After that I formed a truce with my daughter. She regarded me intently whenever I spoke, and I was certain she understood every word. When I hummed, she hummed back, surely the same tune. Soon, whenever she heard my voice, she turned her head and looked for me. I decided she was quite beautiful and possibly a genius. She was christened Grace, after my mother, and as she blossomed so did the orange trees, with a blizzard of white flowers, their fragrance carried in through the wide-open windows.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Rufus and I were the last folk still up, as usual, listening to the soft hoot of an owl in the elder tree, marking the passing hours like a night-watchman. He and I never discussed what happened on the roof of the tower when Suzannah fell, but now there was an unspoken bond, as there is between soldiers who live through the same battle.
In the midst of talking over the day’s events, he said awkwardly, "What do you mean to do about Culpepper, eh?" My father-in-law might pretend not to see things, but he was aware of them all the same. "He grows impatient now the child is born."
I had put his proposal out of mind for as long as possible, but I was always dimly aware of it hovering there like a scavenging bird over a wounded fox cub. Lately, Master Culpepper dropped heavy hints to remind me. Yet I was not ready. I did not know if I ever would be and surely it would be cruel for any man to live in Will’s shadow forever.
"If I reject him, he will leave," I said haltingly, "and Nathaniel’s education will suffer."
Rufus shook his head. "You always used to get straight to the point. My son admired that in you." He clenched his good hand around the arm of the chair, pressing his fingertips into the dimples and gouges left there by all the stifled tempers in the house. "If you keep him hoping," he added, "Culpepper will think you owe him something and, before too long, he’ll have you believing it too."
That night I lay awake, thinking what to do. A little breeze drifted through the window to caress me, just as Will once did, but rather than calm my anxiety, it left me frustrated for more. I hugged the bolster, wishing it was him. My stomach hurt from the emptiness.
The next morning, I asked the tutor to walk with me in the orchard, where I explained carefully that I could not marry him. I tried a smile to lift his spirits. "I never was very keen on marriage, as you must recall. Twice it has led to tragedy for the men who tried it, so I really could not chance a third."
Despite this attempt at wit, nothing could soften the blow. I had hoped he would stay for Nathaniel, but his pride was inconsolable. He left immediately, catching a ride on the fish cart when it returned from delivering to the Keep.
Nathaniel kicked up his heels like a pony released in the paddock. His education was now tossed, unceremoniously, into my lap — another terrible responsibility, for he had a mind like a sponge and picked up bad habits, just as easily as good.
* * * *
On balmy evenings, we gathered in the orchard for supper, sitting around on a blanket. Even Rufus came out to enjoy the novelty. Tilda joined us, and sometimes Tewke too, after a long day at the forge. They thought we were all fooled, but I knew they were secret lovers. I did hope she would not get above herself now and, if she did, I might be obliged to point out that she wore a poor, dead woman’s boots on her feet now, so she was no one to judge.
Nathaniel liked to spend time in the fields with the farm workers. At least he might learn to make use of himself, I thought. The boy came home in the evenings, brown as a berry, happy as a blackbird, bringing to mind the stories my uncle had shared, of how he too once worked in the fields alongside his father’s serfs. Sometimes I was not so sure he was a Carver; his resemblance to my uncle was undeniable, but then he was a good mimic and perhaps he merely remembered the Baron’s gestures, just as he copied Rufus Carver’s colorful sayings. In any case, as he would remind me, he was neither Carver nor Sydney; he was a Downing.
The restless spirit inside me finally wore itself out and, like the cookhouse cat, laid in a sunny, warm spot. It always kept one eye open, however, just like her, for one never knew when an opportunity — a stolen crumb of almond tart — might present itself.
I still waited for Will, leaving his chamber window open and an apple on the ledge to tempt him home.
The woman in my window scribbled away at her pages. If anyone could bring him back to me, she would.
Part Seven
Soul’s Dryft
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Grace
I opened my eyes as the first drops of rain fell. My mother was right, after all. She had returned to the reception, content in the knowledge of having done her motherly duty. "It’s going to rain. Put your coat on."
No, I don’t suppose you’re ever old enough for people to stop reminding you. Sometimes, when it’s too uncomfortable to speak of important things, it’s the only way they can show they care.
I looked down at his dry cleaning ticket, which I’d just discovered tucked into the ripped lining of my pocket. Surely it was a sign.
People in the street put their heads down, quickening their strides, anxious to get out of the rain. A man argued with a traffic warden who was giving him a ticket for parking in the "drop off" spot in front of the hotel. She was tall and broad shouldered, her dark hair tucked under her hat. As I wandered by, she slapped the ticket onto his windscreen, a cool smirk on her face. It was Mary Sourpout. She saw me in my bedraggled bridesmaid’s gown, but there was no glimmer of recognition. Leaving the man protesting and yelling in the street, she calmly walked on to the next offender, checking her watch.
