The Songbird's Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  He slowly nodded.

  “How a bloke speaks and moves and acts would not only tell you a lot about him but the people and place he came from, too, right?”

  He was studying her closely. “Yes.”

  “Well then, how could I find it dull? It’s what I do, Archie. I read a libretto and decide how a song ought to be sung by first figuring out who the character singing it is. That includes where she came from and who she came from. A person doesn’t just burst into song for no reason, you know. She comes from some place. Some place that has fashioned her and which she has to some degree fashioned.”

  “I had no idea your craft involved such sorts of analysis.”

  She rather liked his calling what she did “her craft” and gave him a nonchalant smile. “Now you do. So, how do you mean to go about finding this Taranis.”

  “Oh, I don’t expect to find him. That would be asking a bit much. But I might uncover some hint of his presence, like footprints in the dust. In some cultures the best metaphorical footprints a previous culture leaves can be found in the stories handed down from one generation to the next. I intend to interview the islanders, get them talking.”

  “Then we best get going.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. I’ll go with you.”

  He hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  “It’s a wonderful idea. I’ll help you.”

  He was looking decidedly uncomfortable. “It’s a generous offer, but really, I can’t accept.”

  “Yes, you can. I’ll be dressed and ready to go in two shakes.” She hopped up and started to close the window. He caught it halfway. “Lucy. I don’t know how to say this. I know you mean to help but I’m afraid you’ll . . .”

  “What?”

  “Not help,” he finished lamely.

  She burst out in a little trill of laughter. “Of course I will, Archie. You’ll see. I have a positive knack for putting people at ease.”

  He groaned. She ignored it.

  “You stay there. I’ll be ready in five minutes.” Without waiting for a real invitation, as she was fairly certain none would be forthcoming, she pulled the window shut and dragged the curtains over it.

  She dropped the blanket from her shoulder and looked around, realizing that she didn’t have any clothes. All of her things were waiting for her in Saint-Malo. The things she’d had on yesterday were unwearable.

  She opened the bedroom door and peeped out. The main room had been separated into two areas, one for cooking and the other, a sort of parlor, for everything else. Mrs. Beaufort stood at a stove against the wall, hands on her hips, glaring at something popping and sizzling in a cast-iron frying pan.

  At the sound of the door, Mrs. Beaufort glanced over at her shoulder.

  “I kin clean yer dress fer two bob.”

  Lucy’s eyebrows flew up. “Two bob? That’s ridiculous.”

  Mrs. Beaufort shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Suit yerself.”

  “I shall clean it myself.”

  “And what will you wear in the meantime?”

  Lucy scowled. She hadn’t thought of that.

  Mrs. Beaufort looked over her shoulder at her. “Lucky fer you, my Kate’s aboot the same size as you. Ye’ll find sometink in the chest at the foot of the bed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Five bob for the brown one and—”

  “Five bob! But that’s outrageous! I could buy a brand-new skirt and petticoat for that price in London.”

  Mrs. Beaufort regarded her stonily. “But we ain’t in London, are we? Six bob if ye fancy the green skirt and blouse.” She turned her back on Lucy. “Breakfast is on the table. Only three pence—”

  “Mr. Grant informed me it was already paid for.”

  The woman muttered something about “pinch penny Londoners” under her breath and went back to glaring at her skillet.

  Lucy didn’t make it out the door in the promised five minutes. A sniff of her person made it obvious that she couldn’t go anywhere without a quick sponge bath. In the process of that she realized that her hair was the worst offender and . . . well, she hoped Archie could appreciate that twenty minutes to bathe, wash and comb out one’s hair, and brush one’s teeth was an amazing accomplishment. Especially since she’d spent five of them haggling with Mrs. Beaufort over the price of soap.

  She flew out of the door in her newly purchased green skirt and moth-eaten jumper. If Mrs. Beaufort estimated her Kate was the same size as Lucy, the woman needed stronger spectacles than were currently available, because the Beaufort’s daughter was at least four inches taller and ten wider than she was. She’d been forced to use the curtain tieback for a belt and a shoelace she pilfered off a boot in the closet to tie back her hair, but at least now she was ready to follow Archie to, well, anywhere.

