Moon Cutters (8 page)

Lucy offered him a smile filled with hero worship. ‘I promise.’

Mrs Patterson chuckled. ‘You’re such a wag, James. You’ve only known these lovely girls for a couple of weeks. How much growing up can be done in that short time?’

‘You’d be surprised.’

Sarah asked, in a rather imperious tone for a guest, ‘And where shall I be seated, pray?’

‘Wherever you wish, Sarah. It’s a large table and the dinner is informal, which is why I’ve allowed you the liberty of using my first name on this occasion.’

When they were seated, Sir James rang a little bell before turning to Simon Bailey. ‘What did you think of the funeral and sea burial for Silas?’

‘It was interesting, but I thought there was a little too much romance attached to the demise of such a rogue. Silas was born dishonest and should have been hanged years ago. The world would be a better place without the Silas Ashers of this world littering it, like so much rubbish.’

‘The old families hereabouts tend to follow tradition. Silas’s family came from a long line of Vikings; smuggling was part of his blood.’

‘So was murder, but that doesn’t make it right.’

‘Come, come now, Simon. Silas was a good man in his way. He kept many of the local men in work when they could have starved in the gutter, and he was honest in his dealings with his equals, even when he was being dishonest in the eyes of the law. Sometimes one has to measure a man’s worth to the community and turn a blind eye to his foibles.’

‘You may have the clout to turn a blind eye on occasion. I must work within the law, Sir James. I cannot weaken my stance towards those who seek to grow rich by avoiding the taxes legally due to the crown.’

‘Oh, the crown benefits from taking her share of vagrants from the prisons. Most of those pressed into Navy service are smugglers. Every smuggler given decent employment to atone for his sins is replaced by a dozen more.’

Andrew Patterson joined in. ‘Meanwhile, the prisons are filled to capacity, and wives and children are left with no means of support, which encourages more crime in their struggle to survive. To remove crime altogether would be to encourage anarchy.’

‘Nonsense. As long as there is a network of honest men in government, there will be checks and balances. I have no compassion for such felons. It’s up to a man to support his family, but not by criminal acts. If his wife and children suffer, that’s his business, not mine. What say you, Miss Jarvis?’

Miranda thought Simon Bailey was rather forceful in his manner, however honest he professed to be. Nevertheless, she felt sorry for the man for having been exposed to such contrary opinions from those supposed to uphold the law.

She couldn’t help but offer an opinion, albeit rather timidly. ‘The wives and children of felons are also victims. If it hadn’t been for Sir James, my sister and I would have perished in the snow two weeks ago, along with our mother. Not that my father was a felon, of course. He died when he fell from a horse.’

Bailey offered her a smile and his voice softened with what seemed to be genuine sympathy. ‘My commiserations, Miss Jarvis … a different circumstance altogether. Females are notably soft-hearted about such matters. I have seen them weep at the gallows over the demise of the most disgusting and notorious of villains. With respect, women have very little understanding in such matters, since they are governed by their emotions.’

Into the sudden silence, Mary Patterson declared, ‘Sir James is a saint. I have always thought so.’

Her husband exchanged a glance with their host, whose upward thrust of a single eyebrow made him look more devilish than saintly.

‘I must get my halo out and polish it,’ James said lightly and changed the subject, saying to the lawyer, ‘Has the rector chosen the design for the new chapel window?’

‘He is indecisive, but his wife leans towards the most expensive, I’ve heard.’

James huffed with laughter. ‘And why not, when the money for it is coming out of my pocket. Perhaps I should donate the money for a new cutter for the customs service instead. A dedicated window is poor reward for such selfless acts, and I heard you had an encounter with a Frenchie, Mr Bailey, and had to turn tail and run.’

Simon didn’t look too pleased to be reminded. ‘He was armed to the teeth and intent on ramming us.’

The cook and the serving maid came in, carrying a steaming tureen. ‘Ah, here comes the first course. That smells delicious, Nancy.’

Nancy beamed a smile at him. ‘It’s your favourite, Sir James. Chicken and mushroom.’

Roasted lamb and vegetables followed the soup, and the pudding was a tart made with a filling of preserved gooseberries, covered in creamy custard.

Lucy ate little, but Sir James coaxed her with a few spoonfuls.

