“The master and mistress, of course! This way, if you will, lieutenant. They’re in the sitting room.” Barley turned away, and Cort followed him eagerly. He had been dreaming of Violet every night, and whenever there was a free moment during the day. It had been a month since he had seen her. Her raven ringlets, her warm brown eyes, her full red lips curved in a coquettish smile—his heart skipped a beat at the mere thought of her, and soon he would see her!
CHAPTER 3
Madam, master—Lieutenant Cort has come to call.” Cort pushed past the butler, pulse thumping, smile wide with anticipation. Bruiser Ellsworth and his wife were rising to greet him, he alert, watchful, ready for anything—but she looked troubled, even, perhaps, afraid.
Alarm vibrated through Cort. “Is Violet well?”
“Oh, yes, quite well, young man,” Mistress Ellsworth said, “but she isn’t at home.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I was afraid—I mean—”
“A young man is always afraid for the young woman who has caught his eye,” Bruiser Ellsworth said, “and rightly so, in a world like ours. Violet is well, but she isn’t with us just now. Will you sit, lieutenant?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.” Cort took the chair the older man indicated.
“Port, I think, Barley,” Ellsworth said. The butler nodded, turning away to leave the room.
An awkward silence fell, but Curt didn’t mind it, really; he reveled in the warmth and home-feeling of the house and of Violet’s parents. All were solid and stable, reassuring in the way the two older people clasped hands still, even at their age. Mistress Ellsworth’s figure was matronly, but scarcely portly, and she was still handsome, with hints of the beauty she had been in her youth. She wore a long, dark blue gown with a broad white collar, her gold-and-silver hair in a coil that seemed more like a coronet. As for her husband, the title “bruiser” seemed very ill-fitting—he was still muscular and sharp-eyed, of course, but his hair had streaks of silver now, his beard and mustache were almost completely gray, and he seemed so prosperous and contented that it was hard to imagine him as a man of war.
As to the room, it was pleasant, somehow combining luxury and thrift, letting the visitor know that the owners had more than enough money, but were careful how they spent it. A fire burned in a small fireplace, only waist high, but tiled and with a mantelpiece elaborately carved. The walls were painted butter-yellow, reflecting the fire’s glow with warmth, and the walnut flooring was polished to a similar glow. A brightly patterned carpet covered most of it. Furniture consisted of only a chest against one wall and a settee on one side of the fireplace facing the two chairs on the other, all of dark, carved wood, all padded, all solid and comfortable. It was more than spartan, less than extravagant, and very much a home.
The bruiser stirred and broke the silence. “So you’ve won your battle, then?”
“Aye, and only two small wounds to show for it,” Cort confirmed. “How did you know, sir?”
“Well, the lack of serious wounds spoke somewhat, but the energy and eagerness in you spoke more. A mercenary is downcast when he’s lost a battle, lieutenant, and not only because he’s lost the second half of his pay.”
“I don’t think the boss was any too happy about having to pay that,” Cort said with a grin.
“They never are,” the bruiser assured him. “Fifteen years as a mercenary, though, and only twice did I see a boss or a bully try to renege on that second payment when we’d won his war for him.” His smile was hard. “We took it from them both, of course.”
Cort remembered the clash of arms and a boss crying, “Enough, enough!”
“They don’t try it often.”
Ellsworth nodded. “Bruisers and boots only fight once a year or so, and a quarter of our force is always straight from the plow. Mercenaries fight every month. There are few bosses indeed who can stand against even one free company.”
Cort frowned. “Then why…” He caught himself in time, realizing his rudeness. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Why did I take service with a boss and become a bruiser instead of trying to build my own free company?” Ellsworth smiled. “Well asked, young man, and the more so because you’ll have to make the choice yourself, some day. Well, a bruiser’s life is more certain—when you only fight once a year, there’re twelve more chances you’ll come home to your wife and children alive. And the pay is just as good as a lieutenant’s. True, a captain has greater income, but greater expenses, too, and a greater risk of losing all. Even if my boss were beaten and he had to yield some of his land, I’d still be his man, and still have the income of the farms he bids me supervise for him.”
“And if yours were the lands he yielded to the victor, the new boss would probably still have you watch over his new farmers for him.” Cort nodded.
“Oh, he might have a mercenary officer who wanted to become his bruiser,” Ellsworth said, with a grin that as much as said that was how he’d come by his own land and title. “Even then, though, I’d still be my boss’s man, and though my family would have to yield this house to the new bruiser, we’d still have housing within the boss’s castle.”
“It is a more certain life,” Cort agreed. “In fact, it’s enough to make me wonder why any man would become a captain.”
“Wealth,” Ellsworth said simply. “If a captain manages to hold a winning company together for even ten years, he can retire as rich as any boss. But the price is heavy, young man. I’ve seen very few who married before they retired, and fifty is late to begin a family.”
Cort thought about that—then suddenly thought about nothing, because there, through the great window facing the front of the house, he saw his Violet coming down the walk, laughing, bright-eyed, vivacious, beautiful, thoroughly desirable …
And on the arm of a young civilian, gazing up into his face, and there was no mistaking the light in her eyes—it was love.
Cort hadn’t been aware he’d come to his feet, but Ellsworth was saying, “Sit down, now, lieutenant, sit down. It’s not as though you’d been betrothed, after all, and a maiden does have the right to change her mind as her heart tells her—a right, and even a duty.”
“You could have told me.”
“We were warming to it,” Dame Ellsworth said, voice trembling.
It was true, Cort realized—the bruiser had led the conversation to marrying, and not marrying. Ten minutes more, and he probably would have broken the news to Cort as gently as he could.
“Thank you for trying to be kind,” he said in a brittle voice that he scarcely recognized as his own. “I’d better go.”
“Surely not!” Dame Ellsworth protested, and there was definitely fear in her voice now. Cort would have told her not to worry, he wouldn’t beat up his rival right there on her doorstep, but his anger choked him to silence. He strode to the door, yanked it open, and went out and down the path, walking quickly, but managing a stiff “Good evening” to Violet and her swain as he passed by. She stared at him in shock that turned quickly to fear, and the young man looked up with a scowl that turned to wariness as he recognized a mercenary officer. He was soft as a slug, Cort thought with disgust, but he had to admit the man was handsome, and jealousy gnawed at his vitals. He walked even faster, through the gateposts and out into the street, Violet’s wail of distress fading behind him.
His stride ate up the ground, even though he was stiff with hurt and rage. Blind misery choked him, choked his mind; it was ten minutes before his thoughts cleared enough to realize where his feet were taking him: not to the inn, but down a side street to the row of cheap taverns, where his rowdiest men would be carousing, taverns that served brandy, not ale, taverns where they didn’t mind a bit of brawling, and the wenches were outright whores.