When both baskets were brimming with a variety of shells and a few dehydrated starfish, they returned to the blanket and something to eat and drink.
“Shall we build a sandcastle? Or better, construct a sand ship for Barnes?” Hannah asked.
With Mary’s help, the two women crafted the hull of a boat from damp sand. Then Hannah gently made a cabin at the stern. Frank found them a large stick to serve as a mast and they tied a handkerchief to it as a sail. Barnes stood at the bow and looked out to the ocean.
“Oh, milady, we could dig a trench around it and fill it with water and he would be afloat on his own little ocean,” Mary suggested.
“Brilliant idea, Mary,” Hannah said and Barnes rushed to one side of his ship and pointed at the water.
They tackled the next task while Sheba dragged over a stick and settled down to chew one end. The spaniel seemed to think it her life’s duty to find and chew as many sticks as possible. Once they had a moat encircling the sand ship, Frank used the now empty flask and filled it with sea water. Trip after trip he made, wading out into the water while Mary gasped and called out for him to beware of each wave.
Relief filled Hannah that the large man was too big and heavy for the buffeting sea to snag and drag out deeper. She would not be able to bear it if the ocean claimed Frank. Soon they had sufficient water around the boat for it to appear to navigate its own small portion of ocean.
Frank hummed a tune and clapped his hands while Barnes danced a strange jig on deck. Mary giggled and for a little while, Hannah held her own enjoyment close to her heart. Then she looked around, and the absence of Wycliff flowed over her with the chill off the water and raised goose bumps along her arms. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Never would she have imagined that one day, she would miss the company of the foul-tempered and rude viscount so very much.
8
For a change, Wycliff didn’t rise at dawn the next day. Instead, he eased his arm out from under Hannah while full dark still lay over the estate. As usual, he tucked the blankets around her shoulders to ensure no chill touched her skin. Then he gathered up his clothing and crept naked into the cold foyer. For once he was grateful for the hellhound merged with his soul, as hell fire coursing through his veins kept him from freezing as he dressed. A partial shift of his vision allowed him to see his surroundings, since the inside of the house was darker than a crypt.
He helped himself to the tin of Cornish pasties and let Sheba out. Mrs Rossett roused as though some sixth sense told her the rapscallion was raiding her pantry. In mobcap and shawl, she waved the poker before using it to stoke the fire. Outside, dawn spread tendrils of deep orange and red as he walked to Swift’s cottage with Frank’s silent companionship beside him.
“Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning,” Wycliff muttered and then worried that any storm might further loosen the slates on the roof of Mireworth.
Today’s task saw Wycliff, Swift, and Frank cleaning out a long neglected waterway. The three men finished the job in under two hours. Dripping wet and smelling of mud and weed, the men walked back to the house to wash and change before Sarah Rivers’ funeral.
Once presentable, they used the large travelling carriage to convey the family to the funeral. Mrs Rossett sat inside with Wycliff and Hannah. Mary took a seat up next to Frank. Barnes clung to the edge of the outer rail, but the hand was under strict instructions to stay with the carriage and not wander around the cemetery. Wycliff could imagine the panic among the locals if the hand sat in the dirt upon a grave and wriggled his fingers.
“Here we are,” he murmured as the carriage rolled to a stop at the churchyard.
“How picturesque this would be under different circumstances,” Hannah said as she peered out the window.
Wycliff jumped down and then held out his hand to Hannah and then Mrs Rossett.
The housekeeper waved to a group of women standing under a large oak, and bustled over. Hannah took his arm and he drew her near. The people of the village gathered on the grass outside the stone church, the murmur of hushed conversation washing over the gravestones.
The day warmed and the service would be held at the graveside, not inside the quaint little chapel. Near a stone angel guarding a grave, a man with a stern expression stood by himself. With tousled, dirty blond hair and a scowl on his face, he appeared to have dressed in a hurry. Stubble clung to his jaw and his cravat had a worse knot than anything Wycliff tied.
