Authors: Lori Copeland
"You feel that women are inferior to men?” she
challenged.
“Women have their place,” he conceded. He didn’t personally
harbor the common belief that women had no right to education or personal
opinion, but he had no objection to men who did. Besides, he didn’t know why he
was trying to carry on an intelligent conversation with this woman. His only
duty was to see that she did not escape until plans could be made to get rid of
her.
“And where might that place be, good doctor?” Ashley goaded.
“Women should take care of the home, raise the children,
read their Bible, perhaps a cookbook if they’re not naturally talented.”
She laughed.
“You find my observations amusing?”
“I find you amusing.”
They rode in silence for a spell. Ashley realized that she
was exhausted. A dull headache throbbed at the base of her temple, and she
longed for the bumpy ride to be over.
The sun had gone behind a low bank of clouds, and the air
had an uncomfortable chill to it now.
“You spoke of Paul.” Aaron’s voice suddenly broke into her
scattered thoughts. “What more do you know of him?”
“Well, he’s been working since he was a child. Learning the
silversmith business from his father, ringing church bells, whatever, to earn
money. He took over the business when he was either fifteen or nineteen,
depending on whose opinion you read, and made beads, rings, lockets, buttons,
pitchers, teapots, which was a fine business considering the tea party episode.
Once he even made a silver collar for a man’s pet squirrel.
“History says that when his first wife died, Paul became
involved with the Sons of Liberty. He eventually hired Rachel Walker to keep
house and care for the children. Apparently the children liked her so much that
Paul asked Rachel to marry him. Eventually Paul had sixteen children. No wonder
he had a hard time making ends meet. Anyway, when English ships sailed into
Boston Harbor to try to sell their tea, the Sons of Liberty demanded the ships
leave by December 16 or they’d throw the tea in the harbor. When they ignored
the ultimatum, the elder Revere and his son Paul joined 150 others who dressed
as Indians to dump the tea—all 114 chests of East India that was aboard the
Dartmouth and two other ships that were tied up at Griffin’s Wharf that day—the
Eleanor and the Beaver. It was raining—and cold. But by nine o’clock, more than
ninety thousand pounds of tea were floating in the harbor. All they needed was
a big slice of lemon.”
Aaron turned to look at her again.
Ashley smiled, pleased that she could distress him so
easily. “Isn’t that the way it went?”
“Confound you! Who told you that Paul and his son were
involved?”
“I read it—”
“In a book,” he finished wearily. “What kind of book might
this be?”
“History. All kinds of history. Columbus. Napoleon. All of
it. From the beginning to the twenty-first century.”
“You are to be complimented. You are well versed in events.”
“Well, I thought I hated history, but I’ve had to memorize
so many facts for my job.”
He frowned. “A job as what?”
“My job as a tour guide at the museum. And I know about the
Boston massacre too.”
Aaron’s features paled, and he faced front. “Curse my luck!
I should have made John Hancock take her home with him,” he muttered under his
breath.
Ashley crawled wearily off the back of the horse thirty
minutes later. Her words were met with a cold pewter gaze. “I changed my mind.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
Taking the wench home with him would be ill advised, he had
realized. The Black Goat was a noisy place with a bad reputation. If she got it
in her mind to try an escape and he was bid to tie and gag her, her screams
would cause no question from the clientele who frequented the establishment.
Ashley sighed as she stared at the dilapidated inn. If this
wasn’t her luck: a grade-B dream on a low budget.
Her opinion of the Black Goat worsened when they stepped
inside. The air reeked with the odor of unwashed bodies. “Now, honestly, we’re
not going to stay here, are we?” Ashley complained. “In my day the board of
health would close this place in an instant.”
“The beds are adequate and the food filling.” Aaron nudged
her toward a vacant table toward the back.
“Good grief” Ashley grumbled.
When they were seated, Aaron signaled for the serving girl.
“Not a word,” he warned as the barmaid started toward them.
“Have I been talking too much?” Ashley goaded innocently.
“Yes.”
“What’ll it be, matey?” The voluptuous girl approached the
table, her limpid blue eyes sliding over Aaron appreciatively.
