by Gloria Cook
He stared down at her. There was no rising or falling of her body. There seemed to be no breathing. He prodded her again. Kicked her. Then again. He backed away, all the way to the irregular planked door. Panic surged up and flooded him. He stared at Marcie. Move. Move, damn you! The blood had reached her shoulders and was seeping into the cracks on the floor. She must be dead. He’d killed her! And if he was found out he’d hang for it.
His legs gave way and he sank to the floor, crying, blubbering, knees bent up, arms over his face. Minutes ticked by. It could have been an hour. He crawled to a chair, put his shaking hands on the cracked seat and somehow managed to sit on it. He had to think. Try to think.
Bit by bit, he managed to calm himself. If Marcie’s friends came here and found she wasn’t at home they always assumed she was at the inn, and if she wasn’t at the inn, it was thought she was entertaining customers at home. It was possible for her not to be seen for days and no one would realize she was missing. If he got rid of her body. Somewhere. Somehow. He twisted his hands together, mumbled and whined. He’d have to touch her. Touch a dead body. Get blood on him. He bawled like an infant. Shook in fear and gagged on the horror. He had to do it. Do it or swing from the gallows.
Time passed. He had no idea how much. He steeled himself to glance at the body. The blood seemed to have stopped spreading. There was a cauldron hanging from a hook in the fireplace. It was rarely used to cook food and was presently empty. He’d find a rag, there were plenty of those about, and mop up the blood and wring it into the cauldron. Then he’d wrap the head in rags, and after that wrap the body in the blankets on the jumbled bed, and put the bloodied rags in with it. He’d strip naked to do all this, and he’d wash his hands thoroughly in the stream, several hundred yards from the shanty. The stream had a small wood behind it, where there was a long drop into a mossy ditch. He’d drag the body there and cover it with leaves. It was late autumn, plenty of fallen leaves about. Even if the body was disturbed by the mongrels or wild animals, hopefully it wouldn’t be discovered until he was well away from the area. From the county. Perhaps on a cargo ship leaving the little harbour of Portreath. Or a passenger ship at Falmouth. After he’d been to Chy-Henver and got his money. His only hope.
Sol had finished work for the day, had washed and changed, and was leaving his room. He was brought to a standstill on the landing at the sound of Amy singing. Such a soft, sweet, lilting voice. It was good to hear her happy. The singing wasn’t coming from her room, she was in the nursery, laying Hope down for the night, while her mother was out at a chapel meeting. He stole along to them.
Amy was on her knees, rocking the cradle, smiling down on her baby sister with wonder and love. She was singing a lullaby, about how many stars there were in the sky. Sol crept into the little, pale yellow painted room, and so as not to disturb her, he held his breath. As soon as one song was finished, Amy started another, about Jesus looking after the blessed young. As she rocked the cradle her hair, falling free and tumbling in golden brown curls, rippled over her arms and shoulders. He liked to see her hair hanging loose. It was altogether a beguiling scene.
She was like a gorgeous nymph. Utterly appealing. Enchanting. He wanted to reach out and touch her.
After a while, she knew he was there. She looked up and smiled. He felt a sense of triumph each time she smiled, and felt it a hundredfold when it was he who made her smile.
‘I didn’t realize you had such a sweet singing voice,’ he said.
‘It’s a pleasure singing this little one off to sleep.’ Amy caressed the baby’s soft brow. Wispy strands of hair, the same hue as Amy’s, were framed around the tiny heart-shaped face; a white, cotton, lace-edged bonnet was tied under her chin. ‘She’s so good-tempered, you know. She never frets, never seems to get wind. Poor Toby used to suffer terribly from wind. She’ll be smiling soon. This time next year she’ll be walking, exploring everything. I wonder what things will be like for her, for us, then.’
‘I’ll make sure all will be well, Amy.’ It was easy to make such a promise with her so soft and feminine, and sweet and lovely. He gazed down at the sleeping Hope. ‘I don’t know much about a baby’s development. I’ve never taken much notice of children. I guess I just take them for granted, there’s handfuls of little ones running about Burnt Oak. Hope has the look of you about her.’
