The Seduction Of Shay Devereaux

“I’ll live the rest of my life wondering what it would have been like….”

Her arm swept toward the shaded, grassy lawn. “I almost wish I hadn’t stopped you,” she whispered.

“Would you stop me now?” So softly she could barely hear the words, he whispered temptation in her ear. Leaning forward, ignoring the hand she thrust against his chest, he bent to her, his breath warm against her face.

She shivered, beguiled by the thought of his hands against her skin, lured by the dark splendor of his scarred face, enticed by the image of their coming together. And then she thought of the emptiness she would face, once she’d known the joy of loving Shay, only to have him walk away. It stretched before her, and she closed her eyes against the pain.

“Could you do that? Take everything I’ve offered you—and then walk away from me?”

Praise for Carolyn Davidson’s recent works

The Midwife

“…an earthy, emotional love story, peopled with unforgettable characters.”

—Affaire de Coeur

The Tender Stranger

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges, portraying the extraordinary possibilities that exist within ordinary marital love.”

—Publishers Weekly

The Wedding Promise

“…a tense, involving love story…a beautiful, old-fashioned romance with a charmingly sensuous touch.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Seduction of Shay Devereaux

Harlequin Historical #556

#555 ONE KNIGHT IN VENICE

Tori Phillips

#557 GALLANT WAIF

Anne Gracie

#558 NIGHT HAWK’S BRIDE

Jillian Hart

The Seduction of Shay Devereaux
Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and CAROLYN DAVIDSON

Gerrity’s Bride #298

Loving Katherine #325

The Forever Man #385

Runaway #416

The Wedding Promise #431

The Tender Stranger #456

The Midwife #475

*The Bachelor Tax #496

*Tanner Stakes His Claim #513

One Christmas Wish #531

*“Wish Upon A Star”

Maggie’s Beau #543

The Seduction of Shay Devereaux #556

*Edgewood, Texas

Because you read whatever I hand you,

and give me your unbiased opinion…

Because you clean up my messes when

I’m running behind schedule…

Because you cook for my family

when I invite you for dinner…

Because we share a love of books

and discuss them by the hour…

Because you call me “friend”…

This book is dedicated to you, Betty Barrs

And to the man who tells me

he loves me every single day…

I love you, too, Mr. Ed

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The hand reached for him. Cold, skeletal fingers wrapped around his wrist with unbelievable strength. Shrinking from the grasp, Shay groaned aloud, and the sound of his own voice wakened him. He sat upright on the narrow bed, his eyes searching the darkness, his breathing harsh and rapid.

A dream…another nightmare. The second this week. And yet, more than a dream, for the memories evoked by that groping hand were all too valid. All too painfully real.

Rolling from his bed, he stalked to the open window, looking out upon the thick greenery hedging his hideaway. Moss hung from oak trees, silver in the moonlight, and the grass held glistening drops of moisture, where dew lay heavy on each blade. It must be nearly dawn, he decided, resting one hand on the wide window frame.

He watched as an owl spread wide wings, swooping soundlessly across the span of sky between barn and trees. Dangling prey hung from sharp talons, and Shay felt a strange affinity for the hapless creature. His low chuckle was without amusement, holding instead dark shreds of bitter remembrance. He knew only too well the feeling of being captured, of the torment endured as soul and body were torn asunder, until all that remained was a shell of manhood, its essence swept up in hours and days of misery. He closed his eyes and saw another glimpse of that place called Elmira.

Another name for Hell.

Men with little to live for had been freed at the end of the conflict. He counted himself among that number. Some, with wives and children awaiting their return, had been buried beneath the northern soil. One of them, Carl Pennington, had been his friend, his commanding officer. During the time they served together, they’d discovered their families lived less than a hundred miles apart. Taken prisoners during the same battle, Shay had survived. Carl had not lived to be released.

He’d given Shay his last bits of food, aware that his own life was fast ebbing, yet grimly determined that Shay should survive. And survive he had, kept alive by another man’s sacrifice.

“Promise me, Gaeton.” Death molded Carl’s features, yet he’d struggled to breathe. The same fever had killed many, perhaps hundreds, in this camp. But Carl’s strength lay in his love for the wife and child he’d left behind.

