Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (9 page)

Ann stirred a pot of stew over the kitchen fire. When she looked away, Bettina swiped a slice of cheese from a tray and stuffed it in her mouth. Part of her didn’t want the revolution to make sense. It crumbled away everything she’d been raised to believe in.

Bettina savored and swallowed the cheese, resigned to smile, to cajole, no matter how distasteful, if it was the only way to earn the money for a coach ticket out of here.

Chapter Six

The town of Port Isaac, three miles south of Sidwell, charmed Bettina with its quaint pastel cottages gathered in clefts along the jagged shoreline and in the folded slopes. Kerra clung on behind her, and Bettina directed Shevall down the steep lane, that first veered inland, and then switched back to the harbor. The horse clopped and slid on the slick cobbles, dampened by sea spray.

“See them cottages there. Beneath they has the fish cellars.” Kerra pointed to a clump of slate hovels near the harbor. “There women prepare the catch from the fishing boats, for saltin’ or selling.” Several boats were moored in the narrow bay, bobbing on slate-blue water.

At the draper’s tiny shop, Bettina settled for the cheapest plum-colored wool. Her money, even after another month’s wages, wouldn’t stretch any further. She gazed wistfully at the array of lace and ribbons, items now too extravagant for her to purchase. With hesitant fingers, she stroked a piece of satin, so smooth, and recalled shopping at the modistes on the rue Saint-Honoré in Paris. She’d asked for whatever she wished—
robe à la Turque
;
robe à la française
—never caring about the cost. She clenched her fingers. If she wasn’t desperate for clothing, she wouldn’t waste the money she intended to finance her way to London.

Riding back up the coast road, they passed a young man on foot wearing a canvas hat and smock. He removed his hat to reveal bright, copper hair over a sallow face. Head lowered, he mumbled a greeting and proceeded on his way.

“Did you see how he smiled at you?” Kerra asked with an amused snort, poking her from behind. “I think he’s taken a fancy to you.”

“I saw no smile. If true, he smiled for us both,” Bettina said, embarrassed by her remark. The last thing she needed was anyone taking a fancy to her. “Who is he?”

“Newlyn Tremayne. His father’s a tenant farmer on Squire Trethewy’s estate, a far pace out of town. He’s Stephen’s brother. ’Course, he ain’t nothing like him.”

“You Cornish have so many names that begin with ‘Tre
’. Why is that?” Bettina changed the subject, loath to discuss Stephen.

“Means ‘farm
’, or something like that. We must’ve been all farmers once round here. But I’ve seen Newlyn giving you the eye in the taproom afore. Oh, fie, here comes the other squire.” Kerra fidgeted and grew silent.

The man riding in the opposite direction on a brilliant black horse drew Bettina’s attention. He sat very tall, wearing a dark flowing cape and a round hat, his face obscured in shadow. His horse held its noble head erect as it moved down the road with a fluid grace. Both rider and mount looked majestic and out of place in this rural setting.

“Who did you say he is?” Bettina asked in a whisper after he passed.

“Everett Camborne, the local quality. I told you ’bout him.”

“Tell me more about him.” Bettina couldn’t help glancing back to keep the man in sight.

“It be claimed he killed his own wife in that manor house up the hill behind us. Heard she be a woman fond o’ sleeping in beds that weren’t her own, if you know what I mean.” Kerra gave a careless laugh.

“I think that he watched me one day on the trail. If he killed someone, why is he not in prison?”

“They couldn’t prove nothin’. But his wife disappeared all of a sudden, and he said she just left. But the girl who worked as their chambermaid told everyone he choked her and buried her in Bronnmargh’s cellar. Heard him threaten to do it herself, she swore.”

Bettina wondered if this small community had blown a lurid tale out of proportion. “How long ago did this happen?”

“’Bout three years. Now no one bothers with him, and he ain’t got no use for us neither.”

“And the maid, what became of her?” Bettina persisted. The horse rolled in his slow gait between her thighs, and she wished again she had the decency of a sidesaddle.

