A Shadow's Bliss (6 page)

Isaac shrieked with mirth.

Jonathan's undamaged hand clenched tight, and he had to concentrate on a deep voice that had decreed, “…
no matter what the provocation.…
” Through gritted teeth he managed to utter a low-voiced, “Please.”

Grinning broadly, Blary stamped, and the carefully fashioned bars splintered. With a gleeful shout, Isaac jumped on the wreckage, flattening it.

Blinded with rage Jonathan started up. Blary's boot smashed into his ribs, sending him sprawling. Hilarious, Blary drew back his foot again.

His laugh became a howl. Clutching his elbow, he spun to face the man who had come up silent and unnoticed. “Wha' the hell…?”

Jonathan dragged himself to one elbow, and scanned the newcomer. He saw a tall slender individual, clad in ill-fitting and much worn garments. His face was heavily bearded, and jet black hair straggled from under an object that had once been a tricorne.

His white teeth gleaming in a savage grin, the stranger flourished a sturdy branch as though it had been a small sword. “Kick him again, my unlovely dirtiness,” he invited, a laugh in the cultured voice. “I would purely enjoy bestowing some bruises on your smelly self.”

This gent talked Quality talk, thought Blary. But he wore rags. And Quality gents didn't sport big shaggy beards, nor have eyes what was a shape no one ever see before. ‘A foreign gent,' he decided, ‘what's gone and ruined hisself.' Reassured, his bullet head lowered menacingly. “I'll bruise yer,” he snarled, and rushed to show this interloper why no one in Roselley never dared stand up agin Ben Blary.

Holding his side painfully, Jonathan struggled to his feet. He was permitted to help if the stranger was endangered.

Mr. Blary was not able to explain, later, quite what went wrong. The foreign gent didn't seem to move about much, yet somehow, no matter how quick he himself dodged about, the stranger always managed to be behind him. The nasty branch slammed across his broad hips; whacked across the back of his other elbow, causing his arm to tingle to the fingertips; and cracked onto his head. Cursing loud and lustily, but for once hurt and scared, he backed away. Isaac, having attempted to attack the stranger from the rear, had caught a solid swipe across the middle, and stood to one side, gulping in air.

“Take yer wicked hands off my poor little boy,” whined Blary, clutching his throbbing head. “Ye got no cause to attack honest folk.”

“If I see any, I promise not to do so.” The stranger made a lunge with his branch, and Blary and son retreated at speed.

“Ye do not live in this Hundred,” accused Blary over his shoulder. “Where'd you come from so sudden, is what I'd like ter know.”

“Begone, Mr. Raff and Mr. Scraff! Before I give you the thrashing you warrant!”

“You're a changeling!” shouted Blary. “Evil, is what ye be”—he pointed at Jonathan—“same as him!”

Branch whirling, the stranger leapt forward.

Isaac squealed and fled, his father quickly overtaking him.

Jonathan said, “Thank you, sir. That was a fine thrust in
tierce.
”

The stranger turned his head sharply, and for the first time Jonathan noticed that his eyes, which he'd thought were near black, were instead the darkest blue he'd ever seen, and that they were of a slightly alien shape. ‘He's part Chinese,' he thought, and there came a quick sense of familiarity, gone before it was fully comprehended, as of a dream tantalizingly just beyond recall.

“Damme!” His rescuer strode closer, eyeing him narrowly. “I thought you were—” He hesitated.

“The village idiot?”

“Yes. Else I'd have let you fight your own battles. Why the devil didn't you? I despise most men. Poltroons, especially.”

Jonathan flushed, but said nothing.

The piercing eyes continued to scan him curiously. “Who are you?”

“I'm—they call me Crazy Jack.”

“Do they. They call me September.”

“But—this is—”

“August. So 'tis. Do you know me? I'd swear we've met.”

“I—don't think so. I can't always tell.”

“Hmm. How long have you been here?”

“Not long, sir.”

“Where did you come from?”

Avoiding those keen eyes, and beginning to be alarmed, Jonathan said, “Garrison Pen.”

“Convenient, since 'tis now buried under the sands. Where before that?”

“I—I don't know. I can't remember.”