“Promise me, Gaeton.” Again he’d demanded the pledge, and Shay’s heart plunged within him as he recalled the answer he’d given.

“Gaeton Devereaux died the day he walked into this prison,” he’d muttered. “I’m not sure there’s enough of him left to make a promise.”

“Take care of them.” Carl had gasped the words with his last breath, and Shay’s hand had closed the staring eyes. Shay looked out upon the darkness, reliving once more that hellish day. Remembering the promise he’d refused to make. It had haunted him for four years. As had the man who’d trusted him.

“Damn you, Carl.” The curse breathed softly upon the humid air and Shay bent his head in surrender.

For four years he’d sought peace, making his way from one town to another, one ranch to the next, regretting the words he’d swallowed, the promise he’d refused to give. He’d managed to win more hands of poker than any man had a right to claim, and found his ease with less than a handful of women. And all the wandering had brought him back to where he’d begun. Louisiana…where his family lived and worked the home place. Louisana…where Carl Pennington’s wife and child lived from hand to mouth, or so he’d heard only yesterday.

Here where Shay’s name had been Gaeton Devereaux.

The curse he’d spoken was beyond recall. Ahead of him waited the task he would undertake, the promise he would finally speak aloud, and honor.

“Rest in peace, Carl,” he whispered. “I promise you. I’ll do what I can.”

Chapter One

March, 1869

Four years. She’d given herself four years, measuring the days since the letter had come, telling her of Carl’s death. At first, when his horse had carried him away, she’d been hopeful. Sure he would return, the battle won. Soon, he’d come back to her and the long days and nights would be in the past.

Her laughter was bitter as she recalled her youthful optimism. For close to six years now, she’d struggled. Struggled against impossible odds, enough to scatter every lovely dream to the four winds. At first, in those early days, she’d been optimistic, vowing to put her shoulder to the wheel, as her father used to say, and make a success of the plantation. And then the awful letter had come, and that day she’d stiffened her spine and vowed to give herself four more years to make a profit and gain a foothold on that elusive thing called success.

No more. She’d run out of time. Jenny Pennington lifted a hand to her brow, her gaze seeking the horizon. The field before her was the brilliant green of early hay, ready for reaping. Three men worked in tandem, swinging scythes in a rhythm that seemed to depend on the song they sang, a mournful tune that tugged at her emotions.

She turned away, her strides long as she headed for the wagon, anxious to flee from the harmony, that minor key that spoke of betrayal and sorrow. Her skirt caught on the wagon wheel and she muttered a word beneath her breath as she tugged it free.

“That’s one of those words you told me not to say, Mama.” From behind the wagon seat, the voice of her son admonished her.

“You’ll get soap on your tongue if you try it,” she warned him. “I won’t have you using vile language, Marshall Pennington.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured agreeably.

Jenny picked up the reins and glanced over her shoulder. He was tall for a boy just a few months past his fifth birthday, and his grin met her gaze. “I won’t say it again, either,” she told the boy. The leathers cracked over the broad backs of her team and the wagon jolted into motion.

Behind her the sound faded, muffled by the trees surrounding her, carried by the breeze toward the east. “Are we gonna eat dinner pretty soon?” Marshall asked. On his knees now, he leaned against the back of the wagon seat, one hand clutching her shoulder.

“As soon as we get back to the house,” she told him. “Isabelle will have it ready for us.” And for that she could be grateful. Three men and one woman remained of the workers that had kept the Pennington Plantation in order.

No wonder the crops shrank every year, the house sat empty, but for the four rooms they used. The entire top floor was vacant, the furniture long since sold at auction, and for a pittance at that. Bare spots on the wallpaper bore silent witness to pieces of art she’d sacrificed for seed and wages. Using what little of value she had available, she’d bartered and bargained, until this spring, when her favorite portrait had purchased cotton seed for planting, and food staples enough to last through the summer.

She’d cried that night, sobbed into her pillow, stifling the sound so that Isabelle would not hear. For too long, she’d struggled. For too many days she’d worked in the fields. For too many nights she’d held Carl’s pillow against her barren body, yearning for the warmth of his embrace.