‘Oh.’ Amy leaned over and kissed her sister’s cheek tenderly. ‘I couldn’t have been so beautiful.’
Sol put a light hand on her shoulder, as he did so often now. ‘You surely must have been.’
She stared up into his eyes for a moment, saw the appreciative gleam, was pleased and thrilled by it, then dropped her gaze shyly. Sometimes he gave her such scrutiny and always she had the same flattered reaction, and would feel a little flustered. He was not yet twenty but had a lot of experience with women, he knew how to flirt and admire, while she had no familiarity at all with romance or relationships. She hoped he genuinely liked her, and found her attractive, and was not playing games or humouring her. ‘You’re off home now, I suppose.’ He always dined with his grandmother on Thursdays.
‘No. I’ve sent Jowan to tell Grandmama Tempest not to expect me.’ He was suddenly grave.
Amy got up and ushered him out of the room, pulling the door quietly after them, leaving it slightly ajar in case Hope woke and cried. Her heart beat out a wild tattoo. Had he stayed on to be alone with her? She faced him on the dimly lit landing. ‘Why have you changed your mind?’ Her emotions were in turmoil as to what would be his answer.
‘Don’t get nervous, Amy, but I’ve had this eerie feeling nearly all day that we’re being watched. The dogs have been jittery, running about and sniffing. I’ve looked around a few times but have seen nothing unusual.’
‘Oh.’ She was terribly disappointed that she wasn’t on his mind. ‘You think it could be my father?’
‘It’s likely. I think it’s inevitable that he’ll come back here at some time. Don’t you?’
‘Yes. Mother does too. It’s something we’re dreading, yet we want to get matters settled over what’s to become of the business, to know if we can stay here for good.’ Morton was within his rights to have them all turned out and that could happen at any moment. She didn’t want to cast a gloom, not while she had the privilege, and delight, of being alone with Sol. ‘Well, I’d better get you something to eat.’
‘Thanks.’ Sol touched her shoulder again, letting his hand linger there a few seconds this time. He enjoyed being in close proximity to her. He loved her warm summery perfume, the freshness of her. ‘Don’t go to any trouble. A slice of cold pie will do.’
They went down to the kitchen. She got him the food, then sat at the table with him and drank tea. In a while he would help himself to porter, mead or cherry brandy. Sylvia did not mind him drinking alcohol in the house as long as neither she nor Amy served it to him.
‘Will your mother accept Grandmama Tempest’s invitation for you all to come to Sunday lunch?’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure there’s someone here to keep an eye on the place.’
‘She’s thinking about it.’ Sylvia was not displeased to be invited there, but she was worried it might not be acceptable to Tara and the other women on the newly formed Meryen Relief Committee, which was to have its inaugural meeting at the big house in a few days’ time. It would be nice to go to Burnt Oak again. To see Sarah. She had questioned Sol about Sarah and he’d said that she and Tamsyn and Arthur seemed to be happy, but Amy was sure he didn’t take enough interest in them to really know. The same applied to Jowan, who had told her the same. Sarah and Titus’s wedding date had been set. She was invited. It would be one occasion when she and Sol would be in church together. ‘I hope Mother will say yes.’
‘You may go there any time you like, Amy. Grandmama Tempest took to you. She’s eager to see you again.’ There came another serious look but this one had cajoling in it.
‘Yes. I will go along. When I’ve time. When things are more settled.’
When he’d finished eating, Sol retired to Morton’s old chair. As he often did, he fell to examining her father’s small circular table. He ran his broad hands all over it and underneath it. He opened the drawers, and the drawers he had discovered within them by use of ingenious hidden springs. And the nooks he had found. He didn’t have to say that he was convinced the table, the quizzical, held some dark and fascinating secret. Amy knew her mother would prefer it if she didn’t stay in the room alone with Sol but went along to the front room, and sewed or read, in a respectful manner on her own, but she was enjoying his company, enjoying just watching him, too much to follow the call of obedience. She took the rocking chair opposite him. She had watched him searching before, avid to know if the table would reveal its riddle. She believed the table would solve the mystery as to why her father had gone so critically off the rails. She had the perfect view to study Sol’s well-drawn features. The firelight cast exotic and excitingly wicked shadows into each strong angle and chiselled line, and made his eyes hint of hidden depths.
