‘No, I want you to win it for your mamma, Bella,’ he insisted with a kindly smile.
‘Then when we win we’ll share it between both our families,’ she told him and Ruth firmly as she wrote down her name three more times.
‘No,’ Ruth objected, her bland face registering something like resolve. ‘Your mamma has been very sick, Bella, and this will help her a lot now that she’s getting better.’
‘That is what I was thinking,’ Lionel backed his sister.
Putting a loving arm round the waist of each of them, Arabella went on up through the grounds. They came to the extensive, raised lawn outside of the house, where Sarai Adams and her sophisticated guests sat on white chairs beside white tables, sipping drinks as they disdainfully watched the peasants at play.
Arabella had often seen Sarai Adams ride by, as proud, beautiful and unapproachable as one of the queens of Ancient Egypt she had seen depicted in a book when once she had been invited into Rupert Mawby’s library. It astonished Arabella to discover that today, for the first time, she didn’t envy the lady of the manor. Riches couldn’t buy friends such as Lionel and Ruth Heelan. Neither could they purchase the new harmony that had been developing fast between herself and her mother as the latter’s health recovered.
She could see Sarai Adams walking among seated guests on the arm of a slim, distinguished-looking man. Arabella was watching the woman, wanting to study her graceful style, intending to attempt copying it later, when a disturbance to her left made her spin round.
There was so much shouting and action that the scene was confusing. But Arabella was able to deduce that John Nichol had been sitting at a table in conversation with an elderly lady, when the drunken Gray Sawtell had crossed the frontier between us and them by dashing up the grass bank and grasping Nichol’s clothing to lift him up out of the chair. The table had been knocked over, the elderly lady had left her chair in fear, and was staggering around in danger of collapse, and there was much screaming and shouting.
Leaving Arabella and Ruth, Lionel ran to the angrily violent little scene, where Abe Wilson and Willie Brickell joined him. The three of them eventually got Sawtell’s arms pinned to his side and dragged him back into the society in which he belonged, but not without Wilson receiving a bloody nose, while the upper lip of young Willie was split and bleeding. Calmly standing back from it all, John Nichol was using a cloth to dab at the drink that had been spilled down his clothing.
Hurrying up to them as fast as his too-short legs would allow, the Reverend Worther immediately took in what was happening, speaking sharply to the held but still struggling Sawtell.
‘You will behave yourself, Sawtell,’ the clergyman said commandingly, ‘or you will be expelled from these grounds. Now, my good man, what is it to be?’
After some time, Gray Sawtell ceased to fight those holding him, and gave an almost imperceptible nod to Worther. Lionel and the other two released him, and Sawtell walked surlily away. Watching him go, Arabella couldn’t understand the effect the incident had had upon her. She felt a deep cold as if her skeleton was made of ice and not bone.
She pulled the dress up slowly over the small breasts that seemed inadequate for the oversized nipples they supported. These days having Lancer see her thin body naked no longer embarrassed her. Nancy had changed a lot since they had become lovers, now being much more outgoing. She liked to fool a little now once the act that was all consuming for her was over. Of late, she had been jokingly calling him ‘Ted’, a ridiculing of her husband that she would once never have even dreamt of engaging in. Lancer had still to hear anything of her past, but he wasn’t in a position to pressure her for her story, as he had told her nothing about himself.
It was noon on Sunday, May Day, and his urge to go to Adamslee was dampened by his worry over Nancy. He was certain that Euart Owens was aware of what was going on between them. Nancy wouldn’t accept this, reasoning that her husband’s temper was so volatile that he would have done something about their relationship immediately. But Lancer was convinced that when they had lain together on the straw in the barn one day he had seen a shadow flit past the partially open door. Once again Nancy had argued that her husband was a creature of habit. On the day in question he was due to deliver meal in Footehill, which meant, on her reckoning, that he would have been delivering meal in Footehill.
The next time he had gone to town, Jamie, the boy who always helped them unload, saved Lancer, who had intended to ask a discreet question or two, the trouble.
