Chapter 3. Just review .... PLEASE!
"Well are you going to learn or not?" James turned from the fire he had lit. "The pot is hanging over there. Bring it here." Marguerite ignored him and remained sitting on the cot staring at the wall. "Now, now, Marguerite, I don't want you to starve to death."
"You have a funny way of showing your concern." She mumbled out.
"Well, it's up to you, I don't need you to cook for me to eat, but if you want to, you'd better come over here." He paused waiting for her to move. "Fine then." James continued to cook the stew over the fire, as Marguerite continued to stare at the wall. The smell of the stew began to drift through the small hut, and Marguerite's stomach emitted a few small sounds that she quickly tried to conceal. She heard James laugh and her anger and stubbornness grew. With a new resolve she forced herself to stay seated on the cot. James walked behind her with a bowl full of the small, yet delicious smelling meal. He sat next to her. They sat in silence until Marguerite finally stood and turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?" he asked with an amused grin.
"Well, a person has to relieve themselves sometime, and assuming you haven't the luxury of an inside washroom, I'm going to go find a nice quite spot." She said with hatred and malice apparent with every word.
"There is a small shed in the back that you-"he began before the door slammed. James turned back to his meal and laughed.
Marguerite made her way back to the house mumbling and complaining the entire way. How in the world was she supposed to live the rest of her life with this miserable peasant? She returned to find him lying on the cot with a blanket strewn across the floor, apparently intended for her. Without a sound she sat next to the fire.
"Are you going to sleep?" he asked. No reply. "Well, just don't try anything silly, like running away at night in the woods. You'll be killed, which I'm sure looks like a pleasing alternative at the moment. But remember, Marguerite, you brought this on yourself. And it is up to you how miserable you're going to be."
Marguerite spent the night cursing the man, and her father, and herself. She cried until she was too exhausted and hungry to care. She fell asleep in the dirt next to the fire. When she awoke the next morning, James was in the workroom, he was quietly moving around the hut. She sat up and looked around. There was a pile of sticks and rods lying on the floor next to her.
"That's is a poor excuse for firewood," she remarked.
"Good Morning, Marguerite, Would you like to start breakfast?" he said happily as he came into the room wiping his hands on an old rag.
"I am hungry, but I can't cook, and you know it."
"Oh that's right, well, since you refused your lesson last night, figure it out on your own. I've got work to get done."
She glared at him and began to pick up the stick and put them in the fireplace.
"No, no, no," he chided, "That isn't firewood. That is you new job."
"What?" she asked.
"I'll tell you after breakfast," he smiled turning back to the workroom.
Marguerite searched the hutch for a decent pot and some semblance of breakfast. She looked for eggs, but son realized she was much too poor to have such extravagances. She only found a few dry oats and basket of wheat. She searched the kitchen, but in desperation, she went to the stream not far from the hut to bring back water. Dumping it into the pot already hanging over the small fire she had managed to get started, she waited endlessly for the water to boil. She had no idea where her efforts were going to leave her, but she had decided to boil the oats and gather fruit outside, if she could find any. When the water finally boiled, she dumped in the small remainder of oats from the bowl. She waited and gathered up a small bowl and spoon and tried to put out the fire. She reached to far into the fireplace and caught the edge of her dirty gown in the flames. She shrieked and tried to beat it out, but it was beginning to get worse. James rushed in at the commotion and dropped down quickly beside her. He had a rag in his hand and began to successfully beat out the flames. Marguerite cried out and after she realized the fire was out, began to feel the pain in her arm. Tears of pain filled her eyes.
"Are you badly burned?" he asked as he rolled up her sleeve to see the damage. "Well, you've burned it nicely. It should heal up soon with a little scar." He looked at Marguerite to see her anger at knowing her precious perfect skin would be mangled. But instead she stared at him with tears threatening to spill over onto her dirt-covered face. "Oh, Marguerite" he sighed as he stood to go find bandages. Marguerite began to cry silently. "Marguerite, the scars won't be that bad. And it shouldn't hurt too much after I put some salve on it. Besides, who is going to care about a silly scar on your arm anyway? You don't have anyone to impress."
"It's not that." She whispered. He didn't hear her, and when he returned Marguerite shrugged away from him.
