by Janet Woods
When Fletcher chuckled, and said, ‘I’ve never been called lovely before,’ Sir James’s hand tightened on her arm.
‘Shall we go in?’
Fletcher led Lucy in first and, after a short pause, Sir James followed.
They walked into a perfumed atmosphere, a humid bouquet of different flower scents. The mixture tickled her throat as Sir James presented her.
Miranda felt desperate. She didn’t want to be here amongst these people, whose conjecture about her relationship with Sir James was so plainly written on their faces. She didn’t quite know how to say no to him. He talked her out of things or into things and dismissed any thought she might have to the contrary.
These people hadn’t gathered to celebrate her birthday. Why should they do such a thing when they didn’t even know her? There were here out of curiosity, to discover if the rumours they’d heard were true.
She could see it in their faces – the women with their slight airs of malice and superiority, whispering behind their fans. The men were speculative, their eyes darting like wasps from her breasts, to her waist, caught there by the belling of her skirt, as if their eyes could undo the hooks securing it to her bodice. There their gaze would linger for a moment or two, as if they could see through it, before rising to her shoulders and face again. Then came the smile – the one that congratulated Sir James on his taste. She wanted to squirm.
‘Lucky dog, Sir James,’ one of them said quite openly, all the while kissing her hand. She felt like slapping him. Sir James’s hand tightened on her wrist as if he sensed her urge.
Then she wanted to laugh. Fletcher had kissed every part of her. She was his – she would always be his.
The torture of introductions seemed to be everlasting, but the atmosphere lightened when it was over and the music began to play. At last! She was able to relax her mouth, which had set in a rigid social smile that had caused her jaw to ache.
She danced the first dance with Sir James. It was for show, and as soon as they’d finished, he left her with Sarah Tibbets, who stared down her long nose at her and didn’t say a word. He went off to join a group of prosperous-looking men.
Miranda gazed around for Lucy and saw her in animated conversation with a pretty woman. She couldn’t remember her name – Susanna, perhaps. She was here with her brother, a rather weedy young man who looked scholarly and was staring at Lucy as if transfixed, with his mouth hanging open.
She was about to go and join them when Fletcher rescued her by swinging her out into the hall where the dancing was taking place. The small orchestra Sir James had hired took up the entrance to the left side of the staircase, leaving the right side for the guests to use as seats to observe the dancing from if they wished
‘You handled the introductions well.’
‘I hated being on show. I felt as though I was on trial and they were the judges. But they’d already reached a verdict before they met me. I could see it in their faces.’
‘Most of the people here have nothing to be proud of. Some are on the take or involved in whatever will bring them in money, whether honest or not. Mostly, they are all front and no substance.’
He sent Simon Bailey a wry smile, which Simon returned. It was the smile of two men who would have been friends if they were not standing on opposite sides of the fence.
‘You like him, don’t you?’
‘He has guts. He’d be a good man to have on your side.’
‘I have you on my side. I do … don’t I, Fletcher? I’m beginning to see and hear things I don’t like much, and I don’t feel as if there’s anyone I can trust except the reverend. He’s so sweet and innocent, like a child.’
His eyelids flickered. ‘Better you keep your eyes closed, trust nobody and say nothing, Miranda mine.’
‘That’s what Mrs Pridie said when she said I can trust her. Are you honest, Fletcher?’
He observed her, his eyes dark pools. ‘Poor little Miranda, you landed yourself and your sister in a pot of boiling broth when you tried to steal a loaf from my uncle. Have I done anything to make you think I might not be honest?’
‘No … but are you?’ she insisted.
‘Not entirely, but I do my best. I’d never willingly hurt man or beast, never cheat or steal, though sometimes I lie. I adore you, which must lean a little towards my favour, and I hasten to add that I’m being truthful about that. I’m also likeable and have a great deal of charm, don’t you think?’
She gazed up at him and laughed. ‘Yes, I think you possess an amazing amount of charm … now you’ve seen fit to point it out.’
