A Curse Dark as Gold

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  Unfortunately, we did not receive your correspondence in time to arrange a place for your stock among our current shipments, but if you were prepared to wait until after 1 January of the coming year, we anticipate the overseas market then to be more amenable. Further, we are prepared to offer you the prices stated in the accompanying document, as well as a one per cent commission on sales, less a twenty per cent share of all tariffs and customs fees.

  Please respond with all due haste if these terms are agreeable.

  “January is a long time off,” I said.

  “Only three months. And a bit.”

  “A lot can happen in three months.” I glanced over the proposed price list. “And we’d be losing money on some of the stock. We could have done better at Market.”

  Rosie nodded. “But think of your cloth—your cloth—shipped to the far corners of the earth. Laborers in tropical plantations wearing Stirwaters kersey, governors’ wives dressed in Stirwaters shalloon.”

  I bit my lip, and with a heavy hand wrote back my brief reply:

  The proposed terms are agreeable. We will hold the stock until the new year.

  Yours sincerely,

  C. Miller

  Chapter Thirteen

  That long, strange summer finally drew to a close, and then, as smoothly as if someone had pushed a lever for it, autumn was upon us. The Gold Valley shone in all her amber glory, the trees along the river making a dazzling yellow parade from Blue Corners to Delight. At the end of October, when warm days are fewer than the chill ones, and golden sunshine gives way to grey mist, the Gold Valley celebrated harvest season with a travelling festival that rotated through the villages. Every three or four years, it made its way to Shearing.

  Even with a woolshed full of unsold cloth, the merrymaking was contagious, and I was determined to put aside my concerns for a few hours. The fair amounted to a market day in Shearing; we might even make a few sales. Get enough cider and music in people—even Gold Valley folk—and they’ll do all sorts of unexpected things.

  The morning of the fair was brisk, but sunlight promised to burn the cold from the air by noontide. We opened Stirwaters for tours and sales and hosted a cidering in the yard as we’d done in Mam’s day. Harte painted a glorious banner on a bad run of white broadcloth and hung striped bunting from the upstairs windows. I took my place by Stirwaters’s doors, while Rosie showed off the millworks to visitors. Pilot sat at my knee, scrutinizing the folk who entered her demesne, and I trailed my fingers in the feathers of her sharp ears. She was curiously silent that morning, almost smug, so I was not expecting to hear a low, cheerful voice say right in my ear, “Shall I take the penny tour?”

  I looked up to see Randall Woodstone, of all people, standing at my elbow. I noticed that he had cut his hair; the soft fall of bronze had been trimmed away to the clean style we favored in the country. It made his eyes stand out very brightly in his tanned face.

  “Mr. Woodstone!” I said cleverly, but if my cheeks were red it was only because of the cool morning air. “Come to check on us?”

  “I hear this is the place to be this weekend.” He dipped a hand into his pocket. “Charging for tours, I see? That seems a very sound business practice. Your uncle’s idea?”

  I grinned. “Rosie’s, actually; the girl is a mercenary. Put your money away, sir. You know perfectly well you’re welcome at Stirwaters any time.”

  “As your banker, I must advise against that. You should take any income available.” He was still smiling, and I let him lay the coin in my palm.

  “Well,” I countered, “it seems rather foolish to take your money when I’ll just turn around and pay it right back to you. So, here.” And I put the penny right back in his hand, a cheeky grin on my own face. I was behaving with appalling forwardness, but somehow I couldn’t check myself. Fair weather.

  He looked at the coin for a moment before turning his grin on me again. “Well,” he said. “Since I have just come into some money, won’t you let me buy you some cider? I hear it’s the best in the village.”

  I glanced back to see Rosie watching us, leaning against the wall in her dress of apple red, a matching specimen of that fruit at her mouth. She gave me a significant look and then turned away. Oh, why not? Rosie could greet for a while; anyone who worked for us could give tours. I was going to let a young man buy me cider.

  Later, facing each other across a makeshift table of planks and barrels, we toasted the day with ancient wooden mugs.