There was one thing about the man that made Wycliff approach him—he was an aftermage with a gift for botany. The man might have whatever herbs Lady Miles used to keep the curse inside Hannah from stealing her heartbeat.
Wycliff approached but kept Hannah close to his side. “Good morning, Seager. Lady Wycliff, this is Mr Seager, the local apothecary and a keen botanist. He might be able to provide any herbs or potions you require during our visit.”
“Oh! I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Seager,” Hannah said.
The man appeared to have forgotten his manners and stared at them for a long while. Then he gave a scant nod in Hannah’s direction before glaring at Wycliff. “Your sheep had better not wander into the lower fields. There are many species growing there that I require for my potions and salves, and there will be trouble if the plants are trampled or eaten.”
Wycliff ground his jaw at the apothecary’s rude manner and snub of Hannah. It wouldn’t do to cause a scene at a funeral, but he would remember the slight against his wife. “Swift and I are working to mend what walls require it. Perhaps if the herbs are so important, you should grow them in your garden, rather than foraging over Mireworth pastures? You should take care the gamekeeper does not shoot you, thinking you a poacher.”
The man blew out a snort. “You no more own the trees and shrubs than you do the sky or clouds, Lord Wycliff. These plants require very specific growing conditions. My apothecary garden is too sheltered for some that need the salty wind or forest debris.”
“My mother, Lady Miles, is a keen horticulturist. She may be able to advise how to alter the conditions in your walled garden.” Hannah joined the conversation.
“Lady Miles?” The scowl on Seager’s face deepened.
“Yes,” Hannah replied.
“The dead mage?” Now the man’s nostrils flared.
“Yes.” Hannah glanced at Wycliff, but he, too, wondered what the man was getting at.
Seager snorted. “Dead things should fertilise plants, not offer advice about them.”
Hannah’s fingers curled into Wycliff’s sleeve and he wondered which of them would leap at the man first for his insults. For a change, he cut the man dead and steered his wife away before angry words were exchanged. They strolled among the headstones in the sunlight and left the unpleasantness behind them.
Hannah leaned closer to his side. “Today is a rare day. I do believe I have just met someone so rude that, by comparison, he makes my husband appear the epitome of politeness and good manners.”
Wycliff huffed a silent laugh. Usually he spoke first, insulted everyone, and left Hannah to apologise after him. Either marriage or his new sense of contentment appeared to have mellowed his temper. “I am sorry, Hannah. I thought he would be a useful person to know and who would most likely have whatever your mother requires. I would have called him out on his behaviour, but did not want to upset the grieving family.”
She tightened her grip on him. “You need to stop being so considerate, before you make me swoon.”
Good humour rolled through him and he forgot about Seager’s abruptness. Wycliff led Hannah along a gravel pathway that wound through the spreading trees.
“Does anyone know how the poor woman came to drown?” Hannah whispered.
Only at a funeral would his wife enquire as to the circumstances surrounding a death. He bent his head closer to hers and inhaled the faint lavender aroma of the soap she used to wash her hair. “She probably slipped while walking along the rocks, or perhaps was pulled under by
a wave while searching for shellfish. It happens, Hannah, as tragic as such an occurrence is to the family left behind.”
Off to one side and under a large elm tree sat a freshly dug pile of soil. Beside it, a coffin waited on timbers with two ropes coiled in the grass at each end.
The vicar, Mr Hartley, stood in the shade. A pleasant chap of an age similar to Wycliff, he appeared scrubbed and orderly, his light brown hair swept to one side and the Bible clasped in his hands.
“Lord Wycliff, a shame that this sad circumstance mars your return to us,” the vicar said on seeing him.
The man had taken the Mireworth living some two years earlier. While enthusiastic, he also seemed realistic about the harshness of life and didn’t lecture the parishioners too much about their many vices. In tending his flock, the religious man somehow managed to strike a balance without either boring them or coming across as sanctimonious.
