"Is she still here?" Suzannah shouted through his door. "The Baron already complains that you keep her here too long. Why is this door locked?"
I ran to unbolt it, knocking the cards all over his bed. Suzannah waited there, her face ashen. "You have been here together all this time with no chaperone?" Her eyes traveled past me to her son, then back to me. "Leave this house."
From his bed, her son called out, "She leaves when I say so."
"This game is finished," she replied. "You have played your last card." Grabbing my arm, she pulled me to the stairs, but her son followed, moving swiftly despite his supposed injury.
"I am not yet done with her," he growled, reaching for my other arm. "She has not paid her penance to my satisfaction."
Suddenly his mother turned and struck him hard across the face. "Just like your father," she screamed.
Will turned pale, his eyes burning hot. I thought he might hit her in return, but he kept his temper.
"This is all her fault," she muttered, catching her breath. "This would not have happened if not for her, coming here."
He looked at me then, as if he believed her. Disgusted, I plucked her fingers from my arm and marched out. The next morning my uncle received a message that my punishment was complete and I must not return again to Souls Dryft.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Wide-eyed, Tilda stared down at the great black bull in the field below.
"You go first," I urged. "’Tis your fault that he got out. You left the gate open."
She clung to the branches. "I can’t," she wailed. Her eyes followed the bull. "You’re faster than me. You go and get help."
I looked down at the beast holding us hostage in the elm tree. It tripped back and forth, grazing beneath our dangling feet. My stomach began to complain, but I was not yet ready to go home, my mind brooding over recent events – so much so that my belly’s protests were ignored.
"If I en’t back soon, Ma’ll give me a beatin’."
"You should have thought of that Tilda, before you decided to leave the gate open."
Tears welled in her big, brown eyes. "I closed that gate; I know I did."
At the foot of the tree the bull snorted, its tail swinging lazily at the flies.
"I’ll be blamed for this, in any case, just as I am blamed for everything," I snapped. "Do stop sniveling, Tilda."
"What if the bull never leaves the shade o’ the tree," she whispered frantically.
"Fear not. Someone is bound to rescue us sooner or later." The very someone I expected, was Tom Tewke, who, by my calculations, should pass along the road on the other side of the gate, any minute, on his way home from visiting his widowed sister in Sydney Marshes. It was a journey he took once a week, come rain or come shine, predictable as the tide.
Suddenly we heard hooves approach, and I looked expectantly for Tewke and his cart, only to be disappointed. Tilda gasped. "‘Tis That Master Hugh."
I lifted the brim of my straw hat for a better look. "So it is," I muttered unhappily. I could not think why the sight of him, after so long, should leave me deflated; after all, I needed my money.
"You knew he were comin’," Tilda accused me, rattling her branches as if they were feathers and she a disgruntled hen. "I bet it were you what left that gate off the latch!"
"Hush! He may not see us."
But it was too late; her shaking and moaning drew his notice, and he halted by the hedge. "Good eve, ladies," he shouted, waving. "Are you in need of rescuing?"
"No we are quite content," I shouted back. "Hurry along, do."
Tilda’s fear of the bull and of her mother’s slaps overcame her disapproval of Carvers, however. "Please, sir, yes, we do need rescuing!" Astonished, I glared at her. "This bull has kept us stranded for half an hour," she cried, "and I shall be late home to my mother."
The returned traveler was eager to act the hero. "Then I had better help you down, as soon as may be."
"Matilda Gawtry," I hissed. "I shall not forgive you for this." Her face was aglow with the relief of imminent rescue; the very same look with which I’d hoped she would greet Tom Tewke.
Hugh dismounted and climbed the fence with ease. He was almost within the tree’s shadow, before the bull stirred, raising its head, which is when Tilda let out a squeal, reaching for me.
"For Pity’s Sake," I shouted. "That bull is tame as a kitten, as you well know, Hugh!" When I left the gate off the latch, I did so knowing that Rufus Carver’s old bull was quite harmless – I would never have endangered a good man like Tewke – but Tilda was not to know that, was she?