  “Careful.” I laughed as he took a deep draught from his mug. “That’s the good stuff. Trawney’s best, straight from the orchards. It’ll go right to your head, Mr. Woodstone.”

  He set the mug down heavily, but the look in his eyes was very clear. “Charlotte Miller,” he said gravely, “I have asked you repeatedly to call me Randall. Now I’m afraid I’ll have to insist upon it.”

  I widened my eyes. “Well,” I said, “if you insist upon it, very well.” I was laughing a little, but he was serious.

  “Let me hear you say it.”

  “All right,” I said quietly. “Randall. Randall. Is that better?”

  The smile had returned, brighter than ever. He reached across the table and took my hand. “It’s perfect.”

  I stared at my hand in his, aware that my heart was beating awfully fast, and I stood up abruptly. “Come,” I said, forcing the merriment back into my voice. “I believe I owe you a tour.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked, and Rosie would be proud: I laughed at him.

  “I thought you came to see the fair.” And, of all the cheekiness, I lifted his half-empty mug to my lips and drained the contents before spinning off into the festival crowd, my banker at my heels.

  I don’t think I’d ever seen the harvest fair in quite the same light as that day with Randall. All the familiar sights seemed new to me, from the sheep-judging to Mrs. Carter’s pickle stand, the children’s games and the church raffle. Randall threw himself into the spirit, signing up to guess the bullock’s weight and compete in target practice at the shooting stall. I must confess he showed up rather nicely; Edward Handy is generally considered Shearing’s best shooter, but Randall beat him twice out of three.

  “By the gods, man!” Edward bellowed after the third round, clapping Randall on the back with his meaty fist. “You must come for the pheasants in November!” He looked at me appraisingly. “Your family wouldn’t go hungry with a gun in those hands. Cider here! Cider all round for the man who beat me—and his lady.” Here he winked at me—a man I’ve known all my life!

  “But we’re not—” I started to protest. Randall caught my hand and laughed.

  “Best to just go with it,” he said under his breath. “You know how these country crowds can get out of hand.” So we had another around of cider, this time with our neighbors, and just for good measure, I threw in one of Mrs. Carter’s famous pickles for Randall.

  Afterward, breathless and still laughing, we left the crowds and walked along the ridge of the river. I stopped to lean against a tall poplar. The world was spinning just slightly, and I had to catch my breath.

  “I say, are people around here always so friendly?” Randall said.

  “Village life,” I said. “You’re indelibly linked to Stirwaters now.”

  “Ah. Shall I check my coat for black marks?” He grinned, but I shook my head.

  “No, indeed. I shall not be held accountable for any misfortunes you suffer as a result of your association with Stirwaters. Let it be said now.”

  He frowned, a furrow appearing between the sandy brows. “Come again, then?”

  “Oh, haven’t you heard? Well, let me give you the full accounting. The winter after Stirwaters was built, the river upstream changed course. A landslide diverted the water through flatter land, dispersing much of the water’s power.” I clapped my hands together sharply. “Just like that. Overnight, this little bend in the Stowe became an impractical site for a mill, and Harlan Miller became first in a long line of hardl
uck Millers.”

  “Oh, come now! That sort of thing could happen to anyone.”

  I smiled grimly. “That sort of thing happens to the Millers with regularity. Once there was an epidemic that killed almost all the sheep in the Valley, and another year there were floods all summer so the wheel couldn’t turn. Believe me, your mortgage is no more unsettling than any other catastrophe Stirwaters has weathered.”

  He turned his gaze to me from the river, and something flashed in those changing-color eyes. “But you’ve got something those other Millers never had.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “You’ve got me.”

  My mouth fell open, but I had to laugh. “Are you going to change my luck, then, Mr. Woodstone?”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “Miss Miller, you may count on it.” Before I realized it, he had slipped his hand behind my waist. Nothing more—he held it there, barely touching me. I held my breath for two or three heartbeats before speaking.

  “What is that for?” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

  He smiled slightly. “I wanted to see if I’d like it.”

  “And?”

