Summer Darkness, Winter Light

by Sylvia Halliday

  “That was a splendid dinner!” said Wickham in a jovial manner. “But now, Mistress Mackworth, let me repay your kindness.” He reached down, unbuckled his shoes, and held them out to Allegra. “Until my ankle heals, I scarcely need these.”

  She gaped, taken aback by his generosity. “They are…somewhat large,” she stammered.

  “No matter.” He took his cravat and tore it into thin strips, which he handed to her. “You can tie the shoes to your feet. They’ll not take you far, but at least you may walk among the rocks without cutting yourself.”

  “But…your cravat…” she murmured, still shaken by the goodness of a man she was sworn to hate.

  He shrugged and tore off another strip. “I needed it, in any event, to make my sling.”

  “Sling?”

  “One of my few skills,” he said. “You may have noticed that I find the physical world a trial.”

  Allegra glanced at Grey, then looked away, forcing herself to keep from smiling. They could scarcely deny Wickham’s words!

  “You may smile,” he said genially. “I’m quite used to it. But, as I said, I’m a master of the sling. My mother—a most remarkable, clever woman—taught me when I was a boy.”

  “And your prey?”

  “This is what I’ve explained to Ridley here. I told you I’d stayed in Yarmouth as a child. There’s a most remarkable occurrence in this part of the country, and at this season. All the swallows of England have begun their winter migration. They use this very coast as their starting point on their way to Holland, and thence to warmer climes. Not a soul knows why. ’Tis one of God’s delightful mysteries, I suppose. But if the wind is off sea, as now it is, they must wait for a gale, or at least a freshening, for they’re windbound creatures. I saw them wheeling overhead as Ridley and I tramped the bluffs. If I’ve guessed aright, the birds should begin to gather by the thousands on the beach and rocks as the day ends. I’ll find a place to set myself. If I’m fortunate, and haven’t forgotten all my mother’s lessons, we should have a fine supper!” He limped off down the beach, picking up stones as he went his way and stuffing them into his pockets.

  Grey and Allegra spent the rest of the afternoon gathering driftwood and reeds. They found a small stream of fresh water flowing into the sea. While Grey chipped at a large rock to make a hollowed-out vessel in which to carry the water back to their cave, Allegra scavenged for shells they could use as cups. Wickham’s shoes were large, and slipped about on her feet, but she was grateful for them nonetheless.

  By the time daylight was beginning to fade, and Tom Wickham had come limping back to them, triumphantly holding a mass of dead birds aloft, Grey and Allegra had managed to get a hissing fire going at the opening to the cave.

  They worked as comrades, equal in labor. After Wickham had cleaned and plucked the birds with his penknife, Grey took them to the stream to wash them. Allegra fed the fire, then threaded the birds on green sticks and roasted them to a fine turn.

  It was a jolly meal. Their clothes were dry at last—Allegra had put on her petticoat again; it was snug and warm—and their bellies were satisfied. The two men had even agreed to call each other by their Christian names, though Allegra pretended that it was modesty alone that prevented her from calling Wickham “Tom.”

  She sighed in contentment and licked her fingers to savor the last of her birds. “They wanted a bit of salt. You should have washed them in the sea, Grey.”

  He grunted and raised a mocking eyebrow. “Did I complain about your cooking?”

  Tom Wickham held up his drinking vessel. It was the black, shiny shell of a mussel. “We can search for these in the morning,” he announced cheerily. “I’ faith, there might even be wild ducks on the bluffs! We shall live and prosper like Robinson Crusoe until we’re found.” That thought seemed to delight him, and he beamed at them both.

  Allegra nodded in acknowledgment. Even in America, there had been much talk of Defoe’s novel when it had first appeared.

  Grey looked beyond the entrance to the cavern. “The wind has come round, I think. The clouds seem to be blowing out to sea.”

  “With our swallows, more’s the pity,” said Wickham.

  Allegra peered at the clear sky. “If the ship comes back,” she asked, “will they see our fire now?”

  Grey nodded. “In all likelihood. But only if we keep it going all night. I’ll stand guard.”

  “No, Grey,” said Wickham. “We’ll share.”

  “All of us,” said Allegra firmly. “Comrades. Remember?”

