Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

  Thomas was unimpressed. What happened the other side of the world was of no interest to him, unless it affected his financial situation. ‘The fellow should be in Bedlam,’ he muttered callously.

  Now Rowan was truly incensed. ‘Damn you, Father! The horrors the fellow witnessed, the death and deprivation, the squalor and utter misery, make the shallow complaints in this country seem trivial. As trivial as your problems, most of which are of your own creation. Sink in self-pity if you wish, replace me with your bastard seed if that is what you want, but don’t prate to me of your woes, because they are as nothing to what happened because of Mount Tambora. That, sir, is misery!’ Slamming down his glass, Rowan strode toward the door.

  For a moment his livid father considered squaring up to him, but there was something in Rowan’s eyes that made discretion seem much the better part of valour. Thomas stepped aside, and Rowan walked straight past.

  As Rowan prepared to ride to Gloucester, Phoebe and Rosalind were also on their way there, huddled in the back of Johnno’s wagon. They intended to do a little Christmas shopping, and then visit Phoebe’s cousin, but Rosalind was hoping to wriggle out of visiting in order to go to the winter fair that had been set up on the river-bank at the bottom of Westgate. Rosalind scowled at the lazy flakes that still floated in the icy air. ‘Phoebe, do I have to come with you? Can’t I go to the fair?’

  ‘Go alone to a fair? Certainly not!’

  ‘Please, Phoebe. I promise to be good, truly I do. Dad always let me go alone.’ This wasn’t true, because she’d lied that she was working late at Barker’s Tavern.

  Johnno, who was walking beside them, just the other side of the wagon’s canvas cover, lifted the edge for a moment to look in. There was a rather hopeful sprig of mistletoe in his battered old hat. ‘Aw, go on, Phoebe. Let the chit have some fun.’

  ‘You mind your own business, and keep your eye on your work, before we end up in another ditch.’ As he let go of the canvas and whistled at the oxen, Phoebe glanced at Rosalind. Mention of the ditch reminded her of Robert Lloyd, but the girl was leaning out of the wagon to touch a snowflake that floated within reach. ‘Rosalind, have you thought any more about accepting Jamie Webb? He’s steady and dependable, and in good employment now with the squire. It would be a good match for you.’

  Rosalind scowled. ‘Jamie’s dull and long-faced. Be fair now, Phoebe, would you want to marry him?’

  ‘It’s not me he wants to wed, Rosalind, and if you think you’re going to snap up someone like Lord Welland’s son, then you’re a cuckoo.’

  ‘That’s not fair! Just because I don’t want Jamie Webb!’

  Phoebe felt a little guilty. ‘Oh, well, it’s your decision, I suppose,’ she muttered, making much of shifting her position and tweaking her warm winter cloak.

  ‘Please can I see the fair?’ Rosalind knew when to play on Phoebe’s conscience.

  ‘We’ll see,’ was the brief reply, but Rosalind knew it was capitulation. A rush of excitement flooded her. She’d been feeling unsettled and restless again, just as she had before going with Robert Lloyd. The same craving had returned, gnawing deeply through her and making her tremble sometimes between the legs. She wanted to experience that pleasure again, to feel a man inside her. But that wasn’t why she wanted to go to the fair. There was a prize ring there, where she might encounter Rowan Welland.

  Back in Frampney, Jake, Matty and Jamie Webb were sharing a jar of perry. Jamie’s face was miserable. ‘Well, Rosalind doesn’t like me that way, and that’s that.’

  Matty clapped a sympathetic hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘She’ll come around, Jamie. You’re about the best catch in these parts. She’s not daft.’

  ‘No, but she prefers finer folk.’ Jamie glanced sideways at Jake.

  Jake sat forward. ‘She’s learned her lesson, Jamie. You mark my words, Matty’s right, Rozzie’ll come around and we’ll be seeing a wedding come the spring.’

  Matty relit his cumbersome pipe and Jake frowned. ‘I wished you’d give up that smelly old chimney, Matty. I caught you dozing off again yesterday. You’ll have this place down in flames one day.’

  ‘Aw, stop moaning,’ Matty grumbled. ‘It’s coming up to Christmas; there are no womenfolk to chew our ears, so let’s enjoy it, eh? Pour us another jar of perry.’

