Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

  ‘I’m sorry Rozzie treats you so badly,’ he said, as he sat down with her.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Jake. She doesn’t like sharing you with me, and now you’ve insisted she learns to speak properly, she probably thinks you’re ashamed of her.’

  ‘You’re her chance to make something of herself. She has to learn how to go on, and right now is too quick with her tongue. A shrew is what she is.’ He smiled. ‘So, what happened up at the house?’

  ‘I just watched from the boundary.’

  ‘A wise thing, too. You won’t get anything back from that old cow. But the Devil takes his own, and one day she’ll roast in a hot place.’

  ‘Do you promise?’ she asked with a smile, and leaned her head against his shoulder. Her dark curls tumbled over his skin, and the muted firelight swayed gently over the soft contours of her body and face, emphasizing the delicate loveliness that poverty had not dimmed.

  ‘I’d promise you the moon on a stick if I could, Bethie,’ he whispered, stroking her cheek. ‘You’re the prettiest damn thing I ever saw in my life, do you know that? Those big hazel-green eyes promise a man heaven, but it doesn’t really work, you and me, does it? I can reach out and touch you when I want, but I don’t really have you, do I? It’s like grasping a will o’ the wisp, or trying to keep hold of a good dream that wants to go come morning light.’

  Such poetry from a man like Jake almost undid her, especially as it revealed him to have more insight than she’d realized. Tears stung her eyes, and she caught his hand. ‘Don’t, Jake, please don’t.’

  ‘There’s no need to cry at my nonsense.’ He looked curiously at her. ‘It’s only the liquor talking. You never promised me anything, and I know it’ll end someday, sooner or later.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jake,’ she whispered. ‘I want to love you, truly I do.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Bethie, for you’ve been kindness itself to me,’ he said, placing his hand on her knee and caressing it gently. ‘People around here gloated when you lost everything, but not me.’

  ‘My father’s influence with the canal company threw a lot out of work, so I can understand their delight in my downfall.’

  ‘I’ll never forget the moment I saw you sobbing your heart out, looking as lost and frightened as a kitten.’

  ‘A kitten?’ She smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered, reaching for her hand. ‘Dear God, I love you, Bethie.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered.

  ‘And I want you so badly right now that cocker’s fit nigh to burst.’

  He placed her hand on the erection rising from his groin. Her fingers closed gently around it, and she slowly teased the foreskin back to massage him with the palm of her hand. She wanted so much to give him pleasure, to show by what she did now that while it wasn’t passionate love, her affection for him still went very deep indeed. Tomorrow, when she’d gone, he’d know what she’d been saying tonight. Her fingers were knowing and tender, teasing, pausing, and teasing a little more, almost bringing him to a climax, but not quite. She knew him so well, and was able to prolong his delight until it almost became too much for him. Her caresses were intoxicating, and he lay back on the floor, his whole body arching with intense gratification, until suddenly he drew her to the floor and straddled her to kiss the valley between her breasts. From there his lips moved to a nipple, while he fondled the breast with adoring fingers. She caressed him too, sliding her hands over his back and down to his waist, and then down to his buttocks. He didn’t enter her yet, for that would lead to a hasty conclusion, and he wanted to prolong the exquisite pleasure.

  She didn’t anticipate thinking of Sir Guy Valmer; indeed he seemed nowhere in her mind, but suddenly Jake had changed. It was Guy she embraced, Guy who kindled exquisite excitement between her legs. Her blood ran more swiftly, her skin flushed and she met Jake’s lips in a kiss that seemed to burn them both. He couldn’t restrain himself any longer, and pushed deep into her. She clung to her imagination, so that it was Guy who thrust into her, Guy who impaled her with his passion. A spring tide of sexual satisfaction rushed through her, sweeping her up until she felt weightless. She had never before experienced such unbelievable ecstasy, or wanted anyone so much that she yearned for her flesh to fuse with his. The motion of his body, the warmth of his skin, the joy of his domination, all had become one in her world. Pleasure, deep, deep pleasure, please let it go on forever.

