Part Four

*****

The Harvest Carnival of Haythe was an annual event, which, while it was held under the auspices of the parish, harkened back to the much older festivals and rituals observed by country folk in times long past. Always it occurred on the Eve of All Hallows, and always there was a great bonfire, and a torch lit masqued parade complete with a Corn King and his Maiden Fair, and a wicked Hobby Horse to chase the girls along the street. Usually there was at least one representation of the famed Headless Helmsman of Haythe as well, who would invariably terrify at least a child or two into fits of helpless screeching and needing to be borne home immediately by its parents.

And following the parade there was always a dance in the old tithe barn, a great stone structure that had stood from medieval times and resembled more a castle keep of that period than a home to pigs and goats and kine, and indeed, with the height of its soaring ceiling lit by torches set in the walls, and with great fires burning in stone hearths built in at either end, and the sides lined with trestle tables that groaned under the weight of a bounty of food and drink, it was easy to imagine oneself transported back in time to a medieval great hall. Perhaps it was this sense of things being not quite of the present and the here and now, along with the generally heady atmosphere as will always come about when a large number of young and unattached persons find themselves in a place where they have plenty of things to drink, and lively music and dancing to stir the body and heat the blood, and where there are dark secluded corners a-plenty both within and without--- that such things would inevitably lead to incidents of indiscretion. It was almost a forgone conclusion that these things were bound to happen, and the prevailing sentiment had become, over the years, that as long as the indiscretions did not manifest themselves in any sort of permanent way, it was perhaps best to overlook them for one night out of the year.

What must our Tony Bracegirdle's thoughts have been, having faithfully transported sisters and puddings to the fete, and finding himself glooming on the sidelines whilst others made merry? Perhaps he could not help but think back on that last occasion when he had held his darling Lizzie in his arms, when they had lain together, pressed heart to heart on the floor of that old stone tower. She had loved him then, she had! She had been willing to give herself completely, and now---for all that he knew it was wrong and that he had done in the end what was right---he wished that he had taken her.

And what was more, in spite of Lucy's faith, Lizzie had in fact not yet appeared, not at the parade, at least that Tony had seen, and not at the dance, and neither, he could not help but notice, had the hated Mr. Bromford Bownes. In his jealous imagination he could not help but visualize the two of them together. Perhaps even now as he languished at the table, picking dejectedly at the abundance of dainties and savories the ladies of the parish had labored to prepare, of cakes and jellies and pastries and puddings and pies of beef and pork and apple and berry, Bownes was partaking of the far more delectable delights of Lizzie! The more he imagined that despicable bounder plundering the precious purity of his darling one, the more he applied himself to the offerings of the table. Picturing the baronet-to-be putting his beastly bear-paws upon those beautiful, bountiful breasts (which he himself had once playfully pretended to brand with a tracing of kisses in the shape of "B" for "Bracegirdle"), he helped himself to a pair of cream filled cakes, swallowing them almost whole without so much as tasting them. Still unsatisfied, and visualizing now that Bromford Bownes had made his wicked way up under his angel's skirts, and was now making free of her scrumptious bottom, he seized upon a haunch of ham, and was doing it grave injury, whilst at the same time commencing to carve a great round wheel of yellow cheese as he beheld a sudden, painful picture of the foul debaucher covering her sweet little rounded belly with the covetous kisses of his lewd, lascivious lips.

And then, suddenly, glancing up from his miserable repast, he saw her. She entered at the far end of the hall, in the company of a number of her friends, one of whom was undeniably the handsome fellow he had seen at the church. Oh! But she was beautiful! She wore a gown of quilted amber satin, beautifully fitted at the bodice to show her tiny waist, and cut low to reveal her lovely bosom. Billows of creamy lace spilled over the neckline and fell down her arms at the sleeves. Her shining corn silk hair was dressed in an abundance of spiraling curls, piled atop her head whilst strands of it fell around her graceful neck and round, white shoulders. Tony held his breath as he felt once more that curious thumping in his breast, the very same as he had felt on the first day of their meeting when he had known that she belonged to him. He swallowed and stared. The players were striking up yet another dance, and almost immediately Tony saw Bownes bow deeply to Lizzie and offer his hand, and before he could bestir himself to wipe the cream from his face and brush the crumbs and bits of ham and cheese from his handsome new uniform, he saw that they had joined the dancers in the square. And he saw, too, as he watched, that at every opportunity the villain did undertake to hold onto her hand for a moment more than was necessary, to squeeze her little waist and look meaningfully into her eyes each time they came together.

Tony could not bear it. An emotion filled him which he was hard put to identify (it was rage, in fact, and a feeling hitherto almost completely unknown, in its raw and rampant state to our gentle-natured hero) and not knowing whether he was about to make love or do murder, he advanced. With a calculation and a stealth he did not know he possessed, he skulked his way about the shadowed edges of the room, awaiting his opening, for this time he would not be cut dead or ignored. As yet unnoticed, he joined the dance at its furthest extremity, and through neat footwork did contrive to keep himself in a position adjacent to the back barn door, and there he waited, as if a spider for a fly, patiently, graciously, until he saw his chance.