  Archie sat on the ancient stone fence that followed the lane leading to the Beaufort farmhouse, one leg dangling, whittling away on the stick he carried. The wind nickered and fussed, the promise of rain hanging in the nickel-plated sheet of sky. He felt more than heard Lucy’s approach. Not surprising, as she seemed as much an element of nature as the wind or the surf, just as capricious and unpredictable, following some odd inner logic of her own.

  He stood up and turned. She came trotting toward him, her unbuttoned coat flashing open to reveal the disastrous outfit beneath. Compliments of Mrs. Beaufort, he’d guess, though, upon closer consideration, there’d probably been no compliments about it. She looked like a beggar.

  “Right then,” she said a little breathlessly upon gaining his side. “We’re off.”

  This was not a good idea. Interviewing indigenous people was an art. Under optimum circumstances one would beg an introduction from an intermediary; spend time establishing first rapport and then, hopefully, trust; and finally, carefully, ask a few precisely calibrated questions. There wasn’t time for any of that here. Even a trained interviewer such as himself could only hope for a few bits and pieces and only if he asked the right questions in a circumspect manner.

  “Do you understand the meaning of the word circumspect?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “What does it mean?”

  She set her hands on her hips. She looked ridiculous, her skirt all bunched at the waist and held in place by some sort of rope, her hair bound by a bit of cord, and a soft hat pulled low on her brow. At least her coat fit.

  “It means to stash it and keep a glim eye.”

  He didn’t understand a word she said and she knew it. She was having him on, teaching him a lesson for patronizing her. He probably deserved it.

  “English, please.”

  “You don’t want me to muck up your pow-wow with the locals.”

  Pow-wow he understood. “Exactly.”

  “I won’t. I promise. You won’t even notice me.”

  Which was patently impossible, but he didn’t see what he could do about it so he started walking. She fell easily into step at his side, reaching into her coat pocket and producing one of Mrs. Beaufort’s oatcakes wrapped up in a bit of brown paper.

  “I didn’t have time to sit down to breakfast,” she explained, taking a bite. She grimaced and swallowed with evident difficulty. “Good Lord, that’s awful.”

  “It’s an ancient recipe.”

  She gave a little snort. “The Beaufort family tree would have been better served if they’d buried it along with the malicious ancestress who thought it up. No wonder Mrs. Beaufort looks so constipated. Did you actually eat those things?” She tossed the cake to the side of the road.

  He shrugged. “It’s an interesting relic.”

  “I’m all for relics as long as one is not obliged to eat them.”

  He hadn’t thought that much about it at the time, as he was far more interested in its history than its flavor, but now that she’d pointed it out he noticed a rather unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth.

  Lucy nodded. “I’ll bet she used sheep tallow. And curdled milk.”


  He was saved from having to think further about the ingredients in Mrs. Beaufort’s oatcakes by the appearance of a middling-sized black-and-white dog that slunk from under a patch of low-growing junipers and darted across to where Lucy had pitched the cake. With a toss of his head, he gobbled up the snack and then began following behind them, hoping, no doubt, for another treat.

  “I shall feel dreadful if that dog falls over dead,” Lucy said.

  The dog’s head drooped between his shoulder blades, ears flattening to his head. He lifted his lips in a silent snarl.

  “From his demeanor, I’d say he’s no stranger to Mrs. Beaufort’s cooking.”

  Lucy laughed, looking thoroughly entertained. Cornelia found humor vulgar. But why was he comparing the two women anyway?

  “I bet our friend here belongs there.” She pointed at a squat, irregularly shaped croft hard against a rocky knoll. Grass carpeted the roof and a tin chimney protruded from the corner, burping little commas of white smoke into the air.

  Archie’s steps quickened with familiar anticipation, the thrill of possible discovery, of finding something unexpected and unique. Lucy trotted to keep up with his longer stride. “How are we going to talk our way in?”