“Indeed, it is always sad when a life ends too soon. Lady Wycliff, this is Mr Hartley, who tends to the villagers’ spiritual needs.” He turned to his wife and glanced over her head at the gathering people.
“Mr Hartley. I was saddened to hear of Mrs Rivers’ losing her life to the ocean.” Hannah clung to Wycliff’s arm as though he were a piece of wood in a turbulent sea.
The vicar smiled and leaned toward Hannah. “An honour to meet you, Lady Wycliff. Unfortunately, such tragedies are not uncommon when we coexist with the sea, and I do what I can to ease their passing.”
Before Hartley got the idea that they were there for a social call, Wycliff pulled Hannah away to stand to one side of the grave. More people joined them so that the crowd flowed between the gravestones. The woman’s family stood on the other side.
Hartley gave a sermon about love and forgiveness and then led the congregation in a hymn. The service seemed timed to coincide with the group’s ability to stand still on the warm day. As people began to shuffle their feet to relieve cramping muscles, Hartley gave a signal. Two burly men each took an end of the ropes and lowered the coffin into the damp earth.
Mr Rivers approached and scooped up a handful of dirt, which he tossed into the grave. A dull clatter rose up and was followed by another, as the woman’s friends and family paid their last respects. Wycliff waited until near the end before performing the same ritual.
Hannah remained silent as they walked back to the carriage, when a figure drew Wycliff’s attention. Harvey Cramond stood with his head bowed at the graveside of Amy Miller, a bunch of yellow daisies clutched in his hands. At the time of her demise, Swift had written to Wycliff in London with the mutterings about the woman’s death. She had been pulled from the ocean with the obvious sign of a blow to her head. Some blamed her grandfather, saying the old man used to hit her and that he might have flown into a rage when she told him of her plans to marry Cramond and start her life afresh with him. Old man Miller told a different story and blamed Cramond, saying they must have argued when his granddaughter declined his proposal and that he had struck Amy and thrown her into the water.
Wycliff thought the answer simple. The woman had either hit her head and fallen in the water, or walked out into the ocean to end her life, where the action of tide against rocks had caused the injury to her head. He let out a sigh. Now there had been another one, making three deaths in a year, the first of the unfortunate trio being Lisbeth Wolfe.
Lisbeth. The name whispered through his memories like a mournful wind through the trees.
Life became an impossible burden for some women. He curled his fingers around Hannah’s hand. He would ensure she never struggled alone. Once Mireworth was restored, he could offer her the sort of life she deserved. Or a comfortable place to see out her death, if the Affliction claimed her.
“I had thought an underwater theme for the ball, but do you think that would be thoughtless given the current circumstances? I would not wish to offend the grieving families,” Hannah said, breaking the silence between them.
He turned the idea over in his mind. His initial reaction had been that it was a touch of whimsy and why did they even need a theme for decorations? But as he held her close, it reminded him that he had left her to decide how best to fill her days while he worried about the estate. And she was filling them most ably—not everyone would notice, but every small change was evident to him. “We cannot ignore the ocean. Many men and families rely on fishing to supplement their income. If you are concerned, I will announce the theme. Men are usually considered to be oblivious to such sensitivities. Then you can tell the other women that you tried to dissuade me but were unsuccessful.”
She squeezed his arm as he helped her up into the carriage. “Thank you. I thought I might explore Mireworth this afternoon, if you had no objection to my roaming the halls to take inventory?”
“I have no objection, only be careful. You will find some of the corridors…crowded.”
“Yes, Mrs Rossett told me about the relocated furniture.” Hannah settled on the seat.
Wycliff had sold off what he could in the way of furnishings. Rugs that mouldered easily had been the first to go. Large pieces of furniture like bed frames and old armoires were more difficult to sell, and had been shoved into dark and dry halls like bodies kept in a mausoleum.
“I only wish to learn the layout and contents of the house and I admit, I find old homes fascinating with the history absorbed into their very walls. Do you know when the house was first built?” Hannah made room for him beside her in the carriage.
