by A. W. Exley
Eventually she decided on a more rustic-looking dress, a simple gown made in blue and green plaid cotton, with an Empire waistline and a scooped neck. Next she sat at her dressing table and tried to decide what to do with her hair. Any form of up-do seemed far too formal for the occasion. On a whim, she brushed her hair out and left it hanging down her back. The woman who stared back at her from the mirror was a simple country lass.
Downstairs the others waited for her. Marjory laughed and chatted with Samuel. The nurse was dressed in a gown of dark green that highlighted her eyes. Samuel and the doctor both wore rustic tweed like country gentlemen who only needed rifles under their arms to be heading off on a hunting weekend.
“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” Lettie murmured as she descended the last step.
“You are always worth waiting for,” Grayson said and held out his arm to her.
Marjory nudged Samuel and rolled her eyes in their direction. The action reminded Lettie that she hadn’t finished her conversation with her former guardian. She needed help to figure out if there was a way to change Grayson’s opinion of her from sister to … lover.
Hope fluttered in her breast. He said they were only friends, but his actions indicated otherwise. Unless she was misreading the situation, which was entirely possible. That sent her mind circling back to her original thought—she needed to talk to Marjory.
It was a short trip to the tavern that overlooked the village square. Raucous and lively laughter spilled out that was the complete opposite to the lavish, but cold, ball that Lettie and Grayson attended at the Ocram mansion.
The tavern’s dark panelling was aged by hands touching the wood and the smoke from candles and pipes over a hundred years. The floorboards were likewise worn and uneven, but clean. Gas lanterns flickered and cast a yellow light over the assembled crowd. People jostled each other, but laughter rose up and swirled around the high, vaulted ceiling.
One central table was laid with mismatched tablecloths. Bowls and plates were piled high with an assortment of meals, and delicious aromas wafted to Lettie’s nose. It looked as though each woman had made something to share with everyone else for supper.
Tonight was a family affair, with children running between the adults and wives present to moderate the drinking of their husbands.
A cheer went up as Lettie and Grayson walked in and people clapped. The doctor stared at his toes for a moment, unused to having his skills celebrated. Lettie beamed as she unashamedly wallowed in the people’s good feelings. For once she was celebrated for her actions, not her appearance. The sense of accomplishment made her feel alive and a welcome part of the little community.
Samuel herded them toward a long table and Lettie sat on the wooden bench. Women wearing white aprons poured beer from plain pottery pitchers into tin mugs.
“That’ll put hair on your chest,” one said to Grayson with a wink.
Lettie recalled his soaked shirt in the bathroom. He’s already got it.
“This isn’t as fancy as you’re used to,” Grayson said by her side. Across the table sat Samuel and Marjory. The older folk turned to talk to people seated around them.
Lettie picked up her mug. It might not be the life she was used to, but more and more it was the life she wanted. “It’s not the glassware that matters, but the company. I would rather be drinking beer in this tavern than drinking champagne from crystal and surrounded by people who value coin and not lives.”
He stared at her for a long moment and appeared to be on the brink of saying something, when he was tapped on the shoulder by the father of the lad who fell from his horse. Lettie spied another youth in the crowd and waved him over.
“How is your little cousin?” she asked.
“Bright as sunshine,” he said. “You wouldn’t know anything had happened to her, except she keeps telling everyone that a mermaid saved her from drowning.”
A pang went through Lettie. The little girl was telling the truth, but adults would dismiss her as either hallucinating or fabricating the story. “Things look different underwater, and my gown was blue.”
“Yeah. Sure. That’ll be it.” The lad gave her such a big wink that his nose wrinkled. Then he laughed and bee-lined for the food table, where he piled a plate high with slices of roast lamb and crispy potatoes.
The food was simple fare but tasty, and prepared with love by the grateful community. Grayson pulled one of the women aside and asked if they could send a basket to George and his family.
“I don’t want them to miss out, and times are going to be tough for them,” he said.
Lettie soaked in the atmosphere as people laughed and chatted. She thought over the fundamental difference between Soarers and Warders. One ruled while the other served. Yet who created a better life for a village?
The people of Alysblud were looked after by their lord. While the Seton family couldn’t stop all the ill winds that blew through a person’s life, they could create a community that supported each other through tough times. Soarers had little regard for the lives of those they considered beneath them, except when it affected them directly.
After dinner, the large central tables were pushed against the wall and three men pulled out instruments. Two had fiddles and the third a flute. The crowd cheered as they struck up a fast tune.
Grayson had the shiny eyes of someone who had drunk enough beer to be fortified with bravery, but not so much that he might tumble over his own feet and fall asleep where he landed.
“This is my sort of music. Will you dance with your brother now?” he asked.
Lettie took his hand and leaned close to him. “No, not my brother. But I would dance with the handsome local doctor.”
Heat flared in his eyes. “The doctor would be honoured to dance with the most beautiful woman here.”
He held her tight and whirled her around in the tight space. Samuel had Marjory in his arms, and both looked to be laughing and enjoying themselves. Grayson didn’t keep hold of Lettie for long. She spun from partner to partner, including the young lad who was cousin to rescued Elspeth. After a quick spin with Lettie, he returned to his mates with a strut to his step.
