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He glanced at Lucy’s ungloved hand. She’d exposed it when she had to wash the table, giving Simmons his Christmas break from service. “What trials did ye face, Lucy?”
She walked over to the hearth, crouching, not looking at him. His gaze followed the loose curls tumbling down her back, half of her hasty updo having fallen.
After a long moment, she spoke. “I was born with…certain marks on my body. Red and raised, although blessedly small. From birth.” She stirred the poker under a burned log. “My mother was certain that people would think they were witch’s marks, so she was determined to get them off of me.” She glanced at him, her smile gone. “Unless the devil pricked me before I was born, and I have no memory of it, they’re nothing but defects on my skin.”
Greer stood holding the dish towel, frozen with the images of a young Lucy stripped bare while her mother inspected and questioned her. “What did your mother do about them?” he asked, his voice quiet.
Lucy set a new square of dry peat into the hearth, staring at the flames as they licked up around it. “She burned them with hot fat and flame. The scars cover the marks now.” She touched her right arm, running her fingers up the puckered skin. “This was an accident. When I tried to hit the bowl of hot fat away, it fell on my arm, coating it.”
Bloody hell. Did she feel the searing pain in her memories? Any one of the burns could have become tainted, killing her swiftly with fever. Yet she’d survived, making the world a better place with her natural joy and compassion.
“Lucy…”
She straightened and turned to look at him, giving him a smile that did not lift the sadness from her eyes. “I asked William and his father to help me,” she said. “Either to get rid of the scars and any remaining mark or to teach me to cover them.” She shook her head, crossing her arms. “William thinks there’s not much hope for fixing them. So, we’ll try hiding them.”
Did the foolish man tell her she should hide them? Anger tightened Greer’s jawline. He stepped closer. “Ye don’t need to hide your scars, Lucy. They show how strong you are to have survived such torture.”
She met his gaze in earnest. “Scars are not permitted at court.”
“I don’t under—”
“The queen won’t allow it. Not even on herself,” Lucy said. “She contracted smallpox over ten years ago now. She survived it and hides her scars with thick white makeup. Her loyal nursemaid through the ordeal, Lady Mary Sydney, caught it, too, and was so disformed that she lives apart from everyone now, even her husband.” Lucy shook her head. “Scars from war are permitted if they are not gruesome in the queen’s eyes, but other disfigured people are dismissed.”
Greer couldn’t help himself. He caught her shoulders with his hands, stepping closer to stare into her eyes. “Ye battled against those who did ye harm. ’Twas a war ye won, Lucy, an unjust war. Ye should not need to hide.” He threw an arm out toward the other room where the children still laughed. “Do ye think Alyce should hide her face away because of what was done to her?”
“No,” Lucy said. “But if she were to work up at Whitehall, she’d have to hide it.”
He ran a hand down his face. “Aristocrats are judgmental cowards.”
“You might want to keep that opinion to yourself at court,” she said.
“We’re going back out to work on the coop,” Nick said. Catherine stood beside him, holding Rooster Simmons whose head pivoted sporadically to follow Percy and Pip, who’d apparently been liberated from the bedroom above.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Lucy said over the noise. Off they ran, the dogs stopping to jump around Greer and Lucy before following them out. No wonder the human Simmons hid away. Was the man somewhere in the back having a nip of whisky?
Lucy turned back to the dishes that had nearly been licked clean by the children. She lifted a bucket of warm water from off the iron spider sitting over the fire, and Greer took it from her to pour over the dirty plates. They each took up a rag and plate to wash.
“You know how to wash dishes?” Lucy asked, her delicately arched brows raised.
“Not everyone is raised in a home with servants.”
“You helped your mother and sisters then?”
“Aye. And I take care of myself when I’m away from her.” Under a thatched roof without tapestries and paintings hung on the walls.
Only the clink of the metal plates and the random drip from the water broke the silence.
“There will be sweets back at Whitehall, I’m sure,” Lucy said, glancing at him from the side. “I’m not certain I will eat any though.”
“I have no need for sweets or Whitehall for that matter,” he murmured, irritation in his tone.
“Except that you have a mission there to save the queen,” Lucy reminded him.
“A queen who condemns everyday warriors who survive with scars. ’Tis not very noble.”
Lucy set her plate down. Her unmarred hand reached for him, curling around his upper arm. She looked up into his face, hers a mixture of appreciation and chastisement. “Greer, I do not hold the queen’s fear against her. I’m certain her distaste stems from worry that she could be struck again.”
“And ye forgive her for this cowardice?”
