Pumpymuckles

by JayneFresina

  A dab of honey lip-balm, face powder and lavender water completed her toilette. Before going downstairs, she looked for her seahorse brooch, thinking this would be a good occasion to wear it for some decoration, but it was nowhere to be found. Thinking it must have somehow fallen down in the lining of her trunk, she searched desperately, but in vain. Now, when she thought about it, she hadn't seen it since she arrived here, which meant she must have left it at home. The disappointment was deep. How could she not have packed her favorite brooch? She would have to write a note in the card to her parents and ask them to send it on.

  Telephoning her parents was out of the question. Mr. Bede had already made it clear to her that the telephone was not for the personal use of staff, and she hadn't even asked to use it. In fact, she never saw anybody but Mr. Bede make a telephone call from that revered device, or answer it. The butler was, apparently, the only person deemed suitable. Whatever message was conveyed to him over the line, he wrote it down and carried it upstairs to the master of the house— a protracted and dignified process, much like the opening of parliament, and one that quite undid the convenient purpose of a telephone. But Mr. Bede seemed to enjoy it and, as Mrs. Palgrave often said, "Might as well let him get on with it. All men must be allowed to feel important once in a while, and we're living in a world that decreases his worth every day."

  Of course, just so that nobody was in danger of thinking she had a soft spot for the elderly butler, she always added crossly, "And I have no intention of touching that wicked device myself in any case."

  * * * *

  Miss Greene looked different this evening. Less stiff, prim and starchy. Her gown had an intriguing rustle to its layers and in the glow of candlelight her complexion took on a sunset blush that was most appealing. Those eyes were wider, greener, like old copper.

  Remembering his lessons, he lightly took her hand and led her to a chair on the right of his, pulling it out for her. All while carefully not stepping on her feet. He had asked the footmen to serve the first course and then leave the dining room so that they could eat in complete privacy. Of course, he knew the presence of a servant was not supposed to intrude— staff were meant to go unnoticed as if they were invisible— but Gabriel had never quite got the hang of that. Nobody should be ignored. He knew the first names of everybody he employed, their birthdays and where they were from. Even, in some cases, how many brothers and sisters they had. Palgrave had suggested that he embarked too often upon chit-chat with the staff, but to have somebody hold a door for him and then not say "thank you" and inquire into their health was beyond him.

  Odd that the upper classes looked down on him as having no "manners", when they could, quite happily, have a door held for them and not once think to acknowledge the person holding it.

  Tonight, however, it was time to learn some things about Miss Greene— even if it wasn't proper to show an interest in his employee— because up until now she had been reticent to tell him about herself and he got the distinct impression that there were many intriguing facts he ought to know. He had diligently paid attention to his lessons for the past few weeks, and now he decided he was due a reward for all his hard work.

  "Tell me which subjects might be considered proper for the dining table when I court my future wife," he said, taking his own seat for the soup course.

  "Nothing too deep or complex certainly. That would impair the digestion."

  "And I'm not supposed to flatter her?"

  "Too much flattery is impolite and forward. Once you have told her how well she looks, leave it at that. Your gentlemanly actions and the attention— polite and considerate attention— you give her from then on, should be enough to leave her in no doubt of your admiration."

  Gabriel waited until the soup was served and the footmen had left, closing the door behind them.

  "Tell me about your childhood," he said. "Must have been lonely growing up with no siblings."

  "Yes. I suppose so."

  "And this illness you suffered—"

  "Illness?" She almost dropped her spoon and her eyelashes swept down, making dark shadows on her cheeks.

  "My cousin who read your palm said you were sick as a child."

  "I would rather not speak of it." Regaining a grip on her spoon, she raised it to her lips. "It is behind me now and has no bearing on my life today. My life here."

  Clearly that subject made her uncomfortable, so he quickly and casually turned the conversation. "Did you know there's twenty-seven bones in the human hand?" He put down his spoon and raised his fist, elbow resting on the table. Slowly he unfurled each finger. "Amazin', ain't it? 'Ow everythin' works together."