“Do I have competition?” Grayson asked on reclaiming her afterwards.
“Oh, most definitely. I can wait for him to age a few more years.” She laughed but the doctor did not.
His brows drew together and he stared after the young lad.
Lettie wondered what dark thoughts chased away his good mood. But the change was temporary, and he soon handed her to an elderly gentleman while he grabbed Widow Elder. The old woman’s shrill giggle added an extra note to the music.
The evening wore on, and soon women carried sleepy children out the door. The musicians replaced fast dance tunes with more soulful ones and hushed conversations sprang up around the tables.
Lettie found herself at a table with Grayson and what she considered the village elders. Five men with an impressive selection of long grey to white beards were arrayed around them. It seemed the longer a man’s beard, the less hair he had up top, as though his hair slipped down his face as he aged.
“Have you worked for the Ocrams for long?” Grayson asked as tin mugs of hot, strong coffee replaced the beer.
“All my life,” one answered. His lips barely moved from around the mouthpiece of his pipe. “Started there as a lad of fourteen, cleaning and sweeping, when they established the yard forty years ago. Then I learned building and construction and graduated to the scaffolding around the ships. Last month they said I had got too slow for climbing the scaffolding, and they sacked me.”
The speaker looked older than Samuel’s eight hundred years, yet his tale made him just fifty-five years old. The ship workers had a hard life of physical labour, and their bodies were further weathered by the sand thrown up that abraded exposed skin.
Lettie took a sip of coffee. The thick black drink battled the beer in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure which liquid would win. “Did you work on the Esmeral
da?”
“The Esmeralda?” He scratched his chin. “Don’t recollect any vessel by that name.”
Lettie glanced to Grayson. The men at the table contained the complete and unedited history of Ocram and Lawson. They must know the vessel, unless it had gone by another name?
One of the other men frowned and stroked a beard that reached to mid-chest. “It wasn’t no vessel. The Esmeralda was the ghost ship.”
Wrinkled eyes widened. Beards and heads were scratched. Then came murmurs of agreement.
“I reckon you’re right, Rab,” the first man said and waved with his pipe.
“What do you mean, the ghost ship?” Grayson asked.
“It was the oddest thing. Happened just before they sacked me. We made all sorts of parts that you would put inside one of them fangled new steamers. Engines, boilers, propeller shafts. But we never built the ship.” Rab pulled a pouch from his pocket and began packing tobacco into his pipe.
Samuel leaned his bulky forearms on the table. “What happened to the parts you made?”
The man at the end of the table took up the story. Lettie labelled him as the youngest elder. His beard was shorter, only a few inches from his chin, and it was more salt and pepper than full white. “Mr Ocram ordered it all crated up. Then big wagons came one day and hauled it all away.”
“And that was the last we ever saw of the Esmeralda,” another elder finished off.
Grayson stared into his coffee. “A ship that isn’t a ship.”
None of this made sense to Lettie. Parts of the vessel were constructed, but not the hull and structure to house it. Why would you do that, and where did the engines and other bits end up?
“All sort of funny stuff goes on there. Ocram thinks we’re stupid like our sheep, but we see things,” the oldest elder muttered.
Lettie glanced at Samuel. Some things about Elementals were hard to hide.
“You mean like how Byron has worn the same face for forty years?” she asked.
Beards shook up and down as heads nodded in agreement.
“Face of an angel but the soul of the devil, my old lady says, and best not to get involved. We know he’s not like us, but you don’t go meddling in the devil’s business,” the man with the pipe said.
“But you talk to me, and you know I’ve worn this face since you were a young lad,” Samuel pointed out.
“That’s because whatever you are, you’re still one of us. Besides, you’ve always looked like a cracked, ugly boulder.” The speaker slapped Samuel on the back, and laughter erupted around the table.
Marjory had fallen asleep on Samuel’s shoulder, and at the movement she emitted a loud snore that could have rattled the overhead timbers. Men chuckled and Samuel managed to stand and sweep the slumbering matron into his solid arms.
“Time to get Sleeping Beauty to bed,” he said and took his leave.
Lettie and Grayson followed, and it was a quiet ride in the cart back to the house.
Samuel carried the drowsy Marjory into the house as though she weighed nothing at all.
Lettie gazed up at the night time sky. Stars twinkled above as Ouranus gazed down on his wife, Gaia. Grayson stopped beside her.
“You haven’t been in this community long, but already you have had an impact on so many lives,” she said, still staring up. She searched the heavens for a shooting star to make a wish upon, but found none.
“I’ve been tending the people of Alysblud with my salary and expenses paid for by Jasper. I forgot that other communities are not so fortunate.” He was a gentle presence at her side, close enough to touch but keeping himself a mere inch away.
“Soarers don’t have the same sense of duty to their community that Warders have. I think it’s because we come from Gaia, whereas they were born far above us.” She had thought Byron might prove the old stereotype wrong. But even his actions in lifting the hull from George seemed, in hindsight, more motivated to protect the ship than the trapped worker.
