Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

  ‘So you have no curiosity to learn the contents of the letter held by Withers. Withers & Blenkinsop?’

  ‘Letter?’ She was all bewilderment.

  He laughed. ‘Oh, what an actress you are, to be sure. You’ve seen Lithgow’s Journal.’

  Her eyes slid away from him. ‘It’s all conjecture, Sir Guy. No one knows if my husband made another will, let alone if a copy of it is still extant.’

  ‘So what is in the mysterious letter?’ he asked softly. ‘I’ll warrant you have discomforting suspicions. Have you now taken the wise precaution of telling Thomas? No, of course not, you’re still insisting there never was another will.’

  She rose. ‘Think as you wish, Sir Guy. Good day.’

  He inclined his head graciously, and then looked down into Cathedral Lane, where evidence of the mob’s rampage was all around. Windows were being repaired, and labourers carried buckets of water to complete damping down the smouldering bakery. Jane’s carriage emerged from the inn yard, its wheels leaving tracks in the layer of wet ash on the cobbles as it turned toward Northgate Street. Returning to his coffee, he mused on the fate of the missing money, and again found his thoughts turning to a dirty, dark-haired girl in rags who not only knew how to distinguish between Moselle and Rhine wine, but was also carrying a basket that, according to Dickon, contained a remarkably heavy pheasant. Yes, it was possible that the fragrant Miss Bessie Alder knew more than she should about the stolen money. She’d been in the right place at the right time, and certainly was not what she appeared to be.

  *

  The guard on the Cheltenham Rocket blasted his bugle as the stagecoach lurched and bumped out of the Plough on time. The clouds were lifting and a watery sun shone as the wavering notes of ‘Cherry Ripe’ echoed along the High Street. Beth sat quietly inside, holding her reticule protectively as the team came up to a spanking pace. She leaned her head back on the drab upholstery. ‘Forgive me, Jake,’ she murmured, her head moving to the rhythm of the coach.

  Chapter Five

  At noon Guy strolled across the sunny cathedral close toward a handsome double-fronted house near King Edward’s Gate. It had a stone-flagged path and colourful flowerbeds, and was, he’d been informed at the inn, the residence of Mr Francis Prettyman, the former magistrate who’d been Esmond Tremoille’s closest friend. He’d also been informed that the old gentleman had suffered a seizure a month ago, so maybe there was nothing to gain by visiting him, but there might, just might, be something to be learned here. Tilting his top hat back on his head, he walked up the path to the dark-blue door and reached for the gleaming brass knocker. The rapping sounded inordinately loud in the passage beyond, as did the hurrying female footsteps that came in response. A flustered housekeeper in a large mobcap opened the door. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Is Mr Prettyman at home?’ Guy removed his hat.

  For a moment she seemed at a loss for words. ‘Well, Mr…?’

  ‘Valmer, Sir Guy Valmer, Mrs…?’

  ‘Ferguson. Sir Guy, my poor gentleman is in no state to make acquaintance with anyone. He is not himself, nor will be again.’

  Guy was at his most sympathetic and charming. ‘It is a great tragedy, Mrs Ferguson, both for Mr Prettyman and for you, so let me be honest. My desire is to look around the house.’

  ‘The house is not for sale, sir.’

  ‘Of course not, nor do I seek to purchase it. I merely wish to look for something, a document that is of great importance to me. I have no wrongdoing in mind, I assure you.’ He dangled a five-pound banknote in front of her.

  She stared at it. ‘Look around?’ Without further ado she snatched the note and stood aside for him to enter. ‘Mr Prettyman is in his bed, sir, the third door on the left up the stairs, otherwise you may look where you wish. I’ll ask you no questions, and you’ll give me no reasons.’ Inclining her head, she hurried away across the stone-tiled hallway, past the rather splendid staircase and then down a narrow passage toward the rear of the house.

  Guy glanced around. Closed doors lined the hall, and daylight penetrated a fanlight above the front entrance. The smell of beeswax and honeysuckle drifted from the only piece of furniture, a small console table upon which stood an empty dish for cards, and a vase of flowers. He went to the nearest door, and looked in at the dining-room. A cursory inspection told him there was nothing to be found there, for it contained an oval table, six chairs, and a sideboard with a display of reasonable plate. There were landscapes on the wall, and candlesticks and a garniture of oriental jars on the mantelshelf. He looked in the sideboard, but there were no papers at all.

