Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

  ‘Dad?’ Rosalind turned to look at him. ‘Girls put up their hair at seventeen.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he began, ‘there’s time enough to be a woman.’

  ‘Please, Dad,’ she begged. ‘I’ve been practising by this mirror.’

  ‘Such vanity.’ But he gave in. ‘Go on then, if you must, but Rozzie, don’t grow up too fast. Stay a child while you can.’

  He left and she immediately slipped out of her old linen gown to look at her naked reflection in the mirror. There was nothing of the blacksmith’s daughter in her pale, clear skin, or in the beauty of her face. Her body wasn’t thin and scrawny any more, but was beginning to fill out because of Phoebe’s wonderful cooking. Now there were curves coming in all the right places, including her breasts, which had always had large firm nipples. Slowly she slid her hand down into the dark hair at her groin, and then pushed her fingertips further down, into the moist warmth between her legs, back and forth, back and forth. Oh, how good it was; how she enjoyed the way her nipples hardened more, and how she loved the excitement that began to work through her. It was like satisfying a hunger; well, almost satisfying it. Drawing her hand away, she pouted at her reflection. Giving herself pleasure wasn’t the same as going with a lover. She could have any boy in the village, but had set her heart upon Robert Lloyd, even though she had yet even to see him because he was away. Everything she’d heard about him excited her. He was going to be her first and only lover, and she’d be so dear to him that he’d ask for her hand. Then she’d be mistress of Frampney! He’d filled her thoughts since she arrived here, and when he came back, she’d be his destiny. How glad she was now that she could read, write, and speak properly. She told herself these accomplishments were her own doing, plucked from the air and polished by her own endeavours. Beth Tremoille had no hand in it. Mrs Robert Lloyd would not have a lowly background as she and her dashing husband danced a wicked waltz at court. The thought of this glittering life reminded her of the money. She’d hidden it under the bottom drawer of the chest in the corner, and had so far resisted the temptation to look at it. When the time was right, it would be her dowry.

  Hearing a horse cantering slowly along the far side of the village green, she looked out of the window. The twilight was deceptive, allowing her to see through the shadows and make out a young gentleman, hatless, riding a prancing cream horse toward Squire Lloyd’s house. There was something magical about the scene, an unearthliness that was due entirely to the bands of uncommon crimson sunbeams shining horizontally between trees and cottages from the far western sky. Bewitched, Rosalind held her breath. The horseman wore what she thought was a pine-green coat and grey breeches, but the colours were hazy. His shoulder-length fair hair glinted almost amber, and his horse was alternately cream and coral as he rode through the wrought-iron gates of the manor house. Was it Robert Lloyd? Yes, it had to be. A groom ran from the stables to hold the horse as he dismounted, and Rosalind melted back from the window as he seemed to look right across at her. Phoebe suddenly opened the bedroom door, and Rosalind snatched up her old gown and held it against her body. ‘You gave me a fright!’

  Phoebe smiled, her eyes moving shrewdly to the window, just as the young man ran up the shallow flight of steps and disappeared into the Lloyd residence. ‘Here now, let me help you.’ She held the new gown for Rosalind to step into, and then raised it until she could fasten the tiny bodice with its little puffed sleeves. ‘So Master Robert’s back again, is he?’ she murmured. ‘That’s a real Friday the thirteenth for Frampney. Don’t go looking at him now, little wench, for he’s bad.’

  Rosalind flushed. ‘I wasn’t—’

  ‘Yes, you were. Now, I may not be your true family, sweeting, but you’ve no mother now and I think it’s my place to watch over you, whether you like it or not. Master Robert’s gentry, and gentry don’t mix with the likes of you unless they’ve got dishonest designs. Are you listening now? Master Robert Lloyd is a wicked lot, Rozzie Mannacott. Handsome, and dashing as the day is long he may be, but there are fatherless babes in these parts that deserve his name. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve only just seen him for the first time!’ Rosalind protested.

  ‘Then see that you don’t get to know him. I warn you, I’ll tell your father if I have any cause to worry about it. Right?’ Phoebe smiled. ‘You’re a pretty wench, sweeting, and one day you’ll find a fellow who’ll treasure you. Now then, take a look at the present from Matty and me. Well, go on.’ She took a pair of green satin slippers from inside her apron.

  ‘Oh, Phoebe, they’re beautiful!’

  ‘Yes, and God-alone daft for Frampney, but the sort of foolish things I’d have given my eye-teeth for at your age. Matty got old Baggy Anders to make them.’