And for what? Her long years of work and sacrifice had earned her but a respite from the inevitable end. For whatever it was worth, Pennington Plantation would be sold. Once the crops were harvested this year, once the cotton was weighed and sold, the plantation house and the acres surrounding it would be put up for auction to the highest bidder.

I’m sorry, Carl. She’d whispered those words more times than she could count. And now, for the last time, she repeated them aloud. “I’m sorry, Carl.”

“Are you talkin’ to my papa?” Marshall asked in her ear.

A smile teased at Jenny’s lips. “You’ll think your mama is daft, sweetheart. And yes, I was talkin’ to your papa.”

“What are you sorry for, Mama?” The boy climbed over the wagon seat, teetering precariously atop the backboard until he gained his balance and plopped beside his mother.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she told him. “Matter of fact, I don’t understand it myself.” And wasn’t that the truth. It seemed that hard work should somehow be rewarded in this life, but thus far, she hadn’t found the end of her particular rainbow. Maybe her reward was to be in the rearing of this small boy, the best part of her inheritance.

The house loomed before them, windows gleaming in the sunlight. Isabelle was a great believer in cleanliness. Windows and floors got a weekly going-over, and one expense Jenny was not allowed to scrimp on was the purchase of vinegar for window washing and the preserving of pickles, and thick bars of soap for laundry and cleaning. Strange that her household should be run by the dictates of a former slave, Jenny thought. Former slave and best friend, she amended silently. Almost her only friend, actually. A woman alone was not welcomed in polite company, and a widow living hand-to-mouth was not often included on what few guest lists existed these days.

Marshall jumped from the wagon as she drew it to a halt near the house. “I’ll carry in the basket, Mama,” he said, running to the rear of the wagon bed.

Jenny climbed down quickly, lest Marshall should tug at the basket and send it flying to the ground. Always eager to help, he tended to rush headlong into things, and she was hard put sometimes to harness his energy. Today was no exception, and he danced impatiently as she rounded the back of the wagon.

“Hurry, Mama. Isabelle promised me a treat when we got back from takin’ dinner out to the men.” He reached for the handle and Jenny delivered it up to him, watching as he carried it to the house. “I’m here, Isabelle,” he called out. “Open the door for me.”

Jenny turned away, leading the mules to the barn, leaving Marshall in capable hands. She blinked in the shadows as the team halted just inside the wide doorway, and then she set to work unbuckling the harness. Sliding halters in place, she led the pair through the barn to the corral where she spent long minutes wiping them down. They gleamed in the sunlight, and she bent to examine their hooves, plucking a stray bit of stone from where it had lodged in one shoe.

“I don’t need you to go lame on me, Pretty Boy,” she murmured, rubbing at the bigger mule’s flank. He turned his head and nudged her shoulder. “I don’t have anything for you, sweetheart,” she told him, stepping to his head. “The carrots are about gone, and Isabelle wants what’s left for cooking.”

From behind her a horse nickered, announcing its arrival, and her team answered in unison. Jenny turned quickly, leaning back against the jack, looking up in surprise. Company was rare, and since the end of the war, what few men meandered by were not always kindly. She’d learned to carry a gun with her, or at least have one close at hand, but right now the nearest thing to a weapon was in the tack room.

A man sat astride a black horse, bending his head to move beneath the open doorway. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, a large pistol was holstered against his thigh. To the left side of his saddle, just touching his hip, a scabbard held a long gun, probably a rifle, she thought. And yet he was relaxed in the saddle, both hands visible, fingers curved against the pommel of his saddle.

“Jenny Pennington?” he asked. His gaze was penetrating, his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat, and his voice deep, almost rasping. No trace of a drawl softened his words, and no smile curved those wide lips.

“Yes,” she answered curtly. “I’m Mrs. Pennington.” And if he wanted to take her mules, or the lone horse that grazed in the pasture, or rummage through the house for whatever booty he might find, she would forever curse her lack of caution today.

“Was your husband named Carl?” At her nod, he glanced behind him, through the barn, toward the house. As if he were determined to be in the right place, he mentioned the facts that made up the boundaries of her life. “And is the boy yours?”