  He leaned in. “I like it.” And that smiling mouth was suddenly upon my own, kissing me, one of those ink-stained fingers tipping my chin up to meet him. I’ve no idea what I did; surprise overwhelmed me, and I only remember the feel of his lips against my mouth and the sweet cidery taste of him.

  He turned away after the briefest moment and stared out over the river. I said nothing, listening to the blood roar in my ears.

  “Charlotte,” he said after a long, long moment.

  “Randall,” I whispered.

  The golden sunlight bounced off the water, and the crisp breeze carried the sounds and scents of the festival to us. Very aware that his hand was still on my waist, I couldn’t move. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  “There’s a lot about this village to like,” he said softly. “I think there might be enough to make me stay here.” And I could think of nothing at all to say to that.

  “Did we see everything?” he asked suddenly, his voice returning to normal.

  “What?” The word flew out of me, louder and sharper than I’d intended.

  “Is there more to the fair? Did we see everything?”

  I let my breath out in a long rush. “No,” I answered slowly, grappling for self-control. “No, there’s much more. The food stalls, and a church blessing—but that’s tomorrow—oh, and the round dances.”

  Slowly he slipped his hand away from my back. “Then shall we continue?”

  I threw up my hands. “Oh, why stop now?” I said, and if I’d known what was coming later that night, I might have said that with considerably less tartness. I might have.

  The rest of that mad afternoon passed in a confusion of revelry and absolute stone-faced ordinariness from Randall. He said nothing at all about the scene on the river bank—no word about his bold touch, certainly nothing about the kiss. Perhaps he routinely kissed young ladies by the riverbank, and I was to think nothing of it. By the time we’d collected his winnings from the bullock’s stall (a bag of apples and a voucher from the butcher’s), I had resolved to do just that.

  We sat together at dinner, with no less than a friendly distance between us. His mood at least served to steady my own nerves, and I managed not to spill stew on myself and kept up my end of the conversation with dignity.

  “How do you suppose Rosie’s getting along at the mill?” he asked, mopping up broth with a hunk of brown bread.

  “Good heavens, I’d forgotten all about her!” I said.

  Randall’s eyes widened. “That must be a first.”

  “Are you deliberately distracting me?”

  “Is it working?”

  I glared at him. I wanted him to know I was not some silly country maid, to be seduced with one stolen kiss. “Hardly,” I said, in what I hoped passed for dignified tones. “In fact, I must be getting back now. Thank you for an…entertaining afternoon, Mr. Woodstone.” I pulled my feet free of the bench and turned away. He caught my hand.

  “Charlotte, don’t—” he said. “It’s been a lovely day. Let’s not spoil it. I’m sorry.”

  “Just what are you sorry for?” I said, pulling free from his grip.

  He rubbed his hand with the other and looked at me. “I—I’m not sure, exactly.” He sounded so helpless and forlorn that I burst out laughing.

  “Oh, come on. The round dances are starting, and you don’t want to miss those.”

  Randall was a fine dancer, certainly better than I, but that wasn’t surprising, with his rich city upbringing. Moreover, he was fun. He passed between partners with cheerful ease, handing each girl off to the next man with a laugh and a smile. I must admit to paying him rather more attention than I ought; I wound up treading on Edward Handy’s foot, missing a turn, and nearly colliding with Josie Hale and Robbie Lawson. Finally, I gave up and excused myself, retreating to the edge of the stage to watch. But Randall saw me and bowed out, too, handing off his partner to mine as the music started up again. He was flushed and breathless, and for some reason that made my heart falter in its rhythm.

  Night had fallen, the chill returned. I wrapped my arms round my chest and noted that Randall made no overtures to assist me. I told myself I was glad of it, and concentrated on watching the dancers.

  “I heard a rumor on the dance floor,” he said.

  I looked at him sharply. “Oh?”

  “Oh, yes.” He sounded very serious, but there was a playful gleam in his eye. “Nora Butcher told me that Robbie Lawson is going to marry the apothecary’s daughter.”

