‘Thieves involving the innocent is a crime worse than the theft from the king’s purse! They should be punished and stopped! Making the innocent take their risks for them is wicked!’ and ran back to the alehouse.
* * *
Daniels, Keeper of the Peace, was in his thirties, a widower with five children whose ages ranged between six and fifteen, and a serious-faced man who rarely smiled. He was smartly dressed – over-fussy, many thought, about his appearance – and never stepped out of his door without first making sure there was not a speck of dust on his shoulders or a touch of mud on his boots. It seemed to those who knew him that he led a comfortable life, with the older children caring for the youngest and all of them finding work either in the fields or doing chores in some of the richer houses. Yet the expression on his countenance showed nothing but gloom.
He had accepted the post some eight years before, with a sanguine attitude, knowing that if he were to live long enough to enjoy the standing in the community it gave him, he had to suffer both periodical deafness and occasional poor sight. Over the years he had frequently been called to deal with evidence of smuggling, and each time he found, after apparently diligent effort, that there was nothing to lead him to those responsible.
On the occasion when Barrass had inadvertently become involved, Daniels was pushed to greater effort. He had been warned by his superiors yet again that the night activities must cease. In trepidation, he set off to start questioning people about where they had been during the Tuesday night. He began with Betson-the-Flowers, knowing what she would say and knowing it would not be the truth.
Betson lived in what remained of a house, far above the steep cliffs and beyond the barn which Barrass had tried to make into a home. Her room was always filled with flowers, gathered from the fields and hedges, and brought back to be lovingly arranged in whatever pots and bowls she could find. It being autumn, she obviously found it difficult to fill her room with flowers but, not to be outdone, she had gathered branches of leaves tinted by the coming of winter into a thousand beautiful colours. The displays included huge clouds of traveller’s joy and sprays of late blackberries, the fruit adding a texture and a brightness which reflected in the polished surface of the tables she had acquired and patiently cared for, and the shining windows. People soon forgot to notice the cracked walls and the almost non-existent ceiling in the glory of the magnificent exhibition.
She had a regular stream of visitors, all men and all willing to pay her with a variety of goods for a few moments or several hours of her company. Many came just to talk, to be fussed over and made to feel wanted and important for an hour or two, but others needed more. There was only one room, so when she did not want to be disturbed, she draped a piece of frilly curtain over the window and no one called until it was removed.
Daniels made his way along the rutted path to her door and glanced at the window to make sure it was clear. Betson had seen him coming and opened the door wide in welcome, her long red hair hanging down over the black dress she habitually wore.
‘He was here with me. No names, mind, but here he was.’
‘Betson, I haven’t even asked a question yet!’ Daniels said with a groan.
‘No matter. If he says he was here, then it’s here he was!’ Betson insisted.
‘Only one?’ He quirked an eyebrow quizzically.
‘Course not only one! Whoever you wants, if they say they was here—’
‘—then it’s here they were,’ Daniels finished. ‘Thank you, Betson, I don’t know what I’d do without your cooperation!’
Daniels rode around the village, a notebook in his hand, making what he could of the vague and apparently helpful information he was given. His questions were answered with great enthusiasm, men and women wearing an innocent expression, with eyes popping in their willingness to help, but no one saw or heard a thing.
Only when he questioned Barrass did he have a suspicion that the boy had seen something that troubled him, but try as he might, he could not get more than ‘I do not agree with the boats,’ from that young man.
From his wearisome questioning throughout several days, all he had learnt was that apart from Barrass, who had been in the town, everyone had been either with Betson-the-Flowers or at the Ddole House party. He braced himself for an interview with Dorothy Amelia Ddole.
Leaving his pony with a stable boy, he knocked on the kitchen door and waited, notebook in hand, while Florrie brushed the flour from her hands and the kitchen maid took off her sacking apron and cleared away the bucket and brush with which she had been scrubbing the floor.
‘Mind you don’t slip, and please to stand on the dry bits,’ Cook demanded as the tall imposing officer of the law finally entered.
