Souls Dryft

by Jayne Fresina

  I waited until I heard their cars drive away before I could even take a full breath.

  Don’t go, I wanted to shout, come back. Something bad is going to happen.

  But he was gone and "later", I had a dreadful, dark feeling, was going to be a very, very long time. I’d already waited too long. The honeysuckle closed around me, comforting, commiserating. It had tried to cling to him for me; the house had done its best to keep him there, but in the end we failed.

  * * * *

  The next day, I wandered up to the castle ruins, ignoring the threat of grey, low-slung clouds.

  Whenever I needed to think, the old stone tower was my destination. I was drawn to its tranquility, the comforting strength with which it stood guard over me. It was the grandfather I never had, waiting at the end of the lane, patiently listening to my troubles.

  Again I sat on the step where we once collided and I looked out over the broken wall, down over the fields where sheep once grazed; where small boys once fell from horses. Now there were houses, three bedroom homes with attached garages and small, square back gardens with optional patios. Where smoke once billowed from the blacksmith’s forge, there was now a Chinese takeaway. The bridge where two girls once sat, sipping plum wine, was long gone, declared a hazard two hundred years ago and dismantled.

  It hurt.

  Suddenly I was cold, as if winter came already.

  My nose was numb, my fingertips ached.

  The ends of my hair crackled with frost.

  I set down my coffee and opened my manuscript.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Genny

  1537

  Unable to rouse anyone to the door, I went to the frosty, ivy-bowered windows of Sir Brian’s manor house and looked in. There, on his hands and knees, his buttocks poised like two halves of an exotic hairy fruit, he quivered in anticipation of the first blow.

  "Punish me, mistress," he warbled thinly, his forehead in the floor rushes. "Punish me as you see fit."

  Sir Brian, it would seem, had too much of Satan’s time on his own hands, after all. While this might be no great surprise, the appearance of my cousin Mary Sourpout, standing over him, riding crop at the ready, was something else entirely.

  "I do not know, Sir Brian," she purred, "It appears my punishments encourage you to wickedness, rather than cure you of it."

  "Oh but mistress," he craned his head around with difficulty, still pressing it to the floor, "without you to set me to rights, what would I do?"

  She walked around him, her skirt brushing his legs. "I expect we will find out soon enough."

  "What do you mean, Mistress?" cried he.

  "Winter is full upon us, Sir Brian. Snow is expected. I will be obliged to postpone my visits to you for some length." At this he almost sat up, but she held the toe of her shoe to the back of his head, forcing it down again. "Surely you cannot expect me to venture out in snow. No, you must make do without me, and try to bear the loss as best you can for a month…or two."

  "But mistress!" Even with his face mushed into the floor rushes, he was desperate to be heard. "You must come. You know you must! A month or two? It will not be borne!"

  She tickled his behind with the end of the crop and sighed. "Will not be borne? Sir Brian, you surprise me. I tell you what is to be borne, do I not?"

  "Yes, of course."

  She finally took her foot from his head and made another circle around the undignified posterior. "With three miles between us and snow advancing, this may be our last visit."

  He whimpered and shivered. "Mistress! How cruel! How cruel!"

  Having seen more than I ever wished to, I tapped on the window with my knuckles and Mary looked up. Her expression unchanged, she poked Sir Brian with the riding crop. "You have another visitor."

  Looking over his shoulder, he immediately flew into an apoplexy, pulling up his hose and stumbling over his feet. I went to the door and waited impatiently until Mary opened it. "What are you doing here?"

  "Like you, I had an appointment with Sir Brian," I replied with a wink.

  "Let her in," he called out, "my dealings with her will not take long."

  I grinned archly and walked past her, into the room Sir Brian called his library. Just as he fancied himself a poet, he fancied himself a scholar and thus a great collector of books, but he valued them only for what they cost him to purchase. He wore a long, embroidered velvet coat, hastily thrown on, and had spread before him an atlas, as if I caught him in the midst of his studies. On the wall above his head hung a large portrait of himself, dressed in great splendor. My eyes were drawn – as I suspect was the intention – to that hideous, over-decorated cod piece, which once served as the target for my slingshot. Here it seemed to be the prime subject of the painting, far overshadowing the startled face, with piggy eyes and small, pinched lips emerging from a grey beard.

