Once in a Blue Moon

by Penelope Williamson

  The pieman, mollified by the sale, ceased his complaining. He selected a quince jam tart, wrapped it in paper, and pocketed the coin with a one-handed flourish. Jessalyn dragged Becka out of sight of the kiddley tent, giving her the tart to stifle her flow of protests over the pieman's rudeness. Jessalyn strode so fast through the booths and stalls that Becka had to run to keep up.

  They emerged into a clearing where a cockpit had been scooped out of the sand. Men crowded around the makeshift ring, shouting and laughing, waving bank notes and fistfuls of coins. There was a smell in the air around the pit, almost a stink, of hot breath, human sweat, and the brassy odor of money.

  Within the pit a pair of cocks with shaved necks and sharpened spurs were circling each other. One of the birds emitted a low-throated rattle that reminded Jessalyn of the sound the wind made as it whipped through the gorse.

  "Ye ought t' lay a shilling on that red-breasted cock," Becka said, stuffing the last of the pastry into her mouth. "He's got a fire in his eye. Me da always said, bet on the bird what got the fire in his eye."

  Gram was the one for betting on cockfights. Jessalyn couldn't even bear to watch them. Just then the cocks flew at each other in a fury of spraying blood and feathers. Jessalyn started to turn aside, but the crowd had closed in around her, pinning her next to the ring.

  "Aagh! That pie was some awful," Becka said, licking her fingers. "She be stuck in me throat now. I'll be needing a pint to wash 'er down." Her new hair ribbon swaying, Becka pushed her way through the men, heading toward a tent that sported a banner advertising Bang-Up ginger beer.

  Jessalyn had opened her mouth to call after the girl when she saw him again. That Trelawny man. He stood on the other side of the cockpit, the sun at his back. His tall, lean body cast a shadow across the blood-splattered sand. She could not see his face, yet she knew he looked at her. For one suspended moment the bellows and shrieks of the cockfight faded until all Jessalyn could hear was the beat of her pulse, thudding hard and fast in her throat.

  Someone jostled her, breaking the spell. She pressed her way through the crush, almost running. Back among the tents and booths again, she looked over her shoulder to see if he followed... and slammed into the chest of a dragon.

  She barely kept the scream from getting past her lips, before her wits informed her pounding heart that the dragon wasn't real. She had walked into the middle of a group of costumed strolling players who were passing out handbills for that night's performance.

  The gilt and spangled dragon clutched at her with his claws. He roared a laugh, breathing gin fumes, not fire. "Eh, girlie, wha's yer hurry? Give us a kiss."

  Jessalyn struggled in his scaly embrace. For a dragon he was a pathetic specimen, missing a wing and two teeth, his green paint chipping. She elbowed him in the belly. He wheezed a fumy breath and let her go. When she looked behind her again, that Trelawny man was nowhere in sight. Obviously he was not the sort, she thought with a sudden smile, to rescue fair damsels from gin-breathing dragons.

  Alone now, Jessalyn walked aimlessly past a stall selling ships and whelks in bottles. A caning man offered to reweave a chair seat for her while she waited. Beside him, tied to a stake, was Toby, the learned pig that could guess, so his master claimed, the date of her birth and predict her future. She was tempted to ask the pig whether the man she married would be fair or dark, when her gaze fell on the most beautiful bonnet in the world.

  The booth was the most splendid one along the row, for it was covered with a canvas roof, striped and fringed like a Moor's tent. The awning shaded a trestle counter piled high with a colorful profusion of fur and velvet and straw. But one hat stood out above all the others.

  Jessalyn picked up the hat and stepped out from beneath the awning to study it better in the fading sunlight. It was tall-crowned, made of midnight blue curled silk and trimmed with enormous rose passionflowers. She smiled at the woman behind the counter. "How much is it?"

  "Two pound ten, miss."

  "Two pound ten!" Jessalyn didn't need to pretend her shock at the price. "Is this a hat you're selling or the crown jewels?" She laughed, and the sound of her laughter floated over the noise of the fair so that several people turned to stare and then smiled and laughed along with her.

  "Don't buy it."

