Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

  He looked away. ‘I guessed.’

  ‘I’ve only done it once.’

  ‘It’s none of my business, Rosalind.’

  ‘But it is, because I’ve just taken my pleasure of you. I’m afraid to do it properly with you because I’m not close to my monthly, but if you want, I’ll do this instead. Her hand moved to undo his falls.

  ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he breathed as she reached in to handle him. She pulled his foreskin back gently, and then closed it again, pulled it back, and then closed it again. She pressed against him anew, and their lips were joined in a kiss that lacked all innocence as she stroked him to a climax. His body jerked with the force of it, and he kissed her as if he would suck out her very heart. They swayed together by the little jetty, both stealing every last sexual pleasure they could. Then she smoothed her palm over his softening masculinity and slid a finger gently over the exposed tip, shivering as unbelievably enjoyable sensations danced over her flesh. He gasped and twitched. ‘Dear God, what do you want, my complete prostration?’ Everything was so sensitive that he grabbed himself to prevent her from doing the same again.

  She smiled and reached up to take his face in her hands. ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘If I can stand the strain,’ he replied, smiling too.

  Her lips were over his again. She was learning quickly, testing her wiles, taking the pleasure she wanted. But it was so easy to learn with him. She couldn’t bear to think of him marrying Beth, of him even liking her. She, Rosalind Mannacott, wanted him. ‘Maybe next time,’ she breathed, ‘we’ll do it all. I’d so like that.’

  ‘So would I.’ His lips moved against her hair. ‘Oh, Rosalind, Rosalind, what have you done to me?’ he breathed.

  ‘The same as you’ve done to me,’ she answered, looking seriously at him. ‘I liked you from that first moment by the forge, and I came to the fair today because I hoped you’d be there.’

  ‘Did you, be damned?’

  The cathedral bell rang out, and she gasped. ‘Six o’clock? I have to go!’

  He hurriedly straightened his clothes and caught her hand to run back toward the fair, which was quiet again now because the militia had moved in to quell the trouble. It wasn’t far to the White Hart in Westgate Street, where Phoebe and Johnno were waiting anxiously by the wagon.

  Phoebe hastened to meet them. ‘There you are at last, Rosalind! Where have you been? I’ve been going mad with worry!’

  Rowan was apologetic. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Brown, but in order to escape the violence we had to run along by the river, and then we waited until things settled again before running all the way here. I assure you Miss Mannacott was not in any danger, and that I have been with her throughout. She came to no harm.’ Which is more than can be said for my own peace of mind, he thought.

  ‘You’ve been most kind, my lord,’ Phoebe declared, ‘but now we have to go, Johnno won’t wait any longer.’

  He bowed gallantly. ‘Good night, Mrs Brown, Miss Mannacott. I trust you have a very happy Christmas, to say nothing of a provident new year.’ He watched them climb into the wagon, which began the slow trudge up toward the Cross.

  It wasn’t going to be easy to shake free of Rosalind Mannacott, he thought, but that wasn’t what he wanted anyway. The last thing he needed was further trouble from his damned father, and an entanglement with a blacksmith’s daughter was certain to send the old boy into apoplexy. But when Rosalind Mannacott smiled at him and raised her sweet lips for a kiss, he couldn’t help himself. The thought of possessing her completely was almost sublime. Paternal fury or not, he’d have to see her again. He sensed an uncertain future opening before him, and knew he could close the door upon it right now, or grasp it with both hands to see where it led.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Dickon was weary as he drove Guy’s travelling carriage into Porworthy. The lamps swung through the softly falling snow as he negotiated the narrow streets and corners, making for the Bell and Fox inn. The road had been cleared of snow, but the gardens and surrounding scenery were white. Sir Daniel Lavington’s burned mill rose starkly where a small river rushed down from Exmoor to lose itself in a thousand channels in the two miles of salt marsh that now separated the former port from the sea.

  Christmas was much in evidence, from evergreens fixed to doors and windows to lighted candles and a proliferation of red ribbons, and as the carriage drew up in the yard of the inn, loud male singing could be heard in the crowded taproom. A large gathering of farmers and labourers was giving broad West Country voice to ‘God rest ye merry, gentlemen’, and the raucousness suggested a surfeit of beer and cider.

