by M. L. Welsh
Father was already at the table reading his paper, peculiarly dressed in a thick jumper and scarf which he wore over his dressing gown. His breakfast lay untouched.
Clutching at straws, Verity wondered whether perhaps Henry might be used to tempers, having six brothers. ‘Do boys mind hurtful comments as much as girls?’ she asked.
Mr Gallant moved his paper to one side and stared distractedly at her. He was sweating profusely. ‘Only if they care about the person who made them,’ he replied. Patting her hand reassuringly, he added, ‘So you should be fine.’
Verity watched silently as he concentrated on buttering a piece of toast. He had always been off in a dream world, but there was something very different about him now. Why did only she notice it? She’d tried mentioning it to Mother and Poppy, but according to them it was simply another example of her overactive imagination.
Verity was sure there was more to it than that. She shrank slightly at the thought of having even fewer people on her side.
Verity sat on the bed in her new room. Even reading the book couldn’t take her mind off things: she was no closer to figuring out why Abednego had given it to her, and every story she read was so horrible it made her feel worse.
There was once a woman who was a real witch, and her soul was as black as charred wood. The witch had a servant girl who was both beautiful and good, and she hated her with all the blood in her heart.
Now, the servant had a sweetheart, and when the witch saw him she desired him very much. ‘Stay with me,’ said the witch, ‘and I will give you as much gold and silver as you can carry, for I am wealthy.’ But the sweetheart was as noble and honourable as the servant girl was beautiful and good, so he refused.
The two lovers agreed that night to hurry away on the sweetheart’s boat. But the witch learned of their flight and called up a mighty wind, which dashed the little boat upon the rocks. The witch waited on the shore for the pair, whom she had commanded to be washed up. And when they crawled out of the sea, she killed first the sweetheart in front of the servant girl. Then she took the servant girl home, where she threw her about the ground until she was dead.
Tales of murder and torture have increased in frequency over the last two hundred years [the notes read]. Her appetite for cruelty appears to grow with each century. References to blackened souls are also numerous. An oblique allusion to outward appearance?
Verity wiped a tear from the side of her nose. The half-term holiday stretched out like a vast expanse. Perhaps Father was right: maybe Henry didn’t actually like her that much anyway – and if he had before, he’d certainly have been put off her now.
She reached under the bed for the strange wooden ball, turning it over and over in her hand, listening to the familiar click and rattle. Holding it up to the light, she frowned. Perhaps if it made a noise, it was meant to open? Pressing her fingertips on either side, she strained to pull it apart. Sure enough, a gap showed. Excitedly she applied more pressure.
The wooden casing clicked open with a snap. Inside was a white marble ball. Verity gazed at it curiously. It didn’t look as if it would come out. She spun the marble round in the wooden casing, then shrieked. The ball fell to the ground. Gazing at her from the other side was an extremely realistic eye.
Picking it up, Verity noticed that the room seemed infinitely still. She thought of her trip around the Storm on the ferry.
The eye of the Storm’s figurehead – it had to be, she thought, turning it around in wonder. Abednego had given it to her, after all. And the eye was famously missing – that had been plain to see. But why would he give it to her?
Turning it over, she realized that if her parents knew, they’d insist she hand it back. Verity felt a pang of concern at the mere thought. It was her talisman. She had better keep it hidden.
Hurriedly she snapped the wooden ball shut and stuffed it into her coat pocket. A thought occurred to her. She should go to Henry’s house to apologize. It wasn’t a very attractive prospect: his mother and brothers must be really cross with her too. But she knew she would feel terrible until she’d done it.
Verity knocked anxiously on the front door of the Twogoods’ house. Even though Henry had explained they rarely used it, it seemed a little presumptuous to walk round to the back. A few doors up, a dog barked, but this house was very quiet. They must all be out.
Verity turned to walk back down the path. As she reached the gate, she heard muffled cursing. Someone was trying to open the front door despite the heavy mass of coats, hats and scarves that hung from it.
Turning round, Verity saw a man of medium height and solid build. He was handsome in a sturdy and dependable way. In his vest and trousers, with salt and pepper hair askew, he looked like someone who had recently been asleep and was not particularly pleased now to be awake. Verity swallowed anxiously: this must be Henry’s father.
Walking back up the path, she smiled nervously to break the ice, gripping the strange wooden ball in her pocket. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ she said, ‘but I was looking for Henry.’
Mr Twogood stared at Verity for a second. ‘ ’E’s not here. Gone fishing with his brothers,’ he said. ‘Told ’em to take ’im so I could get some sleep,’ he added pointedly.
Verity had spent the entire walk to Henry’s house rehearsing her apology. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be in when she got there. She stared limply at Mr Twogood, overwhelmed with disappointment.
Henry’s father decided to put an end to this fascinating discourse. ‘I’ll tell ’im you called,’ he said, and shut the door.
Verity stared at it, then headed for the gate – only to hear the sound of coats, hats and scarves being shoved against the wall for a second time. She waited for Mr Twogood’s head to appear once more.
‘Gallant girl, was it?’ he asked. Verity nodded mutely. Mr Twogood appeared to be thinking. ‘Hmph,’ he said, and shut the door again.
