Souls Dryft

by Jayne Fresina

  Busy with these Great Missions, I avoided the path my uncle laid for me with his heavy- handed haste. Instead I turned off into a wilderness of prickles and thorns, through which I would thrash my own way.

  Always susceptible to new ideas and prone to veering wildly from one drastic measure to the next, my uncle was now bombarded by influences beyond my control. First, there was Agnes Spooner, casting her poisonous seeds of doubt; then there was Sir Brian Bollingbrooke, complaining that I deserved a ride in the ducking stool. My uncle took it all in and brooded. Until then, my place in his household was something of an oddity, hovering below that of a lady of the house and above that of a servant, granting me an unusual amount of freedom to come and go as I pleased. However, this was about to change.

  Coin was too scarce to waste on new gowns, but something must be done about my appearance and so Bagobones was commanded to open her coffers. Sulking, she donated her oldest gown. Unfortunately, thanks to my Uncle’s excellent cook, I had blossomed from the windblown wisp I once was and the bodice of that borrowed, crimson gown was much too tight. Advising me to take only dainty breaths from now on, Mary Sourpout commented dryly, "For women, breathing is a gift, not a right. We must be thankful to the gentlemen for allowing it."

  My uncle eyed me warily, as I paraded before him, like an overstuffed partridge in his daughter’s cast-off plumage. The kirtle was several inches too short, exposing my ankles in a bawdy display. With that and the over-filled bodice to consider, my uncle helpfully suggested I walk with my knees bent and a slight stoop. Shaking his leonine head, he regretted my unfashionably, sun-browned skin, exclaiming, "I never did like the color o’ Spaniard, unless it be a dead one."

  He had purchased a new horse that year, a fine, big hunter, and although he warned me that it was not a lady’s mount, I took this merely as an advisory, not a stipulation that I was never to ride it. After all, did he not know me better? The hunter turned its velvety brown eyes to me with a longing to be out galloping, and it would surely be cruel to deny the beast its exercise. In such hot weather, with tempers worn thin, the only activity at home was idle quarrels with Bagobones. Better I be industrious elsewhere.

  When she saw me fetching the bridle that day, Tilda— newly appointed the unenviable task of guard dog— drew back in peevish defiance. "The Baron said you must not go beyond the gatehouse."

  This new rule came about because Captain Carver was recently seen on the road to Sydney Dovedale. Expectation was high, and my uncle wanted no more scandal that might give the Captain cause to wriggle out of their marriage contract. I, naturally, had other plans, and I knew his parents did too.

  "Matilda Gawtry, I think I might be trusted as far as the forge without incident." I reminded her that if she stayed behind, she would be called upon to explain my absence; thus she was persuaded up onto the horse behind me, where she clung for dear life, muttering her prayers into my hair.

  The ride was uneventful, but there was a stillness in the air, the heaviness of foreboding. Even the birds were silent, too weary of the heat to sing. For days now, we’d been without rain, and the ground was parched, the stream running at a low trickle, barely enough to wet the horse’s hooves. The lane, usually muddy, was dry as bone, the hard ruts split by jagged cracks.

  At the blacksmith’s forge, Tom Tewke prepared for a visit with the infamous Nan. Many times had he asked her to marry, but she delayed her answer – just giving enough encouragement to keep him hoping. Of course, he believed that right would prevail eventually, not knowing that what was "right" seldom stood a chance in this world, without considerable plotting and scheming, sometimes even the use of one’s teeth.

  Since it was much too hot inside the forge today, he sat outside, wearing his best tunic and brushing dirt from his boots and whistling a jig. As we cantered toward him across the common, he looked up and yelled, "Does your uncle know you’re out on that horse?"

  "Of course," I lied. "Help Tilda down, if you please."

  Dropping his brush he came to assist her, holding up his brawny arms, into which she slid awkwardly, blushing scarlet and stepping on his foot. Immediately he returned to his stool and his preparations, leaving me to dismount alone. Although he did not ask for it, I felt compelled to give my advice and, after a few minutes assessment, suggested he shave off his beard before he went courting.