“A saucy wench, that’s what Old Milt called her.” Kerra laughed louder. “Name was Vida, and she left a few days after the magistrates went up to nose around. We never heard from her again. Say, fancy that, Camborne might’ve done her in too.”

* * * *

Bettina posed on a stool in the kitchen as Maddie measured and pinned. To save a seamstress’s fee, Maddie offered to sew her a plain, wrap around bedgown common to the working woman. “I’ll make the bodice higher than’s usual. Confounded revealing these styles. Ain’t practical. But this wool will keep you warm. Better than that trifle you come in.”

Bettina relished the clean feel of the material, if a little itchy through her threadbare shift, but was embarrassed that anyone would wear a dress called a “bedgown” in public.

On the following Saturday evening she wore her new gown in the taproom, happy she no longer resembled a bag of rags on feet. If she’d only had the money to buy new shoes.

“Has Newlyn spoken to you yet?” Kerra passed her with a tankard of ale.

Bettina bustled by with a tray of drinks, anxious for the evening to end, barely noticing the young man who slouched at a corner table.

“I have no interest in this Newlyn,” Bettina said when they returned to the kitchen. She put more bread, cheese and pungent onions on a tray.

“Why ever not? A girl has to be aware of her prospects.” Kerra grinned and nudged her, then grabbed two bottles of Canary for Maddie.

Toward the end of the evening, Kerra dragged Bettina over and introduced her. Newlyn stood and smiled shyly, more intent on staring at his feet. He had blunt features, with heavy-lidded eyes and a pasty complexion. He stank like hay and manure.

“’Scuse me, Miss.” He wrung his hat in his hands, dropping his head even lower. “Would you care to go
… to a dance?”

Bettina forced a kind smile. “No, I do not think—”

“’Course she does.” Kerra’s voice cut through the smoky air. “You need to go out, be sociable. Newlyn, is your brother Charlie going to the dance?”

Newlyn shrugged. “Next Saturday, round seven?” When Kerra nodded eagerly, the young man bowed and shuffled back to his chair.

“Kerra, you are impossible. I have no need to go to this dance,” Bettina said when they were back in the kitchen.

“It’s our Michaelmas dance. We have it every yea
r—impressive for a village our size. September 29th be rent time for the farmers, but they dance to spite the landlords.” Kerra scoffed at Bettina’s upset. “Wish Charlie Tremayne would ask me, I’d be in a fit o’ pleasure.”

“
Ma foi
, I would rather go with him. This is a terrible idea.” Bettina simmered with her own spite. The eldest of the three Tremayne brothers, Charlie, stood tall and shared Stephen’s defined features. But Charlie’s manner seemed gentle, and he acted as if he had some intelligence.

“He’s quite the catch, so Dory says. ’Course, she ain’t managed to snare him. I’ll just have to be juicier bait.” Kerra twirled her skirt around her skinny legs. “Truth be told, one of the village boys asked me to this dance, but ain’t goin’ with the likes of him. I do have a bit o’ pride. Now you go and enjoy yourself for us both.”

“Does my pride not matter?” Bettina sighed. She just wanted to concentrate on earning money, saving it to liberate herself. The idea of that slouching farm boy only filled her with distaste.

* * * *

Immersing herself in the warm water of the metal hip bath, Bettina leaned back and closed her eyes. She’d sprinkled in chamomile, which Maddie promised was calming. Tonight was the dance, and she still didn’t want to go.

“Takin’ another bath?” Kerra’s voice pierced her reverie. She’d opened her door and peered around. “Maddie says you waste too much soap. Gonna scrub your skin off.”

Bettina hugged her arms over her bare breasts. “If I may please have some privacy.”

“Come out, it be time to get ready.” Kerra turned her back, her skinny frame taught with impatience. Bettina climbed out, toweled off and dressed. She followed Kerra up to her attic room.

“Sit here.” Kerra dragged out a spindly chair from under the eaves. “I has to corral this hair o’ yours.” She brushed, pulled and twisted Bettina’s hair into two plaits.

“Who will be my chaperone?” Bettina winced at the jerks, watching her friend’s ministrations in a pitted looking glass. She tried to comfort herself that this fete would be a rare change in her life of late. “I cannot attend such a dance alone.”

