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CONTENTS
Stories by
Cassie-Ann L. Miller
About “Playing House”
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue So, what to read now…?
Dirty Cameos & Easter Eggs
STORIES BY CASSIE-ANN L. MILLER
The Playboys of Sin Valley
Playing House
Playing Pretend
Playing Along
Playing Rough
The Bad Boys in Love Series
Mister Billions
Mister Baller
Mister Baby Daddy
Mister Bossy
The Blue Collar Bachelors Series
Lover Boy
Play Boy
Bad Boy
Hot Boy
Rich Boy
Dream Boy
Blue Collar Bachelors Box Set
The Dirty Suburbs Series
Dirty Neighbor
Dirty Player
Dirty Stranger
Dirty Favor
Dirty Lover
Dirty Farmer
Dirty Silver
Dirty Forever
Dirty Christmas
The Esquire Girls Series
Amber Nights (Amber – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)
Madison’s Story
For Madison, Always (Madison – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)
Ruthie’s Story
Ruthie’s Desire (Ruthie – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)
Hailey’s story
Moments with Hailey (Hailey - Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)
Esquire HEAT Series
A Very Eager Intern
A Very Frustrated Attorney
Standalone Novels
Holiday Hookup with the Rockstar Happy New You
PSST…JOIN Dirty Folks, my Facebook reader group, to always be in the loop about what I’m working on next!
ABOUT “PLAYING HOUSE”
I ONLY SHOWED up to crash my best friend's sister's wedding. So how did I become the groom?! Oops!
When I charged up those courthouse steps to stop Sera's wedding, I didn't exactly have a plan.
But there's no way I was letting my best friend's little sister marry some no-good tool who doesn't deserve her.
Let's just say things got out of control. Fast.
Now, the wedding is off. And Sera is crushed. And I'm just trying to be a good friend.
"Comestayatmyplace.Untilyou'rebackonyourfeet."
"Havesometequila.It'lleasethepain."
"Andwhat'safewmuch-neededorgasmsbetweenfriends?"
Well, maybe I crossed the line with that last one.
Oh, but it gets worse...
Because we just woke up naked and hungover. And Sera's wearing a big, ugly diamond ring.
On second thought, "oops!" might be an understatement. I mean--I'm Jason Bellino. Confirmed bachelor. Pro football's ultimate playboy...I don't do relationships.
And she's my complete opposite. A good girl. A rule-follower. The Sweetheart of Sin Valley...She doesn't do no-strings-attached flings.
Talk about 'opposites attract'.
Now, we've got this whole accidental marriage situation going on. Hot damn. I'm completely in over my head.
But married life isn't half-bad, I guess. I could get used to the wall-shaking orgasms, the laughing and bantering together over our breakfast cereal, her cheering me on at my football games.
I should be trying to get rid of her. But more and more, I just want her to stay.
So how do I convince my oopsie-wife to play house with me...forever?
PLAYING HOUSE IS A STEAMY, laugh-out-loud, best friend's sister, accidental marriage small town romance. It is set in small town Iowa and is book one in the Playboys of Sin Valley series.
ONE JACE
ELECTRIC UNDERCURRENTS FLOOD the glittering Strip. Lights and billboards and flashing things everywhere.
And a giant glob of bird poop splatters my windshield—a pretty accurate representation of my feelings about this day.
“Well, shit... " Declan leans forward from the backseat and braces an arm on my headrest to observe the damage, a sloppy hamburger clutched in his fist.
Next to me, Knox drops his skull against the back of his seat and groans. The bird crap is further confirmation of what he's been saying all along. "I'm telling you guys—this whole wedding thing is gonna be a drag."
I flip a switch and windshield fluid spritzes the glass as my sleek sportscar coasts down the traffic-jammed Strip under the waning sun.
My face strains into a mile-wide grin that feels like concrete on my lips. “Bird shit is good luck. The wedding’s gonna be great.” I push the words past the football-sized lump lying sideways across my throat. I tug at the tie strangling my windpipe. “Sera’s getting married. It’s gonna be great. So wonderful and…great.”
My stomach muscles wring hard at the lie.
I’m trying to act like my usual, easygoing self. I’m not sure I’m pulling it off. The truth is, my palms are sweaty against the steering wheel, my scalp is tight, my nervous system is buzzing like I’ve been doing laps in a swimming pool of extra-strong coffee all day.
Playitcool.Grinandbearit.
I grab my takeout cup from the drink holder and take an icy swallow to wash down my anxiety. Up to this point, I’ve been playing the role of the bride’s supportive friend.
I showed up at her dress fitting for moral support.
I kept her fed while she was running around looking at wedding venues, forgetting to take care of herself.
I made it my job to keep the mood light when the pressure of the wedding planning was weighing her down.
I agreed to walk her down the aisle when her older brother said he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it home in time for the big event.
The courthouse is just around the corner and two streets down. No sense in dropping the nice guy act now.
Suckitup,man.Youcandothis.
My dashboard lights up, notifying me of an incoming call from Rocky Pfeiffer—the groom. Instantly, my jaw clenches. I casually hit ‘decline’ on the screen like it’s no big deal.
Wordlessly, Declan and Knox share a look. I ignore them, too.
Declan pounds the back of my headrest with finality, causing mayonnaise from his sandwich to drip onto the shoulder of my suit jacket. “That’s it! As soon as this wedding is over, I’m dragging your sorry asses to the strip club. You both need a little pick-me-up.” In my periphery, I see my idiot half-brother grinning like a baby crocodile and waggling his eyebrows in the creepiest way possible. Normally, I'd share Declan’s enthusiasm. I'm no stick in the mud. I know how to have a good time. And under regular circumstances, a night-out in Sin Valley is fun.
But this is not 'regular circumstances'. This is not business as usual. This day is my personal apocalypse.
I'm just trying to keep it together on the outside, trying to keep the simmering panic from leaking out onto my face. But my stomach
is
rumbling like I’ve got a troop of baby elephants mud-wrestling around in there as I drive toward a reality I'm not ready to face.
Keep ittogether. Hang in there. It’ll be over soon. My inner life coach is working overtime today.
I make a right turn off of the Strip, onto Willis Street. It’s like driving into a whole different universe. Dull, outdated, unsexy government buildings flanking one side of the quiet road. Crumbling mom and pop storefronts cluttering the other side.
Sin Valley is like any other small town across America. Quiet, friendly, sleepy. With gossipy neighbors peaking over their hedges and familiar faces in the aisles of the pharmacy. But the Strip is different. The Strip is a playground for debauchery. A place for excessive gambling, spontaneous weddings and other ill-advised life choices. A lot like Las Vegas. But cooler. Way cooler. People from all over the country show up here looking for a good time.
