Moon Cutters (22 page)

The next day the servants were scurrying around, making rooms ready for overnight guests. They lifted rugs from the hall floor to create a smooth area for dancing. On hands and knees, they washed away the dust. Chairs were brought down from the attics, and traders’ carts arrived laden with goods and departed empty. Tables were set out with cutlery, bottles brought up from the cellars. Brandy and French champagne.

The terrace was decorated with coloured pots containing candles, and there would be a servant dispensing punch from a crystal bowl, and a little grotto with a gyspy telling fortunes for those who believed in such things.

‘The moon will be full that night,’ Sir James told Miranda, and she believed him, because the weather wouldn’t dare be so contrary as to produce clouds when Sir James wanted moonlight.

‘And at ten o’clock there will be a firework display, just for you, Miranda.’

Her heart sank; by going to such trouble and expense, he was telling everybody exactly what his intentions were towards her.

Her sister’s eyes flew open and she breathed, ‘I’ve never seen fireworks.’

Lucy was in a ferment of excitement the next day, when parcels were delivered after breakfast and carried up the stairs to their room.

‘It’s a new gown each. Something special to wear for the party,’ Sir James said.

Miranda’s spirits dropped. The gowns he’d already bought them were sufficient for the occasion, and pretty enough to grace any drawing room. ‘You’re too generous, Sir James.’

‘You don’t sound happy about my little surprise, Miranda. It gives me great pleasure.’

He was a spider spinning strands of silk to capture her and draw her into his web. If she allowed it, he would tie her up tightly and slowly suck the life from her. He’d never allow her to escape. But she would never forget Fletcher.

And what if she didn’t allow it? She didn’t want to speculate on that.

‘As I said, you are too generous. You have provided us with enough since we’ve been living here, and I’m … grateful. There is no way I can adequately repay you.’

‘We shall see,’ he said, and with such confidence that she felt a moment or two of unease.

He had not mentioned marriage since that first surprising moment of proposal. In fact, his behaviour towards her had been exemplary. Yet she was aware of that stated intention, because with it came an expectation, a tincture of possessiveness that went further than host and guest. She’d rather have chosen her own gown to wear, but she would wear the one Sir James had bought her for the purpose, because, after what had happened the last time, she was aware that such a scene could easily happen again if she thwarted him in this.

And even while her mouth yearned for and accepted the caresses of Fletcher, she felt under an obligation to her host.

To tell the truth, she was scared – scared that Sir James might catch her, and scared she might not see Fletcher again because of it. She was even more scared that she
would
see Fletcher – see him every day of her life thereafter, and observe the hurt in his eyes because she’d chosen his uncle over him. If she married Sir James, she would love Fletcher for ever, and never be able to express or acknowledge that love, while knowing he was as miserable as she.

No, she could not –
would not
– marry Sir James. Nothing he could do would change her mind about that.

The boxes were clearly marked with their names. Sir James had excellent taste, Miranda thought, as they readied themselves with the help of the maid, Anna.

Lucy wore white chiffon embroidered with blue blossoms over pale blue taffeta. It was just the thing for a young lady on the brink of womanhood. She rustled when she walked, which delighted her. Posies of blue flowers were attached to her hair and a matching posy secured by long ribbons to her wrist.

In similar fashion, but off the shoulders and with little cap sleeves, Miranda wore silk in a dark rose-pink. The hems of the double flounces were quite plain, but the pointed and boned bodice was embroidered with gold thread, pearls, and pink and white silk rosebuds that matched the flowery concoction attached to the nape of her neck.

Miranda felt graceful and feminine as she and Lucy went down the stairs together. The little pads sewn into the upper lining of the bodice gave her a shape that wasn’t quite natural to her, but they, along with the stiff bone inserts, kept her bodice nicely in place and prevented it from slipping down her arms.

Sir James was waiting for her with a gift. ‘Happy birthday, Miranda, and may I say that you both look exquisite.’

There was nothing of the turkey cock about Sir James. He wore sober black, his only adornment a diamond pin in his cravat.

Lucy beamed happily at the compliment, while Miranda wondered whether he was actually congratulating them or himself on his choice of clothes for them.