  The door directly opposite opened to a blue and oyster-silk drawing-room, small but elegantly furnished. He searched thoroughly, and was about to leave when he looked again at a small portrait, a watercolour of Esmond Tremoille not long before his death. Something about it aroused Guy’s curiosity, and he returned to take it from the wall. It was sealed at the back with the usual glue and brown paper, but a touch revealed the paper to be oddly cushioned. Removing the jewelled pin from his neck cloth, he drew the point carefully along two sides of the brown paper, and then looked inside to see a folded vellum document. As he drew it out carefully, he was confronted by the seals of Esmond Tremoille and the lawyer, Beswick. Hardly able to credit his amazing good fortune, he stared at it for a moment, before the awful thought struck that it might simply be another copy of the will that left everything to Jane Tremoille. So he unfolded it to examine more closely. The brevity of the contents made him want to laugh out loud. I, Esmond Zachary Pentewan Tremoille, being of sound mind, hereby revoke all previous wills and leave my entire estate to my daughter Elizabeth Mary Dorothea Tremoille. The date was a week before Tremoille’s death.

  Guy pushed it inside his coat, and then replaced the painting. Suddenly the reacquisition of his family’s stolen lands seemed much closer, and if Fate’s benevolence continued, his bride would soon be within his grasp as well.

  The team of six oxen moved slowly south of Gloucester, en route for Frampney, and the heavy, cumbersome wagon trundled awkwardly behind them. Gloucester’s bustle was no more, and the oxen ambled placidly along the causeway that crossed the sunlit meadows and marshland of the Severn floodplain. Rosalind had made herself as comfortable as possible among sacks, casks, tea chests and other necessities. She was deep in thought, clutching her bundle of belongings, and staring back at the city she was leaving for the first time in her life. There’d be no more of the Barker tavern, no more avoiding Ned’s wandering hands, and no more hunger, because her father would be his own master. Prodding a sack of grain, she wriggled a little, and then sat back, her eyes on the road, where puddles filled the ruts and the smell of dung was released in the midday heat.

  She was terrified of dropping the money she’d purloined, because her father would know in an instant what she’d done. Conscience didn’t figure in her outlook. Nearly 500 guineas was hers now, so she’d bide her time, wait for the love of her life to come along, and then run off with him to live happily ever after. Dad would never know; well, not until she upped and left, and anyway he only needed twenty guineas for the forge. He’d be happy with that. She smiled a little smile, and closed her eyes. It was so easy to forget that none of this would have been possible were it not for Beth Tremoille. Rosalind didn’t want to think of Beth. Ever again. Jake and the carrier walked beside the wagon, the latter a plump fellow sucking a blade of grass in a manner as bovine as the oxen. He was sixty years old, and wore a smock and a frayed straw hat. His fat cheeks were ruddy, his eyes so deep-set their colour was indeterminate, and his uneven teeth were discoloured from chewing tobacco. He wasn’t much of a man for talking, but Jake made him curious. ‘So, Frampney forge interests you, eh?’

  ‘If it’s still available.’

  ‘It was this morning. Old Matty Brown’s past it now, and falls asleep with that darned pipe of his. He’ll have the lot up in flames around him one day.’

  ‘I met Matty and his wife yesterd
ay and I think they liked me.’

  ‘Well, as you’ll be the first man to come up with the cash, you’ll be made very welcome. I’m Johnno Walters, by the way, and I do all the fetching and carrying for Frampney.’ He extended a large paw.

  Jake accepted it. ‘Pleased to meet you, Johnno. I’m Jake Mannacott, and the wench in the back is my daughter, Rozzie.’

  ‘Why did you decide to leave town for the sticks?’

  Rosalind had heeded Beth’s advice and warned Jake not to mention his sudden good fortune. ‘Oh, what with last night’s riots, and the promise of more trouble to come, Gloucester’s no place for a young girl.’

  ‘Too right. Darn me, but it’s come to something when honest men feel driven to go around smashing stuff up and robbing. It’s what the likes of the bloody Frogs do, not us.’ Johnno shook his head gloomily, and silence returned for a while.

  ‘Is there much trade in Frampney?’ Jake asked then.

