A Curse Dark as Gold

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  Whatever the morning brought, I would have to seek out Mr. Woodstone…and go back on my word. A new pain stabbed through my breast, and I told myself it was only the inconceivable thought of a Miller breaking a bargain.

  Morning finally dawned, exactly as yesterday had not been: damp and drear, a heavy fog down across the valley floor. Rosie woke at last, and the smile she gave me almost undid me. Well, if I were going to tell Mr. Woodstone I couldn’t marry him, it certainly couldn’t go any worse than telling my sister.

  I broke the news as she did up my stays, and in her shock she gave the laces a yank that almost cut off the blood supply to my head.

  “Have you lost your mind?” She gave the laces another mighty heave and tied them off. “You must have. Are you running a fever?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed. “No, but I think I must have been yesterday.”

  “No. No. I will not have this! For once in your life you made a quick decision—and it was the right one, for pity’s sake. I will not let you talk yourself out of this!” But she looked more sad than angry—a red, wilted version of herself as she fought to hold back tears. I drew her down beside me and put my arm around her.

  “Hush, love,” I said. “It’s for the best. It wouldn’t work.”

  She hugged me back, but whispered, “It would have worked. That’s what scares you.”

  Dressed at last, I came downstairs and bypassed even the thought of tea, certain that any small delay might just finish me off. Say thanks for small blessings—Uncle Wheeler was nowhere to be seen. I practiced my lines in my head, kept my composure as best I could, and stepped out into the cold foggy morning.

  And nearly ran headlong into Randall.

  He was coming up the walk, in an ash-grey suit, and of course I didn’t see him in the fog. But he saw me, in my bright flash of russet against the Millhouse, and bounded toward me. Before I could react, he caught me up in his arms and kissed me. I was breathless when he finally let me go.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Did you sleep well? I haven’t slept at all. You wouldn’t believe—well, never mind. Here.” And he held out a small parcel, crudely wrapped in tissue and twine.

  “What’s this?”

  That little lopsided grin made its return, turning my insides to jelly. Curse that Randall Woodstone.

  “Well, apparently, word got out that I had dared ask for the hand of the prized Charlotte Miller—without a ring! Oh, let me tell you, Charlotte, your neighbors are fearsome when they put their minds to it! I hardly escaped with my skin.”

  I couldn’t smile back. I was trying to, but I just couldn’t make my face obey me.

  “Anyway, they’d have driven me straight out of town if I hadn’t promised to beg your forgiveness with at least some token of my affection. Unfortunately, my mother’s engagement ring is on my sister Rebecca’s finger, and, well, Shearing has no jeweller.”

  “You noticed that?” Wherever did I find my voice—and for such a comment?

  He gave a little laugh. “Well, yes. However! It was my great good fortune that there is a fair going on at the moment, and I was able to find you something among the goods both exotic and mundane.” He pushed the little parcel toward me, and somehow I found myself reaching out and accepting it—just when I had sworn to myself I would break it off.

  It was nothing more than a dish of plainware pottery, a simple decoration round the rim. In its center was a crude transfer of a watermill, and around the edge was a motto: GREAT COURAGE BREAKS ILL LUCK, it read, and I know right then my heart just stopped beating altogether.

  Very quietly, Randall said, “Will that do?”

  Great courage breaks ill luck. What else could I do? I nodded.

  He tried to find that ever-present smile of his, but seemed to have some trouble with it. I wanted to reach out my hand and touch my fingers to his lips—wanted to in the most painful way—but I kept tight hold of the little dish. And then Randall’s arms were around me again, squeezing all the air from my lungs. I held him back, still clutching tight to the tissue and my dish, and it was a long, long moment before I realized that his face pressed tight against my shoulder was just a little damp.

  The weather that day remained dismal, as if to remind us that joy is transitory, and the lot for folk in Shearing is ever one of misery and gloom. Those suffering the aftereffects of too much autumn revelry found it particularly lamentable, and spared no effort sharing this revelation with their neighbors. The visiting merchants packed up early and quit town, as did the upcountry fair-goers, and the festival market collapsed with a damp sigh.

