by Priya Sharma
Clare didn’t answer, her lips pinched together as if she were the model of discretion.
“Oh. I see.” Mr. Hipps clutched his lapels. “When you wrote seeking advice regarding your situation here I was concerned. And glad. A lady without protection should not have to rely on strangers for help. I mean, I hope you don’t regard me as a stranger.”
“That you should travel all this way for such a trifling matter as my concerns about land boundaries is too kind.”
“My apologies if my letter wasn’t clear.” He took a deep breath. “I’m here on a personal matter, not just in a professional capacity.”
“How so, Mr. Hipps?”
Gideon knew his mother well enough to see her suppressed satisfaction and mock surprise.
“Mrs. Belman, would you do me the honour of calling me Henry?”
“Henry.” She didn’t reciprocate.
“Your husband’s business has been settled for many years now, so it would not seem that I would be unduly influencing you.”
“In what?”
“May I speak frankly?”
“Please do.”
“Your letters have given me hope. Hope of things I thought long past in my life. I would be honoured if you would agree to be my wife.”
Gideon clutched the ivy in his fists.
“Henry, this is so unexpected.”
“I have a passion for you.” Gideon couldn’t imagine how someone like Mr. Hipps could be unmanned. “From the first day I saw you, I’ve thought of none but you for all these years. Your letter came as if from heaven. I would make a home for you and Gideon. I would provide him an education to make his father proud. And for you, Clare, for you there would be the best of everything.”
“Mr. Hipps!”
He threw himself on the floor before her, hands clasping her knees.
“Do not spurn me yet! Let me have hope. Give me the chance to win you.”
Gideon couldn’t watch anymore. He had to intervene. Whether it was to save his mother or Mr. Hipps, he couldn’t say. He opened the kitchen door and announced himself by dropping the empty pail on the floor. Mr. Hipps struggled to his knees.
“Gideon, dear lad, hello.”
“Mr. Hipps.”
“You’ve become a man since I last saw you. I’ve just asked her to consider my proposal of marriage, but I see I’ve made an error. I should’ve asked your permission first.”
Gideon searched his face for signs of mockery but found none.
“No, you should have asked me first.”
Thomas cast a shadow over the kitchen. His shirtsleeves were rolled up over his elbows, revealing muscled forearms, dirty from the day. He was flushed and breathless.
Gideon had seen Maud earlier, waddling away from the farmhouse, clutching her pregnant belly. She must’ve been off to fetch Thomas, alarmed by the solicitor’s arrival. No doubt Thomas had left her to labour back up the hill behind him.
“Mr. Belman, if you feel I was beholden to you to ask . . .”
“I damn well do!” Thomas slammed a fist on the table.
Gideon was impressed that Henry Hipps didn’t flinch but continued with contempt, “As I was saying, if you feel I was beholden to you to ask for your sister-in-law’s hand, I apologise. You must see I hold Mrs. Belman in the highest regard and would be honoured if she were to accept me.”
He drew himself up and turned to Gideon. “I can’t replace your father. He was an excellent man. Excellent. What I would like to do is offer you my guidance and the education you’ve been missing.”
Gideon had forgotten there was a world beyond Ormesleep, beyond Ormeshadow. Beyond the shelter of the Orme.
“I’ve yet to accept, Thomas.” Clare glided to Mr. Hipps’s side. “Surely you can see the sense in my considering his proposal. After all”—she bowed her head—“with the baby coming I can’t imagine myself wanted here.”
Thomas looked like he might strike her. Gideon supposed he was angry as she full well knew with Maud’s imminent confinement she would be needed all the more.
“I am grateful to you, Henry”—she turned to her would-be suitor—“but I need time to consider your offer.”
Mr. Hipps kissed her hands. “My dear lady. Dear, dear lady.”
Thomas stood over them, deflating.
Mr. Hipps turned at the door. “I await your letter, Mrs. Belman. And you, Mr. Belman, abuse your position. Your brother was a gentleman. You are not.”
“Get out of my house before I thrash the life out of you.”
