Souls Dryft

by Jayne Fresina

  Still muttering, she scurried away to find another person in need of advice. I shrank into the cushions of the breakfast nook, hoping to hide out there for the rest of the party, "letting myself go" in peace.

  It was not to be. Richard slipped in beside me to ask how my ankle was holding up.

  "Why didn’t you tell me I had paint in my hair?" I demanded.

  "I thought you were going prematurely grey." Then he managed a crooked smile, but I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. "Give me your ankle."

  "I don’t think—"

  "I only came here as an excuse to see you," he whispered. "Give…me…your…ankle."

  So I relented, just because it was one of those evenings, of which there’d been so many in my life, where I set out, full of good intentions, only to find myself thrown about by the end, like someone who accidentally wandered into the ring during a wrestling match. And, as Kate said, he always got his own way. With his good hand, he began massaging my ankle quite expertly, causing me to wonder how he became so skilled.

  "So who’s Jack Willingham?" he muttered.

  "A man," I replied tartly. "I suppose you didn’t think I had any."

  He looked at me. "I don’t like him."

  I almost laughed.

  "What’s he doing here? You’re not seeing him, are you?"

  "I don’t believe that’s anything you need to—"

  "Dickie! There you are."

  I couldn’t believe it. He’d brought her to my sister’s party. There he was trying to lecture me about whom I could and couldn’t see, while he did as he pleased.

  Hastily retrieving my foot, I ducked under the table to find my shoe.

  "Are you ready to go yet?" she whined. "You promised we’d only stop in for one drink. I can’t think why you wanted to come here. These people are so dull. Oh…" she sputtered to a pause as I popped up again from beneath the tablecloth. Her eyes hardened. "I didn’t know you were here."

  Richard slugged back his drink, almost choking on an ice cube.

  "It’s my sister’s party," I replied crisply.

  As if she thought she might make up for calling it dull, she now flopped down on my other side, invading my space in a too-friendly way. "Do you know, Richard rarely talks about anything else but that blessed house? I’m tired of hearing about it. But I suppose I ought to be used to it by now."

  "Oh?"

  "He’s always like this with a project," she continued. "Totally absorbed in it, a man possessed. He hasn’t taken me to dinner in a month." Reaching across the table, she smacked him playfully with her sequined purse and he flinched, grinding his teeth. "He’s always working. I tell him he needs to slow down, take a holiday and appreciate life once in a while." Then she added, "You know, if it wasn’t just a pile of old stones, I’d be jealous of that house." Although she laughed, her eyes continued to examine his face in a cool, sly manner.

  I could hear his teeth grinding.

  "And look at him," she exclaimed, waving her purse again. "He’s such a mess. I just don’t know how I’m going to explain him to anybody I know, looking like that!" Awkward silence ensued, while I considered giving her the same comment I gave my mother.

  Perhaps not.

  "I love your dress," she said abruptly.

  "Thanks." I didn’t know what else to say, because I so rarely received similar comments.

  "It’s very daring, but you carry it off."

  I laughed uncomfortably, wishing I hadn’t thought so badly of her before and flirted with her "friend". Silence followed. She waited for Richard and he searched his empty glass for all the secrets of the universe.

  Jack abruptly arrived at the breakfast nook. "Grace, I’ve got something to show you."

  Richard stood so quickly he knocked his head on the low light above the table, mumbling about having only stopped in to drop off the paperwork on some property he bought from Marian. They were on their way to dinner and now they were leaving, couldn’t get away fast enough.

  Putting down his beer, Jack stretched out one hand. I decided it would look churlish to refuse, especially as he went to all that trouble of putting down his beer.

  * * * *

  It was cool for a July evening and we were the only two souls venturing onto Clive’s patio. I saw Jack wanted to get something off his chest and I knew, from experience, that it was much better to let it out, as soon as possible, rather than keep it festering inside until it shot out in some embarrassing moment. Better he do all that out here, where we were alone and not likely to be overheard. Whatever was about to be said, I knew it wouldn’t make either of us very happy, but after everything we’d been through together, I owed him this.

