by Janet Woods
Daffodils reminded Miranda it was April and she only had until June to think of a plan to escape. ‘Yes, I do, but we can’t live on Sir James’s goodwill for ever; we must soon go and look for work so we can earn some money to support ourselves.’
‘He doesn’t mind supporting us.’
‘We are not his kin, Lucy.’
Lucy opened her mouth and then shut it again. Her eyes slid away. ‘What if we were his kin?’
‘That would be different.’ Miranda made an attempt to steer her sister away from the subject of Sir James. ‘Do you remember the stone jug that sat on the kitchen windowsill, the one our mother always kept filled with flowers?’
Lucy smiled. ‘I wonder what happened to it.’
‘Everything belonged to the Parbrook Estate. Mother loved daffodils. She said it wasn’t really spring until they were in flower. We must pick some to put on her grave.’
‘You can, Miranda. Life is so exciting now; I don’t want to fill it with sad memories of the past.’
‘Honouring our mother’s life can’t be sad. You must never forget she gave us life and loved us dearly.’
‘Then why did she go off and leave us?’
The small note of petulance in Lucy’s voice dismayed Miranda. ‘It wasn’t her fault that she died. Don’t you miss her?’
‘Sometimes, especially just before I go to sleep, but I try not to. Death is so horrid and solemn. You’re not allowed to laugh or smile in case people think you have no respect for the dead, and crying makes your eyes looked red and watery. I’m never going to wear black. Sir James said I’m too young and pretty to wear such a colour.’
Their host was turning her sister’s head. ‘You mustn’t get too attached to Sir James.’
‘I don’t see why not. I like him a lot. He said he’d always wanted a daughter like me. Besides, you’re not my mother, so you can’t tell me what to do.’
‘Lucy, what’s come over you?’ Miranda said with some annoyance, and warned, ‘You’re not Sir James’s daughter, and we might not be welcome here for much longer. And if you disrespect our mother again, I’ll … well … I’ll slap you!’
Lucy hugged her. ‘Stop being so cross with me. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. It’s just that I like it here. We have warm beds, good food, and pretty clothes to wear, which is more than we ever had with our own parents. That might sound selfish, but nothing is going to bring them back. I can even use the piano. Sir James is going to teach me to ride a horse.’
Sir James the wonderful! Miranda was tired of it. Anyone would think he was God. ‘Our parents did their best on the money our father earned honestly.’
‘I know … but that doesn’t mean I’ve got to live that way, does it? I’m not going to leave here, not ever. You’ll see.’ Lucy shrugged and, folding her arms over her chest, gazed fixedly out of the window.
Miranda could have slapped her sister for being seduced by Sir James’s surroundings and generosity. But, then, Lucy was of an age where such things would impress her. They also impressed Miranda, but now she knew she’d have a price to pay for it.
‘Sorry,’ Lucy mumbled after a while, and because Miranda didn’t want to spoil her sister’s day, she kissed her sister on the cheek and made up.
The next day, Miranda left Lucy and the maid exclaiming over the contents of the boxes and parcels that had been delivered by a man in a smart delivery wagon. She went to the kitchen, where the cook provided her with a chipped vase.
‘It don’t matter if you leave this one there, Miss Jarvis. Sir James told me to throw it away, and nobody will want to steal it anyway, the ugly thing. You can fill it with water from the little stream running alongside the road. There’s lots of water flowing from the April rains, so be careful you don’t fall in.’ Nancy avoided her eyes and said rather tentatively, ‘Is your head all better now, miss?’
‘Yes, it is, Nancy. It wasn’t your fault.’
‘All the same, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Sir James told me that if I’d broken your head and killed you, I’d be hanged from the gallows, and it would serve me right. He said I’m to remember that hanging ain’t worth the cost of a loaf of bread.’
Miranda kissed her. ‘I’ll remember that the next time I feel like stealing a loaf of bread.’
Sir James waylaid her in the hall when she went to fetch her blue velvet jacket and bonnet from the hallstand. ‘Where are you going with that old vase?’
