Calypso Directive (48 page)

“Good afternoon, Mister Cromwell. Please do come in,” said Vicars.

Cromwell stepped across the threshold and surveyed the tailor's shop with smug disinterest. The expression, when combined with Cromwell's meaty jowls and broad flat nose, made him look to Vicars like a bipedal Bull Mastiff, in expensive clothes.

“Vicars, have you finished with my breeches?”

“Yes, of course. I finished them in the Rhinegraves style as you requested, very loose in the thighs with both black ribbon and white lace at the knee. Let me fetch them for you.”

Vicars scurried around Cromwell, who was blocking the main walking path through the tailor's shop with his considerable girth, and hurried over to a simple wardrobe constructed of unfinished English pine. He opened the right-hand door and retrieved a pair of breeches.

Cromwell rolled his eyes. “Vicars, those are not my breeches. Look at the tag, for heavens' sake.”

A paper note fixed to the waistline seam read “Earl of Devonshire” in black ink. Vicars mumbled an apology and hurried back to the wardrobe.

“Here you go, sir. These are your proper breeches. Would you like to try them for fit?”

“I don't have time. I'm a very busy man, you know. Besides, if you did your job right, tailor, then there should be no need,” Cromwell said, taking the breeches in hand. He paused for a moment to eye the tailor. After reaching some unspoken conclusion, he turned up his nose and continued. “I'm off to London this afternoon to buy an engagement ring for Kathryn. I will propose to her when I return, on Friday evening. I will send my carriage to fetch her at four o'clock sharp. Make sure that she is ready and dressed her finest.”

“Yes, Mr. Cromwell, you can count on me. Oh, before you go, I have something special I want to show you.”

Vicars was a man of modest means. As a tailor, he would never be anything but a man of modest means. When Cromwell had asked for his daughter's hand, Vicars had no money or land to give as a dowry. Cromwell was of noble birthright and did not need either of these things, but that didn't change the fact that a dowry was expected. So Vicars had offered the only thing he could, his services as a tailor. In place of a traditional dowry, Vicars had extended to Cromwell a lifetime of free tailoring. Cromwell had snickered at this gift, but accepted it. While he would never admit it, Cromwell quite liked the idea of this gift. His ever-increasing waistline required the frequent loosening of nearly all of his garments.

Vicars was no fool; he knew exactly why Cromwell wished to marry his daughter. He decided that his real wedding present would be Kathryn's wedding dress. He would pour all his skill, and all his soul, into crafting a wedding dress worthy of Kathryn. A dress more beautiful than any the village of Eyam had ever seen, or would hope to see again.

From a rectangular wooden chest under a window, Vicars retrieved a bolt of fabric, measuring one yard long, by one-half yard wide, by one-eighth yard thick. The exterior of the parcel was wrapped in brown burlap and secured with twine.

“Here ‘tis,” Vicars said, holding up the package for Cromwell to see. “Direct from London. The finest white linen and lace that money can buy. Only the best for our Kathryn on her wedding day. Isn't that right, Mr. Cromwell? This wedding dress will be my crowning achievement as a tailor. The finest dress anyone in the County has ever seen.”

“It looks to be damp,” Cromwell interrupted.

Vicars frowned. “I'm sure that's just the wrapping. Not to worry.”

Vicars cut the twine with a small paring knife and unwrapped the burlap. Cromwell was right. The linen inside was wet. Not dripping wet, but clearly it had been soaked through during the carriage transit from London to Eyam.

“Oh, damn it, Vicars. You bumbler. It's ruined!” Cromwell chastened, as he stepped in for a closer look.

“Not to worry, Mister Cromwell. I'll just unwind the material and let it dry by the fire. Tomorrow ‘twill be as good as new,” Vicars replied.

Cromwell scowled and watched with growing agitation as Vicars began to unwind the bolt of fabric.

“It's ruined, Vicars. Look there, the mildew has already set in. I see black spots. They're everywhere.”

