Souls Dryft Page 28

  In reply I ran the edge of the feather across his brow, down his cheek and across his lips. The poor fellow did not know how to respond, more accustomed to me with my claws out than sheathed and playful.

  "Is this how you mean to help me write?"

  I leaned closer. "I shall inspire you, like so." With the tip of my tongue, I followed the path of the goose feather.

  "Already I begin to get ideas," he murmured.

  "Ideas for your bed?"

  "Our bed," he replied firmly.

  I ran the feather back across the scar on the bridge of his nose and then down the other side of his face. His hand captured mine, halting its progress. "As you are so good with letters. Tell me…what should I put…" he teased with a light touch of his lips to my breast, just above my thumping heart, "here?" He nipped me gently with his teeth, his breath hot and damp on my skin and then he licked along the full curve of my bosom, a soft groan slipping out between his lips.

  I arched, offering more, stroking his warm hair. His lap grew a little uncomfortable now as he shifted under me and I stifled a chuckle. Glancing at his father, I saw he still had his back to us, his head bowed as if he slept. "Are you sure you have the dimensions correct?" I managed, turning back to the letter, pretending to study his sketch.

  "My dimensions?" He nestled me further into his lap, arms tight around me, the bristles of his cheek rubbing my shoulder as he looked over it.

  "It is very large," I sighed, "this… bed."

  He kissed my ear, nibbling, teasing, so that my fingers trembled and I lost my grip on his quill.

  "Mind my ink," he muttered.

  "Are you worried it might spill?"

  His voice was heavy, struggling, "I would not want it to spoil your frock." He moved the inkpot out of my reach, pushing it along the table with the splayed fingers of one hand. "Now…" he breathed softly, "what think you… of this?" And then he swept my hair aside to kiss my neck, his lips lingering there. I closed my eyes and felt his teeth as he gently suckled my skin. I swallowed a tiny gasp.

  "Have I expressed my needs… well enough… do you think?"

  I could not answer immediately.

  "Letter writing does not come easily to me," he whispered wryly, "as it does to others."

  "You express yourself remarkably well," I murmured as his tongue swept back up to my jaw and then my cheek. "You do not give yourself credit enough for your penmanship."

  "’Tis not too rough and clumsy?"

  "It does very well."

  "It is adequate?" He pushed for compliments, of course.

  I wriggled in his lap, reaching for the quill again. His fingers closed around mine, bringing my hand to his lips. Still awaiting my answer, he would not continue without it. I conceded finally, "It is an excellent… hand."

  Eyes bright, he leaned in now to kiss me full on the lips and if the chair should topple over, neither of us would care.

  Rufus moved suddenly, and I leapt out of Will’s lap.

  "When you two are done canoodling, fetch me a tankard of cider."

  My husband, his tongue in his cheek, eyes smiling, quickly moved closer to the table, cracked his knuckles and returned to his letter. So I went down into the pantry to cool off and find Rufus his cider.

  When I returned, he snatched the tankard from me without a word of thanks; then hooked his foot around the legs of a stool, drew it closer and barked at me to sit.

  "Do you Carvers never ask politely?"

  "Sit!" He grinned nastily. "If you please."

  I did so, only because I had naught else to do. "Now you are a Carver too," Rufus reminded me, "take care what you say about your new family." We sat for a while in silence, listening to the fire crackle, until he said, "Take heed, woman, now you live in this house, you might think you see many odd things, but you would be wise to forget them all."

  He tried to frighten me, of course. I shrugged. "Like the ghosts?"

  "Not ghosts. Memories." Then he changed the subject. "My son tells me you play cards."

  "And beat him frequently."

  "Fetch them then and I shall see for myself how good you are."

  Again, as I was restless and Will was occupied with his letter, I did as Rufus commanded. He wanted to know who taught me to play and I told him of all the late nights, sitting up with my uncle to keep him company by his fire. He was scornful of the idea that any woman might be good company.

  "Did you never find companionship in your wife?" I asked.