  "Ah, there you are," he muttered, looking over a pair of wire spectacles.

  "I see you are busy, Sir Brian, so I shall not delay. Have you read the work I gave you?"

  "Indeed."

  "And?"

  He removed his spectacles, waving them at me. "Women should never be allowed near pen and ink. It only causes discontent. Go to this friend of yours and tell her she wastes her time, which would be much better spent, tending to proper, womanly tasks." He replaced his spectacles on the tip of his red nose. "And if she does not already have a husband, she had better get one – for a woman, who undertakes so many escapades, is clearly in need of the direction that only a man may give her."

  "It is a work of imagination, Sir Brian, not a telling of actual events."

  "Imagination?" he raised his eyebrows. "No, no. A woman’s mind is incapable of forming ideas beyond her own experience. It is a scientific fact, Madam. A woman…" his eyes rolled to the low beams, as he tried to find words I might understand, "like a hound, for instance…must be shown to be taught."

  "Like a hound?"

  "A hound does not learn the meaning of the word ‘bone’, until one is thrown to him for the first time. Once he has the taste of it on his tongue, then he understands the word when next his Master speaks it." He held the familiar little bundle out to me. "This is not a work of fiction, therefore, but a frightful account of one woman’s descent into sin, as the scandalous concubine of a pirate. I certainly cannot patronize the author of such a work. I must think of my good name."

  Mary took the bundle of papers and pushed them into my hands. "Here. Tell your friend she may as well burn them. At least they’ll keep her warm this winter."

  * * * *

  Sir Brian soon decided he could not bear the winter without her. Thus, Mary Sourpout went from his "housekeeper" to wife, in the time it took a lesser woman to bathe a truculent hound. As soon as her foot crossed the threshold at Bollingbrooke Hall, she had him at her mercy, spending his coin with the ease of a woman who was not about to let another Great Opportunity pass her by.

  Speaking of opportunities, Bagobones proved equally adept at survival. Taken to live with her Grandmother in London, soon after her father died, she sent me occasional letters, keeping me abreast of events in her life whether I wished to know about them or not. That winter she became betrothed to Lord Edmund Percy, which was surprise enough, but her sister and I were invited to attend the wedding – a shocking development.

  When I told my mother-in-law, she exclaimed, "I suppose she wants to show off her good fortune and humiliate the two of you as provincial cabbages by comparison."

  She was probably right, but the idea of adventure in London was something to ponder, whatever Millicent’s purpose.

  "Sydney women always land on their feet it seems," Suzannah added bitterly. Her critical eyes found my calf-skin gloves on the table. "You certainly have plenty of little luxuries, courtesy of my fool son. As I told him, you will suck him dry of every penny, like any good whore, and then leave him once he has nothing left to give."

  In her husband’s hearing she never spoke to me lik
e this, but the moment he left the room, she made up for it. She had many burrs under her saddle, mostly caused by me, with a few more blamed upon her eldest son’s generosity. Shortly before my uncle died, he asked the Captain to take on Nathaniel Downing’s wardship. Will also purchased most of my uncle’s horses, decreeing that Nathaniel should be allowed to come here and ride them as often as he liked. Suzannah resented every penny her son sent for the boy, questioning its use. When Beth Downing wore a new pair of winter boots, Suzannah insisted they were bought with Will’s coin, complaining that Beth, while crossing the ruts in the lane, deliberately lifted the hem of her skirt, just to show them off.

  However, she was soon spared further sight of those boots, for Beth disappeared and we assumed she left in search of another protector, leaving her son behind. Upon hearing the news of her departure, Nathaniel wanted to know — not where she had gone, or why — but whether he must say his prayers now before bed. Tilda informed him that he would indeed; thus, in his view, life would not change enough to cause him any good, or bad.

