The Tenderness of Wolves

by Stef Penney

  Nancy puts out a hand and pushes his chest lightly, making him sit down on the bed. ‘That was a knife.’ She states it flatly, not asking him.

  ‘Yes. But it was an accident …’ Donald laughs, and begins to tell her the long, rambling story of the rugby game.

  Nancy kneels in front of him, uninterested in the wound’s origin. When she sponges the wound he takes a sharp breath in, and stops talking, his explanation of a diving tackle left unsaid. Nancy leans forward and sniffs the wound. Donald feels a heat in his cheeks and holds his breath, acutely aware that her head is almost in his lap. Her hair is blue-black, fine and silky, not coarse as he had assumed. Her skin is silky too, of a very pale, creamy brown; a silky girl, lithe and innocent of artifice. He wonders if she is aware of her beauty. He pictures her husband Peter–a tall, strongly built voyageur–walking in at this moment, and blanches at the thought. Nancy seems unperturbed. She makes a clean dressing and applies some smelly herbal paste before indicating that he should lift his arms, and binding it on so tightly Donald is afraid he might suffocate during the night.

  ‘Thank you. That is very kind …’ He wonders if there is something he can give her, and mentally ransacks the few belongings he brought with him. He cannot come up with anything suitable.

  Nancy gives him the ghost of a smile, her fine black eyes for the first time looking into his own. He notices how her eyebrows have the elegant arch of a gull’s wing, and then, to his complete and total astonishment, she picks up his hand and presses it to her breast. Before he can utter a word or pull it away, she fastens her lips on his, and her other hand grasps the not indifferent organ between his legs. He gasps something out–he cannot be sure what–and after a moment in which his senses are so overloaded he doesn’t know what is going on, he pushes her firmly away. (Be honest, Moody–how long was that moment? Long enough.)

  ‘No! I … I’m sorry. Not that. No.’

  His heart is thundering, the sound of his pulse crashing like waves against his eardrums. Nancy looks at him, her blunt, almond-coloured lips parted. It has never before occurred to him that native women could be as beautiful as white women, but he cannot imagine anything more beautiful than the girl in front of him. Donald shuts his eyes, to take away the sight of her. Her fingers are still on his arms where he holds them away from him, as though they are dance partners frozen in the midst of a step.

  ‘I can’t. You’re beautiful, but … no, I can’t.’

  She glances down at his trousers, which seem to disagree with him.

  ‘Your husband …’

  She shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters to me. I’m sorry.’

  He manages to turn away, half expecting her to launch another attack. But nothing comes. When he glances back at her, she is gathering up the bowl of dirty water, the cloths and the used dressing.

  ‘Thank you, Nancy. Please don’t be … offended.’

  Nancy looks at him swiftly but says nothing. Donald sighs and she goes out as quietly as she came in. He looks at the closed door, cursing. Cursing himself and her and the whole ramshackle, godforsaken place. The letter on the table reproaches him. The cool, well-constructed sentences; the humorous asides … why is he writing to Maria anyway? He picks up the letter and crumples it into a ball, regretting it instantly. Then he picks up his spare shirt and flings it on the floor, just for the sake of throwing something (but something that won’t break). The floor is filthy. Why is he so angry when he did the right thing? (Regret, possibly? Because he is a milk-and-water, lily-livered coward who hasn’t the courage to take what he wants when it is offered to him?)

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Shortly after Moody makes his excuses and leaves the table, Parker also gets up and begs leave to retire. After he’s gone I wonder if they are both up to something, although Moody looks so exhausted it is possible that he really has gone to sleep. About Parker I’m less sure. I hope he is working some mysterious miracle of deduction, which as yet I cannot guess at. Stewart suggests Nesbit take me to the sitting room for a glass of something. He, he says, will join us in a few minutes–in such a way that I immediately wonder what he is doing. It is all very well having a suspicious cast of mind, but I can’t say it has so far led to any useful discoveries.