  Jake gasped her name as he came in an explosion of pulsating desire, but it was Guy’s voice she heard. Everything was Guy, and her emotions were so chaotic that she could barely grasp reality. Bewildered tears stung her eyes. She had just experienced the most rare and consummate sexual reward. It was the first time she had reached such a pitch of joy, and she owed it to Guy, to whom she was so strongly attracted that he took Jake’s place in her arms.

  Jake rolled aside and gathered her to him, resting his head against her hair. Satisfaction, the brandy and the warmth of the low fire combined to make him sleepy, and within moments his breathing had changed and she knew he was asleep. The wind gusted around the eaves, and raindrops patted the window as she wriggled out of his embrace and covered him with the blanket she’d brought down from the loft a little earlier. Then she climbed quietly up to the loft, where Rosalind was deeply asleep, and collected the money pouch and the fine clothes of her former life.

  She changed downstairs, taking particular care to comb her dark hair into a tidy and acceptable style, and then counted out the money as quietly and carefully as she could. When it had been divided, she replaced half in the pouch, which in turn she put in her reticule. Jake’s portion she left on the table.

  Her preparations complete, she sat up in a chair, listening to the cathedral bell chime the night away. At four Jake would awaken because of the cockerel in the next yard, so she would leave at three. But as that hour approached, Rosalind’s quiet voice intruded upon her silence. ‘Where did you get that money, Miss Fancy Tremoille?’

  Beth gasped guiltily. ‘Please don’t awaken your father,’ she pleaded softly as the girl climbed down the ladder.

  ‘Have you been streetwalking to set up a nice little nest egg?’

  ‘You know that’s rubbish.’ Beth looked at Jake, but he didn’t stir.

  ‘Then where did the money come from? Did you have it all along?’

  ‘It’s not your business, and no, in that order. But you’ll be delighted to learn that I’m leaving. The money is for your father.’

  Rosalind’s eyes gleamed. How much was there? It looked a lot, enough for a good life, but even now she didn’t forget to show her dislike. ‘Well, get on out then.’

  ‘And good riddance?’ Beth enquired wryly.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Beth pulled on her emerald-green gloves. ‘Will you tell your father that I am sorry to leave like this?’

  ‘Tell him yourself. Shall I wake him for you?’ Rosalind stepped toward Jake.

  ‘Do so, if you want to cause him even more pain. Are you really that vitriolic? Hate me if you wish, but don’t use him.’ Beth looked at her levelly.

  Rosalind turned. ‘You always have a way with words, don’t you?’ she said mockingly, her diction perfect, without a trace of an accent.

  ‘Be all that he wants, Rosalind, because he only seeks the best for you.’

  ‘I want what I want, not what he wants,’ the girl replied, reverting to type.

  ‘I couldn’t care less what you want, Rosalind, because I think you are a malicious little spit-cat who should have been drowned at birth.’ How good it was to speak her mind. ‘Now, when your father awakens, you are to warn him to be very careful to whom he mentions this money. Very careful, do you understand? And before you choose to flout the warning, perhaps I ought to advise you that it’s in your interest as much as his to keep quiet.’ Without looking back, she went out into the damp, dripping dawn.

  Rosalind gazed at the closed door, then at the carefully piled guineas. Only then did she g
lance at her father.

  The cockerel crowed at four, as it always did, and Jake stirred to find his life had changed forever. Rosalind could hardly wait to tell him his beloved Beth had deserted him and left money behind. Twenty guineas. Jake stared at the notes and coins on the table, then reached for the bottle of brandy. He closed his eyes as it coursed down to his belly. ‘Twenty guineas? Oh, Bethie,’ he whispered.

  ‘We’re better off without her.’

  ‘I’m not better off, Rozzie, I’m nothing without her.’

  ‘Well, she’s let you know what she thinks you’re worth. And I reckon she had the money all along.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, she didn’t. I knows you hate her, Rozzie, but—’

  ‘You’re right!’ Rosalind cried. ‘I hate her more than you’ll ever know. But now she’s gone, without bothering to say goodbye, or thank you!’

  He looked away. ‘She did,’ he said softly. ‘She said it last night. And the twenty guineas, well, it’s what I need for a share in the forge at Frampney.’

  Rosalind managed to meet his eyes. ‘I wonder how much more she had?’