He sometimes thought that Florrie was more terrifying than Mistress Ddole. Yet he had begun to discover a softer side to the woman, a hint that perhaps she looked kindly on him. He smiled at her, the unusual expression lighting up his hazel eyes and surprising Florrie with the interest they showed. Somewhat flustered, she pushed Dozy Bethan aside, led him into the house herself and knocked on the door of the drawing room to tell her mistress he was arrived.
He found Dorothy Ddole lying on a couch in front of a blazing fire. Beside her was a basket of sheep wool, gathered from the hedges where the sheep had dragged past, and washed until it was soft and clean and free from dead leaves and other debris. She was carefully sewing a layer of it between pieces of cloth to make a quilt, patterning the stitches into scrolls and flowers. She looked unwell and he paused, wondering whether to make his excuses and leave the questions for another day. Her answers, like those of Bethan-the-Flowers, were a foregone conclusion anyway – she had seen nothing and heard even less! But when she looked up, she smiled and the tenseness he had seen left her.
‘Daniels. Do come in. How can we help you?’ Before he could answer, she called, ‘Bethan! An ale and a bite for Mr Daniels if you please.’
‘Cook says she’s bringing it, Mistress,’ Bethan replied with a bobbing curtsey as she entered the room.
Daniels knew that the bonhomie was a farce and this would be as hopeless as all his other attempts to discover what had happened on Tuesday, but at least the ale was good – freshly brewed and in a glass as delicate as any he had seen. He carefully straightened his trousers, adjusted his coat to prevent creasing and settled down to enjoy it.
‘I am told that you want to question everyone about where they were on Tuesday evening, Daniels?’ Dorothy eased herself to a more comfortable position and smiled at him. ‘You could have saved yourself a lot of riding if you’d come here first. Everyone who is anyone was here.’
‘A party I understand, Mistress Ddole.’
‘Well, it seemed to me that so many of the villagers have nothing but drudgery in their lives. I thought to give a little excitement. It’s so little to do, a bit of extra food, some ale, a few bottles of spirits—’ she stared boldly at him, her deep-set eyes brightening with humour ‘—bought from Pitcher as I’m sure you will have checked.’
‘Of course, Mistress Ddole.’
‘Apart from those things – which we can easily afford – then all it took was a few hours of our time, mine and my husband’s.’
‘And he was here all evening.’
‘As host, where else could he be?’
‘Were there any who refused your kind invitation, Mistress Ddole? Any who made an excuse that they could not attend?’
‘Really! Who would dare?’ She laughed again and this time, the sparkle in her eyes faded as she held her stomach and swallowed painfully.
‘Is anything wrong? Is there anything I can do?’
‘Ring for Bethan if you please. I need some more of Doctor Percy’s medicine for this indigestion. She will have to go and fetch it.’
‘They say brandy is soothing for upsets of the digestive system, Mistress Ddole,’ he said dryly.
‘Yes, so I have heard. Perhaps I will instruct Pitcher to send some for me,’ she repl
ied with equal drollery.
* * *
Emma’s excitement showed no sign of decreasing. Since the Ddole party, when Edwin Prince a local farmer and a friend of the Ddoles, had shown such an interest in Violet, Emma had been in a state of euphoria. It seemed far more exciting to the mother than the daughter, although, as Emma assured Pitcher,
‘Our eldest daughter is looking different since that night, Pitcher, sort of woken up, and brighter than a new taper.’
Emma was sitting in the parlour fixing some fresh braid on a winter dress belonging to Violet, and Pitcher had come for a brief rest. The men sitting at the tables outside the alehouse in a benign, watery sun were settled into a game of draughts with a full quart mug at each elbow. They wouldn’t be needing him for a while.
‘Our Violet is walking about in a state near to dreaming – surely you have noticed, Pitcher?’
