by Meg Rosoff
Pell nodded. Despite her preference for outdoor pursuits, she could bake as well as any girl brought up in a village too small for its own bakery.
“Well, come here and assist us! William and I are always in need of help, and we’ll pay you in bread when money’s short. You might even stay here with us if you can be parted from your poacher. We’d have a lovely time, like sisters!”
Pell accepted the offer with gratitude. She dreaded the relentless hardship of winter and imagined a room with a fire and perhaps even hot water to wash. Despite her misgivings about Eliza, the possibility of paid work refueled her optimism. She suspected that her habit of conversing with Dicken was making her odder and less fit for human society with each passing day. The few villagers who greeted her did so warily, for a girl of her age and uncertain provenance living in an unclear arrangement with the local poacher did not comply with anyone’s idea of respectability.
There were even some who imagined—with a thrill of outrage—that Pell might attempt to attend the village church, and steps were taken to cope with so heinous a situation should it arise. Such were the amusements of village life.
Twenty-six
Eliza’s brother William, older by four or five years, shared with his sister a wide, open face in which there was nothing of malice, though in his case not much of wit, either. According to their father’s last will and testament, the bakery belonged to the son, but for the past seven years it had been Eliza who worked long hours kneading bread, keeping the accounts, negotiating at market for the sacks of grain necessary to their trade, and supervising the shop, on top of cleaning, cooking, sewing, and caring for the three orphaned girls. William’s contributions were more abstract. He provided a “manly presence,” as he described it, to prevent his sister from being cheated by dishonest vendors, stood at the front of the shop smiling broadly at the customers, and relit the ovens when the overworked Eliza allowed them to go cold. Although the little girls would soon be old enough to help in the shop, William felt that the time had come to acquire a son and heir. And, thus, a wife.
He might have had more luck with village girls had there been more of them, but an epidemic of fever twenty years earlier had led to a shortage, which made Pell’s mysterious arrival in the village appear all the more providential. After their first meeting, William declared that—despite Pell’s ambiguous situation—he had at last found the woman he would marry. This declaration caused Eliza great delight; the fact that Pell showed no signs of being similarly inclined discouraged neither of them.
In spite of the positive aspects of her appearance, Pell arrived in the village with so many real and suspected blights against goodness and decency that no family could have considered her an acceptable match. But between Eliza and William there was no parent to object, and together they felt that they would be doing the girl a great favor by agreeing to overlook her many disadvantages.
And so the die was cast.
A number of little social engagements followed, each couched in the most innocent of terms. A supper, attended by all three, was a pleasant affair. A little tea party, presided over by Eliza, was considered perfectly successful, despite the fact that every guest but Pell declined to attend.
“Could you come to town on Friday,” Eliza asked, a few days later, “and help in the shop? Christmas is coming, and we have far more work than we two can manage.”
Pell was glad to oblige, glad for the pay and the occupation. That Eliza was missing when she arrived did not surprise her in the least, for the little girls were often ailing, or the accounts required updating, or the house needed sweeping. Pell and William worked quietly side by side for most of the morning, with Dicken asleep outside. Pell took on the lion’s share of mixing and measuring, shaping the bread dough into squares and oblongs, and carefully timing them in the big brick oven. She noticed that William seemed preoccupied, on several occasions standing for long minutes in the center of the room, clasping and unclasping his hands and moving his lips silently. He worked uncomfortably close to her, and though she was invariably polite, she thought how much she’d rather share these chores with Eliza than with her strange, awkward brother.
Eliza appeared once or twice, pulling her brother aside for some consultation or other, which Pell ignored. Until, at the very last, he turned to her, trembling, with trickles of sweat carving trails in the floury surface of his face.
“What is it, William?” Pell moved toward him with concern. “Are you unwell?”
For an answer, he dropped to his knees and buried his head in her skirts, his powerful arms wrapped viselike around her thighs. “I love you, Miss Ridley,” came the muffled voice, as she struggled to free herself, “and I wish above all things to make you my wife.”
The horror of the scene came over her slowly. So unexpected was his declaration that her first reaction was disbelief. “Please stand up, William, please. You . . . you are very kind, and I am flattered by your offer, but surely you must see that I can not possibly marry you.”
He did not loosen his grip. “You must. I wish it above all things.”
“Let me go, William, please.” She saw the color begin to rise in his face and felt the first stirrings of unease. “William? William, I beg you . . . let me go.” The first time she said his name, it was with all of the civility she could muster, but when he not only failed to release her but pressed his head more firmly into her skirts, she began to push against his shoulders and then to shout, pounding his back with her fists. “Let me go! William, for pity’s sake! What would Eliza think?” If only her friend would return and put a stop to the awful scene. But if Eliza could hear, she made no move to help.
“Give me the answer I require!” moaned William, nuzzling deep between her thighs, his huge hands grasping and clutching at her.
