Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

‘Damned loose dogs worrying around the oxen, sir.’ The wagoner snatched off his floppy straw hat.

  ‘The George and Dragon has a wagon, has it not?’ Robert spoke to Johnno, but smiled at Rosalind, his eyes wandering quite obviously over her. Phoebe glanced anxiously at the girl’s flushed face and shining eyes.

  ‘Yes, Master Robert,’ Johnno replied, turning the hat in his hands.

  ‘I’ll inform them when I reach Frampney.’

  Johnno was taken aback. ‘Well, thank you, Master Robert, thank you kindly.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do.’ Robert was still looking at Rosalind. ‘Will someone worry if you don’t return when expected?’

  He knew she did, she thought, but answered politely. ‘Yes, sir, my father, and Matty Brown will be worried about Phoebe.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ He held his hand down to her suddenly. ‘Prince can more than carry the two of us, Miss Mannacott, and then you can inform them in person that all is well and they are not to be anxious.’

  Phoebe grabbed Rosalind’s arm warningly, but he swung the girl up before him, looked down at Phoebe for a moment haughtily and then kicked his heel.

  Johnno exhaled slowly. ‘She’s a mite young, Phoebe.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that, you daft curmudgeon? Oh, damn you, Johnno Walters, you and your blasted grass! He took her right under my nose!’

  Johnno went to the wagon, produced a bottle and pulled the cork out with his teeth. ‘Get some of this inside you and shut up for a bit, eh? I was watching that girl’s face, and can tell you here and now that she was more than willing to sit up there with her arse pressed back against his—’

  ‘Don’t you say anything more, Johnno! Not one word!’ Phoebe took the bottle, drank some, and then spluttered. ‘Dear Lord, what is this?’

  ‘Black rum.’

  ‘I hate to think what makes it black!’

  ‘I don’t give a sod provided it gives me a nice glow. Well, there’s nothing we can do except wait for the other wagon. Do you play cards?’

  Robert’s arm was around Rosalind’s little waist as the horse cantered easily along the lane toward Frampney. ‘Have you been to the wedding, Master Robert?’ she asked in her best voice.

  ‘Yes. To ignore such a glittering occasion would be to tread upon influential toes. The champagne was tolerable, but that’s about all I can say.’ He began to slow the horse. ‘Why are we rushing these sweet moments away?’

  She blushed. ‘You shouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Why not? Doesn’t Webb pay you compliments?’

  ‘Jamie Webb means nothing to me!’ she said crossly.

  Robert smiled. ‘Poor fellow, to be so utterly excluded from your thoughts. So if you’re not Webb’s sweetheart, whose are you?’

  ‘No one’s, nor have I ever been.’

  She was a virgin? His interest quickened, and blood pumped into his loins. He’d like to be the first blade to pierce the flesh of this comely little peach. Through the soft stuff of her gown he could feel that she wasn’t wearing stays, and he pulled her closer, the better to rub his arousal against her without her realizing. She thought it was just the saddle. ‘May I call you Rosalind?’ he murmured, his excitement increasing.

  ‘I don’t think that would be right, Master Robert.’

  ‘Why? Who would know, except you and me?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone else might hear and tell my d— my father.’

  He noticed how she corrected herself. She was better spoken than her father and could drop her Gloucester accent if she tried. He reined in. ‘Soon there will be cottages and folk to see what we do, which will stop me taking payment.’

  ‘Payment?’ Her eyes widened apprehensively.

  ‘A kiss. Just one kiss,’ he begged sensuously.

  She knew that if she had any sense right now she would slip down to the ground and tell him to ride on without her, but she couldn’t. ‘You shouldn’t talk to me like that, Master Robert, it’s not right.’

  ‘Many of the best things aren’t right. Don’t you wish to kiss me?’

  ‘Oh, but I do!’ The foolish words slipped out.