  Her eyes simmered as she lifted her lashes again. "Yes. Quite." There was the hint of a smile. Gratitude, perhaps, because he had left the other subject, and amusement at the new one he chose. She thought he was being vain again.

  "I've broke a few bones in my body over the years. Somehow this old hulk keeps on sailin'."

  "Broken," she corrected.

  He nodded. "Broken."

  "I'm sure you've taken a few knocks over the years."

  "Banged this 'ead— head—more than a few times. Ought to have knocked the brain loose by now."

  "You are indeed remarkably resilient."

  "See how lucky you are that I'm still here?"

  Another hint of a smile. Good. Feeling pleased, he poured wine for them both.

  "'Course, I had the practice. Took a few wallops from my father before I left home. I daresay that thickened my skull."

  "That is dreadful."

  He shrugged. "Where I grew up, it was common. Not like your pampered existence, Greene."

  "Pampered?" She huffed. "Hardly pampered. But my parents never raised a hand to me."

  "But what if you did wrong?"

  "A voice was raised, slightly, on occasion," she conceded. "But there was certainly no physical violence. Good lord, no. My father is a soft-spoken man with a warm, generous nature. I never wanted to disappoint him so he had no need to raise his voice. My mother can be stern without losing her temper. As I told you, we are descended from Viking women with a natural inner strength and determination."

  "Wait a minute— weren't the Vikings those fellers that raped and pillaged all over the place?"

  "Meanwhile the women stayed home to run farms and homes. They handled the finances. They were known for their wisdom and courage. They were skilled in magic, good or bad."

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow, for he was surprised she believed in magic.

  She smoothly continued, "My mother never wastes her time, her coin, her words or her energy. So if there was an issue regarding my behavior, it was discussed sensibly and reasonably."

  He exhaled a snort of laughter and almost lost wine through his nose. "Discussed?"

  "We were civilized in our house. We communicated with words rather than fists."

  "But weren't nobody ever angry?" It was inconceivable to him.

  "Of course. If we were angry we simply didn't speak at all and left the room. That was warning enough."

  Gabriel shook his head in amazement. "Bloody hell."

  "Kindly watch your language, Mr. Hart. And why must we talk about my past? It's really not that interesting."

  "So all that stuff was left to fester inside? When there's a wound, " he leaned toward her, "you're supposed to clean it out, get rid of the infection, before it closes up. Otherwise you could lose a bloody limb."

  "Not everything should come out," she muttered, her eyelashes lowered. "Believe me, some things are better left inside and unsaid."

  "Nonsense! If I've got something on my mind, it comes out right away."

  "Yes, I've noticed."

  After a pause, he said, "So you never got angry in front of anybody?"

  "A display of too much emotion, whether anger, sadness, or anything else, is improper and undignified."

  "Keeping it inside must be wretched painful."

  She looked up, licked her lips. "S
ometimes. But one bears it for a quiet life and the good of others."

  So he had got that much out of her. He knew how to broach his opponent from another direction, take their guard down or creep under it. There was always another way in when the first was blocked.

  Her hand, he noted, trembled a little.

  "I don't want you bearing pain for me," he muttered. "You've got something brewing, I want to know it. Get it out in the open. I can't help you otherwise, can I?"

  "What makes you think I need help?" Her spoon dropped against the side of the soup dish with a clang.

  "Everybody needs help. Everybody's in trouble once in a while. Nobody's perfect." And he wanted to help her, wanted to keep her close and watch over her. Always.

  "I would rather not talk about my childhood," she said quietly and steadily. "As I said before, it has nothing to do with my work here. It doesn't matter."

  So she equated the pain of holding emotions inside with her childhood. Only she had made that connection.

  "I think it does matter," he replied. "I think...I think it's the reason you're here with me."