A tramp, sprawled against the whitewashed wall by the hotel delivery gates, called out for spare change. In one hand he held an empty jam jar, in the other a bottle in a brown paper bag. He didn’t appear capable of sitting up any straighter, or even of fully opening his eyes. He held out the jam jar and I felt in my other pocket for some coins. I found a twenty pound note that I didn’t even know I had, so I offered it to him in exchange for his shoes. I couldn’t get far barefoot could I? Going back to the reception was not an option at this point. He agreed eagerly and handed over his worn shoes. As I put the note into his jam jar, he raised his eyes to thank me, and I saw they were a piercing silver grey.
"Hugh?"
He burped and said something about it being a lovely dress, then fell back to his semi- conscious dreams.
I flapped down the street in my borrowed shoes, trailing torn ruffles, looking for a taxi. I stopped to watch as a limousine pulled up outside a restaurant. The driver opened a door and out stepped a woman in high-heeled sandals and short, black cocktail dress—one of those effortless little creations that might be taken off and put on with one hand.
My mother would say she ought to be wearing something over her shoulders to keep the chill off.
However, I very much doubted a woman like that ever caught a chill. Glamorous and serene, white blonde hair dripping down her back, she walked with her slender hand on her escort’s arm. She spun around, and her eyes met mine. The smile dimmed. Hurrying on into the restaurant, she raised her hand to touch her hair and I realized the last time I saw those hands, they were clinging to that ancient stone fortress. In the doorway Suzannah stopped and looked back again, pitying the crazy woman in the ugly torn dress and clown shoes. Hey, takes a madwoman to know one.
A sudden gust of wind buffeted my skirt. The dry cleaning ticket was swept out of my hand and across the street. I cried out, running after it, shoving people aside. It blew through a series of puddles, under a tribe of little feet and came to rest under the wheels of a baby buggy. Luckily, the young mother pushing it along stopped at the crossing with her mob of children. Retrieving the ticket, she handed it to me, smiling pleasantly. The big brown eyes in her small face were only slightly more harried than they used to be; I would have known her anywhere. One of her freckled children, fascinated by my odd appearance, pulled on her sleeve, asking if they might go and see the circus. Before I had a chance to remind Tilda of all our adventures, t
he lights changed and, surrounded by her children, she moved on across the road.
I was left standing on the black and white stripes as the lights changed again; vehicles tooted impatiently in all directions.
"Oy! You need a ride, missy?" A man leaned out of a taxi, waving one arm to get my attention. "’Urry up then, missy, before you get squashed like a ruddy hedgehog."
The door had "Baron’s Taxis - Unbeatable" painted across it and, as I climbed in, giving him the name of the dry cleaners, his merry red face watched me in the rearview mirror. "Been to a wedding, eh?"
"Yes," I managed, looking at his peppered curls and tempted to touch them, just to check he was real.
"I love a good wedding. Been wed twice myself," he chuckled, wheezing. "Nothin’ like a good wedding." His plump fingers tapped on the steering wheel as we stopped at another traffic light. "Keep telling my girls that. Hoping they’ll leave the nest and get on with their own lives. Trouble with today’s youth is they’re too spoiled. Want everything handed to ‘em. In my day you had to go out and work for what you want. You didn’t stay home leeching off your family."
"Have we ever met before?" I asked gingerly.
"You do look familiar to me, missy – in an odd way. Must have taken a journey with me before, eh?"
The dry cleaner’s shop was just ahead, around the corner. My heart galloped like a greyhound after a rabbit. Why was I doing this? What was the point? I would never get there before it closed, in any case.
Yet that ticket was a sign. Deep inside, where she lived, I knew it was a sign. She pushed me onward with one thrust of her bossy hands. Do you have the belly for it or not? Where is your gumption, Grace?
I stepped out of his taxi and found the rain had stopped. The sun struggled to show itself just before it set. Caught in this dream, I walked along in my clown-like attire, the dry cleaning ticket still clenched in one hand, bits of filthy ribbon and ruffle trailing along behind me.
It was not closed.
The snowy-haired man at the counter looked up from his crossword, just as he did all those months ago. There was no flicker of recognition in his owl-like eyes; he saw too many people come and go to remember a daughter he once met only very briefly. I passed him the ticket and he wandered off into the back, whistling.
The sun rallied, shining in a last burst of gold, shimmering across his front window as the rays, spliced by raindrop prisms, shot out in all directions. He came back, walking a little faster now, a clump of suits on hangers, slung over his round shoulder. "I was beginning to give up on anyone coming to get them."
"Yes. It’s been a while. Sorry about that."
"Kept trying to contact the number he left, but the damn phone was always busy. Never could get through."
I sighed. "I know what you mean."
"Oh and look…" He thrust his hand inside one of the jackets and drew out a slender object that I thought, at first, must be a wallet. "Pretty careless to leave this behind, eh?" He slid it across the counter toward me. "I would have posted it, but you never know if it’ll get there. Strange he didn’t realize it was missing."
It was Richard’s passport.
"Still," he added, shrugging his shoulders, "he seemed a little distracted that night – by you, as I remember."
Somehow, I was still breathing. "Me?"
"It was you, wasn’t it, distracting him? He couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything." He shook his white head. "That’s how accidents happen."
I grabbed the passport, just resisting the urge to fly across the counter and squeeze his brown cheeks. "I can’t thank you enough, Quill."
