Chapter 36 The Mistress's Vow
Behind the house, near the well, was where the washing was done a large wooden tub, a washboard, and a fire pit where water could be heated in a massive iron pot.
Rosanna set down her bundle and began the familiar routine. Fill the pot with water from the well. Build up the fire. Wait for the water to heat. Add the soap shavings. Begin scrubbing.
It was mindless work, which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it didn't require thought, just the rhythm of hands moving over fabric. A curse because it left her mind free to wander to places she'd rather not go.
Like how much longer her indenture would last. Three more years. Three more years of being owned, of having no control over her own life, of enduring men like Thomas Ashcroft who thought her body came with the contract.
Rosanna scrubbed harder, taking out her frustration on a particularly stubborn stain.
She'd been born in Ireland, had come to America with her family when she was fifteen, full of hope and dreams of a better life. But her father had died on the crossing, and her mother had died of fever within a year of arriving. Rosanna had been alone at sixteen with no money, no family, and no options.
Indentured servitude had seemed like the answer. Seven years of work in exchange for passage, room, board, and a small sum at the end to start her own life. It had seemed reasonable at the time.
She hadn't known what it would actually mean. Hadn't understood that "servant" was just a polite word for "property."
Rosanna was scrubbing Thomas Ashcroft's shirt when she heard footsteps behind her.
She tensed, her whole body going rigid. If Thomas had followed her out here
But then hands covered her eyes, gentle and warm, and a voice she knew better than her own said, "Guess who?"
Relief flooded through Rosanna so intensely she almost laughed. She reached up and pulled the hands away from her eyes, turning to find exactly who she'd expected.
"Who else would it be," Rosanna said, unable to keep the smile from her face, "if not Sebastian?"
Sebastian Whitmore stood before her, grinning like a boy who'd just pulled off the world's greatest prank. He was twenty-six years old, tall and lean, with dark hair that was always slightly too long and eyes that sparkled with constant mischief. He wore the simple clothes of a farmer worn trousers, a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, boots caked with mud but he wore them with an easy confidence that made him seem like royalty.
"You could have pretended to be surprised," Sebastian said, moving closer. "Made me feel special."
"You are special," Rosanna said softly. "Too special for the likes of me."
"Now that's where you're wrong, Rosanna Vale." Sebastian reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. "You're far too good for the likes of me. I'm just a poor farmer with no prospects and fewer brains."
"You have plenty of brains."
"Then why do I keep coming here where the Ashcrofts might see me? That's not very smart, is it?"
"No," Rosanna admitted. "It's not."
But she was smiling as she said it, and Sebastian was smiling back, and for a moment just a moment the world felt right.
Sebastian glanced around, making sure they were truly alone, then pulled Rosanna close and kissed her.
It was soft at first, gentle, his lips warm against hers. Then deeper, more urgent, both of them pouring weeks of longing into this stolen moment.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Sebastian rested his forehead against hers.
"I missed you," he whispered. "It's been two weeks since I could sneak away to see you."
"I know. I counted every day."
"We can't keep doing this, Rosanna. Meeting in secret, stealing moments when no one's watching." Sebastian pulled back slightly, his expression serious. "I want to be with you properly. Openly. I want"
"Sebastian, we've talked about this"
"I know. Your indenture. Three more years before you're free." Sebastian took her hands in his. "But what if there was another way? What if I could buy out your contract?"
Rosanna's breath caught. "You can't afford that. The Ashcrofts would ask for"
"A hundred coin. I know. It's a fortune." Sebastian's grip tightened. "But I've been saving. Working extra hours at my father's farm, taking jobs in town. I have forty coins now. In a year, maybe two, I'll have enough."
"Two years is still a long time."
"It's better than three. And once you're free" Sebastian's eyes were bright with hope. "Once you're free, we can get married. Start our own life. Have a little farm of our own, maybe. Children. A real life, Rosanna. Together."
Rosanna wanted to believe him. Wanted to let herself hope that this dream could be real. But she'd learned the hard way that dreams were dangerous things for people like her.
"The Ashcrofts would never agree to let me go early," she said. "Mrs. Ashcroft she watches me like a hawk. She knows something's going on between us."
"Then we'll be more careful. We'll wait until I have the full amount, and then I'll make an offer they can't refuse." Sebastian cupped her face in his hands. "I love you, Rosanna. I'll wait as long as it takes. I'll work every day of my life if it means we can be together."
"I love you too," Rosanna whispered, and it was the truest thing she'd ever said.
They kissed again, slower this time, savoring it. Around them, the autumn afternoon faded toward evening, the sun painting the sky in shades of orange and gold.
And for those few precious moments, Rosanna allowed herself to believe that maybe just maybe happiness was possible.
Even for people like her.
From the upstairs window of the Ashcroft house, Margaret stood watching the scene unfold by the washing tub.
She'd suspected for months that Rosanna was meeting someone. The girl had been too happy lately, too distracted, too prone to humming while she worked. All signs of a woman in love.
And now Margaret knew who.
Sebastian Whitmore. The youngest son of a poor farming family, with nothing to his name but ambition and a strong back.
Margaret's hands clenched on the windowsill.
She'd taken Rosanna in as a favor to the parish, giving the girl a place when she'd had nowhere else to go. She'd paid good money for that indenture contract money she could have spent on a more experienced servant.
And this was how Rosanna repaid her? By carrying on with a local boy?
Margaret watched as Sebastian kissed Rosanna again, watched the way the girl melted into him, and felt something cold and hard settle in her chest.
She'd invested in Rosanna Vale. Had given her a home, work, purpose. And she wasn't about to let some farmer's son steal that investment away.
Margaret turned from the window and walked to her writing desk. She pulled out paper and ink, dipped her pen, and began to write.
Dear Reverend Collins,
I am writing to you regarding a matter of grave concern. It has come to my attention that one of my servants, Miss Rosanna Vale, has been conducting herself in a manner most improper...
Margaret wrote carefully, precisely, knowing that the right words to the right people could destroy a person's reputation as surely as any blade.
By the time she finished the letter, the sun had set, and the house was dark except for the candles she'd lit.
Margaret sealed the letter with wax and set it aside to be posted in the morning.
Then she returned to the window and looked out at the night, where somewhere in the darkness, Rosanna Vale was probably still dreaming her foolish dreams of love and freedom.
Dreams that Margaret would make sure never came true.