  ‘For the love of God, Rozzie, can’t you let up for a minute? I love her, and one day, when you fall in love, you’ll know better how I feel right now!’

  She ran to fling her arms around him. ‘Oh, Dad, don’t take on so, please don’t! I’m still here, you’ve still got me!’

  He paused before holding her close. ‘Ah, but it’s not the same, Rozzie. Bethie’s my other half. My other half.’ His shoulders shook as he began to sob.

  ‘Please, Dad, don’t cry, I can’t bear it.’

  He drew himself together with a huge breath, glanced at the money again, and then his face took on a new resolve. ‘Right, Bethie left that money for me to buy into that Frampney forge, so that’s what I’m going to do. We’ll go there today.’

  ‘Today? But—’

  ‘No arguing, my girl. What’s to keep us here, eh? Do you want to go to that tavern again? Do I want to trail around looking for work? The answer’s no, so we’re leaving today and that’s that. But first we’ll have a proper meal somewhere up in town. I’ve a mind to make a hog of myself.’ He spoke bravely as his heart broke.

  The parson kept his spirits up by singing rousing hymns. His face was round and red, and his hat was tugged low against the drizzle as he drove the dogcart along the wide new road to Cheltenham. It was still early morning, dull and dismal, the rising sun only visible as a dull yellow stain on the eastern horizon, and Beth huddled gratefully on the seat beside him. He’d taken pity on her as she walked out of Gloucester, and asked no questions about why she was out on her own so early.

  She thought of Jake. Did he know she’d gone? That she’d left the money? Her thoughts were interrupted as the parson stopping singing. ‘These times are bad, with radicals and reformers creeping from their vile corners, and poor John Bull threatened by the raising of the tricolour within these shores. No one is safe, as witness the terrible murder up near Tremoille House.’ Her heart lurched. ‘A groom from the house was done to death,’ he went on, ‘and the money he carried was stolen. I pray the culprit is caught and hanged.’

  Beth felt almost sick with apprehension, as if the parson would at any moment seize her reticule and find the pouch. Her worst fear had been realized, Joshua’s death was being regarded as murder. The rest of the journey to Cheltenham passed in a daze. She didn’t rally her thoughts and composure until the pony clattered to a halt outside the Plough Inn, from where most of the mails and stagecoaches departed. The spa town, so much more modern and elegant than its port neighbour of Gloucester, was already busy, and seething with rumours about a great battle somewhere near Brussels. Some said it was a victory for Wellington, others that the French were triumphant. Excitement and panic were equally represented, quite upsetting the parson, who drove away quickly into the throng of traffic. She entered the courtyard, and approached the ticket office, from where a bespectacled clerk peered short-sightedly. ‘Yes, madam?’

  ‘I wish to travel to London on the next available coach.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck, there’s room on the Rocket stage, leaving in an hour.’

  ‘Is it a reputable coach?’

  He was affronted. ‘No disreputable coaches will be found at the Plough, madam. One inside seat left at twenty-four shillings. It’s fifteen hours on the road.’

  She tendered two of the guinea coins, and after he’d rather insolently tested them with his teeth and found no base metal peeping through gold paint, she was given her ticket and change. It was with some relief that she pocketed the assorted coins, for at least she would now be able to present sensible amounts when required. She breakfasted in the crowded diningroom with other passengers, including an anxious young couple also waiting for the Rocket. Out in the yard a noisy group of gentlemen argued about the effect a victory would have on corn prices, and in the street there was an increasing air of unrest as the rumours continued to spread. But Beth was in a world of her own. Only this time yesterday she had been walking barefoot and hungry toward Tremoille House. Now everything had changed.

  Wearing a blue paisley dressing-gown over his shirt and trousers, Guy was taking breakfast by the open casement window of his rooms at the Crown. He regarded the scruffy boy a waiter had just shown in. ‘I’m told you’re called Weasel? Is that so?’ The boy nodded nervously, turning his musty hat in his hands. He was small and thin, and wore threadbare old clothes that were several sizes too big for him. His brown hair, long and straight, was greasy and lacklustre, and he looked as if a good meal would not go amiss. Guy indicated the breakfast that was still on the table before him, and the boy sat in the opposite chair and fell upon the food, stuffing toast, butter, marmalade and bacon into his mouth, and then guzzling strong black coffee direct from the pot. Watching him, Guy was reminded of the hungry Miss Alder.

