Page 11 of Mistress of Misfortune

The sound of her brother and his wife's voices carrying down the hall wrenched Lucetta back to the present; it sounded as if Jeffrey were blustering and Deidre weeping. Of course, they are. The vicar prays for felons, he doesn’t keep them as guests.

Suddenly Lucetta could not bear to spend another moment under the same roof with them, and seized her hat and cloak. Now that the storm had passed she could resume her new habit of taking a daily long walk in the countryside. The cows and horses in the fields did not care what she was called, or why she was here, or even what she had done—and they called them dumb animals.

She left the house through the front entrance and walked quickly down the lane until she came to the road that led to and from the village. Since she had no money she could not shop. She felt no inclination to introduce herself to people who would soon revile her, so she took the direction leading away.

Like many small towns scattered across the county, Renwick remained stolidly rural, the town a hub for a large number of farms and country properties. When her brother had finished his studies, a family friend had steered him to apply for the position of curate at Renwick. By the time the elderly vicar passed away Jeffrey had made himself so beloved by all there was no question of the living going to anyone else.

Lucetta had never envied her sibling his calling. She dutifully attended church as a matter of form, but had never felt Jeffrey’s fervor for good works. She knew her brother’s faith meant everything to him, but she could not share it. Now it was all she could do not to scream at him about the God he so cherished. A God that, if he truly existed, allowed horrible, vile things to happen to the most innocent of his creations.

“Suwar ki aulad,” a man's voice uttered.

Lucetta looked ahead, and saw a man standing beside a large heap of wet, broken wood that might once have been a rig. As he wore a blue turban and carried a sword, she halted in her tracks and turned around to head in the opposite direction.

“Coward.” She reversed herself again and marched forward.

* * *

Harshad glancedover at the tall, pale woman, who regarded him with interest.

“You sir,” she said, “are very dark.” She carried a parasol, and looked as fierce as a hawk.

“You are not,” he replied.

“I am an Englishwoman. This is the only shade of skin that we are permitted at present. What were those words you uttered?”

“Suwar ki aulad, Miss.” He thought for a moment. “In English you would say the son of a hog.”

She quickly suppressed a smile as she came to stand beside him and studied the remains of the smashed rig. “This looks in sad repair. Is it yours?”

“No, Miss. I was sent by my master to collect it.” He regarded the heap of shattered wood. “It was overturned this morning, but it did not look so bad as this. I think someone came during the storm and tried to move it.”

“More likely they had a tantrum and smashed it to bits.” The woman knelt down and studied a section of shattered wood. “This mark here came from a hammer or cudgel of some sort.”

Why was this fine lady kneeling in the mud? Harshad almost tried to help her up, but then remembered his master's warning about touching any Englishwoman. “I do not know that word. What is this cudgel?”

“It is a club made of wood or metal that is used for smashing things. Heads, generally.” She stood up again. “How odd that someone would take the time to do this in a storm. They must have been in quite a temper.” She faced him and held out one gloved hand. “I am Lucetta Branwen, sister to Jeffrey Branwen, the vicar of Renwick. And you are…?”

“Very well, thank you. Oh, you want my name. It is Harshad Naveya.” He bowed over her hand. “I serve as steward to Colonel Thorne.”

“You work for the beast of Dredthorne Hall. Fascinating. How do you do, Mr. Naveya?” Lucetta bobbed.

Harshad knew enough about English customs to bow in return, but her remark made him frown. “My master is not a beast. He is a man. You are joking with me, yes?”

“Yes, I am. You speak tolerable English for, well, whatever you are.” She nodded at the rig. “I should advise your master that someone has been at this, perhaps to disguise something that may have otherwise been found.”

“You have some notion of what this not-found thing is?” Harshad asked, impressed by her deduction.

“As I have never worked as a wheelwright or a rig smasher, no, I do not.” Lucetta tapped her cheek with a slender finger. “You might take the remains to one, however. He may discern what you and I cannot.”

Harshad nodded, and discreetly regarded her face. While very pale like the other women of the village, she had some color on her cheeks. Her hat covered most of her very dark hair, but what he could see gleamed with soft blue glints. Her eyes were the same blue, like polished sapphires. Although her nose was long and thin, it gave her a regal air he thought very comely.

“You should not look at English ladies as you are doing now, Mr. Naveya,” Lucetta mentioned as she walked around the heap. “Such looks can be presumed to have more meaning in our society. Also, you are a servant, which requires you should look at your work, or the tips of your shoes.”

“Englishwomen do not wish dark men like me to look at them,” he guessed.

“Well, I rather like it,” she said, and as the sun came out opened her parasol and held it over her head. “My countrymen think me too tall and severe to merit their notice. Your admiration is therefore quite refreshing.”

Harshad frowned. “You do not mean that.”