Pumpymuckles

by JayneFresina

  But his first swim in the North sea was Gabriel's baptism. He let the water lap gently against his skin. For a moment he closed his eyes, floating on his back. Had no idea how far he'd drifted. Didn't care.

  And then he heard a shout. Through lashes lowered against the glare of that bright sun overhead, he saw something unfamiliar falling through the air toward him.

  * * * *

  Eighteen years after that first swim in the sea, here he sat by the fire in his own study, looking at the woman he'd acquired— sorry, his governess— and trying to pay attention to what she said. But there was too much about her that he found distracting.

  She was the tidiest, most proper young lady he'd ever spent time with. Of course, there were ladies he'd met in society— those who were eager for a little wicked excitement to relieve the boredom of their lives— but she was not like them. She was not there for herself, or for what she could get out of it; she was there for him.

  And Gabriel found her fascinating. It was the little things she did— the way she turned pages so carefully, listened so intently when he spoke, touched her earlobe or some other part of her face when she was amused by him and didn't think she ought to be. In truth he would rather study her than anything, but he made an effort to concentrate because she was dedicated to helping him and he didn't want to let her down.

  He had found her just in time.

  Eighteen years ago, when he came here after smuggling himself onto a train, he had nothing but a few coins in his pocket. By the time he came out of the sea that day he'd even lost his boots, because somebody stole them from the sands. But now he had everything a man could want, anything he could imagine. He'd made a fortune, spent it, and made it again. He'd traveled the world, dined with kings, emperors, presidents and caliphs. A few gangsters too.

  There was not, so he'd discovered, that much difference between the men, whatever they called themselves. Underneath the cultured surface they were much the same as each other, all of them in pursuit of power and none of them ever content, because the more power they thought they had the more they wanted, and the more often they had to look over their shoulders. Women, however, were of more interest. They had the power already, and most didn't even know it. Women kept the world turning. Like his mother, they simply got on with life.

  They thought they needed a vote to be powerful, but politics was invented by men to give themselves the illusion of control. It was all a house of cards. Real change began not in the benches of parliament, but elsewhere— at home and hearth, where the next generation were raised.

  Gabriel knew it was an unpopular opinion, but in his view, women, if they only united with each other, could rule the world. And he'd be content to let them.

  Miss Greene, for instance, had command over him already and she was oblivious. At least, he thought she was. On the other hand, maybe she knew.

  In any case, he had much to tempt her with now. He was no more the bootless lad they fished out of the water after he bumped his head on the pilings at the base of the pier and very nearly drowned.

  The time was right, just as his mother had read in the cards. She was going to change his life, and he would change hers.

  "Mr. Hart? Are you listening?"

  He smiled slowly. "Taking it all in."

  "I was hoping to interest you in poetry. A gentleman who can recite poetry—"

  "You do interest me," he assured her, "and I like to hear you read out loud."

  She looked at him steadily. "Then you might wish to sit still and appear attentive, instead of bouncing up and down, circling that chair. And yawning."

  Gabriel didn't realize he'd been doing any of those things. He'd just always known that a moving target was harder to hit.

  Miss Greene passed the book to him. "Your turn to read. Perhaps that will keep you in your seat."

  Aghast he stared at the page. "But I can't enjoy it if I'm reading it myself. Too much like 'ard bloody work!"

  She urged gently, "Don't just read the words. Think about their meaning as you do so. Let the picture they paint come into your mind."

  "It's not that easy," he grumbled.

  "That's what makes it worthwhile. I told you I wouldn't be soft on you, didn't I?"

  He stuck out his jaw, angry, defiant, frustrated.

  "Anyone would think everything has always come easy to you," she remarked.

  "Easy to me?" he roared, flinging the book across the room. "Easy? Don't think you know anything about my life. You never clawed your way up like I did, from the damned gutters. What do you know about any bloody thing besides books?"

  She looked at him for a moment and then calmly sat down again. "When you are ready to resume your lesson, kindly fetch that book, Mr. Hart. I am not a dog that will retrieve it for you."

  "Take back what you said," he demanded, hands on hips, glowering down at her.

  She sighed and then said steadily, "I didn't mean to imply that you grew up in any sort of ease or luxury. Of course I know you did not. I said only that you acted as if any challenge was too much for you. Yet clearly it isn't, or else you wouldn't be here. Neither, for that matter, would I."

  He gave a low grunt and continued to glare down upon her. Why was she so bloody calm? It drove him mad.

  "What's the matter now?" she asked civilly. "If you want something or somebody to shout at, I suggest you look in the mirror. You will not get me to raise my voice just so that you can release some frustration upon me." Hands neatly folded in her lap, she looked at the fire. "Let me know when you are ready to proceed with the lesson. You're paying for me to sit here so it's no skin off my nose."

  Gabriel flexed his fingers to release the tension. After a while he stormed across the room and retrieved the book.

  * * * *

  When one of the maids brought them a tray of tea, he was even more distraught.

  "Do I look like I drink tea?" he complained.