‘I’m going to the cemetery. I intend to place some daffodils on my mother’s grave. The cook gave me the vase; she said you wouldn’t mind because you told her to throw it away. My mother loved daffodils.’
‘It’s a lengthy walk.’
‘Yes, but the countryside is pretty and I need the exercise … and the solitude,’ she hastened to add, in case he took it into his mind to escort her.
He helped her into the jacket, tying the bow of her bonnet against her left ear. The lock of hair left exposed was twisted in a loose tendril around his finger and laid against her face. ‘You have lovely skin, Miranda. So soft.’
She took a step back. ‘Thank you.’
Three clicks of his fingers brought a dog to his side. ‘Take Caesar to look after you and make sure you stay on the road. Don’t forget the urn.’
It was an ugly object: grey-marbled and etched with bunches of grapes. Curved Lizards formed the handles.
When she pulled a face at it, he laughed. ‘It used to be a pair. It was a wedding present.’
‘What happened to the other one?’
‘My nephew broke it in a fit of temper.’
‘Did you punish him?’
He shrugged. ‘Probably. It was a long time ago.’ When he opened the door, he eyed the sky. ‘The rain is unpredictable; you might need to carry an umbrella.’
‘The urn is enough to carry. Besides, I can shelter under a tree if there’s a shower.’
She was aware of his gaze on her back all the way down the drive, but she resisted the urge to turn.
She crossed paths with several wagons filled with stone coming from the opposite direction, the plodding carthorses labouring under their load. She supposed the stones were to repair the gaps in the walls.
Caesar took his duties seriously, growling under his breath at every wagon and every man who tipped his hat to her. She didn’t know what she’d do if he attacked someone.
She fondled his ear as she stopped to pick some daffodils. ‘You don’t have to be quite so conscientious, Caesar. Not everybody is out to do me harm.’
She turned into a track that led to the cemetery. It was a peaceful spot overlooking the sea. The tombstones had been weathered by many storms and leaned all ways, like friends having a conversation.
Rainwater bubbled along in a brook on the side of the track, and there was a stone bridge across it to mark the entrance of the burial ground. The stream had been formed over many years of rainstorms and it disappeared into the hill further down, eventually soaking out into Lady Marguerite’s Cove.
Miranda filled the urn with water and carried it carefully to the corner where her mother was buried. Her tablet was the only new one there. Sir James had told her that the dead were buried in the church grounds now, but there were a couple of plots in the cemetery on his land, and he was sure her mother would prefer it there.
Caesar jumped up on to a nearby grave, his length covering the oblong of stone afforded to the occupant in death. He spread out on the surface to absorb any heat the moss-covered stone had retained from the day. She could just make out the words. Big George Grime, pickled in brine for his smuggling crime when he drowned in seventeen hundred and nine.
Her smiled faded when she remembered her mother’s burial. The rector had stumbled over his words, though they were not lacking in sincerity. To make up for it, Sir James had said words over the grave and read a passage from the Bible. He’d mentioned the stillborn child, saying that the little girl would have been given a place in heaven as an angel.
Up till then, Miranda hadn’t known that the unfortunate infant was a girl.
She arranged the flowers, smiling when she noticed the hundreds of daffodils spearing through the earth and the early bloomers already bobbing their bonnets in the breeze. She had never given a thought that the daffodils were everywhere at this time of year.
There was a lovely view over the sea to the Isle of Portland from here. Her gaze went to the faint line between sea and sky. A strand of clouds lay like a string of misty black pearls to herald another oncoming shower.
Miranda thought of her mother. So near, yet so far and unable to comfort or be comforted. ‘I wish you were here to advise me, Mama. I don’t know what to do. I always thought I would follow my heart, fall in love and wed, like you and Pa did. Now I find myself in the position of needing to surrender my freedom so Lucy and I can have a future.’
