He would fight me with everything he had, but I couldn’t blame him because I would do the same. Unfortunately he had much more with which to fight, but then David beat Goliath, didn’t he? Genny and the residents of the house were relying on me. For some reason they chose me to fight this battle. For once I was needed and not just because there was no one else who would do the job.
"You can take this house over my dead, worn-out body. Bring those bulldozers in and you’ll find me, stretched out in their path. If I have to die at such a young age, at least it will be in pursuit of justice and all for a good cause. They can make a film about me and the actress who plays my part will win an award, just for being brave enough to don a fat suit and an unbecoming wig!"
Richard feigned extreme interest in the wood grain of the tabletop, but I caught that spark in his eye, like white-hot steel suddenly thrust into cooling water. "You won’t have much time to write your book, will you, if you’re so busy saving this house?"
"Don’t worry. I’ll find time." Was that his plan? To keep me distracted so that he was free to wander about like this, while he should be back inside the pages with Genny?
He looked up, eyeing my filthy t-shirt. "Maybe, one of these days, you’ll let me read it."
No one else ever wanted to read my manuscript. I'd certainly keep it out of his hands. "I doubt it."
"You're always so angry with me," he observed, leaning on the back legs of the chair.
"I wonder why!"
"Before all this. Even the first time I saw you. It was as if you already knew me."
Something happened. There was a flicker of light as a cloud passed too quickly over the sun. I saw the shadow of a scar on his face and his shirt changed briefly, losing the buttons and stiff collar. Then he was back to normal again, tie in place, hair neatly combed.
I felt nauseous, as if I'd just been spun too fast on a roundabout.
My family was right. I was going mad in that house, just like Uncle Bob.
* * * *
The words poured from my pen, needing no help from me. The story I’d worked on for so long took on new energy. All these years I’d struggled over the right match for my heroine, never quite able to find him. Now, like the story she wrote, he was vivid and layered. Even at night, when I slept, Genny continued to write, scribbling away in the notebook I kept on the bedside table. In the morning the pages were full, her writing crammed in between the lines.
When I first moved in at the house, the villagers kept their distance. They viewed most strangers as "tourists" or, the even more scornfully uttered, "Day Trippers". So I had to prove myself. The first step was to acquire a membership card for the local library — a one room building with creaky floors and a rather stern librarian named Miss Spooner, who dated her books with an old-fashioned rubber stamp, slapping it down while glaring over her bifocals, mortally offended by my choice of reading material. Nevertheless, I put up with her, because that library card showed them all that I wasn’t merely passing through. I was no townie, looking to disturb their peace and tranquility.
The braver villagers began trekking up the lane to visit and give their opinion on the work being done. I made sure to always have a pot of tea brewing and good chocolate biscuits too, not just plain. When they had a jumble sale on the common for the new church roof, I took several boxes of Uncle Bob’s old clothes and some of my own. Finally, after much pestering from Mrs. Tuke, I agreed to join the local amateur dramatics, as long as they let me work as prompter. They slowly came round to the idea that I was there to stay. I didn’t entirely fit in yet, but I was no longer a complete outsider. I was not coming and going, unsettling the village life. I would soon be a local.
Richard came out to the house with a handful of men in suits and stood in the yard with a survey map. I tried to ignore his presence, but that was impossible – like not scratching a gnat bite. Dropping my paintbrush, I marched into the yard, sleeves rolled up in readiness.
"What now, Dick?" I demanded.
"Just looking over my property."
That’s all it was to him – property, not a home. "Yours? I believe my solicitor is still researching the matter."
"Solicitor? I didn’t think you could afford to retain him." He was right. Uncle Bob hadn’t left any money in his will, and his solicitor would not work for food.
The group of penguins he’d brought there with him looked on curiously, as if I might start throwing them little fish from a bucket. "What do you think you’re staring at?" I yelled. Turning back to Richard, I snapped, "What’s so funny?"
"You’ve got paint all over your face." He pointed, the tip of his patronizing finger touching my cheek. "Did you get any on the walls?"
