Come to Castlemoor Page 2

  “Bully!” she said. “Sounds like a lively spot.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure, Bella?”

  “I lost it about thirty miles ago,” she said contrarily. “I haven’t seen a single man since we left the main station.”

  “There’ll be plenty in Darkmead,” I replied.

  “Lot of good that’ll do us. We’ll be passin’ right through that place and headin’ for the moors.”

  “The house is only a few miles from the village,” I said. “We’ll be going there often for food and supplies. Cheer up, Bella.”

  “I am eager to see that castle,” she informed me. “Imagine people livin’ in a castle in the middle of a moor. Must be mighty peculiar folks! And they’re going to be our neighbors!”

  I nodded, thinking about the letters my brother had written about the mysterious Rodds. Dorothea Rodd was a widow, living in complete seclusion, and her son, Burton, owned the local pottery factory. He had been to Oxford and spent some time on the Continent, cutting quite a figure in society, but now, in his thirties, remained at Castlemoor, a strange and enigmatic figure. Donald had found him extremely unfriendly and wrote that Rodd was both feared and hated by the local people. There was also an Italian girl, seventeen or so, Dorothea’s stepdaughter, and a distant cousin, Edward Clark, who had published an authoritative book on the Celts and was now collecting Celtic folk songs. Donald had sent me a copy of Clark’s first book and said the man had been most interested in his own project.

  I wondered about these people, wondered if I would meet them, if they would be as bizarre as they sounded. Why would people choose to live in isolation, completely cut off from the world?

  The coach rolled on and on. Bella was silent, eating chocolates and peering out the window. The empty plains began to take on a more cultivated look, still stark, brown and green, but now we passed fields with rich, loamy earth plowed into neat furrows, some of them already covered with the jade-green crops that would grow tall and turn gold. There were more farms along the way, some quite impressive, with large stone houses surrounded by oak trees. We saw men working behind plows and pitching hay from the lofts of barns. The land grew richer, greener, with trees and wildflowers and a river that flowed sluggishly along its banks. The sky stretched blue and white over everything, but the sun was already sinking, and soon it would be dark. I hoped we’d reach Darkmead soon. I wanted to get to the house before darkness shrouded the moors.

  The coach had gone over the road for miles and miles without passing a single cart, but now there were more signs of life. We passed a farmer with a wagonload of fertilizer. Bella coughed and made a face, and I lifted a handkerchief to my nostrils. The farmer cracked his whip, waving his hand at us. Farther down the road a smart rig passed us, coming from the direction of Darkmead. The handsome dappled gray trotted briskly, pulling the neat black surrey with its fringe swaying and its wheels spinning. A woman in a pink dress sat beside a man in black broadcloth, and two flaxen-haired children peered around them. I guessed they were a family who lived in one of the prosperous farms. We passed two farmboys who were walking home from the fields with their rakes and hoes. Bella sat up, all attention now.

  We passed a slope covered with sheep, a black-and-white dog barking as they chewed the grass, the sheepherder in leather jacket leaning against a stunted tree and whittling a stick. The sheep spilled down to the edge of the road, baaing and looking at us with placid faces. The coach moved at a faster pace now that we were getting nearer Darkmead. There were many small houses now, and, in the distance, great cavities in the earth that I assumed were the clay pits. The earth was reddish brown, and there were several wooden buildings with tall black chimneys surrounding the pits. I saw men pushing wheelbarrows, tiny from this distance and silhouetted black against the darkening sky.

  As we drove into Darkmead, Bella rubbed the smudge of dust off her cheek and patted her long brown curls. I smoothed the folds of my skirt and took down our valises. The coach stopped, the driver opened the door for us, and we climbed out, eager to see the village, eager to stretch our legs. We were in front of the post office, a tiny building on a street lined with stores and shops. The street was unpaved, the sidewalks wooden; the stone fronts of all the buildings were brown and gray, gritty with soot. I could see the small square at one end of the street, oak trees growing around it, and at the other end, a bleak yellow-brick church lifted a tarnished bronze steeple up to touch the dark sky. A wagon of hay stood in front of the feed store, two farmers standing by the horse and talking in subdued voices.