Verity walked home slowly and sadly. Henry had clearly already told his family about her behaviour. Not that she could blame him. They probably all hated her now.
* * *
The first few days of Verity’s half-term dragged by. Father was still acting strangely while Mother was constantly tired from the pregnancy – and more than a little irritable as a consequence. Poppy had been invited to an even larger number of parties and events than usual, which left Verity on her own to fend off the worst of Grandmother’s jibes.
There had been no reply from Henry. Verity wasn’t sure if it was because she was hoping to hear from him but there seemed to be a cruelly higher number of callers that week. Each time the doorbell rang her hopes rose. But it was never for her. Henry must be really angry. She could have kicked herself for being so horrible to him.
‘No sign of the little fat boy?’ asked Grandmother, appearing silently and suddenly in the room where Verity was reading. How did she always manage to do that? ‘He’s probably laughing about you with his brothers,’ she mused, picking up Mother’s favourite porcelain figurine.
It was only what Verity believed herself, but it was horrible to hear it said out loud.
‘I expect you thought you were quite the daring little seafarer out there,’ Grandmother continued, holding the twee figure up to the light and examining it with distaste.
Verity’s heart sank. It was true. She really had believed she could be good at sailing.
The old lady glanced in her direction. ‘It’s your silent insolence that I find particularly trying,’ she said curtly. Still Verity couldn’t find any words that would ease the situation.
Astonishingly the little ornament suddenly leaped from Grandmother’s fingers and dashed itself on the hearth. It smashed noisily on the marble. Verity stared in amazement and horror.
‘Really, Verity,’ scolded Grandmother in a loud, clear voice. ‘Isn’t that one of your mother’s particular favourites?’
Mrs Gallant hurried into the room. ‘What’s all the commotion—? Oh.’ She knelt down to examine
the shattered pieces.
‘I did warn Verity to be careful. But of course she rarely listens to her elders and betters,’ soothed Grandmother.
Verity stared at her in outrage. ‘That’s a complete lie—’ she started.
‘Verity, really.’ Mother was holding the broken shards with evident sadness. ‘How dare you cheek your grandmother. To your room now.’
Verity opened her mouth to object once more and then shut it again. As she traipsed unhappily up the stairs, she reflected that thanks to her own stupid temper she didn’t even have Henry to confide in about her hateful relative.
She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to speak to her, but life without him seemed even lonelier than before. As much as she hated to admit it, Grandmother was right. Her one chance at having a friend, and she’d blown it. And to make things worse, it left her with no one to ask about either her grandfather or the Gentry. Why had Alice chosen now, of all times, to disappear off on a trip? Verity sighed. She missed her terribly.
* * *
‘Miss Cameron, the librarian, stopped me in town this morning,’ said Poppy, sticking her head round Verity’s bedroom door. Her sister was sitting on the bed dejectedly. ‘About a book. She asked if you could come in this week.’
Verity stared at her. A cold feeling hit her stomach. Had Miss Cameron realized she was in possession of the red leather-bound book? She wondered how much trouble she would be in. Was she technically in receipt of stolen goods?
‘Something you ordered? Quite a mystery actually …’ Poppy continued. ‘She asked me to be discreet when reminding you about it. Said it was a slightly delicate matter.’ She recited the last four words in a remarkably accurate imitation of Miss Cameron’s dulcet tones, then grinned. ‘I had no idea the world of librarianship could be so intriguing.’
Now Verity was confused. Poppy handed her a small brown envelope. She opened it gingerly. Inside was a reservation card. She stared at it in astonishment.
Title: Rafe Gallant and the Gentry of Wellow: A detailed history
Author(s): Dill, Pinkerton & Lane
Ref. no.: 375/6449
Hold for: 3 days from the above date
The library. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?
‘Everything all right?’ Poppy asked her sister gently.
‘Yes,’ said Verity. Then beamed. ‘Everything is fine.’
She practically ran to the library after lunch. Pushing through the red double doors, she looked around eagerly. Miss Cameron was sitting placidly at the entrance desk.
‘Ah, Verity,’ she murmured. ‘Here for that reservation?’
‘Yes please,’ said Verity, trying to hide her excitement.
Miss Cameron reached into a cupboard near her feet and extracted a slim green volume. ‘Reference only, I’m afraid. So if you could just read it here in the main hall, that would be extremely helpful.’
Verity took it, and Miss Cameron went back to her cataloguing. Verity stood watching her; she looked up again.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Not really …’ said Verity hesitantly. ‘It’s just that I don’t … I don’t recall ordering a book of this title.’
Miss Cameron smiled politely. ‘How extraordinary.’ She held out a hand. ‘Shall I put it back for you?’
‘No,’ said Verity quickly, clutching the book to her chest. ‘I mean,’ she corrected herself, ‘that won’t be necessary. Thank you.’
Going to the library each day to read the slim green book – and the many others that Miss Cameron subsequently excavated for her – did at least give Verity the opportunity to get away from Grandmother’s increasingly spiteful barrage of comments.
