Master of the Moors (5 page)

Kate swiveled in her chair
and let her chin rest atop the backrest. "The
October
Dance. I told you about it
last week. You said you'd help me hollow out some pumpkins,
remember? Everyone attending has to bring something to celebrate
Halloween. Neil's bringing a turnip."

"A turnip?"

Kate nodded. "Because he's
lazy. He says if they ask him about it he'll tell them it's not
like he could
see
it wasn't a pumpkin."

Mrs. Fletcher rolled her
eyes. "That boy would use his handicap to get out of anythin'. I
imagine he'll cross the oceans of the world and visit all four
corners on the strength of pity, and yet you dare offer him
assistance and he'd nearly strike you!"

"I don't recall anything
about a dance, or pumpkins, or turnips," said Grady. "I wish I had,
or I'd never have offered to take Mrs. Fletcher out for the
night."

Mrs. Fletcher gasped and
tossed a tea towel at him, which he caught before it reached his
face. An involuntary grimace surfaced at the arthritic pain that
flared through his knuckles. He quickly recovered and gave Kate an
apologetic look.

"I'm afraid your
benevolent charwoman swore me to secrecy. She wouldn't have the
whole village gossipin' about our illicit affair."

"Oh, you rascal! You'll
hold your tongue or it'll be the kettle that comes your way
next!"

Kate laughed loudly, drawn
from her sleep-daze by their humor. To Grady, the sound was like a
breeze through spring blossoms.

The mirth faded as a
blushing Mrs. Fletcher tended to her tea and muttered about old men
and their improper propositions. As Grady was massaging the pain
from his fingers, Kate asked, "Has anyone been up to check on
Father?"

Grady nodded.

"And how was
he?"

The old man straightened
in his seat and stared into the fire. "Little change."

"I thought I heard him
weeping last night. I went in to his room but his eyes were dry.
Must have been a dream."

"If he wept it might be a
good thing," Grady said, then added, "a sign that he's ready to
come back."

"Well," Kate said
defiantly, "I don't care what Doctor Campbell says. That crotchety
old lout---"

"Don't talk like that
about the poor man," Mrs. Fletcher interjected.

"---doesn't know what he's
babbling on about half the time. I think one of these fine days
Father will be back to himself and running this place like the
tight ship it once was."

"And what does
that
mean?" the charwoman
said, hands-on-hips. "Are you implyin' that we've let the place
fall to bits while the master's ill?"

Kate, with a sly smile,
nodded once. "Precisely."

"I'll take the broom to
you, young lady."

Grady chuckled. "She means
it. She's already swept me off my feet."

This time he was not swift
enough to halt the arc of the tea towel. It struck him full in the
face and he moaned. Kate fled on a wave of laughter. Mrs. Fletcher
grabbed the broom and began to swipe at the girl's heels, the
occasional scream of delight startling Grady as he watched with a
small sad smile on his face.

This morning, happiness
held court in the kitchen, while upstairs the master lay dying. It
felt wrong somehow, but all present knew that a break from the
sorrow was a necessary thing if they hoped to keep their
wits.

He dreaded the day when laughter was
merely a ghost in a house of memory.

***

"Hello," the voice said
and Neil almost dropped the box he'd been lugging into the shop
from the small storeroom. The voice registered immediately, but the
scent that followed confirmed the presence of Tabitha Newman. His
heart fluttered, butterflies with sharp wings scything their way
around his stomach. Carefully setting the box down on the counter,
he looked in the direction of her voice, letting no trace of his
excitement reach his face.

"Who is it?"

"Tabitha,
silly."

He shrugged. "Well how was
I supposed to know? You could have been that old hag Mrs. Crowther
for all I knew."

"I think you knew it was
me." She sounded terribly close.

"Think what you
like."

"Here, smell this. It's
pretty."

It took him a moment to
realize what she was doing, and when her wrist brushed against his
nose, he jerked away and almost slammed into the shelves on the
wall behind him.

"Oh...I'm sorry," Tabitha
said, embarrassment in her tone.

"What are you doing?" Neil
said, faking outrage. "I could have broken my neck!"

But even as the venomous
words spewed from his lips, the sensation of her skin was being
committed to memory, to be studied later at his convenience. She
smelled of soap, and some kind of fancy new perfume, an alluring
scent that made the hair prickle on the back of his neck. It made
him wish with all his might that he could see her, just for a
heartbeat, just long enough to commit her face to mind so that he
would no longer have to rely on his feverish imaginings for her
portrait. He would never tell her so, however; she would only take
it as an invitation to act as his guardian, and there were already
far too many people assuming he needed one. Besides, even if he
dared confess his feelings, there was her older brother Donald to
consider. He, for one, cared little about Neil's welfare. So he
buried his affection where no one could reach it, and pretended
indifference.

"It's a new perfume;
supposedly quite expensive," she told him. "Though my father isn't
known for his generosity, so who knows how much truth there is in
that? He probably picked it up at a common market."

"Probably."

He heard her feet scuff
the floor. Then, "Why are you like this?" she asked.

"Like what?"

"So...I don't
know...mean."

He shrugged. "How would
you like me to be?"

"A little nicer. After
all, I'm not mean to
you
."

"And that's supposed to
make a difference to the way I am, is it? Just because you're all
smiles and roses all day every day?"

"If you took the time to
show a little interest you'd know that isn't the case at all. I
have my share of bad days."

He scoffed.
"Really."