  In the end, and with a great deal of grumbling from Grey, it was agreed that Allegra should tend the fire only until the moon rose, and then she was to waken him. “Only until then,” he warned, taking her in his arms to kiss her good night. “It should be an hour, at most.”

  As the men curled up in sheltered corners of the cave, Allegra tucked her legs under her skirts, settled herself comfortably, and sat beside the fire, half in and half out of the cavern.

  The soft air, now blowing off the land, was warmer than it had been all day. The wood had finally begun to dry, and the fire burned merrily, sending up showers of sparks into the sky. The rhythmic splash of the waves against the shore and the gentle breathing of the sleeping men were the only sounds to break the dark stillness. Allegra found it pleasant just to sit and let her thoughts drift.

  After a while, the full moon rose out of the sea, large and orange-gold as a pumpkin ripe on the vine. She frowned. Like the pumpkins she’d cultivated in Gammer Pringle’s fields. She saw herself as before, sweltering in the hot sun, her hands raw with blisters, her back bent and aching as she dug and raked and hoed. She frowned more darkly, filled with bitter memories, as the moon rose higher in the sky and turned to a pale, shining silver orb that bathed the sand in its luminous glow.

  And still the haunting memories persisted. The moon had beamed down in just that fashion over Baniard Hall. Midsummer’s Eve. Four days before she’d turned seven. And Charlie had taken her out into the park, under the brilliant moon, to catch fireflies in a bottle.

  She looked at Wickham, sleeping peacefully. Why did he still live, when the memories gnawed at her heart, sharp as the fangs of a serpent? How could she face her conscience, when she had supped with him, and laughed with him, and taken his proffered gifts? She ground her teeth together and savagely pulled his shoes from her feet.

  She groped for the knife in her bodice. Hadn’t everything in her life been leading toward this moment? Eight long years of hatred pressed against her heart, just beneath the blade. It consumed her like a bitter, dread disease; she would never be cured without the shedding of Wickham’s blood. Softly she rose to her feet, crept to his side, and peered down on him where he lay.

  He was smiling in his sleep. Curse him and all his family! Had Mama smiled for a single moment, through all the years of hell? Allegra pulled out her knife and stood with it poised above him. The bright blade glittered in the light cast by the fire. Now, she thought. Now. While the memory of her family’s suffering was fresh in her mind.

  The knife began to shake in her hand. She clasped her wrist with her other hand to steady it. Was she a fool? Was she a coward? Why did she hesitate?

  She heard Grey’s hoarse whisper behind her. “Do it. And damn your soul forever.”

  She turned, her face contorting in agony. The knife dropped from her grasp, landing softly on the sand. “I…I cannot!” she gasped. She clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle her cry of pain, and ran out of the cavern. She raced along the moonlit beach, her thoughts in turmoil. Where could she run? Where could she hide, to escape her failure?

  “Allegra!” She heard Grey’s pounding footsteps behind her, and then she was in his arms, captured by his strong embrace.

  “Let me go!” she cried. “Why didn’t you let me do it on the ship, while my resolve was still upon me?”

  “Foolish child,” he said tenderly. “You couldn’t have done it then, either.”

  “But I should ha
ve! I have no right to live whilst that man lives!” She struggled in his arms, tossing back her head in helpless frustration. The full moon cast its cold, bright eye on her, condemning her with its unforgiving gaze. She wanted to die. To sink into the sea for shame.

  “For pity’s sake, Grey. Let me go.”

  He sucked in a sharp breath. “Christ’s blood! The moon on your face…So white, so pale. That face. My Lady of the…!” He swore again. “You’re a Baniard!”

  She closed her eyes and buried her head against his chest. “No,” she said with a moan, “the very last Baniard. The only one left to avenge the family.”

  “How dull-witted of me,” he muttered. “I should have guessed. Not only the painting. I should have questioned how the Ellsmeres came to own the Hall. Especially after I heard stories of the Baniards in Newton. Disgraced, they said. Exiled for treason.”

  “Convicted falsely on the word of John Wickham. And his son, Thomas. They never told you that, I’ll wager.” She bit her lip, fighting to keep her chin from trembling. She felt lost and desolate. “I had a family once, Grey. And now they’re gone. All of them.”