He frowned. "What?"
I paid for the suits and turned around, heading for the door, so heavily laden, I could barely see the handle. Then it swung open for me and he stepped through, not looking where he was going, frowning down at his phone, angrily pressing numbers.
"Richard!"
He stopped, astonished to see a pile of clothes shuffling toward him in size eleven men’s shoes.
"Where have you been?" I cried. He rescued me from the pile of suits, demanding why I tried to steal his things. I flourished his passport over my head. "You left this in your suit pocket. Lackwit! Can’t get on a plane without it, can you?"
He admitted sheepishly, "I just remembered it might be here. I’ve been looking everywhere…how did you…?"
"Oh, I just happened to be passing and I had your ticket."
He smiled slowly, the sunset warming his face, bringing him back to life. "Fancy meeting you here again. It must be a sign."
I waited a moment to see if that alarm clock would ring to wake me. "You didn’t get on the plane then. Because of me. I distracted you. I saved you."
"So it seems. I always knew you’d come in handy one day." He was perfectly calm; utterly unrattled by the entire experience. He stepped back, taking in the full glory of my outfit. "Where are you off to? Another blind date?"
I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t; my too-tight Tiffany-box blue bodice cut off my air. "I don’t always look this bad, you know."
"Really?" He raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh.
"I’ve been reliably informed I bear resemblance to Sophia Loren."
Now he chuckled. The suits and shirts slithered to the floor and he put his arms around me. "There is only one you." I reminded him that his clean things were going to get crumpled on the floor and he kissed me, completely unconcerned about his clothes.
The relief, the sense of peace, that elusive feeling I’d searched for and dreamed of, finally swept over me, like the sun’s rays through that window. I always hoped it was coming, but I was afraid I’d miss it, open the wrong door, take the wrong bus, or look the wrong way.
It came out of me in a rush. "I don’t know why I love you. I shouldn’t. We’re absolutely wrong for each other…but I can’t help it."
"Whoa!" He laughed and his arms tightened, so that he almost squeezed the breath out of me. "I suppose that’s the best you can do is it, Scrapper?"
"Oh, you haven’t seen the best I can do yet." I put my arms around his neck and he didn’t need much persuading to lean down that considerable distance for a kiss. Now I knew this was real. No dream, no fantasy could taste quite like this.
"Are you two lovebirds going out, or coming in?" Quill shouted somewhere in the distance.
"Going out," we both said together. Agreeing on something at last.
"Going home," Richard added softly, those incredible blue eyes full of warmth and life. I decided he wasn’t getting away again. Ever. I’d find him wherever he went, any place, any time.
"She warned me I’d have a fight on my hands," he said suddenly, still holding me and my hideous ruffles crushed in his arms.
"Who did?"
"The women who first called me about that house." He paused, but I said nothing. "For weeks she left messages on my cell phone. Never left a number to call her back." Again he waited and again I was silent. "Her name’s Jenny. That’s all I know about her, but apparently she knows me. Funny, huh?" His eyes narrowed, waiting for my reaction. "You know what’s really odd? The first time she called was the night we met and she sounded just like you. In fact, at first I thought it was you."
"Really?" I laughed nonchalantly.
"But I couldn’t figure out how you would have got my number or know my name."
I had no answer. Trying to explain might use up another lifetime.
"I suppose you’ll want to offer me a ride," I said abruptly. "Since I just paid for your dry cleaning, on a teacher’s salary, it’s the least you could do."
He was serious now, his lips gently caressing mine. "I would take you anywhere you want to go. See? All you need do is ask and I’m putty in your hands. Where is it you want to go?"
I smiled. "To Souls Dryft, of course. With you."
"I wondered when you’d finally come to your senses," he exclaimed. "You’ll never find a better man than me, Grace. You ought to know that by now. After all this time."
>
* * * *
That evening there were two doves in the yard. They sat there for half an hour, just watching me. Lazy wretches. Some of us had things to do. I opened my notebook and began to write again, because I understood now what Genny wanted from me – a happy ending. She gave me a second chance.
Now I had to do the same for her.
An Ending
The continuing full and lurid report
of all happenings pertaining to
the temptations and intrigues
of one undeserving wench destined for wickedness
Complete and uncensored.
I was awestruck each time I looked down at the face of my daughter, and she contemplated me in return, her fingers thoughtfully fondling one tiny ear. Like her father – and not at all like her mother — she gave deep consideration to all matters, before expressing her opinion. Nathaniel was fiercely protective of Grace, calling her his sister, or his cousin, whichever word came first to his lips, for he was still working out the family order and his own place in it.
I never saw that demon again, masquerading as Will. But I had cherished memories of the real man, little pieces of Will that I would always hold on to — his lopsided smile; the way he cracked his knuckles and fidgeted when he was upset; the way he held onto me and kissed me as if the world was about to end; just the way he looked at me sometimes, as if I held the answers to every question he ever had, if only he could figure me out. I realized all the many ways he’d shown that he loved me, even when he had no words to express it. I was not ready to put him aside as another ended Chapter. And he promised he would go to the end of time to find me.
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