Slowly Rising, page 10
Now it was in the Governor's gnarled, callous hands.
"You'd better give that back to me," the boy shouted. "That's mine."
"Yours? I think not, boy. Here— inside— it is clearly marked For Emily. That is not your name, boy!" And he moved to strike Gideon with the cane.
Not for the first time, of course. But for the last.
This was the day a boy took his future in his own hands. He was quicker than the old man and caught the cane mid-swing. It hurt, made his eyes water, but he had hard palms for a boy of ten and they'd had practice at bearing the strike of that weapon. Startled, the Governor cursed as the cane bent.
"How dare you, stinking, filthy rat! You'll pay for this!"
But Gideon clung on. He would not relent. It was all or nothing at last.
And then the cane snapped in two and he had the larger part.
* * * *
Whenever Gideon thought back to that day, he wondered what would have happened, had he used that broken cane to give the Governor a good beating. Exactly what the old villain deserved. But somehow he had known not to do that. Instead he had stood before the startled, ashen man and listened calmly as the other boys broke into laughter. A riot of noise that rolled around the room and took on life of its own. Mayhem.
The Governor was left standing with a little piece of his mighty cane— no more than six inches or so— in one hand. Had his breeches fallen down, he could not have looked more humiliated. Surrounded by that roaring laughter, shocked at the strength and rebellious courage of this boy, he must have felt himself shrink to one third his size.
On that day, Gideon Jones fought two bullies and came out on top. Injustice was righted, for the first time in his life, and he found that he liked the sensation.
He was sent to the workhouse that same day, labeled "impossible", a child nobody would want.
But he got his book back, didn't he?
Gulliver's Travels. For Emily.
Eighteen years later, he still kept it tucked away inside his coat, a reminder of that day when he, by sheer determination, tipped the scales and turned the world upside down. For Emily.
Often he wondered who Emily was and what had become of her. How had she lost her book? How had it become singed about the edges? Was she looking for it now or had too much time passed, consigning Gulliver to a slight memory of childhood? Did she have children of her own by now?
Try as he might he could not imagine her face. Since somebody had once given her the gift of a book, she must have been well off, from a good family and educated. But evidently she was careless with her possessions. Perhaps she had a lot of books and the loss of one meant nothing.
On the other hand, she could be searching for it, devastated at having it wrenched from her hands by fate. He knew how he'd felt when the Governor swiped it from his hands and held it high, out of his reach— the fury that had built in his small frame at the time. That book was the first thing he had ever considered to belong to him.
He’d come a long way since then, of course. But the book remained his most precious possession.
Today, bravely clinging to the back of the crowded stagecoach with only one hand, he used the other to feel inside his coat and reassure himself that "For Emily" remained in his pocket. Good. He gave her a pat and smiled at his frowning neighbor— a thin gentleman who had complained heartily at not being given a seat inside.
At least the fellow had shut up now, although his teeth still rattled as he clenched his jaw over every bump in the road, and the hairs protruding from his flaring nostrils crackled with dirt upon every intake of another irate breath.
Gideon really did not mind riding outside. Better that than a cramped, smelly seat inside the coach. He enjoyed the changing scenery and also, he must admit, the thrill of danger.
This was a journey and an adventure to rival Gulliver's. Who knew what lay in his path?
"Duuucckk" the coachman yelled, and so all those clinging to the shuddering, bouncing vehicle hastily obeyed. In the nick of time, as a thick, low hanging branch passed overhead.
Gideon laughed.
It began to rain, but even that could not dampen his spirits.
* * * *
As suggested by Mrs. Wilding, Amalie walked down to the village of Slowly Fell on her first afternoon off, drinking in the spirit of the place and taking a tour of the churchyard, where she hoped to learn some local history.
There she found the grave of Amos Wilding, the man who had built Slowly Rising— not with his own hands, of course. A plain, curved stone, half sunk into the earth and mottled with moss, marked his resting place with only his name and the date 1606, as if there was nothing more to be said about the man; no detail that anybody would be interested in. Even the date was carved begrudgingly, the numbers squeezed meanly together as if whoever commissioned it had to pay by the inch of space taken up.