  ‘Squire Lloyd’s got some grand high-steppers, and his son, Master Robert races a lot. There’s a good few farmers; the doctor’s got two cobs, and there’s Lord Welland at Whitend, of course.’ Johnno pointed west, where the five-gabled roof and chimneys of a large old house were visible above the trees. ‘He’s got a racing stud, and often uses Matty when his own smith can’t cope.’

  ‘I’ve heard tell that Welland’s hard on his nags.’

  ‘Well, he’s no angel, that’s for sure. There was a fright in Frampney a few years back, when it seemed Squire Lloyd was going to sell up to Welland. My God, you should have heard the mass sigh of relief when it didn’t happen.’ Johnno grinned. ‘There’s some who say Welland’s not quite right in the head these days. The Severn’s in front of Whitend, and the new canal passes behind it, and someone I know well said Welland’s suddenly got the frights about being drowned. He seems to have got into a rare old state, convinced the river will bust its banks and the canal too, and no one at Whitend will survive. It’s a wonder he hasn’t started building an ark!’ The carrier wheezed with laughter. ‘Anyway, yes, there’s plenty of work at Frampney forge.’ He cleared his throat and lowered his voice so Rosalind wouldn’t hear.

  ‘Listen close now, Jake, you’re the father of a ripe young wench, so I have to tell you something important. Master Robert Lloyd’s a handsome hosebird and philandering alley cat who’s left many a bastard in his wake without acknowledgment. You keep a strict eye on your little wench, Jake, because you mark my words, he’ll take one look and get a dick-itch.’

  ‘If he lays one finger on my Rozzie, I’ll tear his throat out with my bare hands,’ Jake breathed, but nodded his gratitude. ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  Johnno flicked his whip and whistled at the oxen, then looked at Jake again. ‘Master Robert excepted, you’ll find Frampney mortal quiet after Gloucester. Squire Lloyd’s a good landlord, fair when need be, and he’s got prosperous farms. There aren’t any manufactories or new-fangled machines to take our livelihoods away, so there’s no unrest.’

  Two hours later the ox-wagon lumbered slowly into the wide village green at Frampney and stopped on the corner. Jake looked from the three duck ponds to the forge, and the sheds and little wisteria-hung house behind it. A wisp of smoke rose from the forge, and the sound of metallic hammering drifted on the air. He tugged his cap firmly on his head, grabbed his belongings from the wagon, and then held his hands up to help Rosalind, but she wouldn’t let go of the bundle. He was impatient. ‘Chuck it down, Rozzie, What have you got in there anyway? The Crown bloody Jewels?’

  ‘Just my things,’ she replied, climbing down awkwardly without assistance.

  He turned to Johnno. ‘Thank you, friend.’

  ‘It was a pleasure, Jake.’ Johnno pointed the whip toward a tavern across the green. ‘I’ll see you tonight over at the George and Dragon, and introduce you to a few folk.’ Johnno whistled and cracked the whip, and the oxen strained forward again, making for the general stores, which lay beyond the tavern.

  Jake looked at Rosalind. ‘You wait here with our stuff, and I’ll get on over to the forge. Wish me luck.’ She watched him walk away, and then sat patiently on the verge, her chin in her hands as she stared around. Were all village greens like this? So wide and long? And the houses were all so neat and tidy, with flowers in the gardens and pretty curtains at the windows. Her eyes came to rest on a mansion behind a tall wall with fine gates. It must be Squire Lloyd’s house, she thought, wondering about Robert Lloyd. She’d heard everything Johnno said about the squire’s son, and felt a thrill of excitement. How good it would be if he tried to seduce her. Not that she’d let him.

  When Jake presented himself at the forge, where a groom was holding a bay hunter for which a new shoe was needed. Matty Brown continued to hammer for a moment, his skin shining in the glow of the roaring fire. He was a huge man with an immense belly, and was short of breath, He paused to wipe his brow. ‘So, you’re back again?’ he asked in a rasping voice. ‘You’ve got twenty guineas?’

  ‘Guess so.’

  Matty nodded toward the horse. ‘All right, let’s see your work. Finish what I’ve started. Mind now, for it’s the squire’s nag, so do a good job.’

  Jake removed his old coat. ‘I don’t do bad jobs, Mr Brown.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ rasped Matty, sitting heavily in an ancient chair and reaching for his clay pipe. Two horses he’d seen to this morning. Only two, and yet his damned heart was flapping like a great pigeon. Phoebe was right, he couldn’t manage any more, and if this young fellow could shoe a horse, then there was a place for him at Frampney forge.

