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Chapter Seven
Matthew threw the harness over Bert’s massive shoulders. “I’m taking the trap to town to get supplies. The lads are busy in the fields.”
“And what should I do?” Dara planted her hands on her hips. The wind whistled past her ears and nearly took her scarf with it. She tightened the knot around her neck. How rustic in appearance she had become. What would Lord Coleman make of his glamorous wife now? Grubby fingers, dirty skirt hems, and sun-blushed cheeks—he would not recognise her.
She had written two more letters to keep up the pretence of visiting her cousins. They weren’t much different from the first. She had also enjoyed another interlude with Maggie and her daughters. Time was passing swiftly. One more visit to Maggie, and then she would have to go home to his lordship. Matthew had remained silent on the subject of her return. The jewels were locked in a strongbox and he refused to let her near them until the day she had to return. He would not countenance her spending money on his lowly farm. She had offered to help with buying fresh livestock and repairing the barn roof, but he had merely glared at her and stomped off. She had offended him, of that she was sure.
If only she could stay. It wasn’t that she fancied being a farmer’s wife—it would be impossible for her endure the hardships for any longer than she had agreed—she simply wanted to sleep every night in Matthew’s arms. What she expected to happen was a heavy-hearted journey to the luxury of Willowby Hall, for her to find the servants had completed the long list of tasks, then with a solemn guise, she would await the return of her wandering husband, curtsy to his bow, spread her legs, and close her eyes. If he finally had it in him to honour their marriage vows, she hoped he would be swift and not expect her to touch his thing. She would rather never touch it. She was married in her heart to Matthew, and only he was worthy of her touch. If only a farmer could marry a lady of noble blood.
“I should come with you,” she declared to Matthew.
He yanked on the reins. “No. You shall not,” he said curtly.
“Why ever? I’m not known in town.” She walked toward the trap, skirting around the cow dung. “I’ve only been in the area for a short time and never went there.”
“Your servants go there.” He settled on the bench. “It’s not wise, Dara. You’ll tempt fate to fall upon you, take my word for it. Stay and be a good lass. I’ll be back before supper.”
She watched him gee the horse into a slow trot. After a few minutes, he disappeared over the brow of the hill.
Dara swept out the cottage half-heartedly. She was bored. Having read three books, she was tired of French poetry, and preferred the study of flowers. With that in mind, she went to pick a few wild ones in the furthest meadow. She saddled up Mary and hung her small saddle back on her rump. The weather was fine, if breezy, and she reached the field to find the goats had eaten all the prettiest flowers.
Annoyed, she made an impulsive decision: she would continue on and ride into town. Matthew would be at the market, buying grain and salt, things that were of no interest to a lady. Dara would frequent the other end of town where the small boutiques sold fancy goods. She gave Mary a jab of her heels.
“Come on, let’s be going.”
* * *
The ride took nearly half an hour at a brisk trot. The town was nestled in a valley by a river and quite small compared to the one nearest her parents’ hall. There was a church with a steeple, a stone-clad town hall, and many old medieval houses. The main street was cobbled, but the rest of the streets were dirt-laden and foul-smelling. She had forgotten how poorly many towns fared compared to the rich cities. She found an ostler in the coach inn at the edge of the town and paid him a shilling to stable her horse. It was only then that she noticed how few coins she had in her purse. She had assumed she would sell the jewels and make good her accounts with value of the gems. Now she would have to spend frugally.
With the scarf covering her neck and shoulders, her bonnet drawn down low over her brow, she walked quickly along the main street, occasionally pausing to look in the windows of the shops. There was very little choice. The town was severely limited in its accomplishments, especially because the craftsmen who practised their trade in to
wn were not up to her expected standards: the goods looked shoddy and poorly made. However, the haberdashers had a fine display of ribbons, buttons, and lacework.
The doorbell chimed when she entered the store.
An elderly woman wiped her hands on her apron and welcomed her with a nod. “Fine day, ma’am.”
Her wedding ring, of course. Dara had not removed it and the keen-sighted woman had spotted her status.
“It is,” she replied politely. “I would like to buy some ribbons, a length of lace, and a dozen of those white buttons, please.” She pointed out the goods on display. She fancied trying to improve her dressmaking skills with a few embellishments.
The woman called to another younger shop assistant, who collected the items together and began to wrap them in tissue paper.
“That’ll be three shillings and thru’pence.”
Dara felt her cheeks rise with heat. She was sure she only had two shillings in her purse. “Are you sure that is correct?”
The older woman glared at her. “Aye. Tis correct. We don’t haggle in this town, if that’s what you want to do.”
Haggle! How beneath her. She fumbled with her purse. “I seem... I’ve left some coin at home. Could you put the amount on my account?” Her embarrassment was made worse by the request.
“Your account?” The woman chuckled. “Hear that, Lucy my dear, she wants an account.”
Lucy quickly smothered a rude giggle with her hand. “We don’t know you, ma’am. We only give accounts to those that pay regularly first.”
“Oh.” Dara emptied her purse onto her palm. “I only have this.” The last time she had gone shopping was with her mother for a wedding gown and accessories. Her mother had spent lavishly on her. Now, she was close to begging for buttons. She felt utterly humiliated.
“Then you’ll have to put back either them buttons or the lace, ma’am,” the older woman said sympathetically. “Tis a pretty piece of lace.”
