Forbidden (4 page)

The shed was a more recent structure than Raven’s Roost, made of thick boards. No windows in it. Only the door, which I quickly saw was bolted and locked. And, to my relief, there was an upright wooden structure of a size and shape that I knew could only be an outhouse. Inside was unpleasant but serviceable, and I was glad of it.

To the side of the shed was a fenced space with a brown horse grazing on the wild grass. Five chickens pecked in the dirt.

I hobbled to the edge of the cliff and looked over. Below was the sea, calm and blue and shining. Small, happy waves cavorted on the strip of sand. Between the sand and the cliff was a band of shingle, small rocks that sparkled wet where they lay.

There were people on the beach, just a few. A path led down, and I was about to take it when I noticed a pump at the side of the house with a bucket beside it. I’d not had a chance to wash since I came, so I made my way across to it and pumped up some fresh water. All the time, I kept my eye on the house and especially on the door. What if Lamb burst through, having changed his mind about me? Of course he could not open a door. Or could he? I’d slipped the quill into the pocket of my dress, and I reassured myself that it was still there.

I filled the bucket of water, washed my hands and face, and dried them on the hem of my dress. For a moment, I stared at the water, wishing I could plunge my foot into it. But to remove my stocking there, with no privacy, was repugnant.

The path was steep, but there was a handrail. Sandy clumps of heather and coarse grass grew along its sides. I made slow progress, but it was agreeable out in the sun and air. My black fears of the night had eased, and I decided that I had exaggerated every happening. My aunt and uncle were not as I’d thought they would be. They were rougher, less mannered, almost rude, but that was their practice, and circumstances had brought them to it. I would have to thole.

From there I could see fishing boats pulled high on the shore. There were four of them, wooden, each long and wide with an open deck. They were all rigged for two masts, sturdy, strong, and, though weather- and sea-battered, beautiful in their own way. How strange that all were painted in dark colors. Two were black as coal, one gray as fog, one a shadowy dark blue, the color of the sea at night.

The Pentland Firth, this part of the ocean was called. Mr. Brougham, my solicitor, had pointed it out to me on the map.

“This is a dangerous stretch of water,” he’d told me in his sonorous voice. “But busy. If a ship does not go through the firth on its way to the continent of Europe, it must go all the way through the English Channel. Most ships take their chances with the firth. There’s many a wreck.” His finger with its long nail traced the way the ships would sail. His stubby finger moved north. “Thick fogs come down from the north. There be rocks, too, to add to their trouble.”

I’d listened politely, too concerned with my own sorrow and fear of the future to pay much attention.

All was peaceful now. In front of me, along the ocean’s edge, were small rocks on which seagulls perched. I saw one flat rock, the sea drifting aimlessly around its base, the sun polishing its gray stone, and I limped toward it and sat, feeling for the first time a kind of peace.

There was no one nearby. The figures on the beach were still far away. I glanced around, slipped off my shoe and stocking and pulled the hem of my dress up so that it would not get wet. I’d never felt so daring. The sea drifted over my wounds. Oh, but the water was cold! In a few seconds, my foot was numb, but I held it in place. The sea was pure, the salt that stung the sores would heal them.

I was so startled when a voice spoke behind me that I jerked my foot out of the water, leaving it to dangle. The skirt of my dress rucked up most unbecomingly.

“I’m sorry if I surprised you,” the voice said, and I turned as well as I was able to stare up at the young man who’d spoken.

“You did surprise me. I did not think there was anyone near.” I pulled down my dress. “It would have been polite to announce your coming. I thought myself alone.”

“I came down the path,” he said, “and saw you. Please accept my apologies.” He sounded half sincere and half mocking.

I bristled, taking stock of him. His hair, black as ebony, was cropped short in a style not at all fashionable. But of course, this was Brindle, not Edinburgh. He might have been handsome, except that his expression was disagreeable. I searched for the word to describe him and decided on
brooding,
as if he carried unbearable secrets. And what was he wearing? The shirt looked like an undergarment, leaving his arms and shoulders bare. His canvas trousers came only to below his knee. I had never seen such attire. He was barefoot.