Suddenly Sol fell down on his knees, his thumb apparently pressing something within the table, while his arm was stretched across the top and a finger was pushing up on something underneath. There was a little click. ‘Ah, ah!’ He sat back on his heels in triumph.
Amy got down beside him. ‘What’s happening? What did you do?’
He glanced at her, full of delight. ‘If I’ve got this right, I’ll only have to slide off the top.’ He did so. And the table was almost miraculously changed into a circle of compartments, eight in all, as if set into a wheel. ‘Magnificent! I wonder how he managed to achieve it.’
In each compartment there was a leather, drawstring pouch. Amy lifted one out. ‘Feels like there’s coins inside.’ She undid the loose knot of the drawstring, opened the pouch and tipped out the contents into the compartment. Guineas clinked as they fell speedily one on top of the other, glinting in the light. ‘Good heavens! How much is there?’
Together, they emptied the other pouches and made a rough count of the money. Seven more piles of shiny coins. About five hundred guineas. ‘Father obviously secreted it away in here. He must have been saving it in case of hard times. But why didn’t he use it to pay off his debts?’
‘Five hundred would have gone only a little way in covering two and a half thousand, Amy,’ Sol said. ‘Perhaps he was planning to use this if he felt he had to make a run for it. He’d have taken it with him that day if I’d given him the chance. Now, this amount will buy us a lot of good will and ease the debts. I could apply for a loan from the bank on your mother’s behalf, the creditors could be paid off and there would just be the loan. Nothing too much to worry about. Things are looking much better, Amy.’ He was excited over the find, but especially for Amy. Her eyes were gleaming with optimism and the hope of future opportunities. He was enjoying this partnership with her, helping to get the business back to a respected concern.
It would be better if Morton turned up and sold up. He’d been too hasty with him that day. He should have made him sign a bill of sale to him or to hand ownership over to Mrs Lewarne. Instead, the ownership of Chy-Henver hung over him like a heavy shadow. There was the possibility that Morton was dead. It was being said that a coward such as he, with nowhere to live, no money or prospects, had probably taken his own life. Sol had been beginning to believe this likely, although now there was the question of who had been hanging about the place today. Who better than the wretched man himself, to watch and wait, to be able to nip away and hide and elude him and the dogs. He hoped it was Morton and he would soon show himself.
Right now, it was a joy seeing Amy happy. A joy to be with her. ‘Mother’s going to be pleased about this,’ she said. ‘Although everything relating to my father and his miserable and deceitful ways is always a source of anger and sadness to her.’ She was enjoying the excited boyishness in Sol, such a contrast to his usual manly, shrewd self.
At a sudden thought, he frowned. ‘Will your mother be escorted home from the chapel?’
‘Godley Greep will make sure she gets back safely. Why? Do you think there’s still someone out there?’
‘I don’t know, but we must all be very careful. We won’t tell your mother about my suspicions, I don’t want her alarmed. I’ll go out and scout around in a while.’
‘I’m glad you’re here, Sol. I feel safe.’
‘I never want you to be scared, Amy.’
They gazed and gazed at each other. Nothing else on their minds but each other. Eyes locked to eyes. Eyes dropping to lips then back to eyes. As if drawn by an invisible thread they leaned closer and closer, until their lips met. Soft, tender contact. Firm skin on velvety flesh.
‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ Sol said. But he pulled her round the last little space of the table to him, hauling her into his arms and finding her mouth again.
The world seemed to ignite for both of them. Amy’s mouth was as willing and needy as his, her arms clinging to his body as vehemently as his were to hers. He kissed her in a way that was designed to get to know all about her. He wanted every drop of her. The very essence of her. She was an eager participant in his quest. A slave to him. She pressed into him, using her lips on his as if she had done these perfect, awesome motions with him a thousand times before.
