St James' Fair

by St James Fair (retail) (epub)

  She stretched out a hand and felt the cloth of her shawl. Already it was nearly dry because the sun was very hot. She’d wear it with her green skirt and the new black shoes with the flashing buckles that she’d stolen out of a lady’s house near Berwick last week. She’d adorn herself with her late mother’s golden jewellery, plait her hair and pile it up on her head. She’d look magnificent. A faint smile crossed her face as she planned how she’d slip her arm through Jesse’s and lean her head against his shoulder. She’d wait till evening when he’d sold a few horses and had a few drinks with Gib and his friends, then she’d single him out and separate him from them like a collie dog cutting off a special ram from the flock. ‘I’ll get him this year,’ she silently swore.

  While she lifted her shawl from the grass and folded it up carefully, an old woman, walking’ with the aid of a knobbled stick, came limping over the grass towards her. ‘Going to look bonny for our Jesse, are you?’ his grandmother Rachel asked in her cracked voice as if she could read minds – which everyone in the community believed so there wasn’t any point lying to old Rachel.

  ‘I am. It’s time we were properly rommed,’ said the girl shortly.

  ‘You’ve waited long enough,’ agreed the old woman, eyeing the girl. ‘You’re ripe and ready for bairns now.’

  ‘He’s not though,’ retorted Thomassin.

  ‘No man ever is,’ said Rachel with a wicked grin. ‘They’ve got to be persuaded. You’ll have to cast the glamourie on him.’

  The girl looked up from beneath the falling sheet of hair. ‘Tell me how, Rachel,’ she said.

  ‘There’s ways. But they’re costly.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘To a Giorgio, the cost of a golden ring. To you, because I like you, nothing. Just give the firstborn girl my name.’

  ‘I promise. What can I do about Jesse?’

  Rachel was famous among the gypsies, and outside as well, for making up spells and potions. She could concoct draughts that enabled people to see into the future; she could dose sick animals and drive out the demon of sickness from people too; she could re-awaken a straying husband’s affections, kindle love in someone indifferent or bring a rain of misfortune down upon an enemy’s head. She knew how to make an impotent man rampant and a barren wife fruitful. No one talked about it but she also knew how to eliminate rivals and leave no trace of the deed. The girl was staring at her intently as she pleaded, ‘Make me a potion that will bring him to me.’

  The old woman sank down on to the bank and patted the grass beside her as she said, ‘Sit here and listen. On sunrise of Fair Day, if it promises well – and it will – stand outside your door and say the word “Temon” three times.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Thomassin did not sound convinced.

  Rachel shook her head. ‘No, but that’s the start of it. It means that during the day a man will fall deeply in love with you… it’s up to you to make sure it’s Jesse. I’ll make you a cordial to slip into his ale: five drops are enough. You’ll have to gather the ingredients for me.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘A phial of blood from a newborn baby. A woman in the last cottage in Town Yetholm had a bairn yesterday. Prick its finger when she’s not looking. And you’ll have to go out on to the hill and catch a snake. When you’ve got it, put it into a silk bag and bring it to me. I’ll need a church candlestick too and a fresh goose quill.’

  Thomassin did not ask where any of these things were to be acquired. She would find them, of that she was determined. With a smile she jumped to her feet and held out a hand to help Rachel up, ‘I’ll bring them tonight,’ she said.

  * * *

  While Thomassin was out on the hill searching for an adder, Grace was frantically hurrying through her work because she was anxious to get down to Havanah Court and hear Odilie’s news. It was after midday before she could make her escape and hurry all the way downhill, forgetting her worries about how awkward she must look in her limping run.

  She found Odilie sitting on the boudoir floor surrounded by a froth of gowns with ruffles of lace, silk and muslin in every possible colour – pink, blue, mauve and cream, pale green and emerald, scarlet and midnight blue. Martha was in the corner sorting through a mound of artificial silken flowers which were so artistically made that they looked real. She peered up distractedly when Grace was shown in and cried, ‘Oh Grace, come and help this girl decide what she’s going to wear tonight. She’s changed her mind four times already.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Grace asked in amazement looking at the piles of beautiful materials.