  He squinted doubtfully. "You will look younger," I persisted, wondering why folk always suspected me of ulterior motives, when I selflessly devoted my time to their good.

  After some cajoling, he relented – the heat making him less inclined to argue. I fetched his razor from inside and handed it to Tilda, assuring her that she knew more about such things than I. She had several brothers and a father, whereas my husband had never let me near his neck with a blade. Wisely perhaps, considering.

  Inside Tewke’s living quarters at the back of the forge, I found a jug of water, a washbasin and a slab of soap. Unfortunately, my rustling about roused Mistress Cobb, the blacksmith’s wife, from her chair in the corner. She hobbled out to see what we were up to.

  "What are you gettin’ all fine and fancy fer?" she wheezed, ready to mock the apprentice, "Going to make cow eyes at that slut agin, eh?"

  "Mistress Cobb, I do wish you would not say such things about my Nan." Remembering Tilda’s presence, he added, "And in front of her own little sister, too."

  She sneered, "Nan Gawtry shan’t care whether yer face is smooth or rough. ‘Tis all the same with whores like that. You pay yer sixpence and tis all that matters."

  Not knowing how he had the patience to put up with the old hag, I pointedly turned my back to her and watched Tilda as she began to navigate his square chin with the razor. The blacksmith’s wife rattled onward, regaling us with tales of Nan Gawtry’s wicked and wanton ways. "I’ve never seen such gawdy frocks as that one wears to chapel. All done up in silk ribbons. Where does she git such fancy frills, eh? That’s what I’d like to know."

  "I thought Nan looked very well in that frock," said Tewke, moving his lips only very slightly. "A pretty gell should not hide herself. God made her so, fer a purpose."

  "Aye," Mistress Cobb chortled, "and there be stews down by the Yarmouth docks fer that purpose. That’s where she’ll end up." Then, suddenly she said, "’Course you know, them Carvers is back." It was oddly both a question and a statement, hanging in the thick air, a portent of doom. What exactly the return of the brothers Carver had to do with Nan’s fine new frock, I chose not to comprehend, and Tilda concentrated too hard on her task to listen, her pink tongue squeezing between her teeth. Whether or not Tewke understood Mistress Cobb’s meaning, he kept it to himself.

  She continued, "You heard about that brawl, eh? At the tavern near Thetford? They say Cap’n Carver bit some feller’s ear clean orf and then sat down to eat it with a bit o’ bread for his supper."

  My interest was caught; my imagination instantly seized that gruesome little anecdote and ran curious fingers over it.

  Then she added, "By the by, Missy Know-All, the Cap’n were askin’ after you this morn. Seemed right angry about something you done." Her eyes eagerly searched my face for signs of fear. "Seemed to me like the feller were spoilin’ fer a fight," she continued, breathing her foul breath all over me. "Remember, Missy – Cap’n Carver would eat yer ears orf, as soon as look at you." She was gleeful. "Your time o’ runnin’ free and as you please is all but over, Missy."

  I turned on her. "The almighty Captain can think again, if he imagines he might get the better of me."

  Her nostrils flared, her lips drawn back over her brown teeth. "We’ll see about that, Missy."

  "Done!" exclaimed Tilda, victorious, stepping back to admire her work. Tewke ran a hand over his smooth cheek, a little flutter of surprise crossing his face. She had not left him with a single nick of the blade. He smiled at her, and she looked down at her toes. It was a tender moment, instantly spoiled by the blacksmith’s wife.

  "Look out, before you spill that w
ater all over my doorstep," she hollered, as I stood there, pleasantly distracted. "En’t you young girls nothin’ better to do, but keep that daft feller away from his work?"

  Arguing with her over my shoulder, I took the bowl of water to the corner of the forge, meaning to toss the contents over the garden by the sidewall.

  "Mouthy wretch!" she squawked. "Just like your mother, you think you know what’s best. And where did all them hoity opinions get her, eh? You’d think old Sydney would know better this time around and keep you chained up, after all the trouble your mother caused – and causes still."

  "How can she cause trouble still?" I shouted.

  Her eyes gleamed. "Oh, they buried something in the ground, but it weren’t Grace Sydney, you can be sure o’ that. She’s still live and kickin’." She sniffed and let out a little cackle. "You ask them folk up at the Dryft."

