Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  Shelves of jagged brown rock surrounded the area on three sides, spreading fan-like into the water below. I watched the waves splattering, plumes of misty spray catching the sunlight. The gulls swooped lower, investigating, hoping I might have brought food. There was a small outcropping of rock in the water directly ahead, and beyond that nothing but ocean, stretching endlessly, merging into a mist-shrouded horizon. This was the westernmost tip of England, and across the ocean was America, hundreds and hundreds of miles away.

  Gazing toward that blurry violet line where sky melted into sea, I wondered if I would ever see America. It was vast and rugged, I had read, with huge mountains and great deserts where red Indians still roamed wild. There were large cities, as well, and thousands of towns filled with people ready to give an enthusiastic reception to anyone English, anyone European. Singers and dancers and actors were beginning to tour America, returning with tales of exuberant crowds and fantastic energy and incredible wealth. Many artists who had considered the place barbaric before were planning to cross the ocean in hopes of garnering some of that wealth.

  I smiled a rueful smile. Here I sat, imagining myself touring rugged Western towns, dancing before wildly applauding mobs, and I had never even danced before a real audience. The recitals at the academy didn’t count. Madame Olga had said I showed promise, but I knew it would take many more years of hard work before I would be ready for actual performances. I was prepared to work, to wait, to experience the inevitable frustration, for I was determined it would all happen one day despite this temporary setback.

  As I gazed at the plumes of water splashing violently against the rocks below, my mood gradually turned pensive and I began to think about the man I had vowed not to think about. I remembered the handsome face, the easy charm and the patina of hardness, and I remembered the curious premonition that Brence Stephens represented danger, presented a threat. I felt it in my blood, even as I longed to be near him once again.

  A strange new emptiness inside made me feel curiously incomplete, as though something important were being denied me. It was absurd, of course. I would get over it. I wasn’t in love with him. How could I possibly be in love with him? It was just that I knew that I could fall in love with him, so easily, just as my mother had fallen in love with the handsome gypsy. Something told me that falling in love with Brence Stephens would be just as disastrous for me as falling in love with Ramon had been for my mother.

  Being in love seemed to be the most important thing in the world to most of my classmates at the academy. They had chattered of nothing else, had bragged about conquests made during the holidays, talked about handsome suitors and moonlit lawns and kisses stolen in rose gardens. Twice a month there had been carefully chaperoned dances at the academy with a guest list of “suitable” young men. My classmates had been all atwitter, flirting outrageously, but I had found the dances tedious. The young men had been terribly attentive to me, had filled my dance cards promptly, had vied with each other to fetch me punch and escort me out for fresh air in the gardens, but all of them had seemed frightfully immature and clumsy. Their rough caresses had left me cold. I had earned a reputation for being icy and aloof, but that hadn’t bothered me in the least.

  The other girls took affairs of the heart so lightly, falling in and out of love at least twice a month, but it could never be that way with me. I knew there were depths of emotion inside waiting to be aroused, and it would take more than a schoolboy to stir them. Brence Stephens had made me aware of those emotions.

  The waves crashed against the rocks and, immersed in thought, I didn’t hear the footsteps until they were quite near. I turned to to see him approaching, and a wild joy seemed to flood my soul, joy that was totally unexpected and impossible to deny.

  He was incredibly handsome, so handsome it hurt, and I felt a stab of pain that was pleasure as well. His carriage was standing in the distance, the horse contentedly grazing on the short grass. He had come. Deep down I had known he would, just as I knew my coming here was no casual thing.

  “Hello, Mary Ellen,” he said.

  “Hello.”

  There was no joy in my voice. The joy sang inside, but there was fear as well. I felt I was standing on the edge of an abyss, precariously balanced, about to fall.

  “I thought you might be here,” he said. “I’ve come each afternoon.”

  “Have you?”

  “I think you knew I would.”

  “Perhaps I did.”

  He stood there in the sunlight tall and splendid, his hands resting lightly at his sides. His eyes were no longer remote, no longer filled with detached amusement. His expression was grave, and he looked vulnerable, unsure of himself and stubbornly determined not to show it. I suddenly realized that he was lonely.

