Cupids (14 page)

Bertha has orders to admit them. Even my brother-in-law himself gave grudging consent to the idea of mummers. His reaction to the news of their visit was a characteristic wince, a thin-lipped snarl and then a softening of the eyes, as though the notion of mummers came from an area of his past, so remote and so distant he didn't dare deny it. It was like witnessing the heart of a miser thawed by remembrance of his mother's long-forgotten cradle song.

There is an almighty crash and long-sustained grumble that sends emissaries of noise like heaven-spilled anger, small booms and rivulets of tinny clashes. These sounds, which parody the scale of the boom from which they grew, seem not of the sky at all, but are rather oddly skimming along the earth from the direction of Broad Quay. They are joined first by the most tuneless of trumpet blasts, then by cacophonic blowing of flutes, and finally by the steady tramp of feet. One, two, three further blasts of all the instruments together, each time closer to the house, tumble into a loud drum roll, then a single very loud rap upon the front door.

This is it, I realize. My hands cease their work, purplish fingers twitching once, and then resting. The bauble on my brother-in-law's nightcap dangles as his head rises from his gruel, then stills.

The rap comes a second time and a loud voice booms through the oak.

“Any mummers, I say, any mummers 'lowed in?”

Bertha, red-faced with excitement, emerges from the pantry shuffling through the main room to the door. She lifts the heavy latch, opens the door wide, and steps to one side.

A scarlet-faced devil garbed in flowing black silk strides into the room, pitchfork held like a walking stick in one hand. Two “imps,” either children or little people, slip their flutes into their tunic pockets and begin turning cartwheels around their master. The devil bows at Bertha, I, and Mr. Egret, and then turns his red mask toward the still-open door. In comes a hooded monk, a chalice in hand, followed by a fantastic bird-drummer with a long raven beak, slit eyes, and shimmering multicoloured ribbons as feathers. The bird-drummer takes its place beside the devil and beats an accompaniment to the procession. Another hooded monk enters, a wavering-flamed candle held in one black-gloved hand. Then comes a man-sized donkey with quivering ears and a trumpet held in its forehoof. A third hooded monk with dipping flame slips in close behind the donkey, then a fluting harlequin with a bird-like mask with two more imps tumbling on his heels, one with flute, one with trumpet and drum.

Bertha closes the front door and stares in wonder. As the cool air settles, a constant movement of colour now begins. The imps — no longer tumbling — pipe and dance and drum together. The donkey, the shimmering bird, and one of the monks do the same. The devil and two monks make another whirling triangle. My eyes blur with the candle flames, the devil's red mask and black, silken robe, and the shimmering multicoloured ribbons. The steps are not from any particular dance, but seem to hold a parody of them all: a courtly nod and turn upon a change of tempo in the cacophonic music suggests intricate and formal observance. The bird shimmers a low bow to the group opposite as though in deep appreciation of their skill. Music speeds and partners change, a monk and the devil switching groups. All the while the harlequin looks on, holding the flute by the fingertips and gesturing at the three dancing groups as though it is all too exquisite for words.

Mr. Egret looks on, his thin fingers tapping the table by his gruel bowl. His lips twist into a smile. I tear my gaze from him, eyes stinging from the jagged lines the candle flames etch through the air. The faintest of impulses — a twitch of the fingertips, a tickle in the root of my hair — prods me to intervene. But I know I will not. It is merely that I do not want to witness what will surely now pass. I no longer feel the architect of the deed about to be performed. An accumulation of fate dictates the crime, not I. I am merely the gatekeeper who clicked open a lock that was bound to rust and drop free with time. It's the horror of blood that I fear; the scream of pain and the startled accusation; and shows of grief too. I'm so glad Eliza is away tonight.

Suddenly the music ceases, except for the drum, upon which the bird now thumps at long, ominous intervals. The mummers all gather in a semicircle around my brother-in-law.

The devil raises his pitchfork.

“Worthy, Mr. Egret,” he calls in the clear and perfect diction of a stage performer addressing a packed auditorium. “You have sent the light of exploration into darkness unknown. The flame of knowledge is yours!”