  Rosalind suddenly flung her arms around the countrywoman, tears filling her eyes. ‘Oh, thank you, Phoebe, thank you, thank you, thank you!’

  ‘Mind now, lovey, have a care, won’t you?’ Phoebe nodded in the direction of the manor house, and then went to the door again. ‘I’ll go on down now and set out the feast. I killed one of the fowls today, so we’ll live well tonight. And you’d best know, your Dad’s asked Jamie Webb along.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Rosalind was incensed. Jamie was a stupid village boy who was always pestering Matty or her father to take him on to learn blacksmithing. So far, thank goodness, they’d both said no.

  ‘Jamie’s got a soft spot for you, Rozzie.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got one for him.’ As the door closed behind Phoebe, Rosalind sat sulkily at her little table with its faded mirror. She brushed her long fair hair, and then twisted it up into a rather insecure knot to which she pinned a white ribbon bow. Then she thought of Robert Lloyd again. The fact that a few silly village girls claimed he got them into trouble made him even more dangerously attractive than before. He wouldn’t get her with child until she was his wife! Humming to herself, she went downstairs to the low-ceilinged kitchen, which was filled with the appetizing smell of a cooked chicken resting in front of the fire.

  Jake stared at her, and Matty took his pipe from his mouth. Phoebe smiled as proudly as if Rosalind were her daughter. ‘There now, what did I tell you? She’s as pretty as a picture. Come over here, Miss Seventeen, and be head of the table.’

  Jake drew the chair out and she looked up at him. ‘Dad? Do I look well?’

  He put a hand to her cheek. ‘You look like your mother, Rozzie. It’s been so long now, I’d almost forgotten how pretty she was.’

  ‘You loved her better than Beth, didn’t you?’ she whispered, but he didn’t answer. Why did she always have to spoil things? He’d loved his wife and Beth. He loved Rozzie too, but there were times when she tested that love severely.

  Phoebe brought a steaming pan of meat juices to the table and stirred flour into it. ‘Matty, bring that cabbage water. That’s it.’ Stirring like a demon, she looked at Jake as he sat down again. ‘When did your Bethie die, Jake?’

  Rosalind stared darkly at the gravy as Jake shook his head. ‘My wife was Annie.’

  ‘Oh, I thought— Well, you talk in your sleep and one evening in that chair you spoke really lovingly to someone called Bethie.’ Seeing Rosalind’s stony face, Phoebe felt awkward. ‘Well, perhaps I misheard. Anyway, where’s that foolish Jamie Webb? Is that him at the door now? Come on in, Jamie!’

  Jamie stepped nervously into the kitchen, twisting his hat around in his hands. He was a burly eighteen, with wiry mud-coloured hair and freckles, and was dressed in his best clothes, which were at least a size too big, having been his late father’s. Matty sat forward. ‘You saved yourself by the skin of your teeth, Jamie. Phoebe was about to come after you with a meat cleaver.’

  ‘Good evening,’ Jamie said, swallowing. ‘The – the fowls got out and—’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ Phoebe interrupted briskly, taking the gravy back to the fire. She checked the bubbling pots of runner beans and potatoes. ‘There, everything’s ready. Get
the perry, Matty.’

  ‘We’re having perry today?’ Rosalind had thus far ignored Jamie.

  Jake grinned. ‘Well, you’ll only have one seventeenth birthday, eh? Mind your manners now, Rozzie, and greet your guest as is right.’

  She looked unwillingly at her admirer. ‘Good evening, Jamie.’ How she hated him. He was so ordinary and dull, so tongue-tied and awkward all the time, that she was embarrassed to be seen walking with him, and now he was spoiling her day.

  ‘Rosalind, I’ve brought you something. It’s not much, but I thought you’d like it.’ He put a little box on the table in front of her.

  She smiled stiffly, and just looked at the box, much to Jake’s disapproval. ‘Get it open then, Rozzie,’ he said a little sharply.

  She obeyed and her lips parted when she saw the carved wooden pendant inside. It was in the form of a knot of rosebuds, and was very beautiful. She held her breath as she took it out. ‘Why, Jamie, it’s lovely!’

  ‘It took me a good few nights.’

  ‘You made it?’

  ‘Aw, well, I bought the ribbon,’ he said, his face almost fiery. ‘It’s a bit of hazel, and good against the eye.’

  Rosalind tied it carefully at her throat, and Phoebe beamed. ‘There, now you’re fit for the king’s palace, eh?’