  ‘Then I shall grant that wish,’ he murmured, taking her chin in his gloved hand and tilting her mouth to meet his. Her lips parted. His kiss was very soft; his breath tasted of cognac and she could smell the scent of lemons on his clothes. When he was sure of her response, his hand moved from her chin, slid down the whiteness of her throat, and then to her breast, cupping it expertly so he could take her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She gasped nervously and began to pull away, but his arm was too strong about her waist. His lips claimed hers, and he continued to roll her nipple with his thumb and forefinger. Amazing feelings began to tighten her breasts and quicken her pulse. The pleasure she’d previously had to give herself now came of its own accord, making muscles twitch in her crotch and causing her senses to revolve. She felt both faint and fully awake, and wanted him to kiss her forever, but he brought it to an end. This little peach was one to consume at leisure, and to the full. So he smiled at her flushed face, kissed her forehead and without another word moved the horse on again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the first day of August, Beth looked critically around her newly decorated bedroom at the Dower House. Blue silk wallpaper, blue brocade hangings on the bed and a blue and beige carpet. Too much blue, maybe? She considered a moment. No, with the cream figured-velvet curtains at the windows it was utterly perfect – if a little extravagant. But she could afford to be a little extravagant. Her life was comfortable and moved from day to day with an ease she had almost forgotten. Billy had driven her to Barnstaple, where she stayed two nights in order to discuss her financial affairs and deposit her funds at a reputable bank. Her money had now been wisely invested. While in Barnstaple she had purchased everything for her new bedroom, and engaged a decorator to brighten the entire house. Mrs Cobbett and the new maid, Molly Dodd, had made curtains and cushions, and all in all everything now looked much better. The Dower House was beginning to seem like her home, not just the house she had rented.

  The bedroom occupied the south-east corner of the house, and had two casement windows, one of which stood open. Mrs Cobbett had placed a bowl of dark red roses on the sill, and their scent was as warm as the summer air that breathed in over the thatched roof of the veranda, directly below the sill. Outside, a rocky shore stretched down to where the deep blue-green of the Bristol Channel sparkled at the lowest tidal ebb. This window also gave her a view of Rendisbury Hill, but she hadn’t seen Landry Haldane again. The other window faced inland to the south, past Lannermouth and up the deeply wooded gorge to the heights of Exmoor.

  She turned to inspect herself in the looking-glass on the dressing-table, straightened her frilled cap and fluffed out the delicate white-spotted blue muslin of her gown. Her thick dark curls were caught back with a blue ribbon; she had put on a little weight and her unblemished skin was beginning to look truly supple again. The waif of Fiddler’s Court was fading, and in another month would surely have disappeared entirely. She was happy here, and hit it off with Mrs Cobbett, with whom she had made her only other excursions, to church on Sundays. There she had been subjected to a great deal of scrutiny, not least from the rector, Mr Bellamy, of whose daughter Harriet, whose name was linked with the major’s, there had as yet been no sign. Billy was happy here too, especially since the arrival of the new maid, Molly, a plump twenty-year-old with large delphinium-blue eyes. His grandiose tales of city life impressed her, and she clearly adored him.

  Beth smiled to herself. Contentment was a strange feeling after all that had happened to her. She no longer wondered what her father’s letter contained, and even felt a little less vengeful where Jane was concerned. The prospect of being traced by Guy Valmer remained a constant threat, yet here, in this beautiful place, he didn’t often cross her mind. Except at night, when he often came to her in her dreams.

  ‘Miss Mannacott?’ Molly
tapped at the door and peeped inside. ‘Miss Mannacott, Miss Bellamy’s come calling.’

  The elusive daughter? ‘Please tell her I will be down directly, Molly.’ After adjusting her hair ribbon, Beth went downstairs. The little drawing-room was directly below her bedroom. It was pale primrose, with green chintz furniture and curtains, and swathes of delicate sprigged gauze at French doors that were slightly ajar to the veranda and flower garden. Miss Bellamy, attractive and boyishly slender, sat rather uneasily on the edge of the sofa, glancing around as if trying to assess something. The tastes and quality of the new tenant, perhaps? She wore a ruby riding habit and her golden hair was worn short beneath a frivolous black hat with spiky feathers. Her hands, clasping her gloves, twisted and untwisted in her lap, and she leapt to her feet as Beth entered. ‘Miss Mannacott?’