"Marguerite, do you want the bandages or not, just for one damn minute can't you stop being so-...Marguerite? Marguerite, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I know it's been hard for you bu-"He stopped as a sobbing Marguerite leaned slowly into his arms and rested her head on his chest. He but down the bandages and wrapped his arms around her. He knew she must have been exhausted, not to mention starving. Marguerite's tears stopped and she looked up at his face for the first time. He wasn't an ordinary man by any means. His face was perfectly shaped, with a strong defining jaw line and the most brilliant green eyes. His mouth curled into a smile as he realized she was staring at him.
"Well, I think you cooked something, can we see how it turned out?" he pulled away and reached into the pot to taste whatever Marguerite had attempted to cook. He scowled at the taste and tried with all his might no to spit it out. "Marguerite, it's well..."
"Horrid," she said flatly.
"Yes," he sighed. "I suppose I will have to teach you." He helped Marguerite off the ground and helped her prepare a porridge that was actually appetizing, even though anything would do when Marguerite was as hungry as she was now. After breakfast, Marguerite turned back to the pile of sticks on the floor.
"What are those for?" she asked.
"That is what you will be doing to earn your fair share of the money." He said. "I'm assuming that you have no clue how to make a basket." She glared at him. "Ah, well, no bother, I'll teach you."
"You'll do no such thing!" she said jumping up from the floor. "I can't do that, it.. Well it's.."
"Honest work," he said. "Yes, Marguerite, you'll have to work, just like all the other commoners." He sounded disgusted with her and she for a moment felt ashamed.
"All right, I'll try," she sighed. He picked up a few of the sticks and in an hour Marguerite was beginning to make her first crude basket. He left her mumbling and complaining and went to the workroom, and when he returned, Marguerite had finished two baskets, and they looked remarkably good, considering that she had just started that morning. But he looked at her pained expression and looked at her hands and saw how much they bled. She had torn up portions of her hands beyond repair, but still she kept working as hard as she could. He snuck up behind her and watched her work for a few minutes. Finally, he bent over her shoulder and took the basket she was weaving away from her. Startled, she turned to face him and he put the basket down beside him and knelt to look at her hands. She stared at him in surprise, he wiped her small hands on his shirttail. She hissed in pain at the stinging of her torn hands. He looked up at her and kissed them. Marguerite pulled her hands back and he smiled.
"Tomorrow we will find you another job," he said as he
stood up, pulling her up form her chair.
"What else is there to do?" she asked, still startled by his sudden show of affection.
"Sewing," he replied simply. "But it is really time for supper. So as soon as I bandage up your hands, I can start..."
"You can start? I thought I was doing the cooking around here," she asked.
"Yes, after tonight you will, but I'm so hungry I want to have something edible." He laughed.
"Oh you little...!" she exclaimed as she threw a dirty towel toward his laughing figure.
After dinner, James collapsed on the cot and turned on his side- facing Marguerite on the floor.
"You know this cot is much more comfortable," he smiled at her suggestively, reaching out a hand to her.
"Not with you in it," she laid down on her blankets on the floor.
"Well, as you wish, Princess," he smiled and closed his eyes.
Marguerite huffed a frustrated sigh. She closed her eyes, but was flooded with memories. Could it only be two days since she left her home and father? She began to cry again for the millionth time that day. She wanted to cry because of the life she would never have, yet dreamed of. She wanted to cry for the frustrations of the day. She wanted to cry because of her lack of talent in anything more than being a Princess. She wanted to cry because she would never have love.... Well, maybe, could she? She opened her eyes and stared at James again. He was handsome, as she had earlier discovered. He was not so kind, well he had his moments. But he was horribly poor. He was not stupid, but he didn't seem to a very emotional person. He ran his house, but he had no feeling toward anything that he had displayed.... until tonight. He had kissed her hands, and in that moment, Marguerite began to feel frightened. He showed concern, but had it really happened? He seemed to not care about her the rest of the night. But there was a look in his eyes. And then, before he slept, that mocking smile that seemed to linger even still. She was falling in love with him. But she couldn't. This was the man that had taken her away. This was the man who had struck her, who had forced her to live in this miserable filth. But why in the world could she love him? It was desperation, she figured. The exhaustion and hunger. That was all. She began to close her eyes, when she took a deep breath. He had this smell... this wonderful cinnamon smell... no not cinnamon.... what was it?.... flowers.... No... but he had this smell......