  ‘It’s tonight that Father and I are having dinner with the Duke. Did you forget that?’ said Odilie, listlessly picking up a strand of red ribbon and running it through her fingers.

  ‘Yes, I did. I’m sorry,’ said Grace, sitting down on the floor beside her dispirited friend. She picked up the skirt of a pale blue gauze creation with tiny seed pearls stitched around the hem. ‘Wear this. It looks lovely,’ she sighed.

  Odilie groaned, ‘Not that. It’s too sweet and virginal. I really want to wear sackcloth but Martha won’t let me. Help me look my plainest, Grace. Dark blue doesn’t suit me at all, so should I wear that?’ She pointed at a shimmering dark dress that lay in a corner.

  ‘Of course not. You must wear something that makes you look wonderful,’ Grace said firmly as she rummaged about among the dresses. She pulled out a flounce of soft cream-coloured material with rosebuds embroidered all over it and announced, ‘Now this is beautiful. Wear it.’

  Odilie stood up and held the long straight gown in front of her slim body as she stared into her pier glass. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked and when Grace nodded, she turned and handed it to her friend. ‘Then you must have it. It wouldn’t do for a dinner party because it has long sleeves. There’s a deep hem you could let down because you’re taller than me. Take it and wear it to the Fair.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘Oh no, Odilie, I can’t take it. I’d feel wrong – I’d feel like Cinderella wearing it. Anyway, I’m not going to the Fair.’

  Odilie only laughed, but Martha was staring at Grace and suddenly asked, ‘You’re very white, my dear. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t sleep very well last night because after your note came I asked Hester about Bettymill and she said terrible things about my mother.’

  ‘Of course – the note! I’m sorry, you must be longing to hear about your mother. What did Hester say?’ asked Odilie and Grace shivered as she remembered.

  ‘She said my mother was a whore…’

  Odilie snapped angrily, ‘What a horrible woman! Can’t you complain to your father about the way she torments you?’

  ‘I’ve told you, he doesn’t listen and it would only make her worse. She’d wait till he went out and then get her revenge. It’s odd that she didn’t tell him about yesterday though…’ Grace turned to Martha and asked desperately, ‘Odilie said you knew my mother, Miss Rutherford. I want to know about her so much. Please tell me.’

  Martha looked uncomfortable as if she wished she was miles away from the girls at that moment. ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you very much, Gracie, but I assure you that Lucy wasn’t a whore if that’s what you’re worried about. If there were any whores about, it wasn’t her,’ said Martha firmly, rising creakily to her feet and shaking a deluge of artificial roses out of her skirt. Though Odilie tried to stop her, she made to leave the room but added as a consolation for Grace, ‘Don’t let Hester bother you too much. She’s never got over being your mother’s servant.’

  The girl among the dresses stared at her. ‘A servant! Was she? I didn’t know that!’

  ‘She’d take care you didn’t. Your mother brought her and Jessie as her servants when she came into town as a bride. Hester’s father worked for your grandfather at Bettymill,’ said Martha, pausing at the door.

  Grace clasped both hands in an imploring gesture. ‘Oh, tell me more. Tell me anything you can remember. Unt
il yesterday I didn’t even know about Bettymill. It’s on the bank of the Tweed near Maxton, isn’t it? Jessie used to take me there sometimes but I’ve not been back for a long, long time.’

  Martha looked confused as if she’d said too much but her pity for the girl made her put off her departure long enough to say in a gentle voice, ‘Your grandfather owned Bettymill. He was a prosperous man and your mother was his only child. He sent her to a fancy school for young ladies here in Lauriston because he wanted her to marry well and she was a credit to him, turned out very genteel and all that. She was quite a catch when your father met her.’

  ‘And was he a catch, too?’ asked Odilie sceptically.

  Martha shook her head. ‘Not so much. He was a poor laddie but he was clever as a box of weasels. Everybody knew he’d make his way in the world. He was awful ambitious.’

  ‘If he was so ambitious, why did he marry Hester, his wife’s maid?’ asked Odilie in bemusement.

  Martha shrugged. ‘You’ve seen Hester – you should know why. She’s aye been a roguish-looking woman and she was a lass for the men. She knew a thing or two.’