"You wicked, wicked woman!" She had no sense of humor.
Hugh smiled up at us, but there was a strained arch to his lips, a jaundiced pallor to his skin. "If I were you, young Matilda," he said, "I would avoid this lady’s company. Trouble follows her wherever she goes."
She slid down into his arms, and I watched him carry her back across the field, to deposit her safely over the gate. And why, pray tell, did he carry her, when she had two good feet of her own and we all knew the bull was harmless? Because he showed off, naturally. And, for all her suspicion of Carvers, she suffered the same feminine downfall the moment one of them smiled at her. I was disgusted. Eager to keep him at arm’s length, I made my own way down, while they waited for me at the hedge.
Hugh sported several days’ growth of beard and his eyes, usually so beautiful and clear, were heavy and bloodshot.
"Have you been a good wench in my absence?" he demanded.
How could I answer? Tilda was careful not to look at me, keeping her eyes on the lane ahead. I wanted to ask him about my money, but could not raise the subject with Tilda there. She already considered me the wickedest woman in Norfolk and I began to think her right – perhaps like a bee among the lavender, I’d spent too long in her pious company and she rubbed off on me.
Suddenly he snatched my bonnet away, holding it behind his back. "I suppose you think I forgot you, while I was away, or that I could possibly find another wench better company than you."
I reached for my bonnet, but he stepped back, keeping it from me; then, at the sound of wheels rattling behind us, we all turned. It was Tom Tewke, at last, a good half an hour too late. Drawing his cart alongside, he tipped his hat and asked, in a rather sharp tone, if we needed a ride. Hugh answered that I did not. I answered that I did. Tilda ran quickly to the cart, rather than be caught in our quarrel. When I turned to follow her, Hugh held my hand, insisting he would see me home.
"I have some matter to discuss with Tewke," I exclaimed.
"More of your matchmaking?" he sneered. "Come to the pines tomorrow then."
Looking anxiously toward the waiting cart, I said, "If I can." His hand in mine was hot and I was sickened by it suddenly. His brother’s touch affected me differently and I knew now which I preferred.
He demanded to know what else I might have to do, besides meet him. When I could find no good excuse, he was instantly suspicious. "You look different today," he exclaimed. "You have changed." There was a pause while I tried to think of some way to remove my hand without seeming peevish. "I heard about you," he said abruptly, "and my brother."
I squeezed out a quick, rather breathless laugh. "What about it?"
He spat into the grass verge. "Now you are his ally, not mine."
"Nonsense!" Now I had my excuse and, feigning offense, pulled my hand from his.
"But no matter," he said, smiling nastily. "He will have other things on his mind now that his bride has come."
I kept my face bland and disinterested, while my heart throbbed. My arm was still bruised with the marks of his mother’s fingers, and now it ached anew.
"That is why we went to Bedfordshire – to fetch his bride. Did he not tell you?"
I put up my chin. "Why should I care?" When he continued to scowl at me, I asked if he had the proceeds from my treasures.
He blew out a great breath and looked away. "I am afraid ‘tis all gone."
&nb
sp; "All gone?"
"Those treasures of yours fetched a handsome price, but….alas," he shrugged limply, "temptations on the road were too much for me, as you surely knew they would be." He sighed. "As my brother, no doubt, told you they would."
Rage turned to self-pity. I really think I might have succumbed to tears, if he did not suddenly erupt with laughter. He reached into his doublet for a large purse. "There now," he said, "you can apologize for thinking me such a villain."
I breathed at last. "You liar!"
He swung the purse over me like a fish lure, but when I reached for it, he stuck the bonnet back on my head with one hand, smoothly slipping the purse inside his doublet with the other. "I had better keep it, Strumpet, to be sure you do not leave without me." He lowered his voice and leaned closer. "I have gone to a great deal of trouble to get this coin for you, and I risk much to take you way with me. Remember what you promised me in return?"