  He pulled her down to sit beside him in the sand, and held her tightly in his arms. “Tell me. For the love of God, tell me at last, Allegra.”

  Strange how the memories came creeping back in painful bits and pieces, like stragglers from a battle. “Do you know the leopard on the front gate? On the coat of arms? It lost its paw the day they dragged Papa from the Hall to arrest him. I think half the folk in the parish were there to watch. And jeer and throw stones, calling him words I’d never heard before. Mama had to hold my brother Charlie, to keep him from murdering the constables. I had a sister, too. She would have been a duchess today, with a loving husband and children. We were so happy. Life was sweet.”

  “And then?”

  “They were all sentenced to transportation to the American Colonies, there to work as bond servants. Life slavery for Papa. Seven years for the others.”

  “And what of you?”

  “I was to be left behind. Put into a workhouse as an orphan. But Mama begged the judge to let me come with her and work for nothing.”

  “You were only a child?”

  “Not quite ten.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “A little more than eight years.” It seemed like a lifetime.

  “My God! Eighteen? You’re so young! I thought…” His voice caught. “Your eyes are filled with grief. So old.”

  “’Tis the pain of living,” she whispered. “After the sentence was passed, they let Papa leave the prison and come back to us at the Hall. Only to settle his affairs. I found him in the garden one cold afternoon. He was sobbing like a babe. Big brave Papa. I think my childhood died that day.”

  “Oh, my poor Allegra,” he groaned. “Lean on my heart and weep. Shed your child’s tears now.”

  Her eyes were dry. Her heart was numb. “Don’t you understand? I have no tears left for myself. Only hatred for Wickham.”

  “What happened to your family?”

  She sighed. “Papa had a little money left, after all the debts and costs of the trial were paid. I don’t know what happened to it. Perhaps he used it to bribe the magistrate. I know we were not at first meant to travel all on the same ship. But, in the end, we did. Clapped under hatches in a suffocating little space. Mama and Lucinda earned a bit of money for our food by washing the seamen’s clothes. I don’t remember much of the voyage, until the very end. I was seasick and frightened.” She sighed again, her heart so heavy with grief that she could scarcely breathe.

  “Lucinda was too beautiful,” she went on at last. “Why did God make her so? Too beautiful for safety. And one day, three of the sailors found her alone and…” She gulped. She found that she was trembling violently, despite Grey’s solid embrace. She’d never told it all until now. Never spoken the dreadful words aloud. Now, it was as though the story was bursting to come forth with such urgency that it shook her whole body, like a wind rattling against the shutters of a house.

  “The damned villains,” muttered Grey.

  “Papa had endured prison, and shame and disgrace. But Lucinda’s rape was more than he could bear. When he found out, he tried to attack the seamen. Not even Charlie could stop him. The sailors beat him with their fists until he was bloody. I screamed so much I couldn’t talk for two days after. Mama nursed him as best she could, but he died the day before we reached Charles Town. We buried him at sea.”

  Grey choked on an oath. “My God, how can you tell me this without weeping?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I used to weep, sometimes, when Mama showed me his bloody handkerchief. But no more.”

  “And what happened in Charles Town?”

  “Charlie was sold first. To the brutal hell of a rice plantation. And Lucinda, my dear sister…I see her face even now. Her lips were still swollen from all the savage, cruel kisses, and her pretty eyes were the eyes of a wounded animal. She was bought by the owner of a tavern. But we could hear the whispers in the crowd, the sly laughter. It was in truth a brothel, I learned later. Lucinda must have understood. She broke away from the man who bought her and dashed into the street. There was a horse and carriage. She ran into its path. ’Twas what she wanted, I think. She died there on the road, her blood soaking into the dust. So far from home. Poor Lucinda.”

  He swore again. “And Squire Pringle bought your mother as a house servant?”

  She nodded. “And raped her almost every night, for five years.”

  She could feel his body jerk in surprise. “Sweet Jesu, I didn’t know!”

  “I told Mr. Briggs the story, that day in the stillroom.”

  “I didn’t hear that part. Oh, my precious Allegra. Forgive me. Forgive me! I must have seemed no better than your Squire Pringle.”

  “No.” She stroked his face in tender reassurance. “I was only afraid of you that first day. When you kissed me.”