  Jessalyn whirled, her fingers gripping the hat's wide brim, crushing the stiff silk. She looked up into a pair of dark, penetrating eyes. "Why are you following me?"

  "It's an insanity, you know."

  Something swelled inside her chest, making it difficult to breathe. "What?"

  "It's an insanity, a mental aberration. Bedlam is full of those who do it."

  She wondered why she couldn't make any sense of what he was saying. It was as if she had suddenly sprouted windmills in her head. "Do what?"

  "Why, believe that they are constantly being followed by others with evil designs upon their persons. I assure you that I have not been following you, Miss Letty. Nor do I have any sort of design upon your person, evil or otherwise. Fate simply seems to be disgorging you into my path."

  "Like Jonah and the whale?"

  She had smiled at her own little joke, but he didn't return the smile. He stared at her, and because looking away from him would be the act of a coward, she stared back. His high-boned face held a strange disquiet, and his mouth was set in a thin, hard line.

  "My, my," he finally said. "There is a wit beneath all that red hair." He took the bonnet from her nerveless fingers. His hand brushed hers, and a shiver fluttered across her chest, as if a chill wind had come up. Yet the evening had fallen suddenly still. "This hat would not do at all for you," he said. "It is meant for a more mature woman."

  Of course, he would think of her as a child. She felt awkward and bedraggled in her speckled dimity frock with its frayed hem and the mended spot on the skirt where she'd caught it on a nail and in her serviceable leather half boots that pinched. She would never be the kind of woman who could wear such a hat and carry it off.

  "I thank you for your opinion," she said. "Now if you will excuse me, please, I have business elsewhere."

  "Where elsewhere?"

  "There." She flung a finger past him, toward the setting sun, and only belatedly noticed where she had pointed. To her horror she saw the Reverend Troutbeck waddling toward her on his fat, bowed legs.

  "Miss Letty, here you are at last," the reverend said, panting. "We've been waiting for you." The pastor gestured behind him, where a crowd had started to gather around a gibbet. Suspended from the crossbeam of the gibbet was a row of horse collars. The heads of three widely grinning boys poked out of three of the collars; the fourth was empty.

  "A grinning contest!" the Trelawny man exclaimed, shock and laughter in his voice. "You are going to be in a grinning contest."

  "No, no," Jessalyn protested. Her cheeks felt so hot she was sure they were on fire. "There has been a mistake. Not a mistake precisely, but a misinterpretation. Of something I said. Or rather, of something I neglected to say..."

  The Reverend Troutbeck launched into a discourse about the contest, of how it had become a sort of tradition at the last few Midsummer's Eve fairs, as a way of raising money to reslate the church roof. The congregation, he said, made wagers on whose grin was the widest and whose could last the longest.

  Jessalyn couldn't bear to look at the man beside her, but she could feel his gaze on her mouth. She quelled a sudden urge to wet her lips.

  "Are you certain you are not mistaken, Miss Letty?" he said, drawling the words. "The good reverend here seems to be of the opinion that you've agreed to be in the competition." He waved a languid hand at the horse collars. "Indeed, he has saved you a place."

  The reverend's face, florid and fat as a summer pumpkin, beamed above his grease-stained stock. "Our Miss Letty is a past champion."

  "Then our Miss Letty has her title to defend, of course." The Trelawny man bowed at her, mockery in every line of his body. "Please, do not let me detain you."

 
There was nothing for it. She had to go through with it, to put a brave face on it. Or rather, grin on it. Jessalyn followed the reverend toward the gibbet. She mounted the steps slowly, her head high, her back stiff, as if she were Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine. She thrust her head through the horse collar, fighting off a cowardly desire to up and hang herself here and now, since she had a gibbet right to hand. So she had a big mouth. But dear life, only a cork-brained, addlepated wet goose would go and make a spectacle out of herself by entering a grinning contest.

  She had never felt less like smiling.

  The hurdy-gurdy ground out its tinny song as around and around they went—the wooden horses with their legs flying high, tails and manes streaming in the wind. Jessalyn had never seen such a wonder before, and she laughed out loud.