  Jake worked the horseshoe, getting into the rhythm of the hammering, and each blow on the anvil was like ridding himself of everything. He gritted his teeth, bringing the hammer down with such force that the sparks flew high around him. The horse stirred, turning its head to watch, and then starting as the fiery shoe was plunged into the bucket of water. Steam rose, and the water seethed. Jake ran his hand gently over the horse’s flank. ‘Right, my handsome,’ he murmured, ‘let’s be having a look at you.’

  A shadow darkened the doorway as Matty’s wife came in with a brimming mug of ale and paused a moment for her eyes to get used to the light. She was small and plump, with a pleasant, good-natured face and rosy cheeks. Her white hair was coiled into a knot and hidden beneath a simple mobcap, and she wore an old-fashioned, pinch-waisted lavender gown, with a clean white neckerchief around her comfortable shoulders. ‘Well, now, Matty Brown,’ she declared on seeing Jake, ‘I thought from all that wild hammering that you’d had a new lease of life. I should have known better.’ She pressed the mug into his free hand.

  ‘I reckon I’ve got a new partner, Phoebe.’

  Jake paused to smile at her, his muscular body aglow in the light of the forge. ‘I’m pleased to meet you again, Mrs—’

  ‘Just Phoebe,’ she broke in quickly, ‘there’s no formality here. I’m pleased to meet you again too, Jake. In fact, if I were a couple of years younger, I’d make that fine body of yours very welcome indeed!’

  Matty guffawed. ‘Get on with you, Phoebe Brown. A couple of years? More like ten or fifteen!’

  ‘I know what I mean, you old curmudgeon, and I know my way around a man’s flesh. You had a body like that once, until you took to sitting around with ale and a pipe.’

  ‘Yes, and you were a slender slip of willow once too,’ he countered.

  Phoebe laughed and bent to kiss the top of his head, and Matty nodded as Jake finished the horse. ‘You’ll do, my friend, you’ll do.’

  Jake’s face showed his relief, then he remembered Rosalind. ‘I’ve got the money, like I said, but I’ve a daughter too, name of Rosalind. I must get somewhere to live. Do you know any rooms to let?’

  Phoebe brightened excitedly. ‘Oh, well now, we’ve rooms, eh, Matty? The front bedroom and the back attic. Both are good, dry and warm in winter. How old is your girl, Jake? And what happened to your wife?’

  ‘Rosalind’s sixteen, and my wife, God
rest her soul, died four years back.’

  Phoebe eyed him. ‘And there’s no woman in your life?’

  ‘There was, but she left. There’s just Rosalind and me now.’

  Matty turned to his eager wife. ‘Reckon it would please you, eh?’

  ‘Oh, Matty, you know it would!’ She gave him a huge hug.

  Matty held his hand out to Jake. ‘It’s a deal, Jake Mannacott. You’re welcome, and so is your daughter. And I’d be obliged if you’d call me Matty from the outset.’

  Jake was almost overwhelmed. This was his dream alive and shining, but wounded and bleeding too because Beth wasn’t sharing it with him.

  Guy returned to the Crown with the will, but on entering his room was startled by a lilting female voice. ‘Well, now, if it isn’t my handsome English rover.’

  ‘Maria?’ He turned to see her lying on the bed, a delightfully curved figure in a loose pink silk robe. With flaxen hair and amber eyes London’s favourite actress was a very unlikely Irish beauty.

  ‘And what other lady would you expect to take this liberty?’ she enquired, sitting up and allowing him a full view of her long, shapely thighs and the cluster of dark hair at her crotch. Her breasts were full and creamy white, with dark nipples that thrust against the robe’s dainty fabric.

  Guy removed his coat and draped it carefully over a chair before regarding her. ‘I trust you did not travel in such a state of erotic undress?’

  ‘What, and allow the common people to ogle Puss?’ She smiled. ‘You are the only one I permit to see that, sir, although right now I’m a little miffed with you for obliging me to toddle all the way down here to satisfy my appetites.’

  ‘Is that what I’m good for?’

  ‘My darling, it’s what you’re superb for,’ she murmured. ‘So superb that I’ll have you know this is the fourth inn at which I made enquiries before finding you.’