  Hearing the carriage arrive, the landlord hurried out, wiping his hands on his brown leather apron. There was a sprig of holly in his coat lapel, and his round face was very red and shiny. He recognized the carriage and almost ran to open the door. ‘Why, Sir Guy, this is a very agreeable surprise! Welcome to the Bell and Fox!’ His breath was silvery in the bitter cold.

  Guy alighted, wearing a black astrakhan-lined greatcoat. His top hat was tipped back on his rich hair, and he held an ebony cane topped with his family’s lion badge. ‘Good evening, George. I trust the rabble haven’t devoured all the food?’

  ‘Indeed not, sir. I can offer you a handsome haunch of venison, or—’

  Guy smiled. ‘Not the whole haunch, just a hearty plateful with all the trimmings.’

  ‘And so you shall, Sir Guy. Will you be wanting to spend the night here?’

  ‘Possibly. Tell me, the fellow Topweather, what do you know of the circumstances?’

  ‘Topweather? Oh, you mean the body up by the signpost to Rendisbury church. Well, it’s believed to be the work of highwaymen. It seems he was lodging at Dulverford, but no one there knew anything about him. He hired an inn cob and set off for Lannermouth, but no one in Lannermouth seems to know anything. Nor did anyone here, yet he was found on the road between both places. I reckon some local lips are sealed, not in Dulverford, but here in either Lannermouth or Porworthy, because it’s highly unlikely he wasn’t seen in either place. It’s a mystery, and no mistake. Was that all you wished to ask me, Sir Guy?’ The man wanted to get back inside, not stay out in the bitter cold.

  ‘Not quite. I’m seeking a young lady who calls herself Tremoille or Alder.’

  ‘The names mean nothing to me, sir. Is she a lady lady, or a doubtful lady?’

  Guy smiled again. ‘A lady lady.’ Unless one counted a rather demeaning lapse with a brawny blacksmith. ‘She’s dark-haired, small and delicate, and very beautiful. Her first name is Elizabeth, but she prefers to be called Beth.’

  The landlord’s eyes changed. ‘Well now, not that I’ve seen her personally, but I’m told that a lady of that description and first name is about to be formally betrothed to Major Haldane of Haldane Hall.’

  Guy was startled. ‘Holy Haldane is to take a wife? It would appear that miracles do happen. Can you tell me more?’

  ‘Well, yes, everyone’s talking about her, because she came from nowhere and has started whispers due to her antics with the major. Riding off alone with him to spend secret hours in Stone Valley, then letting him stay with her at the Dower House at Lannermouth. Folk have seen him leaving of a morning, and the shocked old biddies hereabouts have been clucking until they’re well nigh egg-bound.’

  Guy remained surprised. ‘I’m amazed that Haldane has relinquished his principles to such a dismaying extent. One expects more of him, does one not?’ The landlord wasn’t sure whether to agree or not, then Guy went on, ‘You mentioned the Dower House?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Guy. At Lannermouth. She’s the new tenant.’

  New tenant? Guy’s senses sharpened as he thought of Henry Topweather’s line of business. ‘How new?’ he asked.

  ‘She arrived there during the summer. June, July, somewhere thereabouts. Her surname’s Mannacott.’

  Guy could have laughed out loud. Oh, Beth, Beth, if you’re going to the trouble of changing your name, at least choose one
that doesn’t point such a very direct finger!

  The landlord searched his face. ‘Is she the lady you seek?’

  ‘I believe so, George.’ Guy paused. It was still early in the evening, and now that he’d run his quarry to ground at last, he wanted to confront her at the earliest moment. ‘Is Rendisbury Hill open to carriages?’

  ‘Yes, sir, since this morning.’

  ‘Well, you’ve heartened my appetite considerably, and the prospect of venison begins to make my mouth water. I’ll take a room, but after eating I intend to drive on to Lannermouth. I must speak to Miss Mannacott without delay.’

  ‘You won’t find her at the Dower House tonight, Sir Guy. She and Mr Haldane are having a grand betrothal ball at the hall. Most of local society has been invited.’