  The horses had been painted all the bright colors of a peacock's tail and were anchored to a wooden platform by poles through their middles. The platform turned by means of an intricate mesh of chains and gears that were powered by a pair of live donkeys turning a treadmill. A barker dressed in a black checkered coat called out to the passersby to come and ride the merry-go-round.

  "It seems we meet again, Miss Letty."

  He came toward her out of the falling darkness, limping slightly. He stopped to stand before her, one thumb hooked on his fob pocket, his hip cocked forward. That Trelawny man. She wondered why he kept seeking her out. She wanted him to leave her alone.

  "Why are you doing this? What do you want with me?"

  He almost smiled. "What do you suppose I want with you?" He paused, and his words hung in the air, full of threat. Or a promise. "I want, as it happens, to chide you for costing me a guinea," he said.

  "I cannot imagine what you are talking about."

  "The good reverend so bragged of your prowess in flashing your ivories that I laid a guinea on you. He assured me I could not lose."

  "That should teach you then, sir—never to bet on a sure thing."

  He laughed, and the deep, throaty sound seemed to resonate in her blood. He took a step closer to her. She felt his nearness like the heat of a candle's flame.

  She averted her head, sure that he would be able to read her feelings in her face. She couldn't understand this strange effect he seemed to have on her. She disliked him, in a way he frightened her. Yet her whole body leaped and came alive at the mere sight of him. It was like being given one of those electric charges that she'd read about in the newspaper, which had caused dead frogs to jump across the room. She smiled at the silly thought.

  "I never trust people who smile suddenly for no reason," he said.

  She looked up at him. He was staring at her with lazy-lidded eyes. "Oh, they always have a reason," she said. "You are only angry because you don't know what the reason is, and you suspect that they are secretly laughing at you."

  "All the more reason then not to trust them."

  Mesmerized, she watched the creases alongside his mouth deepen as he spoke. There was a bitter conviction in his voice and a tautness to his lips, as if he had learned about trust the hard way.

  A silence fell between them. She knew she ought to say something; otherwise he would think her sadly dull. He would make his excuses, bow in that mocking way of his, and depart. A moment ago she had wanted him to leave her alone. Now, perversely, she didn't. She searched for a topic of conversation, but her head was suddenly as empty as the Reverend Troutbeck's collection plate.

  The hurdy-gurdy was being cranked to a resounding crescendo, and the spinning horses whirled faster and faster, until they became blurs of color, like streams of spilled paint. Chinese lanterns flickered in the dusk, giving the illusion that the horses were alive.

  Jessalyn's breath came out in an unconscious sigh. "That looks like such fun."

  "Shall we find out?"

  Before she knew what he was about, he had seized her hand, dragging her along after him. "It's for children!" she cried, but he didn't seem to hear. He dipped two fingers into his fob pocket and fished out a couple coins, which he tossed at the startled man in the checkered coat.

  He lifted her onto the spinning platform and leaped up after her. He must have put all his weight onto his wounded leg, for he stumbled slightly and a grimace of pain flashed across his face. She reached out to him, to steady him. But he shook off her hand and, seizing her around the waist, hoisted her sidesaddle onto a blue horse's back. Laughing, she grabbed the pole as the world whirled by. He took the mount behind her. His legs were so long he dwarfed the horse. She laughed again, but not at him.

  Their gazes met, and he smiled. The first true smile that she had seen from him. It melted the starkness of his face and turned the creases at the corners of his mouth into boyish dimples. She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her waist, like a lingering warmth. Around they went, riding on the wind and her laughter, and the Chinese lanterns became spinning stars. She wanted it to go on and on and on.

  The merry-go-round wound slowly down. The music died, along with his smile. Too soon he was beside her. His hand slid beneath her elbow to help her dismount, then let her go. She had to catch her breath, as if she and not the horses had been galloping around and around. She turned to look at him. The dusk had deepened into darkness. The lanterns cast harsh shadows over the fairground and on his face.

  The wind snatched at a lock of her hair, plastering it across her mouth. He plucked it free, the rough seam of his leather glove just brushing her lips. He rubbed the lock of hair between his fingers as if feeling its texture before he tucked it behind her ear, touching her again, and Jessalyn's stomach clenched with a strange hollowness that was close to pain. Or hunger. She wanted something, but what that something was she couldn't name or imagine.

