I went upstairs and took a sponge bath and brushed my hair until it fell to my shoulders in glossy chestnut waves, and then I put on the sky blue muslin dress printed with tiny violet flowers and tiny green leaves. This would be the first time I had ever worn it anywhere, even though I had made it some eighteen months ago, right after my sixteenth birthday. It was already a bit snug at the waist, and the bodice seemed much lower than I remembered, or was it that my bosom was even fuller than before? I tried the violet velvet sash, adjusting the trailing ends in back, then turned to study myself in the mirror. Too tall, slender but pleasingly curved now, not skinny. My cheekbones were too high, too sculpted, and my eyelids were etched with faint mauve shadows.
You’re never going to be pink and blonde and pretty, Angie, I told myself. You’re always going to look odd with those cheekbones, that full pink mouth, those violet-gray eyes. You’re never going to be petite and soft and fragile, either. It’s just as well. Who wants to be pretty? I fetched the violet velvet reticule Solonge had given me, checked to make sure I had some money in it and then left the house, feeling a little better now, if only because I was doing something.
The sun was beginning to go down, the sky all smeared with pink and gold banners that grew blurry as the light gradually faded. My stepsisters would be wearing their gowns now, mingling with the other guests, and I felt certain Bartholomew would be making calf eyes at Solonge and trying to get her alone. Marie might think him the grandest thing that ever walked the earth, but Solonge had confided that he was somewhat less than exciting. His father might be one of the Peers of the Realm and positively groaning with wealth, but Bart was a rather dull young man, nice-looking enough if a bit too stout. He had a slight stammer and a shy, apologetic manner, these because he had always lived in the shadow of his domineering father.
His father had been a notorious rake in his youth, and rumor had it that he hadn’t reformed one jot with age. I wondered what he thought about Bart’s infatuation with the stepdaughter of a country schoolmaster, or did he believe the fantasy about her aristocratic blood? At any rate, he had invited both of my stepsisters to the ball, and that signified something. Maybe Solonge would snare his son, though she was less enthusiastic about the idea than Marie was. Poor Bartholomew would hardly be able to satisfy her, but then ladies in that particular circle were not noted for their fidelity. They took lovers by the score, one heard. Solonge would fit right in, I thought uncharitably.
I sighed, strolling idly through the twilight haze that was beginning to thicken the air. The fair had been set up in the vacant field beyond the village, and I could hear the music as I walked down a deserted High Street, all brown and shadowy now, shops closed. Teddy Pendergast was no longer at Blackwood’s. He had left a year ago, without ever seeing my stepsister again. She had forgotten all about him, but I often thought about him, thought about that terrible pain I had seen in his eyes. He was working in a bookstore in Coventry now, I knew, and I hoped one day soon he would meet a nice young woman who would erase that pain. Crossing the square, I saw the lights in the distance, bright blurs of color against the haze, and the music was much louder now, almost drowned out by the din of boisterous voices.
I wouldn’t stay long, I told myself. I would have a glass of pink lemonade and maybe one of the sausage rolls smeared with tangy mustard, and I might toss some hoops just for the fun of it. I might even have my fortune told, although you could never believe a word the gypsy woman said. I wouldn’t look at the dancing bear, that always made me sad, the poor, shaggy creature so mournful as it went through its paces with a pink skirt around its middle. Perhaps I’d run into Eppie, but it wasn’t very likely. Jamie McCarry was a sober chap who had no time for frivolity. He kept Eppie extremely busy on the farm, but she didn’t seem to mind in the least. Jamie was wonderful in bed, she had confided the last time I saw her. It was a pleasure to cook his meals and scrub his floors, milk his cows and feed his chickens. Soon there’d be a little McCarry as well, and she could hardly wait. I feared Eppie was lost to me, but she was happy with her lot, and that was the important thing.
