Netta breathed through her mouth but couldn’t escape the stench. She had thought that time would make her grow accustomed to the smells of the dairy, but after awaking several hours ago, the foul odor persisted. The smell, combined with the pounding in her head, made her stomach turn.
She pressed her bound wrists to her abdomen. She would not cast up her accounts. The sight and stench of that would only increase her nausea and it would become an endless, horrifying cycle.
“Is there anything to drink?” she asked the two men guarding her. She shifted on her spot on the ground and leaned back against the wall. “My mouth is quite parched.”
Bob, as she’d found out her kidnapper was called, held up a jug of ale with a narrow-eyed smile and pressed it to his lips. He tilted it back then pulled it away with a huff.
His friend didn’t look up from the bit of wood he was whittling. “We finished the last of it an hour ago.”
Bob slammed the empty jug onto the small table the men sat at. “How much longer do we have to stay here? I tell you, I can ensure she won’t be getting away, with or without anyone watching over her.”
“Patience.” The man, whose name Netta had never heard, lifted his stick to the light and examined it.
She would call him Roger, she decided, because he and the lot of them could go roger themselves.
“Besides,” Roger said. “The boss won’t be happy with the damage you’ve already done to her. You know he likes them untouched before he plays.”
Netta bit back her gorge. She would save it. She wiped at the sweat rolling down her cheek with the back of her hand. When Sudworth came to her, she would be sick on him. Perhaps that would cool his ardor.
She looked around her prison, trying to slow her racing heart. The storage shed, although large enough to hold all the equipment for the dairy, contained no windows. Just because there was only the one door past her captors was no reason to panic.
“There is an easy solution to the problem of our collective thirst.” She tried to infuse her voice with unconcern. As though she were knocked senseless and held captive every other week. “We are at a dairy, surrounded by animals heavy with milk.”
Roger ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “Do you know how to milk a cow?” he asked Bob.
“Do I look like a farmer?” Bob sat back in his wooden chair and crossed his arms. “I was born and raised in London. I’ve always got my milk the sensible way. I buy it.”
Netta sighed heavily. “It isn’t difficult. All you have to do is get a bucket—”
“Shut up.” Bob threw the empty jug, and she flattened herself to the floor as it crashed against the wall above her. Bits of clay rained down, and she curled into a ball.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Roger said. He looked at a stack of buckets in the corner then looked back at Bob.
He held up his hands. “I’m not milking no damn cow. Have you seen how big those animals are?”
Netta straightened and stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “They don’t bite.” Lord, she hoped they would bite these men. “Nor kick. Not like horses do, and you ride horses.”
The men stared at each other.
“You’re not frightened, are you?” She loosed a peal of laughter, trying to imbue it with every ounce of derision she could. “Two large men like you afraid to milk a cow. I suppose we’ll just go thirsty then.”
Bob climbed to his feet. “I’m not going thirsty.” He strode over to her and grabbed the rope at her wrists, yanking her to her feet. “If you know so much about cows, you do it.”
Netta swayed, her brain clouding from the abrupt change in position. She fought against the dizziness. This was what she’d wanted. A chance to escape. She wouldn’t miss it by losing consciousness now.
“Of course. All I need is a bucket and a cow.” She recited a nursery rhyme she’d learned from her nurse, Dollie, as a child. There had been something about milking a cow in it. If Little Miss Muffet could milk a beast, so could she.
Wait. That wasn’t the right nursery rhyme. And it was a horrid little story at that.
Bob dragged her to the stack of buckets and shoved one at her.
She put on a show of trying to grab it with her bound hands. Her nails scrabbled against the rim before she dropped it. Giving him her best wide-eyed innocent look, she held up her bound wrists. “I can’t hold it when my hands are tied so tight.”
Bob kicked the bucket into her shin, and she couldn’t hold back her cry.
She hopped up and down on one foot as the sting eased, glaring at the bastard.
“Sodding hell.” Roger rose and tromped towards them. “We were told to watch her, not abuse her. Why do you feel the need to bully?”
“She knows what happened to my brother.”
Roger put his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You don’t know that for certain. How many times have I told you that if you want to get ahead, you have to use your head?”