He laughed. ‘Better we don’t stand here talking all night, since it draws the attention. Shall we do something entirely scandalous – dance the waltz?’
‘And that won’t attract attention?’
He grinned, ‘It might annoy some of the stuffed shirts.’
‘You know the steps?’
‘Certainly. On my last voyage aboard the Midnight Star, we had a passenger who knew all the dances and taught them to the other passengers, myself included.’
She didn’t fail to notice his grin, and when she grinned in return, he shrugged. ‘The lady was married and her husband was aboard. He wasn’t fond of dancing.’
‘Lucy and I learned how to waltz from watching our parents dance. They were so full of life; it seems such a long time ago now. Lucy is very much like our mother.’
‘It sounds as though your parents enjoyed their short lives together. Be happy for that, Miranda. Remember the good times, because grieving won’t bring them back.’ He caught the eye of the orchestra leader and traced a W in the air with his finger. The man nodded.
Fletcher swung her out on to the floor. The music attracted young and old, and the pair found themselves surrounded by onlookers. For the few minutes that they danced together alone, Miranda imagined they were the dancing couple on the musical box he’d given her. Gradually, others found the courage to risk censure and joined in. Miranda saw Lucy being whirled around by the reverend, who seemed to be enjoying himself.
Mrs Swift stood alone, staring at them, a sour look on her face. Miranda suddenly felt sorry for the woman. It must be awful to be so permanently angry.
When she smiled at her, the woman managed to return it before she turned her head away.
Looking as smug as could be, Sarah Tibbets sailed past in the arms of Sir James. They danced well together. Little did Sarah know that Miranda wasn’t a rival for the attention of Sir James.
Soon, the gasps and murmurs became laughter, and the hall was a whirling kaleidoscope of colour.
Fletcher drew Miranda closer and whispered in her ear, ‘Let’s go out on to the terrace. I’ll fetch you some punch.’
‘Will you do something for me first?’ she asked when he returned.
‘Anything.’
‘Dance with Mrs Swift. She looks so miserable.’
There was a moment of heavy silence before he spluttered, ‘She is so miserable.’
‘I know, but I expect she has reason to be. Do it for me.’
He heaved a heavy sigh and then laughed. ‘All right … I’ll meet you on the terrace afterwards.’ He handed her the punch.
It was quiet on the terrace, for the French windows hadn’t been opened yet. Most of the guests were enjoying the spectacle of the dancing, but the music filtered through the air. She placed the cups of punch on the low wall and watched the dancers.
The air was cool but not cold, and the coloured lights were confections that looked pretty enough to eat. The moon was high in the sky and sailing along, though she supposed it was the occasional clouds that were doing the sailing.
As she sipped at her punch, she couldn’t resist peeking through the open doorway. Somehow, Fletcher had persuaded Mrs Swift on to the floor and they were slowly circling around, while Fletcher taught her the steps. Her lips were pursed into a tight smile, as though she was afraid to allow it to relax into laughter.
Before too long she was dancing
easily, and James handed her over to her husband just before the dance ended and went waltzing off with Lucy. There was an animated buzz in the room now. The orchestra leader announced a quadrille and the dancers organized themselves for the event. Lucy was talking to a rather elegant woman and the man with her. Miranda couldn’t remember being introduced to them; they must have arrived late. Lucy looked as though she was enjoying the party.
Fletcher was making his way through the crowd, stopping to exchange a few words or smiling at people.
Eventually, he joined her and kissed her forehead.
Miranda finished her punch in a couple of gulps and gave a little shudder. It was deliciously sweet and had a crisp, fruity undertone that was warm, yet it slaked her thirst and left her tongue feeling clean. ‘What’s in this?’
He picked up a cup and smelled it. ‘Hmm … it’s one of my uncle’s cure-all spice and herb recipes. He keeps the basic condensed mixture in an oak keg in the wine cellar and dilutes it according to the purpose he needs it for.’ Taking a sip, he rolled it about his mouth and then swallowed it. ‘It’s got brandy in it as well as ginger, herbs and fruit juices diluted with water.’