“I don’t need to go to a strip club,” Knox mumbles up at the sunroof.
Declan’s not having it. “I beg to freakin’ differ. Your divorce is final. At last. You need to stop moping. It’s time for you to start living again, man. Atthestripclub.”
“Deck, give the guy a break,” I chuckle weakly.
Knox is my teammate on the Iowa Paragons. He’s had a rough year. Divorce. Custody battle. That kind of stuff. He’s not handling it too well.
Declan turns his attention my way. “And as for you, you must be exhausted from all that fake-ass smiling you’ve been doing these past few weeks, watching Sera plan this wedding. You deserve a night of fun. Atthestripclub.”
I shrug Declan off my shoulder when another drop of his mayo leaks onto my suit jacket. I unroll that big, ol’ grin again. God—my face is gonna need months of physiotherapy by the time this wedding is over. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I casually grab my burger from the brown paper bag beside me and take a big bite. My stomach screeches like a race car doing a Formula One circuit. I don’t feel that great. I take a sniff of my
sandwich. “I think this burger meat is bad. Does yours taste funny?” I glance at my brother.
“The burger meat’s fine,” he states matter-of-factly. “That’s just the sound of your stomach trying to tear itself apart because the woman you love is about to marry somebody else.” Declan tosses his empty wrapper at my head. “You did this to yourself. I told you to claim her while you still had the chance. You didn’t listen. Now look at you.”
Knox lifts an eyebrow at me from beneath the bill of his baseball cap. “He’s right, bro. You’re not fooling anybody with the Mr. Congeniality shit you’ve been doing. I know you. I know you’ve been wanting to rip Rocky’s face off with your fingernails this whole time.” He shoves a few French fries into his mouth and his big, brown hand brushes salt off the front of his rumpled suit jacket.
I dump the sandwich back in the bag and grab a mozzarella stick. “For the last freaking time—I’m not in love with Sera.” I scramble for a logical explanation. “It’s just…Rocky. I don’t like the guy, okay? There. I said it.” Frustrated, I shove my fingers into my wavy dark hair and pull. “He’s a self-centered asshole. And he’s all wrong for Sera. He dumped all the wedding planning on her. Forced her to get it all done in just a few weeks so he could focus on the football season. And when the pressure of it almost cracked her, he pressed fast-forward on the whole thing and made her settle for a courthouse wedding when that’s clearly the last thing she really wants.” I growl. “Selfish. Bastard.”
“Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now. You missed your shot with Sera. It’s very sad…but it’s time to move on. At thestrip club.” Declan displays that goofy, infuriating grin again. “The one we went to last night for Rocky’s bachelor party was awesome. Topless chicks on a merry-go-round. Private dances in blacklight rooms. The dancers even had these payment processor thingies on their ankles so you could tip them with credit or debit if you ran out of dollar bills. And some of the girls had great personalities.” He nods slowly, a solemn, faraway look on his face. “I met this chick who works part-time as a doula. Another one read my astrology chart for free!
And I had a really deep conversation with this other dancer—Carrie —about climate change.”
Knox picks up his head and swivels his neck to gape into the backseat. “I worry about you, Deck…” He shakes his head and chomps down on another French fry.
Declan keeps rambling on but all I can think about is Rocky hanging out with freaking strippers the night before marrying the most amazing woman on the planet. What a fool!
I glare at my brother over my shoulder. “You realize that your whole stripper fascination is just a distraction from your realissues, right?” I wipe my shoulder with a crumpled up napkin, sounding like a resentful old man, grumpy after a Viagra bad-trip. But I’m annoyed —my brother’s been in denial about his feelings for his exbandmate’s sister for a decade. He just refuses to see it. “The party boy life is gonna get old eventually. And then, you're gonna wake up one morning and..."
My words trail off, swallowed up by the grating sound of the windshield wipers still swiping back and forth over the window. I keep my eyes straight ahead on the road but I feel my smile slowly starting to peel off at the corners as the reality of Sera’s wedding becomes really, really real. Too real.
“I'm gonna wake up one morning and what?” Declan challenges as he grabs his suit jacket from the seat beside him and tugs it on.
And your favorite person in the world will be marrying some asshatwhodoesn'tdeserve her , andit'llbetoolateforyou todoa damnthingaboutit.
That’s what I want to say. But my tongue is dry and heavy like a plank of lumber as the mental image of Sera silently tortures me.
She's standing at the front of a dreary courtroom, under a blinking fluorescent light. She's floating in a cloud of white silk and lace. She's saying 'I do' to a man who isn't me. I stand by helplessly as some lethargic judge uninterestedly pronounces her another man's wife.
She deserves better than that. Dammit!
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I try to chase away this anxiety. I hate to admit it but I really am a dumbass.
Because this is not some sob story about a guy who's been in love with the same girl since grade school but couldn't work up the guts to tell her.
For years, Sera really was just my friend. Nothing more. I was living my life, doing my thing, running around like, 'I'm Jason Bellino, bad boy football player. Look at me running through random women like it’s a professional sport.’ And then Sera got engaged.
That’s when itstarted creeping up.
Feelings. Strange feelings. Deep feelings. They jumped out from behind the shower curtain when I was leaned over the toilet taking a piss. These feelings snuck up on me by surprise.
This is a story about an idiot who spent years as friends with a unicorn of a woman and didn't even realize what was standing right in front of him…until she was on someone else's arm.
My dashboard lights up. Rocky calling again. And again, I ignore it. Whythefuckdoesthisassholekeepcallingme?
Sera’s been pressuring him to play nice. She says she wants us to be friends.
Ha! Fat chance.
I never liked the guy. We’ve played for rival football teams for years. And now that he’s about to marry Sera, the possibility of a friendship between us is basically down to zilch.
“You gonna answer that?” Knox asks, both brows lifted.
“Nah. We’re almost at the courthouse. Rocky can say whatever he needs to say to me when we’re face to face.”
Declan and Knox share another telepathic glance.
I chuckle and casually shove more mozzarella in my mouth. “If the two of you keep looking at each other like that, your periods are gonna sync up. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“You’re an idiot,” Knox mumbles in the seat next to me. He takes a gulp from his heavy takeout cup before dropping it into the drink holder. “You just don’t know how good a real, committed relationship can feel. Love. Trust. Devotion."
Declan shakes his head back and forth vigorously. “Don't listen to this guy. He did all the love and kids and marriage crap. Look where it got him…”
I sneak a glance at Knox and cringe. He doeslook pretty rough. Scruffy beard, puffy dark circles around his eyes, he doesn't smell all that great, either. “Yeah, buddy. I don't think you're in any shape to be giving relationship advice,” I say with a cringe.