  Jake laughed and reached for the earthenware pitcher, but Jamie dwelt upon Rosalind. Had she learned her lesson? He’d seen what happened when she dropped the flour by Lord Welland’s son. She still had an itch for the gentry, and Rowan Welland was a very different kettle of fish from that pig, Robert Lloyd. Jamie’s spirits were low. He loved Rosalind Mannacott with all his fool heart, but she wanted far better. Far better. He reached for his replenished jar. ‘I think I’ll get drunk tonight,’ he muttered, and began to drink long and deep.

  Darkness had fallen before Rosalind eventually reached the fair, and to her chagrin Phoebe accompanied her, having insisted they do the shopping and cousin-visiting first. Now they had two hours before returning to Johnno’s wagon at the White Hart at six for the return to Frampney. The fair was bright with torches, lanterns and lamps, and the air smelled of toffee, fried onions and gingerbread. A wheel of fortune was ablaze with colour, the wooden roundabout creaked and the swing boats went so high that those inside squealed and shrieked. Men were selling holly and mistletoe from carts, and a choir from a local church was singing ‘I Saw Three Ships’. The sweet notes were almost indistinguishable amid the shouting, laughter and rival racket from a fiddle, drum and cymbals. Audible only at close quarters were the chink of coins, the splash of beer from kegs, and the whir of paper windmills. Horses were always to be found at fairs, and an assortment of dogs, but Rosalind had never seen such a strange animal as one that was led past now. ‘What’s that, Phoebe?’ she asked.

  ‘Darned if I know.’

  A man next to them explained. ‘It’s a camel, I’m told, like the Three Wise Men rode. Darned ugly thing, eh?’

  ‘Where’s the prizefight tent?’ Rosalind asked.

  ‘Over there, close to the bridge. It’s all red-and-yellow stripes, so you can’t miss it.’ The man, whose face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, with teeth like broken tombstones, looked her over. ‘Now what does a pretty thing like you want with fisticuffs? Got a fancy for the famous Taffy Hughes, eh?’

  Phoebe was indignant. ‘You mind your tongue, you rascal,’ she warned, raising the umbrella she’d brought along for protection.

  ‘All right, all right, you daft old trout,’ he protested, and shuffled away.

  Phoebe then turned her wrath upon Rosalind. ‘That’s what you get for encouraging strangers!’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘Yes, you did, when you asked him about the tent. Which is another thing, why do you want to know about that?’

  ‘I’d like to see a prizefight, that’s all.’

  ‘It isn’t ladylike,’ Phoebe replied shortly.

  Rosalind smiled and nudged her a little playfully. ‘Oh, come on, Phoebe, let’s go and watch for a while, if only to see how daft men can be.’

  Phoebe hesitated, part of her as keen as Rosalind. Temptation had its way. ‘All right, but don’t you leave my side.’

  The snow crunched beneath their feet as they threaded through the crowds to the tent, where a master-of-ceremonies was extolling the virtues of Taffy Hughes, the Mad Welshman. Phoebe’s nerve almost failed when she saw the unruly and disreputable types flocking into the tent, but Rosalind urged her inside, where the smell of tobacco smoke, damp clothes and unwashed bodies was almost choking. Now Rosalind’s sole concern was whether or not Rowan Welland was here. Please let him be. Please.

  More and more people tried to enter the tent, but it was so full that they had to stay outside, disgruntled because they wouldn’t see the renowned Welsh fighter. Rosalind kept looking around, but saw no sign of Rowan. The master-of-ceremonies forced his way to the ring and tried to be heard above the racket, but the crowd’s response was to start
chanting for Hughes. At last the man seized a metal tray and a large spoon from somewhere and began to beat them together like a gong. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the finest fighter in the length and breadth of the king’s realm, Taffy Hughes!’

  There was pushing and shoving as the huge Welshman came from the back of the tent, surrounded by his seconds. He was jostled and whistled all the way to the ring, where he stood dead centre, his brawny arms folded, gazing around with strangely dark eyes. ‘Oh, my lord,’ Phoebe breathed, ‘who’d be dippy enough to take him on?’

