Come to Castlemoor (20 page)

“An' no one knows where they come from.…”

“What?…” I had been lost in thought and had no idea what she was talking about.

“Seven of 'em, there are. Big bruisers—all seven of 'em! Come here two days ago an' took rooms at the inn,
very
mysterious. No one knows why, although they say they're surveyors or somethin', sent 'ere to study boundaries or some such nonsense. Ain't logical—seven men! Don't mean nothin' good, I'll tell you that much. Everyone in Darkmead's wonderin' just why they're here. Some say they've come to cause contention at the factory. I know for a fact a couple of 'em've been hangin' about there.”

“What
are
you talking about, Maud?”

“The men. Wearin' suits an' ties, all clean an' neat, but disreputable-lookin' just the same. Saw one of 'em myself as I was leavin' the farm. 'E was walkin' along the road, brown suit, yellow tie, a funny instrument in 'is hand. Gave me a start, 'e did, his broad ugly face an' brown eyes an' coarse red 'air tumblin' about 'is 'ead. 'E carried a suitcase, too, 'e did, and from the way 'e looked, there mighta been a
body
in it.”

“Nonsense, Maud. The men are probably surveyors, just as they say.”

“
Seven
of 'em—all come to town at once? Not bleedin' likely! I don't believe a word of it. Strangers don't come to Darkmead unless they're just passin' through. These men've taken rooms at the inn, permanent-like, an' they seem to be
waitin' around
for somethin'. Oh, they go out, look over the land with their instruments—four of 'em are out 'ere op the moors today, surveyin' supposedly. The townsfolk're nervous, you can bet on it! Somethin's up. Ain't no one 'appy about it 'cept the innkeeper's wife—the hussy in red who ain't no better than she 'as any business bein'. She's delighted at 'avin' all the rooms upstairs filled with great hulkin' males. I can just imagine the traffic on that staircase.”

We were passing under the oak trees now, the moors behind us. The wagon rattled over the bridge where I had first seen Edward and Bertie Rawlins. Maud continued to talk about the mysterious strangers. I found her tirade amusing. Every now and then she would turn to me, her lively blue eyes snapping, her lumpy face registering concern. She wore the same sad, drooping black felt hat she had worn the first time I saw her, the same old gray sweater and shapeless blue dress. She smelled of herbs and soil. Her feet were encased in the absurd high-buttoned black boots. I found her thoroughly enchanting, her frankness refreshing, her salty tongue delightful. She was like a character created by Chaucer in his bawdiest humor, brought here to enliven the staid Victorian era.

She stopped the wagon in front of the milliner's shop. I climbed down. Maud said, “Ta-ta, luv!” and drove on to carry a packet of herbs to the blacksmith, who hoped to be her next husband. I stood in front of the shop, examining the beribboned bonnets on display in the window. I had had no specific purchases in mind when I decided to come shopping today. I merely felt a need to get away from the house for a while, away from the books and notes and the stack of empty paper that taunted me to get down to work. One of the bonnets looked attractive, and I went inside to try it on. The pink ribbons did not go well with my golden hair. I tried on another one, green satin ribbons festooning a wide black brim, then another and another, and finally decided it was ridiculous to contemplate buying a new bonnet when I would have few occasions to wear it. I examined some material at the piece-goods store, fingering silk and velvet and glazed cotton, buying a bolt of golden-brown linen and asking that it be delivered. I bought a dress pattern, a few yards of ribbon, some hairpins. I left the store, passing the bakery, where delicious smells filled the air, and stepped into the stationer's shop.

It was small and quiet, an anemic-looking clerk in shabby brown suit stroking his moustache at the back of the shop. I found some exercise books of cream paper ruled in gray with red margins and decided I must have them. They would be perfect for journals of my progress with the book. I bought some thin orange pencils in an olivewood pencil box and a mahogany ruler with edges bound with brass. I loved the shop—the smell of ink and paper and glue, the boxes of stationery, the multicolored bottles of ink, the table of novels newly arrived from London publishers, their dust jackets sleek and shiny, their pages uncut. I browsed over the table but found nothing of particular interest. The clerk solemnly wrapped my purchases in brown paper, and I left the shop, pausing before the plate-glass window in front to examine my reflection.

I looked rather drawn and pale, faint shadows under my eyes, skin too tightly stretched over cheekbones, but my hair, pushed back and fastened with pins behind each ear, fell in a luxuriant golden mass to my shoulders. I wore a beige dress printed with tiny brown and yellow flowers, bodice and waist snug-fitting, full skirt turned up slightly at the hem to reveal bits of starched yellow petticoat. Sunlight spilled on the sidewalk as I turned to examine my profile in the dim, smoky glass. I had never considered myself particularly vain, but recently I had been taking extra pains with my appearance. I wondered why. Who did I expect to see me in town today? Had I dressed so carefully for the grim, taciturn men of Darkmead? The thought caused me to smile, and the clerk, behind the window, must have imagined I was flirting with him, for he dropped a whole armload of books, blushing furiously.

I laughed, turning away from the window. My good humor was restored. It was a lovely day, and I was delighted with my purchases. Why had I felt such lassitude earlier? I must get back and get to work. The long walk back to the house would be invigorating. I looked forward to it.

I had been so intent on studying my reflection in the glass that I had not seen the two men. They stood a few yards away, watching me. They wore city suits, tight at the shoulders, narrow at waist and thigh, trousers pipestem in cut. Their ties were garish, and both had the broad, coarse faces I associated with the underworld. They looked as out of place here in Darkmead as I myself must look. One man had dark-blond hair and cold gray eyes, a jagged pink scar running across his cheek, and the other had brown hair parted severely to one side, his face pitted with pockmarks. No wonder Maud had been disturbed, I thought. These men had a tough, ruthless look that would have disturbed anyone. I wondered if the others were as brutal in appearance. I had never, to my knowledge, seen a surveyor, but I felt certain a surveyor wouldn't look anything like this.

“Hey, now, there's the first interesting-looking sight I've seen since we got here,” the blond man remarked to his companion. His gray eyes were studying me with rude intensity.

“Not bad,” replied the pockmarked man, “if your taste happens to run that way. Take the innkeeper's wife, now—there's a woman.”

“Too common. Too available. I didn't know Darkmead produced such tasty morsels as this one here. I wonder if she—”

“Forget it, Vic. You know our instructions.”

“Hell, nothing's going to happen around here for a while yet. I don't see as it'd hurt anything if I was to just
ask
her.”

“Yeah, if I thought
askin'
was all you'd do. Remember the last time? That little girl in Liverpool and the trouble you got into.…”

I looked up and down the street, alarmed. Two or three bearded local men stood in front of the inn, smoking pipes and studiedly ignoring the two strangers. A farmer was loading sacks of seed into the back of his wagon in front of the feed store. Three or four young men were examining harness on the porch of the hardware store. Nothing could happen in broad daylight, I told myself, not with all these people around, yet I didn't like the tone of voice the blond man used. I would have to pass in front of them if I intended to walk toward the square, and that prospect wasn't pleasing. As I stood there, my heart beginning to pound, the blond man started toward me, his eyes narrowed. The other man gripped his arm, but the blond shook his companion's hand away. I backed against the stationer's window. It was only then that I heard the wheels grind to a stop.

The carriage was a small black victoria with a padded tan leather seat and great gleaming black wheels. A lovely black horse stood in the shafts. I recognized the horse at once. Burton Rodd looked down at me, his fingers curling about the handle of a silky black whip. He glanced at the blond man and shook his head, ever so slightly. It was a simple movement but unmistakably menacing. As the blond backed away, Rodd jerked his head at me. “Get in!” he said sharply, and I hurried around the carriage and climbed up beside him, not daring to refuse. I set my packages on the floor at my feet as Rodd cracked the whip in the air. The victoria lurched forward so quickly I was thrown back against the seat. The harness jangled and a cloud of dust rose behind us as the wheels skimmed over the unpaved road.