“But—”
“No buts. You are responsible for your own success.” He clasped both of Bob’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Now, repeat after me. I am the master of my own future.”
Bob’s shoulders curled, but he repeated the mantra.
“I am in control of my destiny.”
“I am in control of my destiny,” Bob repeated.
Netta stared at the men in horrified fascination. The absurdity of the situation made her want to laugh, or perhaps that was hysteria setting in. As abductions went, this one had to be one of the strangest.
“Now, do you really think this tiny thing had anything to do with your brother going missing?” Roger turned Bob to face her. “It is only through logic and reason that a man will get ahead. Not by venting his spleen.”
Bob grumbled. “I suppose not.” He bent and swiped up the bucket. “Loosen her ropes, will you? But not too much.” He curled one side of his lips. “That wouldn’t be logical.”
Roger untied her binds then retied them leaving several inches of rope stretched between her wrists. It wasn’t what she had hoped for, but her mobility was better than before.
She grasped the bucket. “Shall I just follow my nose to the cows?”
“Come on.” Bob pushed open the door and jerked his head. “Follow me.”
Netta examined the bucket as she trailed after him. The other man followed behind, leaving her little room to flee. The bucket was large and unwieldy, but she didn’t think it had enough heft to do any lasting damage. Perhaps if she hit a nose it would break.
But the men never stood within arm reach. They led her to a stable lined with cattle in their stalls and told her to pick one.
“Pick a cow?” All the cow faces looked the same. Black and white and staring at the trio with mild curiosity.
“The one that looks like it has the most milk.” Bob waved her forwards. “I thought you’d done this before.”
“Of course.” She held the bucket tight to her belly. “Many times.” She peeked over several stall doors, pretending to examine the animals. She nodded at the cow in the last pen. “This one.”
Roger opened the stall door and thumped a low stool next to the cow.
“Thank you.” Netta gently settled herself on the stool and stared at the swollen udder swinging from the animal. This couldn’t be difficult. Children performed the task in the country. Step one was to place the bucket under the cow, and that was easily done. The animal seemed not to care that three humans invaded its space. It probably wanted to get back to sleep.
Roger hooked his elbows over the gate. “I heard you’re moving,” he said to Bob.
“Yeah.” Bob slid his fingers into the top of his trousers. He rocked up onto his toes. “Me and Sally got ourselves a bigger house.”
“Jesus, don’t tell the boss that,” Roger said. “He’ll try to fob more cats on you.”
They both shuddered.
Bob looked down at her. “Where’s the milk?”
“Right.” Netta rubbed her hands together as best she could. “One pail of milk coming up.” She stared at the udder and kept rubbing her hands.
“Get on with it.” Bob nudged her shoulder. “You do know what you’re doing?”
She scowled over her shoulder. “Obviously I’m warming my hands so as not to startle the poor animal when I touch her.”
Roger tittered. “Too right. No female likes her udders touched with cold hands. I can attest to that.”
Bob guffawed with him.
Netta chafed her hands harder. Perhaps after she filled the bucket, she could turn it over their heads. Or maybe cause the cow to charge, knock the men down.
While the men still laughed at their insipid joke, Netta flattened her hands and brought them down sharply on the cow’s side.
The animal didn’t even blink, much less charge.
“Oy, what was that for?” Bob asked.
“Uh, slapping their sides help stimulate the milk production.”
Roger nudged Bob. “Another way in which women are like cows. My Sally likes herself a good—”
“What a charming story.”
The deep voice made the hair on the back of her neck raise. She twisted, knowing who she was going to see but still unprepared for the cold chills that swamped her when she locked eyes with Sudworth.
His gaze flicked over her body, making her feel naked even though her gown covered everything. “Miss Muffet, Miss Muffet, sat on her tuffet.” He showed all his teeth with his grin.
Why did everyone think Miss Muffet milked a cow? Was there a second stanza to the rhyme she was forgetting? Or was Sudworth as poorly versed in children’s literature as she?
He cocked his arm on the stall door. “I guess that makes me your spider.”
She swallowed.
She really hated that nursery rhyme.