  ‘Do we have a challenger? Do we have a challenger?’ the master-of-ceremonies bellowed, and there was a cheer as a local giant named Basher Hancock held up his hand. He was pushed and elbowed to the ring, and the closer he drew to the Welshman, the paler his face became. Moments later he was formally announced. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a worthy challenger, Basher Hancock, a coal heaver from Kingsholm!’ The two men squared up and the fight began.

  Rosalind had always known that pugilism was a bloody sport, and Rowan’s bruised and swollen face had proved it, but even so she wasn’t prepared for the sheer butchery of the ring. The sound of the Welshman’s fist striking Hancock’s face, the sight of the torn flesh around the challenger’s eyes and the blood streaming from his nose and split lips were too much. It was the last straw for her when Hancock received an upper cut that not only sent him sprawling but made him violently sick as well. Blood and vomit spattered over the ring, and Rosalind caught Phoebe’s arm. ‘Let’s go, this is awful.’

  ‘I’m enjoying it,’ Phoebe replied unexpectedly. ‘I never thought I’d like a good scrap like this, but I do! Just get some air by the entrance, but don’t go out of sight.’

  Rosalind pushed her way toward the entrance, but then saw Rowan watching the bout. Snowflakes clung to his hair, his hat was under his arm, and his cloak tossed back over his shoulders as he leaned against a tent pole. He hadn’t seen her, so she had a moment or so to simply look at him. Oh, he was so handsome, even with his bruises. How she’d like to lie in the grass with him. Desire welled through her, making her breath catch and her eyes shine.

  Suddenly he noticed her and straightened quickly. ‘Miss Mannacott?’

  She moved closer and curtsied. ‘My lord.’

  He smiled and reached out for her hand, which he drew to his cold lips. ‘I’m not Lord Welland yet, but thank you for the compliment.’ He searched her face. ‘You’re a little pale. Is prizefighting too much for you?’

  ‘A lot too much for me,’ she answered. ‘Please say you’re not here to challenge that Welshman.’

  ‘Well, that was the main idea. I’ve fought him before and been beaten before.’

  ‘But he’s so—’

  ‘Big? And I’m so skinny?’ he supplied.

  ‘Something like that.’ She smiled, liking him more each second.

  At that moment Phoebe bustled up, having spotted what was going on. ‘You come back now, Rosalind,’ she instructed. ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’

  Rowan bowed. ‘Madam.’

  Some of Beth’s advice on etiquette rang vaguely through Rosalind’s mind. She had to introduce them. Yes, that was it. ‘My lord, this is my friend, Mrs Brown.’

  ‘Mrs Brown.’ Not being churlish enough to correct Rosalind again, Rowan kissed Phoebe’s hand as well. Then he smiled winningly. ‘I assure you, madam, that Miss Mannacott is not in any danger while I’m here, but I’ll certainly be in danger if she isn’t. She’s in the process of trying to dissuade me from challenging Hughes. You wouldn’t want her to fail, would you?’

  Phoebe simpered at him, and then nudged Rosalind. ‘Don’t go away, my girl.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  As Phoebe withdrew into the tent, Rowan smiled at Rosalind. ‘I hope I’m right, and that your mission is to save me from myself?’ As she nodded, he went on, ‘Well, since we must not move from here, I suggest you stand with your back to the ring, the better to obscure the carnage.’ He glanced past her as the Welshman floored Hancock again and was catcalled for foul play.

  ‘Did you really fight Taffy Hughes?’ she asked.

  ‘Fight? Well, I endured fifteen rounds before he knocked me into the middle of the following week. I earned my purse that day, I can tell you.’ He chuckled.

  ‘And now you’re here for more? Why?’ she asked.

  He paused. ‘To be truthful, I don’t really know. It’s a habit.’

  ‘A very foolish one.’ She became suddenly self-conscious. ‘I – I shouldn’t have said that. I’m a blacksmith’s daughter and you’re a lord’s son.’

  He gave her an impish smile. ‘So, I’m not good enough for you?’

  ‘Don’t tease. We’re different classes, you and me, and we don’t mix.’