“You ain’t alone … half the area will be there. An’ Newlyn’s gonna escort you. Fie, you be having too much hair.”

Bettina flinched as Kerra jammed another pin into her unruly mass. “I don’t even know this young man. Maybe I should not be on my own with him. He has not spoken a word to me since the invitation.”

“I told you he’s a good fella. You have to get out an’ be social, no excuses. I need more pins, confound it.” Kerra opened a drawer in her scarred dressing table and rooted around.

“My mother would not care for any of this. You English are very tolerant over breaches of etiquette. Or do you simply choose to ignore them altogether?” She slumped in the chair, her reluctance making her irritable.

“There’s another of your fancy words … etiquette. We be as etiquette as anyone. And you was travelin’ with no companion when I met you.” Kerra stood back to survey Bettina’s hair, her mouth in a twist. “Here, let me put on the chip hat, that’ll hide most of it.”

Bettina rubbed her beleaguered scalp, adjusted the hat, and returned downstairs, hoping the young man didn’t show himself.

However, Newlyn waited at the inn door, shoulders hunched, head down. She joined him, now ashamed of her hope, and they walked together through the village. Strolling beside the silent young man, Bettina glanced around, mouth dry. She fingered her shawl and felt unprotected in the company of a male stranger. He exuded no charm; in fact, he exuded nothing at all. But she took a measured breath and reasoned he might be nervous.

The dance, held in an old barn to the south of the village, already overflowed with people. The stench from rarely washed bodies swirled inside. Waves of participants, loud and raucous, stomped their feet and clapped their hands. Three fiddle players supplied the lively music in this rustic contrast to her memories of musical evenings in France.

Bettina recognized a few patrons from the taproom at the inn, and they, in turn, stared at her. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Newl,” one man shouted. “And that one, of all girls.”

Newlyn cringed and Bettina felt heat rise in her cheeks. She watched the dancers in their worn, drab clothes, as they stepped in and out in a fast, jaunty gait. They kicked up dust with their shoes, but their faces spread with smiles in the lantern lights.

“Newlyn, I have never danced these dances,” she said as they pressed against the wall, people twirling past them. “They are neither the minuet nor the gavotte.”

“Just be country dancing.” Newlyn continued to resist meeting her eyes as he fidgeted with the collar of his frayed homespun shirt.

“We can try, can we not?” Bettina grew eager to be involved now that she’d come. The fiddle music and foot stomping vibrated the ground beneath her. “I do like the music, if it is a bit fast.” Motioning with her hand, she coaxed him onto the dirt floor.

Newlyn jerked his feet in hobnailed boots, off rhythm to the musical beats. He stumbled closer to Bettina and crunched on her toes. “’Scuse me, ’scuse me, Miss
… so sorry.”

Bettina winced in pain and shuffled her feet away from him, but still tried to match the steps of the other dancers. A man bumped into her, his grin suggestive, rubbing his leg along her hip. She hopped out of his way and wished for the wide panniers of the French Court.

Newlyn crushed her toes again and she swallowed a cry. She limped to the wall, curling her smarting toes in her slippers.

“Criminy, Newl, show the girl a better time.” His brother Stephen barged up to them, a tankard of beer in his hand, his smile broad. “Nay, best that I show her.” He reached over and ran his fingers down Bettina’s arm.

“I asked you never to touch me.” She jerked aside. Newlyn remained slouched over like a wilted scarecrow, saying nothing to this challenge.

Stephen clasped her wrist, his arrogant dimpled chin thrust out, shoulders thrown back in defiance. “I’ll dance with you, Frenchie girl. You just need to get used to me. With all that black hair, seems you be a girl from India or someplace else savage. Not that your country don’t behave like savages.”

“Please leave, I am with Newlyn.” Bettina snatched back her hand. “I will not dance with you.” Unsure of her position with Newlyn, she still didn’t wish to humiliate him.

Suddenly the boisterous crowd stopped circling and straggled to the sides. A chubby young man walked into the center of the floor and thrust up the worn cushion he carried. “Harkee now, the cushion dance!”