It was so different; it had taken her this long to realise it… Somehow, she’d fallen in love—fallen, like stumbling into a rocky hollow, getting scraped and sore as you tumbled down.
Then looking up and finding yourself alone…
Getting out again was the problem. She didn’t know if she had the strength.
“Maddie.” Her mother called from the kitchen as she walked back into the house. “Maddie…” Her brothers ran in ahead of her, forgetting to scrape their shoes on the mat.
“Boys…” She told them to do it then went to see what her mother needed. The woman hurried out from the kitchen, a basket in her hands.
“Do you mind delivering this? There’s just time before we sit down to get this over to Mrs Dalmer. I promised I’d do it this morning but time ran away from me, and I just know they’ll want the honey for—”
“Yes, yes, it’s fine.” She took the basket. A pot of honey peeked out from under the cloth folded on top. Her father’s hives were his pride and joy. She could smell bread. There would be cheese too, and some early plums. A half dozen lovely things.
The sound of shod hooves rang from the lane. Everybody turned—her mother, her brothers—as the hooves stopped outside the front of their house. It wasn’t her father. He would always ride to the paddock at the back. And every other caller would walk.
Their housekeeper, Mrs Lewis, who’d just come down the stairs, a dustpan in her hands, joined in the mutual frown, everyone exchanging a curious glance.
“Who could that be?” Mrs Lewis wondered aloud, bustling forward to the front of the house. The dustpan was still in her hand; Madelaine almost called after her to remind her, but for some reason her voice wouldn’t work. For some reason she felt suddenly dizzy.
The bell rang just as Mrs Lewis opened the door. She saw a tall figure, a flash of dark coat. She heard a man’s voice.
The basket fell from her fingers. She didn’t even hear the crash but stared dumbly as the pot of honey rolled across the flagstones, a crack in its side that oozed gold as it came to a stop.What a waste.The thought flashed through her mind quicker than her skipped heartbeat.Those poor bees. So much work, and all for nothing.It was the sort of thing her aunt would say. It made her think of her. It made her think of everything.
“No.” Her voice didn’t sound like hers. Both her brothers looked around at the note of panic. Instinct made them step between her and the door. “No. Don’t let him in. I am not at home.”
Daniel set his shoulders, a knight once more. Madelaine fled to her room, her mother’s questions trailing behind her.
Thirty
Sebastian took a roomat a hotel in Rye. He told himself it was too late to ride back today. He told himself he would leave in the morning. He told himself a great many things, and all the while he thought of those ancient suits of armour guarding the stairs at his childhood home, looking like men from the outside, like great, strong men, but they were entirely hollow, filled with nothing but spiders and centuries-old bloodstains.
He’d heard her voice. Not the words, but the horror. He’d been turned away by a handsome, stocky ox of a boy. Another of her brothers had been at his shoulder, just as determined, though younger, his face and figure more delicate. He had her look. The same blue eyes.
The Viscount Cotereigh, cream of London society, heir to the Earl of Arnon, had been turned away by some parson’s children and a doughty housekeeper, her pan in her hand as though ready to sweep him back down the lane he’d come, peddler scum.
Oh yes. It amused him greatly.
He left his hotel dinner untouched, eschewed the dubious delights of the tap room, and walked through the cobbled streets of Rye, down to the wharf, skirting the filth and industry and aiming for the green fields beyond.
Was this the famed marsh, then? These sheep-dotted levels? He could have a look at it, couldn’t he, before he left? She’d never know.
The sea was far distant, a curving silver sickle. Slack water made grey pools here and there among the grassy expanse. The new defensive canal was a stark line cutting through the levels, striking away towards where Winchelsea stood on its rise, crowned with trees and church.
He frowned at the canal, finding a crossing used by farmers. It wasn’t much, was it, to hold back the French. They could land on the beaches here, have a mere mile of sheep and grass to cross and be at these towns in no time at all.
He crossed his arms, staring down at the dark water. This place had been pillaged for centuries. It was exposed. It was vulnerable. He looked again at Winchelsea, its ancient gate a ruin; he kept it at his right shoulder as he turned again for the sea.
The way wasn’t easy. Dykes and ditches crisscrossed the levels. He found himself stuck, turned back, took the road to the harbour instead. The river was all mud, the tide out. Birds screamed and haunted the sky—sea birds, strange to his ear. The small harbour at the river’s mouth stank of fish and tar, a cluster of triangular white sails out in the Channel like an encampment of enemy tents.
He looked at the sea, his boots dusty and scratched by the shingle. It was grey and ceaseless, tearing at the pebbles of the shore like a rasping tongue. The wind never stopped, stinging his eyes, forcing salt onto his lips.
And yet he went back there the next day. And the next. He walked along the shore and down to Winchelsea beach, staring across the marsh to the town on its fortress hill. He wandered the marsh itself, getting lost, getting stuck, finding his way eventually to the ruined castle in its heart, Camber, one of Henry VIII’s attempts to defend this coast. The sea had made it futile, moving the shore. She’d said that once, hadn’t she? At that picnic, so long ago.
She’d told him it was sad to think about ancient things, that it reminded one how short one’s life was, how futile. How everything ends. He walked inside the ruined castle, long since open to the sky, and listened to the wind whistling through the empty windows. Perhaps she was right. There was something sad here. An ache as old as man.
He walked out of the castle. A flock of cormorants flew overhead, heavy and dark as death. He watched them until they disappeared against the glare of sky on sea. The wind kept blowing, the sheep kept bleating. Here they’d be doing that even at the end of all days.
He followed the cormorants to the sea.
