Resonance Page 11

  Useless, useless regrets – as useless as the crumbled wads of filthy money he’d crammed away all these years.

  But I had me plan, he thought. Surely that was worth something?

  He shut his eyes, and closed his hand around the memory of hers.

  I wish I’d kissed you sooner, Tina. I wish I’d told you it all.

  Everything was floating away, all the sounds, all the feelings, everything dim and feathered all around with black. A door opened somewhere far off. Women chattered, their words indistinct. The carriage swayed and juddered as people climbed aboard.

  Joe barely heard the driver’s gate latch click, nor registered the heavy movements as someone settled down beside him.

  The driver’s voice came from far, far away. ‘Let us go home,’ he said. The carriage lurched to life with a slap of the reins, they jolted forward, and after that there was nothing.

  Kindness

  CORNELIUS RELEASED THE blind and pressed his heated face to the dewy glass. They were beyond the city limits already. Outside, a great expanse of sand dunes stretched away beneath a storm of tumultuously falling snow. He hoped they would make it home before the country roads were blocked.

  The Angel burned in his mind with all its promise of calmness and clarity. The prospect of returning to its presence made Cornelius groan, an expression of pain and need.

  Why am I suffering? he thought. In this old, horrible way? This was a condition he had always associated with the sins of shore leave. In the first weeks back at sea, he had always suffered thusly. Cornelius had accepted it then as his penance for the debauchery of land: the well deserved scourging of his body after yet another blue-eyed boatman had caused him to give in to weakness, and days of opium indulgence had silenced the ensuing guilt. But why was he like this now? He searched his memory for something he might have done – some lapse of body or sin of the mind that might have—

  A light touch on his bare hand startled him and he jerked to life, already in the process of unsheathing his sword-cane. The crone sat back, her hands up, surprisingly composed in the face of a semi-bared blade. The girl at her side watched on, curious yet detached, as if from the well-end of a dream. She was a vision of creamy youth, her full-skirted yellow tartan coat bright as a Christmas bauble against the dark leather padding of the interior.

  When had they been taken into the carriage? Cornelius had only the vaguest recollection of it. He sheathed the few inches of drawn blade, his hands trembling.

  ‘Are you ill, sir?’ asked the actress. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Cornelius pressed himself into the seat cushions. Oh God, she was so old: Raquel would be livid that he had brought such ugliness to the house.

  ‘Shall I call out to your driver?’ she asked. ‘Tell him to stop?’

  ‘Be quiet!’ he cried. ‘Can’t you just be quiet, damn you! Is that so much to ask?’

  Surprisingly, the woman’s expression remained infused with understanding. ‘I have a little medicine,’ she said softly. ‘If you need it.’

  She withdrew a small brown glass bottle from the châtelaine purse on her waist and unstoppered it. The bittersweet scent of laudanum filled the carriage. The actress leaned forward and pressed the bottle into his shaking hand. ‘I know what it is like,’ she murmured, ‘to get headaches.’

  Cornelius gripped the bottle tight. ‘You … you shall sit back,’ he said. The actress sat back. ‘Do not look at me.’ She turned her eyes to the window. Cornelius thrust out his arm. ‘Put this away.’

  Handing the bottle back was like forcing his own flesh to tear, but once it was done, he felt stronger.

  A sound rose above the jolting of the carriage and the roar of the storm: a howling, as wild and ungovernable as the sea. The women turned their eyes upwards, unnerved. But Cornelius knew this sound well, had heard it many times in his past. It was Vincent, the wind in his teeth, the storm in his face, spitting in the eye of the world. Vincent, standing at the reins of the carriage, as he had once stood at the masthead of their ship, howling his defiance to nature and heaven and the God in whom he professed not to believe.

  Cornelius closed his eyes and listened. The sound, and his own recent act of self-control, tethered and soothed him – reminded him of all he had achieved. He turned his face to the glass and watched as jealous waves spent themselves against the stones of an estuary wall. The wind hurled snow into the distance. The carriage jolted, the shore dropped from sight, and they were once again hemmed in by hedgerows and walls. Overhead, Vincent’s voice fell silent.