Called ‘Ted’ by Owens, as was every other male of the farmer’s acquaintance, Jamie commented to Lancer, ‘Was Master Owens ill or summat on Wednesday, Joby?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Lancer has answered. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Cos he didn’t come here with no meal. First time in years that he’d missed, far as I know,’ the puzzled lad said. ‘Mr Shrewton said it was the first time he’d ever known Euart Owens miss a delivery.’
That had been evidence enough for Lancer, but he couldn’t understand why Owens had not reacted to his wife’s infidelity. The brutal farmer had total confidence in himself as a fighting man so it wasn’t fear of Lancer that was holding him back. Owens had taken delight in recounting how he had stamped on the guts of an employee who had peeped at Nancy. Lancer had done much more than peep, but without repercussions of any kind.
With Owens due back from Newton Arris that afternoon, Lancer was reluctant to leave Nancy. This would be the first time he had really been away from the farm, and it could be the opportunity that the farmer was waiting for to punish his erring wife.
‘I don’t think that I should leave you alone,’ he said, meaning it.
Walking over to him, doing up the top button of her frock, she stood close to him, looking adoringly up into his face. At a time like this, her natural body scent was too earthy for a description of fragrant, but it was a compulsive aroma that he was ready to believe dated back to the Biblical Fall.
‘You must go, Joby,’ she told him in her soft, husky tones. ‘I will not keep you from what you wish to do, but I trust that you have no women at this village you are to visit.’
‘No,’ he assured her with a smile, but he had an underlying feeling that he was not only lying to her, but to himself as well. Of late he had been thinking about Arabella a lot. She was wholesome, so sweet, and so totally honest.
In accepting that his desire for Nancy had, if anything, increased since their relationship had begun, she had nothing like the emotional hold on him that he recognized, in all modesty, that he had on her. In less than a week his two months at the farm would end. He would collect what was owing to him and walk away. There would be poignancy in leaving her, but he was honest enough to know that this would wane once he was over the first hill, and flee completely when he met the next attractive woman. But what of Nancy? She had told him many times how much he had altered her life. Could she go back to nothing but being afforded the same treatment as her half-famished dog?
Lancer hadn’t told the woman that his days at the farm were numbered, and he guessed, as she and her husband didn’t seem to carry on normal conversations like other couples, that Owens had said nothing to her about the terms that dictated the duration of Lancer working there. When the time came, later that week, Lancer was planning just to walk away without a goodbye. It was perhaps the coward’s way, but he felt that it would be emotionally easier for them both.
‘I’m worried that he may harm you when he gets home,’ Lancer said, aware that Owens would be returning mid-afternoon.
‘There’s no need,’ she assured him. ‘I’ve been here for fourteen years, and he’s caused me no real hurt in all that time.’
This snatch of her history was the most she had ever said about herself. The news that she had lived for fourteen long years isolated on this farm with only the brutal Euart Owens as company was too depressing for Lancer to contemplate. Adamslee was calling, and he started towards the door.
Crossing
the room to stand in his path, she stretched up to give him a slack-lipped, lingering, deeply arousing kiss before whispering huskily, ‘Hurry back to me, Joby.’
Outside, physically free of the woman but tethered by an invisible cord to her compelling femininity, he walked away from the building. Increasing his rate of walking as he put distance between them he strode along the track to Adamslee with the unhappy confusion of his feelings for Nancy retreating from his mind as anticipation of meeting the folk from the fishing village again, Arabella in particular, took over.
The day had immeasurably exceeded Arabella’s expectation. She had been much in demand: judging fancy-dress competitions, starting races and other games, and leading the dancing round the maypole. After some five minutes of the latter she had been exhausted and a little dizzy after so many strenuous hours taking part in everything, and she had laughingly given up, leaving it to the younger girls who continued to skip around the pole, weaving a colourful pattern with the ribbons they held.