  “It isn’t London,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

  “That’s for sure,” Bella replied, tapping her foot.

  “Look at the oak trees. I’ve never seen them so enormous.”

  The whole village was surrounded by these gigantic trees, and we could see the mighty limbs projecting up behind roofs and chimneys. A river circled the village, small stone bridges spanning it, and I supposed the water caused the trees to grow so tall. The new leaves gave a greenish cast to the air, and the smell of mud and water and moss permeated the village. It was a pleasant smell, completely different from the oily odors that rose from the Thames.

  “I think I’m going to like it,” I said.

  “I’m not so sure I will,” Bella retorted.

  The driver swung the sack of mail out of the coach and heaved it over his shoulder. I asked him where we could hire someone to drive us out to the moors.

  “Best try the inn, miss,” he said. “It’s down the street a ways. Old Rufus can tell you ’bout anything you want to know.”

  “Thank you, driver,” I said.

  He nodded his head. “Luck to you, ma’am,” he replied.

  Bella and I walked along the sidewalk. It was crowded with people, but none of them paid any attention to us. They studiedly ignored us, although I suspected they were taking in every detail of our dress and manner. I was wearing a lilac-colored dress with a purple velvet bodice and a purple bonnet trimmed with pink and white ribbons. I felt highly conspicuous, but I held my chin firm and lifted my skirts to keep them from trailing in the dirt. Bella sauntered beside me, openly eyeing every man we passed. Most of them were tall and husky with sullen eyes and dark beards, wearing dirty clothes and smelling of the farmyard, but occasionally there was a blond giant with the native Saxon features of this part of the country. Bella was delighted, her feet fairly dancing.

  “I may grow to like this place,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I replied.

  She nudged me with her elbow. “Did you see that blue-eyed brute?” she whispered. “The one with the brown boots and leather jerkin? I’ll bet he could hold his own in a wrestling match! They grow ’em big here, Miss Kathy, and that’s no lie!”

  “You’re shameless, Bella,” I scolded.

  We passed a dry-goods store with bolts of shimmering silk and colorful cotton displayed behind the dingy gray glass windows, and a milliner’s with surprisingly chic bonnets prominently exhibited. We smelled the delicious fragrance of newly baked bread as we passed the bakery, and kegs of nails and shelves of tools stood in front of the hardware store. The blacksmith’s shop stood open, horses standing under the shed, flames roaring, sledgehammer pounding on anvil. A wagon rumbled down the street with three coops of chickens squawking in back, and a small boy hurried past us with a tiny brown pig in his arms. Darkmead was small and ugly, but it had its own flavor, and the fascination of the new and unexplored. I couldn’t help but feel a certain excitement as we moved along this main street. London was far behind me, and the life I led there might never have existed.

  A red-and-brown sign in the shape of a bull’s head hung over the local inn the driver had mentioned. It was on a corner, overlooking the square, the lower floor a restaurant, rooms to rent above. We pushed the swinging wooden doors and stepped inside. It was dimly lighted, the walls a moss-green color, black oak beams supporting a low ceiling. Sawdust littered the floor, and t
he air was filled with smoke and the odors of beer and ale. The place was almost empty, two men sitting at one of the crude wooden tables, another man standing at the bar, the rest of the vast, shadowy room deserted. Bella and I stood hesitantly in the doorway. Old Rufus, the proprietor, came out from a back room. He was a burly, middle-aged man in a soiled white shirt and brown trousers. His sleeves were rolled up, and a thin black leather apron was tied about his waist. His face was ruddy, his eyes glowing black, his head a gleaming bald globe. He came toward us.

  “I’m starved,” Bella said. “Let’s get something to eat before we do anything else.”

  “Very well. I’m hungry, too.”

  Old Rufus nodded jerkily and looked at us with the glowing black eyes. He seemed to resent our presence, and I wondered why. “Miss Hunt?” he said.

  “Why—yes,” I replied. “How did you know my name?”