No one paid the least attention to me as I mingled with the noisy crowd. I strolled past the stalls and colored tents, pausing now and then to look at an exhibit or contemplate a particularly tempting treat. The roasted peanuts looked delicious, but they were always too salty, and the spun sugar, so pretty to look at, always tasted like dry cotton. The candied apples were bright red and tasted divine, but they were terribly sticky. I strolled on, jostled by noisy, irritable children who had been here too long, had had too much excitement and too many treats. Parents were beginning to lead them away now as the sky grew darker, as torches blazed like ragged orange banners and a rougher atmosphere prevailed.
I bought a lemonade and sipped it at the stall, watching the crowd swirling about in ever-shifting patterns. Wrestling matches were being held in a roped-off area, and spectators cheered hoarsely as sturdy, bare-chested youths grappled furiously on the ground. A fistfight broke out in front of the Petrified Man’s tent. The gypsies were prowling about furtively in their shabby, garishly colored attire, eyes out for a likely mark, and hefty country boys in ill-fitting jackets made lewd remarks at lasses in their best attire, the latter giggling with delight. The air was charged with an ugly tension I had never noticed before, but then Eppie and I had always come during the daytime. I set down my empty glass, deciding I’d best leave soon, although I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself.
I passed the fortune-teller’s tent, wincing at the reek of grease and garlic. A tipsy lout with tousled red hair staggered over to me and asked if I’d like a good time. I gave him the finger. He reeled away, appalled. I paid a pence and stepped into the tent to see the Geek in his iron cage, but he wasn’t frightening this time, only pathetic. The other spectators gasped with anticipation as his keeper handed him a live chicken through the bars. The stench of sweat was so strong I almost reeled. I shuddered, hurrying out of the tent as the Geek stuck the chicken’s head into his mouth. I felt dizzy, wondering how Eppie and I could ever have found such horror fascinating.
It was definitely time to leave, I decided, moving purposefully across the grounds. It was night now, much too warm for September, and the heat from the blazing torches made it worse. The music was playing loudly. Dancers stomped and shuffled enthusiastically on the wooden planks of the dance floor as Japanese lanterns swayed overhead, showering them with colored shadows. Foamy mugs of ale were being sold at half a dozen stalls. A tall, muscular youth in snug brown breeches and coarse linen shirt and unlaced leather jerkin reeled toward me, calling my name. He had broad, peasant features and shaggy blond hair and green eyes flecked with brown, and I didn’t like what I saw in those eyes, didn’t like it at all. His wide lips curled into a leering grin as he lurched in front of me, blocking my way.
“If it isn’t Miss Angie Howard!” he exclaimed. “Fancy meetin’ you ’ere among the common folk. Come to snub us, ’ave you? Come to look down that cool nose-a yours.”
“You’re drunk, Will Peterson,” I said icily.
“I’m ’avin’ me a ’igh time, that’s what I’m doin’. That’s somethin’ you wouldn’t know nothin’ about, always ’oldin’ yourself aloof. Think you’re too good for th’ likes-a me, don’t you?”
“I think you’re disgusting,” I told him. “I don’t know what Eppie ever saw in you.”
“It ain’t what she saw in me, it’s what I done to ’er. Ain’t no one better at doin’ it than me,” he bragged. “I make ’em purr, make ’em beg me for more.”
I stared at him with cool disdain as the crowd bustled around us, as another fistfight broke out nearby, and Will Peterson shifted his weight from one foot to another, his heavy body weaving. I wasn’t afraid of him, not for a minute, but I really didn’t want to knee him in the groin. I firmly intended to do just that if he laid a hand on me. His brown-flecked green eyes narrowed. His lips lifted at one corner.
“’Bout
time you tried some of it,” he said.
“Let me pass, Will.”
“You’re gonna love it,” he promised. “Yeah, you’re gonna love it a lot. ’Adn’t ’ad me a virgin in quite a spell.”
“I believe you’re bothering the lady,” a dry voice said.
It came from behind me. A strong hand clasped my arm, pulling me aside. Hugh Bradford stood in front of Will now, tall as a tree and utterly nonchalant, his dark brown eyes filled with boredom. Will flushed, glaring at the intruder. Hugh Bradford stood in a lazy slouch, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, the fingers curling inward. There was nothing at all intimidating in his manner, but Will hesitated just the same, clearly uneasy.
