AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The pub owner caught her eye, nodded, and tapped the palm of his empty hand with his cudgel. Teresa nodded acknowledgment. Dilch was vanquished here. They’d done it.
Eliza popped up at her side. “That wasprime, that was,” the young maid said. Her eyes shone with admiration.
Teresa wondered what had happened to make the girl savor vengeance this much. It was not the first time she’d noticed Eliza’s love of rough justice.
People came up to exchange congratulations. The old woman with the canes was crying as she balanced on one of them to squeeze Teresa’s hand. “Thankee, my lady,” she said. “You’ve made some fast friends today and no mistake. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just say. Not that I’m up to much these days.” She indicated her canes.
Looking around, Teresa saw the same sentiment in the faces of most of her neighbors. These were not the sort of people she had encountered in her youth, except perhaps among her parents’ servants. And exchanges with them had not been the same. She would not have dreamed of joining with them to rout a petty oppressor. She hadn’t known or understood them as she did these neighbors, from living among them.
Through the hard years since her girlhood, she’d rarely had the opportunity to make real friends. And the few she’d found had been swept away by circumstance. But here in her new home she’d become part of a little community. Teresa blinked back tears as she realized how glad and grateful she was to be included.
It was some time before she tore herself away and went to change her dress before going on to the theater workshop. She looked forward to telling Tom about their triumph over the odious Dilch. He’d often wanted to stand up to the bully—or, as he put it, the churlish, swag-bellied moldwarp. She smiled. Tom’s expanding vocabulary entertained all the craftspeople in the shop.
Lord Macklin appreciated it, too, Teresa thought. He always smiled at Tom’s sallies. She’d noticed it more than once in their three conversations in the little courtyard.
Her steps slowed. She shouldn’t remember how often they’d spoken, or recall the earl’s words or expressions. She did not look forward to his appearance in the busy space. She mustn’t. She didn’t!
Teresa stopped walking. A muddled flood of memories overtook her, bringing a queasy feeling in her stomach. What was the lesson she’d learned over and over again? Was itreallynecessary to repeat it? Men could not be trusted. Particularly, most disastrously, aristocratic men whose position gave them the power to do as they liked. They could not resist using it.
She was not a stupid woman. She’d proved that. She was proud of all that she’d learned and accomplished, and she would do nothing to risk her position.
But others seemed to find love that could be trusted, a forlorn inner voice declared. That couldn’t be all illusion, could it?
A jeering laugh rang in her brain, so strong it almost seemed audible, the product of several male voices whose cold mockery she’d overheard. Love! A pathetic word, an idiot’s weakness. Did little Teresa think to snare an English earl?
Teresa’s hands closed into fists at her sides. “Who spoke ofsnaring?” she whispered. “Nadie!” She had no such idea, and she rejected, utterly repudiated, anything that threatened her hard-won triumphs.
“Are you all right, miss?”
She turned to find a draper eyeing her with concern from the doorway of his shop.
“Yes. Perfectly all right. Thank you.”
Teresa moved on. No one had spoken of snaring, not even her plaintive interior murmurs, and no one ever would. Perhaps she had enjoyed some parts of her conversations with Lord Macklin. Very well. She would admit this, to herself. It was always best to face the truth. But she didn’t want anything from this handsome earl. Sheneedednothing from him. And so he had no power over her. He never would. As long as she saw to that, she supposed she could talk with the gentleman now and then.
Reaching the workshop, Teresa shook off her mood, and the past, as she removed her bonnet and gloves. The earl’s visits here were rare and would no doubt end now that London society had begun its annual promenade. Who knew when she would ever see him again? It might be weeks, which wasnota disappointment of any kind. She donned her serenity with her painting apron and picked up a brush.
But some time later, when she was sitting on a bench near the carpenters telling Tom the saga of Dilch, Teresa sensed a presence behind her even before Tom’s gaze strayed. She turned. Lord Macklin was there in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her.
Tom waved to him. “Come and hear how Señora Alvarez sent Dilch packing, the currish, beef-witted clotpole.”
The earl came toward them, and Teresa marveled at his easy manner. By dress, bearing, and social position, the man clearly didn’t belong in a workshop, and yet he had made himself welcome. Artisans greeted him like an old friend. They showed him progress on bits of theatrical paraphernalia he’d admired during past visits. And he replied with what seemed to be genuine interest. She couldn’t detect a trace of condescension or impatience. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t there, she reminded herself. The earl might be better at dissimulation than she was at detecting it. She’d encountered such people before.
“You remember Dilch,” Tom added as he joined them.
Macklin smiled at Teresa, and a shiver ran over her skin as if a length of silk had been trailed over her body. “The attempted vegetable thief,” he said.
“And all-’round sheepbiter,” replied Tom with the air of one agreeing. “But Señora Alvarez taught him a lesson.” Tom gestured to encourage her to go on.
“I and my neighbors,” she said. Though she was more self-conscious with Macklin present, she made a good story of it. Indeed, she relished her description of Dilch being hauled away by his womenfolk.
Her audience seemed to appreciate the picture. Their laughter rang through the workshop. “Bravo,” said the earl.
“Right,” said Tom. “Except for one thing.”
“What?” Teresa wondered what she’d overlooked.
“You all did it without me,” Tom complained.