  "Her duty was to give me sons. I never looked to her for anything more."

  "Then I pity her. Had she been a friend to you, instead of a brood mare, you might both be less miserable."

  He complained about my presumptuous, jabbering tongue, asking Will whether he allowed me speak to him too, in such a bold, mouthy fashion. My husband considered carefully and replied, "I suppose I grow accustomed to it." I smiled broadly at Rufus, triumphant. Until Will thought some more and added, "I barely listen to it now. It goes in one ear and out the other."

  Rufus thought this hilarious.

  Next morning, Hugh caught Will and I together in the pantry, pretending to make breakfast and yet having ravenous appetite only for each other. This being the final straw, he went up to the Keep and made his peace with the Earl. I later heard – through the Gawtry grapevine — that he blamed me for all of it, because I bewitched Will away from his duty. As always, I was the villain.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  On the day of the harvest fest, I learned that Nan Gawtry and Tom Tewke were married. "I have never seen a happier fellow," Will said proudly, as if it was all his doing.

  "He will not remain so for long," I warned dourly, mourning for my lost matchmaking efforts.

  "Aye, but sometimes a man cannot think straight when he wants a woman, no matter how she will plague him." And he gave me a knowing look.

  My uncle was laid out under a hastily erected canopy to watch the festivities. When I went to see him, he asked if I behaved myself, to which I replied that I was twice as bad as ever and he laughed.

  "I warned the Captain, but he would have his way." His eyes gleamed, regaining a little of their old spirit. "But I took pity on the desperate feller. After all, he did come when we needed him, eh?" He took my hand. "You’ve changed since that first day, when you stood in my hall making a puddle, ruddy elbows sticking out through your sleeves. You’re well grown now."

  "Fattened up for slaughter?"

  He only laughed. "I told the Captain his life will never be dull with you in it, Scrapper." Then he bade me come closer. "Never forget that Sydney Pride. D’Abord Surtout. Souls Dryft will belong to your children now, Genny. See – I told you I would get that house back in the family, eh?"

  I had not thought about children. I glanced over to where my husband stood, watching the dancers on the common, a mug of cider in his hand, bending his head to Sir Brian, who was, no doubt, complaining again about me trampling his crops. The sun touched Will’s head, lighting him up like a tall candle. Having listened as long as his limited good manners would allow, he suddenly looked over at me, winked, and then abruptly walked away from Sir Brian, leaving the fellow still chattering to empty air.

  Next I sought Tilda, eager to let her know I was just the same as ever, not to be tamed and conquered by Captain Big Nose, whose idea of courtship was to throw a poor, innocent young woman – previously minding her own business — into a filthy, stinking sack and steal her away on his horse.

  But approaching the Gawtry cottage, I ran into Hugh. He grabbed my arms to steady himself; even before I smelled the cider on his breath, I knew he was in his cups. "There you are!" he exclaimed, as if the events of the last few days had never happened. "Where have you been hiding? You haven’t changed your mind, have you?"

  "Changed my mind?"

  "About coming to London with me, of course, Strumpet!"

  I could not believe my ears at first, but then, I reasoned acidly, this was Hugh Carver.

  "Y
ou have not lost your gumption have you, Strumpet?" He slurred, "I forgive you for betraying me." He raised the side of his hand, as if to grant a blessing.

  "Save your prayers for Frances," I said, thinking she would need them.

  "I still have your coin," he reminded me, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. It seemed he was unaware of how the Willingham brothers boasted about the village of winning every penny in his possession. Although my money was long gone, he thought he might trick me into believing he still had that hold over me.

  Rather than quarrel with a man in his cups, I said, "I wish you good luck, Hugh. Let us part as friends, not enemies."

  "So you offer me the scraps from my brother’s platter." He spat upon the ground. "The moment he sets sail, you’ll be off with the next man who comes along. I told him — just like his last whore, Kate Asher."

  When I politely advised him to sober up, his eyes turned swiftly to pewter. "Do you think to tell me what to do, the way you tell my damned brother?" He stumbled closer. I turned away, but he grabbed my arm, just above the elbow. "Have you forgot you promised me your company?"

  I struggled to get free.

  "He only took you because he couldn’t bear for me to win. Why else would he want a penniless wench?" He made a sudden grab for the leather chord around my neck, as if he might strangle me with it. The opal ring popped into view and his eyes grew dark. He would have ripped it from me, but I fought him. And then he hit me. "I owed you that," he hissed, "for leading me on a merry chase."

  The force of it sent me spinning to the dirt, biting the taste of blood upon my tongue, and I lay there some time, until Nathaniel came.

  "Oy! What you doin’ dozy apeth?" His dancing feet shattered dandelion clocks so that seeds caught in my hair and stuck to my lips. Bees hovered around the clover beside me. I could hear music on the common – the rolling timbre of drums beneath the drunken ruckus of the crowd and the joyful screaming of the dancers.

  I always feared his brother would be the one to raise his hand to me in anger, and yet, in the end it was smiling, carefree Hugh. My eyes were fully open now and no longer looking out at the world, separated by the glass in my window.

  But Hugh knew my sinful weakness already and his warning lodged deep, like a splinter, lurking under my skin.

  * * * *

  The day of Will’s departure came and with it another gift — a pair of ladies calf-skin gloves; elegantly made and too fine for me. Beside my shabby gowns they would look out of place, but no doubt they would suit Katherine Asher. Seeing my expression, he assured me, very ungraciously, that I need not wear them if I disliked them. My refusal to explain the cause of that bruise under my eye put him in a worse mood than usual and piled more doubts upon those he must already have held within his own breast.

  "Goodbye then," I said merrily. "Have a safe trip and try to come back with all your parts intact."

  "And you — try to stay out of trouble."

  So there we stood; two difficult, wounded souls, who just could not negotiate a peace.

  Part Five

  The Rogue’s Repentance

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Grace

  Jack Willingham tried hard to show a new and improved, "sensitive" side, and so I felt it only polite not to slam the door on his face when he came out to Souls Dryft, uninvited, to give me his opinion.

  "This property could fetch a small fortune." He picked at the plaster with his fingers. "I don’t mean the house itself," he clarified. "The walls are damp, and nothing is level. Nothing. The roof is probably full of wildlife. It won’t be long before the whole place falls down by the look of it." So easily he dismissed the house, only to add, "But the land itself – that’s where the money is." Pausing finally, he looked at me. "You are going to sell it, right?"

  Apparently the news was out that Richard had given up his claim. "I’m keeping the house," I said brightly. "Uncle Bob lived here all those years, and I don’t think he ever raised so much as a screwdriver."

  Of course, his answer was the usual – Uncle Bob was nutty as a fruitcake and did I want to end up that way? Then, remembering his new leaf, he laughed it off and gave me a hug. Sadly, the harder he tried, the more uncomfortable it became. Every gesture he made, in this sudden attempt to please me, rang a false note. I had the awful idea that he returned for me because of the money he imagined I’d make selling the house. But feeling guilty for suspecting that, I shook it off.

  I looked through the kitchen window, wondering if Richard would come back. He was such a tidy person no one would know I’d had a guest living there. Nothing remained belonging to Richard; nothing to show that he’d ever been there at all.

  A cold chill crept into my bones.

  Jack saw my manuscript on the kitchen table. "Still trying that, eh? Thought you’d give up by now."

  I grabbed the notebook, throwing it quickly into a drawer and he, slumping into a chair, turned the conversation to another, more preferable subject – himself. He tried to convince me that Scotland was a place where we could be happy together. He had everything there, apparently, to make his life complete. Except me. The man who was barely aware of my presence in the same room eight months ago, now needed me in his life and came to fetch me, in the same way that he would, after trying out a new, expensive designer brand, return to his favorite bargain shop to pick up socks in a sale, having found they retained their elasticity much better than any other.

  I’d flattered myself, for just a while, imagining he returned because he truly missed me. It was not unpleasant to have his company again, but it was, like a pint of rum raisin ice-cream, not nutritionally sustaining, rather sickly when consumed in its entirety and swiftly followed by guilt, remorse and denial.

  "By the way," he said, "if you want to get that ring sized for your finger, there’s a jeweler Clive recommended. He used them for Marian’s engagement ring." I hadn’t even agreed to marry him yet, but he was confident in his powers of persuasion and my lack of willpower.

  "Give it to me," I heard myself saying. "I know where I can take that ring."

  I thought if I could find out the origin of it, perhaps I would know, once and for all, if this was all in my imagination, or really a memory from long before.

  When Jack left, I went upstairs to check Richard’s room. The bed was made, corners neatly tucked under with military precision; the curtains were drawn back and the window left slightly ajar to keep the air moving. There were no crumpled tissues, no stray hairs, no forgotten razors, or bottles of aftershave. I opened the old-fashioned wardrobe and found it dusty inside, a large, intricate spider’s web in the top left corner, proof that he’d never hung anything in there.

  Now I understood that deep sense of loss and her desperation to have him back.

  * * * *

  "It’s a beautiful color," my mother cooed, somehow managing to suggest, with the slow, pained lowering of her gaze, that I didn’t do it justice.

  "Turquoise?" I squeezed out through gritted teeth.

  Marian argued, "It’s Tiffany box blue."

  Standing before the triple-paneled mirror in the fitting room above the bridal shop, the feeling came over me again, that sense of not belonging. Reality was inside out and mine was a temporary existence in this body.

  The saleswoman pulled and prodded, complaining that the dress needed considerable adjustments. My mother nodded ruefully, looking as if she wished she could say I was actually adopted and nothing to do with her genes.

  Marian tried to stick up for me. "She’ll look lovely…once we get her hair done and her make-up." She was over-compensating, but for what I wasn’t sure. She’d sold my flat for asking price, my bank account was finally healthy again and I had a teaching job at the village school starting in September; everything was looking up for me. But as I stood there like a pincushion in a turquoise silk tarpaulin, a cloud of doubt still lingered. There was something I was missing, something I wasn’t seeing and Genny was trying to show it.

&n
bsp; "Who the Hell would want my old flat at that price in any case?" I asked suddenly.

  Our mother saved her from answering. "Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Grace." With a huff, she turned to the seamstress and confided, "Honestly I don’t know what I did to raise such an ungrateful daughter."

  Later, while they went into Marks and Spencer to look at the sale, I had the opportunity to escape and scuttled off on my secret mission. A thin, miserable rain had begun to fall; not unusual for an English summer – in fact, it was to be expected. Only tourists, in shorts and sandals, were caught by surprise, suddenly encountering an obstacle course of puddles, then pausing, bewildered, at the curb, only to be splashed from head to toe by a cyclist traveling at speed.

  I was perusing the window of an antique shop, when I saw them reflected in the glass, walking along together on the other side of the street. She was laughing and chattering, while my pirate had his blank face – the one that usually needed every effort of his facial muscles in my presence. Once they were safely passed, I crossed the road to follow, not even thinking about it, and when she pulled him into a shop my feet followed.

  It was one of those department stores with an advance guard of perfume and cosmetics, displayed like museum relics under polished glass cabinets, watched over by thickly painted wardens. In such places I was immediately converged upon like a small dot of bacteria surrounded by cleansing white cells.

  Richard and the unwritten blonde were only a few feet away. She had a high, squeaky voice, every sentence ending on the uplift of a question mark. I didn’t know how he could stand it; I certainly couldn’t. From the corner of my eye, I saw him head directly toward me, so I grabbed the nearest item on a hanger, pretending to be on a mission of such importance that I didn’t even hear him calling out my name.

  "Grace. Fancy meeting you here." A faintly amused twitch of his lips suggested he’d known I was behind them all along. "You remember Kate?"