  “That first day I was very disappointed,” he said. “I waited for three hours, and when you didn’t come, I was angry, at first, and then I began to fear I’d offended you. You see, it’s been a long time since I’ve been around a young woman like you. I’ve been away from England for several years, and the women I met in India—” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “They—they weren’t like you. I was—well, I suppose I was a bit forward the other day, and I’m sorry for it.”

  I could tell that he was sincere. He was certainly complex, a man of many moods. I suspected that the stern authority and self-assurance he had displayed before were part of an invisible shell he wore in order to protect the man inside, a man frequently besieged by self-doubts and afraid to expose the tenderness that was part of his makeup.

  “Apologies don’t come easily for me,” he said. “I’d rather face a band of howling natives.”

  “I imagine you would.”

  “You’re making this very difficult, Mary Ellen.”

  “Am I?”

  “You know you are.”

  “Did—did you ask your cousin about me?” I inquired.

  He nodded gravely. “She told me all about your parents, your birth, your upbringing. Did you really expect that to make any difference, keep me from coming?”

  “I … I wasn’t sure.”

  “I want to get to know you, Mary Ellen. I want to spend time with you. The other afternoon … I felt something. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt it before. When I saw you standing there in your dusty rose dress, your hair all dishevelled, so beautiful, so vulnerable … something happened.”

  He had lowered his eyes, and now he looked up at me, expecting a reply. I made none. The abyss yawned before me, and I seemed to sway dangerously, even though I stood perfectly still. He misinterpreted my silence. He frowned, his eyes dark and moody, filled with disappointment and something almost like resentment. A long moment passed, and then he stepped over to the edge of the rocks and peered down at the waves.

  Several moments passed before he turned to face me.

  “I suppose I’ve made a fool of myself,” he said.

  “No, Brence. Something happened to me, as well. I … I was afraid, and that’s why I didn’t come before.”

  He was puzzled. “Afraid?”

  “Of you, of myself, of … what might happen.”

  “You mustn’t be afraid,” he told me. “Surely you know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  His voice was gentle, his manner grave, protective. I felt that he needed me, and I needed him as well. I knew that if life was to have true meaning I must dare to live. I must dare to love. I took that fatal step, and Brence was there. I was no longer alone. I knew that I loved him, that I was committed. There could be no turning back.

  VI

  It was late afternoon when we reached the fairgrounds at Claymoor. The sun had slipped out of sight on the horizon, leaving behind a blaze of gold and orange banners that slowly faded against a darkening blue sky. Brence helped me out of the carriage and handed a coin to the little boy who appeared, eager to watch after the horse. We moved past the other carriages, strolling toward the booths and stalls and tents. The annual fair was a major event for people in
these parts, and there was a big crowd. Most of the important business had been transacted earlier on, and now that the bartering and trading was over, the crowd was intent on enjoying themselves. An atmosphere of raucous gaiety prevailed.

  “I wonder where the gypsies are,” I remarked. “I don’t see the caravans.”

  “We’ll find them,” he promised. “You’re really quite eager to see them, aren’t you?”

  “It’s been so long. I don’t even know if they’ll remember me. I hope Inez is still with them, and Rudolpho, and Julio, of course. He used to tease me and pull my pigtails every chance he got. He was a dreadful little boy, actually, two years older than I and very proud of his masculinity.”

  Brence smiled, guiding me past the stalls. Children ran to and fro, marveling at the puppet shows and the carousel with its brightly painted horses that bobbed up and down as the calliope played. Dour farmers drank tankards of ale while their wives timidly examined the hand-made lace and the copper pans. Robust lads swaggered about pretending to be men, and girls in their best print dresses laughed together and flirted with the lads. There was a wooden dance floor with Japanese lanterns strung above it, where couples danced country dances while the fiddles played and the colored lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting red, blue, purple, and gold shadows. It was all vital and exciting, noisy and colorful, but I was interested only in looking for the caravans, fearing that perhaps the gypsies hadn’t come after all.