“I was bathing my foot,” I said unnecessarily.

He bent down to look. “A dog bite. Does it pain you?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I think the salt water will revive it.” I spread my dress more decorously across my leg. I would have to wait till he went away to pull on my stocking.

“The wound needs attention.” He touched the skin around it with one finger, and I immediately jerked my foot away.

“Sir!” I said.

“I am sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“It was not that,” I said stiffly.

I saw a glimmer of a smile. “If I was too forward in touching you, accept another apology. But I was determining if the bite needs more than salt water to heal. And I believe it does. See the redness spreading? The wound is spoiling.”

I gathered my wits about me. “I thank you for your consideration. But I will tell you, I soaked my ankle in cold water immediately. I do not expect any trouble.” I had a quick memory of the dirty drips in the washbasin. “And now I have purified it in the ocean,” I added. “I am sure it will cure itself.”

He was looking at me intently. I had not noticed the color of his eyes. They were blue, and like the opal in the brooch my mother had given me, they seemed to change to an almost green, even as I looked at them. His eyebrows were dark as soot. Perhaps that was what gave him the appearance of a scowl.

“May I help you get up?” he asked.

“Thank you, but I can help myself.”

He still stood, then said, “I have not seen you here before. May I ask your name?”

“Josie Ferguson. I am now living at Raven’s Roost.”

“You are Caleb Ferguson’s daughter?” His voice had taken on a different tone.

“No,” I said. “I am his niece. I have come to live with him and my aunt for two years.”

He nodded, frowned. “You have come at a bad time.”

What did he mean? I had already surmised that any time would be bad.

I edged myself sideways along the rock, legs dangling, and set one foot down on the wet sand. I would dearly have loved some help, but I had chosen to refuse it and could no longer ask. I tried to take a step and almost fell over. The numbness had gone from my foot, and it seemed as if a hundred biting insects were feasting on it.

“I would like some privacy, please, while I put on my stocking and shoe,” I said stiffly, thinking that a gentleman would have rushed to my aid, no matter what I had previously said.

He turned his back and spoke away from me. “Was it Lamb who bit you?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to dry my foot on the hem of my dress, which was wet too. I gave up and pulled my stocking over the dampness. The pressure hurt, and I winced. But it was done. The shoe was impossible.

“You may turn around now,” I said.

He looked at me, at my stockinged foot.

“Perhaps if we introduce ourselves properly, you will allow me to help you. I am Eli Stuart.”

“As I told you, I am Josie Ferguson.”

“I don’t think you will be able walk across the shingle unaided, Mistress Ferguson,” he began, and I sighed and said, “Oh, please call me Josie.”

“It would be sensible to lean on my shoulder, if you are not too timid to touch me,” he said.

“Timid? I am not timid in the least. I am merely in a difficult situation.” One glance at the uneven shingle, the sharp small stones, and I knew I had no choice. “I have no choice,” I said and put my hand and my weight on his shoulder. It would have been less familiar if his shoulder had been covered, but my hand was on warm, smooth skin, and I felt color rise in my face. Almost instantly, I realized how difficult it would be to continue in this posture. He was taller than I, and I could not get the support I needed. I stumbled, and he turned and caught me. Before I could thank him or protest—before I could decide which I wanted to do—he lifted me and carried me over the sand, over the shingle, to where the path began.

I was mortified. At some point, I had felt myself slipping, and I’d put my arms around his neck. How could I have done that? I was shameless. My cheek had been pressed against his shoulder, his bare shoulder.

“You may release me now,” I said coldly, and he set me down where the path began. My heart was pounding. I had never been so handled, at least not by a young man. I straightened my wet and wrinkled dress. “Thank you,” I muttered grudgingly.

He smiled. It was an amused smile that changed his face, made it almost handsome.

“I was glad to be of assistance,” he said.

“I can climb the path without help,” I told him. “There is the handrail, and I can take my time.”

A woman was coming down the narrow path as I spoke. She wore a dark skirt and a high-necked blouse.

“Good morning, Mrs. Kitteridge,” Eli Stuart said.

She stopped, observing us.