Gideon wanted to argue the legality of Thomas’s statement but thought better of it.
The Celestial Tapestry
GIDEON WAS ON THE Orme. It was a clear, warm night. The sky above was the rich colour of midsummer, dark but not a sombre shade. The sky would be tangible if he put out a hand. It would feel like velvet.
This view of the world made him feel inconsequential, which was thrilling and terrifying. It meant nothing mattered, not that Thomas was getting drunk in the kitchen or that his mother and Maud were having a spat over a reel of lost cotton.
The more Gideon looked into the sky, the more he saw. The stars had the brilliance of diamonds. He remembered his father beside him, both of them gazing at the vastness.
“Aren’t they beautiful? They’ll continue to sparkle long after you and I have gone out. Do you see those stars? The ones that look like twisted rope.” His father pointed upward. “A little higher. Yes, those. They are the Entwined Sisters.”
“I thought they were Pegasus.”
“Clever clogs. Not here. The Orme gave them a different name.”
Gideon made a huffing sound.
“You’ve stopped believing.”
“No.” He paused. “Yes. I’m not a little boy anymore.”
“I know.” Gideon’s father looked sad. “But this is true. You’ll find out, one day. The stars’ proper names were given to Gideon Bellamans by the Orme before she slept. They were passed down, father to son. I want you to know so you can tell your children.”
“Tell me, then.” Gideon didn’t want to hurt his father’s feelings.
“The Entwined Sisters were born as twins. They had two heads and four hind legs, but only two wings and one heart. They spent their life earthbound, those two wings unable to carry their combined weight. As recompense they were given a great gift. The power of their linked minds and blood made them able to see far into the past, before they were born, and far into the future, long after they died.”
“That’s sad. All your stories about the Orme are sad.”
“There’s no sad or happy. It’s how it is. When the sisters died, the dragons put them in the heavens to honour their memory. It was the one place they longed to be but had never been able to go in life.”
Gideon turned his head. He felt something blowing on his face, like a gust of hot breath, but nothing was there.
“They named the stars for the best of them, those worthy of remembrance, and the worst of them, so they wouldn’t forget the price of folly or wickedness. It’s how they navigated, the same way men do to find their way over the seas. And look there. That bright star and all the ones lined up above and below it are the Falling Warrior. His nose is the bright one at the bottom and his tail is the rest, streaking out above him.”
“What did he do?”
“He is the father of all dragons. He stole the secret of fire from lightning and the dragon’s roar from thunder.”
“Why is he falling?”
“Because everything worth having comes at a price.”
His father’s voice was thick with emotion. Gideon looked over, but he wasn’t crying.
“What about those?” Gideon pointed to the north. He hoped the constellation would tell a happier story. “That cluster of six stars?”
“It’s the Treacherous Brother. He was the most reviled of all the dragons. He deceived his noble brother and drove him to his death. He took his brother’s crown, the queen, and cast his nephews i
nto servitude, so he alone could reign and no one else.”
Gideon turned away. The night was sour now. He wished he hadn’t asked, because the words bothered him and he didn’t know why.
“There’s one last star.”
“What?” Gideon asked, even though he didn’t want to know.
“There are so many nameless stars that the Orme didn’t think it would be wrong to take one for herself. Straight ahead, above the Falling Warrior, there’s a single star. Do you see it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see how it burns with a steady flame? It doesn’t flicker, because its heart is constant. It is for the Orme’s champion. If he’d betrayed her when she was hunted by man and dragon, it would have earned him glory and riches. He watched over her instead. She named a star for him. It’s the Man of Honour. It’s Gideon Bellamans.”
Gideon stayed out on the Orme all night. He woke, limbs jerking, as if falling from his dreams and plummeting into the dawn. There were dew-coated blades of grass under his hands. He watched the rising sun covering the Orme, burning away the velvet blue and the stars. He watched them go out, one by one. First the Falling Warrior, then the Entwined Sisters, the Treacherous Brother, and then, finally, the Man of Honour.