Knox thrusts a middle finger in my general direction. He lays his skull against the headrest and covers his face with his baseball cap. "Fuck you both. I need a nap..."
I chuckle but the sound is hollow. "Would the two of you relax? Sera’s just my best friend’s bratty kid sister. I'm not secretly in love with her..." That's my official line and I'm sticking to it. Fuck what my stupid heart says.
I'm trying to shed the bad boy image. I'm trying to grow the hell up. I'm trying to not be a shitty human being.
Wrecking my friend's wedding because I'm suddenly 'overcome' by emotions I never bothered to explore in the nearly two decades that we've been friends? That is unquestionably some asshole shit. And Sera deserves better from me.
So I'm here to be the nice guy. The guy who'll crack stupid jokes when she gets nervous before the ceremony and tell her she looks gorgeous when she second-guesses her wedding dress and walk her down the aisle because she trusted me enough to ask.
I'm not here to crash the wedding. I'm here to be the bride's friend.
I can do this. With suppression and denial and booze, I can do this.
Because Seraphine Rodriguez is amazing and all I want is to see her happy. Even if it's with another man.
I pull up to the curb outside the courthouse. Sera is standing with her best friends at the top of the wide concrete staircase, her back facing the street.
Her dress is a simple satiny thing that matches the crown of tiny, pale flowers in her dark hair. The hem floats around her knees when she spins around holding a small bouquet in her hands.
And there she is. The Sweetheart of Sin Valley. The nickname really suits her.
She spots me exiting my car and she releases a giant exhale, like she’d been holding her breath for a long time. She adjusts her glasses on her nose and a tiny, genuine, adorable, terrified smile slowly pours across her lips.
That’s when everything changes.
A switch trips inside my brain. A meteor shower of feelings comes raining down on me. And in this moment, I know I can’t do it. I can’t watch her marry that douchebag. No way.
Keep it together , man! the reasonable, responsible part of me shrieks.Keepittogether!
“Nah. Fuck the whole nice guy act.”
I might be a selfish asshole. Fine. I can live with that. But I can’t live with watching her ride off into the sunset with the wrong man.
I jump out of the car and leap up the courthouse stairs—two at a time—ignoring the warning sounds of Knox and Declan calling my name from the street behind me.
“Don’t be thatguy, Jace!”
“Come on, dude! You’re better than that.”
“Leave it alone, bro!”
You were doing so well…My inner guidance counsellor wails ruefully. Youweredoingsowell…
My heart is beating crazier than it ever has. A stream of sweat is trickling down my neck. But fuck it all. I’m not backing down now.
Because who am I kidding? I’ve never been the nice guy. I’ve never been a pushover. I’m the guy who takes what he wants.
And Sera? Maybe, just maybe, she was always supposed to be mine.
TWO SERA
SO MUCH BOOB SWEAT. Oh my gosh. So much boob sweat.
The screen of my phone is slick and clammy when I pull it out of my cleavage for the fifty-seventh time in the past two minutes. With shaking fingers, I wipe the device on the blush-toned silk of my dress.
“Sera!” My mother hisses incredulously. “You did not just clean your cellphone on your wedding dress!” She circles around me, reverently smoothing down the now-wrinkled fabric.
For weeks, I trudged through bridal boutiques, trying—and failing —to find a wedding dress fit for a fairytale ceremony.
Less than forty-eight hours ago when Rocky and I decided to skip the big, traditional wedding and elope, I bought this simple kneelength silk wrap-around from a shopping app for second-hand bridal gowns. Then I sat on pins and needles, praying the package would arrive on time.
When the mailman showed up on my doorstep this morning— Renewed Gowns mailer box in hand—I almost collapsed into his arms, weeping with relief.
The past few weeks have zoomed by at turbo speed. It’s been a whirlwind—announcing our engagement, searching for a venue, organizing a seating chart, negotiating a prenup. It was all so overwhelming but I was determined to make it happen. For Rocky’s sake.
He wanted the wedding out of the way before the start of his football season. So he and I decided at the last minute to scrap all the typical wedding arrangements and hightail it down to the courthouse for a quickie ceremony.
But now that the moment of truth is finally here, things seem to be crawling at the pace of molasses.
My eyes linger on my phone screen. Nothing. Zero missed calls. Zero new text messages. Not even a Sorry, I’mrunninglatememe in my social media DMs. Nothing.
I shoot out another quick text, begging him to, Pleasehurryup. Please. The message gets marked as ‘read’ immediately. I wait for the three jumping dots to appear. But they don’t.
Ohmygod.Thiscan’tbehappening.
I’m encased in white shapewear that sucks everything in and pushes all my curves to just the right places. Beneath all this spandex and nylon, my stomach is in an anxiety-induced knot. “Mom, the condition of my dress is the least of my problems right this minute,” I mumble under my breath as I discreetly bat her hands away.
Fanning my flushed chest with my bouquet, I glance over my shoulder—again—to scan the steady trickle of vehicles meandering past the Sin Valley courthouse. Still no sign of him.
The faint prickle behind my eyeballs intensifies ever so slightly as I slide my phone back into my bra. But I refuse to cry. Because I’m wearing lashes that extend all the way up to my eyebrows and a whole lot of gunky makeup that isn’t exactly conducive to emotional outbursts.
I turn back to my tiny wedding party. My older sister, Katrina, and my childhood best friend, Minka, take turns rubbing my back in soothing strokes. My mother is off on the sidelines chatting nervously with Granny Bellino, the sweet old lady who’s been Mom’s next-door neighbor for as long as we’ve lived in Sin Valley.
Desiree and Nadia from my office hover at the staircase railing, eyes glued to the street, anxious looks on their faces. Our billionaire boss, Liam, has the deepest scowl on his face. He keeps alternating
between checking his expensive watch and typing furiously on his phone. The stoic bastard hates when people waste his time.
A few of Rocky’s guy friends stand by awkwardly, not sure how to fill the tense silence. My groom’s parents huddle by the courthouse doors, mumbling to each other and looking horrified. Appropriately so.
I try to take comfort in the fact that we’re still four minutes away from five o’clock. There’s still time for Rocky to show up. Right? I mean, some of our guests are still on the road. Jace and the other guys should be here any minute. My big brother, Wyatt, called to say he’s on his way here from the military base but he’s not sure he’ll get here before the ceremony starts. The point is, there’s still time for Rocky to turn up.
A cool palm lands on my forearm and I swing my gaze to find Katrina eyeballing me worriedly. “You okay, sis? Should I go grab you a water bottle?”