Vicars bent down and squinted to inspect the damage. The black dots were not mildew stains. He was certain of this because … they were moving.

Fleas!

The fabric was infested with black fleas. One of the little creatures sprang up, struck Vicars in the forehead right between the eyes and bounced off.

“Filthy vermin!” Cromwell bellowed. How something as perfect as Kathryn Vicars could have sprung from George Vicars' loins was beyond comprehension, Cromwell thought.

Vicars shrank. The color drained from his face. It had cost him three months' wages to procure linen and lace of this exquisite quality. There was no return policy on such things, and he could not afford a second purchase. He contemplated what to do, but no ideas came to him.

Then, as if on cue, all the fleas began springing up from the folds of the fabric. They hopped in every direction, dispersing quickly and wildly, each tiny parasite voraciously seeking its next blood meal. Vicars felt a prick on the back of his neck—an introductory bite—and smacked the spot with his palm.

Cromwell retreated toward the door, slapping wildly at his forearms and thighs as he did. Vicars grabbed the bolt of linen and followed him.

“In God's name, Vicars, what are you doing?”

“Escorting my uninvited house guests outside. These little buggers are impossible to catch. I need to shake out the fabric before I dry it, or the whole cottage will be infested for months.”

Cromwell kept moving away from Vicars and did not stop until he was standing on the dusty cobblestones in the middle of Church Street. He watched with grim dissatisfaction as Vicars waved and shook the expensive fabric the way one shakes out a dirty doormat. Vicars took his time, unfurling yard after yard, and he did not stop until all the material had been thoroughly agitated.

The sound of wild, unabashed laughter—a girl's laughter—caught both their attention. From around the corner of the church, Kathryn Vicars appeared, wearing a pale yellow summer dress. She was barefoot; her shining, gold-spun hair was untied and bouncing in waves as she ran. She clutched a mop of wildflowers in her left hand, her sandals in her right, and was looking over her shoulder giggling as eighteen-year-old Paul Foster chased after her. Paul was laughing too, but he stopped abruptly when he spied Ethan Cromwell and George Vicars.

Kathryn, who was still not looking where she was going, saw the expression on Paul's face morph from delight to dread. Something was wrong. Her heart sank. Then, she ran into something big, and squishy, and unyielding. She bounced back and would have fallen down hard on her backside if two powerful hands had not grabbed her by the arms. She looked up and found the disapproving eyes of Ethan Cromwell staring down at her. He maintained his grip on her for a moment longer than was necessary before releasing her. Then, his frown changed into a furtive smile, which caused a sudden chill to run down her spine.

“Mister Cromwell! Please accept my sincerest apologies. I'm so clumsy,” Kathryn said, her eyes lowered and fixed on her bare dusty feet.

“Out for a bit of exercise I see. Very spirited of you.”

He looked beyond Kathryn's bowed head. His gaze settled on young Paul Foster, who was frozen dead in his tracks twenty yards away. Cromwell took note of Paul's muscular, tanned arms—arms well-conditioned from sixty-hour weeks of hard labor in his father's fields. A jealous ember ignited in Cromwell's chest, in what felt like a spot just beneath his heart. Then he looked at the tailor.

It was only a single glance, but in that glance Cromwell spoke volumes. And Vicars, whose eyes were obediently fixed on Cromwell, understood the silent diatribe with perfect clarity: Get control of your daughter. This childish romance ends today. If I catch her with the boy again, I'll seize his father's farm, fields, and livestock. I'll make sure no one will hire anybody with the surname Foster from here to London. As for you, Vicars, if you want your daughter to become a Cromwell, you better teach her how to behave as a proper lady should.

“I'm off to London for a couple of days. I have a bit of jewelry shopping to do. Kathryn, you look beautiful today,” Cromwell announced cheerfully. Then to Vicars he added, “Remember what we talked about.”

The tailor smiled and waved, but uttered no reply.

