I sighed. "I should visit their poor, dying Papa."
"Whose—? Oh no! Yer uncle would forbid it."
"Forbid a Good Deed? Besides, how will he know?"
Looking away across the water, her eyes were full of reproach for my unconventional ideas. Below us that long fish swept by again, its big mouth cresting the surface to gobble up that foolish fly.
Thinking of the sun beaming down through Saint George, as he slew the dragon in the chapel stained-glass window, I was quite overcome with the vision of myself astride a powerful white destrier, my avenging sword raised in victory. "This is a charitable deed for the good of Our Neighbors, just as Parson Bartleby said in chapel. Good Deeds require much self-sacrifice." I hiccupped. "Now, do you have the belly for it, or not?"
* * * *
Souls Dryft crouched at the end of our lane, tipping into the ground at one end, as if a great hand, beneath the soil, slowly pulled on the foundations. A cobbled wall bordered the property, legitimate entrance given only through a padlocked iron gate.
I signaled for Tilda to make a foothold with her hands and, a few moments later, I dropped down into the yard. The hens scattered, squawking indignantly at the intrusion, and I ran to the corner of the house, heart thumping. The ground floor consisted of one large hall, each window looking upon a different scene within, revealing small vignettes of their daily life: a cup and pitcher set upon the table, beside a slab of blue-veined cheese; a book laid open, the pages turning in some playful draft; leather gauntlets discarded on a bench; a pair of boots, dusty and worn, kicked off by the door.
Beside the fireplace, partially concealed by a wooden screen, stood a bathtub, from which a tall figure emerged. With a stifled cry, I ducked down, but curiosity easily overcame modesty and one should always take every opportunity to learn something new; so I looked again, leaning against the lattice window, my nose pressed to the glass.
I’d never realized there was a definite curl in his hair. He fought against it, keeping his hair closely chopped, but wet curl sprang to life as I watched, refusing his attempts to deny its existence. Much to my annoyance, he stepped behind the screen. To improve my view, I hitched one knee up onto the ledge, but he suddenly stepped out again, just as my shadow fell across the patch of light at his feet. He looked toward the window, where I clung, horrified, and the ivy in my hand ripped slowly away from the stone, taking me with it.
Falling to the ground, I tripped over the empty feed bucket, tumbling to my knees just as the door beneath that carved inscription heaved open with a rumbling creak.
"What the Devil?" Flourishing a pitchfork, monstrous, and naked as the day he was born, Captain Will Carver was prepared to fight off enemy legions. I should have reacted with maidenly timidity, but when one is sure to be punished in any case, one may as well make it worthwhile; so I looked on with interest.
In the warmer months, Tilda and I often hid up in the dusty hayloft of Ben Willingham’s barn to spy through the knotholes, while village boys swam in the stream below. Always claiming she did not care to look, she was usually the first up the ladder. We compared them all, one against the other, and I thought, by now, that nothing would shock me. This, however, was like nothing I’d seen before; certainly not like Jacob Chippchase, who reacted – in my presence – as if I were a basin of ice water on a frosty winter’s morn. It was apparently not cold at Souls Dryft.
"Why are you here?" he demanded.
For the life of me, I could not think of a single excuse—letter, charity, feud…all of it forgotten.
"Is something amiss, wench?"
I squinted. "No, indeed. It all seems quite in order."
He thought better of standing there any longer at the mercy of my curiosity, and slammed the door on my face.
A crack of lightening split the sky asunder. The air heaved and then the rain came. Now, there I was – a well-meaning neighbor, left without shelter in the midst of a summer thunderstorm. Still, what better manners might be expected of an ear-biting son of a Shiftless Rogue? Really, he should be arrested for parading about naked in front of virtuous young widows. I ran for the cobblestone wall, but suddenly a pair of hands seized me from behind.
"What have we here? That strumpet, trespassing again on our property!"
