Moon Cutters (23 page)

As she sipped at her punch, she couldn’t resist peeking through the open doorway. Somehow, Fletcher had persuaded Mrs Swift on to the floor and they were slowly circling around, while Fletcher taught her the steps. Her lips were pursed into a tight smile, as though she was afraid to allow it to relax into laughter.

Before too long she was dancing easily, and James handed her over to her husband just before the dance ended and went waltzing off with Lucy. There was an animated buzz in the room now. The orchestra leader announced a quadrille and the dancers organized themselves for the event. Lucy was talking to a rather elegant woman and the man with her. Miranda couldn’t remember being introduced to them; they must have arrived late. Lucy looked as though she was enjoying the party.

Fletcher was making his way through the crowd, stopping to exchange a few words or smiling at people.

Eventually, he joined her and kissed her forehead.

Miranda finished her punch in a couple of gulps and gave a little shudder. It was deliciously sweet and had a crisp, fruity undertone that was warm, yet it slaked her thirst and left her tongue feeling clean. ‘What’s in this?’

He picked up a cup and smelled it. ‘Hmm … it’s one of my uncle’s cure-all spice and herb recipes. He keeps the basic condensed mixture in an oak keg in the wine cellar and dilutes it according to the purpose he needs it for.’ Taking a sip, he rolled it about his mouth and then swallowed it. ‘It’s got brandy in it as well as ginger, herbs and fruit juices diluted with water.’

‘He should bottle it and sell it. It tastes like wine, only it’s sweeter and crisper.’

Fletcher chuckled. ‘He probably does bottle and sell it. My uncle is an enterprising man. It’s a perfect brew to use in fruit punch. It has rather a strange effect on me, though. I have a sudden urge to kiss you.’

She laughed and moved closer. ‘I have the same urge, Fletcher. Putting the cup aside, she slid into his arms and sought his mouth with her own.

She couldn’t believe she was so in love with this man – and that he loved her in return. When the kiss ended, he looked down at her, his eyes gleaming with reflected starlight. ‘I have the licence and Reverend Swift has agreed to wed us in private. We can make our vows tomorrow at eleven. He has also agreed to keep the matter a secret.’

Although she had no qualms about a hasty marriage union with Fletcher, Miranda was beset by uneasiness and felt guilty about deceiving his uncle. ‘Sir James will be angry when he finds out.’

‘By which time you’ll be my wife and he won’t be able to prevent it.’

‘Even if he knew, how could he prevent it?’

He ran his finger down her nose. ‘Believe me, this is the best way. He is unpredictable, and at least you won’t have to face him alone, my love.’

They moved apart when they heard footsteps.

Sir James appeared and gazed from one to another. ‘Ah, the pair of you are out here … You have not danced with your host yet, Miranda.’

She could barely meet his eyes. ‘I needed to quench my thirst and Fletcher brought me some punch. He said you made it yourself and we were discussing the quality of it. It’s quite delicious.’

‘It has many uses, depending on its strength.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Come, my dear. It’s not a wise policy to ignore either your guests or your host so completely.’

Reminded of her manners, she smiled at Fletcher, trying to hide her regret. ‘You will excuse me, won’t you?’

‘Only under protest,’ he said and kissed her hand.

‘Oh, by the way, if you see the reverend anywhere, kindly tell him his wife is looking for him.’

‘It depends how happy he looks.’

Sir James laughed, saying drily, ‘Extremely, I should imagine, since he was last seen heading towards the coast with a bottle of my best brandy under his arm. I doubt if he’ll get very far.’ Tucking Miranda’s arm into his, he led her back inside.

Beyond the bay, the crew of the revenue cutter turned the ship about and headed for the harbour at Poole, satisfied they’d find no smugglers abroad on this bright night. There had been a French fishing boat that had strayed too close to the coast earlier. She’d carried no contraband but a mess of fish, and they’d flung a few common curses at each other, exchanging insults.

‘Fils de salops!’

‘Bugger off, frogs.’

‘Nique ta mere! Englishman!’

‘You leave my mother out of it … she’s still a virgin.’

If the officers hadn’t been so preoccupied with the sport, and had looked up before the French fishing boat came between them and the shore, they would have seen a man crawl from the water.