"What do you have to say for yourself then?" she asked. He, unlike his house and former wife, was silent.
In graveyards, of course, spirits were supposed to be at peace— "resting" in it, according to many headstones. For that reason one seldom saw any revenants wandering about in these places. They preferred other haunts in which to make their mischief. Less peaceful grounds. Perhaps they found graveyards to lack the element of surprise that many of them enjoyed.
And there, farther along by the wall, she found a stone bearing the name, Jephthah Wyatt 1620.
"Think of me as gone already. 'Tis for the best, Jep Wyatt."
Nobody had told her the name of the craftsman who made that dole cupboard, but she knew it. Had the house whispered it in her ear? Had Belle? If she closed her eyes she could see him, bent over the half-finished almery, the sweat glistening across his broad shoulders, his eyes narrowed and fixed on the task at hand, his lips set firm and angry. How fast he worked, carried along on a wave of fury and thwarted passion. He saw nothing else around him; heard nothing. The work consumed him.
Mrs. Wilding had told her that Amos commissioned the almery. But Amalie felt no love lost between squire and craftsman. The vibrations caused by that hammer were full of hatred for the man who ordered it made.
"I can do far more for you, give you more... provide for you, once I have the Wilding fortune in my clasp, can't I, Jep?"
"I don't want riches, Belle. All I want is you."
"Think of me as gone already. 'Tis for the best, Jep Wyatt."
Yes, love made life messy.
Again, Amalie thought of how difficult it must be when two people— lovers— suddenly found out that they meant to travel in opposite directions; that they had different aims in life. It meant either that one of them must make a sacrifice for the other, or that they must drift apart and let love die. Sometimes it turned bitter before it died.
So Jep loved Belle Arden, who married Amos for mercenary, vengeful reasons. Now the bones of two men were here in the ground, buried a safe distance apart. But Belle was not there.
I be not gone.
Had she ever regretted the choice she made?
As Amalie strolled around the stone markers that day, the sun went in and marbled clouds gathered with a swiftness that was not rare for an English summer afternoon, but the silence that came with it did strike her as unusual. All the birds had abruptly tucked themselves away and the village dogs—usually a lively, rowdy bunch over whom manly commands held little sway— paused their barking, waiting. For something.
Before too long she felt a soft sprinkle of fresh rain, and with it came the sensation of being watched. Amalie turned, and there, in the shadow of a yew tree, stood a man in a mud-spattered greatcoat. At first glance he was little more than a muddled smudge of shadows, some deep and others shallow, but then a breeze moved the tree branches and let more bluish light catch upon his rugged face turning a charcoal sketch into a watercolor.
With one, thick-knuckled, ungloved fist he swept off his hat and gave a quick bow. "Af'noon, miss." His hands were scarred and rough. She noticed this at once, even from a little distance and as he tried to hide them from her view.
She answered hesitantly, "Good afternoon," and would have moved on, but then he said,
"I seek a house called Slowly Rising. Do you know the place?"
Amalie stopped and squinted as the rain quickened. A mounting breeze spat drops under her bonnet brim, into her face. "Slowly Rising?"
"Aye. There's no one else about to ask and nobody answers their doors to strangers around here, it seems. Even the church doors are bolted." He gave a wry smile. "They must have been warned I was coming."
She realized now that they were utterly alone. Quite suddenly. Earlier she had seen a few villagers on the common and passed some in the lane, but now there was not another soul in view. They must have taken flight indoors at the first darkening of cloud. Like the wildlife, they huddled away, waiting for whatever might come.
