Yearning Heart Read Online Free Page B

helped her aboard, springing lightly behind her. She felt old and heavy and ugly, a parcel traded to the highest bidder. The weather, angry and dark, matched her mood.
    Sir Stephen didn't talk as they traveled. Instead, he removed a ledger from the satchel he carried and turned pages to stare at columns of figures. She studied the uneven features, his well-molded mouth beneath a heavy mustache.
    What would it be like to have him kiss her? Fascinated by the thought, feeling warmth in her cheeks, Rebecca put her hand to her own soft mouth. She had never been kissed. All she had ever done was dream.
    She turned to look out the carriage window. Brown fields stretched in all directions, windswept, dreary fields. Sheep grazed near the road as they came upon a small village.
    “We will have tea and walk a bit to stretch our legs,” Sir Stephen said.
    She didn't answer. She was accustomed to obeying and did not question him even though she didn't want anything. Her stomach craved to be left alone.
    “Hot tea will relax you,” he said as though reading her thoughts.
    It was nearing dusk when the carriage stopped, and Rebecca sat up, startled at the sudden quiet, to realize she had been dozing. She glanced at Stephen who smiled at her. Rebecca smoothed back her hair and tried to smile in return, but her face muscles were frozen.
    Nearby, a few dark shapes of small houses stood near the highway. The inevitable ale sign hung over a rough-hewn building where the carriage stopped. Inside, it was warm and comfortable, the dimly flickering candles giving the hallway a welcoming glow.
    The beaming face of an old woman peeped from the stairway.
    “This way, my lord. I have a comfortable room at the top of the stairs.”
    Rebecca swallowed hard. One room. The time had come when ...
    “We would have two rooms, if you please,” Sir Stephen said.
    The woman looked from Stephen to Rebecca, her mouth opened in mild surprise, but she nodded. “There is another across the hall, my lord,” she said, and Stephen followed the bent figure into the other room.
    Rebecca went into the small clean room, noting the bed with its dark quilted coverlet, a shuttered window barred against the night, one candle casting shadows. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her slippers, so dusty now she could no longer be sure of their color.
    “Mrs. Heaton will bring us tea and stew she has left from the evening meal,” Stephen said from the doorway.
    “I do not wish to eat.”
    Sir Stephen stepped into the room.
    “I will not have your death from starvation on my conscience, Rebecca,” he said. “You will eat, and you will drink the tea.”
    “Very well, my lord.”
    She ate the stew and it tasted good. She took a drink of the tea and immediately, the stew and everything eaten the past week spewed from her stomach. Gagging and coughing, she watched in horror as the mess spread over the spotless wooden floor.
    Then she was being lifted and moved away from the ugly remains of her meal. A soft cloth wiped at her mouth. She pulled away, tried to get her feet on the floor to go look for something with which to clean.
    “Be still,” Sir Stephen said. “Stay there. Do not move.”
    Shivering, Rebecca remained on the edge of the bed where Stephen left her. A few minutes later, Mrs. Heaton came in, clucking her tongue, working industriously all the time.
    “I should ha’ known,” she said. “So pale. So young to be with child.” She clicked her tongue once more. “Men. They know nothing of how to care for a wife when she carries their seed.”
    Rebecca stared dumbly at the woman, and then realized Mrs. Heaton thought her with child. She gagged. Soon enough, it would be so. That's what women were for—carrying cases for man to bring forth sons into the world.
    She thought the woman would never finish cleaning, but still, she was thankful Mrs. Heaton did the job. Papa would have beaten her before making her clean up her own mess. At least, Sir Stephen