  ‘I know one notable name that will have been omitted,’ Guy murmured. ‘Well, it’s only five miles from here to Lannermouth, and a mile further to the hall. The sooner you place the feast before me, the sooner I can get there. Have my room made ready now, for I will need to change into more suitable attire if I’m to go to the hall tonight. Oh, and I need a good rider to take an urgent message to Greylake Castle.’

  At that moment the gathering in the taproom commenced the same carol again.

  God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay,

  Remember Christ our Saviour was born on Christmas Day;

  To save us all from Satan’s power when we have gone astray.

  Oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy;

  O – oh, ti – idings of co – omfort and joy.

  As Guy went in to dine at the Bell and Fox, Beth was preparing to leave the Dower House in her ball gown and warm, fur-lined mantle. She wore long white gloves, and the ring with the Haldane diamond, and was now so nervous and trembling she hadn’t been able to eat a thing since midday. ‘Is my hair as it should be?’ she asked again.

  Mrs Cobbett looked at her fondly. ‘You’re as pretty as a picture. Listen to me now, Molly and I may not be fancy lady’s-maids, but we’ve made you look exactly like that engraving in the journal. In fact your hair looks even better because of those rosebuds Mr Landry sent from the hall, so have done with the worrying.’

  Molly, standing just behind the housekeeper, nodded eagerly. ‘Miss Beth, I’d give anything to step out looking as you do right now.’

  Beth smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Molly, but I’m so anxious about tonight.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Mrs Cobbett said, ‘for it will all come right in the end.’

  Beth looked at her. ‘What does that mean? That it will be awful first?’

  The housekeeper smoothed her apron against the plain folds of her woollen gown. ‘I won’t pretend I’m happy about this engagement, but—’

  ‘Why?’ Beth interposed. ‘What is wrong with me marrying Mr Landry?’

  ‘Apart from you not knowing him long enough for a grasshopper to grow legs? I don’t know, and that’s the truth,’ Mrs Cobbett confessed. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that, for I’m not saying it for effect. I just have this feeling. First that crow tapped on the window; then the milk froze over; then—’

  ‘What on earth is the relevance of a crow and a pail of milk?’ Beth cried.

  ‘Such things must be heeded, Miss Beth. They’re portents, and I know they’re connected to your betrothal. You’ll know great happiness in the end, but it will be a long and difficult path before you get there.’

  Beth was unsettled. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’ A thought struck her. ‘Is it anything to do with Carrie Markham?’

  ‘Carrie? Why do you ask that?’

  ‘I don’t know really, except that she tried to tell me something, but didn’t have time. Well, no, that’s not strictly true, she wouldn’t say it in front of Katie.’

  ‘Oh, take no notice of that.’

  Beth studied her. Mrs Cobbett, whom she had always trusted, had an inkling at least of what Carrie might have wanted to say. ‘Mrs C, is there a good reason why I should not marry Mr Landry?’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘There isn’t anyone else in your heart?’ The housekeeper watched as Beth lowered her eyes. ‘Miss Beth?’

  ‘No, there isn’t anyone.’ Liar!

  ‘If that’s so, Miss Beth, I know of no good reason why you shouldn’t become Mrs Haldane. Love – true love – must always come first. Now then,’ – Mrs Cobbett bustled to the front door – ‘if you tarry here much longer, poor Billy and the horses will freeze to death. You go to the ball, like that Cinderella, and you get your prince.’ She smiled at Beth. ‘Go on, my dear, and look them all in the eye. It’s your birthday and your betrothal day, and you’ve hooked the greatest catch in all of Devon, so make sure of him.’

  Beth hugged her suddenly. ‘Thank you, Mrs C. And thank you too, Molly.’ With that she went out into the swirling snow, where Billy waited to help her into the carriage. He waited until she was seated before raising the rung and closing the door. Moments later the vehicle jerked forward to make its way down the drive toward the bridge over the roaring spate of the Lanner.

  Beth sat back, her gloved hands plunged into her white fur muff, her toes against an earthenware jar filled with hot water. Her breath was misty as she looked out at the trees and lighted cottage windows of Lannermouth before Billy urged the team for the steep climb to Haldane. Was she doing the right thing? Was it honourable to marry Landry when she loved Guy so very much? The questions rang through her head as they had done since she’d accepted Landry’s proposal. She had to remind herself that she’d been truthful with him, and he was under no illusions. But was she? Was she wearing blinkers, and thus failing to see what a mess she might be making for herself? Then she felt the proximity of the high moor, invisible and mysterious in the darkness, and suddenly found new resolve.