  Cornelius smiled. Roar all you wish, he told the retreating voice of the sea. You no longer own him. He is no longer yours.

  Part II

  The Bright Man

  The Dooryard of the Flayed Badger

  VINCENT COULD JUST about recall the very, very distant reaches of his youth, when he would help his father drive the slaves from his ship and deliver them to Cornelius’ father’s plantation high on the slopes of Nevis. After the money had been exchanged, and Vincent’s father had ordered any unwanted goods back down to the harbour market for sale to the lesser plantation owners, he would take Vincent, and often Cornelius too, riding in the hills to collect herbs. He’d been a remarkable man, in so many ways, his father – there were not many other ship captains who also acted as surgeon. Then again, Vincent’s father had never been one to trust his precious cargo to the care of another.

  Vincent had never cared much back then for stopping and grubbing about in the roots. His father had often scolded him for driving his horse too hard and too fast; for forgetting to allow it rest. Vincent recalled the impatience this had made him feel, the frustration. To his fierce joy, he had no such problem with the horses he drove before him now. They had travelled almost two hundred miles since leaving the confines of the city, and showed no sign of tiring. Their endless headlong race down road and country lane was as close as Vincent had come in decades to the implacable rush of a ship. Despite the cold-induced ache in his lungs, he almost wished this journey would never end.

  All through yesterday’s long race from Dublin, he had managed to stay ahead of the storm, and only now, with pale light bleaching the horizon, had the snow caught up with them again. Vincent knew it would not be long before these narrow lanes were clogged, but he was not worried. At this speed, it was less than an hour to the village and then less again to the estate house. They were almost home. There he would present Raquel with a gift far better than bolts of fabric: a boy, newborn from the dirty hay of a stable – her son resurrected from a manger in the snow. And with him, new life. New purpose. A return to what had been. How delicious.

  ‘Just wait until you see the theatre your mother has had constructed for the spectacular, Matthew. It rivals any I have ever seen. It reduces that flea’s pit your seamstress friend inhabits to a Punchinello’s chequered booth!’

  The sun rose over the familiar flat stretches of bog, the wind-crippled huddle of trees, the endless spines of dry-stone wall. When the cobbles of the village clattered beneath the wheels, Vincent slowed the carriage so as not to desecrate the peace too badly. The wind had dropped, and snow drifted slowly down in silence, giving the close-pressed cottages and well tended market square an air of gentleness and serenity. Familiar faces showed at window and half door. There were nods, and the touching of hats, and Vincent responded in kind as he let the horses take their ease passing through.

  He braked in the dooryard of the Flayed Badger, and Peadar Cahill came to hold the horses. ‘Your Honour,’ he said, squinting up with his usual shy smile. ‘Good trip?’

  Vincent climbed from the box. ‘Very good. Excellent, in fact!’

  Peadar flicked a hopeful glance at the carriage. ‘Is Himself within?’

  ‘Cornelius is a little fragile, Peadar. It might be best to leave him for the moment.’

  The man’s broad face fell. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘We … we had hoped you’d stop for a bit of a céilí, sir. It’s been such a long time sin
ce you were in the village.’

  Vincent regarded him curiously as he removed his gloves. ‘I have only recently begun to realise that. Up at the estate, I had not seemed to feel the time passing, but this trip has served to clear my head somewhat, and I was wondering … how long do you suppose it has been since the family was out and about?’

  Peadar scratched the pale stubble on his chin. ‘Master Luke and I were trying to figure it when he came down to arrange accommodations for the players, sir. I reckon it must be a fair long time since you and I last stood here and had a chinwag.’

  ‘Do you?’ said Vincent softly.

  ‘I reckon it might be nigh on fifty year – if not more.’

  Fifty years? Vincent thought it over. ‘I think you might be right,’ he whispered.

  ‘It got terrible quiet for ye without Master Matthew, I reckon,’ said Peadar, not meeting Vincent’s eye. ‘I reckon the heart gradually went out of things for the family after he left.’

  Vincent restrained himself from looking back at the driver’s box. ‘Perhaps that will change soon.’

  ‘Perhaps it will. Certainly there’ll be a bit of life around and about when the players come.’