  We still waited to hear what would happen to my uncle’s fortress, but King Harry had far more pressing matters to tend, including uprisings in the north, before he might give any thought to our insignificant corner of the kingdom. For now, therefore, Nathaniel was the master of his domain, running about like a feral thing and sleeping in the cookhouse with the cat. Despite Will’s wishes, Suzannah would not have the boy at Souls Dryft, still refusing to believe he was Hugh’s offspring.

  I could not very well leave for London, knowing Nathaniel had no one to watch over him, so I wrote to Master Scroggs, requesting that he find a tutor for the boy.

  Winter soon had a firm grip on the land. At Souls Dryft we were compelled, out of necessity, to share each other’s company. Frost painted the swaying rooftops and spattered along the cobblestone wall. The muddy lane hardened; the wheel ruts filled with ice. Gathered by the main hearth every evening, we listened to the wind wailing around the corners of the house.

  As for my pirate — not a night passed when I did not think of him. Suzannah preached that lust was no basis for a good marriage. "A strong, healthy marriage needs deep earth. Hasty passion blooms in shallow dirt, but is soon withered without room for the roots to grow." She assured me that the men in that family always lost interest beyond the hunt; the prey, once captured, meant nothing to them. I was not his first quarry, or his last, she whispered in my ear.

  In February, we received a brief letter announcing the birth of Hugh’s child.

  "Only a girl, eh?" Rufus sniffed. "Let us hope he has not wasted all his best seed elsewhere, or the Earl won’t be pleased."

  Suzannah replied, "The Earl should be content with a healthy grandchild, whatever the sex." Then she glanced at me. "Some women are barren and unable to give their husbands any babes, boy or girl."

  Those words stung worse than all her other accusations.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  A misshapen figure huddled at the gate, his voice muffled under a scarf as he called out to me. I bolted the stable door and, with my head bent against the driving force of the snow, went to see what he wanted.

  He croaked through his thick scarf, "I am sent by Master Scroggs, madam, to tutor young Nathaniel Downing."

  Something about his eyes was familiar, but with snowflakes piled upon his lashes, he was obliged to blink rapidly, giving me no chance to recall the memory. "You need the Keep," I shouted against the wind. "’Tis a quarter mile further on up the lane."

  His shoulders slumped in exhaustion. With no gloves, his hands were red raw; the leather strap of his box had cut into his palm. I realized he must have been dropped off at the oak, left to drag his belongings up the snowbound lane, and the thought of another quarter mile would surely kill the poor fellow.

  Unlocking the gate, I bade him come in and take shelter. Taking the other handle of his box, I helped him inside and his eyes sprouted a little tear of gratitude.

  Rufus, inhospitable as ever, demanded to know what I thought I was up to now, bringing strangers into his house.

  "This gentleman is sent by Master Scroggs to tutor your grandson," I said, shaking snowflakes from my shawl. "So you should be thankful to him."

  "That’s enough of your lectures!" Rufus grumbled.

  I offered the stranger a cup of warm, spiced cider. He gasped his thanks, blowing on his hands and stomping his feet. When I passed him a tankard, he took his hands from his face and a curse almost shot out of me like a stone from my slingshot. For once I held it back. Truth be told, it had not been my finest hour and I was not particularly eager to remember it.

  "My name is Robert Culpepper, madam, and I am indebted to you for this kindness." He bowed toward Rufus. "And to you, sir."

  If vengeance were the first thing on my mind then, I would have snatched the cider away and kicked him out into the snow with no further ado. Lucky for him I was a mature woman and turning a new leaf.

  "A tutor, eh?" Rufus squinted at Master Culpepper’s fine lace cuffs. "Where do you come from then?" he snapped, as if, wherever he came from, it could not be from these parts; perhaps not even this world.

  "From Yarmouth, sir. Tell me, what is the young Master Nathaniel Downing like? I was advised he has a quick mind."

  In the background, Suzannah laughed maliciously, swinging her rolling pin with much force to crush a few walnuts.

  "Quick mind and rude tongue," Rufus chuckled.

