by Cach, Lisa
She loved it. She was having a marvelous time. Despite her original disappointment at having to come to the fair alone, she was finding that it was exactly what she needed. She dallied where she wished, bought ribbons and cheap jewelry she did not need, ate sweets until she was sick, and eavesdropped on the conversations of women who lingered at the stalls or sat waiting for an entertainment to begin.
It was a day of greater freedom than she could ever remember. She was anonymous and yet part of the fair, fitting in as well as any of the other visitors. She had no chaperone and did not need one. There were plenty of men in the streets, but in such a crowd they were restrained from any improper advances toward women, and instead spent their energies in wrestling matches or rowing races down in the harbor, or drinking beer and engaging in garrulous conversations.
The play ended with the villain dead and the hero and heroine happily together, and Konstanze cheered with the rest of the audience, then hopped down off the wall and wandered down the street, pausing to consider the penny-peep show with its reenactment of grisly murders, then moving on.
The first thing she had done when she reached Penperro was to seek out Tom’s house. Hilde had described it for her, and after a short search she had found the blue-trimmed house with the profusion of yellow and orange nasturtiums in the boxes out front. She had gone so far as to climb the stone steps to the slate-sided house, and had stood there staring, wanting to go up to the windows and peer in, hands around her face to break the glare. It had been hard to resist the temptation.
She thought of wandering back to the house now. Was he home? She guessed that he would likely be out here in the thick of things, having found some way to use even something as innocent as a fair to his advantage.
A young man with a lute was singing a ballad of lost love, to the dewy-eyed pleasure of several young women. Konstanze stopped to listen, but the boy’s voice lacked range or expression, and she moved on. It was one of the drawbacks of being a singer herself that she was often too aware of the flaws in others’ singing to enjoy it.
She wandered down toward the harbor, the smell of rotten fish growing stronger with each step, and the crowd denser. She made out the sign of the Fishing Moon, and saw that there were tables set out front, men gathered around them with their tankards of beer, ale, or cider. One man staggered off around the corner of the inn and relieved himself into the shallow river.
Unpleasant a sight as it was, she envied him the convenience. She had had to use one of the revolting temporary privies the town leaders had erected.
She wended her way through the people to the harbor’s edge and looked down at the pile of wood and tar barrels that was being built upon the small beach. At dusk it would be lit for a blazing bonfire. Tom had suggested that she should leave at that time, as the night—and the accumulated effects of beer and cider— would bring out a wildness in the local men that it was best not to observe unescorted. She would take his advice, but wanted to stay at least to see the fire lit.
A roar of approval came from one of the tables of men, and she turned to look. They were drinking a toast of some sort, and as one of the men stepped to the side she saw that Foweather was in the center of the group. She quickly turned away, and with her heart thumping in her chest she eased through the crowd and back up the street, losing herself amidst a sea of white-capped women.
A big-bellied man stepped backward into Bugg II, jostling him and causing him to spill half his drink over his hand and his waistcoat. He cursed and moved the drink to his other hand, shaking off the wet one and glaring at the broad back of the offensive man. If the back had been less broad and the arms less brawny, he would have given the oaf the dressing-down he deserved.
As it was, he simply tried to preserve what remained of his pint as he squeezed through the men clogging up the Fishing Moon. The bright square of the open doorway looked liked heaven’s gate, despite the stench of fish that awaited him outdoors. At least there was the hint of a breeze out there to carry away the smoke, the body odor, and the sickening hints of rancid grease.
He was winding his way through the occupied tables when by a stroke of good fortune a man stood up and left his chair. Bugg II lunged and snagged the seat, beating out a nearer man by the slimmest of margins. The thwarted man gave him a glare, but Bugg II gripped his seat with his free hand, daring the local to try to dislodge him. The man made a rude gesture and spoke to his friends, the bunch of them giving Bugg II a stare and then laughing. Bugg II turned away and sipped at his drink, hoping his face did not look as red as it felt. They were ignorant yahoos, and it didn’t matter what they thought of him.
Engrossed as he was in telling himself how much better he was than the uneducated peasants around him, it wasn’t until he heard the phrase “she sings like an angel” that he looked up from his glass and started to pay attention to the conversation going on at the nearest table.
“She has glorious hair, dark brown touched with red, and gray eyes like the sea on a stormy day,” a man was saying. “You’ve never seen a face so innocent or so pure.”
Bugg II’s eyes widened as he listened.
“And in place of her feet are the daintiest fins you ever could imagine. The poor thing, it must have pained her terribly to walk with them upon the dry land.”
Bugg II’s wide-eyed hope turned to consternation. Fins?
“She must have wanted to come to church very badly,” another man said.
“She’s besotted,” a different one explained to the group, then nodded toward the first man. “With him. Can you believe it?” he asked good-naturedly.
“So what happened after the mermaid hobbled from the church?” someone asked.
Mermaid?