  “And you bit my tongue, which I deserved. But who taught you to defend yourself so fiercely?”

  “I don’t know. Mama didn’t have the strength to fight. At first, we got letters from Charlie. They were of some comfort, though filled with rage and bitterness. I tried to keep up Mama’s spirits by talking of the day when the terms of bondage would be over. Seven years, Mama, I’d say. And then we’ll start anew, you and I and Charlie. I talked to her of buying land, of finding a place in Virginia or New York. But when Charlie’s letters stopped, all the hope faded from her eyes. I think her heart could bear no more pain.”

  “Allegra, my dear one.”

  She sighed. “I begged her not to die. I swore over and over that I’d seek out the Wickhams and kill them. That I’d avenge all the wrongs done to us.” She wrapped her arms around Grey’s neck, clinging to him for strength. “I couldn’t save her, Grey. Not with all my promises. It haunts me night and day. I couldn’t save her.”

  He kissed the side of her cheek, her delicate earlobe. His kisses were a sweet comfort. “And what of Charlie?” he said. He sounded almost reluctant to ask, as though he had little desire to prolong the suffering that her narrative brought her.

  “I heard two years ago that he had drowned in the swamps, trying to escape.” A small, sad moan burst from her throat. “Oh, Grey, I’m so tired.”

  He kissed her more fervently. “Dear, sweet Allegra. I wish to God I could take away your pain.”

  “Then tell me why I couldn’t kill him tonight!” she cried bitterly.

  “Because they taught you too well, your fine Baniards. They taught you to be better than your enemies. To show goodness and mercy. To cherish life, not death.” His voice was warm with admiration.

  “But I made a promise!”

  “What were you—only fifteen? It was a child’s promise, given in a moment of agony and desperation. A child’s bargain with God, perhaps. In hopes of saving your mother. Forgive your enemies. Walk away from such a dreadful promise, and learn to live again.”
He took her face between his hands and kissed her full on the mouth. “I want to make love to you now,” he whispered. “I want to give you the gifts of joy, and life, and love.”

  He laid her back on the sand and took her body with a tenderness that erased her pain and soothed her soul. She hadn’t imagined it could be so sweet—to be caressed and cherished. He murmured soft words of praise and comfort that cheered her heart. He tucked back her skirts with loving hands and entered her, thrusting gently while he rained kisses on her face and neck and bodice. He asked for nothing. He seemed only to concern himself with her ease. To stroke her face and body with his caring fingers, to stroke her soft core with his undemanding shaft.

  And when he peaked in a gasping climax, he scarcely moved within her, as though he feared to visit his fervent emotions upon her overwrought soul. She felt his warmth pouring into her, like a final sweet benediction, and knew that she would sleep peacefully tonight.

  At last he stood up and held out his hands to her. “Come. ’Twill be cold if we linger here.” He put his arm around her and guided her back to the cave. “I’ll be gone at dawn,” he said. “Long before you waken. If the sky holds clear, I should find a village nearby.” He kissed her once more, then sat before the fire to tend it during the long night.

  Her sleep was dreamless, sweet and serene. She awoke to Tom Wickham’s cry and the feel of rough hands on her bosom.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sink and scuttle me, here be a pretty handful!”

  Allegra gasped, desperately blinking away the last of her sleepiness, and glared up at the strange man who knelt over her. His face was ugly and weather-beaten, his clothes stank of tobacco, and his greasy hair was topped with a sailor’s bonnet. He squeezed her breasts and grinned. “A choice morsel, or I’ll be hanged.”

  Anger drove away her fear. She slapped at his filthy hands and scrambled to her feet. “You’ll be hanged soon enough, my man,” she said, her lip curling in disgust, “if you forget your manners!”

  Brazenly she pushed past him to storm out of the cave. Godamercy! There was a knot of men on the beach—nearly a dozen, she guessed—as evil-looking as the one who had disturbed her sleep. Beyond them, riding the first swell of the waves, was a dark ship. It sat low in the water, as though it carried a heavy cargo, and its sails were furled. A small boat, filled with boxes and bales, was drawn up on the beach; another boat, similarly laden, had just pulled away from the ship and was moving toward the shore.