  He grunted and led us to one of the tables without answering my question. The other men in the room watched us silently. I wished I weren’t dressed quite so elegantly. Old Rufus told us we could have roast beef and boiled potatoes or meat pie. We chose the beef. I asked him to bring us a pot of coffee while we were waiting.

  “I wonder how he knew your name, Miss Kathy?” Bella asked when he had gone.

  “The trunks, I’d imagine,” I replied. “They probably got here several days ago, and my name was plainly printed on them. They’ll be at the house when we get there.”

  More men came in, all of them wearing heavy jackets with the collars turned up. Although April was already here, it was still chilly outside, and I imagined Darkmead would turn cold as night fell. Old Rufus tossed a log in the enormous rough-stone fireplace and lighted the kindling. Soon a merry fire was roaring, orange-and-blue flames licking at the log and throwing flickering shadows on the wall. Even more men came in, a few of them with their women, dour, silent creatures in plain black or brown dresses. I was amazed at the subservient manner of these women. They did not speak unless spoken to, and they kept their eyes lowered, although I caught a few casting sly glances at our table. I felt even more conspicuous.

  A barmaid in a vivid red dress served our food. She had tangled black hair and vivacious brown eyes, and the dress was cut far too low, flaunting the overripe body. Cheap golden bracelets dangled at her wrists. The men followed her with their eyes, and the women tried to pretend she wasn’t there. I was almost pleased to see the lusty creature in this drab, solemn community. Hearing one of the men call her Mrs. Rufus, I assumed she was married to the proprietor, although that didn’t keep her from throwing coy glances at various men. She settled behind the bar and began talking to one of the men standing there.

  “Take a look at that,” Bella said.

  “What?”

  “The lad she’s talkin’ to. Have you ever seen anything so glorious? I declare, Miss Kathy, he’s the most appetizin’ morsel of man I’ve seen in months! Can you believe it?”

  The man she referred to was leaning against the bar, one heel hooked on the brass footrail. He must have been six-foot-four and had a body that would have done justice to a Rugby player—well-turned legs, slender hips and waist, powerful shoulders. His raven-black hair curled at the back of his neck and spilled in disheveled waves over his forehead, and he had the bluest eyes I have ever seen, sapphire blue, snapping with life. His features were rather coarse but granite-strong, large nose, wide mouth, firm jaw. He wore mud-splattered black boots, tight black trousers, and a heavy brown suede jacket lined with sheepskin, the collar turned back to reveal the fleecy yellow lining. He was teasing the barmaid, his manner bantering and jovial and extremely male. The proprietor’s wife seemed to glow in the warmth of his attention.

  “Look at that tart lappin’ it up!” Bella whispered.

  “Jealous, Bella?” I inquired, smiling.

  “Humph! I guess not. I guess I’d know how to handle a man like that! He thinks he’s pretty big stuff with the womenfolks. Maybe he is with these country girls, but he wouldn’t last long in London. I’ll tell you that free of charge! He has mud on his boots and probably smells of manure.”

  “I thought you were admiring him a minute ago,” I teased.

  “Big louts like that don’t interest me a bit,” she lied. “Finish your roast, Miss Kathy, not that it’s fit to eat. When we get settled in that house, I’m going to cook some decent food!”

  She lapsed into angry silence. The cause of her anger continued talking with the barmaid, exuding a robust charm that captivated the creature in red. Although the inn was almost crowded now, it wasn’t rowdy. The men talked in low voices, and more than once I discovered groups of them staring at me in silence. I was glad when we finished the meal and were ready to settle the bill. Old Rufus came up to our table, beads of sweat on his naked brow, a napkin folded over his arm. “That be all, ladies?” he inquired.

  “I wonder if you could tell me where I can find someone to take me to Castlemoor?” I asked quietly.

  He stared at me, the burning black eyes suddenly flat. He made no effort to answer my question. The room grew painfully silent, all ears attuned to our table. I looked around, puzzled. The men were staring at me as though I had asked someone to commit a murder.

  “Not the castle itself,” I clarified. “I—I own a little house on the moor, across the hill from the castle. That’s where I want to go.”

  “I know where it is, ma’am. Your brother stayed there. You ain’t intendin’ to live there, are you?”