As it was, the cutter was showered with stinking fish guts until the crew trained their gun on the Frenchies. The fishermen understood that gesture in any language, and had turned tail and sailed off, the crew singing
La Marseillaise
at the top of their voices.

Shortly after both ships disappeared from sight, the
Wild Rose
came over the horizon. She was heavy in the water. The men would place the goods in various hiding places – under the floor in the drying sheds, the inn, under the altar in the church or hidden in tombs and haystacks – from where they’d be distributed.

Fletcher Taunt would turn a blind eye, because although he’d inherited Silas’s estate, he had no power to enforce his will against that of his uncle single-handedly. His workers owed him no loyalty. Tom Pepper ran things, as he always had, hand in glove with Sir James.

Another firework bloomed and a reflection of red flames danced on the surface of a stranger’s eyes. The man was dressed like a monk and gazing down at him. ‘Do you need help?’ When he pushed back his cowl, his unruly shoulder-length hair was damp.

‘Do you have some?’

‘I might.’

Reverend Swift peered at the man. ‘You’re no ghost, but you look familiar. I think we’ve met before. What’s your name?’

The figure chuckled. ‘We haven’t met before … and it’s a cursed name.’

The moon sought out the pits and scars, bringing them into relief so he looked as though his face had been carved from shining stone. One side of the face was paralyzed. But the other side was strong and mobile when he talked.

The reverend recognized him then. Laughter rattled out of him like the last gusts of a banshee retreating back into its den. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.
Adrian Taunt.
’

‘You know my name?’

‘It’s whispered in the shadows. I understood you to be dead.’

The man chuckled. ‘I
am
dead. What you see before you is my wretched remains. Now I must go. They’ll be bringing the contraband ashore soon.’

‘They will fill the church vaults with it and desecrate the souls of the dead.’

‘Better that than to corrupt the souls of the living.’

‘Would you have your own child drawn into that corruption? You’re a man of the cloth. Forget your revenge.’

The eyes glittered. ‘Ah yes … my son. So far, he’s allowed him to live.’

‘Sir James loves him.’

‘My half-brother is incapable of love. All he craves is power.’

‘Then help me put a stop to what’s going on here. Help me back to the church. I urgently need to write a letter … two, in fact.’

‘Nothing will stop me from taking my revenge.’

‘I know.’ The reverend wished he was going to be around to witness it.

He was in a jovial mood. His wife hadn’t bothered him all evening. The brandy provided by his host was powerful, better than he’d hoped for or deserved, and the sky was so clear he could almost see right into heaven.

Now he had to expose his conscience before his maker – and not for the first time.

He sat amongst the long-dead with his back against a tombstone. ‘I’m sorely troubled, Lord,’ he said, taking a fortifying swig from the bottle, because talking to God took courage – something he was often short of. ‘And you send me a monk who is as troubled as I am.’

‘Tell me what troubles you,’ the monk said.

‘I know He sent me here to save the souls of the sinners, but unfortunately the opposite seems to have happened and the sinners have captured my soul. I’m powerless to stop it. What have I done to deserve such misfortune?’

The reverend smiled as he remembered the Jarvis girls, so sweet and innocent. The older one was shining and doe-eyed with love. He’d watched her with young Fletcher on the terrace together, experienced the sweet lust in the kiss they’d exchanged. Such a long time since he’d experienced that – if he ever had. He couldn’t remember.

He’d promised Fletcher Taunt that he’d sanctify their marriage vows on the morrow. But James Fenmore wanted the girl too, and he usually got his own way.

‘Not this time,’ he whispered. Sir James couldn’t have his own way on this, since he wouldn’t learn of the marriage until after it had taken place.

‘Those that God hath joined let no man put asunder,’ he called out, and began to laugh. ‘Though if by chance you saw fit to silence Mrs Swift’s harping – by making me deaf perhaps, since I wouldn’t wish any affliction on her – it would indeed be a blessing.’

‘Your wife is a good woman. Like most women, she wanted a hero.’

‘There are no heroes in this cursed place.’

Someone had lit a candle in a lantern. Odd how he’d never seen it earlier. It was as though they knew he would be here, examining his sins with this monk, like a good wife hanging washing on a hedge to dry and checking the whiteness for stains.