As if he were her father, Miranda thought uneasily, because Lucy was impressionable, and it seemed as though Sir James was acting a part.

After dinner, the three men disappeared into the billiards room for port and cigars, and the ladies sipped coffee and liquor in the drawing room.

Sarah Tibbets began the conversation. ‘I was unaware of the circumstances of you residing here, Miss Jarvis.’

‘Are you implying Sir James
should
have made you aware of them?’ Mary Patterson said. ‘I’ve known him since we were children, and he usually keeps his private business to himself.’

Sarah didn’t back down. ‘If his guest sees fit to blurt out the reason of her being here in the middle of dinner, then I don’t see how he can complain if his business becomes common knowledge.’

‘To which guest are you referring? You can be certain that neither Andrew nor I will blurt out anything that’s said at our host’s dining table; am I wrong in assuming that you and your brother will offer him the same courtesy?’

‘Of course not.’ Sarah Tibbets stared at Lucy, who had shuffled her feet. ‘Do stop fidgeting, child.’

Miranda was grateful to Mary for drawing the woman’s attention away from herself, but she wasn’t going to allow Sarah Tibbets to pick on Lucy. ‘My sister has been ill, and she’s beginning to tire.’

Just then, the door opened and the men came in. Sarah cried out, as if Lucy was five years old, ‘The child should be sent to bed, James. She’s tired and she’s being a nuisance.’

Lucy coloured and tears moistened her eyes.

Sir James handed her his handkerchief. ‘I doubt very much if Miss Lucy could ever be a nuisance. Besides, she has yet to do her turn. Mop those eyes, Miss Lucy. I’m sure Mrs Tibbets didn’t mean to make you cry, did you, Mrs Tibbets?’

Sarah almost snorted and said brusquely, ‘Of course not. Girls are overly sensitive these days. They shouldn’t be pandered to.’

His eyes glinted when he turned to Lucy. ‘Do you hear that, Miss Lucy? Thank goodness I have a mind of my own that tells me I’m too old and ugly to be dictated to by guests in my own home. What say you?’

Lucy giggled. ‘You’re not ugly, Sir James. As you said earlier, you’re nearly as handsome as your horse and he’s a dandy.’

‘There we are, then. Seeing as how one cannot have an argument with oneself, it stands to reason that I must be right, and so must you be. You shall play the song we rehearsed, and I’ll sing it with you. Then you must say goodnight and your sister can take you off to bed.’

Taking her place at the piano, Lucy played a lead-in to Benteen’s song, and sang the first line. She had a clear, pleasant singing voice.
‘How can I leave thee, how can I bear to part?’

‘That thou hast all my heart, dearest believe,’
Sir James answered in a gravelly tenor that had abandoned the drawing room some years since.

A few moments later and Lucy took her bows to polite applause. Sir James lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. ‘Well done, my dear. Off you go now. Miss Jarvis. Please don’t forget to return to us when you’ve tucked her in.’

There was a chill in the air after the drawing room, and Miranda noticed that the door was open and cold air was streaming in. She remembered that Caesar had learned to open doors, and she smiled. She’d better leave it open in case the dogs needed to get back in. She’d mention it to Sir James.

Lucy’s eyelids were drooping by the time they got upstairs, and she was almost asleep when she whispered, her voice slurring, ‘It was fun tonight, wasn’t it? You looked so lovely in that gown that it made that ugly woman jealous.’

‘I enjoyed it, and you mustn’t say that about Sir James’s guests.’ She pulled the nightdress over her sister’s head. ‘Into bed now.’

‘Will you stay until I’m asleep? I get scared by myself sometimes, in case I see the ghost again.’

‘It was your fever that caused that, but of course I will. I’ll sit on the window seat.’ Out in the darkness, she saw a blue light winking on and off. Then, not long after, she saw a steady light shining on the cliff top. Perhaps it was a pair of lovers, or a fisherman signalling to his wife as he headed back to harbour.

Lucy’s breathing had become soft and even. Miranda lit the nightlight and went on to the landing. She heard the dogs fretting in a room on the other side of the landing. Caesar must have let them in.

Quietly, she entered the room. The dogs pushed damp snouts into her hands and gave little huffs of welcome.

‘What are you doing in here? You should be downstairs. Off you go to the kitchen now and get your dinners.’