"But I'm glad I found you here," he added, taking another step forward just as the clouds ripped open and the rain fell in earnest. "You'll do for me."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're a pleasant sight to refresh the blood and bones of a tired man, miss. That's all I meant." Apparently he did not care if he drowned in the downpour; he barely flinched, but kept his gaze fixed upon her, hat in his hands, and seemed in no haste to go anywhere. "You're a real tonic. I don't reckon I've seen prettier in all my days. I thought you weren't real at first. That you must be a lovely ghost driftin' among the gravestones."
"The house is just that way." Amalie pointed briskly, ignoring his strange remarks. He was a man, and they said stupid things quite often. Best not to encourage them by showing any reaction. "Up the hill and through the copper beeches."
"Is it much farther?" he murmured.
How weary he looked. "Not too far."
"I've had a rough journey you see," he said, looking down at his dirty coat. "I'm hungry."
"Well, you'd best make haste then."
Still he did not move. He began to look like an abandoned pup begging for shelter and supper, his hair slick to his head, the tips of his ears poking through.
In a sudden burst of sympathy, she relented her sharp tone to add, "I am on my way there now. I can take you, if you like."
"Do you live there?"
"I work there. What business do you have at the house, sir?"
A smile broke across his damp face, shaking off the rain. "I'm to look after you, ain't I?" It was as if he'd suddenly thought of it, or had forgotten his purpose there until that moment.
She tried to shake off the sudden foreboding— a mood as grey and heavy as the clouds that had stolen away the sun. Usually she liked the rain; this afternoon it began to hurt her skin. Or perhaps she simply felt more sensitive to it. More alive.
"'Tis my job," he said, nodding. "What I'm meant to do."
She raised a hand to her coat collar, pulling it up against that chill. A gust of wind tossed those needles of rain about, soaking the long grass at her feet and lifting the hem of her skirt, as if it meant to blow her clean away.
"Do they expect you at the house?" she demanded.
"They should know I'm coming. Lady Bramley sent me, didn't she?"
Well, that was something of a comfort at least. Amalie had nothing but the greatest respect and fondness for her former mistress, and faith in her judgment.
Leaning forward to stay upright against the thrusting rain, one hand holding the crown of her bonnet, she shouted, "Then we had better take shelter under the lych-gate until this rain passes and then you can follow me back to the house."
He nodded again and wordlessly waved her on with his hat. But when he stepped from the thick tufts of slippery grass to the wet path, he almost lost his footing and she instinctively put her hand out to hold his coat sleeve. He was unsteady as a newborn foal. His boots were scuffed and dirty, like his coat, his breeches not much cleaner. There was even dirt on his cheek and a nasty set of scratches. He looked as if he'd been in the wars, she mused. When his gaze found her fingers on his sleeve, she quickly took them back, surprised at herself.
"I don't know why you think anybody else needs looking after," she muttered, recovering her customary no-nonsense tone. "From the state of you, it seems you're in greater need of help at present, sir." Turning away, she added, "Make haste, or you'll catch your death."
A moment later they were shoulder to shoulder beneath the old slate roof over the churchyard gate.
He was a big man, thick-necked and swarthy. Now that she saw his bare hands closer, she could verify the existence of scars upon his knuckles. They were many and deep, some old, some recent. No wonder she had been able to see them from a distance. When he saw her looking, he held his hat behind his back with both hands and peered glumly at the sky, head ducked behind the upstanding collar of his coat.
Perhaps the wind and rain had knocked the breath out of him, for he had nothing to say for several minutes, except to mutter, "Remember your etiquette and polite conversation, you daft clod," in a deep, gravelly voice. Every so often he stuck his head out to check the progress of those bleak clouds and fidgeted with the hat behind his back.
Amalie also consulted her knowledge of what was right and proper conversation with a stranger. They had not been introduced, and she did not even know his name. Before she could remedy that fact, he swayed toward her and said,
"Where the dickens did this rain come from? It were a fine day when we set out."
"The weather is changeable, even in summer."
Yes, the weather was probably a suitable topic. Lady Bramley would approve. Besides, it was the reason they found themselves stuck there, clumped together in awkward, but necessary proximity.