‘Well, now you mention it, I did have to call her three times to warn her that the flooring was up in the back room, and at the time I felt certain that she was about to step out into nothing and disappear down the hole. Yes, Violet has something on her mind now you mention it. I suppose he’s all right, this Edwin? Seems a mite strange for him to be thirty and never married. Not nothing unpleasant about him, is there, doesn’t beat his servants or anything I suppose?’
‘Of course not, Mr Palmer! Give me credit for having some sense! I have made diligent inquiries of a confidential nature and there’s nothing to fear.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She said she wanted to walk by the water and think about things. I do think I’ll go and find her, perhaps it will help her to have her mother to talk to. At such times, a young lady needs the ear of someone who understands.’
‘You understand, do you?’ Pitcher grinned, leaning closer to his plump wife. ‘You being experienced in love and all that yourself?’
Emma laughed coquettishly and gave him a gentle slap. ‘Now, husband, don’t start making me blush.’
A few minutes later she stepped out of the front door, nodding politely but with the right amount of coolness to the men sitting at their game, and walked along the road to find her daughter. She was in a pleasant mood, but the smile that moulded her small features into a smudge of wrinkles rapidly faded when she found her eldest daughter. Violet was not dreaming about Edwin Prince, she was almost arm in arm with Barrass.
Violet moved away from Barrass as she saw her mother bearing down and hurried to greet her, patting her brown hair nervously.
‘Mother, I’m so pleased to see you, now we can walk together.’
Emma glared at Barrass, who stood hesitantly, wondering whether to stay or leave. Wordlessly, she caught hold of Violet’s arm and led her away, tripping over the uneven ground in her haste.
An hour later, Barrass was again homeless and without work.
* * *
Violet’s room was at the back of the house, overlooking the confusion of the building work. She sat at her window that evening, listening to the gentle breathing of her sisters, unable to sleep. Her thoughts were not about Edwin, on whom her mother had built such hopes, but about Barrass.
The yard lay in darkness, the archway leading to the malt-house an empty black tunnel. She was tempted to give up all attempts to sleep and light a candle; perhaps she would go downstairs for a drink of water, that sometimes calmed her into sleep. She sat perfectly still for a while longer, too awake to sleep yet too lethargic to move. Then she became aware of a movement in the tunnel of blackness near the malt-house.
She instinctively moved back from the window, as if even at this range needing to seek the safety of further distance. Then curiosity overcame the temporary fright and she peered carefully out again. It was Barrass. Without even seeing him she knew suddenly and clearly that it was Barrass. Picking up a candle and flint, she glided softly down the stairs, through the dangers of the half-built room and out into the yard.
She paused for a moment waiting until her eyes had readjusted to the different light of the open air and then a movement caught her eye and a voice whispered,
‘Miss Violet! What are you doing out here at such a time?’
‘Barrass, I knew it would be you. I’ve come to say I’m very sorry to have been responsible for you losing your home and your work.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I had no right to talk you so boldly. Don’t you worry, Miss Violet, I got what I deserved. And,’ he added slowly, ‘it was worth it.’
‘I’ll try to talk to my father tomorrow,’ Violet whispered back, then she shivered and drew her thin shawl closer around her shoulders.
‘Look, you’re getting cold. Go in now before I have your illness to bear as well as the scolding I caused you.’
His voice was soft, caressing as a warm breeze, and instead of moving towards the door and safety, Violet stepped closer to the shadowy figure near the archway.
‘I don’t want you harmed, Miss Violet.’
‘I know,’ she whispered, her voice uneven, tormented by a constriction in her throat.
‘Can’t bear the thought of you being cold.’
‘The night is kindly. I don’t feel cold.’ How could she tell him that just knowing he was near was warming her blood in a magical way?
‘Would you like to put my coat over your shoulders, Miss Violet?’
Even the way he spoke her name was different from how it had sounded before. She stepped nearer to the archway and felt his arms touch her as he placed his jacket around her, sparking off a desire that made her gasp. Then they were pressed against each other, his strong body moulding hers against him, a perfect completeness. His lips soft and welcoming, his male smell, the roughness of his clothes all added to the flawless moment.