"Stop putting your hands all over me."
"I haven’t."
No, it just felt as if he had. It also felt as if there was a "Yet" hovering there at the end of his sentence.
With that singular, disconcerting, steadfast gaze, he considered me a moment longer. "When are you going to give up this idiocy?"
So now I was an idiot.
"You’re wasting your money," he added, "and you know me, I don’t like to see money wasted. It makes me physically ill." His eyes gleamed, lips bending reluctantly.
I trusted a smile from him, as much as I would the purr of a tiger. "What I do with my money is up to me."
"You’re in over your head. Give up now, while you still have something left."
"Never. I will never give up. You said before – I’m scrappy." I added slyly, "You even said you found it quite appealing."
His eyelids flickered. "Against my better judgment."
I knew what he meant. Absolutely.
There was the slightest parting of his lips as he leaned toward me again, closing the distance another few inches. When he licked his lips, I could taste his breath. Hmm. Tic Tac mints.
I swallowed hard. "Don’t even think it." He was a fictional person of my creation and surely it would cause some sort of paradox. My heart was thumping so hard against my ribs, I thought it must be bruised.
His eyes narrowed. "What will you do, Miss? Send me to the bad boy’s corner?"
Richard Downing never did anything illogical. His idea of spontaneity was ordering two eggs for breakfast instead of just one. So what the Hell was he doing with me?
I stepped back. "It's not the bad boy's corner. It's the Naughty Corner."
"Sounds interesting. I look forward to it…Scrapper." Grinning, he walked away to rejoin his little flock, leaving me there with paint on my face and that disturbing hum, buzzing restlessly through my veins. I understood why Genny wrote so desperately at all hours of the night. The sooner he was back within those pages and out of my hair the better.
Right? Right!
I wiped my paint-smeared face with the back of one hand, as I watched him in my yard, acting like he owned the place. This was all too ridiculous. Here I was, firmly sworn off men, determinedly celibate, and yet suffering dreadfully detailed fantasies about the man who ought to be my nemesis. I was no longer sure what came first, the pirate in my story, or the man in my life. Damn him. He would not get away with this. I was a new woman now, thanks to Genny’s spirit. I was stronger, standing up for myself and what I wanted at last.
However, I’d reckoned without the interference of my family, who were, as always, working against me.
Chapter Twenty
Genny
1536
Millicent Bagobones was the first to change allegiance, traitorous hussy. On Monday she loathed the very sight of Carvers, certain she would never recover from being trampled into the grass, first by the eldest son whose feet ripped her best gown, then by the second on horseback. But by Friday, as we sat together in the solar with our sewing, she reminisced about the incident – even the size of Will Carver’s foot – as if it were as miraculous as the Second Coming. When Mary Sourpout reminded her that their father would never permit an acquaintance with a Carver now, Bagobones became very prim. "I sha
ll admire where I choose, sister. The Lord knows how rare it is for men of wealth, health and vitality to pass our gate."
"He might pass our gate a thousand times; he will never be invited in – not now." Mary was coolly serene, not a patch of perspiration anywhere to be seen on her person, despite the clinging heat.
Her sister meanwhile paced in agitation, making herself hotter and more ruffled. "One can hardly blame the poor man for not wanting Scrapper."
Mary replied curtly, "If it were anyone else, our father would never tolerate the slight, but as it is a Carver…" Her voice drifted off and she gave a little shrug that said it all. Most folk accepted that Carvers got away with things. On this occasion, I too would accept it. I certainly did not want my uncle insisting the contract stand, any more than I wanted the Captain suddenly becoming honorable and plagued by a conscience.
A little thing like a thirty-year feud was not about to come between Bagobones and her needs, however. She clutched her bosom, exclaiming, "Captain Carver is so …so…" We all waited, curious. "So …"
"Ugly?" I asked politely.
"Disrespectful?" said Mary.
"Moist?" I suggested.
