A Curse Dark as Gold (18 page)

Mrs. Hopewell slipped her arm around Mrs. Penny's shoulders. "Hush, Maire," she said, "not on Annie's day...."

But Mrs. Penny would not be consoled. "No! I'll say my piece. That mill is a
blight
on this village! It steals children, it breaks up families, and I'm gettin' out of this accursed place afore I got no family left! I don't need your Miller luck touching my lot!"

I stood rooted to my spot, my mouth fairly open with shock. Surely it is a bitter thing to lose one so young, and a little madness is understandable, but her words cut deeply. I could not find the will to quit the churchyard, and at last only I and Bill Penny still lingered.

Bill fell to his knees beside the grave. One hand was balled up at his mouth, as if he hoped to hold in his grief, the other clutched the ragged doll. With a great sobbing breath he dropped the doll into the grave. He mumbled something inaudible, and I finally pulled myself together to depart. This was a private grief, and none of my right to share. But as I started to leave, Bill rose to his feet.

"You stay there, Annie-girl, you hear me?" The words were slurred and anguished, but too impossible to mishear. "Don't you pay us any visits. You bide with Hester and little Billy and don't leave your rest, now. By cloth and bone, so mote it be."

And as I watched, Bill Penny spit into the freshly dug grave of his daughter.

I spun on my heel and fled, a cold sweat down my back, and stumbled headlong into Jon Graves, the undertaker. He had been waiting at a discreet distance for the family to leave, that they should not witness his labors.

"Easy there," he said, catching me gently as I turned my ankle in the dry road.

I mumbled something like "How clumsy of me" as I righted myself.

"It's a sad business," Mr. Graves said.

"It's dreadful." I could not quite pull myself back to the world -- that image of Mr. Penny spitting.... "People's children oughtn't die." Even I was surprised at the bitterness in my voice.
"Ah, miss," the undertaker said with a sigh, "we all of us die, and only the Reaper knows the appointed hour. 'Tis odd, though -- Shearing hasn't had a drowning since Stirwaters were built."

"What?" As unpredictable as the Stowe was, that seemed impossible. "Why not?"

Mr. Graves shrugged and leaned on his spade. "Can't say. Some folks'll tell you it's the tribute the Friendlies pay every year at Shrovetide."

Every village or tradesman's group has a Friendly Society organized for just such a purpose -- to pay funeral expenses or carry a hungry family through a lean season. I couldn't see the Pennys among their numbers, though, and I could not stop my next thought:
If they had paid the Friendlies, maybe the river would have spared Annie.

Mr. Graves continued. "Others'll tell you it's because of what happened the last time -- you know, at Stirwaters."

I glanced at him sharply. "I
don't
know. What happened?"

"Ah, miss, it's probably no more than just old village gossip -- you know how tales spread. I don't rightly know the details, meself -- there weren't a funeral, after all. But there were some kind of trouble during the building, somebody fell into the river, and were drowned. No more than that, miss -- so you can stop looking at me like that."

I pulled myself together. "I'm sorry -- it's just, I've never heard of this."

"Ah, and you can pay it no mind, then. T'only reason it's remembered at all is for being the last drowning in this village. Till now." Mr. Graves glanced at the churchyard. Mr. Penny had finally left. "I'm sorry, miss. Sad duty calls. But if you're wondering more about it, Wouldn't surprise me if the mill had some record of it, somewhere. You look there."

I didn't look. I had had enough of drownings, and death, and grief. I wanted to turn to problems I knew and could solve, and let the long dead rest in peace.

We saw little of Bill after that; Stirwaters was all but idle until we could sell the cloth, and there was not much work for him, nor did he show up seeking any. Annie's death had cast a shadow over the last days of summer, and those were grim and quiet days for us all.

When I did not hear back from Porter & Byrd, I wrote half a dozen other shipping agencies, drapers' shops, and haberdashers, but (excepting one dressmaker who ordered two lengths of black cassimere in anticipation of a heavy season for funerals), one by one word came back:
No, thank you.
Or variations on the same: We
bought our cloth at Worm Hill; was there some reason Stirwaters could not sell by normal channels?
&c. It began to look hopeless, and though our next mortgage payment was not due until the turning of the year, I should soon have to consider whether to buy any fall wool; and if I did not buy fall wool, my workers should all go hungry.

I was thus occupied in a miserable circuit of my thoughts one afternoon, and did not look up when Rosie slipped into the office, bearing the post. With a wave of my hand I let her sort through it, and she gave me the catalogue.

"The teasel people seem to think they'd like to be paid," she said, casting one note onto the desk. "Dexter's sent a new price list for dyestuffs, and Mr. Woodstone wants to know if we've lost any more fingers ... ?"

"What?" My head snapped up and I snatched the letter from Rosie.

"Oh,
now
you care."

Mr. Woodstone's note was brief but merry, asking after our progress and health and reminding us that he was at our service, should we need anything. There was no mention of our debt, but he did note that his father was particularly impressed by Stirwaters's accomplishment, just above the words
Yours faithfully,
and a schoolboy-tidy signature I was becoming familiar with. I found myself flattening out the creases with my fingers, tracing the ink on the page as Rosie prattled on about the remaining post.

"Who do we know in Stowemouth?"

All at once Mr. Woodstone's letter was forgotten. "That's Porter and Byrd," I said quietly, hardly daring to hope. It would surely be another excruciatingly polite refusal.