  Gabriel Hart had never experienced such an overwhelming connection to a woman before. The feeling of destiny. The desire to get this absolutely right for both their sakes. As if, by saving her, he could save himself too.

  He watched her left hand curling against the table cloth, her fingers squeezing tightly. Her eyes stared down at her soup.

  This time he didn't ask her what was wrong, but calmly resumed his own meal. Waiting. Biding his time.

  Finally she said, "Why don't you like the pier? Mrs. Palgrave said you won't go near it. Yet you bought a house here, within walking distance, even, on a clear day, within sight of the pier."

  "I don't like it, Greene, because it nearly bloody killed me."

  She looked up, her eyes heavy, candlelight lingering over the jade green irises.

  "The first day I came here I dove right into the water from the sands and went floating on my back. Was havin' the time of my sixteen years, until I ended up banging this noggin'," he rubbed the top of his head, "on one of the pilings. Knocked me out better than a hard punch. They say I went under. Didn't know nothin'—"

  "Anything."

  "That neither. Anyway they dragged me out onto the sands and revived me. I don't remember much else about it. But that pier gives me the cold sweats, even now."

  "Yet you bought this house."

  "I told you, I like the sea."

  "There are many other seaside towns on the Norfolk coast."

  "Not like this one. This one always lures me back. As if there's something here, waiting for me."

  "Destiny?"

  He gave a little smile. "If that's what you call it. Besides, if you're scared of something you ought to face it. Fight fire with fire, that's what I say. So I look at that pier every day."

  "You, Gabriel Hart, are afraid? Of the pier?"

  "Well, I—" He cleared his throat loudly. "I used the wrong word. I ain't scared. No, no, I ain't scared. It's a bad place. That's all."

  Her eyes were suddenly startled, but her lips remained solemn and did not return his smile.

  "Eventually I'll get over it," he added. "Then I'll go out to the end of that pier just as bold as I bloody please. Nothin' gets the better o' me."

  The soup finished, he rang the bell and the footmen came to remove the dishes before serving the fish course. When they left, she said, "You were very fortunate to be rescued that day. In the water. When you banged your head." He noticed she hadn't picked up her fork and knife; instead she kept her hands in her lap and he was sure, from the twitching of her shoulders, that she wound her fingers nervously together.

  "Hmm." Again he sat back and waited for her to shyly emerge from her corner.

  "And it was eighteen years ago you said?"

  "Yes."

  "What a coincidence," she said with a stilted brightness, "that you and I were here that same summer. For that was when my parents brought me here. When I was six." He caught an odd glimmer in her eyes as she stole a sly glance his way.

  She had lifted her hands to the table and begun to unfurl her fingers, reluctantly, timidly. As if she might, at any minute, fold them even tighter at the slightest sign of trouble.

  "Is that so?

  He was taken back to that day— the salt in his mouth and seaweed in his shirt, the throbbing ache in his head.

  And cold hands gripping his fingers. He'd never forgotten those hands.

  Yes, something else had hit him, not just the pilings, but it came from above and the force of it pushed him under. That dark shape fell out of the sky, cutting off his merry whistle, striking him hard in the chest. Sometimes he wondered if he'd imagined it.

  A child. A little girl. Or a mermaid, he thought whimsically. Although he didn't know why a mermaid would be flying through the air.

  If he tried hard and closed his eyes he could see the flickering blue-green light into which they sank together, the long fronds of her hair floating around them, winding around his sleeve. No panic or surprise in her face. She was quite calm, silent, her eyes open and curious, but not concerned. His trousers caught on a rusty nail that stuck out of the piling and he was trapped under. He was going to die. He should have been afraid, but he wasn't. Her presence made tranquility out of chaos.

  Then, suddenly he felt a tug as his shirt collar was pulled up. He was free and the water thinned, the light changed. He reached for her, thinking to bring her into the air with him, but she was gone.