"Yes as a matter of fact.
Need I remind you that I have a brash, foul-mouthed ogre for an
older brother? You try living with him for a week, never mind
fifteen years, and see what it does for your
disposition."

He sighed deeply and
drummed his fingers on the countertop. "Was there something you
wanted besides someone to bore?"

"You're impossible. Anyone
would think in a dull village like this you'd be glad to have a
friend."

"Is that what you are?
Well, I'm frightfully sorry to disappoint you, but I have no need
of friends. I do quite well on my own. Now, I repeat, was there
something you wanted? This is after all, a shop."

"As a matter of fact there
are two things, although your usual absence of cheer has made me
doubt the sense in proposing one of them."

Inside his stoical shell,
Neil's excitement grew.

"Firstly, I need flour,"
Tabitha said. "My mother's baking a cake for the October
Dance."

"That's nice." His heart
was in his throat.

"Which brings me to my
second order of business: Are you going?"

"What's it to
you?"

"Just once can't you
answer a question with some degree of civility?"

He made a dramatic sigh.
"Kate wants me to take her. I'd rather be eaten by wild
dogs."

"I'm sure that could be
arranged," Tabitha said. "But in the meantime, you should know that
if you
are
there,
I expect you to ask me to dance, assuming you know how."

Instinctively a crude
insult arose in him but he bit his tongue. Instead he said, "Why on
earth would I want to dance with
you
?"

When she spoke, her words
were shaped by a smile. "I happen to think you'd like that very
much."

"Then you're
mad."

"We'll see."

He went to fetch the
flour, his heart racing, forcing him to double his efforts in order
to conceal his delight.

He'd envisioned the
scenario that had just taken place a hundred times over, with only
the feeblest of hopes that it would ever transpire beyond the realm
of his imagination. Now that it had, he wasn't sure what to do. A
bolder man would attempt to initiate courtship in a more forward
manner, and while Neil was plenty bold on the surface, his insides
felt like jelly now. But then doubt swept over him. What if she was
toying with him? What if it was merely a ploy, a means of repaying
him for his bitter treatment of her over the past few years? It
certainly made more sense, for at no time had he given her an
opening from which she might draw the slightest hint of interest on
his part. This was a crushing thought, but sadly, easier to swallow
than her sudden invitation.

He returned with her order
and carefully set it out on the counter. "Do you need anything
else?"

"No," she said as he put
the small sack of flour into a cardboard box. "But I would
appreciate it if you'd carry this to the door for me."

"I'm sure you would." He
made no move to do as she'd requested and had to restrain a smile
at her exasperated sigh.

"Very well. Until tonight
then, and I do hope you're more of a gentleman at the
dance."

She left the store, the
fragrance of her lingering in the air, as intoxicating as any drug
and twice as potent, insinuating its way into his brain, shaping
his thoughts, bending them, until he knew he was deceiving himself
by pretending he wouldn't be at the dance to take her up on her
offer.

The Hounds of Hell
themselves couldn't keep him away.

4

A ghost lay still and
silent on the bed. From the doorway, a slender shadow
watched.

"Father?" Kate was almost
afraid to speak too loud, for fear the words would slice through
his palsied body and shatter him like glass.

There was little sense in
expecting a response---Doctor Campbell had told her not to---and yet
she continued to speak to him, knowing without a doubt that someday
he would answer. She persisted, because people didn't just vanish
out of themselves without saying goodbye.

The stark white face was
turned to the window, shadows nestling in the hollow cheeks,
silvery stubble catching the muted morning sunlight. His eyes were
open and unblinking. Kate might have thought him dead but for the
low rasp of his breathing and the gentle rise and fall of the
sheets around his painfully thin chest.

Through the window, the
sun skewered the lazily drifting mist, making swords of smoke that
angled toward the house, the dew glistening on the moors like
scattered diamonds. Kate liked to think her father was
contemplating the beauty of the scene, but when she'd mentioned
this aloud, Doctor Campbell had, as was his custom, dismissed it as
preposterous.
His condition suggests cancer
or some other form of degenerative disease. But in other ways it
doesn't. His muscles are atrophying at a rapid rate, his breathing
is shallow and there is no response to stimuli. He's losing weight,
and hair, and teeth. But I'm confounded as to the source of it all.
Despite the symptoms, there doesn't seem to be a point of origin.
It's almost as if he's already died and the body is just slow in
following. So, young girl, what you're looking at is an empty
vessel. It sees nothing, feels even less. Don't upset yourself with
idle fantasies.

Looking at her father now,
Kate was convinced more than ever that the doctor was an
incompetent fool. That Campbell drank to excess was no secret, and
there had been rumors that his relocation to Brent Prior from
London hadn't been of his own volition. It wasn't hard to believe,
for despite its beauty, there were few places more isolated and
desolate than the moors. To an appreciative eye, it could be a
place of splendor. To a man accustomed to the hubbub of London's
thoroughfares, gin-palaces and markets, it would be the ultimate
punishment. A prison.

"Father?" she whispered
again and sat down on the bed. He didn't acknowledge her---no sudden
catch in his breathing, no blink to indicate he was aware of
anything beyond whatever nightmare capered behind his eyes. "I'm
going to the dance tonight." She reached out a hand and stroked his
cheek. Stubble rasped beneath her fingers, the skin cool beneath.
"I wish you could be there to see us. It's been such a long time
since you've danced with me. I know you'd love it."

She let her hand slide
lower and rubbed a thumb over his cool lips. Outside, a raven
cawed, its shadow sweeping across the sheets before it moved
on.