The first man answered. “We chased after her, but she was gone, back into the sea, leaving behind only a bit of weed and a puddle of salt water. She’ll be back, though. I feel it here,” he said, knocking his fisted hand against his chest. “She and I were meant to be together.”
Bugg II was not certain whether or not mermaids existed, but he did know that mahogany-haired, gray-eyed singers were in short supply. Konstanze likely had nothing to do with this little fable—it was too preposterous—but there was enough here to pique his interest. It wouldn’t hurt to learn a little more.
He pulled his chair closer and prepared to make a new friend.
The dusk was deepening the sky above to a rich blue-black as Konstanze found a place to stand along the harbor wall to watch the final preparations on the beach below. A row of young children sat in front of her, while older boys ran around the unlit bonfire, throwing mud at each other and shouting. More people came down to the waterfront, mostly men going down to the beach while the majority of women stayed up on the stones of the street and walls and bridge, safe from the impending merriment. Konstanze turned and looked at the houses and buildings lining the harbor, several windows crowded with faces.
She had caught sight of Tom several times during the afternoon, always surrounded by people, laughing and talking. As if pulled by some sixth sense, her eyes found him again now, amidst the men gathering around the tower of wood.
The vicar’s white head appeared, and beside it Hilde’s sandy blond one. Hilde moved to the side as the vicar spoke to a group of men, apparently ordering them into place. A moment later he raised his arms, and then brought them down, and the men began to sing.
The song started out low at first, then grew in volume and intensity. The noisy crowd, still growing, began to quiet as they listened to the sea chantey about a crew that by the grace of God returned to their port after a fierce storm. By the time the choir was into the fourth verse the crowd had begun to sing along, the song plainly a favorite. The voices echoed off the harbor walls and the stone buildings, the harbor making a natural amphitheater for the mass performance.
A roaring cheer went up as the song finished. The mayor, dressed in his chain of office, raised his hands for silence. Someone handed him a lit torch, which he held
aloft, and the crowd waited with their breath caught in their throats. When the tension reached its height the mayor threw the torch into the pile of wood, and all eyes went to the flame to see if it would catch.
Moments passed, and then all of a sudden the fire caught hold of one of the tar-soaked barrels, flames shooting upward. The crowd shouted its approval.
The vicar raised his arms again, and the choir dove into another song. Boys linked hands around the bonfire, running in a mad circle around the growing flames, while brilliant orange sparks flew upward and across the narrow beach toward her. The children in front of her tilted their heads back, watching the dying sparks drift above.
Her eyes went again to Tom, standing back a ways from the growing fire, the orange light touching his features and the white of his shirt. He stood with arms crossed, talking to someone she did not know. It was strange to watch him with other people, and she saw that he was obviously a well-liked and popular man. He had an air of competence and easy confidence that drew people, even as her own eyes were drawn.
As if feeling her gaze he suddenly shifted his attention, looking in her direction. She doubted he could pick her out amidst the faces, with the glare of the fire so close to him, but in her mind she willed him to know she was there. He turned his attention back to his companion, then a moment later started to walk back up the slope of the beach toward the harbor wall.
Something shifted within her heart, a decision made without conscious thought. Konstanze edged her way to the back of the crowd, intent on making it around the harbor in time to catch him.
Sidestepping and weaving, she pressed her way through the people. For one heart-stopping moment she thought she saw Bugg II’s face in the crowd, but then bodies shifted and she lost sight of the figure. It was too dark to have seen anyone clearly, and she shrugged off the possibility.
Standing on tiptoe she tried to see over the heads around her, but there were too many people between her and where Tom should have emerged. Instead of continuing, she backtracked and then went a short way up the street that led to his house, finding a quiet place to stand in the shadow of a shop porch. She took breaths free from the heaviest scents of fish and people, the fresh night air cool and welcome.
If he didn’t come this way in the next few minutes, she might have to head home. Already she was sensing in the air the impending lawlessness of which Tom had spoken, and she admitted it must have infected her own blood, as otherwise she would not be waiting here for him.
Her day of freedom had been working a strange spell upon her. A lawlessness of her own had been seeping into her blood, silently chewing away the last binding shreds of propriety. Those bands had begun their first weakening many weeks ago, the night she had decided to leave Bugg, and had worn steadily weaker with each day in Cornwall. She was ready now to shed them entirely, releasing herself to follow her heart.
They said that blood would tell. She had never before agreed, as she seemed so different from her colorful parents. She had been well behaved at boarding school, she had been a dutiful daughter while traveling with her mother, and she had been a placid, obedient wife. Yet all the while, it seemed that there had been a different, wilder Konstanze underneath, surviving on the sustenance of music and daydreams.
It was that reckless Konstanze who had fallen in love with Tom Trewella, who had decided somewhere between the jam pasties and the bonfire that she did not want to live a celibate, reclusive life simply because a man she despised could legally call her wife. That Konstanze yearned for Tom, and the feeling she always had when in his company that showed that she was alive. Vibrantly, brilliantly alive. Even when she was upset with him a part of her enjoyed the emotional drama, as it was so much better than feeling nothing.