She chided herself when he placed a circlet of creamy pearls around her neck, which until then had been cool and bare. The gift felt like a manacle.

‘You look beautiful,’ he whispered, his fingers a caress against her skin, and he prepared to escort her into the drawing room – his arm tucked into hers, as though they were a married couple – leaving Lucy to follow. He was giving a false impression to the other guests, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Her sister would be mortified with embarrassment at being overlooked.

Miranda turned and tugged Lucy’s hand. She pulled her against her side and slipped her free arm about her waist.

Fletcher stepped out of the crowd to rescue her sister. ‘Ah, there you are, Miss Lucy. How lovely you look. Allow me to escort you in and claim the first dance after supper.’ He offered his arm to her.

For a second, Miranda’s eyes tangled with Fletcher’s and she felt pleasantly scorched in an aware sort of way. He looked quite the dandy in a burgundy-coloured cutaway coat over pale grey trousers, the sleeves fashionably tight and buttoned against the muscular wrists. Fashioned from silver brocade, his waistcoat was topped by a matching cravat secured with a ruby.

Her breath left her body slowly when he smiled. He looked so very elegant, something to savour. He gave a little bow. ‘I hope your birthday is enjoyable, Miss Jarvis. You look lovely.’

‘So do you, Mr Taunt. Thank you for the gift.’ He had dropped in earlier on his way to Poole and left a musical box of enamelled silver for her dressing table. When the music began to play, a door sprang open and a couple began to dance, their arms around each other. As soon as the mechanism ran down, they would spring back from where they’d come from, until the next time she wound it.

When Fletcher chuckled, and said, ‘I’ve never been called lovely before,’ Sir James’s hand tightened on her arm.

‘Shall we go in?’

Fletcher led Lucy in first and, after a short pause, Sir James followed.

They walked into a perfumed atmosphere, a humid bouquet of different flower scents. The mixture tickled her throat as Sir James presented her.

Miranda felt desperate. She didn’t want to be here amongst these people, whose conjecture about her relationship with Sir James was so plainly written on their faces. She didn’t quite know how to say no to him. He talked her out of things or into things and dismissed any thought she might have to the contrary.

These people hadn’t gathered to celebrate her birthday. Why should they do such a thing when they didn’t even know her? There were here out of curiosity, to discover if the rumours they’d heard were true.

She could see it in their faces – the women with their slight airs of malice and superiority, whispering behind their fans. The men were speculative, their eyes darting like wasps from her breasts, to her waist, caught there by the belling of her skirt, as if their eyes could undo the hooks securing it to her bodice. There their gaze would linger for a moment or two, as if they could see through it, before rising to her shoulders and face again. Then came the smile – the one that congratulated Sir James on his taste. She wanted to squirm.

‘Lucky dog, Sir James,’ one of them said quite openly, all the while kissing her hand. She felt like slapping him. Sir James’s hand tightened on her wrist as if he sensed her urge.

Then she wanted to laugh. Fletcher had kissed every part of her. She was his – she would always be his.

The torture of introductions seemed to be everlasting, but the atmosphere lightened when it was over and the music began to play. At last! She was able to relax her mouth, which had set in a rigid social smile that had caused her jaw to ache.

She danced the first dance with Sir James. It was for show, and as soon as they’d finished, he left her with Sarah Tibbets, who stared down her long nose at her and didn’t say a word. He went off to join a group of prosperous-looking men.

Miranda gazed around for Lucy and saw her in animated conversation with a pretty woman. She couldn’t remember her name – Susanna, perhaps. She was here with her brother, a rather weedy young man who looked scholarly and was staring at Lucy as if transfixed, with his mouth hanging open.

She was about to go and join them when Fletcher rescued her by swinging her out into the hall where the dancing was taking place. The small orchestra Sir James had hired took up the entrance to the left side of the staircase, leaving the right side for the guests to use as seats to observe the dancing from if they wished

‘You handled the introductions well.’

‘I hated being on show. I felt as though I was on trial and they were the judges. But they’d already reached a verdict before they met me. I could see it in their faces.’