My gaze scans the surroundings again. Strangers mill around, going in and out of the courthouse. Some in flip-flops and board shorts. Some in oh-so-serious business attire. Some in formal wedding wear. Hell, I even saw some muscled-up dude strut by confidently in a sequinned bodysuit and a feathered headdress, along with dad sandals, checkered socks and a live turkey tucked under his arm.
This is Sin Valley. Things don’t always make sense. It’s best not to judge.
But nowhere in the frolicking crowd is my fiancé.
I shake my head. “No. I’m okay. I just…” I lower my voice and search my sister’s eyes like somehow she has all the answers. “What’s taking him so long?”
I’m not a particularly anxious person but any bride would be freaking out under these circumstances. I run my fingertips along my forehead where my damp tendrils are matted to my skin.
My mother swoops in again. “Mija, stop pulling on your hair. You’re sweating out your French twist.” She blots my hairline with a warm, soggy tissue. She’s not trying to be annoying. Promise. This is how she gets when she’s nervous. When she sees menervous.
Mom is just a natural caretaker. Maybe it’s because she has devoted herself to her work as a geriatric nurse at the Sin Valley Memorial Hospital for the past thirteen years. Maybe it’s because she felt she had to double-down on her maternal affection after my dad chose his love affair with whiskey over his wife and three kids during my childhood. Regardless of the reason, my mother, Christina Rodriguez, is the most compassionate person I know.
The adorable, little courthouse clerk sticks her head out the tall, wooden double doors. Her kind stare falls on me. “Are you almost ready, sweetheart? Judge Garner is heading up to his lake house tonight. He’d like to get out of here soon.”
I swallow back the shame prickling my esophagus like thistle weeds and force a smile. “Just a few minutes. We’ll be right inside.”
The woman gives me a pitying expression and disappears back inside the courthouse.
I address my gathering of guests with a forced smile. “I-I’m sure he’s just running late.” I fan my chest with my flowers. A cascade of freesia petals drizzles to my rhythmically tapping feet. “It’s rush hour. He’s probably stuck in traffic on the Strip. You know how it gets at this time of the day.”
They watch me sympathetically. They feel sorry for me. They all know what’s happening but they’re too polite to utter it out loud. He’sprobablystuckintrafficon theStrip. He’sprobablystuckin trafficontheStrip.
Maybe if I repeat the words enough times I’ll somehow make them true. But the truth is, I have no freaking clue where my groom is.
He was here and he literally just disappeared. We showed up at the marriage license office next door to the courthouse two hours ago to pick up our marriage license. Because the wedding plans were so last minute, we hadn’t had time to get that done before today. Rocky had thought it best to get here early to beat the lateafternoon crowds. Sin Valley is a popular destination for elopements, so although the marriage license department is open 24/7, you never know when you’ll run into a long line-up.
We’d been walking to the cafeteria to pass the time after filling out the required paperwork. Some girl had popped up out of nowhere and said ‘hi’ to my fiancé. A fan, I’d presumed. A flash of uneasiness had slashed through my stomach when I saw the pointed look she’d given Rocky, but I quickly pushed the feeling away. She was beautiful and had the most amazing set of tits I’d ever seen up close but I’m used to him getting female attention. He’s a freaking NFL quarterback. He always has fans hanging around. I’m used to it. So, I thought nothing of it when I’d excused myself to use the washroom.
Except, when I got back to the cafeteria, Rocky was gone. And I haven’t been able to reach him since.
I can’t believe this is happening. What did I do to deserve this? The prickling in my eyes intensifies. Tears of embarrassment begin to gather, stinging as they mix with my mascara. Great. Now my eyeballsaresweating,too.
When the sound of a roaring engine fills the air, my heart soars with hope. I feel my shoulders cramp with tension. I spin toward the road.
Through my foggy vision, I catch sight of the candy red sports car pulling up to the curb. I release an exhale and the slightest smile flickers across my lips. Jace bounds out of his car in the direction of the courthouse and I’m vaguely aware of Declan and Knox shouting from the street behind him. I don’t know what the guys are saying because I’m so focused on my friend, praying that he has some of the answers I need.
Jace heads straight for me like a heat-seeking missile. Eyes moving up and down my wedding dress, he thunders into my personal space. “Wow…You look…Sera, wow…” He tries to say more but he seems unable to put words together.
Unbalanced by his intensity, I stumble a step backward. “Ththank you…”
It’s not the first compliment I’ve received today. I’m the bride after all. It’s practically a social requirement to make nice comments to a woman on her wedding day. But coming from Jace, it feels
differentsomehow. He just has this ‘way’ about him. Must be those damn dimples.
Anyway, it takes a real charming bastard to make a bride forget— even for a split second—that she’s in the process of getting jilted at the altar.
My girlfriends circle closer, shooting questions at Jace. He doesn’t even seem to notice them. His attention is honed on me in an intense, direct, nerve-wringing way that makes me even more uneasy. Whatthehellisgoingonwithhim?
His fingers curl around my wrist. “Sera—we need to talk. Now.”
He moves down the staircase with a determined gait, tugging me along with him. More tears gather, blurring my vision behind my glasses as I run through the possibilities for what he might be about to say.
When he’s satisfied that we have some privacy, Jace speaks. “Look—I know the timing is shit and I’m probably an asshole for saying this but—”
“He’s not coming, is he?” I cut off my friend’s words.
He pauses. His brows furrow. He gives me a perplexed look.
I lift my glasses and run my fingertips through my tears. “Rocky isn’t coming today? He’s not going to marry me? That’s what you’re going to tell me, right?”
Jace narrows his eyes at me in confusion. “What are you talking about, Sera?”
I drop my eyes to the concrete beneath our feet, too ashamed to look him in the face as I speak. “Rocky left…”
His finger curled under my chin, Jason lifts my face. “Wait— Rocky isn’t here?”
With a shrug, I shake my head back and forth. My trembling lips move wordlessly and I feel absolutely helpless as embarrassed tears spill down.
Jace glances back toward my wedding party. He scans the crowd. When his gaze meets mine again, his eyes are a black inferno of rage.
I find myself rambling. “He disappeared on me and I have no idea where he is and we have a dozen guests waiting to see us get
married and Judge Garner’s trying to beat the traffic up to his lake cabin and…” My words trail off. “I think I’m being stood up, Jace.”
I watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. His fingers go tighter around my wrist. So much passes between us as we stand there silently, neither of us knowing what to say next.
This is surreal. It’s like I’m watching a badly scripted movie of my life play out before my eyes. I need to have a talk with the writer. This is not the right ending. Someone got it wrong.
“Hey, man. Can you come here a second?” At the sound of Declan’s voice, I glance up to find him hovering over Jace’s shoulder.
“I’m in the middle of something,” Jace growls, his eyes never leaving my face.