  It seemed Randall’s proposal was not the only excitement witnessed in Shearing overnight. A brawl had broken out over a game of darts at Drover’s and turned into a riot that spread into the street, causing the literal collapse of one rented market stall and several pounds’ damage to the stock (crockery or fruit; it was not agreed upon). Three people were held in expectation of the magistrate’s arrival, and I was not surprised to hear Bill Penny and Peg Eagan named in the account.

  At midday, we gathered in the churchyard for the village blessing, a soggy and cheerless lot—all excepting my betrothed, who held me in a grip as if he were afraid to let me go, and chattered on endlessly, his eyes bright and animated. He held fast to me all through Mr. Hopewell’s rather lackluster benediction, and afterward insisted on joining the crowd in stacking wood for the bonfire.

  “This is an old village tradition,” I explained to Randall, to stave off any questions. “We always burn a bonfire from All Hallows’ Eve through All Souls’ Day.”

  “A light, to guide the year’s departed to their rest.”

  I looked up sharply, a damp stick poking into my palm. “I never heard that.”

  Randall nodded, his gaze somewhere up in the hills. “This weather isn’t looking good, though. They’ll never get the fire going in this rain.”

  I looked across the churchyard, to where the heavy sky glowered over the still-white headstone of my father, and the new green grass of Annie Penny’s grave. I broke my sticks and cast them onto the heap. “It’s all foolishness, anyway,” I said.

  Back at the Millhouse, I shook the rain from my cloak and hung it to dry before the kitchen fire. As I arranged its folds, I noticed that the shoulder, where I had spent the day pressed against Randall’s side, was still dry. I touched it gently, lifted it to my face and breathed in deeply, but nothing lingered there except the scent of damp wool. I sighed and let the cloth drop.

  I found tea brewing over the fire and the post laid out on the table; I carried both into the parlor. Uncle Wheeler sat at my mother’s desk, the very picture of silvered elegance: one lean leg tucked artfully behind the other, arm raised in the act of dipping a quill into an inkwell.

  “Well,” he said. “And where have we been this fine day, miss?” There was a quality in his voice I did not quite recognize.

  “It was the vicar’s blessing, sir. The whole village was there.”

  “Ah, yes. And was Mr. Woodstone there?”

  I set my tea down unsteadily. Rumor runs on quick little feet in Shearing, but I had not expected it to reach those particular ears so soon. “Why do you ask?”

  “You know perfectly well why. Coyness may be a virtue during courtship, but I do expect frankness at home.”

  Well, I should have to tell him eventually; it was not as if I could suddenly appear with husband in tow and expect it to go unnoticed. “Very well,” I said. “Yes, Mr. Woodstone was there. I’ve decided to marry him.”

  He turned his cold gaze on me. His face had gone positively scarlet, even beneath all that powder. “You’ve decided?” he said, so faintly I could scarcely hear him. “You’ve decided? And who do you think you are?”

  I fumbled for words. “It’s a good match—”

  “It is preposterous. You? Marry a banker? Look at yourself! Your shabby little shopgirl look may serve you well in Shearing, but out in the world everyone will see you for what you are: a fortun
e-hunting orphan! You’ll ruin your reputation. I won’t allow it.” He shoved himself away from the desk.

  Suddenly, I understood. “All your grand talk of high society and ambition for me and Rosie—it was all lies? You mustn’t aim too high, Charlotte—a husband called Smith or Butcher is plenty good enough for you.” I was trembling, anger closing my throat.

  He made no reply, just skirted the room in a stream of spring green damask, his gilded heels soundless on the rug. As he paced, I watched him will away the flash of fury that had betrayed his feelings, don his usual calm like slipping into a new coat.

  He came to me and took my ink-stained fingers in his fine soft ones, holding my hands gently. “My dear, I am only thinking of your happiness. Of course I want you to marry well. But the most successful matches—like your parents’—are equal ones. I’ve no doubt your Mr. Woodstone thinks he is doing you a grand favor. But think of it—how will you feel among his family, his friends? No, my dear, it’s been my experience that such unbalanced matches seldom end up happy.”