She nodded. “What do you want with me?” Her voice came out sharper than she’d intended. The mention of Carl’s name did that to her, put her on the defensive and brought resentment to the surface. As much as she’d loved him, and loved him still, she reminded herself. The fact that he’d gone to war and left her to cope with impossible odds was enough to make her angry whenever she thought about it. And lately, she’d thought about it a lot.

He slid from the horse’s back in an easy motion that did little to reassure her, dropping the reins to the ground. His horse stood, immobile but for an ear that flicked, and then was still. Before her, the man was sleek and agile, garbed in dark clothing. He looked…threatening. It was the only word she could think of to describe him.

There was about him an almost tangible sense of menace, a glimpse of danger in the depths of dark eyes visible beneath a wide-brimmed hat. It shadowed his face, but could not conceal the scar that slashed one cheek from jawbone to temple. White against deeply tanned skin, it proclaimed a message of danger, of battles fought, and apparently won, since the man wearing it was alive. And, she’d warrant, there were those who’d died at his hand.

His gaze raked her, measuring and weighing, and she stiffened, squaring her shoulders. “What do you want?” she repeated. “There’s not much left here if you’re looking for a handout.”

She thought one corner of his mouth lifted, a faint sign of amusement, and then he shook his head. “Carl sent me.”

A rush of heat rose to envelop her, and she drew in a trembling breath. “What are you talking about? Carl is dead. He died in the north, in a prison camp.”

Her visitor nodded. “I know. I was with him.”

“You knew him? You were there when he died?” The words sounded fragile, as if they might disappear on a breath of wind, and she gasped for air, filling her lungs.

He stepped closer and strong fingers gripped her elbow, steering her into the barn. She tottered, her legs barely holding her erect. A heavy piece of tree stump sat upright against the wall, providing a seat, and Jenny sank onto its surface, grateful that her trembling limbs needn’t carry her farther.

He crouched in front of her, one long finger nudging at his hat brim. Silent, unmoving, he watched her, and she drew in deep breaths, thankful for this short respite before Carl’s name would once more be spoken between them. A chill took her unaware, and her arms wrapped protectively around her waist as she bowed her head.

Closing her eyes, she blotted out his image, the black shirt, the gleaming dark hair, and the ragged scar. “Who are you?” The whisper was faint, but he responded with a single word.

“Shay.”

“Is that your last name?” she asked, looking up from beneath her lashes, aware suddenly that tears blurred her vision. She folded her hands atop her knees and straightened her shoulders, attempting to gain some small measure of control.

He shook his head. “No, but it doesn’t matter for now.”

“Tell me about him,” she said, embarrassed that her voice trembled.

“All right,” Shay began, his words a sigh, his voice bleak. “He had the fever, ma’am. A lot of men died from it. I only got sick with it, and lived to tell it. I was lucky.” And at those words he laughed, a rusty sound that held no humor. “I guess lucky isn’t the word for it.”

His fingers touched the back of her hand, barely moving against her skin. “You were married to a good man, Mrs. Pennington. When he died, his last thoughts were of you and your child.”

“My child? He never knew I’d had a boy? I wrote,” she said. “I sent letters after Marshall was born,” Her lips compressed and she struggled for control. “I never heard back from him.”

“We didn’t get much mail from home. He didn’t know if it was a boy or girl.”

Jenny looked up, aware now that tears fell without ceasing, yet unable to halt their flow. His fingers enveloped hers and she leaned toward the warmth, as though the hand that had touched Carl might yet carry some faint trace of the man she’d loved. Her indrawn breath caught a scent of leather and wood smoke from his clothing, an aroma of soap that lingered on his skin. A male essence that spoke to a part of her she’d thought long since dead.

“I’m sorry,” Jenny breathed, tugging her fingers from his grip. “I don’t usually fall apart this way. In fact,” she murmured, her breath trembling, “I thought I was all done with the mourning and the carrying-on.”

A shadow fell in the front entrance of the barn, and she looked up, catching a glimpse of a figure in the doorway. A shotgun held firmly before her, Isabelle watched in silence. Jenny shook her head, waving a hand reassuringly. “It’s all right,” she said, aware that the other woman feared for her well-being.

In one swift movement Shay rose and spun to face the threat, his hand falling to the butt of his revolver. One knee bent, he surveyed the dark-skinned woman, unmoving as Isabelle’s sharp gaze took stock. “You want to turn that barrel in another direction, ma’am?” he asked quietly.