Declan takes a step closer, a phone outstretched to his older brother. His eyes flick to mine, full of pity as he speaks to Jace. “You left your phone in the car and this text message came through. You’re gonna wanna see it, bro. Right now. Trust me.”
Jace grabs the device from his brother and just before my friend storms away, I catch a glimpse at the text message sitting on his screen.
One little sentence kicks my whole world off its axis.
Rocky: Tell Sera I’m sorry…
THREE JACE
WHAT THE FUCK isgoing on here…?People breeze up and down the courthouse steps as I stare at the message on the phone in my hand.
Rocky: Tell Sera I’m sorry…
Before I have a second to make sense of any of this, the phone is ringing. It's Rocky’s number on the screen again.
Thiscan'tbehappening...
I glance around to make sure I have privacy. If Rocky is about to say something dumb to me, I don’t want a crowd of wedding guests to witness it. And I especially don’t want Sera hearing it.
I jab at the screen and half a second later, Rocky's face fills the device.
"Where the fuck are you?" My voice bursts out forcefully enough to make the older couple exiting the building jolt. Rocky is pushing through a crowded space, the fluorescent lights overhead glaring down on the screen. Sure as hell doesn't look like anywhere near this courthouse.
He refuses to look at his phone as he walks. "I can't go through with it, man. I just...I can't marry Sera."
The video goes wavy. Staticky lines jump across the screen. Poor connection. "What do you mean you can't marry Sera?"
He covers his eyes with a pair of sunglasses and he pulls his baseball cap lower over his face. I hear a blurry voice over a PA
system announcing the boarding time for a flight to Cleveland. I see a pair of women stroll by in airline uniforms.
"Are you at the airport?! You need to get back here," I demand. “You need to face her like a man.”
A range of emotions cut across his face in rapid succession. Shame then impatience then anger. “I’m not coming back, Jace." His words clip with frustration. Then, they soften. "And you need to take care of Sera."
This is not fuckinghappening. Not to Sera. She doesn't deserve this.
Rocky snaps again. Impatience this time. "Do you hear me, Jace? Go take care of Sera."
The fucking bastard. He doesn't have to tell me to take care of her. Because that girl is my favorite person in the world and I take care of the people I love.
Over his shoulder, I see a purple-haired woman trying to get a glimpse of his screen. "Is there a woman with you, asshole? Did you leave Sera for someone else?"
He turns to glare at the woman then he runs a hand down his face. “It’s…complicated.”
I hear Declan’s voice right next to me. “Oh shit! That’s Carrie. Climate Change Carrie.”
“You know her?” I glimpse at my brother.
“That girl was at the strip club last night. Climate Change Carrie,” Declan announces, saying the words meaningfully, like I’m supposed to know what the hell he’s talking about. “I told you about her.” My gape-jawed brother addresses Rocky. “Dude, are you running off with some random chick from the strip club last night?”
I can’t fucking see straight. My chest is a barrel of rage. My stomach muscles throb with anger. "You are a dead man, Rocky.” I jab a finger threateningly at the screen. "A dead man." The video clips on and off. Colorful lines blur the screen.
He hefts his backpack strap on his shoulder. "I deserve that," he concedes.
That shock of purple hair fills one corner of the screen again. "Rock, we've gotta hurry. We're gonna miss our flight," the woman
says.
No fucking way.
No. Fucking. Way.
The weak connection snaps completely and the call cuts off.
I’m left standing there, staring at the blank screen, wondering how the hell I’m going to break this news to Sera.
But when I turn around, she’s standing a few feet away from me, hands covering her face, heaving into her palms.
Shit. She overheard the whole thing. And the devastated look on her face kills me.
The devastated look on her face reminds me why I am never getting married.
Seriously, what’s the point? Love is a fucking joke and people are fickle as hell. They make all kinds of grand promises they can’t keep. They get your hopes up and, when all is said and done, they end up taking off, anyway.
I approach Sera and gather her up into my arms. “It’s okay,” I promise as I squeeze her tight. “It’ll all be okay.”
I feel fury—pure fury as I protectively drape an arm around Sera’s shoulders and guide her down the building’s steps toward my car.
FOUR SERA
Thenightthatchangeseverything…
"YOU READY?" Minka grins mischievously as her glassy-eyed stare sweeps the group.
My girlfriends hunch over the high-top table—each with a shot glass in one hand and a lime wedge in the other—waiting for Minka to give the signal.
When she does, they’re like a team of tipsy synchronized swimmers, chomping into the limes and knocking back their shots in unison.
I follow along listlessly with barely enough energy to lift my small glass to my lips and tip it back. "Ugh!" I groan, sticking out my tongue in disgust. I plop onto a stool, bumping into the table on my way down.
Gagging dramatically, Nadia makes a face and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Desiree grips the edge of the table, sways on her feet and yawns.
These girls are getting wasted. Fast. Meanwhile, Minka shakes her booty and howls like she just got an energy infusion in the form of tequila. “Rot in hell, Rocky Pfeiffer! Rot in hell!” She slams down her shot glass.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sea Mew Abbey
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Sea Mew Abbey
Author: Florence Warden
Release date: November 10, 2023 [eBook #72089]
Language: English
Original publication: NEW YORK: UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, 1891
Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA MEW ABBEY ***
SEA MEW ABBEY
BY FLORENCE WARDEN AUTHOR OF
“THE HOUSE ON THE MARSH,” “NURSE REVEL’S MISTAKE,” “MISSING A YOUNG GIRL,” ETC., ETC.
UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, SUCCESSORS TO JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 142 TO 150 WORTH STREET, NEW YORK.
[IMPRINT]
C , 1891, BY UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY
Chapter I.
Chapter II.
Chapter III.
Chapter IV.
Chapter V.
Chapter VI.
Chapter VII.
Chapter VIII.
Chapter IX.
Chapter X.
Chapter XI.
Chapter XII.
Chapter XIII.
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV.
Chapter XVI.
Chapter XVII. Chapter XVIII. Chapter XIX. Chapter XX.
Chapter XXI.
Chapter XXII. Chapter XXIII.
Chapter XXIV.
Chapter XXV.
Chapter XXVI.
Chapter XXVII.
Chapter XXVIII.
Chapter XXIX.
Chapter XXX.
CONTENTS.
Chapter XXXI.
Chapter XXXII.
Chapter XXXIII.
Chapter XXXIV.
SEA-MEW ABBEY.
CHAPTER I.
A a quarter of a century ago, under a bright May morning sun, the English Channel Squadron steamed into the harbour of the French town of Harbourg, with flags half-mast high. The Captain of one of the vessels had lost his young wife that morning.
