Moon Cutters

by Janet Woods

  He turned to Fletcher when the door closed behind Jack. ‘This is very inconvenient, Fletcher. I expected you before this. Are you going to be tedious about something? If you are, get it over with.’

  ‘You know very well why I’m here, uncle.’

  ‘Ah yes … the delicious Miranda. You didn’t really think I’d allow you to snatch her from under my nose, did you?’

  ‘We love each other, and were to be wed this morning. As you probably know.’

  ‘I make it my business to know everything.’ He chuckled. ‘How fickle of Miranda, when just this morning she consented to be my wife.’

  Shock seared through Fletcher’s innards. ‘I’d hear it from her own lips before I’d believe it.’

  ‘At this time she will be asleep, so come back in the morning.’

  ‘I’m not leaving until I see her.’

  ‘Very well.’ He rang the bell on his desk and Jack came in. ‘Ask Mrs Pridie to fetch Miss Jarvis down, please.’

  A full five minutes ticked by on the mantle clock before Fletcher set eyes on Miranda. Her hair was a glossy fall about her shoulders, but her eyes lacked their usual sparkle. She looked as though she’d been crying for half the night.

  Sir James came around his desk and pulled her against his side. ‘My nephew here is under the impression that you intend to wed him.’

  She turned her eyes his way and he saw pain in them. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t marry you, Fletcher. I’m going to wed … him.’

  ‘You don’t mean that, Miranda. You can’t.’

  His uncle’s fingers dug into her waist under her ribs, and she winced. ‘Yes … I do mean it. I … love him.’

  The way she’d dragged it out made it sound more like ‘loathe’.

  ‘You love me; that’s what you said.’

  ‘No … no … please understand … I cannot love you.’ She burst into tears, then tore herself from his uncle’s grasp and ran from the room.

  ‘She’s overwrought. Go after her, Pridie; make sure she gets to her room safely. Give her a sleeping draught to settle her; I’ve prepared one in the scullery. Then come down and see my nephew out – through the servant’s entrance, though.’

  ‘I can see myself out.’

  ‘No doubt you can, Fletcher. I hope you are now satisfied. A word to the wise: if you attend the reverend’s funeral, I suggest you act more appropriately to your age. The girl doesn’t want you, so from now on leave her alone. You might as well know that I’m going to have the wall between our properties rebuilt, and I will hold you personally responsible if it is damaged again. What’s more, I intend to dissolve the company. My lawyer will contact yours in due course with regard to the sale of company assets. By the time all the debts are paid, there will be very little left. I believe Silas took out a loan on the Abbey not long before he died. I’ve already instructed the bank that I’m going to buy the mortgage.’

  His uncle was whistling down the wind. Fletcher owned the Abbey free and clear. It had never been a company asset, since it had belonged to Silas. The deeds were in his possession and in his own name. The money he’d paid for it had been handed back in the form of a legacy. The Lady Miranda also belonged to him, since his own money had paid for it and his own money was paying for its repairs.

  ‘And I’m going to sell the Midnight Star and Lady Miranda.’ When his uncle smiled, Fletcher tried not to allow his dismay to show.

  ‘You forgot to tell me about that little deal.’

  ‘You won’t get Lady Miranda. She’s in my name and bought and paid for with my private funds. I started the shipping company from scratch, and can do so again if need be. I’m not going to allow you to destroy everything I’ve worked for over the past few years. You can have Silas’s estate for the price I paid for it if you’ll hand Miranda and her sister over to me.’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic, Fletcher; I’ve got you trapped there.’

  ‘I can go the long way round and will still have access to the estate by sea.’

  His uncle laughed. ‘Do stop wasting time. Most of your workers are in my pocket; nobody will work for you. Get out, and don’t come back. You and I are through, and if you step on my land, you’ll be treated like any other trespasser.’

  Fletcher gave him hard look. He was not about to hand over the two ships without a struggle. He’d worked too hard to get them.