  "It is good that you have come, sir," I said. "Some folk, who should have paid Nathaniel greater attention, have abandoned him, while other folk who could pay him more attention, chose not to, because they do not care for the responsibility."

  He looked at me in surprise. Of course, I was a woman and not supposed to express an opinion, or, indeed, to have any. "Do I know you, madam? Have you never been to Yarmouth?"

  Suzannah’s attention was caught. Ceasing her banging and crushing, she drew closer for a better look at the stranger.

  He stared hard at me. "I cannot quite…but surely…"

  I sidled away from the tell-tale firelight, but Suzannah followed. "An acquaintance of yours? He is a very pretty fellow. I suppose it was your idea to send for him."

  When I assured her that this was entirely Master Scroggs’ choice, her eyes gleamed with knowing contempt, made all the sharper when he suddenly cried out, "Why ‘tis you, Jacob Chippchase’s widow." He was very pleased with himself, until that memory evoked another. "It has been many years. Four, is it? I would hardly have recognized you."

  "I expect we have both changed since then," I said sharply.

  He drank the rest of his cider in a hurry and said he should make his way up to the Keep. Now Suzannah was all hospitality, feigning concern that he should go out in the snow again, so ill-equipped. Meanwhile, I advised him that he should go before the snow was any deeper. Rufus chuckled, watching the women of his house put on such a display, when one of them claimed barely to know the fellow, and the other had never wanted him brought inside in the first place. It was finally decided that the groom should take the tutor up the lane, before it got dark. Suzannah, who never liked visitors, urged him to come back and visit as often as he liked.

  Only a day or so later, she suggested they take Nathaniel under their roof. This – from a woman who never cared a groatsworth about the boy.

  "I am not saying he is our responsibility, but now his mother is gone, someone should look out for the boy." She was hanging freshly laundered hose to dry before the fire. As she reached up again, she added, "The tutor could come here too. They could share Hugh’s old chamber."

  Unlike her husband, I knew what she schemed.

  "I suppose it is the mother in me," she added, sighing. "It breaks my heart to see the boy so alone in that dreary fortress."

  Rufus looked up from his breakfast. "It will mean more work for you, with two others about the place."

  "One cannot always think of oneself," she replied with that lying meekness.

/>   "Why not?" he exclaimed. "I’ve always managed it well enough."

  When Nathaniel came to ride the horses, Suzannah lured him inside with jam tarts and, while he ate greedily, we all observed his small face. There was a look of Hugh about him; he also bore resemblance to my uncle, especially with the cold, biting wind reddening his cheeks. Suzannah said he had a "cheeky Sydney face". He burped loudly and Rufus laughed. Now the centre of attention, the boy continued to burp, until he spat buttermilk all down Suzannah’s skirt, and Rufus laughed even harder.

  Suzannah exclaimed that her husband was getting soft, for if one of his sons had acted that way, he would have got the belt.

  * * * *

  Master Culpepper was no rider, but the conniving Suzannah was very keen that he should learn. She pointed out that, once the weather improved, he might want to ride with Nathaniel and me. He protested mildly that he could just as easily enjoy the country on foot, but Rufus urged him to concede.

  "My wife is a persistent harpy, when she has a bee in her bonnet," the Shiftless Rogue muttered. "Satisfy her, I beg you, and then we might have some peace from her nattering."

  So Suzannah won the battle. Nathaniel and I led the tutor around the yard on the mare, while he slumped unhappily in the saddle. The boy took advantage of this turnabout in their roles, shouting at his luckless tutor, threatening him with a whipping if he did not improve. Later, I showed Master Culpepper how to brush down the horse and Nathaniel, bored already, ran off to hang on the gate, leaving us alone together. I began some harmless subject, but he interrupted almost at once, asking how I came to be married to Captain Carver. I told him that I was kidnapped, seduced and coerced into the marriage. Horrified, his jaw almost hit the straw.

  "Suzannah wanted her son to marry an Earl’s daughter, but he would be contrary," I added. "She blames me for it – thinks I bewitched him." Then I added slyly, "As you know, Master Culpepper, I am oft accused of being cursed."