Until the very hour of her death, the poor fellow had persisted in believing that she was getting better, that the weakness which had been growing for months on the fragile little lady, the paleness of her delicate cheeks, the feebleness of her sweet voice would pass away. And now they had indeed passed away—into waxen death, and the twenty-year-old wife lay peacefully in the little state cabin, while her husband, stunned by uncomprehending grief, stood beside her with her baby in his arms, not hearing its soft babble of inarticulate sounds, not seeing anything but that horrible, agonising, still image of the woman he had frantically loved.
“Speak to mamma, baby, wake her, wake her!” he had cried when, noticing how still and white his wife had grown, and refusing to own the truth, he had rushed out of the cabin, snatched the child from its nurse, and held out its little warm arms towards its mother. But the white, thin arms had lost their tenderness, and lay still; the cold mouth met that of the child with no loving kiss; and as the great brown eyes stared fixedly and without meaning at the ceiling, where the reflection of the sparkling blue water outside danced and shimmered, the man’s heart was torn by a pang of maddened comprehension, and a black pall was cast for ever, for him, upon the whole world.
Six hours later, when the sun was declining, and a fresh breeze was blowing from the sea, and the angelus was sounding from the chapel of the grey-walled convent, whose turrets rose up high upon the cliffs above the town, a stranger rang for admission at the convent-gate. The little sister who peeped at him through the wicket and then slowly opened the door, was rather alarmed by his appearance, and found the foreign accent in which he asked to see the Mother-Superior difficult to understand. But she would not have dared deny him admittance, for there was something in his curt tone and manner which would have made refusal of any demand of his impossible to the meek nun.
As the Gothic-pointed outer door clanged to behind them, and the stranger stepped in out of the shining sunlight into the darkness of the white-washed cloisters, a little cry rose up from the burden he carried in his arms, and the woman’s heart went out in an instant to the hidden morsel of humanity.
“Holy mother!” cried she, “it’s a child! Let me see it, monsieur.”
The stranger’s hard features did not soften, but a light came into his eyes as he drew aside the shawl which covered the child and showed a weird, pale little face, with great frightened dark eyes.
“She has no mother?” whispered the sister, with quick apprehension and sympathy.
“God help her! no,—unless,” and the man’s hoarse voice trembled, —“unless she finds one here.”
The sound of sweet singing from the little chapel began to be heard, muffled, through the cloister walls, and then it swelled louder as the chapel door opened, and another dark-robed woman peeped out, hearing the strange footsteps and a man’s voice.
“Come,” said the portress briskly, “this way, monsieur, you shall see the Mother-Superior yourself.”
The smell of the white lilac came in from the quiet garden as they passed through the cloister, and entered a great, square, barelooking room, with a floor polished like glass, high white-washed walls, a round table, and a regiment of rush-bottomed chairs placed stiffly against the wainscoting. A very large plain bookcase containing brightly-bound religious and devotional works, a gloomylooking oil-painting of a former Mother-Superior, and a black stove
standing out from the wall, completed the furniture of the convent visitors’ room.
After some delay, the Mother-Superior came in. She was an elderly lady with a face of intellectual type, to which the habit of her Order gave a look of some severity. The stranger took in every detail of her appearance with a searching look, and opened his business abruptly.
“I am in great trouble, madam,” he began, in a harsh voice, “where to find a home for my little girl. And as I was wondering, down in the harbour there, what I should do with her, I saw your walls looking down over the water, and heard your bells, and I thought perhaps she might find a shelter here. I am a sailor, and I have—no one to trust her with.”
His voice got out of his control on the last words. The Superior looked perplexed, but not yielding. As he unfolded the shawl which was wrapped round the child, she gently shook her head.
“We couldn’t undertake the care of a child as young as that,” she said, not unkindly. “She can’t be more than two.”
“That’s all,” said her father.
“Her mother——” began the Superior gently.
“Died this morning,” said he hoarsely.
“Oh!” The lady uttered this exclamation in a low voice, and bent at once over the child, taking its little hand tenderly. “I am afraid my sombre robe may frighten her,” she said.
But the child did not draw back, only looked wonderingly at the lined face, at the snowy linen and the thick black veil.
“Is she of our religion?”
“No.”
“But you of course wish her to be brought up a Catholic?”
“No.”
The good Mother looked up in surprise.
“Then what induced you to bring her here?”
“Where women are I expected to find kindness and mercy for my motherless child.”
“You are English, monsieur?”
“Yes.”
“And you would trust Catholics, Frenchwomen, as much as that?”
“I have been a traveller, madam, and I am no bigot.”
The Superior, with her face wrinkled up with deepest perplexity, looked from him to the child, who had stretched out her tiny fingers for the rosary.
“You see this omen. Does not that frighten you?”
The stranger hesitated, and looked down upon his little daughter, who was clasping the crucifix with delight. Like most sailors, of high and low degree, he was superstitious.
“One must risk something,” he said at last bluntly. “And if I’m ready to risk that, surely you might give way.”
“I would if I could. My heart yearns to the poor little creature. But she would be very unsuitably placed here. Have you no friends, no relations, who would take charge of her?”
He laughed shortly.
“Plenty. I am not a poor man, madam; I did not use that as an inducement to you, for it’s not money-bought kindness I want for my —my poor wife’s child. But you could name what sum you like for her keep, education, anything.”
“I had not thought of that, monsieur,” said the Superior, with more dignity. “We take older girls to educate, but——”
“But not my poor lame baby. Very well.”
He was wrapping the child up quickly, when the Superior stopped him by one word uttered in a different tone.
“Stop!”
The stranger, without pausing in his work, looked up.
“Lame, did you say?”
“Yes, I said lame,” he answered shortly. “I had forgotten that further disqualification. A d——, I mean a fool of a nurse dropped her on the deck when she was seven months old, and—and she’s lame, will always be so. Come, Freda, we’ll get out in the sunshine and warm ourselves again.”
The great room was cold, and the child’s lips and nails began to look blue. But before he could reach the door, he saw the black garments beside him again, and with a quick, strong, peremptory movement the child was taken out of his arms.
“Lame! Poor angel. You should have told me that before.”
The heavy veil drooped over the little one, and the father knew that she had found a home.
“God bless you, and all the saints too, madam, if it comes to that!” he said with a tremor in his voice. And he cleared his throat two or three times as, with uncertain, fumbling fingers, he searched for something in his pockets.
At last he drew out a soiled envelope, which he placed upon the table. It was directed simply “To the Mother-Superior, Convent of the Sacred Heart.” The lady read the direction with surprise.
“You were pretty sure of success in your mission, then, when you came up here?”
“Yes, madam, I have always believed I could succeed in everything—until—this morning.”
His harsh voice broke again.