  Beth smiled. ‘Miss Bellamy?’

  The rector’s daughter smiled too. She had light-grey eyes that were flecked with gold, and there was a little mole at the corner of her mouth that gave her a certain appeal. She resumed her place on the sofa. ‘I would have called before, but have been away and didn’t hear about you immediately on my return. But here I am, hoping above hope that we might become friends. I hope you didn’t come here to escape from people?’

  ‘It’s true I chose Lannermouth for peace and quiet, but I am certainly not averse to making new friends.’

  ‘Oh, good, I’m so glad. Society around here boasts mainly dull married ladies and grizzled octogenarians. I’m only twenty-seven but I feel more like seventy-seven in such staid company. So please, can we forget the lengthy fuss of formality? Please call me Harriet; Miss Bellamy sounds uncomfortably like meat pies at the House of Commons, or something to settle the stomach.’

  ‘Then you must call me Beth. Oh, Harriet, you are a breath of even fresher air than already exists in this wonderful place. I’ve hardly met anyone since arriving. There’s your father, of course.’

  ‘You made a favourable impression.’

  ‘Really? I can’t imagine why. He gives me stern looks when I go to church.’

  Harriet giggled. ‘He’s short-sighted and probably can’t see you at all.’

  As they laughed together, Molly came in with a tray of coffee provided by the thoughtful Mrs Cobbett and, when the maid had gone and Beth began to pour the coffee, Harriet spoke again. ‘You’ve met Major Haldane as well, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. On the morning after my arrival.’ Beth noticed the flush on Harriet’s face, and remembered that Mrs Cobbett had said the major was expected to marry Harriet Bellamy.

  ‘He speaks well of you,’ Harriet went on, the blush deepening.

  ‘Indeed? We only met for a few moments.’ The gallant major was a sensitive subject. Better to change the topic. ‘Is there a good dressmaker here? I need some clothes for the coming winter, a mantle or two, and a pelisse, maybe.’

  ‘Dressmaker? Oh, yes. Miss Archer. She’s a marvel. I’ve heard it said that she’s as clever as any London dressmaker. She made this riding habit. I must visit her myself soon, perhaps we could go together?’

  ‘I’d like that, thank you.’

  Harriet glanced around. ‘Will you make any changes to the house?’

  ‘Well, I’m only the tenant, but I think I’d like a little summerhouse just over there.’ Beth pointed out of the French windows toward the corner of the garden between the sea and the park.

  ‘You’ll have no trouble finding labourers and craftsmen, as there are so many out of work at the moment. My father was saying only this morning that the army and navy are about to discharge thousands more now the war is ended. I dread to think what it will be like soon, with so many out of work and prices reaching toward the sky.’ They were both silent for a moment, sipping the delicious coffee. After that the time passed pleasantly as they talked of fashion, the most picturesque places to go riding, and the various local people Beth would soon meet, but then Harriet realized she had to leave. ‘My father is lunching early today and he gets very cross if I keep him waiting,’ she explained. ‘I’m so glad I’ve met you at last, Beth. I’m sure you’ll love living here.’

  ‘I already do.’

  The two women walked to the front door and Billy brought Harriet’s horse. Beth watched her ride away down the drive, her red habit bright amid the greens of summer. As she disappeared over the bridge and into Lannermouth, Beth glanced along the shore toward the base of Rendisbury Cliffs, where low table-topped rocks jutting into the water seemed to offer a pleasant place to sit. The thought appealed, so she collected a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets left by the house owner, told Mrs Cobbett where she would be, and then set off along the path at the edge of the park. The coast of Wales was lost in the summer haze as the incoming tide lapped between the rocks. She had yet to see the Bristol Channel in anger, and on a day like this it was hard to imagine crashing gale-whipped surf. At the end of the park, where the path curved sharply around the bouldery shore toward the deep water at the foot of the cliffs, lay the outcrop of flat rocks. She picked her way down to a particularly smooth one, and then chose a spot from where she could dip her fingers in a large rock pool.