  Grace’s face was even whiter than it had been when she first arrived as she asked, ‘Oh, please tell me what happened to my mother. She must have died very young.’

  Martha was still at the door with her fingers on the handle. ‘I think I can hear Canny calling on me,’ she lied but her determination failed when she looked back at Lucy Allen’s stricken daughter. ‘Your mother was about twenty-two when she was – taken. Poor lassie. Now I must go because I’ve things to see to in the kitchen. Those maids can’t be trusted on their own.’

  Though Odilie ran over and tried to hold her back, Martha hurried out of the room and disappeared downstairs.

  ‘“Taken” – that’s a funny word to use but we’ll not get any more out of her,’ said Odilie coming back to where Grace stood among the tumbled gowns.

  ‘I wonder why she’s so strange about it. I’m beginning to think my mother must have killed herself or something and that’s why people won’t talk about it. If she did, I wish I knew why. She was so young and had so much to live for,’ sighed Grace.

  ‘I’m determined to find out the story though it’ll take time,’ said Odilie confidently. ‘Now sit down and I’ll tell you exactly what Martha and my father said last night about your mother, even though you know most of it already.’

  Grace stayed at Havanah Court discussing the business of Lucy over and over again with Odilie all afternoon; she was still there at five o’clock when her friend began to dress for the Duke’s dinner. At six she was standing in the hall, eyes round with wonder and admiration, when Canny and his daughter mounted their carriage to ride up to Sloebank Castle.

  When she was settled in her place and her skirt carefully folded around her by a solicitous Joe so that it would not crush, Odilie looked down at her friend on the doorstep and cried, ‘But you mustn’t walk all the way home, Grace. Come with us and we’ll drop you at your door.’

  The Elliots did not own a carriage and Grace felt tremendous pride as she rode along with the Rutherfords and saw how people came rushing to their windows to look at the equipage as it drove through the town.

  She and Martha had prevailed on Odilie to dress in her most beautiful gown and she sat regally magnificent in cream satin with flounces of costly Brussels lace; a wreath of cream-coloured roses and ivy lay on her springing hair and a silken shawl patterned with Persian whorls in dark reds and purples was draped over her arms. She carried a fan of curled ostrich feathers and even though her father had wanted to deck her out in rubies and emeralds, the jewellery she and Grace had chosen was simple – a necklet of tiny seed pearls woven together into a broad choker that encircled her long neck and bracelets to match around both wrists on top of her white kid gloves.

  ‘You look truly lovely, Odilie,’ were Grace’s parting words when the carriage stopped to let her out at Viewhill.

  ‘Don’t depress me,’ said her friend.

  Venturing into high society held no terrors for Canny Rutherford, nor for his daughter. He had the confidence of someone who long ago had taken the measure of many grandees and knew that, whether clad in fashionable clothes or rags, men were much the same all over the world. His money and mental adroitness gave him a security and an aplomb that allowed him to brush aside any social gaffes he might make. He knew he could buy and sell most of the people who looked down their snobbish noses at him anyway.

  He had made sure however that his daughter was well schooled in the nuances of polite society. After he brought her back from Jamaica to join him, Odilie was sent to the most exclusive girls’ school in London where she learned her lessons among the daughters of the aristocracy. After two years she pleaded to be allowed to return home but by then she could hold her own with anyone. She knew which pieces of cutlery and which wine glasses to use at dinner; she could make conversation upon any subject; she could play the harp, the piano and sing sweetly; she knew how to flirt with her fan and dance a stately measure. There was not a titled lady in all London who could comport herself with more confidence that Odilie Rutherford.

  This paragon of a daughter now sat beside Canny with a set face and he squeezed her hand in reassurance.

  ‘If you don’t like him, I’ll call it off,’ he promised and meant what he said. Let Elliot and the money go hang, he thought, Odilie’s the most important thing in the world.

  She smiled but her lips were trembling as she whispered, ‘It’s not that so much. I’m nervous: are you sure he knows about my colour?’ She was dreading the recoil that might show in the behaviour of the Duke or his friends when she was introduced, for she had witnessed such a reaction too often before. It was useless to console herself by saying that it did not matter, that it might be her way out of a distasteful marriage. Even though she loathed the man in advance, she would be personally wounded if the Duke was repelled by her colour.