  Nesbit pours two glasses of malt whisky and hands one to me. We clink glasses. He has been strained and edgy tonight; his eyes fervid, his hands twisting constantly or drumming on the table. He ate next to nothing. Then, before coffee, he excused himself. Stewart responded in some appropriate way, but his eyes were hard. He knows, I thought. Norah served us throughout, and though I watched her carefully, I could not discern any of the same tension in her. Now that Stewart is here she is far more docile, showing none of the sullenness of the first night. When Nesbit came back ten or fifteen minutes later, his demeanour had changed; his movements were languorous, his eyes sleepy. Parker and Moody gave no sign of noticing anything amiss.

  I go to the window and part the curtains. It is not snowing, but it lies several inches deep.

  ‘Do you think there is more snow on the way, Mr Nesbit?’

  ‘I don’t claim to understand the weather here, but it seems likely, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I was only wondering when we might leave again. If we have to go on looking …’

  ‘Ah, of course. Not the best time of year for it.’ He seems unconcerned about the fate of my seventeen-year-old son out in the wilderness on his own. Or perhaps he is sharper than I give him credit for.

  ‘Frightful place, this. Perfect for convicts, I’ve always thought, instead of sending them to Tasmania, which as far as I can make out is jolly pleasant. Rather like the Lake District.’

  ‘But here is not so isolated. Or so far from home.’

  ‘Feels isolated enough. Do you know, a few years ago, a bunch of employees–foreigners, I think–tried to make a run for it from Moose Factory. In January! Of course, none of them were ever seen again. Froze to death in the middle of nowhere, poor bastards.’ He laughs softly, bitterly. ‘Excuse my language, Mrs Ross. It has been so long since I’ve been in the company of a lady I have forgotten how to talk.’

  I demur; something along the lines of having heard worse.

  He looks at me in a speculative way I don’t like. He’s not drunk tonight, but his pupils are very small, even in the dim light. His hands are calm and relaxed now; soothed. I know you, I think. I know how it feels.

  ‘Disappeared, you say? How awful.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t get too upset–as I said, they were foreigners. Krauts or something.’

  ‘You don’t like foreigners?’

  ‘Not particularly. Give me a Scot any day.’

  ‘Like Mr Stewart?’

  ‘Exactly. Like Mr Stewart.’

  I drain my glass. Dutch courage, but better than none at all.

  When Stewart comes in, my face is warm from the whisky, but my head is still clear. Nesbit pours a glass for Stewart and we talk easily for a few minutes. Then Stewart turns to me.

  ‘I was thinking about your Mr Parker. You know, I can’t believe I didn’t recall the name immediately, but then it was a long time ago. Tell me, how did you meet?’

  ‘We only met recently. He was in Caulfield and when we needed a guide, someone suggested him.’

  ‘So you do not know him well?’

  ‘Not particularly well. Why?’

  Stewart smiles the smile of someone with interesting news to impart. ‘Oh … He is, or at least was, a rather colourful character. There were certain incidents at Clear Lake … Let’s say some of our voyageurs are rather wild, and … he was one such.’

  ‘How fascinating! Do go on.’ I smile, as though it is no more than so much gossip.

  ‘It is not really so fascinating. Some rather ugly incidents. William was prone to fighting when younger. We went on a journey together–I’m talking more than fifteen years ago, you understand–a journey in winter. There were other men there too, but … it was a h
ard journey and quarrels blew up. Over whether to go on, or turn back, that sort of thing. Food was running low and so on. Anyway, we came to blows.’

  ‘Blows! Good heavens!’ I lean forward in my chair, giving him an encouraging smile.

  ‘You may recall what he said, and indeed, he gave me something to remember him by.’ Stewart rolls up his left sleeve. Running down his forearm is a long white scar, a good quarter of an inch wide.

  There is nothing feigned about my shock.

  ‘Sometimes these half-breeds, give them half a bottle of rum and they turn into a dervish. We had an argument and he went for me with a knife. In the middle of nowhere too; that was no joke, I can tell you.’

  He rolls the sleeve down again. Right now I can’t think of anything to say.

