Mistress of the Storm (12 page)

Now Verity was confused. Poppy handed her a small brown envelope. She opened it gingerly. Inside was a reservation card. She stared at it in astonishment.

The library. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?

‘Everything all right?’ Poppy asked her sister gently.

‘Yes,’ said Verity. Then beamed. ‘Everything is fine.’

She practically ran to the library after lunch. Pushing through the red double doors, she looked around eagerly. Miss Cameron was sitting placidly at the entrance desk.

‘Ah, Verity,’ she murmured. ‘Here for that reservation?’

‘Yes please,’ said Verity, trying to hide her excitement.

Miss Cameron reached into a cupboard near her feet and extracted a slim green volume. ‘Reference only, I’m afraid. So if you could just read it here in the main hall, that would be extremely helpful.’

Verity took it, and Miss Cameron went back to her cataloguing. Verity stood watching her; she looked up again.

‘Is there anything else?’

‘Not really …’ said Verity hesitantly. ‘It’s just that I don’t … I don’t recall ordering a book of this title.’

Miss Cameron smiled politely. ‘How extraordinary.’ She held out a hand. ‘Shall I put it back for you?’

‘No,’ said Verity quickly, clutching the book to her chest. ‘I mean,’ she corrected herself, ‘that won’t be necessary. Thank you.’

Going to the library each day to read the slim green book – and the many others that Miss Cameron subsequently excavated for her – did at least give Verity the opportunity to get away from Grandmother’s increasingly spiteful barrage of comments.

Compared to the battleground her home had become she found the library safe, inviting even. Miss Cameron was always pleasant and helpful in her quiet, reserved way. There was something very comforting about her reliable efficiency. And now that Verity was able to spend her time finding out more about her mysterious ancestor, nothing could have kept her away.

She didn’t know whether it was personal bias, but it seemed to her that the early history of the Gentry was fairly dull. To begin with they were just a group of men who spent a lot of time and effort bringing tubs of brandy or sugar across the Channel and then hiding them in apple stores or cellars. It was as the band of smugglers developed that things got exciting. In particular, once Rafe Gallant took over as leader – a topic the slim green book covered well:

Verity eagerly absorbed everything she could find on her dashing grandfather.

She was enchanted. Rafe’s life sounded absolutely thrilling. How she would have loved to meet him – to be a part of the Gentry herself.

No wonder everyone had assumed she could sail, Verity thought to herself sadly. It must seem extraordinary that someone as clumsy as her could be the granddaughter of such a sportsman. She obviously hadn’t inherited any of his talent. Perhaps the new baby might do instead?

Verity stared at the book and felt a pang of loneliness. Ruby and Tom. Tom, her father. It felt so strange to see his name there; to be learning about his life from history books because he chose not to share it with her himself.

Verity frowned. A witch who could control the weather. She knew she’d heard that name before:
the Mistress of the Storm
. She reached down to her bag on the floor and pulled out the red leather-bound book. It fell open at a page.

The Mistress…
Verity flicked rapidly back to another page, then another … 
She of the Wind is Mistress of the Storm … She goes by many names, and Mistress is one of them. For she demands obedience from every living thing
.

Verity turned the book over excitedly in her hands. Of course. How could she have missed this before? The heroine was the Gentry’s Mistress of the Storm. But her excitement quickly turned to frustration – she was still no closer to understanding why Abednego had given it to her.

Verity meandered through the streets and paths of Wellow, in no hurry to return home before she absolutely had to. Finally she found herself at the park. She gazed down the stone steps that led to Alice’s road. It was silly, she knew, but she felt as if just walking past her home would be a comfort.

She opened Alice’s gate and went up the path. It felt uncharacteristically still, as if the property knew that its bustling owner was absent. The garden had been stripped back by Norton, the handyman, in preparation for winter. It was now only bare earth and exposed bushes. There was no consolation to be had here.

Turning back to head home, she realized that Miranda Blake was standing on the pavement, observing her with amusement.

‘Gallant,’ she lisped, sauntering confidently up Alice’s path. ‘Loitering here won’t bring her back, you know.’

How did Miranda know about her friendship with Alice? Verity was determined not to give her the satisfaction of appearing to care. Then she frowned. Strolling on the other side of the road was the strange long-haired boy. And he was staring at them.

Overwhelmed by curiosity, Verity couldn’t stop herself. ‘Do you know who he is?’ she asked.

Miranda looked at her superciliously. ‘Jeb Tempest?’

‘Tempest …’ said Verity, thinking what an unusual surname it was.

‘The Tempests of Tempest Bay, next to Soul Bay,’ said Miranda impatiently, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh dear, has he got your attention?’

Verity was taken aback. ‘Oh. No, that’s not what I meant. I was just curious because …’ She realized that explaining her interest was just going to make it worse. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘not for any particular reason at all really.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Miranda, permitting herself a little smirk.

‘So are your family ruling the roost yet?’ asked Verity, remembering Miranda’s strange comments from the tactics session.

Her diminutive enemy stared archly at her. ‘Soon,’ she replied.