  The slap-down smarted, and although Fletcher was neither convinced nor satisfied by the little scenario that had been played out, he couldn’t march up to Miranda’s bedroom and drag from her what he knew to be the truth of her affections. He had no choice other than to leave.

  He’d hardly got outside when Mrs Pridie came scurrying after him. ‘Quick, take this. Miss Jarvis wants you to have it.’ Pulling a bundle from under her apron, she thrust it at him. ‘She said to tell you to read it.’

  He detained her for a moment by catching hold of her sleeve. ‘Look after Miranda as best you can, Pridie. And if you ever need a safe haven, you and Jack can come to Monksfoot.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but your uncle has been difficult lately and thinks only of himself. Don’t you worry about me. Jack has made a bit from what goes on, and we have something put by, so we’re going to move on.’

  ‘Sooner might be a better time than later. Good luck then, Pridie.’

  ‘And to you, sir.’ She kissed his cheek, then turned and slipped inside, locking the kitchen door securely behind him. Fletcher was tempted to creep around the house and wait, to see who his uncle’s guests were, but he didn’t. He could quite easily guess. It was sufficient to know that Miranda still loved him. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have bothered sending him a message.

  Miranda stood at the window gazing out. She was done with crying.

  Dawn had brought cloud and an early drizzle, but when the rain cleared and the sun came out, the mist rose and every leaf was washed clean. Spiders’ webs had transformed into lacy chandeliers quivering with refracted light. It was the type of morning for optimists, and Miranda would have loved to share it with Lucy.

  She felt sluggish and bad-tempered after getting hardly any rest, and was tempted to crawl back under the covers to seek the oblivion of sleep. She began to wish she hadn’t poured the sleeping draught away. A glance in the mirror displayed a face that was as haggard as she felt. Fletcher stood behind her and she wished he were anything but an image on the portrait. Something dark moved in the depths of the glass. At the same time, there was a gentle touch against her shoulder.

  Heart beating fast, she spun round and grimaced. Her imagination was playing tricks again. But, then, was it her imagination? It might be the ghost of Lucy. Perhaps she’d been killed and was coming back to let her know. Fear nearly swamped her and she bit back her rising hysteria.

  She washed and dressed, and then braided her hair, dragging it back from her forehead. She had no interest in adopting the role of lady of the manor with Sir James by her side, and saw no reason to try to look attractive for him.

  Gazing up at the portrait, she shivered, hoping Mrs Pridie had lived up to her promise of being trustworthy, and that Fletcher was in possession of the journal. ‘I love you and I believe in you, Fletcher,’ she whispered, and blew him a kiss. ‘Please believe me when I say that the monk is on your side.’

  Her glance fell on her sister’s lacy pink shawl, which was hanging over a chair. Picking it up, she held it to her face, before pulling it round her shoulders for comfort. ‘Where are you, Lucy?’

  The house was as quiet as the grave as she went down the stairs. There was usually a maid about, but not today.

  As she descended, she noticed the cellar door was ajar. She hesitated and looked around. There was a sense of waiting about the house. The steady tick of the clock was a reassuring noise.

  The dogs came from the kitchen and nosed about her ankles, looking for a scent of poor Caesar, perhaps. A faint waft of breeze came through the cellar door, a mixture of dry mould and salt.

  She was tempted
to brave the darkness, despite the creatures that reportedly lived down there. It was a cellar, nothing more. Sir James used it as a dispensary, and if the creatures didn’t hurt him, they wouldn’t hurt her.

  Nero pushed at her hand for a caress, but Roma was nosing at the shawl.

  ‘I know it’s not what I usually wear; it belongs to Lucy.’

  She remembered the dogs could track. Pulling off the shawl, she held it to their noses and whispered, ‘Good dogs … find Lucy.’

  ‘Stay,’ Sir James said from the top of the stairs, and the dogs instantly sat. He smiled at her, as though the night before had never happened. ‘You’re a resourceful young woman, Miss Jarvis. I think I may have underestimated you.’

  ‘The door was open and I was going to close it,’ she lied.