A lean white hand shot out. Jonathan's wrist was caught in a grip of iron. “Can't? Or won't? You're no lunatic. Did Underhill send you here? Or are you one of the Squire's hell-hounds?”

Bewildered, Jonathan stammered, “Sir, I am not acquainted with—with a Mr. Underhill. I have seen Lord Morris, but from a—a distance only. My—my hand, sir…”

September glanced down and his fingers were removed at once. “You'll have a fine bruise there. Our departed bully's boot, I take it.” He scanned Jonathan's troubled face again. “Something of a chameleon, ain't you. If you really can't recall your past, you've my sympathy. Although not all pasts are worthy of recollection.” The strange eyes were broooding and he was briefly silent. Then, he said abruptly, “You're no heavyweight, but you look capable of holding your own in a brawl. It does no good to bow to a bully. He'll kick the harder and the more often, till you give him back his own.” His white teeth flashed in a grin. The hat was removed. With a grace that was at odds with his shabby appearance he bowed low. “You may count yourself blessed, Crazy Jack, for I never give advice.”

He strolled a few steps, then turned back. “By the bye, do you know aught of a fellow called Hibbard Green?”

“He's not from this Hundred, sir,” evaded Jonathan, not sure what to make of this man.

“Hundred? What the devil's that?”

“A district. Cornwall is divided into nine of them. You are in what is called the—the Penwith Hundred.”

“Hum. No, the creature is not from this desolation. And you didn't answer my question. You've no cause to be afraid to speak out. I'm not a Trap, nor a Riding Officer after your free-trading friends.”

‘The creature…' Jonathan smiled. “A stranger came to the castle a few weeks back. He's here again. I heard he might—might buy the old mine.”

“Now that's much better! And does this stranger resemble a great bloated toad, perhaps?”

Jonathan's laugh effected a transformation that astonished Mr. September. “'Twould be reckless in the extreme, sir, for a common man to endorse such a description of a peer of the realm.”

“Then I'll not put you in harm's way.” September strolled off.

“Again, I thank you, sir,” called Jonathan.

Without turning, September waved his branch.

Jonathan looked after him thoughtfully. He had enquired for Lord Green, but he was walking toward the high moors rather than north to Triad. Perhaps he hoped to find his lordship out at the mine. Perhaps he had some message that would send the repulsive baron away.

He gathered up the remnants of the shattered cage, which would at least be of use for the stove, and walked on. A strange fellow, this “Mr. September,” and unless he mistook it, a dangerous one. Whoever he was, 'twas unlikely that he'd given his true name. That he was a gentleman was past doubting—yet he went about bearded, and in rags. Why? And what did he want with Hibbard Green? He'd said something about “the squire's hell-hounds.” Lord Kenneth Morris was the local squire, but there were no hounds at Breton Ridge. Only cats. And who a'plague was “Underhill”…? The feeling that they'd met somewhere had evidently been mutual. As well, he thought wryly, that in that connection September's memory was as faulted as his own …

*   *   *

In return for the work he did for the widow, Jonathan had been allocated the shed at the foot of the garden. It was quite a spacious, if not very weatherproof shed, and he'd improved it until most of the rain and draughts were shut out. Next, he'd added some shelves, a row of hooks for his clothing, two chairs, and a small folding table, and now he felt quite comfortable.

On this windy night, he was recklessly burning two of his precious tallow candles while he carved a perch for the crate in which Duster still resided. The little bird was allowed to escape his temporary quarters once the door was closed for the night, and he perched on the table, preening his feathers, but checking on Jonathan's progress from time to time, as though making sure the work was done to his liking.

After two years of loneliness, even so small a creature was a valued companion, and Jonathan had fallen into the habit of talking to him. “The thing is,” he explained now, “that I am not doing very well.” He sighed, and waved his knife at his small friend. “Of late—especially when I'm near … her … I have back-slid. And that could be disastrous. Can you credit, Duster, that so exquisite a lady is still unwed? The Widow says 'tis because she suffered an injury as a child and will never be able to bear children. But someday a gentleman of sense will see her, and he'll think of the many little children starving and abandoned who could be taken in and loved. And adoring her—though never as much as I adore her—he will offer for her and take away his precious prize, and I will … never see her again.”