“Good morning, Eli.” She pointed at me. “Who is this?”

“This is Mistress Josie Ferguson, niece to Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson. She had an unfortunate accident to her ankle. This is Mrs. Kitteridge,” he added unnecessarily.

I could not help but notice that she wore a ring on the finger that she pointed. It had a deep red stone that blazed in the sunlight. Then I saw that she had a ring on every finger of each hand, all of them glittering like glass. But I could tell they were not glass. I had seen such gems in the windows of elegant establishments in Edinburgh.

“You’ll be helping your aunt and uncle, then?” Mrs. Kitteridge asked.

“Yes,” I said.

Beside me, I saw Eli shift.

“They’ll be glad of another pair of hands and sharp young eyes,” she said.

Sharp young eyes? What meaning was I to take from that?

“We must be going,” Eli told her.

She put a beringed hand on his arm. “You must come soon and see Daphne,” she purred. “She pines for you.”

“I am sure she has more important things to do,” Eli said, but I could tell he was discomfited. He stood aside to let Mrs. Kitteridge pass.

She walked away from us toward the sea, her feet crunching in the shingle.

“I would like to suggest something to you,” Eli said. “I do not like how that ankle looks. There is poison in it, from the teeth.”

Or from the water in the basin,
I thought guiltily.

He pointed. “I live with my grandmother in that house you can see among the trees. My grandmother knows herbs and potions and can cure anything, from a cut to a broken leg. I’ve seen her put a poultice on a festering wound and draw out the corruption. It would pleasure her to help you.”

I could not believe it. This young gentleman whom I did not know, not content to have embarrassed me by carrying me in his arms, was proposing that I go with him to his grandmother’s house. Unchaperoned. Now.

He was looking at me in a questioning manner. I had no doubt his suggestion had been made out of kindness, and perhaps, here in Brindle, refined manners had disappeared. But to do what he recommended would be impossible for me.

“Thank you,” I said. “But my uncle Caleb is an apothecary with, I am sure, knowledge of cures. I will wait for him to come back and tend to me.”

For a moment, I thought about how unconcerned my uncle and aunt had been last night. But this was not something I would reveal to a stranger.

“Oh, yes. Your uncle Caleb.” There was that scowl again. “You say you will be helping him? Are you aware of what he does?”

“He is a fisherman,” I said.

“Yes. And more. I wish you well, Mistress Josie.”

And before I could ask the meaning of his words, he strode away.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE PATH WAS MORE DIFFICULT
than I’d thought. I had to stop three times as I pulled myself along. Each time I halted, I looked, half ashamed of my action, for Eli Stuart. I did not see him. Why didn’t I dismiss him from my thoughts as I had dismissed his offer of help? I told myself that I dwelled on him merely because the time with him had been so irregular. Having him touch me, having him carry me! He’d smelled of the sea. I was aghast that I could not instantly dispel the vulgar thoughts I was having.

The few people at the other end of the beach were coming this way. They seemed to know one another. They were gesticulating, sometimes slowing to talk.

I hobbled back to the house. When I reached the door, I paused. Where was Lamb? Would he be as permissive as he had been earlier? Would he remember that I was friend to Aunt Minnie? Was the quill still in my pocket?

It was. I took it out and held it at the ready. In my other hand, I clutched my shoes. One would be good as a stout club.

I opened the door an inch. “Lamb?” I called, cajolingly. “It’s Josie.” I took a deep breath. There I was, talking as if the dog understood, as if he knew my name! That was all right for my aunt Minnie, who I had already decided was slightly strange. But not for me.

Listening, I heard nothing.

I opened the door a little wider and saw Lamb lying in front of the lintel. To get in, I would have to step over him, which I did, holding my breath.

He made no move.

“Good dog,” I whispered.

He lifted his head and gazed at me. His tail wagged peacefully.

Whatever he’d been told of me, he remembered.

I edged to the stairs and climbed to my room. The brimming basin of water was where I had left it. I bent over it. Yes, little bits of roofing that might be a hundred years old floated on top. There was pebbly dirt too, scattered across the bottom. I had been foolish to use it.