A monk steps forward and timorously hands Mr. Egret the candle with bobbing flame. My brother-in-law takes it willingly enough and lays it to the side of his bowl. The monk retreats into the circle again.

“Gracious, Mr. Egret,” the devil announces, raising his pitchfork once more, “you have sought wealth for your fellows and yourself through good enterprise in foreign parts. The flame of prosperity is yours!”

A second monk shuffles forward; the wobbling candle drips onto the cloth of a trembling black glove. Mr. Egret takes this candle also and lays it beside the other. Each flame gains strength from its fellow once the candle base is upon a flat surface. The two burn high and strong together.

“Honest, Mr. Egret,” the devil says with a flourish. “You have launched adventures from our fine city, and have stood by the valiant both in failure and success. The wine of their mixed fortunes is yours!”

A third monk approaches softly with the chalice, nods at Mr. Egret and offers it. My brother-in-law nods in return and comes as close to a genuine smile as I have ever seen. Is it possible, I wonder, that from his low vantage point he can make out the features of the monk through the dark opening allowed by the hood? He even raises the chalice in a salute first to this monk, and then to all the mummers as the monk shuffles back into line. Then he tips back his head and drinks, Adam's apple bobbing up and down before he lowers the goblet and leans back in his chair in happy reverie.

The whole troupe yells and claps in unison, except, it seems, for the three monks who stand unmoving, dark hoods crumpling lower than before. Then quickly, and as though on military order, all the mummers join hands and skip — banging, fluting, and trumpeting — in a circle around the table and then in a curving train toward the door.

Bertha, eyes shining and delighted at the effect they have had upon her master, opens the door to their progress. She claps at the final few blasts as bird, then harlequin, then two monks together, then imp, then monk again, then devil, and then imps again disappear, tumbling into the night. Bertha takes her time about closing the door, and I hear the music cease and a rumble of voices rise.

“I should get more than an eighth of the fee,” complains the devil in his unmistakable clipped tones. “I had all the lines.”

“What about this costume?” is the reply, I presume from either the bird or the donkey.

“Being uncomfortable isn't the same as acting . . .”

The argument fades into the darkness. Bertha turns with a happy sigh and leans back, closing the door at last.

She looks to Mr. Egret, as do I.

“Mummers!” he says, staring into some unseen distance, the moisture of fresh sentiment in his eyes. The goblet, still clasped in his hand, sinks farther into his chest and tips sideways. Bertha moves toward him instinctively, ready to save any spill. Then she stops a little way from him.

“Mr. Egret, sir.”

The glaze has appeared to settle on my brother-in-law's eyes. His face, still a smile, has stiffened oddly in the corners of his mouth, and the goblet tips a little farther in the grip of unfeeling hands.

“Mr. Egret,” she repeats, this time a frantic note creeping into her voice. Strange, and rather selfish of me really, not to consider how Bertha might grieve him. I'd like to save her the next few minutes and pass on the plain fact that she will discover eventually through mirrors, feathers, and close listening to his chest, all the while experiencing the torments of uncertainty and hope. But I can't do that, I realize, without giving myself away.

“What appears to be the matter, Bertha dear?” I ask her. She turns to me like a lost child, her eyes large and terrified. Her lips begin to move, but nothing but the softest of murmurs reaches my ears.

“Bertha, dear,” I say in a comforting a tone, “perhaps you should fetch a doctor.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Guy

T
HREE DAYS
,
THREE DAYS
,
three days
— the sound accompanies each crunch and lift of my footsteps upon the Egret path. The last thin mist of morning rises around me like the living breath of a new creation. Is it too soon? I wonder, gazing up at the shuttered windows as they loom above me, drawing closer. Or is it perhaps too late?

Rarely in my life have I felt so near to losing control as I did when watching Richard, that young dandy cousin of Eliza's, minister to her at the funeral — a kerchief here, a courtly offer of his hand there, and the coldest of stares for me. He no doubt resented the unexpected power I have gained over the Egret money. But the last laugh will surely be mine.

The silt and pebbles gathering under my soles add skittering words to my chant:
Three days since the funeral; three
more since his death
. Now I have come to collect.