  Her eyes were seeking Canny’s in entreaty and he assured her, ‘He knows. Don’t worry about it.’

  He was almost bursting his skin with pride when their horses drew up at the portico of the Duke’s mansion and a line of flunkeys ran forward to open the carriage door. Canny was so affected that tears glistened in his eyes as he stepped out first and held out a hand to assist his beautiful daughter to alight. Then he turned and proffered his arm so that he could lead her up the shallow steps to where their host was waiting.

  * * *

  James Aubrey Fox, second son of the penultimate 6th Duke, had been scorned as a boy for his brutishness, stupidity and ponderousness. He enjoyed the ritual of receiving guests at his house because he relished their gratitude for being invited and basked in their compliments, for he had never expected to be in such an exalted position. Being an unloved son, he had grown up expecting nothing better than a life in the Army, a little hunting and the patronising hospitality of his brother and better-off relatives. Then his brother, who had succeeded their father at the age of nineteen, was drowned twenty-one years later and James, an officer in the Hussars, inherited the title and Sloebank Castle. Two years on he was still finding it difficult to believe his luck.

  As he stood in the hall watching the dark girl in cream satin alight from her carriage, he made a futile effort to suck in his large belly. Far from being dismayed by her colour, he was excited by it. The dusky maiden was just what his jaded tastes required, for he’d had his fill of the bucolic blondes, brunettes and redheads available on his estate. He eyed Odilie as if she was a trophy, something that he had won in a game of Chance, and gave a vulpine smile that made her flesh cringe as his eyes ran from the top of her ivy-crowned head to the tip of her satin slippers.

  His cheeks were flushed a deep shade of carmine and his lips were even redder for he had been drinking heavily and looked what he was – a middle-aged libertine who had tried every variety of dissipation and been satisfied by none of them. When he held out his hand towards her, it took all her schooling in ma
nners not to draw back from him.

  He did not notice Odilie’s distaste and would not have credited it if he had, for after all – he was the Duke, wasn’t he? She must admire him for his social position alone – everyone else did. All he was concerned about was his own reaction to the girl.

  ‘I was right. She’s a beauty. She could pass for an Italian any day. It won’t be any trouble taking this one to bed. I’ll have to get myself an apothecary’s potion so that I can perform properly,’ he thought, and squeezed her gloved hand tightly.

  Odilie looked down at her feet as he took the shawl from her shoulders. In spite of her training the touch of his hand on her skin was almost too much to bear and her skin involuntarily flinched away from him. He noticed and smiled. So she was virginal – good. The more they fought, the more he was excited and the easier it was to do anything. He was beaming as he led her through the dark hall into a brilliantly lit drawing room with crackle-surfaced mirrors on its dark green walls. A group of fashionably dressed men and bejewelled women were clustered before a blazing fire for, in spite of the warmth of the summer night outside, fires were always necessary in a mansion where lingering chills and damp seemed to lurk perpetually in the passages and corridors.

  The company fell silent and watched the approach of the Rutherfords with such open-mouthed curiosity that it was obvious they had been discussing Odilie and her father before they appeared. There was enough of Canny in the girl to make her draw back her shoulders and march proudly into their midst like a queen and she was gratified to see that the group parted deferentially in front of her. Led onwards by her host, she found herself beside a high-backed chair at the fireside. In it was sitting a very old crone whose eyebrows and mouth were heavily painted on to a mask of white lead. Although her hair was naturally grey, it was thickly powdered and dressed high in a style that had gone out of fashion thirty years before. She also wore an old-fashioned, diamond-shaped black patch stuck in the middle of one wizened cheek. She was eyeing the newcomer with undisguised curiosity as the Duke introduced them to each other. ‘This is my aunt, Lady Augusta Morley,’ he said, and the old woman twisted her wry mouth into a rictus of an insincere smile and raised a languid hand to Odilie. The little yellowed eyes in the painted face glinted maliciously beneath heavily wrinkled lids.