  ‘I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have shown you. Some ladies find scars distressing.’

  ‘Oh, no …’ I shake my head. Nesbit refills my glass. It’s not the scar that disturbs me, but the last picture of Jammet I will ever have flashing up in my mind. And the first sight of Parker: the artificial man searching the cabin: a savage, alien, terrifying figure.

  ‘It is not the sight of your scar,’ says Nesbit happily, ‘more the thought that her guide is such a handy fellow with a knife!’

  ‘He has seemed nothing of the kind these past weeks. He is the model guide. Perhaps, as you say, his violence was the result of rum. He does not drink now.’

  Stewart could be lying, I tell myself. I look into his eyes, trying to read his soul. But he looks only kind, sincere; a little wistful, thinking of old times.

  ‘It is good to hear that some men can learn from their mistakes, eh, Frank?’

  ‘Indeed so,’ I murmur. ‘If only more of us did.’

  Later, in my room, I remain dressed and sit in the chair to prevent myself falling asleep. I would like nothing more than to lie down and succumb to oblivion. But I can’t, and I’m not sure oblivion would have me; I am troubled, it would be fair to say. I want to ask Parker about Stewart, about their past, but I am reluctant to go and wake him again. Reluctant, or afraid. The picture that came back to me earlier gave me a shock. I had forgotten how the sight of Parker had sent shivers down my spine; how brutal and alien he appeared. I had not forgotten his appearance, of course, but I had forgotten the effect it first had on me. Strange how that can happen, when you come to know someone.

  But I do not know him. In his defence, he made no attempt to hide the fact that they had met before, but perhaps he was only pre-empting the inevitable; a double bluff.

  My eyes are long accustomed to the dark, and the snow gives off its dull, directionless light, enough to make my way when I come out into the corridor again. I knock on his door very softly, and then let myself in, closing the door behind me. I think I have been very quiet, but he sits bolt upright in the bed with an exclamation.

  ‘My God … No! Go away!’ He sounds terrified and angry.

  ‘Mr Moody, it is I, Mrs Ross.’

  ‘What? What the devil?’ He fumbles with matches and lights the candle by his bed. When his face blooms out of the darkness, he is already wearing his spectacles, and his eyes are starting out of their sockets.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.’

  ‘What the devil do you mean by coming in here in the middle of the night?’

  I was expecting surprise and irritation, not white-knuckle fury. ‘I had to talk to someone. Please … it won’t take long.’

  ‘I thought you talked to Parker.’

  There is something in his tone, but I’m not sure what it is. I sit on the single chair, squashing some of his clothes in the process.

  ‘I don’t know what to think, and we need to discuss it.’

  ‘It can’t wait until morning?’

  ‘They don’t want us to be alone all together. Didn’t you feel that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well … I was telling you what I overheard Nesbit say, and then Olivier came in and we couldn’t talk about it further.’

  ‘So?’ His voice is still bright with anger, but he is less scared than when I came in. As though he had been afraid I was someone else.

  ‘Doesn’t that seem to indicate that there are things going on here they don’t want us to know? And since we are on the trail of a murderer, those things might be connected.’

  He looks at me, disgruntled. But he doesn’t throw me out. ‘Stewart said no one strange had come to the fort recently.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t someone strange.’

  ‘You’re suggesting it is someone who lives here?’ He sounds shocked that I’m impugning a member of the Company.

  ‘It’s possible. Someone that Nesbit knows. Perhaps Stewart knows nothing about it.’

  Moody stares into the corner behind my left ear. ‘I think the whole thing would have been much better dealt with on the straight. If we’d told them the truth about why we are here, not your absurd story.’

  ‘But someone already suspects us. I think merely the fact that we mentioned we were following a trail put them on their guard. Nesbit was threatening a woman–Norah, I think–not to talk about someone. Why would he do that?’

  ‘There could be any number of reasons. I thought you had no idea who it was.’

  ‘It’s true I didn’t see her, but Norah … Norah and Nesbit are having a … liaison.’