Eliza will understand. She well knows that the lives of colonists cannot wait; the ways of commerce and travel, swift and obeying their own urgent tides, surely flow in her veins. I lift the cold iron knocker and let it drop, and try as I do so to chase away my remaining fear with arguments of necessity. I must act now. Our ship is ready, supplies purchased. The womenfolk are mustered and waiting. At present they are merely mouths, feeding upon the enterprise to which they will later contribute labour and comfort. The last and most unsavoury remnants of the business have been settled away, clearing my course. After a brief and silent panic over questions of cause, the death certificate was signed and duty paid, and the lifeless husk of the deceased interred. The rogue Bartholomew has received the stock I promised. He can either sell it for gold or barter it for supplies should he wish to begin his own venture in the new world as he implied he might.

The thought of Bartholomew coils inside me like a knot as I wait for the sound of footsteps within. Was it my imagination or did he suggest he might return to Cupers Cove? The idea is unendurable and possesses the carrion reek of blackmail. The danger he represents haunts me like a shadow. The man and his betrothed are still in my house and I wonder if I will ever shake him free. I feel the stubborn prick of the thorniest of regrets. I could in the earliest planning stages have made it a condition of the deal that he must remain in England.

The door creaks open slowly and Bertha appears still white-faced and red-eyed. A chilly feeling wafts over me and drains me for the moment of my composure.

“I have business to discuss with Miss Eliza,” I say, unnecessarily, it seems. Bertha, good soul, has already stepped aside to let me in.

As I enter the main room the image of Mrs. Egret, hunched more than usual over her knitting, skims against my eye. I cannot look at her directly. My gaze settles upon Eliza. Dressed in black with black lace, her face ghostly pale even in the strong golden light of the fire by which she sits. In her white quivering fingers she holds a book of psalms.

I wait for a moment to see if she will look up at me but, except for the verses before her, she seems quite unconscious of her surroundings. I cough and give a short bow.

“My Lady, I come to pay my respects.”

“Oh! Mr. Guy.” The book flutters in her hand and drops to her lap. Her exclamation, sudden as it is, holds a tingle of pleasure for me. “I wasn't expecting anyone.”

Her lips curl into a sweet, sad smile and in the blueness of her eyes I cannot help but sense a longing.

“My dear Eliza,” the words spill without my foreknowledge. The tremble in my thighs makes me wonder if they mean to collapse me into kneeling. For the moment at least they hold me upright.

Eliza's face remains kindly and inviting. The hint of puzzlement softens rather than mars the genial perfection of her beauty.

“Thank you for that, Mr. Guy,” she says in a manner far more formal than I might have wished, her lips down-turning with the sourness of distaste. She is in deep mourning, after all, I tell myself, and must retain full decorum. She continues in measured tones. “I have received many of the most courteous and attentive gestures from those who share our great loss. I'm sure I will count your kindnesses among them.”

That damn shield again! My legs no longer ache to drop me to the floor. Instead I am held rigid against my will as though a steel pole were lodged along my spine.

“My dear Miss Eliza,” I begin once more, stiff yet determined to break through. “I come to tell you my ship is almost ready, and our new voyage to Cupers Cove will soon begin.”

“Ah.” She smiles brightly and I am momentarily lost in confusion. “And is your excellent young friend Master Bartholomew to sail with you or will he remain and entertain us?”

My lips tighten. “I'm afraid,” I murmur quickly, “at this moment I cannot say.”

“I hear he might take our maid on his adventures.” Her eyes narrow, and wistfully she adds, “There's part of me that envies her now.”

“Who knows about Bartholomew?” I say rather too boldly. Then, in tones more calm but no less emphatic, I continue, “It is of matters regarding myself that I have come to speak.”

I hear Mrs. Egret's needles clanking together in the silence. The remnants of Eliza's smile disappear altogether but she blinks and she seems to ready herself for listening. “I am sorry, Mr. Guy. I had forgotten for the moment that my aunt thought it best to give you the reins of her estate until I am twenty. You must have a hundred matters of business to discuss.”