  "No. But you will."

  Last night she'd lain awake for an hour, worrying about where to begin their lessons, but once she did fall asleep it was sound and deep. No dreams or nightmares, no Pumpymuckles, nothing but a blissful, soothing state, from which she woke refreshed and cheerful. Must be the sea air, she decided.

  This morning, sitting across from her employer, she felt no more anxiety about the job she'd taken on. Somehow, in the great scheme of things, she was chosen to help Gabriel Hart and help him she would.

  She learned that his mother had taught him to read and write. Neither skill came smoothly to him, and he readily admitted that he didn't enjoy it— never did either for pleasure—but he had persevered to improve over the preceding twenty years, which told her that he could achieve much when he set his mind to it.

  Listening now as he stumbled over a Christina Rossetti poem, she thought how well suited his husky voice was to reading aloud. It had a certain magnetic quality. If only he didn't stop and start so often, unsure of himself. The lack of confidence surprised her again. He was so full of himself in other ways.

  Ever got up and walked around him. "Stand straighter," she whispered. "Hold the book in one hand, you'll feel freer then, the diaphragm able to better expand."

  Reading had always been an important entertainment in her family. Since she was so often confined indoors, books were her greatest companions. The thought of not being able to enjoy the treasures they held within their pages was quite appalling, like a spear thrust into her heart.

  Poor man.

  Good thing she was there to help him.

  "Relax your shoulders, Mr. Hart." Ever placed a hand there gently. "You are very tense."

  "Because the words are difficult," he fumed gruffly. She could almost see the smoke exiting his ears.

  When his shoulder muscle flinched under her palm it was like a lightning bolt darting through her body. "No need to rush," she said, breathless. "Slow down, take your time and let the syllables flow."

  "The silly what?"

  She sighed. "You know very well
what I mean."

  He shut the book and handed it back to her. "I don't think poetry reading is for me. Listening, yes. Reading aloud, no. I don't care for the sound of my own voice. Never have. So if any woman wants me to read aloud to her, she'll be disappointed. What's next?"

  He said that a lot. What's next? Bored or frustrated quickly with one thing he looked for another.

  Last night she'd compiled a list of items that must be addressed if Mr. Gabriel Hart was to be made into a gentleman. This morning she briefly interrupted the poetry lesson for a quick primer in basic gentlemanly manners— never to finish somebody else's anecdote; keep the conversation light and amiable; never force your political or religious opinion on another; never put on an air of weariness while another person talks; withdraw rather than incite an argument; be modest and never talk of your profession or wealth; never monopolize a conversation; avoid boasting; avoid gossip and never act the buffoon.

  "Is there anything I can talk about?" he demanded, bemused.

  "Something of interest, but not too conducive to divided opinion...and don't put your hands in your pockets in the presence of a lady."

  He sighed heavily.

  "And don't sigh like that. It's unbecoming."

  "I need a cigar."

  "Not in the presence of a lady. Wait until I leave the room."

  "Like bossing me about, don't you?"

  She smiled broadly. "That's what you hired me for."

  They both knew he couldn't argue with that.

  "As to your question, you may talk about the theatre, or art, or music," she said.

  Gabriel perked up. "I like the music hall."

  "Yes, but what of other theatre, opera or classical plays?"

  "You mean, like Shakespeare." He wrinkled his nose.

  "It's not a dose of syrup of figs, Mr. Hart. It's entertainment."

  He looked dubious so she laughed.

  "Think of it as the Elizabethan music hall. Don't take it so seriously. After all, William Shakespeare wrote his plays for the people in the streets, the groundlings. It was not written for scholars."

  "But the language is too...flowery."

  Ever walked back to her own chair and sat, gesturing that he should do the same. Then she began to speak softly, as if she chatted to a friend rather than recited to a pupil,

  "Come, night; Come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;

  For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night

  Whiter than new snow upon a ravens back.

  Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,

  Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,

  Take him and cut him out in little stars,

  And he will make the face of heaven so fine

  That all the world will be in love with night

  And pay no worship to the garish sun."

  Gabriel was watching her through narrowed eyes, hands on his knees. At least now he seemed less tense and uncomfortable. She continued in the same conversational tone,

  "O I have bought the mansion of a love,

  But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,

  Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day

  As is the night before some festival

  To an impatient child that hath new robes

  And may not wear them."

  The fire wheezed in the hearth, and rain gently tickled the window panes. Her student was still, observing her with his dark, intense gaze.

  "What is flowery about that?" she asked pertly. "Can you pretend you do not understand the words? I believe Mr. Shakespeare more than adequately paints his canvas with love not yet requited. Impulsive youth, desire and devotion."

  "Why didn't they just get on with it?" A grin meandered across his lips.

  She arched an eyebrow. "If you read the play, you'd know."

  "A love story. And I thought you didn't read romance, Greene?"

  Squaring her shoulders, she replied haughtily, "It's much more than a romance. There are several gory deaths, poisonings and such. Family feuds and assorted mayhem."