  Losing my patience, I spun around and swung the basin of water. Without looking.

  * * * *

  While his companion roared with laughter, my victim turned rigidly to face me, soapy water dripping from his ears. The depth of his fury apparently rendered him mute, although a slight tremor, where he ground his jaw, proved a barely restrained temper.

  Mistress Cobb whispered in my ear, "Now you’ll see, Missy Know-All".

  Before the words left her wrinkled mouth, I knew who he was. And I knew something else too; he and I had met before, in the narrow passage of the Widow Tuppenham’s house, three years ago, when he threw his filthy stinking shirt in my face and mistook me for a brain-addled mute.

  "Well," I reminded him smugly, "you wanted your shirt laundered."

  For a long moment, we merely glared at one another in the still, waiting heat. Then, my heart kicking up its pace, I gave the empty basin to Mistress Cobb and walked to my uncle’s horse. The men followed.

  "And who might you be then?" the handsome one demanded, leaping into my path. "Allow me to introduce myself – Hugh Carver – at your service, madam."

  I nudged him aside and prepared to mount, tucking my skirt up over one arm, ignoring the hand he offered. Riding astride was another thing I’d been forbidden of late and another rule ignored. As I told my uncle, if folk were offended by the sight of my bare knees, then so be it. Hugh Carver’s silver gaze certainly noticed the objects in question, but his expression was not offended in the slightest.

  "’Tis a fine animal. I always look for a little wildness in the eyes, although others..." he glanced at his brother over his shoulder, "…prefer a milder mannered mount."

  "My uncle says Carvers have no eye for horse flesh. ’Tis a pity those with all the coin never have the good taste to go with it."

  Before I could make my exit, the Captain, having watched from a careful distance, assessing the battlefield like a well-seasoned warrior, suddenly lurched forward and caught hold of the bridle. His eyes looked into mine, as if they could read my thoughts and, whatever they found there, it made them glow like iron not long cooled from the blacksmith’s fire. The horse stomped impatiently, but he hung on, apparently gathering his thoughts.

  "You are in the best of health," he said churlishly. "Yet I was informed otherwise." His gaze fell to my ink-stained fingers. "Who taught you to write?"

  "Master Scroggs, a good fellow of Yarmouth."

  "Ought to be shut in the p…pillories." He spoke slowly, begrudging his own words the breath it took to make them. "You and he both."

  "Did you really believe that foolish note?" I laughed. "I gave you a convenient way out, fool!"

  His lips tightened.

  "Let go of my horse, Lackwit!"

  Still he stared, brooding, too furious to respond.

  "Now go, with haste, to my uncle," I urged. "Tell him you changed your mind. Tell him I am an insufferable, opinionated woman. Can you remember all that?"

  "Insufferable and opinionated," he spat.

  "You might add that a gentleman should look for a meek, mild wife — an obedient woman, chaste and well-guarded."

  He licked his lips, measuring me with his eyes. "You think yourself very clever."

  "Have you never ate a woman who…" my cheeks burned with embarrassment at the slip, "Have you never met a woman with a brain?" Damn Mistress Cobb and her gossip!

  Hugh burst into another fit of laughter and said to his brother, "I hear she does not abide by the rules."

  I confirmed proudly, "I do not believe in rules."

  The Captain replied, "Without rules women make grievous mistakes."

  Such a comment was not even worthy of reply. Only when I tapped my quirt across his knuckles, did he finally release the bridle. He certainly was an accident-prone fellow; it should have served him a warning. As for Hugh Carver, his wicked grin made me feel like a brazen hussy and, despite what folk thought, I never yet had the opportunity to be one. I remembered that spur of excitement I once felt when I saw him in the Widow Tuppenham’s doorway. Mayhap it was a sign.

  The summer suddenly held new promise.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "A good neighbor," proclaimed Parson Bartleby, glowering down at us from his pulpit, "takes interest in the health and ease of his fellow man, for that which benefits his neighbor shall benefit him also."

