Souls Dryft Page 10

  "Bagobones, you may have all the husbands he brings. I shall not stand in your way."

  "You are no competition for me, I assure you," she exclaimed.

  I smiled faintly.

  "My mother," she said, "was descended from the Capetian Kings of France."

  I shrugged, not in the least interested.

  She exhaled another frigid little breath. "And your mother was no better than a whore."

  So I lunged, grabbed her shining red hair and twisted it around my fist. She fought back, of course, but was no match for me. Spying Mary’s bread trencher, still containing thick meat juices and strips of fat, I reached for it with my free hand and thrust it into her furious face. Greasy blobs oozed down her cheeks and nose, crumbs of stale bread clinging to her eyelashes.

  She slapped me hard across the face, a spiteful glimmer filling her green eyes with gleeful madness. I flew at her and we fell, rolling over in the floor rushes. She caught her fingers in my hair, trying to wrench it clean off my head. "I’ll smash your brains in!" she hissed. "That’s what they should have done, when you were born." She rammed my head against the table leg and little sparks spun before my eyes. When I sank my teeth into her bony arm, she cursed, trying to scramble away on her knees, but she fell forward, her pert nose pressed into the rushes, her squeals muffled. With her wiry body pinned, I would have trimmed her hair with my knife, if the steward, Bob Salley, did not come to see what all the ruckus was about.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As our ill-fated governess had told my uncle, it was true that I'd been down the lane to spy on the residents of Souls Dryft again. Somehow I just couldn't stay away, despite repeated warnings. That crooked farmhouse with ornate iron gates drew me to it with a pull too strong for my slender willpower. And on my most recent expedition, I'd learned something of interest.

  Peering in at a window as darkness fell and they lit candles within, I saw Rufus Carver sprawled in a chair by the fire while his wife, Suzannah —the ingrate who should once have married my uncle—sat across the hearth, sewing, her head bent over. The very picture of a dutiful wife. Having watched them for a while, I was about to leave, certain they had lives as dull as ours, when the woman finally spoke.

  Although loud, regular snores vibrated deep within her husband's chest, Suzannah looked up from her sewing and shouted, "My husband, are you awake?"

  He twitched, knocking his wooden hand against the arm of the chair. "I am now," he grunted. "Have you aught to say worthy of waking me?"

  The window was open slightly, and I nudged it another inch to hear clearly.

  "We need a strategy, husband. My cousin still does not reply to my letters, and I fear he may seek to marry his daughter Frances elsewhere, instead of to our son."

  Rufus smirked, his eyes still closed. "I would not put it past that whoremonger to promise his precious daughter to half a dozen families."

  "When Will returns, he must be persuaded—"

  "Persuaded? Why should he need persuading? If he comes home merely to fight against me again, he can stay away another thirteen years."

  Will. They spoke of the Captain. The man my uncle thought was coming home to marry me and take me off his hands. I, naturally, was all ears.

  Suzannah made a small, harsh sound, a stillborn laugh. "I very much doubt Will comes home to make amends. I know you expect a chastened, contrite son, but you have always failed to recognize the stubborn, bullish streak in our eldest son, that you might see in yourself. Had you the inclination to look." She sighed, tugging on her needle with more force than required. "You know how he is. His thoughts run deep, as do his wounds."

  "The only thing deep about that boy are the holes in his ears."

  "Mayhap, he feels bound to that contract he made with the Baron," she continued fretfully. "It is odd that he never wrote of it to us. If not for the gossips, we would never have known. Now he may refuse to have my cousin’s daughter because of it."

  Rufus sneered. "Even Will – thick-head that he is– knows that a wench with a fat marriage purse and an influential father is preferable to one with naught. I daresay the boy was in his cups when he agreed to marry the Baron’s niece. Probably forgot about it the next day, which is why he never wrote to us about it."

  Aha! Could it be true? I might yet be saved.

  "Alas, she still hovers about." Suzannah Carver glared at her stitches, holding them up to the meager light of a candle. "I hoped she would be gone, before Will returned."

