The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(8)
Begone my love and my dear.
O’ the wind is in the west
And the cuckoo’s in his nest
And you cannot have a lodging here.”
Peculiar and lyrically bittersweet, the old songs made life bearable when tin and copper mines failed, profits declined, and poverty took its toll, a toll that had ravaged what had been left of her father’s soul. She’d cleaved to her mother then, and her mother had clung to the old ways more than ever before, passing along stories of Cornwall, the Celts, the invasion, and the rituals, enhanced by song. As long as music had filled the Roost, her mother’s spirit had thrived.
“Oriana, I’ll get craggy if I don’t quench me thirst.”
“Don’t test my patience, Dobby Benellack.” Tavern woman she may be, but she was no one’s slave.
She would rather die than be dominated by men. She was a good woman. She had much to offer a decent man, a man imbued with intelligence and a stout back, a man willing to risk her brother’s wrath long enough to seek a marriage proposal. If only a man like the Regent could be found.
Charles would be back, and everyone knew it—feared it. But hard work encouraged a good night’s sleep and kept her nightmares at bay. Her back ached, but she paid her bone-weary exhaustion no heed. Each day, she woke before dawn, prepared the inn, cooked meals, managed her brewery, served customers with an optimistic smile, and then sent them home to begin the entire process again the next day. What she’d accomplished filled her with a sense of pride as she moved to a large-barreled cask stationed behind the counter, popped another cork, and filled a jug until it nearly overflowed with the hoppy froth. She tapped the cask, turned, and glanced around the room once more as Old Bailey and Samuel sang another chorus.
Tallow dripped in globular streams down candles positioned in old ceramic jugs she’d wrapped in hempen rope and affixed to sturdy bases. She’d placed the tapers on every available surface, alongside bouquets of dried lavender that she’d picked along the moors to help offset the candle’s greasy, smoky scent. The flickering glow lit up the interior, allowing her to see the faces of her customers easily, answering her need to know what was happening around her at all times.
“W-where’s that d-dawdling redhead?” Dobby shouted above the din of clapping hands.
Oriana closed the distance, skirting tall-backed oak benches and chairs on her way to Dobby’s table. His belligerence didn’t bother her. He meant no harm and she’d dealt with worse.
“I-it’s about time.” Dobby sank into his chair. “C-can’t a man get a d-drink?”
“This is your fifth top-up.” Oriana smiled mockingly.
“Are ye d-daft?” He hiccuped, slumped over the table, and then righted himself. “It’s only my th-third.”
“So ye say,” she countered, inspecting the loose-armed man. “I doubt ye could even make it to the privy on those legs.”
“Not so.” He stood and then staggered back into his seat, nearly tipping it over. “Aye. Ye might be r-right.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Go home. That is where ye belong.”
“Aye, Dobby,” his companion, Fergus Argall, agreed. “Yer wife will not have a man to provide for her if ye’re found dead on the moors.”
“Shh.” Dobby puffed out his chest and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Don’t m-mention her here. A b-bad omen.”
Peals of laughter swept over from the other end of the tavern, distracting her as chairs scraped against the hardwood floor. Watty Hammett and several of his drinking buddies stood, stretching their legs. Why were they in a hurry to leave when they tended to waste countless hours loitering about, and especially with the droll teller performing?
“Where are ye off to so soon, Watty?” she asked.
“Early day come mornin’,” he said.
His men disbanded, opening the courtyard door to file out onto the cobblestones. A gust of wind invaded the premises. The curtains sprouted wings and the candles flickered and hissed, almost to the point of snuffing out.
Watty looked around the interior before settling his gaze on Oriana. “See ye tomorrow, luv.” He touched the tip of his hat briefly and closed the door with a click of the latch.
Oriana slanted her gaze to Dobby. “Where do ye suppose they’re goin’ so early?”
The poor sot smiled, raised his empty tankard, and stared at her with glassy eyes that reminded her of a fish head jutting out of a pilchard pie. “To rut.”
“Dobby, ye are a devil.” She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing, pouring a scant three ounces of brew into his mug. “It’s a good thing I have a soft spot in my heart for ye. This will have to do, ye fool.”
She raised her gaze to the Lovells, the reserved couple seated in the corner by the hearth eating giblet pies and listening to Old Bailey and Samuel sing another old Cornish song, “The Drowned Lover.” The newlyweds had traveled from Truro to Plymouth and waited on the morning jingle to bring them the rest of the way to Exeter. She studied them, wondering if they were aware of the inn’s history. She prayed they weren’t.
Sighing heavily, she glanced at the stone fireplace, gingerly patting the top of her head where a slight indentation reminded her of how she’d hit her crown on the hearthstones when Charles had pushed her after she’d tried to protect Lady Chloe. Without warning, she was taken back to the night Charles had taken over the Roost. Lady Chloe, her maid, and their companion Mr. Owens had been sitting in the exact spot the Lovells were sitting in now, and they had confided to her that they had traveled to reunite Lady Chloe with her husband.