"I came to pay a neighborly visit," I spat, struggling. "And right sorry I am to have done so. Never have I been so rudely treated!" I thought briefly of Tilda, my wretched look-out, probably half way back to the village by now, running as fast as her cowardly feet could take her. An abrupt hiccup shot out of me.
Laughing, Hugh Carver lifted me over his shoulder and thus, I was captured, carried into the lair of the Shiftless Rogue.
Chapter Twenty-Two
He lit candles, using rotting apples as holders to set them on the table between us. Then he proceeded to interrogate his prisoner. "Why are you here, Strumpet?"
I hiccupped. "I came on a charitable errand, to make peace."
At this he chuckled quietly, scratching his chin. "What does your uncle have to say to that?" He paused, "Does he know you came here?"
"Of course not!" As soon as I said it, his eyes widened.
When he spoke now, it was not much above a whisper, the candlelight dancing across his sly smile. "No one will come looking for you then, when you go missing."
"I am not afraid of you."
Again he itched his chin, smirking. "So how do you mean to achieve this peace?"
"I bring the Captain a letter from my cousin."
He held out his hand, palm up. "Give it to me. I manage the strumpets for my brother."
But I dodged away. Wandering around the room, touching the things I’d seen through the window, I fought to regain my wits and my sobriety.
"I must see the letter," he demanded softly. "I can be very stern when roused, so you best not try my patience."
I raised a scornful eyebrow. He came toward me, arms out, prepared to capture me if I tried to pass. Ducking under his arms, I ran, only to be recaptured by the ends of my hair and tugged closer. "Shall I search you for the letter?" he laughed, teasing.
Shadows chased around the room, stretching into the corners, searching for something – or someone. I never liked to be confined and if I lived in that house, I would fear stifling in my sleep with all those windows bolted. The house breathed greedily, sucking up the air. There was a soft creak and the door to the staircase cracked open, the latch gently clicking. My captor paid it no heed, probably accustomed to the strange drafts that chased about the passages of that house.
Fraught with a sudden urgency, rain rattled the mullioned windows and night came prematurely. The thick, cloying tallow of the candles filled my throat, lying heavy on my tongue. In the hearth, the fire crackled, struggling to gain strength, spitting out little sparks that fizzled and died upon the hearthstones. And then a sudden gust of wind whipped down the chimney, flattening the flames, extinguishing the candles, and slamming shut the door at the foot of the staircase.
"Hugh, is that you down there?" Rather than reply, my captor went still, his haphazard breath blowing in my hair. "Where the Devil have you been all day?"
A heavy step thumped down the stairs and the door crashed open, slamming back against the wall. His monstrous shadow loomed over us. Long fingers of lightening caught the side of his face, revealing that crooked nose, a hard, sneering mouth, a rough chin darkened by a slight beard, and lastly, those curious, damp curls that seemed out of place.
"You let her in?" Although he lowered his voice, there was no mistaking his temper, even carefully tethered.
Hugh chuckled. "We’ll share her if you like."
The villain considered, his eyes two brilliant sparks in that dark room. "I never share."
"You may go first."
Dear God in Heaven! It was true, all true. They were rapacious, murderous villains, these Carvers. I renewed my struggle against Hugh’s embrace.
"My uncle will poleax the pair of you!" Another loud hiccup boun
ced out of me and, as the Captain’s eyes met mine, I saw how he must once have been, when he was young and adventurous, perhaps even good-humored, and before he became so stern and unforgiving. Abruptly he turned away, passing to the window, where he stood with his back to us. He wore his shirtsleeves rolled up, his forearms thick, corded with muscle. Everything I saw earlier came vividly to mind.
"Why for the Love of St Pete, did you have to let it in?" he mumbled.
"I caught it climbing our wall."
"Trying to get out!" I shouted, then winced as it echoed around my sore head.
Hugh caught sight of Millicent’s letter poking out of my bodice and, with a cry of victory, snatched it from me. "You have made a conquest, brother. Apparently the redhead." He handed it swiftly over my head, to his brother, whose perplexed expression was comical. "I must say I am heartbroken that she prefers you," Hugh added, pouting. "It shows a deplorable lack of judgment. Of course, she cannot know that your duty lies elsewhere."
