pretty for my wedding, don’t you? Mr. Baxter would like that.”

Bella glanced at the ribbon. Such a rich shade of pink—the same color as the roses she’d brought inside from the garden that had long since faded. But a woman with three children to feed had no business wasting her housekeeping on ribbons.

“I can’t…” Bella hesitated, aware of two pairs of eyes on her.

I can’t afford it.

What would Lawrence say if she wasted his money on such frivolities? It wasn’t as if a ribbon on her gown would make him appreciate her—not when he had all the women of the village eyeing him with appreciation, including that painted beauty at the inn.

“I can’t indulge in such frivolities,” she said, tilting her chin.

Sophie’s eyes widened. “There’s no need to be so uncivil to Mrs. Hall. Her family’s lived here for hundreds of years, whereas you—”

“That’s all right, Miss Ryman,” Mrs. Hall said, placing a light hand on Bella’s arm. “Mrs. Baxter meant no harm, did you, dear? It must be tough living in a new place where everybody knows everybody else, and they’re all eager to poke their noses into your business. We don’t all have to like the same things, do we?”

“No,” Bella said, glancing at the ribbon.

Mrs. Hall plucked the ribbon from the display and clicked her tongue in annoyance.

“Oh, that Rosie!” she said. “I told her to put the new ribbons on display—not this .”

“It’s very pretty,” Sophie said.

“Aye, but there’s no more of it. I asked Rosie to discard it.” Mrs. Hall held it out to Bella. “I don’t suppose you’d have a use for it, would you, Mrs. Baxter?”

“Mrs. Hall, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Yes, you could , dear,” Mrs. Hall said. “I was only going to throw it away. You’ll be doing me a service.”

Bella glanced at Sophie, then shook her head.

“Have you chosen, Miss Ryman?” Mrs. Hall asked.

Sophie nodded.

“Rosie!” Mrs. Hall cried. “Come out and tend to Miss Ryman, would you?”

“Yes, Mama!” Moments later, a thin girl appeared, a reel of lace in her hands, and led Sophie to the back of the shop.

“Now, Mrs. Baxter, I insist,” Mrs. Hall said. “Please take it. I know how hard it is coming to a new place. When folk don’t know you, tongues start to wag. But I wouldn’t want you thinking badly of Brackens Hill. Folk aren’t used to strangers, that’s all.” She held out the ribbon. “Please.”

Could the humiliation get any worse? Mrs. Hall had all but told Bella the village thought her a wanton—and now she believed her to be a case in need of alms, like one of Mrs. Gleeson’s waifs, for whom she collected rags every Saturday.

“I-I won’t take charity, Mrs. Hall.”

“It’s not charity when it’s a gift, is it?” Mrs. Hall said. “Don’t you want to look pretty for your friend? When she was in here last, she said you were going to embroider roses on her wedding gown. She showed me a handkerchief you’d embroidered— you’ve a real knack for choosing the right colors. I’m sure you’ll make her look real pretty, and I say you deserve a little reward for it. Were you perhaps a seamstress before you married?”

Heat rose in Bella’s cheeks. “I-I can’t remember, Mrs. Hall.”

“That’s a rare shame.” Mrs. Hall patted Bella’s hand. “I daresay that husband of yours hasn’t seen fit to tell you. Men—they’re all the same! They think we women chatter too much, yet they say nothing.”

She glanced up. “Ah! All done, are we, Miss Ryman? Very good. Rosie—tidy up those gloves, would you? When Sir Halford visited yesterday, Mr. Hall couldn’t find any in his size, for the mess in the storeroom.”

“Yes, Mama.” The girl disappeared into the back of the shop.

Mrs. Hall pressed the ribbon into Bella’s hand and curled her fingers around it. “There!” she said. “All ready? My—you’ve a lot of potatoes in that basket of yours, Mrs. Baxter. But what with those three tykes of yours, I daresay they’ll have eaten the lot before the morning.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hall,” Bella said, slipping the ribbon into her pocket. “I had thought I had only one friend here in Miss Ryman—but perhaps I have another.”

“Of course you do, my dear. Now run along—those potatoes won’t cook themselves.”

As Bella left the shop, she glanced toward the inn. But there was no sign of her husband. Weighed down by the basket in her arms, and trying, with little success, to ignore the greater burden on her heart, she made her way home, buoyed by the hope that he’d be there waiting for her.

But the cottage was empty.