A twig snapped, and several birds flew from the opening of a neglected family tomb a couple of plots away. It looked like a small church. A rusty metal gate hung crookedly ajar, revealing a flight of steps that descended into the dark yawn of an interior. A lantern hung from a hook over the portal stone, its candle sunk into a pool of melted wax and dripping with greasy icicles.
Caesar came down from his vantage spot to press against her leg, quivering and alert as he raised his snout to cast for alien scents in the air. His tail began to whip back and forth.
Miranda couldn’t see anything untoward, though her sight was being drawn towards the tomb. It was irrational, but she’d feel better if the gate was shut.
She shrugged off her uneasiness. If the gate was closed and there was a ghost that wanted to haunt her, it would simply float through the bars. ‘It’s nothing, Caesar … unless it’s the spirit of the dead.’
‘I’m no ghost.’
Almost rooted to the spot, Miranda pressed a hand against her mouth and stifled a little scream.’
Caesar went to greet the intruder.
Miranda spun around. ‘Fletcher Taunt,’ she yelped.
The breath rushed from her body in one long gasp and she struggled to breathe, so she felt dizzy. He was no longer the elegant young man of the picture hanging in her bedroom, or the shadowy intruder who’d introduced a measure of romance into the night of the full moon. In daylight, his height and muscular body was reassuring rather than threatening. Twice as handsome in maturity and dressed all in black, he nevertheless had a slightly sinister air, like his uncle. Instinctively, her glance searched through the dark ruffled curls on his head in search of a trace of horns.
There were none.
How had he got here? It seemed as though he’d risen up from the grave. She was still struggling to get a breath after the fright he’d given her.
‘Miranda of the violet eyes, we meet again,’ he said, his smile robbing her of her remaining breath.
She was taking a step towards him when she tripped over a tussock. Her knees gave from under her and she landed on something soft.
Eight
Miranda recovered from her stumble only to feel lightheaded.
Fletcher was seated with his back to a headstone, and she was cradled in his arms, her head against his shoulder, his jawbone barely an inch away from her mouth. If she moved just a little …
Dash away the thought! They hadn’t even been introduced and all she could remember from their accidental first meeting was his kiss. He removed her bonnet and the wind blew through her hair so she felt like a wild creature he’d captured. She’d become part of him, and both were part of the wild landscape.
He looked down at her, laughing. ‘Young ladies don’t usually throw themselves into my lap.’
She doubted that was true as she struggled against his strength. ‘I must get back.’
‘Of course you must … but not yet, just when I’ve found you again.’
‘I wasn’t lost.’
‘Not yet, but you will be if you stay in my uncle’s house for much longer.’
She shivered, knowing she would be more lost staying here wrapped warmly in his arms. Feeling compelled to defend his uncle, she said, ‘Sir James has been good to us.’
‘Of course he has, but he does nothing without reason, and he is full of trickery. Hush, woman; stay quiet until you recover your wits.’
She suddenly remembered her host’s reason for being good to them – marriage and children to repay the debt they owed him. It was a large price to pay, but her sister’s life was worth it.
As for recovering her wits, dread filled her again and she felt as though she were falling into a deep, bottomless pit. His fingers stroking gently through her hair was a long way from producing the relaxing effect he seemed to be aiming for. She’d thought she knew her own feelings, at least well enough to be able to differentiate between what was real and what was not. At the moment, she was filled with an ocean of tumultuous urges towards this man and she didn’t know how to get them under control.
‘I can’t stay like this … here with you. It isn’t right or … or even decent and you are making me blush.’
‘I’m not making you blush – not yet.’ This accompanied by a grin. ‘Either the colour is returning to your cheeks after your stumble or you’ve discovered your thoughts aren’t as pure as you imagined or as society dictates, my lovely.’ He gave a delightfully wicked chuckle. ‘As for it not being right, it feels right to me, and being indecent can be fun. We must try it some day.’
‘We certainly must not.’