‘He should bottle it and sell it. It tastes like wine, only it’s sweeter and crisper.’
Fletcher chuckled. ‘He probably does bottle and sell it. My uncle is an enterprising man. It’s a perfect brew to use in fruit punch. It has rather a strange effect on me, though. I have a sudden urge to kiss you.’
She laughed and moved closer. ‘I have the same urge, Fletcher. Putting the cup aside, she slid into his arms and sought his mouth with her own.
She couldn’t believe she was so in love with this man – and that he loved her in return. When the kiss ended, he looked down at her, his eyes gleaming with reflected starlight. ‘I have the licence and Reverend Swift has agreed to wed us in private. We can make our vows tomorrow at eleven. He has also agreed to keep the matter a secret.’
Although she had no qualms about a hasty marriage union with Fletcher, Miranda was beset by uneasiness and felt guilty about deceiving his uncle. ‘Sir James will be angry when he finds out.’
‘By which time you’ll be my wife and he won’t be able to prevent it.’
‘Even if he knew, how could he prevent it?’
He ran his finger down her nose. ‘Believe me, this is the best way. He is unpredictable, and at least you won’t have to face him alone, my love.’
They moved apart when they heard footsteps.
Sir James appeared and gazed from one to another. ‘Ah, the pair of you are out here … You have not danced with your host yet, Miranda.’
She could barely meet his eyes. ‘I needed to quench my thirst and Fletcher brought me some punch. He said you made it yourself and we were discussing the quality of it. It’s quite delicious.’
‘It has many uses, depending on its strength.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Come, my dear. It’s not a wise policy to ignore either your guests or your host so completely.’
Reminded of her manners, she smiled at Fletcher, trying to hide her regret. ‘You will excuse me, won’t you?’
‘Only under protest,’ he said and kissed her hand.
‘Oh, by the way, if you see the reverend anywhere, kindly tell him his wife is looking for him.’
‘It depends how happy he looks.’
Sir James laughed, saying drily, ‘Extremely, I should imagine, since he was last seen heading towards the coast with a bottle of my best brandy under his arm. I doubt if he’ll get very far.’ Tucking Miranda’s arm into his, he led her back inside.
Fifteen
Beyond the bay, the crew of the revenue cutter turned the ship about and headed for the harbour at Poole, satisfied they’d find no smugglers abroad on this bright night. There had been a French fishing boat that had strayed too close to the coast earlier. She’d carried no contraband but a mess of fish, and they’d flung a few common curses at each other, exchanging insults.
‘Fils de salops!’
‘Bugger off, frogs.’
‘Nique ta mere! Englishman!’
‘You leave my mother out of it … she’s still a virgin.’
If the officers hadn’t been so preoccupied with the sport, and had looked up before the French fishing boat came between them and the shore, they would have seen a man crawl from the water.
As it was, the cutter was showered with stinking fish guts until the crew trained their gun on the Frenchies. The fishermen understood that gesture in any language, and had turned tail and sailed off, the crew singing La Marseillaise at the top of their voices.
Shortly after both ships disappeared from sight, the Wild Rose came over the horizon. She was heavy in the water. The men would place the goods in various hiding places – under the floor in the drying sheds, the inn, under the altar in the church or hidden in tombs and haystacks – from where they’d be distributed.
Fletcher Taunt would turn a blind eye, because although he’d inherited Silas’s estate, he had no power to enforce his will against that of his uncle single-handedly. His workers owed him no loyalty. Tom Pepper ran things, as he always had, hand in glove with Sir James.
Another firework bloomed and a reflection of red flames danced on the surface of a stranger’s eyes. The man was dressed like a monk and gazing down at him. ‘Do you need help?’ When he pushed back his cowl, his unruly shoulder-length hair was damp.
‘Do you have some?’