"Well are you going to learn or not?" James turned from the fire he had lit. "The pot is hanging over there. Bring it here." Marguerite ignored him and remained sitting on the cot staring at the wall. "Now, now, Marguerite, I don't want you to starve to death."
"You have a funny way of showing your concern." She mumbled out.
"Well, it's up to you, I don't need you to cook for me to eat, but if you want to, you'd better come over here." He paused waiting for her to move. "Fine then." James continued to cook the stew over the fire, as Marguerite continued to stare at the wall. The smell of the stew began to drift through the small hut, and Marguerite's stomach emitted a few small sounds that she quickly tried to conceal. She heard James laugh and her anger and stubbornness grew. With a new resolve she forced herself to stay seated on the cot. James walked behind her with a bowl full of the small, yet delicious smelling meal. He sat next to her. They sat in silence until Marguerite finally stood and turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?" he asked with an amused grin.
"Well, a person has to relieve themselves sometime, and assuming you haven't the luxury of an inside washroom, I'm going to go find a nice quite spot." She said with hatred and malice apparent with every word.
"There is a small shed in the back that you-"he began before the door slammed. James turned back to his meal and laughed.
Marguerite made her way back to the house mumbling and complaining the entire way. How in the world was she supposed to live the rest of her life with this miserable peasant? She returned to find him lying on the cot with a blanket strewn across the floor, apparently intended for her. Without a sound she sat next to the fire.
"Are you going to sleep?" he asked. No reply. "Well, just don't try anything silly, like running away at night in the woods. You'll be killed, which I'm sure looks like a pleasing alternative at the moment. But remember, Marguerite, you brought this on yourself. And it is up to you how miserable you're going to be."
Marguerite spent the night cursing the man, and her father, and herself. She cried until she was too exhausted and hungry to care. She fell asleep in the dirt next to the fire. When she awoke the next morning, James was in the workroom, he was quietly moving around the hut. She sat up and looked around. There was a pile of sticks and rods lying on the floor next to her.
"That's is a poor excuse for firewood," she remarked.
"Good Morning, Marguerite, Would you like to start breakfast?" he said happily as he came into the room wiping his hands on an old rag.
"I am hungry, but I can't cook, and you know it."
"Oh that's right, well, since you refused your lesson last night, figure it out on your own. I've got work to get done."
She glared at him and began to pick up the stick and put them in the fireplace.
"No, no, no," he chided, "That isn't firewood. That is you new job."
"What?" she asked.
"I'll tell you after breakfast," he smiled turning back to the workroom.
Marguerite searched the hutch for a decent pot and some semblance of breakfast. She looked for eggs, but son realized she was much too poor to have such extravagances. She only found a few dry oats and basket of wheat. She searched the kitchen, but in desperation, she went to the stream not far from the hut to bring back water. Dumping it into the pot already hanging over the small fire she had managed to get started, she waited endlessly for the water to boil. She had no idea where her efforts were going to leave her, but she had decided to boil the oats and gather fruit outside, if she could find any. When the water finally boiled, she dumped in the small remainder of oats from the bowl. She waited and gathered up a small bowl and spoon and tried to put out the fire. She reached to far into the fireplace and caught the edge of her dirty gown in the flames. She shrieked and tried to beat it out, but it was beginning to get worse. James rushed in at the commotion and dropped down quickly beside her. He had a rag in his hand and began to successfully beat out the flames. Marguerite cried out and after she realized the fire was out, began to feel the pain in her arm. Tears of pain filled her eyes.
"Are you badly burned?" he asked as he rolled up her sleeve to see the damage. "Well, you've burned it nicely. It should heal up soon with a little scar." He looked at Marguerite to see her anger at knowing her precious perfect skin would be mangled. But instead she stared at him with tears threatening to spill over onto her dirt-covered face. "Oh, Marguerite" he sighed as he stood to go find bandages. Marguerite began to cry silently. "Marguerite, the scars won't be that bad. And it shouldn't hurt too much after I put some salve on it. Besides, who is going to care about a silly scar on your arm anyway? You don't have anyone to impress."
"It's not that." She whispered. He didn't hear her, and when he returned Marguerite shrugged away from him.