  Was she ever really there, or just an hallucination caused by the knock to his head?

  "Mr. Hart?" her soft voice broke through the water and echoed down to him.

  Eyes open again, he studied the woman at his table. The grown woman who had the same calming effect upon him as that little girl once had. And the same eyes. Dreaming while awake. "You were here that same summer?" he exclaimed.

  "Yes. Just for a day out." She looked suddenly as if she didn't know why she'd told him that.

  "Wouldn't have been July 13th, would it?" he asked in a jovial tone.

  Her fingers knocked her wine glass, and she spilled a few drops of blood red to the cloth. "I...do not recall. I was only six."

  "But something happened that day?"

  "Nothing remarkable." Now she dabbed at the stain with her napkin, balled up and dipped in the water glass first. "I'm sorry, this will stain, Mr. Hart."

  "And you didn't even curse. Always in control, aren't you?"

  She ignored that, cleared her throat and replied briskly, "Well, I am glad I know now why you dislike the pier. I only wish you had explained that to me before that you are afraid of it—"

  "I'm not afraid," he sputtered. "It's just...one of those things."

  "Then you should have explained, instead of shouting at me on my afternoon off."

  "I had to shout."

  "I don't believe that's true. Shouting is never necessary for a gentleman."

  "Sometimes shouting is the only thing to be done. I can't be all controlled and swaddled like you."

  Now she put on her governess face again and dabbed harder at the stain.

  "Don't you never scream nor shout and 'oller, Princess?"

  "Certainly not," she answered swiftly, but her lashes closed again, curtaining her gaze from his scrutiny. "What good could come from such a pathetic display of self-indulgence?"

  "I bet I could make you scream."

  "And why would you want to do that?" she replied wearily.

  In an instant he made up his mind. As usual.

  He stood, grabbed her hand. "Come with me."

  "What? But I—"

  "Now! Come on, Greene. There's something we must do."

  * * * *

  The man gave her no chance to argue, but dragged her out of the dining room, across the hall and up the stairs. Once again she was prevented from completing her dinner. Did he have something against her eating?

  "Mr. Hart! Kindly stop this at
once," she muttered, not wanting the other staff to hear.

  "Are you going to shout at me then? No, I thought not. Come on!"

  When she stumbled on the carpeted stairs, he wrapped an arm around her waist and then, quite suddenly, swept her into his arms. Too afraid of tumbling to fight his grip, she could only cling to his shoulders and hope for the best. Her mind raced. What was he up to now? She hardly dared imagine.

  Again she cursed her startling inability to read his wicked thoughts.

  "I hope you don't think you'll get away with this," she gasped.

  "With what?"

  She swallowed. "With whatever you're planning to do to me."

  "I'm not going to do anything. You're going to do it."

  Oh, lord. What on earth—?

  He kicked open a door, carried her into a dark room and set her down on her feet. They were somewhere on the third floor of the house, but that was all she knew. A moment later he had struck a match and lit the wick of an old-fashioned oil lamp. With a steady hand he set the glass chimney over the flame and took it to the window. He swung open a pair of thick velvet drapes, and now she could see stars in the night's sky.

  "Come here, Greene."

  Aware that she could, with good reason, simply turn tail and flee from the room after the improper way he had treated her person, instead she did as he commanded and joined him at the window.

  "Hold this." He put the lamp into her hands while he struggled with the stiff window latch.

  "What are you going to do?" The idea that he might shove her out of the window came to her suddenly. Perhaps this was his way of eliciting a scream out of her lips, she mused darkly.

  The window groaned open, and he took the lamp back from her. "Look out there. All that air you like so much. Now...scream. Go on. Scream as loud as you can."

  "Don't be silly."

  "We're three floors up, and there's nobody out there tonight. Nobody's going to hear you, Princess. Nobody but me."

  She looked down upon the gas lamps and the cobbled road. The only time she had screamed before was in her nightmares, when Pumpymuckles came for her.