Moon Cutters

by Janet Woods

  Quietly, she entered the room. The dogs pushed damp snouts into her hands and gave little huffs of welcome.

  ‘What are you doing in here? You should be downstairs. Off you go to the kitchen now and get your dinners.’

  The dogs pushed past her and headed off. She stayed.

  The room had a musty smell to it. The curtains were drawn back and she drew in a delighted breath at the sight of a shining round moon framed in the window.

  Moving across to the window, she gazed dreamily out at a garden bathed in moonlight. Gradually, she became aware of something else. The sea perhaps, shushing on the shore. But no, this was another’s presence. There was a soft feathering of breath that competed with her own, and a whisper of a heartbeat, like the regular beat of a far-off drum. She remembered the place was supposed to be haunted. Did ghosts breathe? Did they have heartbeats?

  Of course they didn’t. They were dead and didn’t need either. ‘Who’s there?’ she murmured, cursing the fear that made her voice quaver.

  Prickles raced through her body and her throat closed when the door clicked shut. Fear paralyzed her and she could neither speak nor move.

  There was a movement of air as something moved past her. Grasped by a strong arm, the other hand covered her mouth, smothering her involuntary whimper of fright. A man’s voice materialized, like a curl of smoke against her ear. ‘Don’t scream, I won’t hurt you.’

  Though frightened half to death, the voice was reassuring and Miranda believed him. Even while she nodded, she thought, No dead spirit, this. The hand was warm and alive, and it smelled of brandy, as though he’d recently held a glass of the spirit in it. When she sank her teeth into the pad under his thumb, he jerked it away, cursing, and turned her to face him. He struck a vesta and applied the light to a candle.

  She got a good sight of him then, the angled planes of his face accented in the moonlight, his hair a torrent of dark unruly curls. Not Sir James … no, not him, yet like him. This face had greenish eyes that glinted in the moonlight, and the hint of a wry smile, exactly like the image of him on her wall. But far from being an image, the living warmth of his body embraced her, invited her closer.

  She could taste traces of brandy on her tongue, left there when she’d bitten his hand. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He was the living, breathing image of Fletcher Taunt.

  They stared at each other, and she thought her curiosity must be as apparent in her eyes as his was to her.

  Slowly, a smile inched across his face and he drawled, ‘Dear God, it’s a young woman in my bedroom. Didn’t anyone tell you I don’t sleep here any more, so I can only imagine your delights? Tell me your name.’

  She felt a blush creep into her cheeks. ‘Miranda … Let go of me, please, Mr Taunt. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was looking for myself, but found you instead.’

  He ran his hands down her arms and took her hands in his, gently pulling her to him across the few inches of space between them, his intention clear. There was no force from him. Slowly, he leaned forward, his gaze on her mouth, allowing her time to avoid him before it gently settled on hers.

  She could have moved away, slapped him or screamed for help. She could have said no. She did none of those things. Legs rooted to the spot, she slowly disintegrated, allowing him the delicious liberty of stealing a lingering kiss from her lips, now sensitized beyond reason. Fire darted through her veins and every vulnerable part of her absorbed the living essence of him and quivered with anticipation.

  A puff of air extinguished the candle. ‘I want to know all about you and must see you again,’ he whispered. ‘Try to come to the stile next Thursday at ten.’

  After a while, her mouth cooled. Miranda realized he was gone, quietly and without so much as a creak of a floorboard or a stair. Still she stood there, only God knew how long, enjoying the bouquet of the brandy on her tongue and experiencing his warmth embracing her inside.

  Eventually, she opened her eyes and moved out to the landing window. The moon gradually rose and the night was saturated in its light. Shadows elongated in the garden.

  She wondered if he might have walked out of his painting and she’d imagined him, after all, except she suddenly saw him in the shadows below the window. He was heading towards the woods at an easy lope, the three dogs silent shadows at his heels.

  He stopped in the shadow of a horse chestnut – one that had recently delighted her by unfurling feathers of spring greenery from their brown sticky casings. He turned and blew her a kiss.

  There was a whistle from beneath her. The dogs turned, sniffed at the air and then headed towards the noise at speed. She must go down before Sir James came looking for her and caught her in this room.

  ‘So that was Fletcher Taunt,’ she whispered, smiling as she quietly closed the door and floated downstairs on knees that seemed as liquid as water after the confrontation.

  ‘Ah … there you are. I was just coming up to find you,’ Sir James said from the hall below, making her jump. ‘Have you seen the dogs?’

  Sir James occupied a space patterned by ribbons of incandescent moonlight reflecting from a mirror. The air was filled with tension. As if he’d suspected his nephew had been here!

  She hoped her breathlessness wasn’t apparent in her voice as she raced to tell him, ‘The dogs rushed out past me when I went upstairs. I’m sorry if I took too long. Lucy asked me to wait until she fell asleep, and from our window I could see a blue light winking. I thought it was a lantern on the shore.’

  ‘Was the light steady or sparking?’

  ‘Steady, I think. What was it?’

  ‘A reflection of the stars on water, I should imagine.’

  She nodded. ‘My attention was then captured by the light coming through the window of the landing. The moon is so large and pretty tonight, and as bright as day. The dogs were over near the woods by then.’

  ‘The front door was standing open. Did you open it?’

  ‘No. I thought one of the dogs had managed to open it, until they pushed past me upstairs. I was about to tell you about it. Do you think it was an intruder?’

  ‘If there had been an intruder, the dogs would have let me know. Either it was someone they knew or, more likely, they opened it, went out and came back. Caesar hasn’t learned how to close it behind him yet. I’ll have to get down on my hands and knees and demonstrate.’

  The dogs scrabbled at the door and it slowly opened. They tried to push through it at the same time, a dozen legs sliding and scrabbling on the stone doorstep.

  Miranda laughed. ‘He must have heard you.’

  He harshly addressed the dogs, ‘You’re not supposed to use this entrance or provide entertainment for my guests. Into the kitchen and stay there, you pests.’

  They headed across the hall in a race of heated bodies and panting tongues, their tails between their legs.

  As Sir James watched them go, a lump gathered in Miranda’s throat. It was obvious he was as fond and indulgent with his dogs as he would be with children, if he’d had any. Lucy had grown fond of him, which worried her a little. He was lonely, and Miranda wanted to hug that from him. She wouldn’t, of course. Although something about Sir James instinctively drew pity from her, another instinct feared him.

  When they went back into the drawing room, Sarah Tibbets gazed from one to the other suspiciously. ‘You were a long time.’

  ‘Miss Jarvis was captivated by the moon on her way down the stairs, and I was distracted by her joy in the sight of it. It’s full. There is something quite enchanting about a young woman standing looking at the moon, as though she’s bidding farewell to her lover.’

  He offered her a guileless smile when she gave him a sharp look.

  Andrew Patterson was more practical. ‘Not a night for smugglers, then; they’ll be cursing the moon tonight.’

  ‘Aye, there’s that, and those who attended the sea burial will be overcome by the brandy they’ve swallowed this night,’ Simon Bailey said c
omplacently. He smiled without mirth, his teeth a perfect spread. He was not unattractive and looked fit. ‘It means that my men can stand down and pay some attention to their families … except for the watchmen on duty, of course.’

  Sir James’s eyes glinted. ‘The dogs have just come back from their rounds. You can relax, Simon. They’d let me know if any strangers were about, or if anything was amiss.’

  Sarah Tibbets sniffed. ‘We’re not really strangers here, yet they wouldn’t let us out of the carriage.’

  ‘Dogs are like humans. They don’t take to everybody. Mainly, they’re animals that are faithful to the pack, and the pecking order of that pack. My youngest dog, Caesar, has taken mightily to Miss Jarvis here. He dotes on her.’

  ‘Well, I think dogs are smelly, unreliable creatures and they should be kept out of the house. I prefer cats.’

  ‘I admit, cats can be amusing, especially when they’re cornered. They’re plucky little creatures.’ He chuckled. ‘All I can say is I’m glad I’m not your dog … nor ever likely to be. I believe it is your turn to entertain us, Sarah. Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven”, isn’t it?’

  ‘Such a long poem,’ Mary trilled. ‘How on earth will you remember it all?’

  ‘Sarah has been rehearsing it all week, and she has an excellent memory,’ her brother told them.

  Sarah offered a confident smile, ‘I admit to being blessed in that way. But I do have the poem in a small volume of his works with me if I need to refer to it.’ She cleared her throat and took up a stance. ‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary …’

  Eighteen weak and weary verses later they were all glassy-eyed from boredom. Sarah was certainly word-perfect, but the drama of the poem was lost in her style of narrative that plodded along like a herd of nodding donkeys.

  Andrew Patterson suppressed a yawn and gave a theatrical shiver. ‘I hope a raven never comes tap-tapping at my door.’

  Sir James turned to Mary Patterson. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough take a turn at the piano to round off the evening, Mary. Then I shall get you to recite a poem. In the meantime, I’ll send a maid to fetch your cloaks, and you’ll have the moonlight to guide your way home.’

  Six

  Fletcher was only slightly inebriated. He was a moderate drinker and always recognized the point when he needed to stop before his wits became too addled for him to function properly.

  The moon was too bright for smugglers to go about their business. It was as though Silas’s death had put a curse on it. But it was just right for lovers who wanted to be moonstruck. And he was obviously in the mood to be.

  ‘Where did that delectable little female come from?’ he asked himself, turning his face up to the glowing orb. ‘Who is she?’

  Her mouth had been as soft and melting as a bowl of butter, her body firm and small. Her deliciously upthrusting breasts had almost invited his tongue to tickle the virginal nubs pushing against her bodice.

  What was she doing at his uncle’s home? Had she come with his dinner guests or was she a house guest? She’d been there long enough for the dogs to be happy with her presence.

  The thought that she might be his uncle’s guest caused him more than a little disquiet. His reasoning went off at a tangent, so he didn’t have to follow where that particular thought was leading him. It was possible the girl was a new maid. He shook his head. Not in the gown she wore or the way she spoke. It was more likely that his uncle had brought her home for his weekend entertainment. There … he’d thought the unthinkable.

  Miranda of the violet eyes hadn’t looked, smelled or tasted like a trollop.

  She’d been delectable, innocent … bloody scrumptious. In fact, she seemed to have woken latent cannibalistic tendencies in him!

  He adjusted his trouser seam, which had begun to strangle his balls, and, straddling the stile, thought he’d far rather have a woman between his legs. He gazed back at Lady Marguerite’s House. He hadn’t found what he’d been looking for – the correspondence between lawyers that had surrounded his birth … the papers Silas had told him about, but wouldn’t discuss with him. The only place left to search now was the attics … and his uncle’s study. He frowned. No, not that. He did have some scruples.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been back to his uncle’s house over the past two years, but it was the first time he’d been detected. He could have stayed hidden in the shadows, but somehow she’d sensed his presence. Her breathing had quieted and she’d gone on alert, her senses twitching like the whiskers on a mouse.

  His room was as he’d left it, his clothes still hanging in the wardrobe or folded neatly into the drawers, as though he was expected back. No dust had been allowed to gather on the surfaces of the furniture.

  Would the girl tell Sir James he’d been there? He wondered, and then remembered the talk about his uncle taking two orphaned children under his roof after he’d buried their mother. The girl he’d met hadn’t been a child, though there was certainly an air of innocence about her.

  He’d left his horse just at the end of his own property, the boundary of which was on the other side of the copse. The gelding snickered softly when Fletcher approached and called out his name.

  The wake for Silas was still going on in the seaweed drying-shed when Fletcher got back to Monksfoot. Some of the mourners were singing out-of-tune but vulgar sea shanties as he took his horse to the stable to bed him down for the night.

  He heard the cook giggling and shushing in the darkness of the hayloft and a man grunting. He grinned. He hadn’t ridden a woman for a while. Although there were a couple of attractive woman amongst the house staff who’d made sheep’s eyes at him, it wouldn’t be wise to take his pleasures so close to home if he wanted to keep the respect of his workers. As it was, one or two of them resented him taking over from Silas. Not even the faithful Tom had managed to take his measure yet.

  ‘Miranda,’ he said, tasting her name on his tongue. His grin widened as he wondered if he’d swallowed a tad too much brandy and had imagined her.

  There was no sign of Tom or some of the more able-bodied men about, but the Wild Rose had gone from her berth. It surprised him that Tom would take her out on such a bright moonlit night. But then he remembered that Simon Bailey had been dining with his uncle. The revenue would not expect a run when the master of the house had just been buried, and most of the workers had been as drunk as fiddler’s bitches.

  Making his horse comfortable for the night, he went indoors.

  The house staff were absent too, but the kettle was steaming on the hob and the lid rattling. He made himself some tea and slapped thick slices of ham and cheese between two slices of bread, eating his supper at the scrubbed pine table.

  When he went up to bed, Dog and Dog were outside their former master’s door. Glancing up at him, they whined.

  He hunched down on his heels and fondled their ears. They stood, going through a stretching ritual and sniffing him, making growly noises as they detected the alien scent of his uncle’s dogs on him. They seemed to waffle between doggy menace on behalf of the late Silas and pleasure at his attention to them.

  These battle-scarred old hounds without names didn’t move far from the house now. They’d belonged to Silas since they were pups. They’d pine for him, but Fletcher hadn’t been able to carry out the instruction from Silas to shoot them and send them off into hell with him.

  ‘Sorry, but your master isn’t coming back, dogs. You can sleep in there if it gives you some comfort, just until you get used to his absence.’

  One of them barked when someone bade the cook goodnight in a deep voice.

  ‘Shush, Murdoch; someone might hear you.’

  Fletcher knew he’d recognize the man by his voice alone, if they met.

  The dogs disappeared through the door when he opened it, tails wagging in expectation of seeing their master there. If they were disappointed, they didn’t look it, taking up their usual position on the rugs by the bed.


  Fletcher propped the door open with a chair under the doorknob so they could get out if they felt the need.

  The next morning, most of the servants were suffering from an excess of alcohol consumption. The cook must have overslept. Fletcher went to the kitchen, to find her bleary-eyed and short of temper.

  He accepted her churlish apology and overtly gazed at her when she turned her back on him to examine the contents of a pan. Most of Silas’s servants were too familiar for Fletcher’s liking. This one was about thirty, and as slim as a reed. She had light brown hair pulled back into a knot. Her lack of hip spread was overshadowed by an abundance of bosom. All in all, she was passing fair, and a competent cook. The kitchen was grubby, though. Food scraps had been swept into a corner and left to go mouldy.

  ‘Is the Wild Rose back at her mooring, Bertha?’ he asked.

  A pair of tawny eyes were turned his way. ‘As far as I know, she hasn’t been anywhere, sir.’

  ‘Her berth was empty when I got home last night.’

  ‘The brandy must’ve made you see things that weren’t there. Or perhaps it made you not see what was there. Then again, the Wild Rose might have gone out to catch a tasty fish or two for your breakfast.’

  If it had, there was no sign of them. ‘And perhaps you were too busy entertaining a man friend in the hayloft to notice.’ He didn’t let her know he was aware of the person involved, but it would bear watching.

  ‘You should learn to keep what you see to yourself, master, lest someone chop off your nose.’

  Lifting the lid from a pot, she grinned, stirred it with an iron spoon and aimed a dollop of oatmeal into a dish. She spun it across the table to where he stood. ‘There, that will put hairs on your chest. Oatmeal was Master Silas’s favourite breakfast.’

  And she would learn, right now, that she had a new master, one who would demand politeness from his house staff. Gently, he pushed the bowl aside. ‘Gruel is for invalids and children. I’m neither. Taking into account the upset to the household of Silas’s demise, I will overlook what has just taken place between us. But if your intention is to remain in my employ, from now on you will not address me with such familiarity. Is that understood?’