  I was a different woman now, to the one he left eight months ago; I was braver, stronger, ready to take on the world, so I looked at him now with kindness, sympathy and understanding. He couldn’t help what he was and neither could I.

  "How’s the job?" I asked, my mind on other things – namely the two people who’d just left the party together. The way she hovered over him made my skin crawl, but I supposed she was young and insecure. In her shoes, I’d be the same. See, I was ready to forgive her just because she was nice about my dress. When push came to shove I was just as vain as the next person; it was a devastating discovery. And what right had I to lust after her "friend"?

  Jack said, "Clive told me how hard things have been for you, since I left."

  I wanted to laugh. Poor Grace. "It’s nothing to do with you leaving," I replied, quite honestly. Anyone else might have been wounded by that comment, but not Jack. He had thicker skin than most men. His ego, I’m sure, was coated in a hybrid of Teflon and Kevlar. "I didn’t know you and Clive were so close," I added.

  "He called to invite me to the wedding."

  "Ah." I looked away, gazing up at the brilliant stars in that rich, velvet sky. I couldn’t concentrate tonight. Richard had come there for me. Only for me. Oh, no. Now I was turning into one of those pathetic creatures who wilted at the slightest encouragement.

  "Grace, let’s start again." Using the excuse of warming my chilled arms, Jack drew me closer. "Your sister’s worried about you," he said. "Clive doesn’t want anything upsetting her –what, with the wedding and everything."

  Of course, they all thought I was a loose cannon, liable to go off at an inopportune moment, such as The Wedding of the Century.

  "Why don’t you marry me?" His arms slid around me in a familiar, comfortable way and I slipped into it easily, because it was well-worn like an old sweater. But I wanted something more than that. I’d been waiting for it a long time, like Genny.

  "In my day we wed where we were told, but these youngsters like to choose for themselves, so I hear." I smiled when I heard Owen Sydney’s voice. I’d grown fond of him, yet his days in my story were numbered. I knew I was going back there again soon. There was a change in the air. Soon the voices would come and then shadows, slowly unfolding, blossoming with color until they became real people with blood flowing through their veins.

  "Look," Jack whispered, "I’ve taken two weeks off. Let’s just see what happens, okay?" And then he produced a box from his back pocket. "I didn’t do this properly before, I know."

  He flipped the lid open, and there it was – Genny’s opal ring gleaming like a full moon. It was not what I’d imagined. It was more crudely fashioned, oddly menacing. I couldn’t figure out how it came to be in his hands all these years later.

  "Are you alright?" he asked.

  Just when I finally had his attention, I didn’t want it.

  "It’s cold out here," I said.

  "With all these stars, I thought you’d say it was romantic."

  But this night was supposed to be shared with someone else. I looked up into the darkening sky, sprinkled with winking diamonds and felt the desperation of something slipping out of my hands. It was all going wrong.

  Chapter Forty

  Genny

  1536

  His midnight blue doublet t
winkled with lavish gemstones and a preponderance of gold and silver thread – all meant, I suppose, to distract the eye from his hideous face; from the jowls swinging with the slow grace of cow’s udders on either side of his trout lips and the small eyes that stared out like fathomless holes to Hell. His son, the Lord Edmund Percy, was a sad, pale creature, also extravagantly costumed, and whenever he glanced at his son, the Earl’s expression was cold disappointment, as if unwilling to believe the boy came from his own loins.

  Their business with us that day was not merely a visit in the interest of etiquette. The Earl came because the Captain delayed setting a wedding date and, like most things, this was deemed my fault.

  "We hear there was a prior contract, regarding your ward," he demanded of my uncle.

  "Aye, and the bugger decided he wanted out o’ that one too, so it en’t the first time the foolhardy Captain’s changed his ruddy mind."