In one continuous motion Sol got them to their feet. They went on kissing. Releasing their mouths for an instant so they could repeat the demand in different ways. They disentangled their arms only to wrap themselves up again and again. Sol pushed her gently until her back was against the built-in cupboard. Keeping his hands either side of her face, he stared at her for a second. Her eyes were in a fever. She was gasping for breath. So was he. He ran a path of tiny hot kisses along her upper lip and then her lower lip. When he drew his head away she yanked it back, demanding more of him. He studied her for a second. Then he began kissing her in a new way. Tasting her, inviting her to taste him, and she did so, entering into a new dimension of glorious energy-leaching kisses. He kissed her all over her face, holding her with his hands on her waist for she had no strength left to stand firmly. No will of her own left, except to enjoy this shower of exquisite sensations. He nuzzled his mouth along her chin, nibbled on her ear lobes, sending her into a frenzy of rapture, filling her with heat in the very pits of her being. She thought she was about to die and be blasted into some form of new life, all at the same time.
He was trailing tiny wet circles all the way down her neck, kneading his hands on her hips. She was petrified with pleasure as he made the journey from the base of her neck and down over the stuff of her bodice until he reached the peaks of her breasts. His lips were pressing over the material yet felt they were pressing over her flesh too. She thought she would explode. She let out an enormous needful sigh.
The dogs started barking. They were outside and they were making a din of urgent yapping. ‘No,’ Sol groaned as if in the greatest anguish of his life. His hands were trembling when he took them off her. He was shaking when he moved back from her. The expression he put on her was full of pleading, ‘Amy . . .’
‘Y–you go and see . . .’ she said, struggling to find breath, to handle the crop of bittersweet emotions. ‘Be careful. I’ll check on Hope.’
He turned swiftly, pushed the heaps of money flat, slid the top of the table back into place, then snatching up the gun used for shooting rabbits, which he’d been keeping handy in the cupboard, he went out.
Amy barely found the momentum to climb the stairs. She was praying that Sol would meet no danger. If it was her father out there, why couldn’t he have picked a different time to come? She could almost hate him if it was him. She didn’t know what would have happened, how far she would have let Sol go, but she felt horribly cheated. The intense, utterly delicious awakening she had known was replaced with an aching so acute she felt that every nerve in her body was being torn to shreds. And she had an agony of need and hopes plaguing her heart.
Hope hadn’t
stirred. She smoothed the blankets over the tiny body and ran a finger over her soft face. Hope was warm and well. She left the room. She longed for Sol to come back. She missed him terribly. In compensation she went into his room. He kept few of his things in it but part of him was in here. She picked up his discarded work shirt, which was cast aside for her or her mother to take away for laundering, and she breathed in a deep breath of him, the spirit of him, and clutching it to her body, she went to the window. The room was at the back of the house, and she stared through the darkness, hoping to see him and not an intruder.
Moments later she heard Sol coming inside and locking the door. She should leave here and go downstairs. At all costs she mustn’t stay in his bedroom. It was wrong in every way. He called her name, softly. She didn’t answer. She put the shirt on a chair, moving until she was just inside the doorway. He was climbing up the stairs. He peeped into the nursery. She had time to get out of here. To go downstairs, ask him what had caused the commotion. To try to bring things back to how they had been before they’d kissed. Again came that strange suffocating, yet not frightening feeling, of being consumed by something beyond her control.
He was there in the doorway. She put her hand out indicating the window. She tried to point to it but her arm wouldn’t go straight, it was all crooked up. ‘I was just looking to s–see . . .’
‘I think it was a fox.’
He stepped into the room and shut the door.
Amy swallowed. It was almost pitch black. Sol touched her arm. A brief touch. Every edge of every nerve in her body leapt alarmingly, but it was something she relished. He was little more than an inch away. She reached out and her hand brushed against his. He gripped her fingers. She squeezed back.