  The players. Of course. ‘We want only the best for them, Peadar. You understand?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Mother and I are doing the rooms up lovely for them here. Rest assured, their last days will be the best you could imagine.’ He fleetingly met Vincent’s eye. ‘They’re … they’re good, sir, are they? They’re entertaining?’

  ‘They are everything you could wish, Peadar. A riot of flamboyance.’

  ‘Riot of flamboyance,’ breathed Peadar.

  Vincent glanced behind him. All around the market square there were faces at windows, people watching from porch and corner.

  ‘We’re finding it hard, sir,’ Peadar admitted. ‘We’re terrible hungry of late, and the older ones …’ Peadar went quiet, choosing not to detail the older villagers’ sufferings. Vincent noticed for the first time the pinched look around the man’s eyes, the stoop to his broad back. Peadar held up his hand. The fingers were slightly crooked. ‘I’m getting old man’s pains, sir.’

  Vincent gently gripped his arm. ‘This is but a temporary hitch, friend. All will be well soon.’ Breaking the moment, he slapped Peadar’s shoulder with his gloves. ‘I assume you had no trouble securing provisions?’

  ‘Pardon me, sir?’

  ‘Miss Raquel was to order supplies, Peadar. For our house guests.’

  At the words ‘house guests’, the man’s confusion deepened.

  ‘We sent a message,’ exclaimed Vincent. ‘Tell me the damned thing arrived!’

  Peadar was only half-listening. ‘A … a messenger from outside came and went, sir. But no order came down from the big house. I …’ He stepped to the side, all the better to view the carriage door. ‘You have guests in there? I had no idea.’

  Vincent groaned. Apparently Raquel had decided to be awkward about this unexpected deviation from the plans. An awkward Raquel was an unpleasant Raquel. Things were not likely to be comfortable for the actress and the girl.

  ‘We shall just have to cobble together a meagre supply from what you have, Peadar. Someone shall have to travel out into the world for the rest.’

  ‘We haven’t got no food,’ said Peadar absently, drifting closer to the carriage. ‘Not due to be delivered until the players come. Haven’t got no candles either – nor chopped any firewood. Haven’t got anything outsiders might have want of. Not yet.’

  Vincent felt a small, sharp headache flare between his eyes. He reached for his purse, already running up lists in his head. ‘You will have to send out for supplies immediately, Peadar. You know what outsiders are like for feeling the cold and needing their food and such things.’

  But Peadar wasn’t listening. He was gazing up at the carriage door, his hand raised as if to try the latch. His mouth was open slightly, in wonder. ‘Are they players, sir?’ he whispered. ‘Might they play for us?’

  Alarmed, Vincent thrust the purse back into his pocket. He grabbed the man’s shoulder, was about to snap, ‘They are not for you,’ when the carriage door opened and the seamstress stepped out.

  Vincent felt a powerful, unexpected surge at the sight of her. It was all he could do not to run and grab her. What he would do then he did not know; all he knew was that he wanted her.

  She burns, he thought. She burns.

  She had been transformed. Shining with an invisible light, she made Vincent want to shade his eyes, though there was no reason for him to do so.

  Peadar made a soft, drawn-out ‘oooh’ and went to step forward. This brought Vincent back to himself somewhat, and he tightened his grip on the man’s shoulder. ‘Get back inside,’ he told the girl.

  She glanced at him before stepping warily from the footplate into the snow. She was a void to him, a silence; there was no hint of the internal communication they had shared at the house. I have broken her, he thought. Keeping her back pressed to the gleaming wood of the carriage and her dark eyes fixed on him, the girl began edging her way to the driver’s box. ‘Please help us,’ she said to Peadar. ‘He took my friend.’

  From all over the village, folk were coming from house and yard, drifting towards her, their expressions dreamy. ‘Get back inside!’ Vincent cried.

  A cracked voice spoke from the door of the inn: ‘So bright.’ Vincent turned to find Peadar’s mother tottering towards them. She had always been ancient and wizened, but Vincent was shocked at how twisted her poor body had become; at the very great difficulty she had in walking. ‘Rose,’ he whispered. ‘What has become of you?’