  The Earl slapped his gauntlets from one hand to the other. "We expect him to put aside any other… attachments… for our daughter."

  My uncle chortled, "Good ruddy luck with that." His eyes were alight with wicked humor. "In my day we wed where we were told, but these youngsters like to choose for themselves, so I hear."

  The Earl insisted he talk to me, so I was summoned from my hiding place in the minstrels’ gallery. He waited for a curtsey and, when none was forthcoming, the pressure built visibly in the trembling of his protruding lips. "She looks foreign."

  Mary interjected sourly, "Her father was a Spaniard."

  "Spaniard indeed? How unfortunate." He looked to my uncle for verification.

  "These things happen," was the only explanation given.

  The Earl did not know what to say to that. No doubt he thought we were all mad as March hares. He looked me up and down. "What happened betwixt you and Captain Carver? We must know."

  "We cannot think it is any of your business, sir."

  The Earl snapped, "Everything is our business."

  "She’s a stubborn gell, Bozzyworth," my uncle interrupted gleefully. "Best pick a battle you can win." He had no liking for the Earl and said to me recently, "Bozzyworth’s and Bollybrookes, they’re all alike, my girl." Now, slyly winking at me, he asked after the Earl’s daughter and whether she had a pleasant journey. He often raised the subject of Lady Moneybags in my presence, his perverse sense of humor finding much to feed upon in my churlish expression.

  "Our daughter is of delicate health," said the Earl. "The journey, therefore, was arduous for her, but once she is recovered enough, we hope to bring her here and introduce her to you."

  Oh what joy! The expressions on my cousins’ faces were hardly enthused, mimicking my own feelings.

  Now the pompous fellow embarked on a long soliloquy extolling his precious daughter’s virtues. "Once our daughter is married, she and her husband will spend little time at Souls Dryft. With some adjustments, it might be made into a viable concern. The orchards may be as good as any we have at the estate. But the house itself is primitive by our standards. Our daughter is accustomed to modern comforts, of course."

  "We have a privy with a velvet seat at home," his son explained eagerly.

  Mary Sourpout gave a thin-lipped smirk.

  "It hardly need be said," the Earl continued, "but our daughter has many friends at court. She is fond of good company, music, dancing. And she would have none of that here."

  "Gracious no, we are quite uncivilized," said Mary.

  "We have music," her sister protested bitterly. "And dancing too, if we want it."

  "I like music and dancing," the Lord Edmund exclaimed, smiling at Millicent, by whom he was determinedly ignored.

  "Your daughter is fortunate her husband will be away at sea," said Mary. "She will not endure his company often."

  "At sea?" The Earl looked appalled. "No, no. He will give up the sea. We have plans for him at court."

  I shared an amused glance with my uncle. Apparently the Earl did not know the Captain well at all. Never was a man so ill-made for the fawning masquerade of court life.

  * * * *

  Rain fell intermittently throughout the day. Already forgetting her complaints about the recent heat, Broad Bess grumbled that a true summer was seldom seen anymore. Beset with aches and pains in her joints, she called them ‘devils’ that plucked at her nerves and pummeled her bones. My uncle made similar complaints, but for once it was proclaimed the fault of the rain, not me.

  Millicent was nowhere to be found that afternoon and did not return for supper. My uncle asked if she was sick abed and sent her sister to see. When Mary returned to the hall, her face was stern, her hands behind her back. "My sister keeps not to her bed. She has gone out."

  "Out where?" he exclaimed crossly.

  "My sister has gone out for a tryst with a lover. This defiance has been going on for some time, it would seem." She threw a bundle of letters onto the table before him. Now I knew who took them from their hiding place weeks ago, waiting to use them when they could do the most damage. "The initials, A.C. are those of our good neighbor," she said coolly, while her father, his hand trembling, reached for the first letter. "Captain Aloysius Carver. Perhaps this is the reason for his delay in marrying the Percy girl."