  Placing the book on the warm stone, she removed the ribbon from her hair and sat with her knees drawn up, her hands clasped around them. A playful, rather timid breeze stirred her hair, so that several strands caught across her face, and she brushed them aside, hardly realizing she was doing it. If she began to walk east along this shore now, if she walked and walked, the sea would become the Severn, which passed through Gloucester. She stared in that direction, recalling how she had walked hand in hand with Jake along the river-bank, hoping to see the tidal bore come rushing upstream, and how it had almost swept them away when it proved far larger than expected. The Severn passed Frampney too.

  Taking a deep breath she picked up the book and began to browse through the sonnets, but the frequent expressions of love brought Guy to mind. She knew how foolish it was, but he exerted such a powerful effect upon her that it seemed he was always there, on the very edge of her past, waiting to step into her present. Then two lines in particular caught her attention. ‘For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.’ This was how she should regard Sir Guy Valmer, she told herself sternly. ‘Don’t let him rule you, Beth Tremoille,’ she breathed. ‘Forget him and let your life move on.’

  Suddenly a male voice hailed her from the path. ‘I was told I’d find you here, Miss Mannacott.’ Startled, she turned to see Landry Haldane. He removed his top hat to sketch a bow. ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Oh, I—’ She was embarrassed to be caught outside with her hair loose.

  He hesitated. ‘You would rather I didn’t?’

  ‘I cannot claim squatter’s rights, sir.’ She watched as he made his way toward her. No longer in uniform, he wore a dark-green coat and tight buff breeches that cleaved to his hips and thighs. His face looked different, and she realized he’d shaved off his moustache and side-whiskers. He wasn’t strictly handsome, rather were his even, quite ordinary features animated by immense charm. He was vital and confident, exuding virility, and she knew by the warmth in his light-brown eyes that he was attracted to her. He sat down, one leg drawn up, the other outstretched. His hat was in his right hand, tapping lightly against his riding boot, and he didn’t say anything. Was it serendipity that he had come here just when she was instructing herself to forget Guy? Was fate telling her to break the spell? She smiled. ‘You wish to see me about something, Major?’

  ‘Just plain Mr Haldane will do.’ He smiled too.

  ‘You certainly no longer look a major.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Anyway, I’m here because I believe you are seeking a good riding horse. Your coachman mentioned it in my gamekeeper’s hearing. I wish to sell just such a desirable mount. So that is my official purpose.’

  ‘And your unofficial purpose?’

  ‘Why, to make sure Lannermouth is to your liking.
’

  ‘It is indeed, Mr Haldane, and yes, I am seeking a horse.’

  ‘Would a six-year-old Hanoverian gelding be of interest? I bought him from a Prussian officer two years ago. You’ve seen the horse. He and I do not get on.’

  ‘And would I get on with him?’ She wasn’t that good a rider.

  He smiled. ‘Oh, certainly. He just doesn’t like me very much, and occasionally makes that very plain by depositing my elegant hide on the ground. Ride him, to see what you think. His official name is Sleipnir, after Odin’s six-legged steed, but I just call him Snowy. If you’re interested I’ll make arrangements for you to see him tomorrow.’ He paused to glance at her book. ‘The sonnets?’

  ‘Are they to your taste?’

  He held her gaze with his deep turquoise eyes and recited softly, ‘“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”’

  She was entranced. ‘You know your Bard, sir.’

  ‘Don’t fall for hussar deceits, Miss Mannacott. I learned several such sonnets to further my cause with the fair sex. I’ll spellbind my bride with such romance.’

  Her lips parted. ‘You are to be married?’

  ‘I was speaking hypothetically.’ He smiled again. ‘You may be interested to know that our wild cliffs and leafy gorges have so far attracted Coleridge, Wordsworth and Southey. Oh, and Shelley.’

  She stared. ‘Shelley? The author of Queen Mab?’

  ‘The very subversive fellow. Don’t tell me you approve of Queen Mab, it’s a blatant incitement to rebellion.’