"Marguerite, do you want the bandages or not, just for one damn minute can't you stop being so-...Marguerite? Marguerite, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I know it's been hard for you bu-"He stopped as a sobbing Marguerite leaned slowly into his arms and rested her head on his chest. He but down the bandages and wrapped his arms around her. He knew she must have been exhausted, not to mention starving. Marguerite's tears stopped and she looked up at his face for the first time. He wasn't an ordinary man by any means. His face was perfectly shaped, with a strong defining jaw line and the most brilliant green eyes. His mouth curled into a smile as he realized she was staring at him.
"Well, I think you cooked something, can we see how it turned out?" he pulled away and reached into the pot to taste whatever Marguerite had attempted to cook. He scowled at the taste and tried with all his might no to spit it out. "Marguerite, it's well..."
"Horrid," she said flatly.
"Yes," he sighed. "I suppose I will have to teach you." He helped Marguerite off the ground and helped her prepare a porridge that was actually appetizing, even though anything would do when Marguerite was as hungry as she was now. After breakfast, Marguerite turned back to the pile of sticks on the floor.
"What are those for?" she asked.
"That is what you will be doing to earn your fair share of the money." He said. "I'm assuming that you have no clue how to make a basket." She glared at him. "Ah, well, no bother, I'll teach you."
"You'll do no such thing!" she said jumping up from the floor. "I can't do that, it.. Well it's.."
"Honest work," he said. "Yes, Marguerite, you'll have to work, just like all the other commoners." He sounded disgusted with her and she for a moment felt ashamed.
"All right, I'll try," she sighed. He picked up a few of the sticks and in an hour Marguerite was beginning to make her first crude basket. He left her mumbling and complaining and went to the workroom, and when he returned, Marguerite had finished two baskets, and they looked remarkably good, considering that she had just started that morning. But he looked at her pained expression and looked at her hands and saw how much they bled. She had torn up portions of her hands beyond repair, but still she kept working as hard as she could. He snuck up behind her and watched her work for a few minutes. Finally, he bent over her shoulder and took the basket she was weaving away from her. Startled, she turned to face him and he put the basket down beside him and knelt to look at her hands. She stared at him in surprise, he wiped her small hands on his shirttail. She hissed in pain at the stinging of her torn hands. He looked up at her and kissed them. Marguerite pulled her hands back and he smiled.
"Tomorrow we will find you another job," he said as he
stood up, pulling her up form her chair.
"What else is there to do?" she asked, still startled by his sudden show of affection.
"Sewing," he replied simply. "But it is really time for supper. So as soon as I bandage up your hands, I can start..."
"You can start? I thought I was doing the cooking around here," she asked.
"Yes, after tonight you will, but I'm so hungry I want to have something edible." He laughed.
"Oh you little...!" she exclaimed as she threw a dirty towel toward his laughing figure.
After dinner, James collapsed on the cot and turned on his side- facing Marguerite on the floor.
"You know this cot is much more comfortable," he smiled at her suggestively, reaching out a hand to her.
"Not with you in it," she laid down on her blankets on the floor.
"Well, as you wish, Princess," he smiled and closed his eyes.
Marguerite huffed a frustrated sigh. She closed her eyes, but was flooded with memories. Could it only be two days since she left her home and father? She began to cry again for the millionth time that day. She wanted to cry because of the life she would never have, yet dreamed of. She wanted to cry for the frustrations of the day. She wanted to cry because of her lack of talent in anything more than being a Princess. She wanted to cry because she would never have love.... Well, maybe, could she? She opened her eyes and stared at James again. He was handsome, as she had earlier discovered. He was not so kind, well he had his moments. But he was horribly poor. He was not stupid, but he didn't seem to a very emotional person. He ran his house, but he had no feeling toward anything that he had displayed.... until tonight. He had kissed her hands, and in that moment, Marguerite began to feel frightened. He showed concern, but had it really happened? He seemed to not care about her the rest of the night. But there was a look in his eyes. And then, before he slept, that mocking smile that seemed to linger even still. She was falling in love with him. But she couldn't. This was the man that had taken her away. This was the man who had struck her, who had forced her to live in this miserable filth. But why in the world could she love him? It was desperation, she figured. The exhaustion and hunger. That was all. She began to close her eyes, when she took a deep breath. He had this smell... this wonderful cinnamon smell... no not cinnamon.... what was it?.... flowers.... No... but he had this smell......