He released her gently, and pushed her towards the doorway. ‘You must go, we shouldn’t meet again. I – can’t trust myself,’ he muttered, stumbling away from her into the darkness of the archway.
She followed him, then handing back his jacket, returned to the house. Not see him again? Compared with the dull, over-polite young men her mother had insisted she meet, how could she ignore Barrass, who had woken her up to womanhood?
She was still awake, sitting at her window, watching the dawn rise over the sea, when the servant girl came in with water for her to wash. She soaped her body slowly, aware of its promise of new delights, dressing with greater care than usual, in a brown taffeta dress with a flowing wide skirt that she knew showed her figure well, and a bonnet of darker brown to match the chiffon sash.
The twins watched her go downstairs then giggled.
‘This Edwin must be something quite out of the ordinary to make our dear sister so much changed!’ Pansy whispered.
‘Yet he seemed a dullard, and with such an ungentlemanly way of dressing! A farmer whose hands are marked by the soil. Oh, the thought of being touched by such hands!’ Daisy replied. Both girls shuddered delicately at the thought.
‘But it must be nice to meet someone who makes every moment a dream. Our dear sister can perhaps see something in Edwin that we cannot,’ Pansy said. The more kindly of the twins, she was less happy than Daisy to criticize others, less inclined to remind those she met of the differences in their education and style.
Daisy lowered her voice even more and said, ‘But Pansy, my dear, what can Edwin see to admire in our dear sister Violet? Dull brown hair, mud-coloured eyes, never a smile to lighten anyone’s day. A brown streak of solemn indifference!’
Both girls continued giggling as they completed their preparations for the day, then, calling for the servant to carry down their shawls in case they needed them, they tripped happily down the stairs to greet their parents at breakfast.
* * *
Barrass did not go to see Spider and Mary to tell them of his loss of a home. People were showing him an increasing lack of friendship and although he had no idea of the reason, he was so used to being an outsider that he accepted it stoically, and waited fo
r things to change. Because of several rebuffs, he didn’t want to talk to anyone, even the kindly fisher family to whom he always looked for comfort and friendship. Besides, what was on his mind was not his homelessness – after all, that was hardly something new.
Since those few moments in the archway with Violet, his mind was filled only with her, memories of her slim and sensuous body causing an agony of desire. Even when the night approached and he had made no effort to find himself a new home he did not concern himself with the practicalities of shelter and sleep. He would wait behind Pitcher’s alehouse and perhaps be rewarded with a glimpse of Violet. That would be comfort enough.
The night was cold but the wind was almost nonexistent, the sea a low murmur with the regular sound of clinking, clattering pebbles as they were dropped by the slow out-going waves. He had brought two sacks he had begged from Ivor Baker and filled with dried seaweed for a pillow of sorts to protect his back from the worst of the night chills. He settled himself as comfortably as he could, leaning up on one elbow, watching the doorway for the appearance of Violet.
She came when all the lights in the house had been snuffed out, wearing a billowing nightgown of embroidered cotton, a nightcap which matched it, soft slippers and, shrouding it all, a thick blanket worn as a shawl. She made no pretence at being surprised to find him there, but walked towards him and tilted her face for his kisses.
His hands were warm as they moved slowly over her skin, touching her slender neck and moving down to the ribbons that held the top of her gown laced in a frill of crocheted flowers. He pulled them and the restraining material fell away from her breasts, which swelled under his touch.
They both groaned softly under the spell of discovery, their movements soon as rhythmical as the waves touching the shore, with the falling of the pebbles a hypnotic accompaniment. Then they lay still, clinging to each other as if afraid to admit that, for a time, the magic was past. They risked staying together, hardly speaking, relishing the closeness, the sense of belonging, until a cockerel crowed from a nearby fence and warned them it was time for people to start their day. Reluctantly, Violet left the archway and went across the littered yard and back to her lonely bed.
Summer’s Last Retreat Page 9