"When I were a boy," said he.
Then nothing.
"When you were a boy, sir?"
But he was lost in thought, staring out from his collar, his countenance troubled, bewildered. She wondered if cool rainwater had seeped down the back of his neck; that might cause a similar discomfort, surely.
"When I were a boy," he finally began again, "they made me stand out in rain like this for a good hour or more. Punishment for talking back."
"Who did?"
"The governor at the orphanage."
"I see." Although she felt uncomfortable with the intimacy of this confession from a stranger, he seemed at ease telling it.
"Good thing I were a strong lad and survived the fever what followed. But sometimes I still feel it in me lungs. A bit o' rattle, like a penny stuck in an ol' iron pipe. Always thought it would be that what did me in." He looked at her. "They tried their best to be rid o' me— whipped me, choked me, starved me and beat me— but I couldn't be brought down. Nothin' ever got the better o' me." Then, even odder, he reached for her hand, clasped it tightly and said, "Not until this. When I saw you."
Amalie would have retrieved her hand, but he strengthened his grip and, much to her shock, lifted it to his lips.
"Stay beside me," he said.
She was certain she felt his hard, forceful pulse through the tips of his fingers as they pressed into her palm.
"You'll be safe with me always," he murmured, his voice hoarse, his lips skimming her knuckles.
Rain rattled across the slate shelter overhead, but she barely heard it, her own frantic heartbeat smothering any other sound. She couldn't move or breathe. Time meant nothing suddenly, as if they were frozen in a picture.
And then she came to her senses again. If anybody saw this strange man kissing her hand, she would never live down the rumors and tormenting.
"Kindly release my hand, sir." It occurred to her then that he might be suffering from concussion. That scrape on his cheek looked recent, like some of the scars on his hands. Further proving her theory, he studied her gloved fingers as if he did not know how they came to be in his possession, and then he let them drop.
"I forgot me manners, didn't I?" he said, apologetically.
She quickly tucked one hand inside the other. "It is only rain," she said, "not a plague of locusts, for pity's sake. I am quite safe and so are you." She shook her head. "Men sometimes make a drama of the oddest things. We shan't melt or be swept away."
"I think I am already swept away," he murmured, smiling uncertainly down at her.
With her fingers still tingling from the firm, warm touch of his lips through her glove, she could think of nothing safe to say about that. For the time being she completely forgot her intention to ask his name, as if her brain were suddenly Swiss cheese and any sensible thought had fallen out through a hole in it.
"Christ, I'm fair parched," he muttered.
"You must have had a long journey."
"Not so long as expected, but certainly more eventful."
He said nothing more about that and their conversation appeared to have dried up. Eventually, so did the rain, its drops falling with a gentler rhythm, no longer thundering at the slates overhead. Clouds passed and the air lightened.
Amalie was relieved, for it had begun to feel very close under the shelter. Humid, ominous and troubling in a way she'd never experienced. At the same time his heart-felt plea "Stay beside me" echoed softly through her conscience. For a big man he seemed remarkably lost. Alone and uncertain. Swept away, he'd said— with a quirk of one eyebrow— as if it were somehow her mischievous fault.
She decided to move. Never liked to be still for too long. "We can start off now that the rain eases." Better that than stand there much longer like two mismatched bookends. As his shoulders began to dry, a thin steam rose up and it contained a rather piquant odor of male sweat. He must have traveled a fair distance without a change of clothes, she thought, realizing he had no trunk nearby. "Come along, sir," she added briskly. "Follow me."
He bowed. "Ma'am."
They set off as the rain receded to a fine sprinkling and the birds thus resumed their chirping. Back to normal. Almost. The lack of human life still made everything slightly unreal, as if they walked through a landscape painting—like the one by Mr. Thomas Gainsborough, which the Bramleys had on a wall at the London house. Whenever Amalie had dusted the frame, she used to imagine herself sucked into the picture, free to run about under the trees and play hide-and-seek.