The relief of seeing that fat purse was but a brief interlude and now he enjoyed teasing.
"Think of all the adventures we will have together in London," he said, "once I have doubled this purse."
"Doubled it?"
"Leave it to me, Strumpet. ‘Tis all in my hands."
The panic quickened.
"I mean to leave very soon," Hugh was saying. "So you must be ready to come with me…remember, there is nothing for you here."
Slowly I nodded, the sickness writhing in my belly like a deceitful serpent.
Part Four
Sin and Debauchery in Sydney Dovedale
Chapter Thirty-Five
Grace
"I know that damn step moved," he grunted, staring down at the offending slab of stone in the doorway. He wouldn’t let it rest; like a dog with a bone, he kept returning to the step, accusing it of malicious intent.
"Maybe the house is trying to tell you something," I suggested wryly.
When I went to work, I thought he would surely be gone again by the time I got home. He was hardly a stupid man and must have resources enough to escape. Yet he stayed, using the excuse of waiting for his car to be fixed. He didn’t want a replacement car from the garage – not that they had much to offer. He did manage to phone the Inn and have his suitcases brought out to the house, but he made no other SOS call. The signal, he complained, was erratic, even when it wasn’t raining. And when he said it, he looked at me as if I was responsible.
He turned out to be pretty useful about the house – not bad for a man with only one working arm. "You might get too used to having me around," he said. "Then you won’t want me to leave."
I no longer wrote so furiously to get him back into my manuscript. There always seemed to be a perfectly adequate reason to set the writing aside. He was extremely distracting. At some point he stopped being all buttoned-up, not just with his clothes, but inside them too.
At first he was reticent to answer my questions about his family and his past, but since he was curious about mine, he was obliged to open up a little. It was a slow unfurling.
I already knew about his brother, Reece, of course. Where Richard was all very proper and restrained, his brother was an irresponsible lout, moving from one business venture to another and, more often than not, leaving his daughter to Richard’s care. Now I learned about his mother, in a nursing home near Cambridge. She’d had a stroke several years ago and Richard took care of her, paid all her bills, visited once a week. Since his parents’ divorce fifteen years ago, Richard had been the man of the family, taking on all the responsibilities even as a teenage boy. As he said to me, "Someone had to do it."
Oh, I knew how that felt.
He lay in the hammock that day, watching me dig in the garden. "Your mother seems to harbor a little resentment toward you," he said, bravely broaching the ugly topic.
I grunted, pulling up a stubborn thistle and tossing it into the wheelbarrow. "Yep. I’m a big disappointment."
"Why’s that?"
"She wanted a boy."
"Naturally."
"Seriously. She thought I was going to be a boy. That’s what the doctor assured her, so she had everything ready for a son. Then I came along and I wasn’t even a good girly girl. So then she had Marian to make up for it, but she’s never forgiven me."
"She’s…interesting."
I laughed scornfully.
"Like you," he added.
I looked over to where he swung idly in that hammock, one foot hanging because he barely fit. "I am nothing like my mother."
"I think you’re just as resentful of her, as she is of you."
Disgusted, I got on with the weeding.
"How many years have your parents been married?" he asked idly.
"Thirty-five. I’m surprised she hasn’t told you."
"Well then, she must have some good qualities. Your father’s a pretty good judge of character," he smiled briefly. "He likes me."
"Because you’re neat and tidy. I suppose you called him ‘sir’." I dug my little spade into the soft earth. "You know how to get around people."
"I do?" I felt his gaze riveted on me. "Not everyone apparently."
I cleared my throat, ignoring the turbulent, reckless storm brewing inside.
"So he’s tolerated your mother for all those years," he added, cadence changing again. "My parents couldn’t even manage half that. My brother’s marriage lasted less than two years. It can’t be easy to find someone you can live with for so long."