  Weasel wiped his nose on his grubby sleeve, and then looked at Guy. ‘What you want me for, mister?’ he asked, spitting crumbs.

  Guy moved the newspaper aside and placed a half-crown on the table. ‘I understand you are Gloucester’s best nose.’

  Weasel’s brown eyes widened, and his dirty hand reached toward the coin, but Guy shook his head. ‘Oh, no, it’s only yours if you undertake a small task for me. Nothing illegal, I just want you to find someone. Half-crown now, another if you succeed.’

  ‘A whole crown? Mister, I’ll ask across the ruddy county for that. Who are you after? What you want to know?’

  ‘Miss Elizabeth Tremoille, and I simply need to know where she is.’

  Weasel sat back. ‘The fancy bit of muslin from up at Tremoille House?’

  The look in his eyes told Guy he already had a notion where to find Beth Tremoille. ‘Have you something to tell me now?’

  Weasel shook his head. ‘I’m not certain, and don’t want to go losing a half-crown by getting it wrong. I’ll make sure, then come back.’

  ‘That’s fair enough. Be warned though, my business is urgent.’

  ‘I’ll be back quick enough.’ Weasel’s chair scraped as he got up. He hesitated, and then grabbed a final slice of toast before hurrying out again.

  Guy resumed reading the newspaper, which was full of the war in Europe and the riots at home. He’d heard the conflicting tidings from Brussels, and knew that whatever the truth of it, there was going to be trouble in the country. There was another tap at the door, and he looked up with some irritation. ‘Yes?’

  The same waiter as before put his head around the door. ‘Mrs Tremoille has called, Sir Guy.’

  Before Guy had time to reply, Jane marched in, brushing the waiter aside and halting regally before the table. ‘A word, if you please, Sir Guy.’

  Guy waved the waiter away and then stood politely. ‘Good morning, madam,’ he said, stepping around to draw out a chair for her. ‘Please take a seat. Now, to what do I owe the honour of this pleasant visit?’

  ‘You have no idea? I thought Sir Guy Valmer
had a finger on every pulse.’

  He went to stand by the latticed window. ‘I do my best.’

  ‘You really haven’t heard what has happened, have you?’ she said in surprise.

  ‘Clearly not, Mrs Tremoille, so if you will please illuminate me?’

  ‘My man Joshua was set upon and murdered yesterday afternoon. His body was found on the common; the pouch of money had gone.’

  The sun was beginning to break through, and Guy heard the cathedral bell echoing over the city rooftops. Then his grey eyes swung back to her. ‘And why, pray, does that bring you scurrying to me? You must have left Tremoille House very early to be here now. I trust you are not about to accuse me of anything?’

  ‘It is to ascertain your innocence that I am here.’

  ‘You have amazing effrontery, madam, and were you a man I’d call you out for what you have just said. I find your tone unpleasant, and the suggestion that I now possess the horse and the money is an insult to both my integrity and my honour.’ Her lips pressed together, and she drew back slightly, aware that her fury over the missing money had made her rash. Guy regarded her coldly. ‘You are on very dangerous ground, madam, and ought not to tread further. Someone has the money, but it isn’t me.’

  ‘Which is all very well, Sir Guy, but if you were in my place, who would you suspect?’ she challenged.

  ‘Oh, without a doubt I’d suspect you, madam, because that is your nature, but I do everything within the strict letter of the law, so murder and highway robbery are certainly not crimes with which my name will ever be connected. Now then, do you wish to repeat your calumnies?’ She declined to answer, and he smiled. ‘Ah, retreat. I begin to get the measure of you, madam.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure of yourself, Sir Guy. You hope to marry Beth and take Tremoille House and the rest of my husband’s estate away from me, but I intend to keep what’s legally mine. Do your damnedest, sir. You won’t find a new will. If he made one, Esmond didn’t even tell his oldest and dearest friend, Francis Prettyman, where it was. You are on a wild goose chase, Sir Guy.’