“You will find in that envelope an address from which any communication will be forwarded to me. It is an old house on the Yorkshire coast, which has been shut up now for many years. But there is a caretaker who will send on letters.”
“And some day you will open the place again, and want your daughter to keep house for you?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a lonely place, and would frighten a girl. The birds build their nests about it. I believe the towns-folk have named it Sea-Mew Abbey. Good-bye, madam, and thank you for your goodness. Goodbye, Freda.”
He printed one hasty kiss on the pale baby face of his daughter, and the next moment his heavy footsteps were echoing down the cloister. The Mother-Superior heard the outer door clang behind him and shut him out into the world again, and then, still clasping the child in her arms, she opened the envelope which the stranger had left. It contained English bank-notes for fifty pounds, and a card with the following name and address on it:
“C M , R. N., “St. Edelfled’s, Presterby, Yorkshire.”
As she read the words, the child in her arms began to cry At the sound of the little one’s voice, one of the many doors of the room softly opened; and secure from observation, as they thought, two or three of the sombrely clad sisters peeped curiously in.
But the good Mother’s eyes had grown keen with long watchfulness; she saw the white-framed faces as the door hurriedly closed.
“Sister Monica, Sister Theresa!” she called, but in no stern voice.
And the two nuns, trembling and abashed, but not sorry to be on the point of having their curiosity satisfied even at the cost of a rebuke, came softly in.
“We have a new little inmate,” said the Superior in a solemn voice, “a tender young creature whom God, for His own all-wise purposes, has chastened by two severe misfortunes, even at this early age. She is lame, and she has lost her earthly mother.”
A soft murmur of sympathy, low, yet so full that it seemed as if other voices from the dim background took it up and prolonged it, formed a sweet chorus to the kindly-spoken words. The Superior went on:
“I have promised the father of this child that, so far as by the help of God and His blessed saints we may, we will supply the place of the blessings she has lost. Will you help me, all of you? Yes, all of you.”
And again the soft murmur “Yes, yes,” of the two nuns before her was taken up by a dimly-seen chorus.
“Come in, then, and kiss your little sister.”
They trooped in softly, the dark-robed nuns, their rosaries jangling on the bare boards as they knelt, one by one, and kissed the tiny soft face of the child in the Superior’s arms. Bending close to the baby in the dim twilight which had now fallen on convent and garden, until the snowy linen about their calm faces fell with cold touch on the tiny hands, they scanned the childish features lovingly, and rose up one by one, bound by holy promises of tenderness and sympathy to the little one.
And so, before the evening primroses in the convent garden had shut up their pale faces for the night, and the cattle had been driven to their sheds on the hill, Freda Mulgrave was no longer motherless.
CHAPTER II.
T years rippled away so quietly at the convent that Freda Mulgrave shot up into a slender girl of eighteen while yet the remembrance of her romantic arrival was fresh in the minds of the good sisters. During all this time her father had given no sign of interest in her existence beyond the transmission of half-yearly cheques to the Mother-Superior for her maintenance and education. When, therefore, she declared her wish to become a nun, and Captain Mulgrave’s consent was asked as scarcely more than a matter of form, his reply, which came by telegraph, filled Freda and her companions with surprise.
This was the message:
“Send my daughter to me immediately. Train to Dieppe; boat to Newhaven; train to Victoria, London; cab to King’s Cross; train to Presterby.
“J M , “St. Edelfled’s.”
From the moment Freda read the telegram until the bitterly cold afternoon on which she found herself approaching her new Yorkshire home, the train labouring heavily through the snow, she seemed to live in a wild dream. She sat back in her corner, growing drowsy in the darkness, as the train, going more and more slowly, wound its way through a narrow, rock-bound valley, and at last entered a cutting down the sides of which the snow was slipping in huge white masses. The snorting of the two engines sounded louder, every revolution of the wheels was like a great heart-beat shivering through the whole train. Then the expected moment came, the engine stopped.
Freda heard the shouts of men as the passengers got out of the carriages, and then a rough-looking, broad-shouldered fellow climbed up to the door of her compartment, and called to her.
“Hallo! Hallo! Anybody here?” he cried, in a strange, uncouth accent. “Why, it’s t’ little lame lass, sewerly! Are ye all reeght?”
“Ay, we’re snawed oop. Wheer were ye going to, missie? To Presterby?”
“Yes. Is it far?”
“A matter o’ nine mile or so.”
“And you don’t think we can get there to-night?”
“Noa. We’re fast. But there’s an inn nigh here, a little pleace, but better shelter nor this, an’ we could get food an’ foire theer. Ah’m afreed ye’ll find it rough getting through t’ snaw. But we must try an’ manage it, or ye’ll die o’ cawld.”
Freda hesitated.
“I suppose there’s no way of letting my father know!”
“Who is your father, missie?”
“Captain Mulgrave, of St. Edelfled’s, Presterby.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when, as if by magic, a great change came over her companion. The hearty, good-natured, genial manner at once left him, and he became cold, cautious and quiet.
“Rough Jock’s daughter! Whew!” he whistled softly to himself.
“Rough Jock!” repeated Freda curiously. “That’s not my father’s name!”
“Noa, missie, but it’s what some folks calls him about here; leastways, so Ah’ve heerd tell,” he added cautiously. “Now,” he continued after a pause, “Ah’ll do what Ah can for ye. An’ ye’ll tell ‘Fox’—noa, Ah mean ye’ll tell Cap’n Mulgrave how ye were takken aht o’ t’ snaw-drift by Barnabas Ugthorpe.”
“Barnabas Ugthorpe!” softly repeated Freda, marvelling at the uncouth title.
“Ay, it’s not a very pretty neame, and it doan’t belong to a very pretty fellow,” said Barnabas, truly enough, “but to a honest,” he went on emphatically, with a large aspirate; “an’ me and my missis have ruled t’ roast at Curley Home Farm fifteen year coom next Martinmas, an’ my feyther and my grandfeyther and their feythers
afore that, mebbe as long as t’ family o’ Captain Mulgrave has lived at Sea-Mew Abbey.”
Without further parley, the stout farmer opened the door; and taking the girl up, crutch and all, as if she had been a child, carried her along the line, up a steep path on to the snow-covered moor above, and across to a lonely-looking stone-built inn, into which the passengers from the snowed-up train were straggling in twos and threes.
The accommodation at the “Barley Mow” was of the most modest sort, and the proprietor, Josiah Kemm, a big, burly Yorkshireman, with a red face, seamed and crossed in all directions by shrewd, money-grabbing puckers, was at a loss where to stow this sudden influx of visitors. He opened the door of the little smoking-room, where the half-dozen travellers already penned up there made way for the lame girl beside the fire. One of them, a sturdily built middleaged man, whose heart went out towards the fragile little lady, jumped up and said:
“Let me get you something hot to drink, and some biscuits.”