‘Most of the people here have nothing to be proud of. Some are on the take or involved in whatever will bring them in money, whether honest or not. Mostly, they are all front and no substance.’

He sent Simon Bailey a wry smile, which Simon returned. It was the smile of two men who would have been friends if they were not standing on opposite sides of the fence.

‘You like him, don’t you?’

‘He has guts. He’d be a good man to have on your side.’

‘I have you on my side. I do … don’t I, Fletcher? I’m beginning to see and hear things I don’t like much, and I don’t feel as if there’s anyone I can trust except the reverend. He’s so sweet and innocent, like a child.’

His eyelids flickered. ‘Better you keep your eyes closed, trust nobody and say nothing, Miranda mine.’

‘That’s what Mrs Pridie said when she said I can trust her. Are you honest, Fletcher?’

He observed her, his eyes dark pools. ‘Poor little Miranda, you landed yourself and your sister in a pot of boiling broth when you tried to steal a loaf from my uncle. Have I done anything to make you think I might not be honest?’

‘No … but are you?’ she insisted.

‘Not entirely, but I do my best. I’d never willingly hurt man or beast, never cheat or steal, though sometimes I lie. I adore you, which must lean a little towards my favour, and I hasten to add that I’m being truthful about that. I’m also likeable and have a great deal of charm, don’t you think?’

She gazed up at him and laughed. ‘Yes, I think you possess an amazing amount of charm … now you’ve seen fit to point it out.’

He laughed. ‘Better we don’t stand here talking all night, since it draws the attention. Shall we do something entirely scandalous – dance the waltz?’

‘And that won’t attract attention?’

He grinned, ‘It might annoy some of the stuffed shirts.’

‘You know the steps?’

‘Certainly. On my last voyage aboard the
Midnight Star
, we had a passenger who knew all the dances and taught them to the other passengers, myself included.’

She didn’t fail to notice his grin, and when she grinned in return, he shrugged. ‘The lady was married and her husband was aboard. He wasn’t fond of dancing.’

‘Lucy and I learned how to waltz from watching our parents dance. They were so full of life; it seems such a long time ago now. Lucy is very much like our mother.’

‘It sounds as though your parents enjoyed their short lives together. Be happy for that, Miranda. Remember the good times, because grieving won’t bring them back.’ He caught the eye of the orchestra leader and traced a W in the air with his finger. The man nodded.

Fletcher swung her out on to the floor. The music attracted young and old, and the pair found themselves surrounded by onlookers. For the few minutes that they danced together alone, Miranda imagined they were the dancing couple on the musical box he’d given her. Gradually, others found the courage to risk censure and joined in. Miranda saw Lucy being whirled around by the reverend, who seemed to be enjoying himself.

Mrs Swift stood alone, staring at them, a sour look on her face. Miranda suddenly felt sorry for the woman. It must be awful to be so permanently angry.

When she smiled at her, the woman managed to return it before she turned her head away.

Looking as smug as could be, Sarah Tibbets sailed past in the arms of Sir James. They danced well together. Little did Sarah know that Miranda wasn’t a rival for the attention of Sir James.

Soon, the gasps and murmurs became laughter, and the hall was a whirling kaleidoscope of colour.

Fletcher drew Miranda closer and whispered in her ear, ‘Let’s go out on to the terrace. I’ll fetch you some punch.’

‘Will you do something for me first?’ she asked when he returned.

‘Anything.’

‘Dance with Mrs Swift. She looks so miserable.’

There was a moment of heavy silence before he spluttered, ‘She
is
so miserable.’

‘I know, but I expect she has reason to be. Do it for me.’

He heaved a heavy sigh and then laughed. ‘All right … I’ll meet you on the terrace afterwards.’ He handed her the punch.

It was quiet on the terrace, for the French windows hadn’t been opened yet. Most of the guests were enjoying the spectacle of the dancing, but the music filtered through the air. She placed the cups of punch on the low wall and watched the dancers.

The air was cool but not cold, and the coloured lights were confections that looked pretty enough to eat. The moon was high in the sky and sailing along, though she supposed it was the occasional clouds that were doing the sailing.