Ashley noticed the girl's hand lingered on Aaron’s shoulder
longer than necessary as she reached to scoop up two dirty mugs from the table
with the other hand.
“Two ciders and two meat pies.” The way he returned the
barmaid’s smile was entirely too cordial. Ashley suspected that Aaron Kenneman
was not exactly a stranger to the Black Goat.
The girl turned her back to Ashley, but she still caught the
invitation in her voice. “Anything else to suit your fancy, handsome?”
“Not today.” Aaron and the young woman exchanged what Ashley
considered meaningful looks.
He jumped as Ashley gave him a firm kick beneath the table.
Stunned, he looked at her.
"You’re here on business,” she snapped. The randy buck.
“Don’t do that again,” he warned tightly. His patience was
wearing thin with this wench! Demented or not, the woman was not going to kick
him in the shins and expect to get away with it.
They glared at one another, each drawing an invisible line
the other wasn’t to cross.
“Haven’t seen you here for a while, Doctor.”
Aaron glanced up to find the little rotund owner of the inn
standing beside the table. The man’s bulging stomach was covered by a stained
apron with an adequate display of the week’s menu splattered across the front.
“It has been awhile, Medrian. My work keeps me busy.”
“Aye, so I hear.” Medrian Frolonzo smiled knowingly at
Ashley. “It be a fine day we’re having, mistress?”
“No,” Ashley said. “It’s a perfectly rotten one.”
Medrian stared at her vacantly.
Aaron nudged Ashley with the tip of his boot beneath the
table. "You must excuse her, Medrian. The lady grows weary.” He nudged her
again, urging her to confirm his observation.
She looked at him. “What?”
“The lady,” he enunciated, “grows weary,” he said again.
“Oh...” Ashley yawned obediently.
“Ah...yes.” Medrian smiled.
“We’ll need a room for the night,” Aaron requested in a low
tone.
Ashley booted his shins hard again.
Sucking in his breath, he gave her a black look.
“We’ll need two rooms,” Ashley corrected nicely.
“One room,” Aaron repeated, booting her back.
She booted him again.
He booted her back.
The little proprietor eyed the table anxiously as it jiggled
merrily.
Whack!
Crack!
She gasped. “That hurt!” He was the most uncivilized
apparition of fantasy that anyone could have the misfortune of being stuck
with!
Aaron smiled pleasantly at Medrian. “The young lady is only
being modest. One room.”
Medrian stepped back, giving the couple plenty of room.
“’Tis no concern...your regular room is waiting.” The look in his eye assured
Ashley that she had played right into Aaron’s hands. The innkeeper thought what
Aaron intended for him to think; she was nuttier than a fruitcake.
Flipping the innkeeper a coin, Aaron looked at Ashley. “You
must eat, darling.” He smiled indulgently. “You’ll need your strength.”
Her tone dripped disdain. “Regular room?”
“I travel often.”
“I’ll bet.”
The serving girl returned, carrying a tray laden with food.
After balancing the tray on her hip, she placed a large meat pie, a hunk of bread,
and a mug of ale in front of Ashley.
Ashley sat up straighter, her eyes scanning the meat pie
anxiously. What did people eat in the eighteenth century? She tried to
remember. Birds? Rodents? Insects?
“Something displeases her highness?” Aaron asked.
Ashley glanced at him weakly. “What’s...in this?”
He looked at the pie, then back at her. “If you are hungry
enough, you will eat whatever it is.” He forked a succulent piece of meat from
the pie and calmly chewed it, his eyes locked with hers stubbornly.
It was the vague whatever that bothered her. She sighed,
glancing toward the dirty back room wistfully. “I suppose there’s no hope of
getting an order of nachos, is there?”
Aaron took a second bite of his meat pie. "What are
‘nachos’?”
“They’re these crisp little tortilla chips with hot peppers
and cheese.”
“Of course.” He continued eating.
“They’re great with Pepsi or Coke.”
“Of course.” He went on eating as if he weren’t dining with
a halfwit.
Ashley brought the fork hesitantly to her mouth, taking a
tiny exploratory taste of the pie.
Aaron watched from the corner of his eye as she lowered her
fork and nibbled the fare.
Deciding that it was edible, she cut another slice, sighing
as she chewed it.