  ‘You, Miss Mannacott, are a snob to worry about class. It makes no difference to me, so you, I fear, must be a snob.’

  ‘If I’m a snob, it’s because I’m too good to talk to gentlemen who like to get knocked around a prize ring,’ she countered.

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It means “ah, there you have me”,’ he explained.

  She lowered her eyes. ‘You must think me very ignorant.’

  ‘No, for you intrigue me. You speak well; have you been taking lessons?’

  ‘I’d rather not say. I hate her and don’t want to speak her name ever again.’

  ‘Hate is a very harsh word,’ he observed, ‘especially when I imagine you’re referring to Beth Tremoille.’

  Her eyes flew guiltily to his. ‘How—?’

  ‘I know Beth, and that your father was her lover. She and I almost married.’ He saw how she recoiled, and added quickly, ‘It would have been an arranged match, but I certainly do like her, as I fancy she likes me. I can’t imagine anyone hating her.’

  In the tent things had begun to turn ugly as the Welshman and his seconds found themselves ranged against an angry Gloucester crowd. The verdict had gone against Hancock, and the onlookers didn’t think the victor had played fair. Sticks and bottles began to be brandished, and then someone threw something that struck the Welshman on the head. The mood snapped, becoming dangerous and menacing. Several men rushed outside to inform the rest of the crowd what was going on, and Rowan only just had time to pull Rosalind aside as people surged forward. He pressed back into the canvas, holding her close and protected as people stumbled and pushed past. Someone had a lighted torch that came too close to a low-hanging rope, and suddenly flames began to leap. There was panic as everyone tried to get away. Rowan dragged Rosalind out of the way again. ‘Come on, we must leave!’

  ‘But Phoebe!’

  ‘Has already escaped. Someone had a knife and cut the canvas, and she was among those that got out. She’ll be all right. My concern is for you.’ Seizing her hand, he ran toward the river-bank. The Severn’s muddy water shone in the lights from the fair, and only a few folk chose this route to escape the violence. The water rustled through overhanging willows, and several skiffs rocked by a small landing stage. Rowan halted to look back. ‘Well, trouble isn’t hot on our heels,’ he muttered.

  Rosalind was suddenly aware of their isolation. ‘I – I ought to find Phoebe. We’re supposed to be at Johnno’s wagon by six to go home.’ Her lips trembled suddenly and tears sprang to her eyes.

  Rowan was concerned. ‘I’ll see you to the wagon in time.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Please don’t be frightened.’

  She didn’t reply. She wasn’t afraid of him, but of her own desires. The brush of his fingers quickened her heart, and renewed the terrible ache between her legs. Oh, how she wanted to relieve that ache. ‘You’re the most handsome, gallant and kindly gentleman I’ve ever met,’ she whispered. ‘A lord with more charm than anyone ought to have, and I can tell that you like me, and I know that I like you. So it’s dangerous for me to be here with you like this.’

 
‘That’s very direct,’ he murmured, aware of things stirring that should not. He was supposed to be gallantly protecting her, not wanting to lift her skirt to despoil her.

  ‘It’s the truth.’ At least she could kiss him, couldn’t she? That would not be so terrible. Would it? She moved closer and lifted her parted lips. He hesitated, but his loins were filling with excitement and her mouth was so sweet and provocative that he bent his head to kiss her. Their lips quivered together, and then settled, moving tenderly and sweetly. He put an arm around her little waist and pulled her to him. How supple and slender she was, how small and firm her breasts. He pressed her against his arousal, unable to prevent himself from seeking at least some gratification, for as God was his witness he was determined not to let his weapon loose. His desire mounted and his kiss became more intense and sensual, but as she began to rub against him he realized she might not be as virginal as he’d thought. There was knowingness in her motion, and he knew when she came, for her lips softened beneath his, her breathing turned to gasps and her body undulated voluptuously. For a moment he considered undoing his falls and letting nature take its course, but then she seemed so overcome and weak that he had to catch her around the waist to prevent her from collapsing. She sank against him, her body soft and helpless, seeming almost drugged with satisfaction, and several moments passed before she rallied herself to pull away in embarrassment. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  ‘I’m not a whore, truly I’m not.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you know I’m not a virgin.’