  He gave my hands a squeeze, and I swallowed hard. I knew how right he was. About all of it.

  But I had also glimpsed behind his mask. No amount of powder or perfume could hide it from me now. Speak what he would about my happiness, something else about Randall’s proposal bothered him.

  Still, my uncle’s comments, like burning nettles, were not easily brushed off. Who was I to aspire to such a match as Randall Woodstone? I was still brooding the next morning when Randall called for me at the Millhouse. Somehow he had learned we never use the front door, and gave the kitchen door a hearty rap that had Rachel springing to open it long before I could pull myself up from the table.

  “Mr. Woodstone!” Rachel turned to me and winked. “Come in out of the damp and get yourself some coffee.”

  I looked round the kitchen in dismay. Our mismatched dishes lay scattered on the butcher block, and the chimney had taken upon itself to smoke that morning. I couldn’t bear Randall to see me here. I scurried to the door and dragged my cloak off the hook.

  “That’s a tempting offer,” Randall was saying, “but I’ve come to take Charlotte walking.” Whereupon he offered me his arm, and I slipped out beside him.

  Randall led me through the village, past Drover’s, and up the long road leading out of town. It was an awful morning for a walk, chill and damp and windy, and I huddled in my cloak, while Randall tried to keep his arm around me.

  “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” he said as we passed the remnants of the festival market and started up the long hill. “What’s on that mind of yours?”

  I sighed and looked at his fingers, twined in mine. “What are we doing, here?”

  He regarded me with some surprise. “I thought we were walking. But that isn’t what you mean, is it?”

  “How is this going to work?” I cast my hand in a vague circle, meant to encompass Randall, me, the village…and I know not what else. “This—marriage, I mean.”

  He looked at me gravely. “Well, first we’ll stand before the vicar, and you will say, ‘I do,’ and then I will say, ‘I do,’ and then we’ll live happily ever after.”

  “Be serious. Where will we live? What about Stirwaters, and Rosie?”

  “Charlotte.” He pulled me toward him until my face was in the hollow of his throat and I had to tip my head back to see him. “I expect Rosie will sort herself out just fine. And as for the rest of it? I don’t have any intention of changing anything. You have your work, I have mine, and it’s a very great pity that they are not conveniently located to one another, but we will work around that. And as for where we’ll live, well, I do have a suggestion about that.” And he turned me bodily, until I stared up the hill to the ivy-bedecked walls of Woolhampton Grange, Shearing’s only grand house, which had stood empty for years.

  “I’ve taken it to let, but I thought it had better get your approval first. It’s all a bit dusty and grim, but there’s a view of the mill you will not believe.”

  I looked from the mansion to Randall and was momentarily speechless. “You mean I won’t have to leave Stirwaters?” I finally managed.

  “Never. I want that house filled to bursting with fat, noisy Miller-Woodstone children.”

  And at that moment, even with the icy wind whipping us to the bone, I could almost believe it was possible.

  “What about the mortgage?”

  He looked at me quizzically. “What about it? My records indicate that Stirwaters still owes more than twelve hundred pounds.”

  I nodded, wary. Randall burst out laughing and kissed me on the forehead. “Truly, Miss Fretsome, if I’d thought for a moment you’d let me pay it off, I’d have done it already. But I’m no idiot. Besides, I’m going to need every farthing to maintain you in the fashion to which you’ve become accustomed.”

  I had to laugh. “Oh? Do you think your salary will cover patching my shoes and darning my stockings?”

  “If we budget carefully, just.” He pulled me closer and whispered into my hair. “I want you to wife, Charlotte. On whatever terms you’re comfortable with.” Grinning, he squeezed my hand and set off up the hill, with me in tow. “Come on, let’s see what this grand old lady has in store for us.”