‘I don’t suppose your family were
tremendously
wealthy,’ said Verity airily, to see if this would get more out of her. It worked.

‘We wanted for nothing,’ said the little girl sharply. ‘Mother says there would have been an endless supply of beautiful dresses and jewels for her. Blake parties may not have gone on for weeks like the ones at the Manor, but they were the epitome of luxury.’

Verity wondered why Miranda made such particular reference to Wellow’s landmark house? Verity had always assumed it was deserted. Certainly she’d never seen anyone entering or leaving.

‘And of course we commanded respect then.
Real
respect,’ Miranda continued, deadheading a lone flower with vicious efficiency.

Miranda turned to leave. It occurred to Verity that she was going somewhere special. She was decked out in a burgundy velvet dress, with matching coat and shiny black patent shoes.

‘Visiting someone nice?’ she asked.

‘Visiting someone lucrative,’ Miranda replied scathingly. She paused to stare disdainfully at Verity. ‘The Gallants were a proud family once,’ she said. ‘Not the kind of people who would have associated with Twogoods or Tempests.’

It was Saturday morning at last: the half-term break was nearly over. Another caller rang at the door. Grandmother bustled into the hall, motioning Mrs Gallant to sit down. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, dear.’

Verity tried to remind herself that however unpleasant Grandmother was to her, she certainly seemed keen to help Mother.

This time Verity didn’t even bother asking if it was for her. It never was. Putting on her coat, she prepared to leave for the library. But as she turned the corner of the street, she heard a shout of
‘Verity,’
and was unceremoniously accosted by a breathless Henry. He’d obviously been running.

She swivelled round, astonished and delighted.

‘If you’re still angry, you could at least explain why,’ he said urgently. ‘And if you
are
still angry, I don’t understand why you called for me …?’

Verity was thrilled. ‘I’m not. I thought you were—’

‘So why did you pretend you weren’t in all week?’ he demanded.

Verity was confused. ‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve been to the library a lot … trying to avoid Grandmother.’

‘Well, I called just now and she said you weren’t in … but you must have been, because here you are,’ said Henry.

‘She said
what
?’ Verity couldn’t believe it. Grandmother had walked right past her.

‘Yeah,’ said Henry. ‘Then she
smirked
,’ he added indignantly.

Instantly Verity knew he was telling the truth. She nodded glumly. ‘She does that.’

‘So she knew you were in and just kept telling me to go away?’ Henry was outraged. ‘She’s horrible.’

Verity nodded again. Then she remembered what she needed to say. ‘Henry, I’m so sorry I shouted at you after the sailing match. It was inexcusable. And I didn’t even mean it: I was just upset because everyone was laughing at me.’

Henry looked at her like she was an idiot. ‘I know,’ he said. Verity was taken aback. ‘I’ve got six brothers,’ he reminded her. ‘I have some experience of arguments. And I know how vile Miranda Blake can be. Then, with your grandmother making life tough for you too … I know why you were upset.’

Verity looked at him. ‘I won’t do it again,’ she promised.

‘Too right you won’t,’ said Henry cheerfully. ‘I’m sure a week without my company has helped you to see the error of your ways.’

Verity grinned.

He looked at her intently. ‘It’s not your fault, you know. Sometimes people – grandmothers – aren’t very nice.’

Verity looked dismayed. ‘I’ve really tried to get on with her and it doesn’t work. It’s just …’

‘What?’

She shrugged. ‘Even my own grandmother doesn’t like me,’ she said quietly.

‘
I
like you,’ Henry told her.

‘I really missed you this week,’ said Verity, smiling.

‘Me too,’ said Henry enthusiastically. ‘Percy and Will helped me look around town to see if we could spot you, but no luck. We had all sorts of plans. Still,’ he added philosophically, ‘we know now.’

Verity nodded. ‘I won’t let her do it again.’

‘So what you doing today?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘I’ve got the dinghy,’ said Henry. ‘Would you like to go sailing?’

Verity’s stomach turned over. ‘I think I’ve messed up enough on boats for the moment,’ she said.

Henry frowned. ‘You’d really never crewed before the race?’

‘Never.’

He shook his head in astonishment. ‘Your parents are a funny lot,’ he said. ‘Don’t talk about your family. Never taught you to sail.’

Verity looked a little sad.

Henry realized he was doing his usual trick. ‘Well, it
must be true,’ he said, changing tack. ‘It must be in your blood, because you were a natural.’

‘But Judy Makepiece was really angry with me,’ Verity countered.

‘Moody Makepiece is terrified of capsizing.’ Henry grinned. ‘School legend has it she wet her knickers last time she went overboard. She must nearly have had another accident when you gybed the boat like that.’

‘Really?’ Verity giggled in spite of herself. ‘I thought Miranda was just being mean.’

‘Yeah, but if you hadn’t, you’d probably have capsized anyway, and lost the race to boot.’

‘Oh,’ said Verity.

‘How did you know what to do?’ Henry asked.

‘I didn’t. It just sort of happened … it felt right.’