Freda’s new acquaintance was one of those men with “honest Englishman” writ large on bluff features and sturdy figure, whom you might dislike as aggressive and blunt in manner, but whom your instinct would impel you to trust. This little convent girl had no standard of masculine manners by which to judge the stranger, whose kindness opened her heart. He seemed to her very old, though in truth he was scarcely forty; and she babbled out all the circumstances of her life and journey to him with perfect confidence, in answer to the questions which he frankly and bluntly put to her.
“Mulgrave, Mulgrave!” he repeated to himself, when she had told him her name. “Of course, I remember Captain Mulgrave was the owner of the old ruin on the cliff at Presterby, popularly called ‘SeaMew Abbey.’ ”
“Yes, that’s it,” cried Freda, with much excitement. “That is my father. Oh, sir, what is he like? Do you know him?”
“Well, I can hardly say I know him, but I’ve met him. It’s years ago now though; I haven’t been in Yorkshire for nineteen years.”
“But what was he like then?”
“He was one of the smartest-looking fellows I ever saw But he’s a good deal changed since then, so I’ve heard. I was only a youngster when I saw him, and he made a great impression upon me. Of course he was older than I, high up in his profession, while I hadn’t even entered upon mine.”
“And what is yours?” asked Freda simply.
“I have a situation under government,” he answered, smiling at her ingenuousness. “The way I came to hear of the change in Captain Mulgrave,” he went on, “was through a brother I have in the navy. Of course you have heard the circumstances: how Captain Mulgrave shot down four men in a mutiny——”
“What!” cried the girl in horror, “my father—killed four men!”
“Oh, well, you are putting it too harshly—as the authorities did. Those who know best said that if only there had been one of our periodical war-scares on, a couple of shiploads of such fellows as he shot would have been better spared than a man of the stamp of Captain Mulgrave. But the affair ruined him.”
“My poor father!” whispered Freda tremulously.
“I believe you wouldn’t know him for the same man. But cheer up, little woman, perhaps your coming will waken up his interest in life again. I’m sure it ought to,” he added kindly.
“Oh,” she said in a low voice, “that is almost too good to hope; but I will pray that it may be so.”
She leant back wearily in her chair, her arms slipping down at her sides. Her friend rose and left the room, speedily returning with the landlady, an untidy, down-trodden looking woman, who shook her head at the suggestion that she should find a room for the lady upstairs.
“There’s a sofy in t’ kitchen wheer she can lie down if she’s tired. But there’s a rough lot in theer, Ah tell ye. And ye, mester, can bide here. They doan’t want for company yonder.”
The kitchen was a large, bare, stone-flagged room, with a wide, open fireplace and rough, greyish walls. From the centre-beam hung large pieces of bacon, tied up with string in the north-country fashion. On a bare deal table was a paraffin lamp with a smoke-blackened chimney. The only other light was that thrown by the wood-fire. Freda, therefore, could see very little of the occupants of the room.
But their voices, and strong Yorkshire accent, told that they belonged to a different class from that of the travellers in the bar-parlor.
These men stood or sat in small groups talking low and eagerly. Mrs. Kemm upset Freda, rather than assisted her, on to the sofa, with a nod to her husband.
“She’s a soart o’ furreigner, and saft besides, by t’ looks on her. She’ll not mind ye.”
“Ah tell tha,” one of the men was saying to Kemm, “Rough Jock’s not a mon to play tricks with, either; tha mun be squeer wi’ him, or leave him aloan. Ah’ it’s ma belief he wouldn’t ha’ quarrelled wi’ t’ Heritages, if t’ young chaps hadn’t thowt they could best him. An’ see wheer they’ll be if he dew break off wi’ ’em! It’ll be a bad deay for them if he dew!”
“Ah tell tha,” said Kemm, doggedly, “he has broke off wi’ ’em. As for them chaps, they weren’t smart enough to do wi’ a mon loike Rough Jock. That’s wheer t’ mischief lay. They shouldn’t nivver ha’ tuk on wi’ him.”
“Ah’m thinking if they hadn’t tuk on wi’ him, they’d ha’ tuk on wi’ t’ workhouse; and that’s what it’ll coom to neow, if Rough Jock leaves ’em in t’ lurch, wi’ their proide and their empty larder! An’ thur’ll be wigs on t’ green tew, for Bob Heritage is a nasty fellow when his blood’s oop. Have a care, Josiah, have a care!”
“Oh, ay, Ah’m not afraid o’ Bob Heritage, nor o’ Rough Jock either; an’ me an’ him are loike to coom to an unnerstanding.”
“Weel, ye mun knaw yer own business, Kemm; but Ah wouldn’t tak’ oop wi him mysen,” said the third man, who had scarcely spoken.
“Not till ye gotten t’ chance, eh, lad?” said Josiah stolidly. “Coom an’ have a soop o’ ale; it shall cost ye nowt.”
He led the way out of the room; and the rest, not all at once, but by twos and threes and very quietly, followed him, until Freda was left quite alone. As she leaned upon her elbow, trying to piece together the fragments she had understood of the talk, she heard in the passage, to her great relief, a voice she recognised. It was that of her farmer friend, Barnabas Ugthorpe, who looked in at the kitchen door the next moment.
“Weel, lass,” he said, cheerily, “How are ye gettin on? T’ night’s cleared a bit, an’ Ah can tak’ ye on to Owd Castle Farm. T’ fowks theer are very thick wi’ Capt’n Mulgrave. It isn’t more’n a moile from here.”
Within ten minutes a cart was at the door, and they were on their way. The road lying over a smooth expanse of moorland, and the moon giving a little more light; it was not long before a very curious building came in sight, on rising ground a little to the east of the road as it went northwards.
The front of the house, which faced south, was long and singularly irregular. At each end were the still solid-looking remains of a round tower built of great blocks of rough-hewn stone, roofed in with red tiles. Both were lighted by narrow, barred windows. Between the towers ran an outer wall of the same grey stone, much notched and ivy-grown at the top, and broken through here and there lower down to receive small square latticed windows greatly out of character with the structure. Into a breach in this wall a very plain farm-house building had been inserted, with rough white-washed surface and stone-flagged roof.
Barnabas got down, raised the knocker and gave three sounding raps.
In a few moments Freda heard rapid steps inside, and a woman’s voice, harsh and strident, saying in a whisper:
“That’s not the Captain, surely!”
Freda turned quickly to her companion.
“Who are these people? What is their name?”
“Their neame’s Heritage,” said Barnabas.
Freda started. It was the name she had heard at the “Barley Mow” as that of the family who had quarrelled with “Rough Jock.”