Lionel had been there, waiting for her, and she had clung to his arm thankfully. Ruth was at hand, too, as she had been throughout the day, smiling and ready to support Arabella in any way. The stalwart brother and sister, both of them filled with love and kindness for Arabella, were the cause of her acute guilt at the way she had reacted to spotting the long, yellow hair of Joby Lancer in the crowd. Trying to control herself, she had failed, and was certain that Lionel had noticed how keenly she had made her way to where Lancer was standing talking to Rupert Mawby.
Delight on his handsome face as he saw her coming towards him, Lancer excused himself to the magistrate and stepped forwards to greet her. He held both of her hands, asking how she was and enquiring after her mother’s health.
Giving him the good news about her mother, Arabella blushed a little at noticing that neither on them were in a hurry to break the contact between their hands. To her right she saw Lionel making pretence of watching boys wrestle. He was hurting, she was all too aware of it, and Arabella was ashamed of herself because she was unable to prevent it from happening.
‘And you, Joby?’ she enquired with great interest. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘I’ve had short-term work on a farm. I finish next week.’
‘What will you do then?’ Arabella had hoped this question would sound casual, but it didn’t.
Lancer shrugged. ‘First I will pay back what I owe your mother and yourself.’
‘You will not. Neither Mama nor I would dream of—’ She broke off her protest as a boy came through the crowd calling out her name.
‘Bella Willard! Bella Willard!’
‘That’s me,’ she called to the lad. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re wanted at the rostrum, mistress,’ the boy told her.
Coming towards her, a huge smile on his face, Lionel called, ‘It’s seven o’clock, Bella!’
Squealing happily, clapping her hands as she jumped up and down in glee, Arabella, uninhibited by joy, cried out. ‘I’ve won! Oh, I’ve won!’
The three of them, Arabella, Ruth and Lionel, hugged each other, dancing around in a little circle. Ruth broke up the cuddling group to catch hold of Arabella’s hand and pull her along. ‘Come on, Bella, let’s go and have you claim your prize.’
Being pulled away by her friends, Arabella remembered Lancer and turned to him. He smiled at her, not understanding, but waving a hand in a short gesture that said he accepted that she had important business with her friends.
Desperate to take possession of the hamper, already imagining the impact she would have when struggling into the house carrying it, Arabella hurried through the crowd, Ruth holding one of her hands, Lionel the other.
Consoling herself with the thought that Lancer would be staying at the event and she would see him later, she called above the general noise to her friends.
‘I’m going to share it with you, I promise.’
‘You’ve won it, Bella, it is yours.’ Ruth smiled happily at her and Lionel was nodding agreement.
The rostrum was in sight now. The decorations had sagged as the hours had passed, but it still had an imposing appearance. Arabella could see the Reverend Worther and Rupert Mawby up on the platform with several others, all awaiting her arrival. Then a daunting thought struck her, stopping her in her tracks, and pulled Ruth and Lionel to a halt.
‘Whatever’s the matter, Bella?’ the crippled girl asked, worried by the look on Arabella’s face.
‘I’m the May Queen,’ Arabella gasped.
‘We know that,’ Lionel said, gallantly adding, ‘and the prettiest one ever!’
‘But …’ Arabella stammered, ‘won’t people think there’s been some cheating because I’ve won the basket of food?’
Both the brother and the sister scoffed at what they saw as a preposterous suggestion, and Lionel said, ‘You played the game the same as everyone else, Bella. No one would ever think that you would cheat, and there’s no reason for anyone even to think so.’
‘I hope that’s right,’ Arabella murmured, only partly reassured. But the excitement of winning, the thought of the magnificent prize she would be taking home, came back to her and she let her two friends impel her towards the rostrum. Like most people who have reason to expect little are suspicious of good fortune should it happen to come their way, she was uneasy.
As Arabella was covering the final few yards to the rostrum where Worther and Mawby stood watching her approach, she was suddenly numbed by the ridiculous thought that this day was so wonderful that she would never know another to match it. Slowing her steps, she wanted to achieve the impossible of having her time as May Queen stand still so that her happiness would stay with her forever.