Michaelmas Day
THE RHYTHM OF CLAPPING hands and stamping feet shook the room, making the corn dollies, flowers plaited in their hair, jig on their nails on the wall.
“Why don’t you ask Eliza to dance?”
“No. She likes Samuel better,” Gideon replied. Especially since last winter.
“Don’t be so sure. It’s you she keeps looking at. You’re a handsome boy.” His mother gave him a sour smile. “For someone so clever, you’re a fool sometimes.”
“So if it’s not her you slink off to see, who is it then?” Thomas had been slouched against the wall beside them but now straightened up, interested.
Gideon looked for a way to escape their scrutiny. Better Thomas think he was off with Eliza than up on the Orme.
Silas Day saved him by clanging a ladle on a tin plate. “Right! Be quiet, you rabble!”
Each year the villagers scratched their meagre bounty from the earth, bundling the corn into sheaths as it fell before the scythe. Gulls and revellers came over the fields to Silas and Mary Day’s house, to the largest room in Ormeshadow. There they celebrated their hopes of surviving the winter. Each family brought a gift as thanks for the harvest. A pot of stew. A pie. A garland of wild flowers. A fresh-baked loaf. Old enmities were put aside for another time, or at the very least not spoken of.
The Belman contribution was a slaughtered sheep for roasting. Gideon had been shackled to Samuel by the carcass that they lugged over to the Days’ house the previous morning.
The clanging ladle continued until the room fell silent. Gideon could hear the lamb fat sizzling as it dripped into the fire.
“Everyone grab a glass,” Silas called.
The dancers dispersed.
“A toast! To Michaelmas Day!” It was Mary Day. “May we all be here next year to enjoy it!”
“Yes, you crowing old baggage,” Gideon heard his mother mutter.
The Days were merchants. One side of Silas was withered and contorted so when he walked he tilted alarmingly to one side before righting himself, as though counterbalanced. His mind, by contrast, was dextrous and supple. He was a born trader. A seeker and finder of opportunities overlooked. There wasn’t a family in Ormeshadow that didn’t owe Silas Day a favour, be it a half day of labour or a sack of something from their fields.
Mary was devoted to her husband. If anyone insulted Silas Day’s manhood they’d be made to think again when they next came calling on the Days for a cup of sugar or a ball of twine. If Clare wanted a bolt of cloth now she had to go all the way to Carrside for it herself.
The dancing started again. Clare sat with her head held high like a queen, making herself more desirable and more damned. If a man put a foot toward her they were held back by the forbidding looks of their women, led by Mary Day.
Clare had deprived herself of a dancing partner, one who would have danced on hot coals for her, had she asked. Mr. Hipps’s proposal had become common knowledge and Clare had threatened several times to invite Mr. Hipps, but in the end no such invitation was sent.
“Our revelries will be too provincial for the likes of him,” Thomas had said. Clare had scowled back at him in response, but it was in good humour, as though he had made a joke. They were friends again.
Clare wasn’t the only Belman woman not dancing. Despite being too pregnant to dance a jig comfortably, Maud had made the journey. She didn’t lack for attention. Pregnancy had made a beauty of her. It tamed her hair and made it glossy. Curves replaced her angularity. Men stopped to talk to her and clapped Thomas on the shoulder as though he were liked. Women, drawn to new life, gave Maud advice as though she didn’t already have three children. Many reached out to touch her belly as if it were public property.
Gideon picked his way across the crowded room, feeling the beat of the fiddler’s arm. His heart picked up to match the pace. Eliza sat surrounded by young men, laughing as though they were telling her the funniest things. Desire swelled up in Gideon’s chest, gnawing at his heart with its peculiar hunger.
“Eliza, will you dance with me?” Gideon feigned a boldness.
Samuel snickered, a nasty, familiar sound Gideon ignored. Eliza’s eyes were pools of false brightness. It put Gideon in mind of something tarnished, something that could be polished up with enough love and care.
“Why should I dance with you?” Her smile was brittle.
Because I’ve never held a girl the way I want to hold you. Because my kisses for you would not be idle. My kisses would be promises. My kisses would be full of us.