‘I might.’
Reverend Swift peered at the man. ‘You’re no ghost, but you look familiar. I think we’ve met before. What’s your name?’
The figure chuckled. ‘We haven’t met before … and it’s a cursed name.’
The moon sought out the pits and scars, bringing them into relief so he looked as though his face had been carved from shining stone. One side of the face was paralyzed. But the other side was strong and mobile when he talked.
The reverend recognized him then. Laughter rattled out of him like the last gusts of a banshee retreating back into its den. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Adrian Taunt.’
‘You know my name?’
‘It’s whispered in the shadows. I understood you to be dead.’
The man chuckled. ‘I am dead. What you see before you is my wretched remains. Now I must go. They’ll be bringing the contraband ashore soon.’
‘They will fill the church vaults with it and desecrate the souls of the dead.’
‘Better that than to corrupt the souls of the living.’
‘Would you have your own child drawn into that corruption? You’re a man of the cloth. Forget your revenge.’
The eyes glittered. ‘Ah yes … my son. So far, he’s allowed him to live.’
‘Sir James loves him.’
‘My half-brother is incapable of love. All he craves is power.’
‘Then help me put a stop to what’s going on here. Help me back to the church. I urgently need to write a letter … two, in fact.’
‘Nothing will stop me from taking my revenge.’
‘I know.’ The reverend wished he was going to be around to witness it.
He was in a jovial mood. His wife hadn’t bothered him all evening. The brandy provided by his host was powerful, better than he’d hoped for or deserved, and the sky was so clear he could almost see right into heaven.
Now he had to expose his conscience before his maker – and not for the first time.
He sat amongst the long-dead with his back against a tombstone. ‘I’m sorely troubled, Lord,’ he said, taking a fortifying swig from the bottle, because talking to God took courage – something he was often short of. ‘And you send me a monk who is as troubled as I am.’
‘Tell me what troubles you,’ the monk said.
‘I know He sent me here to save the souls of the sinners, but unfortunately the opposite seems to have happened and the sinners have captured my soul. I’m powerless to stop it. What have I done to deserve such misfortune?’
The reverend smi
led as he remembered the Jarvis girls, so sweet and innocent. The older one was shining and doe-eyed with love. He’d watched her with young Fletcher on the terrace together, experienced the sweet lust in the kiss they’d exchanged. Such a long time since he’d experienced that – if he ever had. He couldn’t remember.
He’d promised Fletcher Taunt that he’d sanctify their marriage vows on the morrow. But James Fenmore wanted the girl too, and he usually got his own way.
‘Not this time,’ he whispered. Sir James couldn’t have his own way on this, since he wouldn’t learn of the marriage until after it had taken place.
‘Those that God hath joined let no man put asunder,’ he called out, and began to laugh. ‘Though if by chance you saw fit to silence Mrs Swift’s harping – by making me deaf perhaps, since I wouldn’t wish any affliction on her – it would indeed be a blessing.’
‘Your wife is a good woman. Like most women, she wanted a hero.’
‘There are no heroes in this cursed place.’
Someone had lit a candle in a lantern. Odd how he’d never seen it earlier. It was as though they knew he would be here, examining his sins with this monk, like a good wife hanging washing on a hedge to dry and checking the whiteness for stains.
The moon climbed slowly up out of the sea. It was round and perfect and almost white, resembling the crumbly cheese produced in the district. In front of it was the menacing shadow, a cutter cleaving the moon in half and hunting for prey.
Perhaps God had lit the lantern so he wouldn’t feel quite alone with the darkness of his mind.
He winced when pain rippled through his stomach. Another drink would cure it. This was good brandy. The spirit had been created by vines harvested in France. Grapes had been crushed underfoot by peasant maids, their skin as brown as earth, their laughs husky. The wine was like a torrent of melted rubies gushing from the gutters, the fruit musky and ripe. The grapes split open to the pressure of feet stomping on the flesh to release their promise in a torrent of fertility.
