Mrs. Bean nodded, her puckered face wrinkling with a thoughtful scowl. “Cut that rope off’n her arms, Edmund, but put the shackles on her so’s she can’t be running when her pate stops hurting.”
Edmund nodded, then lumbered off. Presumably to fetch the shackles.
Shackles?“I’ll not run.” Felicity fixed the woman with a pleading look, praying for some compassion.
Mrs. Bean laughed and gimped closer, leaning heavily on her cane. “Course you would, gal. I would if’n I was you.” She peered down at her, her bushy gray brows almost knotting over her dark eyes. “Pretty little thing, you are. What did you do to get mixed up with the likes of them?”
Felicity gingerly pushed herself up to a sitting position and swallowed hard, determined not to cry. “Fell in love with the wrong man, I think.”
Mrs. Bean gave her a sad shake of her head. “Aye, that’ll do it every time.” She patted her chest with a gnarled hand. “As old Mort told you, I be Mrs. Bean.” She nodded at the man approaching with the shackles rattling in his hands. “That there be my Edmund. He’s my son and be a quiet one, but just because he be quiet don’t mean he ain’t sharp as a well-honed knife. Us two will be kind to you as long as you do as you’re told. Not because we be kind or generous but because old Mort and his brothers will burn us out and make us beg to be dead should anything go wrong.” She tipped a curt nod. “You understand my meanin’?”
“Yes.” Felicity understood completely. Mrs. Bean and her son were prisoners just as much as she was. “I am sorry.”
The old woman looked surprised. “Sorry? What for?”
“Those men. Their threats.”
“Ain’t no threats, gal. They be promises. That bunch there don’t do it just for the blunt. They do it ’cause they be the cruel sort. Full of meanness all the way to their bones, they are.” She nodded at Felicity’s legs. “Give my Edmund your ankles. He won’t fasten them so tight as to chafe you.”
“I promise I won’t run.”
Mrs. Bean chuckled. “I heard you, gal, now hold still for them shackles. My Edmund won’t cause you harm lest you give him reason to.”
Too nauseated to argue the point, Felicity held still while the man locked the shackles around her ankles. Then, true to his mother’s orders, he cut the rope off her wrists. Without a word, he walked away, heading for the lean-to to the left of the cottage.
“Come along now, gal.” Mrs. Bean stamped her cane. “Pull yourself up and brush that dirt off’n that fine gown of yours. It be all you have to wear till Mort and them come to fetch you. I got supper to fix.” She pointed at Felicity. “Today and today only, I’ll be lettin’ you sit and rest whilst I work. I reckon that head of yours ain’t none too good right now.” She stamped her cane again. “Come along now. I can’t be standing out here all day. There be work to be done.”
After a deep breath and a hard swallow, Felicity slowly pushed herself to her feet, keeping them spread as far apart as the shackles would allow so she wouldn’t lose her balance. The world spun like a child’s toy, threatening to send her back to the ground. Staggering like a drunkard, she made it inside, scuffling her feet along the dirt floor until she reached the bench against the far wall. There she sat and even debated lying upon it and covering her aching head with her arms. How in heaven’s name had she come to this?
Because of Drake.The accusation played through her mind like a resounding chorus. How could he have done this to her? Endangered her in such a manner? Apparently, his uncle’s well-being meant everything while hers meant nothing.
Momentary guilt about so quickly believing the worst about her future husband filled her, but then she angrily shoved it aside. No, he deserved her rage. How many times had he hidden the truth from her before? Not by telling outright lies, but by not telling her the entire truth. Lies of omission. Mama and Papa had always taught that a lie of omission was still a lie. Just because you didn’t say something thatshould have been said did not mean you didn’t lie.
She sagged to the side and buried her head in her arms, her shackles rattling as she tucked her feet up under her. Now here she was, tethered in irons like an animal, a prisoner of total strangers for who knew how long.
“It ain’t too good, is it?” Mrs. Bean chucked more wood into the hearth, stoking the fire beneath the grating balanced on the stonework.
“No. It is not,” Felicity agreed without uncovering her eyes.
The old woman clicked her tongue. “Get through this and you be havin’ a fine tale to tell your children.”
Felicity wished Mrs. Bean would leave her alone in her misery. She couldn’t decide which hurt worse, her head or her heart. “At this point in my life, I doubt I ever have children, since I have decided never to marry.”
*
As the sunsank on this terrible day, Felicity forced down a few bites of bread at Mrs. Bean’s insistence, but she passed on the boiled potatoes. Despondency filled her, leaving no room for food. It was just as well that she hadn’t eaten. Edmund finished off everything left on the fire and still looked hungry for more. Poor man. He needed a good joint of beef or an entire chicken or two. But he didn’t complain. Just kept his head down and did whatever his mother asked of him. Even though he never spoke, Mrs. Bean understood him as though she read his mind, carrying on long conversations with his side of the discussion consisting of only nods or shaking his head. It was more than obvious the two were inseparable.
At least it is them watching me and not Mort and his brothers.Felicity gingerly rubbed her wrists, chafed from the rope being lashed so tightly around them.
A crock of some sort of balm was thrust into her hands. She lifted her head to find Edmund glowering at her. He dipped a curt nod at her wrists, then turned and walked away as silently as he had approached. He was an odd young man, but for some reason, she didn’t feel threatened by him. Even in the few hours since her arrival, she had concluded that the Bean family was much like her—victims of their circumstances. The pair was doing their best to get by.
A victim of their circumstances.She almost snorted aloud at the thought but stopped herself because she knew it would increase the pounding ache in her head. After a hesitant sniff of the crock’s contents, which turned out to have a delicate, sweet scent, she dabbed a little on her wrists and massaged it into her skin. She hesitated to use very much. The Beans had so little of everything; she didn’t want to strain their already meager resources. Once finished, she carefully covered the contents once more with its square of oiled linen and lashed it tight with a worn ribbon.
Mrs. Bean lit a twisted cloth wick in what appeared to be a bowl of tallow placed in the center of the table. It sputtered and smoked until the flame settled well in place, providing much-needed light as night ended the day. With a weary groan, the old woman seated herself in the only chair the Beans possessed and took up her basket of mending. The rest of the seating in the cottage consisted of Felicity’s rickety bench and a pair of wooden stools. According to Mrs. Bean, she and her son had little time for sitting, so they simply didn’t see the need for more chairs.
“What be your name?” Mrs. Bean asked as she angled herself to catch more light on her sewing.
“Felicity.”