“This ain’t none-a your affair,” he said belligerently.
“I’m making it my affair,” Hugh Bradford drawled. “It would give me a lot of pleasure to break your neck. In fact, at the moment I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more.”
His voice was lethargic, totally devoid of menace, yet Will turned pale, the color visibly draining from his face. He stumbled back a step and almost lost his balance, his eyes wide. He muttered something ugly under his breath and then turned and stumbled away as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him, soon disappearing with weary exasperation.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I told him. “I could have handled him by myself.”
“It seems I spend an inordinate amount of time getting you out of trouble,” he said in a bored voice. “Every time I see you you’re in some sort of scrape.”
“No one asked you to interfere,” I snapped.
“Don’t get testy with me, Miss Howard. It would give me even more pleasure to wring your neck.”
“It probably would, you sod.”
“You’ve no business being here,” he said. “Half the men here have been swilling ale all afternoon. Most of them are even drunker than Peterson and they’re beginning to turn nasty. It’s no place for a respectable young woman with no escort.”
“I know that,” I retorted.
“Then why did you come?”
“I—I was lonely,” I confessed. “My stepsisters went to a ball and I felt—It’s none of your bleedin’ business! If you’ll get out of my way now I’ll go on home.”
“Since you’re here, you may as well enjoy yourself.”
“A respectable young woman like me?”
“You’ve got an escort now,” he informed me. “No one’s going to bother you with a vicious chap like me at your side.”
And then he curled his left arm around my shoulders and casually guided me toward a stall where cold apple cider was being sold. I was too startled to protest, and I stood by meekly while he purchased two glasses of cider and handed one to me. He drank his quickly. I sipped mine, looking at him with new appreciation. He really wasn’t all that unattractive, I decided. He was too lean, of course, and his features were too sharp, but there was something undeniably fascinating about those moody brown eyes and those wickedly arched eyebrows, that long nose, those wide lips. I began to understand why Solonge had chased after him. He noticed me studying him. I lowered my eyes and felt a blush tinting my cheeks.
“Are you vicious?” I asked.
“I can be,” he replied, “if the need arises.”
“Will was afraid of you.”
“So are a lot of people.”
“I—I suppose you’ve been in an awful lot of fights,” I said. “I suppose you had to learn to be vicious. They—they must have taunted you terribly when—when you were younger.”
“The Bastard was taunted, yes. The Bastard learned to fight dirty. After bloodying a number of noses and breaking a couple of arms and dislocating a few shoulders, The Bastard wasn’t taunted any longer. Is that what you wanted to know?”
His face was expressionless, his voice flat, but he still wasn’t able to conceal the bitterness that must have been gnawing at him from early boyhood, that consumed him still.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I said.
“A well-brought-up young lady like you shouldn’t even be seen in my company. Tongues will wag. People will talk.”
“They can go sod themselves,” I told him.
A faint smile curled on his lips, so faint it was barely discernible. I felt a poignant emotion welling up inside me, a tenderness I never believed I would feel for him. It took me completely by surprise. For years I had told myself I detested him, and now … now I wanted to be kind to him. I wanted to alleviate the pain he had lived with ever since he was old enough to realize he didn’t belong. An accident of birth had made him an outcast, a pariah, and I wanted to make it up to him. What I felt was more than mere compassion. It … it was much stronger than that.
“Finish your cider,” he said sternly.
I did, and he set the empty glass on the stall and curled his arm around my shoulders again as we walked away. The night was beautiful, everything bathed in a soft glow—the tents, the stalls, the people around us—and the glow came from within me. Never, never had I felt so safe, so secure, so happy. Never had I felt so complete. It was … it was as though a vital part of me had been missing until now, and now, at his side, his arm wrapped loosely around my shoulders, now I was truly whole within. This feeling had come over me all at once, it seemed, and I was slightly dismayed, slightly bewildered, but I reveled in it nevertheless.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I’m—I’m not hungry.”