  We passed the booths loaded with wares and the roped-off enclosures where the livestock was kept, passed the carousel and the shooting gallery and the ring where wrestling matches were being held, a boisterous crowd urging the combatants on with lusty shouts and cheers. People stared as we made our way over the grounds, for gentry rarely attended these affairs and we were obviously out of place. Brence looked cool and elegant in his navy blue suit and glossy black boots, and I wore a deep pink frock printed with tiny black polka dots. It was one of my favorites, sophisticated and quite fetching; the skirt was adorned with row upon row of ruffles.

  As we passed the benches and tables where food was being served, I caught sight of John Chapman. He was standing at one of the stalls, a tankard of ale in his hand, talking to two farmers who had worried expressions on their faces. His own expression was sternly indifferent as the farmers pleaded with him. He probably held mortgages on their farms, too. Chapman glanced up and saw us, and I hesitated nervously. Brence looked at me, arching a brow inquisitively.

  “Something wrong?” he inquired.

  “John Chapman, the man I told you about. He’s over there. He’s seen us. I’d just as soon not speak to him.”

  Chapman set his tankard down, brushed past the farmers, and headed toward us. As he approached, a pretty brunette in a vivid red dress hurried over to him and caught hold of his arm, a radiant smile on her lips. Golden hoops dangled from her ears. She obviously knew him quite well and expected a warm reception, but Chapman said something in a sharp voice and shoved her away with unnecessary brutality, his eyes flashing angrily. The girl stumbled and almost fell.

  “Charming chap,” Brence remarked. “He has a real way with the ladies, I see.”

  The girl recovered, bit her lower lip, and then hurried away. I could see that she was unable to comprehend Chapman’s violent rejection. As Chapman joined us, Brence’s mouth grew tight; the tautness about his cheekbones became very pronounced.

  “Miss Lawrence,” Chapman said. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Hello, Mr. Chapman. I—this is my friend Brence Stephens. Brence, John Chapman.”

  Brence nodded curtly. Chapman ignored him.

  “I stopped by to see you yesterday afternoon,” he informed me. “You weren’t home. The maid said she had no idea where you were.”

  “That’s right,” I replied.

  “I stopped by last Thursday, as well. You weren’t home then, either. It seems you’ve been busy.”

  I didn’t have to explain myself to John Chapman, and I had no intention of doing so. He expected me to, however, and stood there waiting for me to speak, while I gazed at him with a polite look in my eyes. Moments passed. The knot of flesh above the bridge of his nose tightened, and his nostrils flared. Brence slipped his arm around my waist, gazing at Chapman with a look of cool boredom that was somehow also frightening.

  “She’s been busy,” Brence said.

  The two men sized each other up. I prayed there wouldn’t be a fight Chapman was larger, with a sturdy build that suggested the strength of a bull, but I had reason to know Brence’s prowess when it came to fighting. I remembered the way he had routed Jamie and Billy. I shivered. His arm tightened around my waist. Chapman scowled.

  “We must have another talk soon,” Chapman said. “We have quite a lot to discuss.”

  I gave him a polite nod. He hesitated a moment, still scowling, and then he turned and walked away, arms swinging, shoulders rolling beneath the corduroy jacket. I sighed with relief, and Brence removed his arm from my waist. His manner was extremely casual, but the look in his eyes was lethal as he watched Chapman depart.

  “Chap could use a few lessons in deportment,” he said lightly. “For a minute there, I thought I might have to give him one. It would have been a pleasure, I assure you.”

  “He makes me very uneasy.”

  “You needn’t worry about John Chapman, Mary Ellen. Shall we resume our quest?”

  I nodded and Brence smiled, and a moment later I forgot all about John Chapman, for as we turned the corner of a row of stalls I saw the gypsy encampment ahead. Assembled on the outskirts of the fairgrounds were at least a dozen painted caravans and a shabby purple tent adorned with faded gold stars and halfmoons. A small crowd milled about, examining the rugs and baskets and strands of beads and other wares the gypsies displayed. Swarthy men attended fires as the shadows gathered. I felt a rush of excitement, remembering, and it must have shown on my face, for Brence laughed as he led me toward the encampment.