Wycliff racked his memory for the house’s origins. As a young boy, he had found the history of a building boring and had let his mind wander. Now, he wished that long-ago youth had paid a little more attention. “There are parts that are very old, but most of what you see now was built by my great-grandfather a hundred years ago.”
That afternoon, Swift and Wycliff paid a visit to old man Miller, Amy’s grandfather and Wycliff’s tenant. Wycliff rode his black mare while Swift tried to keep up on a solid bay. Anger simmered inside Wycliff as they walked the horses up the packed earth lane. Miller’s paddocks were full of weeds that set seed and would create a problem for years to come. Pasture sat unused either by stock or crops.
“Damn waste,” Wycliff muttered under his breath as he dismounted and tied the reins around a fence rail.
“He’s got worse over the years, although Amy did what she could. He’s always been deaf to any advice. Calls me an interfering sod.” Swift slid off his tall mount to the ground and flicked the reins around the rail.
Wycliff surveyed the house and barn and decided that by comparison, Mireworth didn’t appear too bad. At least he was trying to hold his estate together; this man had given up and let his farm slide into disrepair. Dislodged roof slates tumbled to the ground and created sad piles where they landed. Birds nested in the gaps in the roof, straw and nesting material peeking out. It appeared that every window was broken and water had soaked into the frames and damaged the wood. The vegetable patch that should have fed a family grew only thistles and one determined artichoke that refused to cede its territory to its more invasive cousins. Piles of unidentified rubbish and debris lay around the yard, and rats scurried about with no fear of the men.
The scale of the neglect set fire to the anger already bubbling in Wycliff’s veins at the wasted fields surrounding them. A scrawny chicken squawked and flapped its wings in its haste to escape his boots.
Old man Miller sat on a rickety chair by his front door, a bottle clutched in his dirty hands. He glanced up as they approached and narrowed his gaze. “What do you want? Come to interfere again, I reckon.”
Wycliff paused at the bottom step and crossed his arms. He gripped his upper arms and let the anger surge through him and flow out through his boots. “We are here to discuss the sorry state of this farm. I will no longer tolerate it.”
Miller’s milky gaze swung to Wycliff and his eyes widened. He staggered to his feet to bow his head and reached out to steady himself against the wall of the house. “Lo
rd Wycliff. I heard you were back among us. I’ll pay my rent, on my honour. I only need a little more time.”
“Come now, Miller, you have had over six months.” Swift spoke with short, clipped words as though he, too, had run out of patience.
“And how, exactly, do you intend to repay the overdue rent when you have no crop in your fields and no stock in your barn? Even the chickens look long past laying and wouldn’t even flavour water for soup.” Wycliff ground his teeth. Swift was right. What the farm needed was a keen young man with a family to pitch in and wrest the land back under control.
“It’s just a little setback, milord. You’ll see. A couple more months and I’ll be back on my feet.” Miller clutched the bottle in both hands as though he could wring the monies from the glass.
Wycliff had no time to waste on a drunkard. There were too many other tasks pressing on his mind. “Enough excuses, man! Your time here is done. For your granddaughter’s sake, Swift has found you a vacant cottage on the outskirts of the estate and closer to the village. You will move there within the week.”
Miller dropped the bottle to the ground and it rolled away from him. He wiped a hand across his face. “Everything was fine when Amy ran things, but that Cramond ruined everything. Always sniffing around here. I told Amy to tell him to bugger off. He killed her, you know. Killed her, he did, and no one did a thing about it.”
Wycliff arched an eyebrow and glanced at Swift. According to the rumours his estate manager had reported to him, most locals thought Miller had struck her in a drunken haze and when he sobered up, tossed her body in the water to cover up his horrible mistake.
“Amy drowned, Miller, you know that. Was a terrible accident and nothing more.” Swift caught the bottle as it rolled to his feet and set it upright in the dirt. A chicken watched with interest as light shone through the glass and highlighted a beetle crawling toward the house.
Sixpence and Selkies Page 7