“Because I want to dance with you.” He lifted his chin.
She was hard. “I’ll not dance with a boy.”
Such contempt. Samuel lounged against the arm of her chair.
Gideon had meant to be kind that day, in the winter. Now he understood she thought him cruel. She’d mistaken his kindness for pity. His respect for rejection.
She no longer saved him the only thing, besides herself, she had to give. She no longer told him the details of her day, the first snowdrops or the breast of a robin. Things the other boys would have mocked. These last nine months of Eliza’s coldness and sarcasm had just been her anger gestating, waiting for a chance to punish him. That must have been how much she had liked him.
If only he’d taken her out into the snow and silence. Perhaps then they might have understood each other better.
“Eliza . . .”
She pushed past him, brushing against him, wrong-footing him. Another body made contact with him, a shoulder jarring against him sending him reeling. It was Samuel. Eliza was leading him by the hand to the centre of the room. The other boys nudged each other, hooting and gibbering.
Gideon stood on their periphery. The noise of the room was roaring in his ears, the music too loud for him to enjoy. There was a press of bodies and the cloying smell of spilt ale and roasted lamb.
Samuel’s hands were on Eliza’s waist, her hips, and the small of her back. She grinned and the watching women tutted. Already ruined. No better than her mother. The couple whirled about, setting her skirts swirling.
Gideon turned away, unable to look. He sought out the darkest corner of the room where they couldn’t see him. He watched Samuel, whose attention was for his friends, not Eliza. With a wink, he flung her away into the arms of the next boy and the dance went on.
Armitage
“SHALL I TELL YOUR FORTUNE?”
“No, but thanks, Mr. Armitage.”
Gideon wasn’t alone. Armitage was waiting for him in the shadows. The small man’s skin was wrinkled by foreign suns. Armitage had run away to sea as a boy and it cast him back on the shore of his birth as a man, like a piece of flotsam, full of scars and tales from his life on merchant ships.
“Just Armi
tage will do. Don’t be standoffish, lad. People pay good money for my predictions.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Are you scared?”
“No.” Gideon bristled. Being scared was a felony in the Belman house.
“Go on.” It was Mary Day, who had suddenly appeared at Gideon’s side. She was Josiah Armitage’s sister. “He has the gift, you know.”
Gifts and heresies. In Ormeshadow there was no conflict between divining your future in a bowl of peelings and the psalms, or the collection plate on Sunday and leaving a bowl of milk by the door at night as a bribe to keep the dark at bay.
Gideon took a seat. He was more afraid of Armitage than any prophecy he could make. The man had a queer way of fixing you in his sights as though he could see right down to the bottom of you.
“Let me look at you.”
The landlocked mariner took Gideon’s hands in his own. The intimacy of it made him uncomfortable. He pored over the palms, examining them as though reading a book. Heart line. Head line. Life line. He turned them over, as if turning the page. He looked at the ragged nails.
“You’ve had a life of toil.”
“So has everyone this side of Carrside.”
“Don’t get smart with me. And Mary, stop your eavesdropping and fetch me some rum.”
“You’ve had too much already,” she grumbled, but went off in search of the bottle.
Armitage pulled Gideon closer. The noise and the smoke receded. He could smell Armitage’s breath, the sweetness of the rum and sugar mixed with stale tobacco, and then beneath that the foulness of his damaged leg. Armitage’s wound never healed. It oozed blood and pus from time to time. It was well known the surgeon said keeping it would kill him eventually, but Armitage refused to let him amputate.
“I’ve been reading charts and maps all my life,” said Armitage. “This is just another kind of map. A map of you.”
All Gideon could see were lines.
“A map is only the lie of the land. It can’t tell me where to go or what to do with myself.”
Armitage gave him a sharp look. “You hide yourself well, don’t you? A man who doesn’t want to draw attention to himself has something to conceal.” Then he snorted. “You’re quite right. A map is no use if you’ve no idea where you want to go. But think on. Some maps have the journey marked out for you.”