As she ate, her gaze swept the room filled mostly with men who
were either eating or playing cards. All of them were drinking beer from fat
steins.
A wide fireplace dominated one end of the room. An iron
crane jutted out from the back and a large, black pot was suspended from it.
The serving girls regularly moved to the pot to swing the
back pole out and dip stew from the kettle into large bowls. A spit with half a
skewered cow hung over the fire. Ashley focused on a small boy who sat to one
side, chin in hand, turning the spit with a wooden handle.
“What’s the boy doing?” she asked.
Aaron glanced up, his gaze following the direction she was
pointing. “The spit-turning boy?”
She frowned. “Spit-turning boy? That’s his job? To sit there
and turn the meat?”
Aaron shrugged, his attention drawn back to the meal. “’Tis
honorable work for the lad.”
“Does the job pay well?”
Absently tearing off another hunk of bread, he studied her.
She had an innocence about her that disconcerted him. One moment he was sure
she was daft, then, in the next instant, she appeared to be quite sane.
“Frequently a turnspit boy is working out a debt, either his father’s or his
own,” he said.
He resumed eating, and it wasn’t hard for Ashley to see that
he was more interested in his meal than in conversation with her.
Ashley sat back to observe the boy, mentally comparing the
youth of today with the small lad patiently cranking the spit. Would a
youngster of the twenty-first century accept such a subservient job to repay
his parents’ debt? “Do all inns employ such young children?”
“Some inns have jacks.”
“Jacks? What are they?”
“Dogs that are trained to walk on a treadmill to turn the
spit. A few of the larger establishments use them.”
Ashley was amazed. “Dogs?”
“You would do well to cease your prattle and eat,” he
warned.
Ashley picked up her fork again. "You would do well to
bug off.”
He glanced up again. “Bug off?”
“Bug off.”
He nodded graciously. “As you say.”
Ashley ate what she could of the meal. The piecrust was
thick, the potatoes overcooked, and the meat tough as shoe leather, but it
eased the hollow pang in her stomach. “What do you plan to do with me?”
“It has not been decided.”
“When will it be decided?”
“When it is decided.”
“Dr. Kenneman!” A man staggered toward the table, his
leering gaze sweeping Ashley disrespectfully. “I don’t believe I’ve had the
pleasure of seeing this lovely little doxy before.” He lurched again, obviously
in his cups. “She is most fair of face.”
His fetid breath made Ashley draw back. She glanced
anxiously at Aaron for help. Though she didn’t particularly like the doctor,
she realized that, for the time being, she was dependent on him.
“She is not a Bostonian,” Aaron said quietly.
“I am too!”
“She isn’t,” he said again matter-of-factly.
“Aye,” the man conceded. “One could see that. Her dress is
very fine. She is obviously”—the man grinned— “well paid for her wares.” He
reached out to finger the ruffle adorning the neckline of her dress, then
trailed downward to feel the texture of a strand of hair that had escaped the
chignon into which Ashley had rolled her hair before putting on the wig that
evening.
The wig!
Her hand flew to her head. She’d lost it! She groaned. The
museum would insist she pay for a replacement.
Swaying closer, the man boldly let his finger trail lower,
brushing the front of her bodice.
Ashley sprang to her feet. The sound of her hand cracking
against the bare flesh of his cheek echoed throughout the room.
“Now see here,” Aaron warned, shooting Ashley a
don’t-cause-a-scene look. The last thing he needed was for her to draw
attention to herself.
The noise in the room died away as eyes swung toward the
table.
“Keep your hands to yourself,’’ Ashley told the man coldly.
The drunken man rocked back, his hand coming up to cover his
reddened cheek. “Why, no woman slaps Jack Milletson!” he blustered.
“She will if Jack Milletson doesn’t keep his hands off her!”
“Now see here,” Aaron warned again.
Jack reared back to knock Ashley senseless, but she slapped
him again first. The sound of flesh meeting flesh ricocheted around the room.
After flinging a bench aside, Jack and Ashley went after
each other as the room burst into cheers.
“Now, see here!" Aaron roared for the last time.
Fists and scratching nails obediently froze in midair as his
thunderous order bounced around the room.