  “I certainly am,” I retorted in my haughtiest manner. I was on my feet now, Bella standing beside me. I was appalled at the rudeness of the proprietor and the blatant stares of the men. I could feel a blush burning on my cheeks.

  “Will you tell me how I can get a ride there?” I asked icily.

  “You’d best stay here till morning,” Old Rufus said.

  “Why should we?”

  “Night’s fallin’.”

  “So?”

  “Ain’t no one here goin’ to go out to the moors when night’s fallin’,” he said. I heard some of the men grumbling in agreement.

  “But—that’s absurd,” I protested. “I’ll pay—”

  “It ain’t a question of money,” he replied, his voice gruff. “In the morning there’s dozens of men who’ll drive you out for nothin’, but no one will drive out there with night comin’ on.”

  “Why—I never heard of such a thing,” I cried.

  I stared at the solemn, leathery faces of the men in the room. I saw hardened mouths and sullen eyes, and I saw fear, too. It was quite plain. These men were afraid of something. My brother had written that the superstition here was something to behold, but I never expected to find anything as strong as this. The moors were full of ruins, and legend had it that the ghosts of the Celtic dead rose from their rock-piled graves and worshiped the stone circles at night, but surely these men couldn’t believe any such nonsense. Nevertheless, the fear was there, as well as open resentment of Bella and me, strangers, intruders.

  “You mean to tell me there’s no one here who’ll take me to my house?” I said, my voice trembling.

  “That’s a fact, ma’am,” the proprietor retorted.

  “You’re all afraid? All you big, strong men are afraid—”

  “No need to go insultin’ us, Miss Hunt. There’s things strangers ain’t equipped to understand. I’ve got some nice rooms upstairs you and your maid can have for the night, and I won’t charge you for ’em—”

  “I’ll take you, ma’am,” a slow, drawling voice said. “Soon as I finish my beer.”

  There was a general stir among the crowd. All eyes turned to where the man Bella had pointed out earlier stood with a mug of beer. He gave the men a slow grin and lifted his mug to them, a mocking toast. He sipped the beer and clanged the mug down on the bar. He hitched his thumbs in the corners of his trouser pockets and started toward us, the grin still on his lips. The men grumbled in low tones. The few women looked at each other with pale faces. The
air seemed to crackle with tension.

  “Alan Dunne!” one man hissed.

  “Aye, and a fool he is!” another answered.

  “He’s up to no good!”

  “Aye, nor has he ever been.”

  The man ignored the muttered comments. He came up to us and gave me a jerky little bow that would have been humorous under other circumstances. I saw that the blue, blue eyes were crackling with mischief, and the face, though rough-hewn and unquestionably coarse, had the amiable and endearing look of a naughty little boy’s. He was in his early twenties, but despite this, despite his immense size, he reminded me of a boy who delighted in pranks.

  “Alan Dunne, ma’am, at your service.”

  Although he was speaking to me, his eyes were on Bella. I sensed his rather cocky, arrogant manner was for her benefit. She sniffed disdainfully and shot me a quick glance. He did smell of manure, but it was mixed with the odors of sweat and leather and hay and blended into a not unpleasant male scent.

  “I’ve got my wagon out back, ma’am, if you and the little lady don’t mind ridin’ up front with me.”

  “We’d be delighted,” I said, before Bella could make the cutting comment that was shaping itself on her lips.

  “Fine, then,” he said. “I’ll just take them valises you’ve got there and go bring the wagon around front.” He eyed the room with jaunty disdain and made a face. “I just wanted you to know all the men in Darkmead ain’t a bunch of sissies!” he remarked loudly. He sauntered out of the inn as his fellow townsmen grumbled menacingly. I paid Old Rufus for our meal and left with my head held high. The swinging wooden doors made a swooshing sound as we stepped outside.

  “I’d just as soon walk!” Bella said irritably. “Did you get a whiff of his clothes? Enough to knock you flat! And that drawl! I bet the oaf can’t even read and write!”

  “I thought he was charming,” I told her.

  “Ah, Miss Kathy, you’re no judge of the menfolks, and that’s a fact!”