  Jake laughed. ‘Yes, and – what’s that fancy nob place in London called? – Alma’s? Yes, that’s it, Rozzie. You could bend a toe with the dandies there. Well, sit down, Jamie, you look like a row of left legs.’ Grinning, Jamie slid into the seat next to Rosalind, just as Matty brought an earthenware jar from the pantry and poured deliciously cool perry into five cups.

  Jamie turned to Rosalind. ‘A puppet show was set up by the George and Dragon about an hour ago. If you’d like to see it, I’ll take you.’ His voice was strained because he was besotted with her.

  Rosalind would love to see a puppet show, although not with Jamie Webb. But he’d taken trouble with her necklace and she could sense her father’s annoyance rising again, so she smiled as pleasantly as she could. ‘I’d like that, Jamie. Thank you.’

  Jake changed the subject. ‘Jamie, what was going on over at the squire’s bailiff’s this afternoon?’

  ‘Williamson’s Bank has called in some tenants’ loans.’

  Matty nodded wearily. ‘Yes, that’s what I was told too. Things aren’t looking good. It’ll be really bad come Michaelmas.’

  Phoebe tutted. ‘Matty Brown, this is Rosalind’s birthday feast!’

  ‘I’m only repeating what’s on everyone’s tongue these days, Phoebe.’

  ‘Repeat it sometime else.’

  The meal went off well, and afterward Jamie took Rosalind to the puppet show. It was dark now, and the night breeze had turned unexpectedly cool, but Rosalind was determined to show off her birthday finery. Goose pimples stood out on her arms, and the chill seeped through the shawl Phoebe had prevailed upon her to wear. She told herself that maybe Robert Lloyd would come to see the show, or perhaps it was too vulgar a thing for someone of his breeding. Villagers had already congregated by the makeshift Punch and Judy stand. Nearby there were six horses tethered behind a large covered wagon, and light was provided by torches on posts knocked into the grass. Rosalind heard cheerful violin music and then saw a dancing monkey leaping about in time to a foot-tapping jig. ‘Oh, look! A monkey, a real monkey, I’ve never seen one before!’

  ‘I saw it in Gloucester last year. It’s a clever thing. Watch now, and it’ll take a bowl and go begging. See?’

  Rosalind watched the tiny creature holding up the little bowl. ‘Give him something, Jamie; go on, please, for I want him to come closer!’

  Jamie searched in his pocket. He only had a few pennies, but to please Rosalind he’d have given them all. Bending down, he held one out, and the monkey loped over the grass, bright eyes like shining beads in its little wizened face. Jamie dropped the penny into the bowl, and Rosalind reached out to touch the soft brown fur, but the creature bounded back toward the wagon in which the show and its people travelled around the countryside. Once there, it sat on the canvas roof with the bowl.

  Rosalind laughed. ‘If he begins to count it all now, I won’t be surprised.’

  Jamie looked taken aback. ‘Don’t be daft, it’s only an animal.’

  Her smile faded. On top of all his other faults, he had no sense of humour! She pressed her lips angrily together, promising herself that this was absolutely the last time she would go near Jamie Webb, no matter what her father or anyone said to the contrary. Drawing her shawl closer, she looked around the crowd. The sooner the show began, the sooner it would end and she could be rid of him. To her relief the little curtains on the Punch and Judy stand opened and the performance began, allowing her to ignore Jamie without seeming to.

  Later, at the end of the show, as a man moved through the crowd with a wooden bucket into which coins were dutifully dropped, an educated voice suddenly spoke behind Rosalind and Jamie. ‘Good evening, Webb.’ They turned sharply, and Rosalind saw it was Robert Lloyd. His gaze was upon her, calculating and sensuous and, as their eyes met, her heart lurched, her mouth ran dry, and she felt heat rush into her cheeks. She had never been introduced to an eligible young gentleman before and she could not have chosen to appear to better advantage than right now. A glow began to kindle deep inside and she gave him a brief smile before looking away again, as if he was of little interest. But she found him very interesting indeed; intensely so. How handsome he was, she had never seen a man more handsome in her life. His hair was so light, and his blue eyes, dark-rimmed and pale-lashed, were mysterious in the dancing light of the torches. His elegance made Jamie more oafish and clumsy than ever.

  Jamie snatched off his hat. ‘Master Robert?’ he gasped.

  Robert’s eyes remained on Rosalind. ‘Won’t you introduce us, Webb?’

  ‘Rosalind – I mean, Miss Mannacott – this is Master Robert Lloyd.’