"Large," she managed at last. When we both continued to look at her inquiringly, she became flustered. "He has such a large," she paused, squinting, "pair of feet."
It should not have been such a surprise. After all, the brothers Carver were definitely something we did not have much of in these parts. To listen to the village girls one would think we’d never had a man around the place before and there was a distinctly brittle glee in the air, a great deal of giggling, sighing and wearing of best petticoats.
Mary’s eyes were on her sewing. "I would have imagined pretty Master Hugh to suit you better than the Captain, sister."
"Hugh is handsome ‘tis true, more so than his brother."
I scoffed, "’Tis lucky for the Captain then that his purse is just as large as his feet. If only he might be persuaded to take you off our hands!"
"Persuaded?" She gave a high, trilling laugh. "I am a Baron’s daughter and my mother was descended from the Capetian Kings of France." When I sighed loudly, she raised her voice, "And I am, by far, the handsomest woman in Norfolk."
Few people could promote themselves with such unabashed self-flattery, as did our Bagobones. It was a wonder to behold when in full swing. Bored with her vanity, which was only amusing in small doses, I turned my attention to the courtyard below, just in time to witness my uncle mounting his hunter. Whistling a jig, he rubbed his horse’s neck with a fond hand, until, suddenly aware of impudent eyes following his movements, he looked up. Jabbing a gloved finger in my direction, he gestured that I was to stay put. I waved, smiling innocently. He nodded, good humor forgotten, and rode under the gatehouse.
Mary clicked her tongue against her teeth. "You waste your time, sister. You had much better stick to Sir Brian Bollingbrooke."
"Sir Brian?" Bagobones had long since forgotten that skinflint.
I joined in merrily. "He is a far better choice for you, cousin. The Captain surely cannot compare, being naught but a rotten-tempered, weatherbitten old sailor."
She shrieked, "He is not weatherbitten! He is a little tanned by the sun perhaps."
"Like leather. All sailors are the same, you know. They have only three things in mind – drinking, brawling and whoring."
I’d heard this from my uncle, in whose view sailors were all numbskulls with a peculiar disregard for danger. He had such a severe distrust of water himself, that, on the rare occasion he decided an all-over bathing was necessary in the cookhouse bathtub, he insisted upon several stout retainers standing nearby, in case he should go under. Naturally he saw no reason for travel on water. "Sailors," I solemnly warned my cousin, "are not to be trusted."
"As if I shall listen to you!" She turned to her sister. "And I do not know why you take against him so! I daresay ‘tis merely because I admire him."
I thought about telling her that Captain Carver's family had far bigger fish on their hook than the daughter of an impoverished Baron. But instead I would watch the comedy unfold.
Mary set her sewing down. "You would not remember, sister, but in youth, Will Carver was too oft brought before our father, for some misdeed or other. Let me see…" She counted on her fingers. "He once stole a mule from Ben Willingham’s barn. He was found, at least twice, singing, drunk, on the common in the dead of night, when all honest folk were abed. Then there was a wrestling match that ended in bloodshed. And he once expelled Mistress Cobb from her chapel pew. Picked her up bodily and tossed her out, just as bold as you please."
I snorted with laughter, dearly wishing I had seen that.
"Then he stole our father’s best hunter and was thrown into a ditch. For three days he lay unconscious and they all thought the boy would die." She sniffed, rolling her eyes. "As I told our father at the time, I was sure he lay with his eyes closed to escape punishment. He was well enough by the harvest fest to make himself sick with cider. I reminded our father, frequently, that the boy was never punished for stealing that horse, but, as always, my voice went unheard. Carvers get away with things."
Bagobones exclaimed, "How dreadful to be almost killed."
"Nonsense! He is a charlatan, sister, like his reprobate father. It may have given him a little headache and that is all. We women suffer far worse pains; no one claps us on the back and tells us how brave we are for bearing it." Again she lifted her sewing, examining her stitches. "And if you continue to pursue this idle fancy, sister, I shall be obliged to inform our father. It is, after all, my duty."