  Randall stayed in town the rest of that week, putting our new affairs in order and setting the long-empty Grange to rights. Some days I would join him, wandering through the cavernous halls and trying to imagine myself living there. Even magic-spun gold seemed easier to believe sometimes. But then I would stand in the dining room and look down upon the village, to where Stirwaters sat in the misty distance like something out of a picture, and it was hard to decide which was the more eldritch realm.

  Randall often joined us for dinner at the Millhouse that week, and my uncle’s opinion of him seemed only to improve, though it was still difficult to tell if he had changed his mind about the match. I found myself watching them both during those meals, trying to catch another glimpse behind my uncle’s powdered mask, but the candlelight, conversation, and rich food disguised him well.

  One afternoon I was coming downstairs from changing when I heard a snatch of conversation coming from the parlor.

  “My dear boy, I do hope you plan to talk some sense into your wife. Perhaps once you’re married she’ll give up this ridiculous attachment to the mill.”

  I froze, my hand halfway to the parlor door.

  “Oh, I doubt that, sir.” That was Randall’s voice, and then a pause—I imagined him lifting a glass of brandy to his lips. “I think you underestimate her.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way to manage her. Come now, you can’t mean to burden yourself with that old pile of stones! It’s a money pit, my good man—she’ll bankrupt you with it. But you could make a tidy sum if you sold it.”

  “You think so?” Randall said. “I’d like to hear more about this plan of yours.”

  I drew back, my breath quickening. At that moment, a voice said, directly at my shoulder: “Those who listen at doorways never hear anything good.”

  Rachel gave my shoulder a friendly push and winked at me. “Get in there, then. I shouldn’t keep that one waiting, if I were you.” And, to leave me no choice in the matter, she reached over my head and pushed the parlor door open.

  “Miss Charlotte, sir,” she said, in her very best dutifulservant voice.

  Randall and Uncle Wheeler stood together by the fireplace, the flickering flames casting them into devilish red shadows. I could not read the expression in Randall’s eyes; my uncle had his gentleman’s mask firmly set. I looked from one to the other, wanting them to finish their conversation, baldly discuss my future there with me present.

  My uncle set his glass down with a clink. “Charlotte, honestly. Do you mean to stand there gawp-mouthed and staring all evening? Mr. Woodstone will think you were raised by rustics.” He turned to Randall. “I do hope you find her easier to manage than I have. I’ve found her quite uncontrollable.”

  Randall only smiled.


  We passed the rest of our wait for dinner in an awkward silence. Randall kept trying to get close to me, but, still nervous and uncertain about what I had overheard, I pulled away from him, until at last we were off in the corner by the secretary. My uncle gave us a pointed glance, so Randall squeezed my hand and slipped away to a more seemly distance. I did not squeeze back.

  I thought how different this meeting ought to be—how friendly it would have been if my father had been here, instead of my uncle. More scattered and haphazard, perhaps—Father seated on the floor amid a flurry of papers, detailing some scheme for Randall; Rosie and I tripping over one another in an effort to scrape together something edible; the sound of laughter and cheer throughout the Millhouse. If I closed my eyes, could I bring those visions to life?

  I did not. My gaze fell instead on my mother’s desk—free now of dust and finger-smudges. Only a corner of paper peeking out from behind the drop-front showed anything amiss. I automatically reached for the door to straighten the paper. It was a letter, scribed in Uncle Wheeler’s violet ink. But the hand was different—strained, somehow, not his habitual florid sweep of ink across the page.

  Glancing cautiously toward my uncle—whose face was turned resolutely to the fire—I reached back into the desk and drew the paper toward me. I heard a cough, and started. Randall, his eyes firmly on mine for a moment, leaned in toward my uncle.

  “I say, Wheeler, you must have some opinion on the new filly at Crossbridge.”

  Uncle Wheeler was examining his brandy in the firelight. I held tight to the door of the desk as he launched into a detailed analysis of the horse’s faults and virtues. Randall shifted casually, until to face him Uncle Wheeler must have his back to me. I stared at Randall—that must have been deliberate, hadn’t it? Hastily, I read: