Moon Cutters (14 page)

Which immediately made Fletcher wonder how the flesh-and-blood Miranda would feel to handle. She was quick-witted and certainly not afraid of him … or his uncle, come to that.

But he doubted if his uncle had displayed his true personality – not yet.

Buckley’s Hard was about four miles from the Solent on the Beaulieu River.

Fletcher made arrangements for the
Lady Miranda
to be restored as near as possible to her original state. The shipyard employed the kind of people who possessed a long history of expertise to bring her up to scratch. It was going to be expensive, but the work would be thorough.

Satisfied that the ship would be with people who loved sailing ships as much as he did, Fletcher then headed for the road through the New Forest, knowing he’d done his best for her.

The New Forest was several hundred years old. It had been created for William the Conqueror so he could hunt deer. His life had been claimed by an arrow in his chest, though whether by accident or design was never quite determined.

Fletcher cantered along at a comfortable pace for his horse, thinking alternately of Miranda the ship and Miranda the woman. He enjoyed the ride. The air was fresh and pleasant, with some light showers. The landscape was a delight, the day alight with daffodils and the clearings dotted with the small herds of wild ponies that lived and bred in the forest.

Just as the soft, purple light of evening began to tint the air around him, he saw the inn up ahead. Moreover, he was hungry, and the tantalizing smell of a roasting pig came to his nostrils, so he cast his nose in the air like a hungry dog and his mouth began to water.

Turning Rastus over to the ostler, who would see to his comfort, Fletcher spotted Oswald’s horse. He was pleased to find Oswald inside the inn. It meant he’d have company for the rest of the journey, which was always safer than being alone.

Oswald was just as happy to see him. ‘My horse threw a shoe, and by the time I’d walked him to the nearest smithy and he’d been shod, it was too late to carry on. I was hoping you’d get here before dark.’

‘As you see.’ He accepted a tankard of ale from the landlord, who sent his wife scuttling to ready a room for him, then asked, ‘How did you find your female relative?’

Oswald grinned, ‘Most accommodating. I stayed a day longer than I intended. ‘You should get a female relative for yourself.’

Fletcher gave him a pained smile. ‘I’ve just fallen in love, Oswald.’

‘May I ask, with whom?’

‘You may.’

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘Pretty much.’

When darkness fell, the inn filled up with locals. The buzz of talk and the fug of tobacco fumes increased, and the laughter grew more raucous. Oswald and Fletcher kept to themselves, talking business, mostly about the new acquisition, and aware of the glances coming their way, for strangers were always looked upon with suspicion.

Dinner arrived: a plate of pork with crackling, roast vegetables and rich brown gravy. It was followed by a large slice of pie filled with preserved apples and rhubarb, and swamped with creamy yellow custard. They ate in companionable silence.

When they finished, Oswald belched and patted his stomach. He said to the landlord, who’d come to collect the dirty dishes, ‘Your lady is a fine cook.’

‘That she is, sir. Can I fetch you something to round your meal off properly? We have recently purchased a fine drop of French brandy, and you look like two gentlemen of discernment.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Oswald said.

Fletcher didn’t even blink an eye. ‘Thank you, landlord, a measure or two of your best would be appreciated.’

They sipped it slowly, savouring the fruity taste on their tongues. Oswald raised his glass in a toast. ‘To the
Lady Miranda
.’

‘Have you ever thought of buying a stake in a ship, Oswald?’

Oswald laughed. ‘That type of investment is too risky for the likes of me. I’m more like a seagull. I earn my wealth, and my enjoyment, from the simple act of arranging other people’s affairs and scavenging from them an extortionate rate of commission.’

‘I have to say, you’re the most honest scavenger I know, but it sounds quite a dull way to enrich yourself.’

‘But it’s safe. Wait until you get my account for this little endeavour … then tell me how dull I find it when you start hollering about usury.’ He yawned. ‘It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go up to bed.’

Fletcher rose, too. ‘I want to make a good start, since there’s someone I must meet.’

‘Anyone I know?’

Fletcher could hardly contain his smile. ‘I shouldn’t think so. She’s a rather delightful young woman.’

The horses were rested and springy with energy. Fletcher’s horse did a couple of bucks when he mounted. Fletcher reined him in. ‘Settle down, Rastus; we have a long way to go yet.’

The air was clean and damp, with a faint wisp of smoke from the inn’s chimney to tickle the nostrils. The horses snickered at each other.

There was a mist rising from the forest floor when they set off into a grey and yellow dawn just before sunrise. Everything was pearled with dew. The new bracken hearts curled tightly into themselves, waiting for the touch of the sun to entice them to unfurl.

It was midday when they reach Poole. As usual, the port was a bustle of people. Oswald went his own way, and Fletcher decided to have a meal in an inn before continuing his journey.

He was across the heath and ambling along, enjoying the peace and quiet of the bright day, and drowning in his own thoughts, when the horse began to dance under him.

‘What the hell!’ he muttered.

Across the road, an elaborate construction with sturdy pillars obviously designed to support gates was in the process of being erected. He approached a burly man who seemed to be in charge of the construction. He’d never set eyes on him before. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

‘I’ve been instructed to restore the gatehouse to the original plan.’

Fletcher was unaware of the fact that there had ever been a plan, let alone a gatehouse there, and although he didn’t need to ask who’d instructed the man to rebuild it, his disbelief made him stutter, ‘Who advised you to do this?’

‘Lord Fenmore. And who might you be, sir?’

‘Fletcher Taunt; I own Monksfoot Estate, which adjoins this one, and I’m Lord Fenmore’s nephew. This has always been a public right of way.’

The man was perfectly polite. ‘Not always and not any more, Mr Taunt. It’s always been private land. Lord Fenmore has decided to close it to the public. I’m afraid you’ll have to go the long way round. So will anyone else who intends to visit you at Monksfoot Estate from now on.’

‘I live there and this is my uncle’s estate. Let me through.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Taunt. It can’t be done, since the other side of the estate has already been walled off in similar fashion. Besides, I have my instructions.’ The man brought up a blunderbuss and laid it on a slab of stone within reach of his hand, making it quite clear what those instructions were.

Fletcher measured the wall with his eyes, wondering if Rastus could clear it. He probably could if pushed, but Fletcher couldn’t risk it. The horse was tired, his muscles sore, and it wouldn’t be fair to him. He needed a good rub down and a feed. But it was no use blaming one of his uncle’s minions for his own predicament. He should have known his uncle would retaliate.

‘Tell my uncle I’d like to see him on Sunday, after church. It’s about time we sorted out our differences.’

‘Yes, Mr Taunt.’

Fletcher turned away and headed back to Wareham, his happy mood scattered to all parts of the compass. He felt alienated from the only family he’d ever been able to call his own, as though a gust of icy wind had blown through his body and taken his Fenmore blood along with it.

Retracing his steps, he returned to Wareham and took the inland road. This act of pettiness on his uncle’s part was something entirely unexpected. He couldn’t believe the man would deny him access to Monksfoot.

It then occurred to him that he’d now be late for his meeting with the delightful Miranda, and his heart sank even further. Would she wait?

While Miranda delighted in the blue gown trimmed with Brussels lace that she wore, she also felt uneasy about taking anything from Sir James.

She couldn’t say what bothered her. She and Lucy had a comfortable existence in the home of a man who was generous, and obviously honourable in his intentions, for he’d proposed marriage.

Yes, he was more than twice her age, but was that such a bad thing, apart from the fact that he’d expect to bed her and get her with child – and he looked healthy and muscular, as though he might be rather vigorous in that pursuit. It was not that she was afraid of the union between man and woman, but rather that she’d wanted to give that particular favour to a man she loved.

The alternative was to leave. But where would they go, and how far would they get before they ran out of money? They’d already experienced what poverty was like, and the danger that came with it. The truth was, their lives had become a comfortable trap, more so for Lucy, who lived for the moment and was being given everything her heart desired. Miranda sensed danger in that, and knew that the longer she avoided making her mind up, the harder it would be for both of them to abandon a life they were rapidly growing used to.

Sir James was at the Dorchester assizes this week, presiding as magistrate.

Lucy was practising the piano. The notes floated through the house as Miranda pulled a shawl around her shoulders and tied her bonnet. She didn’t ask Lucy to join her for a walk, because she’d tell Sir James that Fletcher had been there.

Luckily, her creatively inclined sister preferred indoor pursuits. Lucy was writing a novel that featured a ghost, for she’d found a tattered, water-stained journal hidden behind a sliding panel in the window seat, which had sparked her imagination. The author of it hadn’t put her name to it. Lucy read short passages of her work out to Miranda. It was rather melodramatic, and Miranda marvelled at her sister’s fertile imagination.

She picked up a sketching block and pencil, in case anyone suspected her of motives other than walking. It struck her that she’d become suspicious of everyone else’s motives lately. There was no reason why she shouldn’t meet a young man to walk and talk with him.

And kiss him
, a little voice inside her mocked.

‘There’s that, but actually he kissed me … I just didn’t stop him,’ she said quietly and grinned.

Caesar followed her down the stairs, his tail whipping dust motes into the air. She laughed. ‘Yes, you can come, too.’

The dog seemed to have attached himself to her, and followed her everywhere, much to Sir James’s amusement, for he’d said, ‘Caesar must have liked the taste of you when you first met.’

And, indeed, she had a scar on her thigh to remind her of that meeting.

Seeking out Mrs Pridie, Miranda told her she was going out to sketch wildflowers, and would take Caesar with her.

‘Will you be long, Miss Jarvis?’

She wondered if there was anything behind the seemingly innocent query, and then dismissed it as guilt over her secret assignation with Fletcher. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be more than an hour or two.’

‘Well, best you stay within the bounds of the estate. We can’t have you getting lost.’

‘I assure you, Mrs Pridie, I have quite a good sense of direction.’

‘Sir James doesn’t want you wandering around the countryside by yourself. There are too many felons abroad.’

‘He hasn’t said so to me directly. I promise you I’ll stay in the grounds. Besides, I’ll have Caesar with me.’

Mrs Pridie placed a work-worn hand on her arm when she turned to go. ‘Take care. Some people are not what they appear to be.’

Annoyance filled her. ‘Are
you
what you appear to be, Mrs Pridie?’

‘I’m what I have to be to survive. I promise you this: if you ever need to confide in anyone, and you might need to one day, you can trust me.’

Her voice was so sincere that Miranda softened towards her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Pridie; I’ll remember that.’

The afternoon was calm and quiet, the air warm and moist for spring. Disturbed by her passing, clouds of midges rose from the hedges and performed a frenzied dance in the air.

Despite the calm, everything moved. She jumped when she disturbed a grass snake soaking up the sun, mistaking it for a viper at first. It slid greasily off into the undergrowth. The sudden intrusion of the reptile into the territory of the hedge sparrows caused a noisy burst of agitation. They began to dive at it, chasing it off.

Everything settled back into calm. High in the sky, a hawk circled. Along the banks of the stream, wild arum and soft purple sliced through the undergrowth to join the golden lady’s smock.

Caesar ran on ahead, marking his territory and investigating the other scents. He backtracked now and again to check on her.

The cemetery stood in its own state of dilapidated quietude. There was no sign of Fletcher.

She swallowed her disappointment. Had he been flirting with her? Perhaps he’d had no intention of keeping their appointment. She blew a kiss towards the corner where her mother lay. The small patch of ground she occupied was no longer raw brown earth, but a bed of different coloured wildflowers that nature had woven into a small quilt for her. A tendril of ivy from the adjoining plot had stretched friendly fingers across to cling to her stone, as if welcoming the new neighbour.

She busied herself sketching flowers and the ancient headstones in the warm, hushed air.

After a while, her glance fell on the largest tomb. The rusty entrance gate still hung open on its hinges and the lamp was still there. Yet there was something different about it. Her gaze went back to the lamp. That was it – it had a new candle!

Why on earth would a tomb need a candle over the entrance? Bumps prickled up her arms and into her neck. There was something about that mausoleum and it seemed to call to her. She didn’t even know who was interred there. As she approached it, the world seemed to hush, as if holding its breath. She felt uneasy and her blood began to pound against her eardrums.