  “That’s Josie.” I pointed her out. “She’s the village beauty. Every lad in Shearing has wooed Josie Hale at one time or another.” Miss Hale was at that moment dancing with our Harte, her dimpled cheeks pink with exertion, her dark hair falling loose from its pinnings. Mine was as well, for that matter, but Josie made it look like an asset.

  “And,” Randall continued, “Mrs. Butcher also says that Prudence Sharp only won the mince pie ribbon because she adds laudanum to her sauce.”

  “My goodness, you’re learning everything tonight.”

  He leaned back and examined his fingernails. “I also heard that a certain foreign-bred banker has designs on one of the miller’s daughters.”

  “Oh, well,” I said lightly, “you can’t believe everything you hear.”

  And then I looked at him, and all levity fell away. Randall watched me, finally serious for the first time in that long, long day together. I took a step back. He grabbed my hands. “Charlotte, let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

  Had I heard him right? I pulled my hands away and gripped the railing behind me. Married? Could he mean it?

  But as I looked at him in his fine brown country suit, his city hair trimmed away, the relaxed way he leaned against the fence—even now, of all moments!—suddenly, it didn’t seem like such a strange idea. He was a good man: kind, reliable. He came from a well-set family and had secure employment. I wasn’t likely to find a better prospect among the men in Shearing; in fact, I’d never dreamed of making so good a match. Marrying Randall Woodstone could solve so many problems. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. I was not so foolish as to pass it up.

  I met his eyes at last, to see him watching me, gently, with his clear, easy gaze. It was a nice face, one I could be happy looking into every day.

  “All right.”

  He swept his arms around me and lifted me bodily off the ground, my heart beating frantically against his chest. How long he held me like that, I cannot say, but I think one song ended and the next began, and before long, the dancing brought Rosie round to us. With the barest glance at the expression on my face, she abandoned her partner and joined us at the gate.

  “You look like you’ve swallowed a live fish,” she said. “Where on Earth have you two been today?”

  “Your sister is going to marry me,” Randall said, his voice th
ick with emotion behind the grin. Rosie let out an absolutely unrestrained whoop of delight.

  “Never!” she said, and fairly jumped into his arms. I had to drag her off him; she was beating him on the back with her fists. She fell back and, hands on her hips, she looked him over appraisingly, as if she’d never seen him before.

  “When?” she demanded. “When did all this happen? Oh, I don’t care!” Whereupon she smacked poor Randall once again, hard on the shoulder. “I’ve always wanted a brother. I can’t imagine one I’d like more than you. Oh!” she cried. “I must tell everyone! Can I tell everyone?”

  Randall and I stood there, grinning like fools. “I suppose so,” I said, and before I could say another word, Rosie had kissed him on the cheek and dashed off across the dance floor. I thought for a moment she would interrupt the dancing and make a very public announcement, but we were spared that. She stopped and whispered something to Rachel Baker, who turned to stare at us, grinned, and ran off the stage.

  “Rosie,” I said, smiling and shaking my head. I looked at Randall. Smiling still, I crept in closer to him, and he put his arm around my shoulders. His arm tightened around me. It was nice; I found I liked it very much.

  “Are you quite sure you don’t have a brother at home for Rosie?” I sighed, laying my head back against his shoulder.

  “Rosie’s well taken care of already, Charlotte.” He pulled his arm free and pointed across the stage, to where Rosie was deep in conversation with Harte. Their matching golden heads were pulled close together, a slow smile spreading across his broad face, her cheeks flaming red. Of course…Rosie and Harte. How could I have missed it? My heart felt altogether too full, as if it would burst should anything else wonderful happen that night.

  “Oh!” I said, a little helplessly. “Oh! Oh!”

  Randall pulled me in tighter, and kissed me again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I didn’t sleep at all that night, and no wonder, I suppose. The festival mood had evaporated, leaving the old cautious Charlotte in its wake. How could I marry Randall Woodstone? I barely knew the man; he certainly did not know me, and I was sure he would not want to. And furthermore, he lived in Harrowgate! I hadn’t been thinking clearly—somehow I had overlooked the fact that the moment we were married, Randall Woodstone would sweep me away from Shearing and Stirwaters and everything that meant anything to me.