“Kathryn, daughter, why don't you come and give your papa a hand. Say goodbye to Mr. Cromwell and the Foster boy,” said Vicars.

“Good day, Mister Cromwell. Safe travels to London,” she said to Cromwell, who nodded, turned on his heels, and strutted off down Church Street. She waved at Paul, let her eyes linger on him for a prolonged wistful second, and then headed grudgingly toward the cottage.

“Let's go inside, Kathryn,” Vicars said, motioning to the open door of the cottage. “I have something important to discuss with you. It's time that we talk about your future.”

Kathryn frowned. She already knew what her father was going to say to her … the whole town knew what was ordained for Kathryn Vicars. What Ethan Cromwell wanted, Ethan Cromwell got. Her lower lip quivered.

“Okay, Papa.”

Vicars offered her a tender, fatherly smile, but she did not notice. As he followed her inside, he scratched at the back of his neck, where an angry, tiny welt had risen. Inside, millions of Yersinia pestis bacteria were already beginning to multiply and spread throughout his bloodstream. Unbeknownst to George Vicars, his daughter, and the other four hundred residents of Eyam, Death had arrived in a parcel of linen and lace from London.

K
ATHRYN
V
ICARS SAT
at the dining table half-listening to her father and wholly feeling sorry for herself. She sat with slightly hunched posture in an armless wooden chair, her arms crossed and folded tightly under her bosom, her legs together, ankles crossed and tucked beneath her seat. She rocked rhythmically, as if trying to soothe herself to the melody of some silent lullaby. What her father was asking of her was unfair. More than that, it was a horrible, cruel, eternal penance. A lifetime's subservience to Ethan Cromwell was more than anyone should have to bear. The thought of his hands on her made her skin crawl, worse than if a thousand millipedes were swarming all over her with their hundred million tiny pincer feet. If her mother were still alive, she would never have supported such a union. If her mother were alive, her father would still possess the courage to stand up to men like Ethan Cromwell. She decided to send a stinging barb flying in her father's direction; one she knew would draw blood.

“If mother were alive, she would be ashamed of you, Papa! She would tell you that you are being selfish and weak, and that just because a man is rich in the pocketbook does not mean he is rich in the soul.” She had barely articulated the last word before she burst into tears. “Why would you do this to me, Papa? Why? Why!” she added between choking sobs.

Vicars stood frozen—staring down at his weeping child—bereft of words. The funny thing was, he had rehearsed this play a thousand times in his head. In his version of the script, this scene did not exist. In his version, Kathryn listened quietly to his fine phrases and fatherly wisdom. She recognized that marrying Cromwell was in her best interest, and while she didn't understand it now, she knew it was the right decision because she trusted her Papa. She smiled and blushed when he called her feelings for Paul Foster a meaningless schoolgirl crush. She nodded approvingly when he promised her that she would learn to love Ethan Cromwell, despite the twenty-three-year difference in age. His script, however, was disintegrating before his eyes, like an inked papyrus in the pouring rain.

He walked over to his writing desk and pulled open its only drawer. From within, he took a small, leather-bound book. He shut the drawer and walked back to the dining table with the book raised so Kathryn could see it clearly. He tried again, this time saying, “Now sweetheart, I know you think you have feelings for the Foster boy, but we both know there is no future in—”

“MY DIARY!”

Kathryn shot up from her chair as if the seat had suddenly burst into flames. She closed the distance between them and snatched the diary out of his hand before he had time to blink.

“I cannot believe you read my diary!” she shouted.

He tried to lay a conciliatory hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off and turned her back on him.

“I'm sorry about that, Kathryn, but I meant to know how you feel about the boy. I can tell from what you've written that Paul Foster is nothing more than a summertime romance. You are suffering from infatuation, is all.”

“Infatuation?” she retorted. “At least I can take satisfaction in knowing that while you may have read my diary, you paid no attention to the words. What Paul and I have is not infatuation. I love him, Papa. And he loves me.”