  He read only a line or two, but it was sufficient. With a bloodcurdling roar he sent the dogs scrambling. He stood, grasping the table with both hands, so that I thought he would turn it over and the candles with it; then, shouldering Mary aside, he strode past us, his eyes staring blindly.

  I ran after him, fearing for Will Carver’s life. My heart and mind in turmoil, I knew the only thing to be done was tell the truth, difficult as that might be.

  He was already bellowing for his horse. In their iron sconces, the rush torches struggled valiantly against the light drizzle, dropping showers of wavering gold dust on his hair as he passed. Tilda was close behind, bringing my uncle’s fur-collared cloak, which we tried, in vain, to throw over his shoulders. He mounted without a word to me. Nudged aside by the horse’s flanks, I slipped on the cobbles, and the beast reared up, its forelegs slashing at the air. I ducked aside, not a moment too soon, as the hooves missed my head by an inch, no more.

  Fighting to control all that brute power, my uncle could barely master his own temper, and the horse felt that charge of excitement in the air, rising to meet it. On horseback, my uncle was a young man again, reborn and rejuvenated, taking the horse in sharp circles around the yard, wearing off that mad burst of spirit and reminding the beast which of them was truly master. His face was crimson, his breath filled the air with misty plumes, but this was nothing unusual after such exertion. Then, suddenly, he slumped forward, the reins slipping through his gloved fingers. The horse reared up again, his unconscious passenger sliding over the rump and to the cobbles beneath.

  Falling to my knees amid the puddles, I took his head into my lap. Tilda cried out, and thus came Mary, followed by Broad Bess and Bob Salley, the latter immediately exclaiming he’d predicted this for weeks; it was all our fault — us women causing my uncle endless grief. Broad Bess, holding her apron to her mouth, cried about omens and how she’d known something was amiss that evening.

  Since sundown, when the last of the hayricks were covered, the farmhands had all gone to their cottages and there was no one left with enough bodily strength to lift the injured man. I sent Tilda with the stable lad to fetch the physician. The others I tried to organize into lifting him into the house and out of the rain, but Bob Salley complained that his back would break and Broad Bess was in a dizzy state, close to fainting. Mary calmly suggested we cover him with his cloak and have done with it.

  "Do we keep you from your supper, Mary?" I exclaimed.

  "What good will it do to get out of breath carrying him inside?" she replied, a shallow line of annoyance between her brows. She did not want his corpse cluttering up the great hall.

  Angry, I shouted at Bob Salley to stop his whining and fetch me a rush torch, for I would not leave my uncle the
re in the courtyard, with the rain spitting on him and the darkness closing in.

  Chapter Forty-One

  A single lantern hung above the door, highlighting the Latin inscription and casting a shadow of that hooded falcon on the step below. I rattled the gates and shouted, hoping to rouse the dogs at least. Tonight, however, the contrary creatures were curled up under their shelter. They lifted their noses to sniff at the air, but, finding it too damp, the damnable beasts would not come out to bark.

  Thankfully, the door swung open, and a familiar tall figure appeared. Slipping the lantern from its iron hook, he carried it across the yard, eyes widening in surprise when he saw me. Lifting the lantern high, he stared through the swaying arc of light, as if unsure whether I was a real being, or a ghost at the gate.

  I had not seen him since the last day of my "punishment", when his mother slapped his face. My insides were a tangled mess, all wound tighter by worry about my uncle and guilt that I had caused his accident. Putting aside that indomitable Sydney pride, I faced Will through the bars of the gate and said, "I need you."

  There was no further delay.

  * * * *

  With his help, we managed to get my uncle inside at last, laying him on his settle before the great hearth. I stirred up the fire, while the others searched for blankets and skins. No one, of course, would take orders from me, but the Captain they followed gladly. They would not dare argue.

  Through all the fuss, Mary finished her supper. When she was finally done, she came over to confront him. "I am surprised you dare show your face, Captain. If my father regains his wits, you will be sorry you came."