  Robert inclined his head. ‘Robert Lloyd,’ he murmured, noticing her little satin shoes. Well, she was a pretty thing, and prepared to flirt with her eyes. But was she prepared to spread her legs? He’d certainly do his damnedest to persuade her. He smiled as she deigned to offer a neat little curtsy.

  ‘Master Robert,’ she said softly, keeping her eyes lowered until the last moment and then bestowing a fleeting smile before looking away again.

  Robert’s glance descended between her breasts, and then moved up the graceful line of her neck to her averted face. ‘Mannacott? So you’re the new farrier’s daughter.’ The breeze caught his long hair and blew it softly across his face, caressing his skin just as she wished to caress it. ‘How fortunate that I have a horse to be shod tomorrow. I trust I will see you then, Miss Mannacott.’ He bowed and was gone, moving away through the dispersing crowd.

  Jamie breathed a sigh of relief, and looked at Rosalind. ‘Come on, or your Dad will be after me.’ He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away. Walking hand-in-hand would imply they were sweethearts.

  He was embarrassed, but tried not to show it. ‘Did you like the puppets?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she replied, then added, ‘Master Robert’s very handsome.’

  Jamie realized she had more than a passing interest in the squire’s son, and halted to look intently at her. ‘Have you got notions for him?’

  She flushed and took refuge in indignation. ‘Don’t be stupid, Jamie.’

  ‘I’m not stupid; I leave that to the wenches. Master Robert’s always getting his dick out and giving it exercise, as more than one wench around these parts has got lasting proof. Nothing will stop him while his father owns practically everything around here. Someone will get him one day, though, those with womenfolk like my sister Jenny, who was messed about with good and proper. I tell you this for nothing: if he goes near you, I’ll get him!’

  She pushed him away. ‘And what right do you have to say who comes near me and who doesn’t?’ She ran toward the forge, and didn’t look back.
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  As masked balls went, Lady Fenton’s was a wild success, but it was a pity the invitations to her home in Kensington had not specified that it was also a fancy dress ball. Consequently the hostess, her family and close friends were all clad in extravagant costumes, whereas the rest of the guests arrived in conventional ballroom finery with masks and dominoes. A country dance was in progress as the clock neared two in the morning, and there was a great deal of stamping, clapping and whooping. The blue, pink and gold ballroom was a sea of jewels, plumes and fine silks, of medals, uniforms and tasteful black velvet. Unfortunately the whirling sets were also dotted with fancy dress; here a knight in shining armour, an Arab sheikh and a horn-helmeted Boadicea, there a cavalier, an Othello and a plump fairy queen.

  Lady Fenton was Diana, complete with leopard skin and quiver of arrows. She was of Amazonian proportions, and had it not been that she was considered one of the finest hostesses in the capital, her costume would have been judged lewd and improper because sufficient bosom was displayed to do justice to a fashionable King’s Place brothel. Her brown doe eyes had been angry all evening because she had no one to blame but herself for the mistake on the invitation. It was especially galling because she’d wanted tonight to be perfect for the seduction of Guy Valmer. He was marked to be her next lover now that he was blessedly free of Maria Carberry, and if she failed to lure him to her bed, she would be ill; positively, indubitably, unavoidably ill! She observed from the side of the ballroom as the country dance ended, but he was nowhere to be seen. Then she remembered the card room. Ah yes, that was his likely lair. She began to make her way toward a fine Ionic colonnade that marked the way to the great vestibule and most other rooms, including the card room, where he had indeed been, deeply engrossed in play, until a chance glance out through the colonnade made him pause.

  A young woman in the nearest set of the country dance was laughing and clapping as she wove in and out, and she was so like Beth Tremoille that he left the table to lean against one of the columns. Dark-haired and beautiful, she wore a silver-green tissue gown that he felt Beth might also have chosen, but there the similarity ended, because the dancing lovely lacked Beth’s grace, style and, he’d lay odds, her wit and intelligence. There was something rather vapid about this young woman, and vapid was something Beth could never be. Even when dressed like a beggar and plucked from the wayside fainting from hunger, Beth Tremoille had a certain something, a glint in her green-hazel eyes, a tilt to her jaw, and a quick word. Beth was a woman to conquer, and the conquering would be very enjoyable. He considered returning to the card room, but then Lady Fenton whispered in his ear. ‘Now, sir, why are you interested in that simpering miss in green?’ She sidled around him, so close that her breasts brushed against his arm. Then she stood in front of him, those same breasts thrust provocatively forward.