  He stepped back, and Jessalyn released the breath she hadn't even known she was holding. "Thank you for your charming company, Miss Letty," he said. "Perhaps someday we shall go riding together on the real thing."

  She stared up at his face, at those piercing eyes and hard mouth. Dangerous to know... He both drew and repelled her. There was something dark and seductive about him; to come within his presence was like walking into a spider web. She knew she ought to tell him that it would be improper to call on her when they had not been formally introduced, but her throat and chest were suddenly so tight she couldn't speak.

  "Jessalyn!"

  She spun around to see a tall young man striding toward her. He waved his hat in the air, and the lanterns gilded his hair into a golden halo. "Clarence!" she exclaimed, laughing with surprise and delight.

  "I thought it just possible that I might find you here," he said as he came up to her. "But I didn't dare to hope...." He seized her hands and looked down at her warmly, with eyes that were bottle green and a winsome smile that revealed the small gap between his two front teeth. Then his gaze slid beyond her, and his eyes narrowed.

  Jessalyn turned around just in time to see the Trelawny man's broad back disappearing into the crowd. She felt strangely bereft, like a puppy that has been taken to the crossroads and abandoned.

  "Were you with McCady Trelawny?" Clarence said, surprise in his voice.

  "What?" She became aware that Clarence was still holding her hands and studying her face. She pulled away from him, forcing out a laugh. "Oh, no, I don't even know Mr. Trelawny. Not at all. Not to speak to, that is. Well, perhaps to speak to, but I don't really know him, if you know what I mean..."

  Clarence was grinning at her. "Jessalyn, you are babbling. You always babble when you're nervous. Or when you have something to hide."

  He knew her too well, did Clarence Tiltwell. They had spent so many hours of their childhood together, swimming, fishing, riding. They had shared their dreams and their secrets. But that was long ago; the dreams and the secrets had been those of children. She hadn't seen him much after he had been sent away to Eton and had then gone on to university. She realized suddenly that he was a man now, very much the London buck in his snuff brown coat and fawn-colored a
nkle button trousers. He had always been fair and slender, like his mother.

  Cousins. Clarence and that Trelawny man—they were cousins.

  Jessalyn remembered now.... His mother's sister had been married to the late earl of Caerhays. They were all dead now—Clarence's mother, the sister, and the earl. There had been some scandal. The kind of scandal that produces a rush of hot whispers that is always cut off when someone young and female enters the room. It meant, of course, that someone had been caught in the marital act with someone one wasn't married to.

  "Jessalyn?"

  Jessalyn looked up at Clarence's face, searching for a resemblance to his dark cousin. Except for their height, the two young men couldn't have been more different.

  He studied her just as intently. "You've changed," he said. "Grown up."

  "So have you." They shared a slow smile that was ripe with memories.

  "Where is your grandmother?" he said abruptly. "Surely she isn't allowing you to wander the fair alone. Especially now that you're all grown up."

  Jessalyn laughed, feeling suddenly carefree again. "Well, I did have a chaperone of a sort. But she was seduced away by ginger beer."

  He offered her his bent arm. "They'll be lighting the bonfire soon. Shall we go watch?"

  They left the fair, walking along the top of the seawall. The bay bristled with masts from all the brigs, cutters, and ketches, like the spines on a porcupine's back. The smell of tar and rope and rusted chain was heavy in the air. They spoke of Lady Letty and the stud farm, of his life at Cambridge, and the party his father was giving at their country manor house, Larkhaven, on the morrow. Jessalyn smiled and laughed with the young man who walked beside her, and all the while a part of her was aware of, was looking for his dark-haired, dark-eyed cousin.

  To take advantage of traffic from the fair, the fishmongers had set out their wares along the wharf. Shining wet mackerel and bass lay on granite slabs, next to piles of huge black oyster bags and herring barrels. A fishwife, in her leather apron and scarlet petticoat, screamed at them as they walked by: "Ye-oo! Ye-o-o! Buy me fresh cockles an' whelks-o!"