  As the carriage turned between the lantern-hung gates of Haldane Hall, she glanced up at the stone cockatrices, but the light didn’t reach them. There seemed to be hundreds of variegated lamps across the park, and every window of the house was brightly illuminated. She saw that a throng of fine carriages had already arrived.

  Carrie watched Beth’s carriage drive past, and then lowered the curtain to turn back into the little parlour of the lodge. She moved with difficulty, feeling so weak she had to support herself on the table in order to reach her chair. Katie had fallen asleep in another chair, with Pompey curled up in her arms, and a low fire burned in the hearth. Carrie eased herself down and then leaned back exhaustedly. Her breathing was harsh, and her cheeks the colour of wax. She knew she had not long left. Another carriage drove past, and she closed her eyes. This was a bad night’s work. She should have told Miss Mannacott the truth when she had the chance. Tears welled from beneath her blue-veined lids. But it wasn’t too late. Only the altar and a wedding band would do that.

  Beneath his astrakhan-lined greatcoat Guy was finely attired in a black, corded-silk coat and cream silk breeches that might have been sewn upon his person. There was a top hat on his head and kid gloves on his hands as he emerged from the inn to find it was still snowing, although not so heavily that it would make the road impassable. His shirt was adorned with a great deal of costly lace, his cream satin waistcoat was a masterpiece of elegant quilting, and his simple neck cloth sported a discreet solitaire emerald. He found Dickon waiting with a fresh team hitched to the carriage. ‘Right, Dickon, I want you to make all haste for Haldane Hall.’

  The coachman gaped, both at his master’s formal attire and the instruction. ‘The hall, Sir Guy?’ He’d heard about the betrothal ball when in the inn kitchens.

  ‘Is there a problem, Dickon?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good, because I have some ill-advised betrothal celebrations to ruin.’ Guy climbed in and the coachman flicked the reins. The fresh horses managed a smart pace for the long, winding climb toward Lannermouth, past the signpost where Henry Topweather’s body had bee
n found, and then on across the cliff-top moor toward the dangerous descent of Rendisbury Hill.

  *

  Beth’s carriage halted at the entrance to the hall, and those guests arriving at the same time realized who she was as a footman came to open the door and assist her down. Snowflakes brushed her face as she stepped on to the carpet of ivy leaves and rose petals that had been strewn on the portico steps. She could hear a ländler playing in the ballroom, and there were so many lanterns, lamps and candles that the house was dazzling. As she went slowly up the steps toward the vestibule, a gentleman’s silhouette was caught momentarily in the doorway, and then he stepped forward. It was Landry. He wore a tight, black velvet coat embroidered with jet, and white silk breeches, stockings and black patent shoes. The top buttons of his white satin waistcoat were undone, allowing the rich frills of his shirt to spill out as plentifully as they did from his cuffs. His neck cloth, crisp, white and perfect, was tied in a suitably elaborate knot, upon which nestled a lavish ruby star. Smiling, he came down the steps to greet her, and she removed her warm hands from the muff to slip them into his. ‘Welcome, Beth. This hall and its master are your willing slaves.’

  They entered the magnificently decorated vestibule, where Christmas greenery vied with elaborate arrangements of hothouse flowers, and when a footman had relieved Beth of her mantle and muff, Landry conducted her slowly toward the steps that descended to the ballroom. On the way they ran the gauntlet of numerous guests. Fearful of a known face, Beth was nervously aware of introductions, greetings and whispers. There was so much to take in, so many questions to answer, doubters to reform and disapprovers to charm. Notoriety attached to her name, and reflected in the eyes of those who regarded her. They all wanted to find fault with Landry Haldane’s bride-to-be, and she had to show them they were wrong. But were they wrong? Her secrets were shocking, and made her very unsuitable indeed. She felt as if her past were a heavy sack over her shoulder, weighing her down and reminding her that she was wrong to have accepted Landry. But no one else could see the burden; no one else knew her or could even begin to imagine how much she had to hide.