Grayson reached out and took her hand, lacing his longer fingers with hers. “Well, I much prefer the Warder way. People are more important than things. I also prefer evenings where you don’t kiss Byron Ocram.”
Lettie laughed. “I haven’t kissed anyone at all this evening.”
“We should remedy that.” His voice dropped in tone even as his arm went around her waist.
Lettie turned in his embrace. One hand still held his, but her other hand she lifted to his shoulder.
His head dropped, and his lips brushed against hers in a soft, enquiring feel. He made an invitation with his lips, as though he held out his hand and waited to see if she would dance with him.
Lettie pressed against him. She let go of his hand to curl hers in the lapel of his jacket as the kiss deepened. She opened under him but took the first explorative step. Her tongue licked at his lips and then sought to learn his taste.
She stepped backwards and tugged Grayson with her, until the hard stone wall was at her back. Then she invited Grayson to take more of her. He leaned into her, his chest hard against her breasts and one leg pressed between her knees. His weight was an intoxicating pressure. Her blood turned to lava and ran hot through her veins as her head spun. Her body had awakened from its long slumber, and it demanded more.
He broke off the kiss and stroked her face with his hands. His hazel eyes searched her face. “You confuse me, Lettie. What am I doing?”
“You’re kissing me, silly.” She laced her hands at the back of his neck.
He was the one with all the medical textbooks. He should know in minute detail exactly what he was doing to her. He would be able to explain why her knees trembled and shivers ran up her body. He would have the label for the way her stomach fluttered as though tiny minnows tickled her inside. He would know how heat ran her through veins at his touch.
“I mean—you are my friend,” his voice whispered over her skin.
“Can we not be friends who kiss each other?” She didn’t understand his problem. They liked each other, and there was an obvious connection between them. It seemed entirely natural to want more of him. Of course if any of the villagers walked past, they would have questions about the closeness of the brother and sister. In hindsight, that wasn’t her best thought out disguise.
His moustache twitched. “What of Byron Ocram? Is he also a friend you kiss?”
Before Lettie could answer, Grayson gently pulled her hands free, and then he walked toward the house.
19
Over breakfast, Grayson steadfastly refused to meet Lettie’s gaze. She needed to talk to him in private, but first she needed to determine exactly how she wanted to proceed. What did she want from him—friendship, or something deeper? There was the small impediment of his insistence they were just chums. But when he kissed her, it wasn’t as a friend.
He kissed her like a man who desired a woman.
There was also the problem that he only seemed open to the idea of being physical with her after a night that involved a fair amount of alcoholic lubrication. Did he feel differently in the cold of morning when his mind was clear and sober? That gave rise to an unpleasant thought—maybe he needed to be drunk to stomach the idea of kissing her.
Lettie buttered her toast a tad forcefully and the bread split into different-sized pieces.
“What has the toast done to you?” Samuel said from the head of the table.
Lettie picked up a jagged fragment and smeared jam on it. “It didn’t supply the answer to the questions in my head.”
A frown flitted across the old Warder’s rugged face. “Anything I can help with?”
She shook her head. “Women’s business.”
Samuel held up his hands. “Say no more. I didn’t live this long without knowing when to stay out of women’s problems.”
The group ate breakfast in near silence with only the occasional comment passed back and forth, as though they all struggled with their own tangled thoughts.
Lettie finished first and dabbed
her lips on the napkin before draping the fabric next to her plate. “I’m going to ride out to Dawn’s old home today. There are so many unanswered questions about Verity, and I want to sort through them in my head.”
“I’ll come with you, love. I want to see if Dawn’s apple tree has any fruit. Since the house is empty, we can pick a basketful and make apple pie.” Marjory finished the last of her breakfast.
“Did Dawn have a particular fondness for the apple tree?” Lettie couldn’t understand an attachment to a tree except for her family’s Ravensblood tree, which was entirely different since it contained the heart of their clan. But then Dawn’s gift was nurturing and creation, with a particular emphasis on plants, so perhaps all flora held importance to her.
“Oh, no. I doubt she even knows about it. Verity planted it the they left. It makes no sense to me—if you’re about to move your family to another county, why would you bother planting a tree?” Marjory poured more tea into her cup.
Lettie nearly jumped from her chair as Marjory’s words sank into her brain. Her mind screamed it was a clue. “Marjory, what exactly did Ellen tell you about the tree?”
Marjory added a spoonful of sugar and milk to her drink. “Hmm … I think when she asked, Verity made a comment about planting a special tree for Dawn. Like some sort of remembrance thing?”
“Or there is something about the tree that will help Dawn remember?” Grayson turned Marjory’s words around and viewed them from a different angle.
“I’ll harness the cart. I think we all need to go look at this tree.” Samuel rose from his place at the head of the table.
“Surely it’s just an apple tree?” Marjory glanced from retreating gargoyle to undine.
“Why did Dawn’s mother plant a tree the day they left, when she would have known they were moving? If it was important, why not take the seedling with them?” Lettie ran through the ideas in her head aloud.