  At least, it was something similar he bellowed at us. I never paid his fire and brimstone much heed. Instead, I admired the sun, as it reached through the stained-glass window to dapple our heads with amber, ruby and emerald, making all that was formerly commonplace and dull, suddenly magical.

  Beside me, paying just as little attention to the parson, my uncle grumbled into his heaving chest and tapped his foot, rocking one broken tile with his toe. It made a tiny chinking sound that no one else in the chapel could identify. Oblivious to the turning heads and inquiring looks, his toe tapped onward — chink, chink, chink — and the bewildered villagers scanned the stone walls, searching for the cause, suspecting the carved saints and naughty gargoyles.

  Following his scowl across the aisle, I found its cause in the pew directly opposite. Today the resident woodworm had company. One half shrouded in shadow, his other half lit by the red and white light streaming through the stained glass window above his head, there sat the Shiftless Rogue, Rufus Carver. Even seated, one could almost hear his thick-set frame rumbling like a mill wheel. A long, uneven scar trailed across his brow and disappeared into his hair, which was streaked with grey, the heavy length turning what must once have been curls into lank, lazy waves against the shoulders of his tunic. Arms folded, he glared defiantly up at the Norman arches, not listening to the sermon any more than we did.

  For once we were treated, not only to the appearance of Rufus Carver and his unfortunate, sad-faced wife, but also to sight of his long absent sons. The Captain came late to chapel, strode up the aisle with an ungainly lurch and slumped into his pew. Through the red cross of Saint George’s shield in the window above him, a shaft of strawberry light filtered down, tickling the Captain’s prickly head, while he enjoyed a pleasant catnap, snoring loudly.

  The story of his recent brawl at a roadside tavern was now folklore and expanded with each repetition. Apparently, the brawl began when a dice game ended badly for the Captain and he, being a poor loser with a tinderbox temper, took the opportunity to beat a few heads. Amid the ruckus, he bit one fellow’s ear clean off and then sat down to eat it with a slice of cheese and some ale.

  Hearing about these antics, my uncle chortled merrily, "The apple never falls far from the tree." It was yet more salt in his wounds that Rufus Carver had spawned two strapping sons and his only salve could be their misadventures.

  Across the aisle, the younger brother caught my eye and winked shamelessly — shockingly brazen, definitely in need of a reprimand. I decided that Hugh Carver was, after all, quite unremarkable. Three years ago, I was a foolish young woman who had never traveled outside Yarmouth and was easily impressed. But not now. Indeed, his nose was almost a full quarter inch longer than it should be and his lips spent so much time smil
ing that I doubted they ever formed a word of good sense. He had none of that rough-edged, unrefined look that marked the other men in the family, but, like his father, he was restless, his eyes casting their hook among the pews, looking for a good catch.

  Suddenly, in the midst of the parson’s droning, Captain Carver sat bolt upright and shouted, "I said you owe me three sovereigns, you ruddy villain!" Just like the cockerel in our yard. He was all noise and prideful strutting too. When the Captain burped, the sound echoed around us, disrespectfully rocking the ancient Norman walls. On behalf of my proud St. Denis ancestors, I was outraged.

  Rufus kicked his son, and the Captain’s head jerked. He sat up, listing heavily like a sinking ship, mumbling something that might have been an apology, but was just as likely a curse, before leaning back, promptly returning to his dreams. When next I looked, the uncouth, somnolent boor had propped one muddied heel up on the ancient wood railing, revealing a hole worn through the sole. He was definitely in need of a general laundering — perhaps even a flea dip. Surely his unkempt appearance was the only possible reason for my curiosity. It must all be the fault of that regretful feminine urge to tidy, that same quirk that makes a mother chase after a runny nose.

  A bead of sweat, or possibly a flea, worked its way under my shift, adding another coal to the steadily burning fire of my temper. All this discomfort must be tolerated and yet great boorish oafs like him, having spurned a poor, put-upon widow and slighted her uncle, were free to come late to chapel and snore throughout the service.

  It was all too much — the heat, the itch, the binding laces of a bodice several inches too small, the parson’s droning, and him, cat napping with deliberate malice, daring someone to protest his behavior. As everyone else was too afraid, I saw it would have to be me.