  "Like her gypsy Spaniard father, she knows how to get her boots under the table, wherever there is food, wine and warm shelter to be had." Rufus twisted about in his chair. "As for this other bride – your cousin’s daughter —"

  "Lady Frances Percy," she purred, her face finally taking on some animation.

  "Whatever her name is, I give you leave to manage the business, woman, but be wary. Your cousin is a cunning whoremonger who will cheat and scheme to get the best price for his wares."

  I'd heard that when Suzannah Percy married Rufus Carver, instead of my uncle, her proud, noble family disowned her for it. Thirty years later, the betrothal between her eldest son and her cousin's child, this Lady Frances Percy, must therefore come as a healing of the breach. I understood how these things worked. Among the upper ranks, marriages were seldom made for love, only for profit. Suzannah's marriage to Rufus had left her stranded, abandoned by her fine family. She evidently wanted better for her eldest son. A bride far more advantageous than me.

  "I shall proceed with the marriage negotiations then," said Suzannah, resuming her sewing.

  "Do as you please. Beg and humiliate yourself to win your cousin’s forgiveness. Just as you like. Never expect me to do the same."

  I liked him, despite the fact that I should not. Rufus Carver, after all, was my uncle's sworn enemy, the man who won Souls Dryft away from us with crooked dice.

  He glanced down at his wooden hand. "This is all your idea. They’re your sons. You deal with it."

  Stab, stab, stab went Suzannah's needle. "At least now Will can settle, be done with this wandering. I cannot think what possessed him to take up the life of a sailor."

  "’Tis in a young man’s blood to travel. In my day, I too did my share." Rufus stared into the fire. Suddenly he gripped his wooden hand and shook his head. "Before I was maimed."

  His wife saw the gesture, and her expression changed again. It was almost as if she relished her husband’s regret. "I wish there was some way to be rid of her, once and for all," she said.

  "Who?" snapped her husband, still holding his wooden hand.

  I thought she referred to me again. But she said, "Grace Sydney."

  Grace Sydney. Just like that, she said it, as if my mother was still living, not a corpse in the ground consumed by maggots and worms.

  I must have made a sound, for they both turned and looked toward the window. I ducked in the knick of time, and a bird flew up out of the ivy.

  "Grace," I heard Rufus mutter thoughtfully.

  My heart was beating so hard, I thought it would break out through my skin.

  "What are we going to do about her?" his wife snapped. "She'd been in the flour again this morning when I came down. Tipped it all over the place, just to write her name in it."

  I couldn't breathe. I stared at the green leaves beside me, unable to move.

  Suzannah's voice continued, "It's the Baron's fault for bringing that brat to live with him - her daughter. The girl's presence has ...disturbed something."

  "I’m a weak, dying man," Rufus growled, "and should not be troubled with these matters."

  His wife gave a small snort of derision. "You have a knack for imagining yourself at death’s door, my husband. I suppose because it has the happy effect of getting things done the way you want them, with very little effort on your own behalf."

  I heard a chair scrape across the flagstones as she announced an intention to shut the window. That was when I made a run for the wall and she must have seen me climbing
it, which is how it came to be reported to Agnes Spooner.

  I said nothing to my uncle about what I'd overheard that evening. To mention it would, of course, expose the truth of my misdemeanor. But I kept the little nuggets of information stored away in my head. The Carvers had another wife lined up for their son, unbeknownst to my uncle. And they both believed in ghosts.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Grace

  I woke that first morning at the Inn to the tuneless whistle of a deliveryman, the rumble of barrels rolled across the yard and the choking grumble of the brewery van outside my window. The opening of eyelids, however crusty, could not be avoided forever and the comings and goings below my window ensured I was in no danger of slipping back to sleep. I finally lurched into a semi-upright position, clutching my body anxiously, afraid some of it might be missing. Much to my relief, I was still dressed, only my shoes removed. Someone had tucked me up in bed, but I had no idea how I got there.

  With a head that felt as if it recently hosted a slap-down, drag-out brawl, I staggered shamefully down to breakfast. Richard and I were the only two people there and the waitress, in an effort presumably to save her steps, put us at the same table.