  His glance settled on her head. ‘I don’t like your hair like that.’

  ‘I don’t care whether you like it or not.’

  His voice became as tetchy as hers. ‘You’re being petulant, Miranda; it’s a lovely morning – don’t spoil it. Come and walk the dogs with me. You can help me compose my eulogy for the reverend.’

  ‘I’d rather be anywhere than in your company.’

  ‘Then allow me to please you in that regard.’ Taking her under the elbow, he thrust her towards the cellar door and pushed her down several steps. Taking a silver vesta case from his waistcoat, he struck a flame and applied it to a candle in a lantern. ‘There you are, my dear. You and your sister have always been too curious, and I wouldn’t want you to miss anything. As long as the candle lasts, you should be safe.’

  ‘You have my sister hidden in your cellars.’ Fear flew at her. ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘It’s possible. You might even find her if you look hard enough. I’ll be back in the morning to let you out, unless you find another way. Enjoy yourself.’

  He went back up and stood there a moment, framed in light, and then the door closed behind him. The key turned in the lock with a solid clunk.

  ‘Let me out,’ she said against the door panel, but all she heard was the sound of footsteps walking away.

  She sat on the steps and found herself gazing at racks of bottles – more spirits than a man could drink in one lifetime, though it wouldn’t take long to sell it on to a middleman and absorb it into the market. He was allowing her access to his secrets, allowing her to come to her own conclusions. She already knew more than was comfortable, and the time would come when she knew too much. Then he would dispense with her. The man must be insane to do what he was doing to her and Lucy.

  She saw no sign of a dispensary – but, then, she hadn’t expected to. Why would he even have one here where there was no natural light? Besides, Mrs Pridie had said it adjoined the kicthen.

  There was a door. It was open. Beyond it stretched archways of bricks. They supported the floor of the house above. She would be able to stand up straight, but anyone taller would be forced to stoop. The weight of the house above exerted an imperceptible downwards pressure. There was tension, too, a constant minutiae of adjustment as the house pulled this way and that. The archways were overburdened in some places and cracks had zigzagged down them, following the mortar and allowing bricks to shift sideways.

  What if it collapsed on top of her?

  ‘Then you’ll be squashed,’ she said out loud. Releasing the obvious didn’t reassure her one little bit, since her voice was high and breathless with fright.

  When she heard a noise in the darkness that sounded like a footfall, prickles crept up Miranda’s back and she began to perspire.

  The candle flickered and she remembered the draught … and Sir James saying there was another way out. She intended to find it!

  Gingerly, she stepped forward, knowing that while there was brickwork, then she was still under the house. She was brought to a sudden halt by a wall of stones.

  There was a furtive movement at her feet and her imagination exploded. Snakes … spiders … giant rats!

  Too frightened to look down, she was frozen to the spot with fear.

  There was a tiny squeak and a mouse found courage to streak up the wall in front of her. It disappeared into a hole.

  She gave a hysterical giggle and her breath came out in a relieved rush. She felt her way along the wall. Her head brushed against a sticky mass of web and she jerked it away, shuddering and pulling at it as it clung to her face and hair. ‘Ugh.’

  Not stopping to check the contents of the nest, she moved in the other direction and came across a door. A flight of steps led down into the earth.

  She sat on the top one and gazed into the bottomless pit, trying to pierce the darkness to get her bearings. The cellar door was on the left side of the house and the adjoining rooms were the kitchen and pantry complex. Beyond that was the stables … further still was the church with its small cemetery where the reverend would be buried tomorrow. Ugh, she hoped no graves blocked her way.

  There was a faint sound of water running. It was the chalk stream that ran through the meadow, she thought, but the thought also held some caution. It went underground for a while before turning into a spring just before the old cemetery. But it had been raining. What if the stream swelled to fill the tunnel? Best if she turned back, since Sir James had said he’d let her out, come morning.

  She turned and was about to retrace her steps when she heard a faint sob.

  ‘Lucy!’ she yelled and her voice echoed from several directions.