The moon climbed slowly up out of the sea. It was round and perfect and almost white, resembling the crumbly cheese produced in the district. In front of it was the menacing shadow, a cutter cleaving the moon in half and hunting for prey.

Perhaps God had lit the lantern so he wouldn’t feel quite alone with the darkness of his mind.

He winced when pain rippled through his stomach. Another drink would cure it. This was good brandy. The spirit had been created by vines harvested in France. Grapes had been crushed underfoot by peasant maids, their skin as brown as earth, their laughs husky. The wine was like a torrent of melted rubies gushing from the gutters, the fruit musky and ripe. The grapes split open to the pressure of feet stomping on the flesh to release their promise in a torrent of fertility.

He remembered the perspiration, and the summer of the grapes, of the wine cloudy and running like blood, and the girl, her eyes wide and scared and her tears flowing, the centre of her warm, moist and reluctant. Most of all, he remembered the anguish of the little cry she gave. He couldn’t remember her name. Something short and biblical, perhaps … He’d promised to go back for her.

That was when his elder brother had died, and he’d been called home from his tour abroad to step into his shoes and embrace a living in the church.

‘One doesn’t wed peasant girls, however pretty,’ his father had told him. ‘You must forget her. We’ll find you a good woman who can bring a dowry with her and calm your bodily devils.’

The stranger who’d been shivering in his arms on their wedding night had not been his French peasant, and he’d prayed that he’d be able to perform the act that would make them one and produce a child.

Neither had come about and he’d sought his manly solace with the young women who thronged in the shadows. But people talked, and there had been a scandal. He’d been sent here and had found himself in the middle of a devil’s brew of thieves. What was worse, Sir James had discovered his weakness. He’d been thankful there had been no temptation in this quiet parish – until Lucy Jarvis came along!

Lucy reminded him of the peasant. Oh, she was finer-skinned and dainty, like a little pony that pranced with the joy of living. She had skin that glowed like satin in the candlelight. She’d come into the church once, and he’d watched from behind a curtain as she’d copied memorials into a book. Goodness knows what she was looking for. She’d danced up the aisle, spinning around, her arms wide and her laughter ringing in his ears as though she were performing for God himself.

The urge had come upon him and he’d remembered his youth and wanted to take her tender innocence, crush her and split her asunder like the grapes under a summer sun.

She’d teased him. ‘God, how she teases me,’ he whispered and his tears began to flow. ‘Lord, help me to overcome this affliction. It was wrong of me to fall in love again, and with a girl so young.’

‘Did you corrupt her?’

He’s forgotten about the monk … his confessor.

He lifted the brandy to his mouth and took a good swallow. It was good brandy, and there was very little of it left. ‘She’s like a day in spring. But no. I’ve resisted the urge.’

From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement in the shadows and hoped it wasn’t his wife. ‘Who’s there?’

There was no sound. He’d imagined it, as he’d imagined the monk. Another pain rippled across his stomach. It was stronger than the last one. Perspiration coated his body, though the night was cool and he felt sick. Swallowing the rest of the brandy down, he groaned and doubled up, cuddling the bottle against his pain.

When the pain passed, he tried to rise. Feeling dizzy, he hastily sat down again. Fear flooded through him when he saw that the bent, shadowy figure had returned. ‘Who is it?’

A firework thrust up through the sky to the left of him and he automatically turned his head as it exploded. How pretty and enticing heaven was – so large, shining and … peaceful. It didn’t need any human embellishment.

Catching a glimpse of a face partly disguised by a cowl, and a body twisted and bent, the reverend experienced so much fear that he nearly screamed out loud. There had been talk of a spectre that haunted the night over the past couple of years. The locals said he’d returned to claim Monksfoot Abbey. The monk’s skin was scarred, his mouth puckered, and he walked with a limping gait. ‘Are you a spirit sent from hell?’

The voice was strong and deep. ‘I might well be.’

The reverend’s limbs were fatigued, and he trembled as pain slid like a fiery worm from his gut into his chest and settled there. It pressed against his heart so he could hardly breathe, and he placed his hand against it. ‘I’ve drunk too much and I’m in pain. I’m seeing things.’