Isabelle hesitated, then at another nod from Jenny, she turned the long gun, cradling it in her arms. “I didn’t know what was goin’ on out here, Jenny. Marshall come runnin’ in and said a man was in the barn with you.” She walked a few steps closer. “You been cryin’?”

Jenny shook her head. “No, not really.” Carefully she stood, willing her legs not to buckle. “Mr. Shay has come here with a message from…my husband.”

Isabelle snorted unbelievingly. “Mr. Carl’s been dead a long time, Jenny. If this fella’s got word for you, what took him so long to bring it?”

“I don’t know.” Jenny took a step, steadying herself, one hand touching the wall beside her. “We hadn’t even gotten to the message part.”

She turned to Shay. “Do you want to put your horse up and stay for a bite to eat? We’re about to have our noon meal. I’m sure Isabelle has enough for you to join us.”

He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Jenny walked past him. “We’ll talk in the house.” Her mind spinning, she followed Isabelle from the barn, trudging across the yard, aware of the curiosity that hung between them.

Isabelle opened the door and Jenny walked past her into the kitchen. “What you s’pose he wants with you?” Isabelle asked, reaching high to place the gun over the door. Two pegs held it in place and Isabelle, satisfied that it was secure, stepped back. “I never seen a man so hard lookin’, Miss Jenny. There’s no give to him, not one little bit, is there?” She slanted a look from dark eyes, and Jenny caught a glimpse of fear within their soft depths.

“I’m not afraid of him,” she said quietly. She found another plate and placed it on the table, then reached for silverware from the drawer. “I think he’s ridden a long way to get here, probably had other things to see to before he set out to find me.”

“I’d think carryin’ a message from a dead man to his wife would rate pretty high up on the scale,” Isabelle said darkly. “You think he’s tellin’ the truth?”

The sound of boots on the porch caught Jenny’s ear and she shook her head at Isabelle. “Later,” she whispered, stepping to the kitchen cupboard to draw forth cups for coffee.

A pot sat on the back of the stove, and Isabelle lifted it, a folded dish towel protecting her hand from the hot handle. “Let’s see how strong this is, first off,” she said, pouring the dark liquid slowly.

“A little cream will do wonders,” Jenny told her.

“There’s a whole pitcherful already rose to the top from this morning’s milking,” Isabelle said. “I’ll pour it off and set some aside for your coffee. Thought I’d make rice pudding for supper. We got eggs aplenty.”

Jenny turned to the door, where Shay waited admission. “Come in, Mr.—”

“Just Shay,” he reminded her, opening the screen door and stepping into the kitchen. One hand lifted his hat, then held it, as he glanced around the room.

“You can hang it on a hook next to the pantry, if you like,” Jenny said. She watched as he crossed the room, met his gaze as he turned back to face her. “Coffee?” she asked, motioning to the table where two cups stood, steam rising.

He nodded, pulling out a chair. “Y’all help yourselves to fresh bread,” Isabelle said, her dark eyes intent on the visitor. From beneath a dish towel, she produced a plate, placing it between Jenny and their visitor. A small bowl containing butter was beside it, and a knife lay across the edge of the dish.

Jenny nodded at Shay. “Go ahead.”

He glanced at the sink in the corner. “You mind if I wash up?” At Jenny’s nod of agreement, he rose, then stepped to the drain board where a bucket of water rested, pouring a small amount into the wash pan. Isabelle provided a bowl of soft soap and a towel, and in moments, Shay was back at the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, picking up the knife and spreading butter across a slice of bread.

“Isabelle baked this morning,” Jenny told him, pouring cream in her coffee, then adding a heaping teaspoon of sugar. A bowl of stew appeared in the middle of the table and Jenny reached for the serving ladle. Shay nodded as she cast him an inquiring glance, and she served a generous portion on his plate.

The steam rose and he inhaled it, then spoke his satisfaction. “This is much appreciated, ma’m. I haven’t had a hot meal in a couple of days.” Picking up his fork, he stabbed a bite of potato and began eating. His gaze scanned the room, settling on Isabelle, who watched from near the stove. “You’ve already eaten?” he asked.