  ‘What? The serving woman?’ Moody looks startled. But more because it is the squat, unlovely Norah than because Nesbit is committing an impropriety. Such things go on all the time. He compresses his mouth; it is possible that he is thinking of filing a report. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw them.’ I don’t want to say I saw them when I was sneaking around the fort at night, and luckily he doesn’t ask.

  ‘Well … she is a widow.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘One of the voyageurs here. Sad business.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’ I ponder that being a Company servant is a dangerous profession. ‘What I was going to say is, we will have to ask people questions … without them knowing.’

  Even as I say this, I wonder how on earth we are going to manage it. Moody looks less than impressed. I have to admit it’s not a brilliant plan, but it’s the best I can do.

  ‘Well, if there’s nothing else …’ He shoots a meaningful glance at the door. I think of Stewart’s arm and telling Moody about it, but he doesn’t trust Parker as it is, and may well start asking questions about how Parker came to be in Dove River. Questions I don’t think I want to answer at the moment. ‘I really must get some sleep. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’ I stand up. He somehow looks smaller huddled beneath the bedclothes. Younger and more vulnerable. ‘You look exhausted. Have you got someone to look at your blisters? I am sure there is someone with medical knowledge here …’

  Moody grips the covers and pulls them around his chin, as though I have advanced on him with an axe. ‘Yes. Please just go! All I need is some sleep, for heaven’s sake …’

  As it turns out, plans to talk to the staff the next day are postponed, because by the time we get up, most of them have left. George Cummings, Peter Eagles, William Blackfeather and Kenowas–in other words, all the adult, non-white males who live and work at Hanover House, with the single exception of Olivier–have gone to search for Nepapanees’ body. They left before dawn, silently, on foot. Even the man we saw on that first afternoon, the cataleptically drunk Arnaud (who is, it turns out, the watchman), even he has been sobered by grief and joined the search party.

  The widow and her thirteen-year-old son have gone with them.

  A week after Francis rejected Susannah’s overtures, he went to Jammet’s cabin on an errand for his father. He still thought of Susannah Knox, but now school had closed for the summer and the day on the beach seemed like a hazy, unsteady memory. He had not gone to the picnic, nor had he sent any message. He had not known what to say. If he wondered at himself for spurning what he had for so long dr
eamed of, he did not do so often, or with any self-reproach. It was somehow that, having held her for so long an unattainable ideal, he could not imagine her being anything else.

  That day, it was late in the afternoon and Laurent was inside brewing tea when Francis whistled outside the front door.

  ‘Salut, François,’ he called, and Francis pushed the door open. ‘You want some?’

  Francis nodded. He liked the Frenchman’s cabin, which was shambolic and utterly unlike his parents’ house. Things were held together with string and nails; the teapot had no lid but was kept on because it still managed its job of holding tea; he kept his clothes in tea chests. When Francis had asked him why he didn’t build a chest of drawers, as he was perfectly capable of doing, he replied that one wooden box was as good as another, no?

  They sat down on two chairs inside the door, which Laurent wedged open, and Francis smelt brandy on the Frenchman’s breath. Sometimes he drank during the day, although Francis had never seen him the worse for it. The cabin faced due west and the low sun struck them both in the face, forcing Francis to shut his eyes and tilt his head back. When he glanced at Laurent again, he found the older man looking at him, the sun mining golden lights in the depths of his eyes.

  ‘Quel visage,’ he murmured, as if to himself. Francis didn’t ask him what it meant, as he didn’t think it was for him.

  There was a wonderful stillness in the air; the sound of crickets the loudest thing. Laurent produced the brandy bottle and tipped some, unasked, into Francis’s tea. Francis drank it, feeling agreeably reckless: his parents would yell at him if they found out, and he said so.

  ‘Ah well, we cannot please our parents all our lives.’

  ‘I don’t think I please them any of the time.’

  ‘You’re growing up. Soon you will leave, no? Get married, get your own place, all the rest.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ This seemed unlikely, dizzyingly distant from crickets and brandy and the low, blinking sun.