  "You look terrible," he greeted me. "How’s your head?"

  "Tickety boo," I chirped, rubbing my arms.

  His lips twisted doubtfully.

  "Let’s not try to make conversation," I croaked. "It’s really too much effort this early in the morning. Especially with you."

  "Especially with a hangover."

  I scowled. "I am not hungover."

  "You looked pretty bad last night," he paused, "when I left you in bed."

  Before I could say anything, the waitress came over for our order. He, of course, already knew what he wanted – a full English breakfast. I was surprised, having expected him to be the bran and fruit sort. I settled angrily for toast, my stomach too uncooperative for anything else. The moment she was gone, I leaned over the table and hissed, "What happened? You’d better tell me everything."

  He was composed, his lips tight, eyes the color of sea fog. "Sure you want to know?"

  I flinched. "Tell me!"

  "Don’t you remember? I’m insulted." He toyed with me like a cat with a mouse.

  "I …remember…" I pressed my cold hands to my hot head.

  "Taking the wrong key? Somehow our keys managed to get mixed up yesterday. I found you, on your knees, trying to fit my key into your lock. Apparently the numbers on the little brass disc were beyond your comprehension."

  "I was not drunk," I said firmly. "It was a long, tiring, emotionally draining day. And that cider creeps up on you – the barman said."

  Finally he took pity on the wretched creature sinking in her chair before him. "Nothing happened, Grace," he admitted, eyes laughing, lips solemn. "Let that be a lesson to you on the evils of drink."

  So he did have a sense of humor after all. But there had been a kiss last night. From someone. I stared at the dingy, lacy curtains, trying desperately to remember. His lips were cool, and his aftershave was sandalwood. I could still smell it on my own skin. Richard was calm and collected, casually checking the gold cufflinks on his crisp, white shirt, removing a stray hair from the sleeve of his jacket – one of mine by the looks of it. He held it up and then let it drift to the carpet. "I was the epitome of restraint," he said. "Despite your very determined – one might even say, savage — attempt to seduce me."

  The waitress was back with a plate of egg, sausage and bacon for him and for me toast, which was cold, because she’d waited for his fry-up rather than make two trips from the kitchen.

  I groaned, my head in my hands. That cold toast was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. My life was going down the proverbial toilet. Just as my family always feared, I was now a fallen woman, drinking too much and propositioning strange men in hotel rooms. Finally my head dropped all the way to the tablecloth.

  "No need to get so overwrought," he said calmly, his knife chiseling into the bacon, scraping across the china plate so that it made my teeth hurt. "It’s bad for the blood to be so emotional all the time. And there you were yesterday, lecturing me about stress."

  "Why don’t you sit somewhere else?" I squeaked miserably. "In fact – why are you even here? You’re not even a real person. I made you up."

  He didn’t bat an eyelid. "In your wildest fantasies. And I told you why I’m here."

  I lifted my head. "That house is mine!"

  His gaze swept the table impatiently, searching for something. "Can we have an amicable conversation about this?"

  Reaching to the table behind, I retrieved the Heinz bottle and smacked it down in front of him. "I doubt it."

  He managed a thin, weary smile. "I’m sure we can come to a suitable compromise. You won’t need to try seducing me again."

  I watched the thick sauce glop onto his plate. And keep glopping. My stomach rotated like the drum in a spin dryer. "Like a little breakfast with your ketchup?"

  Very carefully, he wiped the neck of the bottle before replacing the lid. It was fascinating, watching him eat. Every move was methodical and precise, like a choreographed dance. There was no chasing the food around his plate, nothing shooting across the table, no crumbs in his lap. My mother would be in her heaven.

  "I can offer you a percentage of the sale proceeds. Of course, I’m not legally bound to give you anything, but—"

  "I won’t let you touch that house," I vowed, thrusting the corner of a toast triangle into his smug face. I was suddenly much more determined than I’d ever been about anything. "As a matter of fact, it’s probably a listed building and can’t be touched."