We turned off the main street and drove down a small, tree-shaded road that ran beside the river. I had been busy trying to keep my hair from flying in the wind, but now Rodd allowed the horse to slow to an easy trot. I smoothed the disorderly curls and turned to examine the profile of the man beside me. I saw the touseled black hair streaked with gray dipping forward over the lined forehead, a dark, arched brow, the twisted nose, the pink corners of the mobile mouth, the strong jaw thrust forward a little as he studied the road ahead and carefully ignored me. His fingers still curled about the whip handle. The other hand held the reins loosely yet firmly. He wore tight brown trousers tucked into the tops of his high black boots, and a heavy brown-and-black-checked jacket padded at the shoulders, tight along chest and waist, and flaring at the thighs. His tan silk shirt was rumpled, and his black tie was inexpertly knotted. He was sprinkled with dust all over.

He quite obviously had no intention of speaking to me, and I stubbornly refused to speak first. I watched the oak boughs arching above us, some of the branches hanging so low that their leaves almost brushed our heads, and observed the river winding at our side, green-brown, golden threads of sunlight swimming in the water and reflecting radiantly. The river wound in front of us. We crossed a stone bridge and followed the road up a winding, grassy slope with shabby gray and brown houses set far back. I could maintain my silence no longer.

“Where are you taking me?” I said peevishly.

“I'm going to the factory,” he said. “As you're sitting beside me, it would be safe to assume you're going there too.”

“I don't
want
to go to the factory,” I snapped. “I want to go home.”

He ignored this completely, clicking the reins and urging the horse to move at a brisker pace. The victoria passed over a bump in the road, and I was thrown against his hard body. I pulled away quickly, moving back to my side of the seat. Rodd seemed not to have noticed the contact. My skirts were flapping up,' yellow petticoats billowing, and I had to clamp my hands on my knees in order to maintain modesty.

“I suppose you think I should thank you,” I said hatefully. “I suppose you think if you hadn't come along when you did—”

“If I hadn't come along when I did,” he interrupted me, “you would have been in a pretty mess.”

“I can handle myself, thank you.”

“You brought it all on yourself,” he continued, “Parading around like that! Why can't you wear black and gray? Why can't you braid your hair and keep it modestly fastened? You strut around like a peacock in your outlandish clothes and expect to go unmolested. This isn't London, my girl! Around here women know how to conduct themselves. That dress you wore night before last—I'm surprised you haven't already been raped!”

“I—I've never been so insulted in my life!”

I was seething with fury, my cheeks bright pink, but, nevertheless, I was perversely flattered by his outrageous remarks. He
had
noticed, and he had been moved. The cold Burton Rodd was not as immune as he fancied himself to be.

“If you think for one minute I'm going to dress like the drab mournful women I've seen around here—” I began.

“I think you should be locked up in a convent and kept there until you are old and wrinkled and incapable of causing any more fuss!” he raged.

“Really, Mr. Rodd, you're—”

The carriage jolted over a large rut in the road, throwing me forward. I braced myself against the board to keep from tumbling out. Rodd smiled to himself, and I knew he had deliberately raced the horse over the rut. I sat back, fuming, my arms folded about my waist, skirts billowing up disgracefully. I no longer cared. If he caught glimpses of well-turned ankle and silk-clad calf, so much the better! I stared straight ahead, lips held tightly together, cheeks still burning. Rodd seemed pleased with himself, his shoulders held at a jaunty angle, the smile not yet gone from his lips. I silently wished him all sorts of misfortune, and I knew that if he were able to read my thoughts he would have been delighted with my malice.

The road wound across a short stretch of open countryside—neat white farmhouse sitting far back against a line of trees, red barn and silo beside it, two fat brown cows grazing in the pasture nearby. A herd of sheep moved up a grassy green slope like a living cloud, the herder trailing behind in leather jacket and wide-brimmed hat. We turned, veering back toward Darkmead, and I could see the factory ahead—great gashes in the red earth, huddles of gray huts along the edge of the pits, large white buildings with black smokestacks rising against a darkening gray sky. Men pushed wheelbarrows up and down the sides of the pits, while others, barechested, moved energetically about the great, smoky kilns.

Burton Rodd stopped the carriage in front of the huts. He turned to me for the first time since I had climbed up beside him. The ravaged face was lined with irritation, the dark eyes savage.