It was not, although neither was it such a stroke of fortune to turn our fates around in one breath. Mr. Byrd sent his regrets that he was unable to respond sooner, but if our cloth was still available, he was very much interested in pursuing an alliance of our firms.
Unfortunately, we did not receive your correspondence in time to arrange a place for your stock among our current shipments, hut if you were prepared to wait until after 1 January of the coming year, we anticipate the overseas market then to he more amenable. Further, we are prepared to offer you the prices stated in the accompanying document, as well as a one per cent commission on sales, less a twenty per cent share of all tariffs and customs fees.
Please respond with all due haste if these terms are agreeable.

"January is a long time off," I said. "Only three months. And a bit."

"A lot can happen in three months." I glanced over the proposed price list. "And we'd be losing money on some of the stock. We could have done better at Market."

Rosie nodded. "But think of your cloth --
your cloth --
shipped to the far corners of the earth. Laborers in tropical plantations wearing Stirwaters kersey, governors' wives dressed in Stirwaters shalloon."

I bit my lip, and with a heavy hand wrote back my brief reply:

The proposed terms are agreeable. We will hold the stock until the new year.

Yours sincerely,

C. Miller
Chapter Thirteen
That
long, strange summer finally drew to a close, and then, as smoothly as if someone had pushed a lever for it, autumn was upon us. The Gold Valley shone in all her amber glory, the trees along the river making a dazzling yellow parade from Blue Corners to Delight. At the end of October, when warm days are fewer than the chill ones, and golden sunshine gives way to grey mist, the Gold Valley celebrated harvest season with a travelling festival that rotated through the villages. Every three or four years, it made its way to Shearing.

Even with a woolshed full of unsold cloth, the merrymaking was contagious, and I was determined to put aside my concerns for a few hours. The fair amounted to a market day in Shearing; we might even make a few sales. Get enough cider and music in people -- even Gold Valley folk -- and they'll do all sorts of unexpected things.

The morning of the fair was brisk, but sunlight promised to burn the cold from the air by noontide. We opened Stirwaters for tours and sales and hosted a cidering in the yard as we'd done in Mam's day. Harte painted a glorious banner on a bad run of white broadcloth and hung striped bunting from the upstairs windows. I took my place by Stirwaters's doors, while Rosie showed off the millworks to visitors. Pilot sat at my knee, scrutinizing the folk who entered her demesne, and I trailed my fingers in the feathers of her sharp ears. She was curiously silent that morning, almost smug, so I was not expecting to hear a low, cheerful voice say right in my ear, "Shall I take the penny tour?"

I looked up to see Randall Woodstone, of all people, standing at my elbow. I noticed that he had cut his hair; the soft fall of bronze had been trimmed away to the clean style we favored in the country. It made his eyes stand out very brightly in his tanned face.

"Mr. Woodstone!" I said cleverly, but if my cheeks were red it was only because of the cool morning air. "Come to check on us?"

"I hear this is the place to be this weekend." He dipped a hand into his pocket. "Charging for tours, I see? That seems a very sound business practice. Your uncle's idea?" I grinned. "Rosie's, actually; the girl is a mercenary. Put your money away, sir. You know perfectly well you're welcome at Stirwaters any time."

"As your banker, I must advise against that. You should take any income available." He was still smiling, and I let him lay the coin in my palm.

"Well," I countered, "it seems rather foolish to take your money when I'll just turn around and pay it right back to you. So, here." And I put the penny right back in his hand, a cheeky grin on my own face. I was behaving with appalling forwardness, but somehow I couldn't check myself. Fair weather.

He looked at the coin for a moment before turning his grin on me again. "Well," he said. "Since I have just come into some money, won't you let me buy you some cider? I hear it's the best in the village,"

I glanced back to see Rosie watching us, leaning against the wall in her dress of apple red, a matching specimen of that fruit at her mouth. She gave me a significant look and then turned away. Oh, why not? Rosie could greet for a while; anyone who worked for us could give tours. I was going to let a young man buy me cider.

Later, facing each other across a makeshift table of planks and barrels, we toasted the day with ancient wooden mugs.

"Careful." I laughed as he took a deep draught from his mug. "That's the good stuff. Trawney's best, straight from the orchards. It'll go right to your head, Mr. Woodstone."

He set the mug down heavily, but the look in his eyes was very clear. "Charlotte Miller," he said gravely, "I have asked you
repeatedly
to call me Randall. Now I'm afraid I'll have to insist upon it,"

I widened my eyes. "Well," I said, "if you
insist
upon it, very well." I was laughing a little, but he was serious.

"Let me hear you say it."

"All right," I said quietly. "Randall.
Randall.
Is that better?"

The smile had returned, brighter than ever. He reached across the table and took my hand. "It's perfect."

I stared at my hand in his, aware that my heart was beating awfully fast, and I stood up abruptly. "Come," I said, forcing the merriment back into my voice. "I believe I owe you a tour."

"Where are we going?" he asked, and Rosie would be proud: I laughed at him.
"I thought you came to see the fair." And, of all the cheekiness, I lifted his half-empty mug to my lips and drained the contents before spinning off into the festival crowd, my banker at my heels.

I don't think I'd ever seen the harvest fair in quite the same light as that day with Randall. All the familiar sights seemed new to me, from the sheep-judging to Mrs. Carter's pickle stand, the children's games and the church raffle. Randall threw himself into the spirit, signing up to guess the bullock's weight and compete in target practice at the shooting stall. I must confess he showed up rather nicely; Edward Handy is generally considered Shearing's best shooter, but Randall beat him twice out of three.

"By the gods, man!" Edward bellowed after the third round, clapping Randall on the back with his meaty fist. "You must come for the pheasants in November!" He looked at me appraisingly. "Your family wouldn't go hungry with a gun in those hands. Cider here! Cider all round for the man who beat me -- and his lady." Here he winked at me -- a man I've known all my life!

"But we're not --" I started to protest. Randall caught my hand and laughed.