  "No, it isn’t. I already checked." He lowered his gaze to the table, brushing crumbs from the cloth with a brisk motion of his hand.

  Crumbs! God forbid.

  I tore the crust off my toast, scattering more of the little troublemakers across the crisp white cloth. He looked up sharply, jaw tightly clenched. "Grace."

  "Downing?"

  "I realize it’s in your nature to be argumentative and defiant, even without any real cause. Your determination to fight has a certain… scrappy charm…"

  I scowled.

  "…But you must realize you haven’t any legal claim on that house."

  "We’ll let the solicitors decide, won’t we?"

  "Don’t waste your time, energy and money on a lost cause."

  "I know what you’re thinking. You mean, don’t waste your time, energy and money." I bit into my toast viciously, chewing hard.

  He sighed quietly, watching my lips. "Whatever you say, Grace." Suddenly his eyes were very blue, but not in the least cold. "Think you know me already?"

  "Yes. You’re a mercenary pirate with no sensitivity, no appreciation for the picturesque. Or as you people would say – the quaint."

  "Oh, I don’t know." He rubbed his jaw with one hand, studying me carefully with those conniving, thieving eyes. "You’re pretty quaint, and I can appreciate you."

  His leg moved against mine under the table, and I hastily withdrew. He didn’t appear to notice, and I concluded it was merely an accidental brush; it was, after all, a very small table and he was tall, his legs always in the way. There was something altogether too potent and enigmatic about the rare sight of that shy, suppressed smile. I wasn’t sure what to say or do, so I kept eating, as was my usual reaction in stressful moments. My palms began to sweat.

  "We could have dinner tonight," he added, his tone carefully measured. "Together."

  "Can’t. Busy." I couldn’t think why he kept pushing, when we were so unsuited.

  "Doing what?"

  "Anything else."

  I could hear his knuckles cracking irritably under the table. Aha! He didn’t want dinner with me. He only asked because he planned to talk me out of claiming that house. The villain would use any tactic to get me out of the way. I was wise to his filthy trickery.

  "Excuse me!" He motioned to the waitress and she came eagerly,
falling over herself to oblige. "Her toast is cold. Would you mind making some more?"

  She was all apology, hurrying off to the kitchen before the last word escaped his lips.

  "I can order my own food," I muttered.

  "But you weren’t going to say anything about it being cold, were you?"

  I gasped. "How did you even know it was cold?"

  "Butter didn’t melt. By the way, you have strawberry jam on your face."

  "I know. I like it there. Saving it for later."

  He shook his head, lips pursed again.

  As soon as I got back to my room, I scrambled for my notebook. Somehow I had to get him back where he belonged, inside the pages of my manuscript, before he could do any damage in the real world. It was time the pirate went back to Genny. She’d waited long enough. And I was fast discovering that I certainly couldn’t handle him. Or myself around him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Genny

  1536

  I was not idle in those three years since I came to my uncle’s fortress. If only he knew how selflessly I worked at my Great Missions, perhaps then he would not be so ready to suspect me of the worst, but alas, my good deeds seemed destined to go unappreciated.

  One of these Missions was the tutelage of Tilda Gawtry, a young girl who served my uncle as a maid of all work and came from a large family in the village of Sydney Dovedale. Tilda was a meek, pious girl, who hardly dare say boo to a goose. As she was in need of sauce and gumption, two things my uncle claimed I possessed in excess, it was surely a good deed to share some with her.

  Then there was Tom Tewke, the blacksmith’s apprentice, a gentle, soft-spoken fellow with remarkable patience and quiet wit. His only fault, apart from a propensity to not believe a word out of my mouth, was his blind adoration of Tilda’s elder sister Nan, a woman bereft of virtue. I had agreed to teach Tewke his letters, but unfortunately, his efforts were always spent on yet another lovelorn epistle to the inconstant Nan Gawtry, who could not even read. Under all that sweat and grime, he was a hopeless romantic, but I was determined to find him another love — one worthier of his good heart than Nan Gawtry.