Compared to the battleground her home had become she found the library safe, inviting even. Miss Cameron was always pleasant and helpful in her quiet, reserved way. There was something very comforting about her reliable efficiency. And now that Verity was able to spend her time finding out more about her mysterious ancestor, nothing could have kept her away.
She didn’t know whether it was personal bias, but it seemed to her that the early history of the Gentry was fairly dull. To begin with they were just a group of men who spent a lot of time and effort bringing tubs of brandy or sugar across the Channel and then hiding them in apple stores or cellars. It was as the band of smugglers developed that things got exciting. In particular, once Rafe Gallant took over as leader – a topic the slim green book covered well:
Rafe Gallant inherited leadership of the Gentry from his father, James [Verity read]. He is acknowledged to have been the sole architect of the meteoric rise of the Gentry from low-level smuggling outlaws to vastly successful international businessmen of fame and repute. His influence was also the primary factor in the metamorphosis of Wellow from remote village to flourishing port and acknowledged centre of architectural excellence.
Verity eagerly absorbed everything she could find on her dashing grandfather.
Rafe’s efforts began with a focus on the smuggling infrastructure of Wellow. This was improved first through the introduction of a complex series of tunnels and escape routes, the engineering of which was at the time particularly advanced.
He invested heavily in the development of maritime systems that improved the process of smuggling as a whole, and devised many tools and techniques which were later adopted in both the commercial and governmental sectors.
She was enchanted. Rafe’s life sounded absolutely thrilling. How she would have loved to meet him – to be a part of the Gentry herself.
A keen and skilled sailor from an early age, Rafe was famously said to have the fearlessness of the devil and the precision of an angel. He prized good seamanship above all and was the sole founder of Wellow’s former School of Sailing, now sadly defunct. Rafe was also a generous sponsor of public amenities, such as the harbour master’s office, the Town Records Bureau and Wellow’s fine library.
No wonder everyone had assumed she could sail, Verity thought to herself sadly. It must seem extraordinary that someone as clumsy as her could be the granddaughter of such a sportsman. She obviously hadn’t inherited any of his talent. Perhaps the new baby might do instead?
Rafe’s reputation as a man of charm with a taste for high living proved difficult to shake. In the end it was this image that overshadowed the true portrait of a cultured businessman and great sportsman of keen intellect. Fatherhood came easily to Rafe, but the thing he nurtured with most affection was the enterprise of the Gentry. He left behind him many children, including three from his first marriage and two, Ruby and Tom, from his second to Rose, a much-loved wife who died in childbirth.
Verity stared at the book and felt a pang of loneliness. Ruby and Tom. Tom, her father. It felt so strange to see his name there; to be learning about his life from history books because he chose not to share it with her himself.
It was during Rafe’s leadership that the mythical Mistress of the Storm came to prominence as a key part of Gentry lore. The Mistress was said to be a fearsome witch who could control the weather. Used by the Gentry as a scare-tactic to keep opponents in check, they claimed that she sailed with the famous smuggling ship, the Storm.
Verity frowned. A witch who could control the weather. She knew she’d heard that name before: the Mistress of the Storm. She reached down to her bag on the floor and pulled out the red leather-bound book. It fell open at a page.
From that day forward her fate was sealed [she read]. For it is a crime against the universe to steal a child from those who love it, and each time she did so, another little part of her soul became tarnished and black. From that day forward the downfall of the Mistress was sure and certain.
The Mistress… Verity flicked rapidly back to another page, then another … She of the Wind is Mistress of the Storm … She goes by many names, and Mistress is one of them. For she demands obedience from every living thing.
Verity turned the book over excitedly in her hands. Of course. How could she have missed th
is before? The heroine was the Gentry’s Mistress of the Storm. But her excitement quickly turned to frustration – she was still no closer to understanding why Abednego had given it to her.
Verity meandered through the streets and paths of Wellow, in no hurry to return home before she absolutely had to. Finally she found herself at the park. She gazed down the stone steps that led to Alice’s road. It was silly, she knew, but she felt as if just walking past her home would be a comfort.
She opened Alice’s gate and went up the path. It felt uncharacteristically still, as if the property knew that its bustling owner was absent. The garden had been stripped back by Norton, the handyman, in preparation for winter. It was now only bare earth and exposed bushes. There was no consolation to be had here.
Turning back to head home, she realized that Miranda Blake was standing on the pavement, observing her with amusement.
‘Gallant,’ she lisped, sauntering confidently up Alice’s path. ‘Loitering here won’t bring her back, you know.’
How did Miranda know about her friendship with Alice? Verity was determined not to give her the satisfaction of appearing to care. Then she frowned. Strolling on the other side of the road was the strange long-haired boy. And he was staring at them.
Overwhelmed by curiosity, Verity couldn’t stop herself. ‘Do you know who he is?’ she asked.
Miranda looked at her superciliously. ‘Jeb Tempest?’
‘Tempest …’ said Verity, thinking what an unusual surname it was.
‘The Tempests of Tempest Bay, next to Soul Bay,’ said Miranda impatiently, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh dear, has he got your attention?’
Verity was taken aback. ‘Oh. No, that’s not what I meant. I was just curious because …’ She realized that explaining her interest was just going to make it worse. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘not for any particular reason at all really.’