  “We aren’t going to. I am. You are going to remain circumspectly quiet, remember?”

  “I promised to be circumspect. I didn’t say anything about being quiet.”

  “Lucy . . .”

  “Fine. I’ll be quiet.” Her voice dropped. “Ish.”

  “I mean it,” he said severely. “You can’t just blurt out questions. It makes people wary. You have to make them comfortable first so they become loquacious.”

  “In my experience the only thing most people need to become loquacious is an opening.”

  “Please. Just let me handle things.”

  They’d arrived at the croft. Archie knocked on the door, then stepped back.

  A moment later, the door opened to reveal a small, humpbacked, and very old man. He was the color of teak, his face craggy, his nose migrating toward a collapsing adit of a mouth. Tufts of white hair sprouted from a knotted, jutting chin and from beneath a foul knit cap. Milky blue eyes scraped over Archie and landed on Lucy.

  “What ye want?”

  “Good day to you, sir. I was hoping for a cup of water for my . . . for . . .” He stopped, confounded by his inability to catalogue just what Lucy was in reference to him. She stood demurely a few feet back and to his side, her hands folded neatly at her waist, looking absurdly young in her oversized clothing, a long pennant of hair dancing behind her.

  “What’s that?”

  He turned back around with a start. “Oh. Yes. What I was saying is that we were walking and have grown quite thirsty.” Lucy swallowed audibly, doing her part to add verisimilitude to the claim. “If you could oblige us we would be most grateful.”

  “Well’s out back. Dipper in the bucket.” The old man’s clouded eyes narrowed. “Sixpence.” He held out a hand every bit as gnarled as his face.

  Lucy gasped. Immediately Archie recognized the danger implicit in that gasp. He stepped in front of her, blocking her from view of the old man and digging in his pocket for some coins.

  He didn’t have any.

  “Do you have any money on you?” he said to Lucy.

  “Not to buy water, I don’t,” she said furiously, standing on her tiptoes to glare over his shoulder at the old man studiously ignoring her.

  “Please, Lucy,” Archie said in a low voice. At this rate, he was never going to talk his way into the house, let alone get the old man to start spinning yarns. “The islanders clearly have developed something of a cottage industry that centers around tending to the needs of marooned ferry passengers.”

  “By soaking every penny out of them that they can get their hands on?” She made no effort to keep her voice down.

  He fervently hoped the old man was hard of hearing.

  He wasn’t. “What’s that yer wife said about soaking? Tain’t rained yet today.”

  “She’s not my wife,” he answered.

  “She ain’t?” The man’s face knotted like a fist. “Then what were ye doin’ carryin’ her into Marie Beaufort’s house and then setting outside her bedroom all night like a dog guarding a bone?”

  Apparently, the island’s communication network had been operating overtime. But how? They’d arrived after dark and he’d risen before dawn. Fascinating. He’d experienced something similar in other small enclaves where each member was uniquely dependent on others for information and aid. There’d been a tribe in Angola—

  “We’re eloping.”

  He spun around, mouth agape.

  Lucy stepped briskly to his side and hooked her arm possessively through his. The wind played with the hem of her skirt and teased color into her cheeks. She looked fresh and young and bold as brass, eyes bright, head cocked.

  “What do you mean ‘elope?’ Do yer folks know?” the old man demanded.

  “You know exactly what I mean,” Lucy said in a bizarre accent, a weird amalgamation of precise diction and broad Devonshire consonants. She gave her head an imperious toss. “For weeks Archie here has been hounding me, saying as how he’ll die if he doesn’t make me his. So I says, ‘I’ll be yours all right, as soon as I’m wearing your ring.’ ”

  She paused here and actually had the nerve to wink at the old man. Amazingly, he chuckled and then cleared his throat, abashed at having been lulled into amusement at such improper goings-on.