My ears pricked at this, but the elder brother passed her letter back to me, barely sparing it a glance.
"What shall I tell her?" I insisted. "She expects a reply." The Captain leaned back, studying me, as if I was something unidentifiable, squashed upon the flagstones. In a vain attempt to ease the pounding, I put one hand to my brow. "What shall I tell her?" I repeated.
"Head hurt?"
I ignored the question. "What better prospect for a wife could you have? My cousin is most attractive, if you overlook the occasional sour milk expression. And she is willing. She will give you no trouble."
He moved a stool into the corner with his foot and pushed me down onto it. "Sit there. The wall is cool," he explained, motioning that I should rest my head against the wall.
I did as he suggested, but continued my speech, "She writes very poorly, so you need never worry about ink stains on her fingers. She eats little, so she should be quite cheaply fed." The brothers looked at one another. "Most importantly," I added, "she needs a good swiving and, according to rumor, you can give her one."
Hugh laughed again, while the Captain furiously examined his boots, wiping his mouth with one hand.
"Do you have you no interest in ending this feud, Lackwit?" I cried. "You must answer her letter!"
"You answer it. You’re fond of letters. Why anyone ever put a quill in your hand—"
"If you do not take one of my uncle’s burdens to repay your debt, he will cut off your valued parts and display them like hunting trophies."
"She's in the right, Will. You should send the redhead a note," urged Hugh, choking on his laughter.
The Captain cast his brother a withering look. "’Tis more your sport than mine."
"No!" Leaping up, I tried to press the note back into his great claw. "Your brother might have all the good looks, but she wants you for your money and property."
More howls of laughter from Hugh, who couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
"Why did she send you here then?" the Captain grumbled.
"Because I fear naught."
His fist opened very slightly and I squeezed the note into it, but he was too quick for me, trapping my fingers in his. He leaned over me. "If the red-head wants a reply, she’ll have a long wait. Tell her that yourself, my honey-tongued mutt. You are direct and to the point." As his hair dried, more of those curls sprang to life in all directions, like the first shoots of spring. A bead of water still hung there, trembling, ready to fall.
Then something crashed against the low ceiling above and a voice called out, "Who is that down there?"
He smoothed his hands over his head, crushing the fledgling sprigs. "No one, sir," he shouted at the ceiling.
Another crash followed the first. "Bring her to me. I'll deal with the Spaniard’s bastard!"
"Aha," I cried. "Your father wants to see me."
Immediately Hugh took himself off to the window, wanting no part of it, but the Captain was darkly amused. "Go on then. Go. Tell Rufus all about your ideas of peace." He expected me, of course, to run in the other direction.
Swallowing another hiccup, my head high, I marched to the staircase. He followed close behind, muttering under his breath about my headstrong ways and how I would get what was coming to me one day. I replied tartly that I sincerely hoped this was the case. At the top of the stairs he tried to hold me back, but I slapped his hands away and ran on ahead.
Rufus Carver sat on his bed, fully clothed, looking healthier than most men his age. The moment we entered, he sank on one arm, pretending he had not just been filling his face with roasted chicken. The grease around his lips was evidence enough, even if I ignored the platter of bones hastily thrust under the bolster. "So you come to crow over the enemy on his deathbed, eh?"
"I came to make peace," I proclaimed proudly.
"To get your hands on my son and Souls Dryft?"
"I do not want your son, sir."
He looked at me as if I was mad. "Why not?"
The Captain interjected, "I am not Robert Culpepper."
I was shocked.
"That was his name, was it not? In Yarmouth. The dainty looking daisy in all the lace?"
Clearly he had a better memory than I expected.
"Be silent," I snapped, flustered. "I may be a mere woman, but I can speak for myself."
"True. You’ve a big enough hole in that face, no lack of opinions and no shortage of wind to expound upon them."
"I have long since forgotten Master Culpepper. He is nothing to me now."
