A Broom at the Masthead (The Drowned Books Book 1) by M J Logue Read Free Book Online Page B

the once, in a – civilian – capacity.”
    “Goodness,” she
said faintly.
    “Goodness had
very little to do with it, tibber. Although I’m told His Majesty is a very nice
man, and very kind to his, ah, friends. And madam,” he looked down at her, and
there was a smile lurking in his eyes, “I have been involved in regicide once
already, and if Master Rowley thinks he’s going to make frolic with my
wife, I may be moved to become so again.”
    “Why, Russell. I
do believe you’re jealous!”
    “How very perceptive, madam.” He
pulled his hand away from hers, gently. “I reckon it’s coming on to rain, Zee,
and I’d like to make shelter before dark. Twenty years ago there’d have been
half a dozen houses where we’d have found a welcome and a bed for the night
within an hour’s ride of here, but I wouldn’t stake my life to it, after
Mistress Lane’s welcome. Welcome to bloody Buckinghamshire, wife. It’s
raining, and nobody wants to talk to me.”
    “Oh, well, dear.” She put her
heels to the mare, and trotted on a few strides. “I’m not so tired of your
company yet that I can’t manage a little further conversation with you.”
    And thank God,
the turf beneath the mare’s feet was solid and firm, and the path flat, because
as that sweet little mare trotted out willingly, her wicked husband set his own
horse chasing after her, bounding from a standing start into a gallop, and they
arrived at the coppice that gave Four Ashes its name in the gathering dusk,
laughing and breathless.
     
     
    11
     
    But as they walked the blowing horses
side by side out of the dripping black trees, her first sight of the house
where she was to spend her married life broke her laughter off short. For it
was a ruin, looming up stark through the gusting rain at the end of an
overgrown track.
    One wing, and
the centre, of the house were as honey-gold new as a fresh-minted gold piece.
New-finished, and sturdy, and homely. And then the house tailed off,
fire-scarred and black, into a jumble of broken glass and charred timber and
broken stone, and there was something heartbreaking about that. Beside her, the
grey horse threw his head up and backed as if Thankful had jerked on the reins,
and then he dismounted with a thump and walked towards the ruin, his hands
outstretched like a blind man’s.
    The grey horse,
cavalry-trained, dropped his nose to the grass, and Thomazine cocked her leg
over the sidesaddle and went to dismount, to go to her man, for he looked as if
he had been stabbed to the heart. He turned, and gave her a brittle,
unconvincing smile, and brushed the heel of his hand to his eyes. “Well,” he
said, “there is more work needs to be done than I had imagined, my tibber.
Welcome –“ and his voice broke a little, “welcome to our new home, wife.”
    And she had
wanted to say something bright and clever to console him, but looking at that
bleak, black ruin, she could not. It was horrible, and pitiful, all at once.
The new-built wing and the front door and the centre were lovely, gracefully
proportioned and mellow and welcoming, and then the west end of the house was –
It was as if a pretty girl had opened her mouth to reveal rotting, splintered
black teeth.
    There were no
lights in the windows, no smoke from the chimneys, no signs of life. Not so
much as a slinking cat crossed the overgrown lawns, no birds sang from the
shaggy bushes. It was not only half in ruins, it was uncared-for, and eerie, in
the cat’s-light. And Thomazine was cold, and wet, and hungry, and tired, and
she would have given much for a hot supper and her bed. Thankful was looking at
her as if he wanted her to say it didn’t matter, and she could not, because it
did. It mattered very much. She slithered down the mare’s flank, missed her
footing in the wet grass, and twisted her ankle. No great damage, but a sharp
little pain to add to her other woes, and for the first time since she had been
a baby Thomazine could not get back on