He had to do something physical. Getting into a fight was the most tempting solution, but there was no one to spar with, only himself to beat up, mentally.
What had he done? He should never have touched her, let alone caressed her, allowed himself to become blatantly aroused. Damn it, he had boasted to her that he could control himself.
Disgusted with himself, Hugo swore, viciously, in Spanish, Portuguese and, for good measure, French. Emilia had pushed him away. Had needed to push him away. That fact alone was shocking. He simply did not behave like this. If he took a mistress, then it was a considered act, properly negotiated like everything else in his life.
She had pushed him away. Rejected him. Of course she did, she’s a decent woman. That did not help. Hell, he wanted her and he wanted her to want him. He should have had some restraint, he was the one with years of disciplined living and trained self-control behind him, he was not the lonely overworked one who should have tumbled into his arms with gratitude.
Coxcomb, he thought and added a few choice epitaphs. Emilia is not lonely. She has her sons to love and a village full of people who like her and protect her.
Perhaps he was lonely. How could that be with dozens of friends, innumerable acquaintances? And no one to love, a small inner voice murmured. Well, that was easy enough to deal with. When he got out of here he would get on with finding a wife, a rational, intelligent, suitable wife who would fill any empty niches in his life. Not love, of course, whatever that was.
He began to talk to Ajax in Spanish. ‘She’ll be blonde. Blue-eyed, I think, or grey. Quite tall. Very elegant and self-possessed, but quiet. I don’t want a chatterer.’ Not someone who makes jokes at mealtimes and who teases me. ‘Responsive in bed, of course. An iceberg would be unpleasant to live with. But not demanding reassurances all the time that I love her or some such nonsense.’ Not melting into my arms as though I am all she desires and then pushing me away.
‘Is that Spanish?’
Hugo dropped the curry comb and Nathan dived to pick it up. ‘Yes, Spanish.’ Thank God. ‘Thank you.’ He took the metal scrapper and cleaned the dandy brush.
‘Why are you talking to Ajax?’
‘He’s the only thing around here that doesn’t answer back,’ Hugo said with some feeling. ‘Pass me the hoof pick, will you?’
The old long-case clock in the corner of the taproom chimed four. The house was clean, the fires made up, a somewhat muscular chicken was in the pot for dinner and the boys were with Hugo.
Emilia sat down by the hearth and contemplated doing nothing for an entire, blissful, half-hour of self-indulgence. Only her mind refused to relax and every time it did she found herself thinking about that embrace.
But brooding about Hugo made her think of his lack of a family and that led inevitably to her own. The boys were growing up without their grandparents. Her parents would never know her sons. It was Christmas—surely a time for forgiveness and new starts? She would write, try again one last time. Perhaps if she made it clear they did not have to see her again, that she wanted nothing for herself, their ruined daughter, they would relent towards the boys.
Paper was expensive and she could not afford to waste it. She sat at the table, chewing the end of her pen and composing in her head and then wrote, slowly, taking care over every word.
There, done. Emilia scrubbed the back of her hand across her wet eyes. At least she hadn’t dripped tears on the page, that really would have looked like a plea for sympathy. She folded the sheet carefully, wrote the direction on the front and went in search of the sealing wax.
Where had she left it? The taproom, she realised after ten minutes of fruitless rummaging in drawers. She had used it to seal that order to the maltster last week.
She was halfway across the room when she heard the sound of footsteps from the direction of the stable. The high mantelshelf over the hearth was out of reach of small boys. She reached up to hide the letter and when they came in with Hugo on their heels she was making up the fire. ‘Goodness, this chimney is smoky.’ She mopped at her cheeks, smiled and ignored the swift frowning glance that Hugo sent her.
He strode across the room and tucked his roll of bedding more tidily into the corner.
‘You could put it back into the cupboard, for the moment,’ Emilia suggested.
‘I don’t think so, do you?’
The level look brought the colour to her cheeks. Of course, he wanted to reinforce the point about where he was sleeping when the villagers came in this evening. I wish it was upstairs.
Hugo had been correct in his prediction. Every man in the village, including old Mr Janes, found their way along the narrow paths, some bringing their shovels with them in case they had to dig their way back.
Emilia sent the boys to bed and heated a large pot of mulled ale over the fire. Hugo was sitting at a corner table, apparently engrossed in the pile of tattered news sheets he had found with the kindling. He looked up and exchanged unsmiling nods with the men as they came in.
They crowded into the taproom, blowing out lanterns, filling the space with the smell of tallow, wet wool, tobacco and hard-working man with a rich undertone of cattle.
‘Good evening, everyone.’ Emilia straightened up from her stirring and smiled at them as they stamped snow off their boots and heaped coats in the corner. ‘Would some of you do me a favour and bring two barrels up?’
‘Aye, I’ll do that for you, Mrs Weston.’ Cartwright, the smith, rolled his broad shoulders. ‘The major here will give me hand, I’ve no doubt. The two of us will manage.’
Damn. That was a deliberate challenge. It normally took four of them to roll the barrel on to the carrying cradle and get it up the stairs. Two men could do it, if they were strong enough, but Joseph had reported that Hugo had a big scar across his chest. Was it a recent wound? But there was nothing she could do about it, they were on their way downstairs.
There was bumping and a thud or two from the cellar. the other men stood around nudging each other. Really, they are such boys, she thought crossly. Then there were heavy footsteps on the stairs and the blacksmith appeared carrying the front handles of the wooden cradle. She held her breath, the weight of the contraption would be tipping down now on the man still on the stairs. If he fell, he would be crushed by the barrel.
But Cartwright kept coming and Hugo emerged, his jaw rather set, but not visibly struggling. They rolled the barrel on to its rest and set down the cradle. ‘Game for the other one?’ There was grudging respect in the smith’s eyes.
‘Some of the others will do it, if they will be so good.’ Emilia pressed a beaker of mulled ale into his hands and gave another to Hugo. ‘On the house for those who carry.’
It had broken the ice, although why Hugo’s ability to lift heavy weights should convince the smith that he was a good man eluded her. Some strange male code, no doubt. Emilia set out mugs and began to fill orders.
Two hours later her cash dish was full of coppers, a cut-throat game of dominoes was going on between Billy Watchett, the ploughman, and one of the Dodson brothers, someone was attempting to wager a piglet against a load of hay on a card game and Michael Fowler was telling anyone who would listen that his heart had been broken by that flighty Madge Green from over the river.
Emilia set a fresh jug of ale down on the end of the table and leaned a hip against it for a brief rest. In the corner Lawrence Bond, a smallholder, smiled and moved his head towards the bench beside him as though in invitation. She pretended not to notice. Bond was the son of a yeoman and apt to give himself airs as a result. He would flirt if he had the opportunity and, of all the men in the village, he was the only one she would feel uneasy about being alone with.
Behind