"Because he declined your offer?"
Impatient, Rufus bellowed, "Who did you come here for then? My son Hugh, I suppose." Then he stared at me with a sudden wild-eyed look. "Damn it all," he exclaimed, "she looks more like Grace every day. She’s darker, of course, like her cheating gypsy father, but the features… The eyes are very like..." He turned to his son. "Your mother will throw fifty fits. What are you doing with her anyway? Why let her in?"
"I did not let her in," the Captain muttered, "I could not keep her out."
His father sniffed contemptuously, "She comes here to spy of course, for her conniving uncle."
"I doubt he knows she’s here. He turns a blind eye to her antics. Calls himself a forward thinking gentleman."
"Forward thinking indeed," Rufus sneered. "That old crook is a consummate schemer, with three girls to be rid of." When I demanded what he meant by that, he arrogantly replied, "No ward of mine would run about without a chaperone unless to bait a trap."
I was horrified. They suspected me of going there to throw myself at the Captain, like any common strumpet. Like Bagobones. "I came here on a peaceful, charitable mission," I cried. "Do you mean to take this feud to your grave?"
"It was not me who started it."
"You cheated with loaded dice to steal Souls Dryft from my uncle."
Rufus laughed abruptly. "I won fair and square, and the old scoundrel knows it."
Undeterred, I continued, "And then you stole Suzannah away, when she was supposed to be his bride."
"Stole her, did I? He never spared her a second glance. Kept her waiting ten years." He laughed again, a harsh, angry sound. "When I came along, she could not wait to climb into my bed. Neither could your mother."
I gasped, "My mother?"
"Your uncle did not tell you that, eh?"
"Liar!"
He shouted, "That’s enough of your lip!" He pointed with his wooden hand. "Now, get out of my house, before I have my son thrash the sauce out of you. You’re lucky I’m a weak, dying man or I’d do the job myself." He looked at his son, brows arched. "In my day we didn’t stand about gawping, while saucy wenches back-talked and argued."
I sneered, "I suppose, once you bedded them all, they were meek and obedient."
"Aye, and no man has yet done the service for you," he chuckled. "That’s your trouble, wench. I daresay my son could do the job, eh, Will?"
"You lecherous old bugger!" I cried.
"On second thought," he advised tran
quilly, "Best throw her out the window."
The Captain reached out, and I sprang away. He cautiously followed me around the bed, grabbed a handful of skirt and ducked, as I lashed out, trying to beat him off.
Rufus sputtered with amusement. "For Pity’s Sake, she won’t bite!"
"I wouldn’t lay wager on it," his son replied breathlessly. Giving my skirt one strong jerk, he dragged me across the dusty floorboards and lifted me easily under his arm like an escaped piglet.
"Take my counsel, boy," his father roared. "Fallen fruit might seem easy pickings, but beware the sting of the wasp that hides within."
The Captain tossed me out into the hall. "Go on off with you. And don’t let me find you here again under any guise."
"See her out, Will. All the way. Never trust a Sydney woman. Remember – I lost an entire hand!"
Reluctantly obeying his father, he stomped down the stairs after me.
"’Tis raining out," I protested. "I’ll catch my death."
"Good. Then you shan’t come to plague us again."
I spun around, not knowing he was so close on my heels. Neither of us were about to retreat. "I had only good intentions in coming here. It is not my fault that you are so thick-headed…" He was too close. His skin smelled clean for once; it was still damp and warm, causing his linen shirt to cling. "It seems you have no good manners."
He leaned down, his lips almost touching the tip of my nose. "If good manners are all you want, you’re easily satisfied."
"You know nothing of what I want. There is a great deal more to me than you think. But what does that matter? And… and stop doing that!"
He raised one curious eyebrow. "Doing what?"
There was another slight move closer, so subtle it might have been my imagination, but then Hugh came to the door at the foot of the staircase. "I will take her back when the storm eases," he whispered. "It would hardly be gentlemanly to throw her out now."
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