  “Problem is, his father don’t think I’m good enough for him.” Lucy jerked her chin in his direction. “I don’t know about you, Granddad—I can call you ‘Granddad,’ can’t I? You put me in mind of my own dear paw-paw. He had just such a canny look to him as you. Anyway, as I was saying, I don’t know about you, Granddad, but I come from a long line of”—her gaze flicked through the open door into the room behind—“fishermen, who taught me that whilst I wasn’t ever to think I was better than anyone else, I should always keep in mind that I was just as good.”

  “And so you are,” the old man said, his glare accusing Archie of rank elitism.

  Archie stared, riveted by equal parts awe and horror that Lucy actually thought she could pass him off as lecherous womanizer and herself as—well, he wasn’t exactly sure what role she was writing for herself but it seemed to have found favor with the old man.

  “I need not tell you, Granddad, that I wouldn’t budge an inch.” She sniffed. “Nor unbutton a button.”

  Archie choked back a groan.

  “No, sir, I know my value.” She was embracing the role of innocence triumphant in the face of debauchery to the fullest. She’d set her fists on her hips and now angled her chin to the sky, her eyes flashing with moral righteousness.

  “Well, finally, Archie here says we’ll have to elope to France. Which is fine by me. I always fancied seeing France. But then the ferry ended up here and we at Mrs. Beaufort’s who, by the way, will swear on a stack of Bibles that I kept the door barred against him all night long.” Dear God. “And if she doesn’t, she’ll be condemned for eternity as a liar.”

  “She won’t be the only one,” Archie muttered. She pretended not to hear.

  “But now with day come and everyone going about their business and it looking like it’ll be nightfall at least before the ferry can be under way again, we’re left to our own devices. Archie thought we might take a peek in at some abandoned crofts.” She gave a snort of derision. “Like I’m so green I don’t know where he thinks that will lead.”

  He didn’t even attempt to protest. He stood silently by and wondered if it were possible to simply drop dead from incredulity before he glumly concluded it wasn’t.

  “So I suggested we go for a walk. A nice long walk. Vigorous, if you catch my drift. The kind to wear a bloke out,” she confided in a tone rife with outrageous self-satisfaction. “But we’ve been tromping since sunrise now and my feet are near to failing me. I reckon it would be best to park t
hem in a place where there’s other people to keep us company because, well, Archie’s getting a mite impatient and”—her gaze dropped, her lashes fluttered, and he didn’t know how she did it but she actually seemed to blush—“he can be very persuasive.” She glanced up. “If you take my meaning.”

  For what seemed an eternity but was in fact probably no more than ten seconds, the old man stared at Lucy while Archie waited for him to sic the dog on them. She couldn’t really expect to talk them into the old man’s home by pretending she was a runaway bride who was trying to keep her would-be lover’s overly ardent advances at bay by basically asking the old man to act as her chaperone? It was the most ludicrous, transparent, obviously fallacious bit of tripe ever—

  “Come in, then.” The old man opened the door wider and beckoned them inside.

  “And then the Moon Boy took the axe that had been sunk deep into his own forehead and wrenched it out and fell upon his brother, chopping off first his arms and then his legs and finally cleaving his head from his trunk.” The old fellow stopped, taking particular relish in the gruesome story.

  It was their second day in his company, the first having extended long into the evening, during which time Michel Bolay, their host, had put together a surprisingly appetizing soup of salt cod, potatoes, and cream. After feeding them he had insisted on escorting them—or rather, Lucy—back to the Beaufort place.

  There, he’d informed Archie that he intended to stand outside until he saw a light in “Kate Beaufort’s old room” and a single—with a pronounced emphasis on the word “single”—silhouette on the curtain before leaving. Archie had been preparing to refute the old man’s veiled indictment when Lucy had jumped into the breech, sniffing virtuously and saying, “He’ll not spend another moment with me this night!” before sailing into the house.

  Though he’d followed close on her heels, true to her word, he hadn’t seen her for the rest of the night. But early that morning, she’d been waiting for him by the stile, announcing that she’d already washed her clothes, hung them to dry, eaten breakfast and was asking whether he always slept in late. The dimple in her right cheek teased him as much as the light in her eyes, drawing him like a moth to a flame.