  ‘Miranda … I’m scared.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I went to bed and I woke up here. I thought I was having a nightmare … but it’s going on too long. It’s dark and I’m hungry and thirsty.’

  ‘Try not to be scared, Lucy. I think we’re in the cellars under the house.’

  ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she lied, for she knew very well who had done this to her sister. Sir James had drugged them both on the night of her party and had then taken Lucy from her bed as she slept. And the crime was being used as a lever for a forced marriage. As soon as she got Lucy out of here, they were going to Fletcher’s house where they could hide.

  Half an hour later, she’d explored several tunnels, and the candle was burning low.

  ‘My lantern won’t last much longer,’ she called out. ‘I’m at the top of some steps going down. Call out now and then, so I’ve got a direction, and tell me if you see the light.’

  Miranda advanced carefully down the stairs. The stream stopped her progress. ‘I must have come the wrong way. I’ll have to go back.’

  ‘Don’t leave me by myself,’ Lucy begged. ‘Even your voice is better than nothing. I can see a light through a crack, but it’s very faint, like a candle guttering in melted wax. I think it’s you.’

  Disregarding her own safety, Miranda waded into the water and along the tunnel. It gradually deepened until it reached her waist, then her breasts, so she had to lift her arms to keep the lantern out of the water. The flow was quite strong, as though it had started to go downhill, and the bed of the stream was slippery. Beginning to feel panicky, she called out to her sister, taking comfort from hearing her voice. ‘Are you still there, Lucy? Talk to me now and again.’

  Her sister began to recite a poem, and her voice came from above. Miranda placed one hand against the tunnel wall to steady herself while she tilted her head to look up. She saw the light of day and gave a cry of relief, for another couple of steps and she’d be submerged if she wasn’t careful. Her hand closed around something wooden and she swung the lamp round. A ladder!

  Her feet suddenly slipped from under her. She let go of the lantern, which was swallowed by the rush of water. Plunged into darkness, she gave a terrified cry and made a grab for the ladder with her free hand. Her fingers hooked over a rung on the ladder. The flow of water lifted her legs so she floated; her skirt was saturated with the water and trying to pull her under.

  Gradually, she managed to pull herself upright, and aft
er a short rest to recover some energy, she took a step upwards. She rested and looked up. She could still see daylight, but there was hardly any strength left in her body, especially her arms. As she couldn’t go back along the tunnel against the flow of the water, she had no choice but to go up.

  It seemed to take all day. One step and rest, another step and rest. Her muscles ached from the effort, and her teeth chattered from the cold – or was it nerves? A metal grid was over the top of the hole, obviously there to stop anyone from falling down the hole. When she pushed it, it swung open on creaking hinges and clanged against the flagged floor. There was a frame with a bucket and handle. It was a well.

  She closed the grid and stood there for a moment, her skirt leaking a river of water on to the floor. It weighed her down and she allowed it to, sinking face down on to the dirty flagstones to rest. After a while, she found the energy to look around her. She seemed to be under the church in a crypt, for there were lines of stone tombs with effigies on them.

  A faint light came through small dirt-encrusted windows near the floor. Shrubs had been planted on the other side, which served to keep anyone from looking out – or looking in! Several brandy kegs and some packages told her this place was used for the storage of smuggled goods. Had the reverend been involved in it, too?

  Lucy must be in one of the tombs. She shivered, and tears ran through the dirt on her face. How macabre a hiding place it was; her poor sister must be terrified. She knocked on the nearest one. ‘Lucy?’

  No answer.

  She tried the next one … then the next. A ludicrous picture came into her mind, of a corpse opening the lid to poke his skull out and say, ‘Ah, I have visitors at long last – do come in.’ She stifled a hysterical giggle.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ she told herself loudly, but it must have been, because she giggled again as she banged the heel of her shoe against the container.

  Unexpectedly, it provided her with an answer. There was the effigy of a woman on the lid. Her nose was missing. Miranda jumped when there was a muffled knock in return and Lucy yelled, ‘Miranda … I’m in here! See if you can find a door.’