But then she had another, more substantial, worry. The clergyman and the doctor both wore frowns. Seeing this, Arabella’s heart sank. She had been right to be wary, because someone must have lodged a protest over the May Queen winning the major prize of the day.
Ruth and Lionel pulled her along, still smiling, and Arabella told herself that she was being unnecessarily anxious. Everything had gone so well that her prize must be secure.
Even so, she knew that something had to be wrong when she reached the platform and neither an unhappy-looking Worther nor an equally dismal Mawby made any move towards her. In fact, they kept their faces turned a little from her. Arabella was pondering on this strange behaviour when something odd happened. Josephine Heelan detached herself from the little group around the two men. She ran forward, head back and mouth wide open in grief as tears streamed copiously down her face. The distressed woman dropped to her knees at the edge of the platform, arms spread wide in a posture of supplication.
‘Oh! Arabella, my love. It’s your mama. She’s just died!’ Josephine Heelan cried.
It wasn’t a coincidence, Sarai Adams knew that. Not long ago she had shown Joby Lancer where she lived, and now he had strayed from the village celebrations and was standing in the shadows cast by a hedge. A mysterious semi-stranger. An exciting semi-stranger, with his unusual colour of hair given a sheen by the lights coming through the windows of her house. A chill had come late in the evening to send her guests inside. Sarai looked over her shoulder to be certain that she was alone. Count Edelcantz had been constantly at her side since his arrival from Europe. In his eagerness, the poor fellow, every inch an aristocrat, handsome and disdainful, was oblivious to the fact that the monotonous reiteration of his marriage proposal was destroying any possibility of Sarai’s acceptance.
Walking over to share the shadow with Lancer, she enquired seductively, ‘Do you seek me?’
‘No,’ he told her, a deliberate rebuff that first annoyed but then intrigued her. Nothing worth having came easily, and Sarai included men in that self-composed adage. ‘I’ve come about the job as estate manager.’
‘Three months too early, and you know it.’ She gave a little chuckle.
‘I’ve always had an eye for the future,’ he said, and she noticed how the shadow fla
ttered him so that he was even more startlingly good-looking than when she had met him on the trail.
‘Methinks that you have an eye for more than the future, Joby Lancer,’ she said softly, hoping that he wouldn’t notice that she had taken half a step towards him. That was a vain hope. He was too astute to miss such a planned move.
‘I heard you singing,’ he told her.
This thrilled Sarai. About an hour ago, after much pleading from her guests, she had sung for them on the lawn. Hardly had she reached the end of the first line of her song when a hush had descended on the villagers who were gathered not far away. It had pleased her to know that they were listening, but she would have been ecstatic had she known that Joby Lancer was among her audience.
‘I was singing just for you,’ she informed him in a half whisper.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I could sense your presence within ten miles,’ she replied, poking a forefinger lightly into his chest.
This wasn’t true, but it was harmless, as both she and he knew that it was a lie. But it added a mystique to their being together that Sarai was sure he appreciated as much as she did.
Doing a quarter turn, she said invitingly. ‘Come, let us take a walk. The gardens at the rear of the house are beautifully scented at night.’
‘What of your guests?’ he asked, not moving.
‘They still eat; they still drink, so they will not miss me for a short while.’
‘What about Gray Sawtell?’ was his second question, and he made no attempt at taking a step.
For a brief second Sarai was rocked slightly off balance. This handsome fellow was even more perceptive than she had thought. Turning back to face him, moving in close, she put her hand flat on his chest this time as she whispered, ‘Why should we concern ourselves with others? In my experience there is always one more song to be sung.’
A shiver of erotic anticipation hit her as he placed his big, powerful hand over the one she had left against his chest. They were already close, but Lancer applied a gentle pressure that brought her nearer to him: ever closer. Aware that he had rested his mouth and nose lightly on top of her head to breathe in the aroma of her hair, Sarai was tipping her head back, slightly parting her lips, when her name was shouted across the lawn.
The Toll of the Sea Page 9