“When I fed Marshall.” Her answer was curt, but he seemed uncaring, returning to his food, picking up his cup to drink. After a few moments, his first hunger apparently appeased, he leaned back in his chair. “You’re alone here?” he asked.

Isabelle glanced up at the shotgun over the door and Jenny shook her head, then brushed her mouth with a linen napkin. “No, there’s Isabelle’s husband and their two sons. They’re working in the hayfield. And you’ve seen my son.”

He nodded, chewing long and hard on the crust of bread he’d chosen, then bent to his dinner once more.

“Do you think my boy looks like Carl?” she asked after a moment. “His folks are gone, over three years now, but his mama said Marshall was the image of his daddy.”

“Hard to say,” Shay temporized.

“Carl had the same brown eyes. But then you know that. Having seen him more recently than I. Mine are blue.” She paused for a moment, but the words would not be halted, falling from her lips as if she must somehow reinforce Carl’s memory through the small child he’d left behind. “Marshall’s hair is streaked from the sunshine now, I know. But you should see it in the winter. It darkens up, without a trace of red in it like—” Jenny hesitated, aware of rambling on. She lifted her cup and sipped at the bitter stuff. Her heart was stuttering in her chest, and she felt her throat close as she asked the question she’d held within her heart for the past half hour.

“How did he die?” Her hands fluttered, then settled in her lap. “Did he suffer long? Was there a doctor in the camp?” She looked up at him and winced at the forbidding look he wore. “Please, Mr. Shay.”

The woman was trembling, her mouth twitching at the corner, her chin wobbling. Damn, she was about to cry again, and he didn’t know if he could stand it. Enough that he’d put this visit in limbo for so long, now he had to dredge up all the memories and break her heart all over again.

“There were a couple of doctors in camp, but we tried not to let the Union army know who they were. They’d have been taken out and put to work in the army hospital for the northern troops.” He shrugged, curling long fingers around his cup. “There wasn’t any medicine anyway, ma’am. We all just did the best we could.”

“You said you were with him?” she asked, biting at her lip. “He spoke of us?”

“Yes, ma’am. I told you he sent his love, to both you and the child.” That hadn’t been exactly how it happened, but instinct told him she would be soothed by the words. Her eyes filled with tears and they overflowed, dampening the bodice of her dress as they fell. His gaze rested there.

“Mr. Shay?” Her hand lay on the table now, reaching for him, yet even as he watched, her fingers curled into a fist. “Did he say anything else?”

He shook his head. Take care of them. The words that haunted his dreams had brought him here, on a roundabout route, to be sure. But here he was, and here he’d stay until he was sure she was safe, had enough to eat, and that the boy was taken care of, had some sort of future in the offing.

“Have you got any crops in, ma’am?” he asked. “Is there any livestock in the pastures?”

“The kitchen garden’s planted, of course, and it’s almost time to plant corn, maybe next week or the week after. After the hay gets put up. We’ve a cow in the barn, and a good flock of chickens. There’s three hens setting on nests. We’ll have chicks soon, and fryers in a couple of months.”

“Horses?” he asked.

“A team of mules. They’re in the corral, waiting for me to take them back to the hay field later on. And a mare to pull the buggy.”

“Nothing to ride?”

“No, the Yanks took most of the horseflesh hereabouts with them when they passed through. We were lucky to keep what we did. Noah and the boys hid the animals in the woods. We penned up the chickens in the root cellar and put a washtub over the door when the army came through. I thought they were going to burn the place, but—” She hesitated and glanced at Isabelle, whose mouth shut reprovingly.

“They left us alone, and went on without torching the house and barn.” Beneath the freckles dotting her cheeks, Jenny’s face was pale and her gaze focused steadily on the tabletop between them.

His instincts told him she’d left much unsaid. Her hired help, or whatever relationship the woman had to Jenny, was keeping secrets, as was the girl across the table from him. She wasn’t much more than a girl, yet she’d borne up beneath the load she’d been called to carry, and borne up well. Her dress was ill-fitting, tight across the bodice, as if it had fit a younger, more slender female. Well-worn, and washed until the faint pattern of flowers had submitted their color to soap and water, it looked on the verge of being fit for the ragbag.