The dogs pushed past her and headed off. She stayed.

The room had a musty smell to it. The curtains were drawn back and she drew in a delighted breath at the sight of a shining round moon framed in the window.

Moving across to the window, she gazed dreamily out at a garden bathed in moonlight. Gradually, she became aware of something else. The sea perhaps, shushing on the shore. But no, this was another’s presence. There was a soft feathering of breath that competed with her own, and a whisper of a heartbeat, like the regular beat of a far-off drum. She remembered the place was supposed to be haunted. Did ghosts breathe? Did they have heartbeats?

Of course they didn’t. They were dead and didn’t need either. ‘Who’s there?’ she murmured, cursing the fear that made her voice quaver.

Prickles raced through her body and her throat closed when the door clicked shut. Fear paralyzed her and she could neither speak nor move.

There was a movement of air as something moved past her. Grasped by a strong arm, the other hand covered her mouth, smothering her involuntary whimper of fright. A man’s voice materialized, like a curl of smoke against her ear. ‘Don’t scream, I won’t hurt you.’

Though frightened half to death, the voice was reassuring and Miranda believed him. Even while she nodded, she thought,
No dead spirit, this
. The hand was warm and alive, and it smelled of brandy, as though he’d recently held a glass of the spirit in it. When she sank her teeth into the pad under his thumb, he jerked it away, cursing, and turned her to face him. He struck a vesta and applied the light to a candle.

She got a good sight of him then, the angled planes of his face accented in the moonlight, his hair a torrent of dark unruly curls. Not Sir James … no, not him, yet like him. This face had greenish eyes that glinted in the moonlight, and the hint of a wry smile, exactly like the image of him on her wall. But far from being an image, the living warmth of his body embraced her, invited her closer.

She could taste traces of brandy on her tongue, left there when she’d bitten his hand. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He was the living, breathing image of Fletcher Taunt.

They stared at each other, and she thought her curiosity must be as apparent in her eyes as his was to her.

Slowly, a smile inched across his face and he drawled, ‘Dear God, it’s a young woman in my bedroom. Didn’t anyone tell you I don’t sleep here any more, so I can only imagine your delights? Tell me your name.’

She felt a blush creep into her cheeks. ‘Miranda … Let go of me, please, Mr Taunt. What are you doing here?’

‘I was looking for myself, but found you instead.’

He ran his hands down her arms and took her hands in his, gently pulling her to him across the few inches of space between them, his intention clear. There was no force from him. Slowly, he leaned forward, his gaze on her mouth, allowing her time to avoid him before it gently settled on hers.

She could have moved away, slapped him or screamed for help. She could have said no. She did none of those things. Legs rooted to the spot, she slowly disintegrated, allowing him the delicious liberty of stealing a lingering kiss from her lips, now sensitized beyond reason. Fire darted through her veins and every vulnerable part of her absorbed the living essence of him and quivered with anticipation.

A puff of air extinguished the candle. ‘I want to know all about you and must see you again,’ he whispered. ‘Try to come to the stile next Thursday at ten.’

After a while, her mouth cooled. Miranda realized he was gone, quietly and without so much as a creak of a floorboard or a stair. Still she stood there, only God knew how long, enjoying the bouquet of the brandy on her tongue and experiencing his warmth embracing her inside.

Eventually, she opened her eyes and moved out to the landing window. The moon gradually rose and the night was saturated in its light. Shadows elongated in the garden.

She wondered if he might have walked out of his painting and she’d imagined him, after all, except she suddenly saw him in the shadows below the window. He was heading towards the woods at an easy lope, the three dogs silent shadows at his heels.

He stopped in the shadow of a horse chestnut – one that had recently delighted her by unfurling feathers of spring greenery from their brown sticky casings. He turned and blew her a kiss.

There was a whistle from beneath her. The dogs turned, sniffed at the air and then headed towards the noise at speed. She must go down before Sir James came looking for her and caught her in this room.

‘So that was Fletcher Taunt,’ she whispered, smiling as she quietly closed the door and floated downstairs on knees that seemed as liquid as water after the confrontation.

‘Ah … there you are. I was just coming up to find you,’ Sir James said from the hall below, making her jump. ‘Have you seen the dogs?’