"I suppose not." I watched a fat grub crawl away.
"Relationships are complex," he said. "Look at us for instance – couldn’t stand the sight of one another and now here we are living in the same house and getting along okay. At least, you haven’t stabbed me with anything yet."
I sniffed, sat back on my heels and squinted at him. "Are you going to help or just lay there contemplating the meaning of life?"
He considered it with equanimity, one finger to his lips, eyes luminous, burdened with ideas he wasn’t sure he should have. "You’re all dirty," was the final conclusion of his lengthy, controlled perusal.
"It’s good to get dirty. Don’t you ever?"
"Don’t I ever what?" The hammock was still.
"Get dirty."
Again, a slow measured gaze. "Oh yes."
I wiped my hands on my jeans and tried to remind myself briskly that he was a figment of my imagination, a character walked out of the pages of my manuscript and trying to lead his own life just to spite his author. But as he sprawled there in the sun, lying in – and mostly out – of my hammock, he was incredibly tempting. He wore a light button-down shirt, because with his arm in a cast he couldn’t get anything over his head, and several of the buttons were undone, exposing the well-exercised planes of a brown, firm chest. Show off.
Still, I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity of looking was I? And a little flirting never did anyone any harm. I was entitled. He provoked it. "I bet you never get as dirty as me, Downing."
"Really?"
"I can get positively filthy."
I watched his tongue pop out to lick his lower lip and then withdraw. He scratched his stubble with the free hand. "Then what you need," he said slowly, "is a nice, long, hot bath."
The words dripped off his tongue, falling softly and warmly, trickling over my skin like raindrops in a summer storm.
As I knelt there in the garden, I heard a soft giggle and felt that mischievous little boy run by again, his breathless, excitable gasps dispersed with the pollen in the air.
"Maybe later," I muttered and hurried back to the weeding.
"Try not to leave a scum line round the bath when you’re done. And pick up your wet towels, please. Oh and if you’re going to use my razor, please have the decency to tell me."
I bit my tongue and shook my head. Knew it couldn’t last.
Now we were reduced to sullen silence again, retreating to our safe corners after that brief, imprudent advance into dangerous territory.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The sausages slid across the conveyor belt – all alone, but for a new bottle of ketchup, a six pack of American beer and a bag of frozen onion rings. I didn’t even need to look up from the cash register. So he’d finally ventured out for a walk and made it all the way to the village.
"Branching out, are we?" I smirked, lifting the bag of onion rings. "Is this your vegetable for the evening?" He wasn’t particularly adventurous with his food choices and stuck with familiar fare, giving fresh vegetables a wide berth. "I thought we had a full bottle of Heinz in the pantry."
"Didn’t want to risk running out," he replied crisply.
"You know, dirty old brass can be cleaned with ketchup. I wonder what it’s doing to your insides – the amount you eat." I threw his onion rings into a carrier bag. "All that beer will leave you bloated, and I’ll have to hear the complaints about your trousers being tight again."
He handed over his cash. "Do you give all your customers nutritional advice? And you get mad at your mother for nagging?"
I smiled sweetly. "How long do you expect to survive on sausages?"
"Long enough." He winked. "See you at home, darling." He strolled to the glass doors, holding the beer under his good arm and carrying the bag with the same hand.
"Be careful, they—"
He walked smack into the doors, expecting them to open in time and not knowing the mechanism was broken.
He certainly was an accident-prone fellow.
Luckily the doctor’s office was just across the common and he gave us a ride back to the house, because I don’t know how I could have got him home on my bike.
* * * *
"I tried to warn you," I protested, pressing the bag of frozen onion rings down on his big – and now bloody— nose. Eyes closed, he lay sprawled across the sofa, moaning like a man near death. "I’ve got to get back to work," I said, wedging a pillow under his head. "Doctor Robinson’s giving me a ride back, and he can’t wait long. Just keep something cold on it and you’ll be fine."
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