Spitting sparks of frustration, Bagobones stormed out of the solar. Between us we only succeeded in making her more determined than ever, but I would make good use of her vanity and her desperation.
* * * *
It took me less than half an hour to persuade her to write him a letter and let me take it for her. In exchange she gave me her pearl brooch, a gaudy love token from Sir Brian. When she put the brooch into my hands, she wanted to know what I intended to do with my box of treasures. Over the past three years, several of her pieces had come into my hands – some even legitimately, when she needed something from me in return – and were now stored safely away in my box of treasures, along with the Widow Tuppenham’s trinkets.
"We cannot all rely on husbands," I reminded her. "I need coin of my own."
"You still plan not to marry? You think to defy my father?"
I held up her letter. "I am not the only one, am I?" Then, curious, I asked, "But is the Captain suited to your noble blood?"
She stuck her nose in the air. "His manners may be crude, but they can be improved. I daresay he can be cleaned."
I was skeptical. We all knew men were filthy creatures, barely housetrained.
"And he is certainly capable of fulfilling other needs," she added.
"What needs?"
She flicked her hair over her shoulder. "You would not understand – womanly needs." She often claimed I was more like a man, presumably because I rode like one and climbed trees, a pleasure I refused to deny myself even as a grown woman.
"I know when I need a marchpane tart," I protested.
"I do not speak of your belly’s needs!"
"Then what?"
Lowering her voice, she explained, "Womanly desires."
"Desires?"
"For a man…to tend the delicate flower of womanhood."
"You mean you need a good swiving?"
When she turned scarlet and exclaimed in prudish disgust, I laughed, tucking her letter inside my bodice. "Best be straightforward, coz. I fear subtlety will be lost on the Captain."
I should pity the luckless fool, for what was about befall him, but he'd thought to crow triumph over me in the church yard– a mistake for which he would soon be sorry.
Chapter Twenty-One
When I first showed Tilda the jug of plum wine, smuggled from the buttery, she disapproved, refusing to share it. However, once
I’d enjoyed several thirsty slurps, commenting on the sweetness of the wine, she finally took a tentative sip, spilling more down her chin than she took between her lips. We sat together on the bridge over the stream, watching a long fish cut through the water below.
"I am in the mood for good deeds," I said thoughtfully. Tilda looked at me sideways, the jug poised at her lips. "Good deeds are most beneficial for one’s soul," I added.
The road that followed the gentle curve of the bridge met with an oak tree several yards on and thus was split, one side turning toward Norwich, the other toward Yarmouth. Through the gnarled branches of that squat and hardy oak, I could just make out the turning to our lane and the crooked, menacing chimneys of Souls Dryft, that nest of reprobates.
How I relished dark plots and well could I weave twisted tales, even with only the barest essentials. Sin, vengeance and tragedy all made excellent fodder for my eager mind and so I spun lurid dramas and gave full vent to my fertile imagination in regard to Carvers. I needed only a spark and from it I could build a bonfire. Yes, there was material aplenty in the residents of Souls Dryft; greater potential than ever, now the sons returned.
"What villainy are you up to now?" she demanded. Having no ambition to explore anything beyond that which was expected of her, Tilda could never comprehend the daily trials of a True Adventurer.
"Sakes! Must I always be up to something?" When she said nothing, I continued, "Bagobones desperately needs a husband to take her far away, as soon as possible. Therefore, this feud between Sydney and Carver has run its course. For the good of all, the quarrel must be mended."
"What can you do about such a thing betwixt men?" She batted away a fly that came after the wine stain on her bodice and it dived down, skimming the surface of the stream in a frantic pattern of spirals and darts.
"Men?" I snapped. "What right have they to make all the decisions?"
She stared at me in alarm, the idea of women influencing their own lives being such a shocking, subversive idea. It was this passive thinking that kept her from making a stand for her own happiness. Her small face darkened as clouds moved in, bringing great swathes of dark shadow across the earth. The birds were still and silent; only the very tops of the distant pines, bent and swayed, snagged on the lowering clouds.
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