She knew Tom did not love her—although he lusted for her—and she could bear the knowledge. She would rather feel this passion than not, and would rather take what Tom could give than go entirely without. She knew it was not a wise choice, and she knew that she would have advised another against it, but the choice was her heart’s and she would give it what it wished.
She waited, watching unfamiliar faces go by as some of the families with small children chose to leave.
And then he was there, speaking to a man, slapping his shoulder in farewell, and coming up the street alone, his eyes straight ahead. As he came abreast of her she stepped out of the shadow of the shop porch and fell into step beside him. It took him several steps to realize she was not just another farm girl headed home.
“Konstanze!” he said in surprise, glancing around in an apparent attempt to see if they were observed.
No one appeared to be paying attention to them. “What are you doing here? You should have been home by now.”
“I wanted to see the bonfire. Then I saw you,” she said.
“Do you want me to walk you home?”
“Will you take me to your house, instead?”
He frowned. “Whatever for?”
She shrugged as if she had no specific purpose. If it wasn’t plain to him, she wasn’t going to humiliate herself by spelling it out. “I saw it from outside. I should like to see where and how you live. You have certainly seen enough of where I spend my days.”
“I don’t think that satisfying your curiosity is worth the risk.”
“What risk? Look around you. No one is paying us the least bit of mind. Even if they saw me go in with you, what would they think?”
“That I’d found myself a willing partner for the night. I don’t particularly enjoy being the subject of gossip.”
“It might be good for your reputation,” she said, giving him a mischievous smile and trying not to feel embarrassed by how long the discussion was going on. You’d think he didn’t want her sullying his sacred halls, the way he was hesitating.
“There’s nothing of interest to see. You shall be quickly bored.”
“If so then I’ll leave. Won’t you indulge me in this? It does not seem such a great thing to ask.” Had any woman ever had such a hard time gaining admittance to a man’s house? she wondered. A little more enthusiasm on his part would have been welcome. It didn’t seem to have crossed his mind that her intention was to do anything other than snoop.
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, looking over his shoulder to check again for observers. “All right, then. God only knows why it is that women are so consumed with going through others’ houses.”
“We’re curious, nosy creatures, intent upon discovering secrets.”
“How very reassuring.”
It was only a few minutes more before he was letting her in the back door to his house. There was a lamp burning low in the center of a large worktable, several cloth-covered bowls and plates around it. Tom went to the table and lifted the edge of one cloth, then sighed.
“I told her not to bother leaving anything out for me,” he said. “I gave her the day off, hoping she’d go out and enjoy herself at the fair.”
“Your housekeeper?” Konstanze asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Toley.”
“She lives here?”
“In a cottage a few houses away. She inherited it when her husband died. It had been in his family for generations.”
“So she won’t be back tonight?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
How convenient. “May I see the rest of the house?”
He lit a candle from the lamp and handed it to her, then held his open palm toward the door. “Be my guest. There’s little to see.”
That was a matter of opinion. She preceded him through the door and down the hall, then peered into the sitting room. Tom had brought the lamp with him, and he went in ahead of her to give her more light. “Not very interesting, is it?”
She didn’t say anything. The somewhat sparse furnishings were of middling quality, but not without a certain element of style. He might not put much effort into his decorating, but she guessed that was a matter of lack of time and interest rather than of lack of taste.
His office was more revealing, the massive desk, pigeonholes, shelves, and stacks of ledgers and papers speaking of how very involved his business interests were. Sailing ships were firing cannons at one another across a rough sea in a large painting above his desk.
“Do you dream of joining the navy?” she asked, nodding toward it. It looked like typical male art: they seemed to like paintings of battles, be they on land or sea.
He grimaced. “I should think not. I stay as far away from guns as I can manage, whether they be cannons or pistols. The painting was a gift.”
“Would you have preferred one of a horse or cow?” Livestock was popular, too, among those of his sex.
“I should prefer something with people in it.”
“I don’t know why you insisted there was nothing of interest to see here. I am learning all manner of things about you.”
He frowned at her.
“May I see upstairs?”
“I’m not certain—” he started to say, but she did not wait for his answer, heading up the stairs with her candle shaking in her hand. She tried not to think about what she was about to attempt. The only voices inside her that cautioned against her plans were those that belonged to other people: her mother, the teachers at the boarding school, Hilde, even Bugg. Her own heart was saying, Yes, yes. This is what you want. Live your life; don’t let it slip away.
His room was as Hilde had described it, books piled on the floor. The bed itself had no hangings, just a simple tester of muslin atop the carved wooden posts. The coverlet was without wrinkle or flaw, and she suspected that Mrs. Toley had been at work. Tom did not seem the sort to make his own bed in the mornings, when it would only get rumpled again in the night. It was too inefficient a chore.