He paused, staring desolately at the knife in his hand until a chirp from Duster roused him. “Was that a comment upon selfishness, I wonder? You are perfectly correct, and I should be hoping she finds some … some fine gentleman to make her happy. Instead of which, I came perilous close to kissing her yesterday. Me!” He smiled bitterly. “You'd never guess, would you, that I was bred up to the Code of Honour?”

Duster used his withered claw to scratch behind his ear, but his bright eyes, fixed to the man's face, held a look of censure. Or so thought Jonathan.

“You're perfectly in the right of it,” he admitted. “A kiss—even a touch from—from such as I, would be desecration. And there's my head, you see. Sometimes I suppose my brain sort of—stops.”

Having attended to his ear, Duster puffed out all his feathers, and uttered a chirp.

Jonathan nodded. “Thank you. I know I restrained myself. But the thing is that— You see, I—I love her so very much. To be near her … to hear her dear voice—see her pretty lips curve into that so beautiful smile … is—heaven. And—hell. I'm afraid, Duster. Afraid that I might—forget for a moment what—what I am.” He put down his knife and drew a hand across his eyes distractedly.

Duster bobbed his bright shoulders up and down and squawked again.

Drawing a deep breath, Jonathan said, “Right again, friend. There are other areas where I'm weakening. There was my discussion with that animal, Blary, and— There I go! D'you see?
I
—who have done a far worse thing than ever that—that man has done—have the gall to name
him
‘animal'! And, far worse, Duster—I damned near forgot my vow. Oh, if you but knew how I yearned, absolutely
longed
to let him have a good right to the breadbasket!”

Despondent, he began to wind a length of wire around one end of the swing. “If I break my vow, I become even more—despicable. God help me, I know what I am, but—sometimes it's very hard.”

Duster hopped a shade nearer, and cocked his head on one side.

“Yes, I know you'd help me if you—” Jonathan checked, staring at the bird. “By Jupiter,” he exclaimed. “I think perhaps you can!”

He put down the swing and held one finger in front of the tiny blue chest. Duster eyed the finger with marked scepticism.

“Come now,” said Jonathan. “You can trust me I hope.” He nudged gently.

Duster gave him a warning peck, but then hopped aboard.

Cautiously, Jonathan lifted him. “I've heard some of your friends chatter away quite fluently,” he said. “I'm going to teach you a name, Duster. So that you can remind me of—of why I took a solemn oath, and help me not to break it.”

Duster's beady eyes scanned him unwinkingly.

But now Jonathan's courage failed. There were so many names from which to choose, and every one made him cringe. The cabin boy's bright impudence came into his mind's eye; little Bobby … but he was quite unable to make his lips form the name. There was Joe Taylor, the ship's carpenter, quick tempered, but loyal, and always ready to pull out his old fife and “whistle up a tune” as he'd been used to say, which would unfailingly set toes to tapping and lighten moods. And the pretty spinster lady, God rest her!… but her name was mercifully lost somewhere in his clouded memory. Other faces came to him, until, the sweat standing out on his brow, and his voice hoarse and shaking, he forced himself to utter a name. And he made himself keep on saying it, over and over again. “Bobby … Bobby … Bobby.”

Duster watched him for a while, turning his small head from one side to the other, as if striving to understand, but he made no sound and at length he hopped down and fluttered into his crate in search of sustenance.

For Jonathan, the self-imposed task had been as shattering as he'd feared. He said wearily, “Our first lesson, my small conscience. But not the last, for heaven knows I'm not likely to run out of … names for you.” He gazed at the bird dully, then gave a wry shrug. “And if truth be told, I'd be more honest did I give you no names at all. One word really is—is all that's needed…” He sank his face into trembling hands and his voice was an agonized whisper as he spoke that dread word. “Murderer!”

*   *   *

“Whatever are you doing, Jack?”

He hadn't expected her to come to the school today, and her lilting voice set his heart leaping and so startled him that he dropped the paintbrush he'd been cleaning. With an inward moan for his clumsiness, he snatched it up quickly, and stammered, “I hoped— I mean— I thought I'd have it finished before you came, ma'am.”