  She pushed past him, her eyes fixed on the girl. She flung up her crooked hands. ‘So bright! She burns so bright!’

  The seamstress had reached the driver’s gate and was struggling with the latch. ‘Help us,’ she said. ‘We’re from Dublin. He took my friend.’

  A young woman came running from behind the horses, black curls sprinkled with snow, face rosy with expectation. It was Sheila Morgan, the blacksmith’s daughter. Her friend Agnes Dwyer was with her, and she grabbed the seamstress, startling her.

  ‘Twirl her for us,’ cried Sheila. ‘Let us see her!’

  The seamstress broke free with a cry, pushing them away. Agnes grabbed her again.

  ‘Does she dance? Make her dance!’

  People were coming from all sides now, the entire village – thirty people in all – fawning and pawing. Some of them were moaning with desire. Jameson Morgan bellowed, ‘Make her sing!’

  Vincent began pushing them aside. ‘Get back!’

  ‘No!’ snarled Peadar, shoving him. ‘We’re hungry!’ The brutal desire in his face slammed Vincent back down through centuries. It overwhelmed him with forgotten horror, and with fear for the girl.

  Over Peadar’s shoulder, he saw her pull free of Agnes’ grip again and scramble into the driver’s box. Sighing with pleasure, Agnes let the girl’s brightly coloured coat-skirts pass though her hands. Sheila Morgan grabbed her, but the girl kicked her into Agnes’ arms and slammed the gate shut on them.

  The villagers crowded past Vincent, moaning, ‘Sing! Sing! Dance.’ The carriage rocked under their combined weight. The girl fell to the floor of the box and out of Vincent’s sight.

  ‘She is not a player!’ he cried, pulling folk aside. ‘She is nothing! Get back!’

  Fergus Morgan began climbing the gate. ‘Stand up, miss! Let us see you!’

  Vincent grabbed him by the collar and heaved him from the box. ‘She is nothing! A labourer! A seamstress! Nothing!’ He put his back to the gate, thrusting his arms out against the advancing tide of villagers. They pressed against him, dragging heedlessly at him with desperate strength. His feet slipped on the icy ground, and he felt himself go down beneath the relentless weight of their hunger.

  Someone yelled – a hoarse, angry cry – and all went abruptly still. A familiar voice said, ‘Stand back,’ and the people did, their faces gra
ve, their attention fixed on the door of the carriage.

  Vincent pulled himself upright as Cornelius climbed unsteadily to the ground. He was on his last reserves, his hair straggling loose around his pasty face, his elegant frame bent. Vincent knew it was this that had tamed the crowd: the sight of Himself so horribly worn by his time outside; the sight of him undone. They shuffled backwards, shamed by his condition, which was so obviously worse than their own.

  Cornelius clung to the door of the carriage and leaned heavily on his cane. ‘Are you all right, Captain?’

  Vincent nodded, straightening his cloak. He glanced into the driver’s box. The girl was huddled against the far wall.

  ‘We are hungry,’ murmured Rose.

  Cornelius hobbled out from the shadow of the carriage. ‘Look at me,’ he snapped. ‘Do you suppose I am not? Do you suppose I do not share your every pang?’ He revolved in a slow, painful circle, making certain to meet every eye. ‘We must control ourselves!’

  ‘She burns so bright,’ whispered Peadar.

  ‘She is a seamstress!’ yelled Cornelius. ‘That is all!’ His unaccustomed rage made those nearest him shrink back. ‘Is this what you shall do when the actual players arrive? Use them up on the spot? Squander their fire in the muddy dooryard of the Flayed Badger?’ He slammed his cane onto the snow-crusted cobbles. ‘Tell me you are not going to do that to me! Not after all I have been through!’

  There were murmurs of denial, the shuffling of feet. Cornelius allowed them to marinate in their own shame for a moment; then he waved an arm to dismiss them. ‘Let this poor girl be,’ he said. ‘She is nothing, and there is so much better to come.’

  The crowd began to reluctantly disperse. ‘Do not let me down,’ he called. ‘When the players arrive, do not waste them on a moment’s greed, when, with a little patience, they will keep us going for so much longer.’

  Vincent met his eye as the last of the crowd drifted away.