Pell struggled with all her strength. “Let me go!” she cried, and finally, simply, “Stop! ”
This word appeared at last to penetrate the deep haze of his passion. He dropped his arms to his sides, hanging his head like a great ruined beast as she staggered backward. For an instant she watched in horror, certain that he would begin to sob, and her brain swam with panic and doubt. Had she inspired the misunderstanding? Had she somehow led him to believe she felt something for him? Nothing could have been further from the truth. She reached out and placed one hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, William, I would not knowingly hurt you—”
He raised his head, unable to see anything but the carefully constructed plans for his future in ruins. Roaring his pain like a wounded bull, he clambered to his feet and clamped a huge hand on her arm. “You would not hurt me? Would not hurt me?” He seemed blind, now, with humiliation and fury. And then he hit her hard across the face, the force of the blow hurling her across the room, smashing her head against the hot iron of the oven door. She tried to catch herself, but twisted round on one arm as she fell. He followed, lifting her up once more as she struggled against him, crying and shouting for help. Grasping her by the hair, he trapped her against the wall, pushed her head back, and shoved his mouth on top of hers, pressing his great flaccid tongue between her lips and forcing himself hard against her.
“William!” Eliza flew across to him and he let Pell drop, staggering back with a moan of pain as if he, not she, were the injured party.
“Thank God,” murmured Pell. “Thank God you’ve arrived. . . .”
Eliza looked at her, and her features expressed not sympathy but anger. “What did you say to him? What did you say to provoke him?”
Pell balanced carefully on both feet, swaying with pain, her face already beginning to swell, the blood streaming down from a gash above one eye, her left arm cradled in her right. She faced Eliza with dignity. “I said I would not marry him. Would you expect me to be convinced otherwise by his argument?”
Cheeks flaming, Eliza turned away. “How else did you expect him to react? He was terribly disappointed, weren’t you, my poor William?”
William stood panting
and close to tears. He nodded, dumbly, like a child.
“Won’t you reconsider, Pell?” Eliza’s voice had turned dripping and golden, like syrup. “It was only the sincerity of his passion that carried him away, wasn’t it, Will? He’ll make a wonderful husband.”
As Pell moved toward the door, Eliza went to her brother, embracing him and tenderly wiping the tears from his eyes as she kissed him over and over on his face and lips. “Don’t cry, dear William, don’t cry. Pell will marry you after all, of course she will. Won’t you, dear? Don’t cry, dearest. There, there.”
Twenty-seven
Pell stumbled the miles of narrow roads to her home, leaning on Dicken with the arm that didn’t cause pain, and drank deeply from the bucket by the well when she arrived. She collapsed onto her straw bed and lay motionless throughout the night and all of the next day, despite Dicken’s insistence that she rise and greet him. She felt no hunger, only a vast thirst and an ever-increasing pain in her arm, but if she ignored both she found that she could stand it, or that the pain disappeared for hours at a time as she drifted in and out of wakefulness. She wanted only to shut her eyes against the world forever.
Two days had passed when she heard Dicken greet Dogman at the door with a whine of pleasure. He said her name and, when she didn’t answer, went away again.
When he returned the following day and again received no answer, he entered the little cowshed and found her feverish and damp, her face swollen black and green, one arm laid beside her at an unnatural angle. He said not a word but gathered her up in his arms, a little shocked at how easily this was accomplished, and took her to his cottage, making up a bed for her by the fire.
He gave her brandy to drink until her eyes rolled back and closed, and then he felt the broken arm through the swelling and pulled it back into position while she lay still, her face twisted in pain. He set the arm in strips of cloth dipped in egg white, exactly as he had set a multitude of broken animal limbs, relieved that the bone had not pierced the skin. The burns on her face he cleaned with a cloth soaked in boiled water, and for the fever he administered licorice and henbane tea. Her injuries were no worse than those he treated daily in his kennels; as a hunter, the mortal injury of a dog was something to which he had grown accustomed but not resigned.
He left her each night to go out, and on the fourth day he returned with his dogs in the morning to find her quiet, no longer tossing and babbling in waking sleep. She opened her eyes, seemed to recognize him at last, and for an instant glared at him and croaked out, “Where is . . . my money . . . ?” Her eyes drooped and fell shut before she could see that for the first time in many days he had smiled.
When she awoke the following morning, Pell at first thought she was back home in Nomansland, in her old bed with Lou. For a time she lay still, waiting for the shriek of squabbling siblings, for the sound of the tin tea caddy being opened, and the china clink as the top of the teapot was replaced. She even blinked sleepily, and tried to sit up, before realizing that one arm was bound up in a splint, and one eye still swollen nearly shut. Her face hurt.
When Dogman returned from hunting, she attempted to deliver a speech, telling him that she appreciated all he’d done (what, precisely, had he done?) and would now be going. But he told her not to speak, and went as usual to prepare food for himself and the dogs, leaving her to sleep again, and to wonder, as she fell asleep, what would happen next.
He gave her broth that was cloudy and strong-tasting, and with her one good arm she lifted it to her lips and drank it herself. Her limbs were bruised and tender, and one side of her face didn’t seem to belong to her. She remembered what had happened but couldn’t think how she had arrived here. The effort of remembering tired her, and she drifted off to sleep.
When next he returned, she felt so much better that she sat up and declared herself well enough to leave. If he would help her to gather herself, she would cease to impose upon his kindness. She was most apologetic for inconveniencing him as long as she had.