  I was a child again, hastening to join my friends, eager to belong, to be a part of their bright, colorful world. How glorious it was going to be to see Inez and Rudolpho and Julio and all the others. I moved from caravan to caravan, filled with expectancy, but I saw no one I knew. It was the same tribe, I knew that, for I recognized the caravans, however sadly their colors had faded, but I saw not a single familiar face. It was almost dark now. The fires were crackling, orange and yellow-orange flames leaping, and someone was strumming a guitar. More and more people were coming to the encampment in anticipation of the dances. Brence and I paused in front of the fortune-teller’s tent. He smiled, a fond look in his eyes, but I could tell that he was merely indulging me.

  “I don’t know any of them,” I said.

  “It’s been a long time, Mary Ellen. Tribes change.”

  I felt a terrible disappointment, and then the flap of the tent opened and the fortune-teller stepped out to stare at the gathering crowd with disdainful black eyes. Her long red and blue skirt was shabby, her red cotton blouse slightly soiled. Yards of tarnished gold beads hung from her neck, and a purple bandana covered her hair. She was very old, her face the color of mahogany, seamed and lined. Her eyelids were painted pale blue, and her cheeks were highly rouged. Her thin lips were a vivid scarlet, curling in a cynical smile as she watched the people milling about the camp. The cloying perfume she wore failed to conceal the odor of garlic and sweat.

  She turned to look at Brence and me. Coal-black eyes glowed with greed and barely concealed malice.

  “I tell fortune!” she snapped. “Pay first.”

  Brence shook his head. The fortune-teller shrugged and started to step back into the tent, and then she hesitated, a deep frown creasing her brow. She stepped nearer, studying me closely. We recognized each other at the same time. Inez wailed and threw her arms in the air, and we fell upon one another, holding, hugging, rocking together. When she finally held me at arm’s length to get a better look, I had to fight back the tears.

&nb
sp; “My Mary Ellen,” she growled. “Ess really you. All grown up.”

  “I was so worried. I couldn’t find you, couldn’t find Rudolpho or Julio or anyone I knew.”

  “Some leave, abandon zee tribe. New ones join us. Julio ess still vith us. Chasing some wench, I fear, instead of helping his poor mother. Rudolpho ess here, too. Rudolpho!” she shrieked. “He ess lazy as ever, shiftless, strumming his guitar instead of finding chickens and fresh milk. Rudolpho! Come at once!”

  Rudolpho came hurrying around the corner of the tent, plump, jolly, exactly as I remembered him. He recognized me at once, his black eyes widening in amazement, and then his lips spread into a wide grin and he swept me up in a tight bear hug that almost cracked my ribs. He whirled me around and set me down and then whirled me around again, laughing gleefully all the while.

  “Enough!” Inez barked. “Leave her be!”

  “Rudolpho,” I said breathlessly. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “You remember, eh? You remember Rudolpho and all the things I teach you? I show you how to pick a pocket, no? I show you how to look forlorn and hold out your hand for coins. I teach you all the dances.”

  “Zut! Zut! Leave her be! She and I, we have things to talk about. We go into zee tent.”

  “Inez, I—I’d like you and Rudolpho to meet my friend Brence Stephens. He was kind enough to bring me today.”

  They looked at him, Rudolpho with a friendly grin, Inez with narrowed eyes that were openly suspicious. Brence nodded politely. Inez placed her hands on her hips and looked him up and down.

  “Ess beautiful,” she observed. “Ess good for you? Zat is zee question. You take charge of him, Rudolpho. Show him zee camp. Get him out uv zee way for a while.”

  Brence gave me a good-natured smile and let Rudolpho lead him toward the caravans and crackling campfires. Inez’s eyes narrowed again as she watched them leave. After a moment she muttered something under her breath and took me inside the tent where a candle, burning in an old pewter holder, cast a soft golden glow. There was no crystal ball, but a pack of soiled Tarot cards set on the rickety table and a series of faded cabal signs hung on the purple tent walls. The smell of garlic and damp cloth was almost overwhelming, but I was so happy to be with Inez that I hardly noticed.