  At that he chuckled. "Sounds like the East End o' London. You've caught my interest."

  "Good." She nodded sharply. "That's a start, I suppose."

  "And if I study all this Shakespeare malarkey, then I'll pass as a gentleman?"

  "I didn't promise that. But it will help to expand your knowledge of performance beyond the music hall."

  He tilted his head to one side. "Bit of a snob then, are you?"

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "There ain't nothin' wrong with the music hall."

  "There isn't anything wrong," she corrected him.

  "Exactly. Tell you what, Greene, you take me to one o' your Shakespeares and I'll take you to the Alhambra in Leicester Square one day. Perhaps I'll expand your knowledge."

  "We'll see."

  He seemed content with that answer. Leaning back in the chair, he tapped his fingers on the worn leather arms.

  "But," she added crisply, "as a gentleman, you will invite me to accompany you formally, on white, fine quality paper, written in third person with a neat hand. No later than the day before."

  "I can't just ask you?"

  "No. You cannot. And I, being a lady, will respond swiftly, whatever my answer. If I mean to accept, it would be bad manners to make you wait, and if I must decline I should let you know immediately so that you have time to find another companion for the evening."

  "But I don't want another."

  "As a gentleman, you must manage your disappointment in that case and certainly not let it show."

  He scowled.

  "There are few things less acceptable in a gentleman," she said, "than a display of bad temper. Or, indeed, an extravagant display of any emotion."

  He opened his mouth.

  "Or the lavish use of curses," she swiftly interrupted. "Particularly in the presence of a lady."

  With a huff he fell back in the chair again. Fingers steepled to his lips, elbows resting on the chair arms, he studied her for a moment. Ever held his gaze, unblinking.

  Finally, he said, "Go on then. Tell me some more about this Romeo feller. Skip the boring bits and get to the juicy parts."

  She shook her head, forced to bank her smile again— feeling his mind trying to creep fingers under her corset and tickle it out of her. "I think I'd better start at the beginning." Stay in control.

  So, although he complained, she began the story from the beginning. One thing he must learn was patience.

  Besides, she loved telling stories and having a captive audience. Especially this one.

  Chapter Ten

  It was too cold to venture out much, although, on her first half day off, Ever did take that walk along the pier, as she had promised herself. The wind was strong when she started out that afternoon. It caught her skirt and tried to blow her over the railing, but apart from that she felt nothing menacing about the pier, nothing strange. At least, for the first half hour.

  A band played Christmas tunes in the pavilion that day, and she bought a cup of tea to warm up while she sat and listened for a while. Always an avid people-watcher, she examined her fellow brave music-lovers and saw mothers and nannies with children, young couples in the first flush of love— with eyes for nobody but each other— and elderly couples sitting in companionable silence, bundled up in winter scarves. From head to head she wandered, picking up worries and secrets that fluttered by, unseen by anybody but her. She was the only soul sitting alone that day and it caused her a pang of self-pity, which was odd considering that she had been alone for most of her life. Even when in the company of other people, she had felt closed off, solitary. But it never bothered her before today, when she realized that all the people around her were paired off with someone to love.

  She thought then of her parents. Would they miss her this Christmas? Had they yet finished all those conversations she'd interrupted?

  How far away they seemed. They must be sitting in that cozy little brick house
now, wondering what she was up to, no doubt. Her mother might be knitting her something for a present— gloves or a hat perhaps. Her father would be reading the newspaper, or one of his books. There would be holly on the mantle and Christmas cards. Oh, she should send them one. This first Christmas apart would be different for all of them.

  After a while she left the pavilion and walked back along the pier. The boards beneath her boots were wet from rain, but the wind had died down. Venturing close to the railings, she tasted a cold, salty spray from the sea churning against the pilings upon which all this stood. She gripped the painted railing with both gloved hands and dared herself a few inches closer to the edge. Had she stood here all those years ago when she came to Cromer with her parents on a sunny day in July?

  Of course, she did not have much memory of that day long ago, but the pier seemed different now to how it had been back then. Something about it had changed. Well, no wonder. In eighteen years things were bound to change— herself included.

  But she often still felt like the same little girl inside. As if she had not moved on, or else she was always this age. Stuck there. Like her father used to say, she was an "old soul".

  It was true that she never found childhood games amusing, and other children puzzled her. She wanted to be as carefree as they were, but when one had the ability to read minds and, therefore, become burdened with all the troubles of the world— all the things children should never worry about—it simply wasn't possible to skip along in the street. The closest she ever came to feeling free was when her father put a swing in the garden and then she finally understood, somewhat, the delight of being a child, soaring through the air unfettered, her heart lifted with every upward arc. Until it rained, which it always did eventually, and then she had to go inside.

  That day at the seaside, years ago, she had watched another child flying a kite. Yes, she remembered that— a shadow on the sands, making her look up to observe the kite against that brilliant blue sky. Up and down the kite soared, catching the breeze and losing it again, over and over. Sometimes it darted downward like an arrow fired from a bow and almost hit the water.