He said nothing, but waited, watched her swing her feet onto the floor and then sit trembling, until she dropped back onto the bed once more.
He did not lift a hand to help.
When she opened her eyes sometime later, they met his, dark and serious. He felt the broken arm carefully and set it down again, apparently satisfied with her progress. And left her, to see to his dogs.
The time came to replace the bandage with a fresh one, and the following day he unwrapped it quickly, holding the arm so that she could see for herself the violent multicolored bruising. He wrapped it again in clean strips of cloth, binding it more tightly this time. She made not a sound while he worked but watched him, the pain causing his face to swim before her eyes.
Two more days passed, and at last she was strong enough to sit without help. Dogman crossed the room to her with beef tea, but when he held her eyes and observed that she neither flinched nor looked away, he sat beside her on the bed, placed the tea on the floor, took her face in his hands and kissed her, with consideration for her injuries but without shame or caution. And when he had done kissing her, he returned to the big room with its woodstove and open fire to cook his breakfast.
Twenty-eight
From that day on they lived as man and wife, though no mention was made of the change. He still went out poaching each night, and brought game back to sell, or to salt and preserve for the winter, coming to her in the hours before sunrise smelling of blood and earth. She accepted the permission bestowed by passion to live entirely in the present.
In the solitary stone house with its roaring fire and orderly stores of food, Pell experienced vast waves of feeling she could barely acknowledge. But she found safety, too. While he slept, exhausted from a night’s work, she lay awake beside him, wondering how she happened to be here.
“Are you asleep?” Her mind could not rest in daylight.
“Yes.” Eyes closed, he pulled her close.
“Listen to the wind. We’ll need more wood in.”
He would not be roused.
“There’ll be no hunting tonight.”
“Hush.”
And, a little while later, “The dogs are dreaming.” By the fire she could hear the high-pitched yips of their somnolent chase.
He half opened an eye and yawned. “Of what?”
“Of rabbits.” It was daylight but howling a storm. She could see her breath, and the fire needed stoking. Yet she could not bring herself to leave. “I’ve things to do.”
“Yes, go,” he murmured, adjusting the grip of his arms so that she could not. When eventually she pulled free, he slept on, undisturbed.
She learned nothing about his past, despite telling him about Birdie and Bean and how she happened to be out in the world alone. She also told how she’d come to be injured, and as he listened his eyes narrowed.
The following week, he returned from hunting with a package wrapped in brown paper. She unwrapped it slowly. Within lay a hunting knife, small and razor-sharp, in a slim leather sheath. She looked at him.
“For next time,” he said, and showed her how to slide the knife in its sheath into the top of her boot each morning, until after a time it became a habit so ordinary, she nearly forgot its existence.
His two coursing dogs lived in the house, and he allowed Dicken to stay as well, for the dog wouldn’t leave her, and wailed for hours if locked in the kennel with his terriers.
He was, she learned, a hunter by trade and a poacher by choice. His father and grandfather and great-grandfather had been gamekeepers since before the enclosures, but the niceties of employment did not suit him.
We are both outcasts, she thought.
She did not want to live idly and, once recovered, she swapped two big hares for two laying hens, then the following week two more, until she had six hens, which would mean forty-two eggs a week when the warm weather came.
On some days, the butcher’s cart came along the road. The butcher would buy whatever Dogman had killed
and save her a trip to the market at St. Mary’s. With the proceeds, she bought flour and tea, as there was no shortage of game, and tended the parsnips, leeks, and potatoes in Dogman’s garden, piling manure and straw around the plants to keep them safe from winter frosts. He never asked her to cook for him, but she did, and when they ate together her day was ending and his just beginning. He cleaned his gun and traps while she fed the hens and knitted new stockings with wool that she had bought in town. Before the hard days of winter set in, he slaughtered the pig, and for a week stayed at home with the job of butchering. The dogs feasted on bones and scraps, and Pell roasted the head. Dogman salted the flitches and sold the rest.
When he returned to hunting, her own company and the company of the hens suited her during the day. Dicken showed up one morning proudly holding one of her best layers limp and terrified in his mouth, and she scolded him, returned the distressed creature to the henhouse, and constructed a makeshift lock for the door out of leather pulled through two holes and knotted tightly. Dogman raised an eyebrow at the inelegant contraption, but it kept predators out. Dicken dared stalk the hens only if she was absent. She had seen him from the window on sunny days, sliding close on his belly and staring at them hungrily when they picked and pecked at the earth. Sometimes she felt sorry for him, his instincts so at odds with hers.
On occasion, she allowed for the possibility that her condition resembled love. She was busy, had enough to eat and enough solitude, and, in addition, something like a deep attachment to another person. His passion seemed to release her from a long confinement, and she felt free for the first time since her days racing Jack across the heath. And yet, while Bean’s disappearance remained unsolved, she could not be happy.
Sometimes she imagined him dead—murdered or starved or drowned, unable to cry out, with no one to save him or to give him a decent burial. She saw him exploited and left to rot because he had no voice to protest or say who he was.