‘It’s inevitable.’ He had long, dark lashes and they suddenly swept up to reveal his eyes, gazing directly into hers, dark green like the pine trees growing in the copse. ‘I think you’re beginning to like me, Miranda.’
She did like him – she liked him too much. And he was right: her thoughts were not pure. No doubt she would think about him when she was almost asleep and the moon was shining through the window and making her restless. He’d lit a fire under her by just being alive.
She dredged up some calm she didn’t feel. ‘I’m quite recovered now, so you must let me go, Mr Taunt.’
‘If I must uphold convention, then I shouldn’t leave you disappointed.’ He kissed her, and it was a longer, more intimate kiss than before, one that brought honey rising in her mouth, slicked her body with perspiration and made her aware of the most sensitive and secret desires of her body. How could she crave so much for his touch, the scorch of his mouth and his tongue turning her own into a melting flame that was a sinful conflagration of desire?
Then he opened his arms, leaving her feeling utterly abandoned, and entirely and delightfully wicked. ‘Fly away little bird.’
She scrambled away from the danger of him and began to rearrange the daffodils. Seating himself on a tomb, he watched her, one leg bent at the knee to support his head, the other dangling in its scuffed black riding boot.
‘I recognize that urn.’
‘Your uncle said you broke its twin in a temper.’
‘Yes … I threw it down the stairs.’
‘What were you in a temper about, Mr Taunt?’
‘Call me by my first name. It’s Fletcher to my friends.’
‘Fletcher, then.’
He smiled. ‘It sounds like silk rolling from your tongue.’
‘You’re changing the subject.’
‘Yes, but it’s really not that important. You should ask my uncle, perhaps.’
‘He said he couldn’t remember.’
Fletcher shrugged. ‘It was stupid really. I was fifteen, and it was over a woman. I was too old to be beaten, yet he instructed two of the stable hands to tie me to a tree trunk and called on the staff to witness it, and he took a birch to me – it was humiliating for both of us. He went too far, and my skin was split and bleeding. It took months to heal, and I still have some scars. Throwing the pot down the stairs was an act of defiance.’
The unconscious hurt in his voice touched her soul. A dagger of pity pierced her heart and she almost experienced the shame of that moment. ‘Did you love
the woman?’
‘Lord, no, it was a case of nature leading a young man by his … nose.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘I don’t know. She was a servant and she just wasn’t there the next day. I imagine he sent her packing. Perhaps he killed her.’
She gasped. ‘He wouldn’t do such an awful thing.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps not … though he’s a man of many moods and can be irrational at times. Nevertheless, my relationship with my uncle changed after that. We were never easy with each other again. It was as though he regarded me as his rival. I set out to prove that I intended to be that. Males are like that you know. They butt heads to prove they’re right.’
‘What if they’re not right?’
‘There’s that, of course.’
‘It was a stupid reason to cause such a rift between you.’
‘There’s more to it than that. Two years ago, we had an argument. It started out as a game. A piece of property was wagered on the turn of a card, which I won. My uncle couldn’t bear to lose to me in public, so, with bad grace, he accused me of cheating. He threw me out of the house and, by rights, should be the one to apologize.’
‘Can’t you swallow your pride and make it up with him yourself?’
‘I keep meaning to try, but if I did, it would look as though my uncle had told the truth, and I had cheated. That stops me. The same would apply to him if he approached me. It would be like telling everybody that he’d lied.’
‘Someone should bang your heads together,’ she said, using the phrase her father had used on the odd occasion she’d quarrelled with Lucy.
Laughter huffed from him. ‘That’s not the first time I’ve been told that, but the first time from a woman. It might be too late for us to reconcile. There’s been water under the bridge since. I’ve inherited the property my uncle had set his sights on, and I’m making my own way in the world.’
‘Do you miss his companionship?’
‘I do, even though he was a difficult man to live with. He lost his own wife and son.’
‘It must have been hard for him to lose them.’
‘He took my mother, Elizabeth Taunt, under his roof, where I was born. She died of consumption when I was still a child.’