We passed in front of the fortune-teller’s tent, and now it seemed lovely with the faded gold and silver symbols sewn onto the ancient purple cloth. He asked me if I’d like to have my fortune told, and I shook my head again, for I already knew what my future held in store. It hadn’t happened all at once. I realized that as we strolled past the dance floor with the soft colors swaying above. I had been in love with Hugh Bradford for years. I knew that now, and the realization filled me with a tremulous joy.
“Want to see the Petrified Man?” he asked.
“It’s really just a rock,” I said, “carved to look like a man. They’ve been using the same rock for years.”
“Want to watch the dancing bear?”
“It always makes me sad.”
The faint smile flickered on his lips again. “You don’t want anything to eat. You don’t want to have your fortune told. You don’t want to see any of the exhibits. Why did you come?”
“I told you. I—I was lonely.”
“I know the feeling well,” he said.
“Why did you come?” I asked.
“Same reason Will Peterson did.”
“To get drunk?”
“To find myself a woman.”
“I—I see,” I said.
“Looks like I succeeded,” he told me.
He tightened his arm around my shoulders and the glow inside spread until I could feel it in my fingertips, in my toes, coursing through my veins like a glorious elixir. He no longer thought of me as a child, a noisome brat always getting into mischief. He saw me as a woman, and I was truly a woman at last. The Angie I had been all these years had been miraculously transformed, seemed but a distant memory, and I was filled with new emotions, new instincts, a new wisdom as well.
We strolled past the gypsy caravans, the gilt and garish colors bathed in flickering orange torchlight, shadows dancing on the ground. Cooking utensils rattled. A dog barked. Hugh scowled as a dark gypsy man approached us with a cap in his hand. The gypsy muttered a curse, retreating. Hugh seemed lost in thought, silent and content to stroll aimlessly with his arm curled so casually, so naturally around my shoulders. He had been so very unhappy for so many years, but that was going to change now. I was going to make him forget those bitter years. He belonged now, and neither of us need ever feel lost or lonely again.
I smiled as we passed the booth where one tossed hoops at the stake, hoping to win one of the gaudy dolls propped on the shelves in back. Hugh asked me why I was smiling and I told him how in years gone by I used to to
ss the hoops and never once got them all around the stake, never won a doll. He sighed and slowly uncurled his arm from around my shoulder and asked me which doll I wanted. I told him I was much too big for dolls now and he scowled and ordered me to pick one. I smiled again and pointed to the prettiest doll of all, a porcelain lady with blonde hair and a blue hat with tiny blue plume and a blue gown spangled with tiny gold stars.
“That one? It’s yours,” he said.
“She’s very special,” I told him. “You have to get all the hoops around the stake three times in a row, you can’t miss even once. No one’s ever been able to win her. She looks a bit dusty, poor thing.”
Hugh stepped over to the counter and spoke to the man behind it and gave him some money and the man handed him a big pile of narrow wooden hoops. He moved back a few steps, squinted, tilted his head to one side and then tossed the first hoop. It sailed smoothly through the air, whirling around the tall stake ten feet away, as did the second, the third, the fourth. He was utterly relaxed, didn’t seem to concentrate at all, seemed bored, in fact, yet all the hoops went spinning around the stake.
Several people had gathered to watch, and the number of spectators grew as the man behind the counter retrieved the hoops and gave them back to Hugh. Hugh nodded and began to toss again. The man stepped back, forcing a hearty smile onto his plump lips. “’Ey, look! It’s Th’ Bastard!” someone shouted. “’E’s tryin’ to win th’ special doll!” Hugh’s spine stiffened and he hesitated a moment, but he didn’t turn around. He tossed the next hoop. It hit the top of the stake, shimmered, almost went over the other side. I sighed as it toppled and rattled noisily down over the stake. The spectators cheered, and Hugh continued to toss and ten minutes later the plump man behind the counter reluctantly handed him the doll. Several people applauded. Hugh scowled and thrust the doll into my hands and then walked briskly away, shoving a man out of his path.
Angel in Scarlet Page 10