Bromford Bownes, looking about him for his dance partner discovered quite suddenly that she had disappeared. He quickly determined that she must have dropped out for some female reason, a broken slipper heel or a torn petticoat, and he carried on quite happily without her, scarcely missing a beat, extending his hand with a smile to a flashing, dark-eyed beauty who was so wonderfully petite that from his exalted height he was afforded the most enticing view of her breasts down the front of her scarlet silk gown. Miss Elizabeth Jane Goodbody was well enough a beauty, he supposed, but oh, these quick little dark ones were so much more to his taste! Still, Lizzie's fortune would by far outweigh her shortcomings, and do so much to overcome his scandalous debts (the which his odious uncle had ordered must be paid by Bromford alone, on pain of disinheritance) who was he to quibble over a matter of taste? In bed and in the dark, one woman was much the same as the next was she not? A pity the chit would seem so stubbornly immune to his charms. If he must compromise her to achieve his aim, well, then, so he must, and he even had in hand a plan. Goodbody, after all, wanted his precious daughter a "Lady" as much as Bromford wanted his money, and the old fellow doted on him. It would be a mutually satisfactory arrangement all around.

Lizzie gasped in surprise as she was seized by the wrist and drawn swiftly and without ceremony, away from the dance, out of the barn door, and into the dark chill of the October night. She whirled on her abductor, shocked to see that it was Tony, and before she could open her mouth to protest his manhandling of her, found herself being shaken by the shoulders (not at all roughly, though, for although our young man was roused to passions to which he was completely unaccustomed, he still did not have it in him to do any kind of true violence to a woman, particularly not to this one whom he cherished above all others on earth).

"Lizzie! What has happened?" he demanded of her, his face flushed, his blue eyes flashing with a fervor she had never seen, and on his breath she was able to detect a most unpleasant whiff of cheese. "Why do you ignore me? Why have you not answered my letters? What do you mean by it?"

"Why have I not answered YOU?" she cried, twisting out of his grasp. Her bosom heaved distractingly as she glared at him, panting now with fury. "ONE letter in nearly two years at sea, Anthony Bracegirdle? I ask you what do YOU mean by THAT?"

He blinked, trying to understand her words. "One letter?" he repeated. "My darling, whatever can you mean? I am certain that I answered every one of your letters!"

"You dreadful liar!" she cried. "And am I to assume that every packet ship that carried every one of your replies to every one of my letters has sunk to the bottom of the Channel? Or that every one was so fearfully misdirected that the post was never able to find me to deliver a single one?"

Whatever could she mean by it? Of course he recalled, most distinctly reading each and every one of her cherished missives. All of those that had managed to reach him, of course (and of those that had not, he had been mostly unconcerned, for nothing could have shaken his faith in Lizzie!) He could recall, with utmost certainty sitting down in the wardroom on many a night, foolscap before him and pen in hand, thinking to write---and he had written, certainly he had…. hadn't he? Good gawd! It was not possible! His every effort and endeavor in the past two years had been in pursuit of that which would make her his, his every waking thought, whether directly or indirectly had been of her and his every dream---! Only it seemed he had always been busy, so very busy, and the time to flee so quickly! Oh, it could not be!

"Lizzie! Darling!" he hastened to explain, "You do not know what I have done for you, how hard I have worked, oh, my angel, but it was nothing, nothing but a labor of love! Look you; don't you see that I have my commission? Truly I do not know how I could have failed to write to you, only that I have been so very busy, but surely you can forgive me, sweetheart, I beg of you, and let us be as we were before?"

He was near tears, she could see, and in truth, so was she. Of course she loved him. Of course she wanted nothing more at this moment than to throw herself into his big, strong arms, and let him kiss her, cheesy breath or no, but something held her back, for although she was not an unforgiving or a spiteful girl, she had in fact been hurt, and more than that, badly frightened by what she could only have imagined, over all those long months had been his abandonment of her. To think that she had nearly given him her virginity, and that he might indeed have gone and left her carrying his child, only to forsake her, had shaken her to the very core. And even when he had returned, and it had become evident that it had been rather a case of neglect on his part than abandonment, her pain had turned to righteous anger. And she had fallen, too, a little under the counsel of her new London abigail (for Lizzie had been up to London the Season before, and had in fact made quite a dash, driving the young swains mad by her indifference to their pursuits. It was there that she had made the acquaintance of Bromford Bownes, who had then proceeded to make himself a perfect annoyance by tagging after them back to Chatham and Haythe, on the pretense that he had an interest in learning all the aspects of the concerns he would one day inherit).

The abigail had been quite adamant in her advice on the matter, saying that Lizzie must under no circumstances allow herself to forgive Tony right away, and that it would do the young man good to be made to suffer only a little of what her mistress had through his shameful negligence. What the abigail thought, of course, but did *not * say, was that she could not for the life of her understand what possible tendre Miss Goodbody could have for that chubby sailor person, when she had a man such as Bromford Bownes ready to fall at her feet. And as for herself, she rather better fancied a position in a fashionable London townhouse than in some twee cottage in this provincial seaside dump. Who could blame her if she looked to her own fortunes, when really, they represented what was best for her mistress as well?

"Lizzie!" Tony pleaded with her. How desperate, how very sad, and how sorry he looked! How confused she was, how muddled were her thoughts. She ached for him, and yet her anger would not leave.

"I will not be taken for granted!" she cried, stomping her foot. "How can I consent to be your wife, only to have you run off to sea and forget about me?"

"But my darling! I did not forget, not for a moment! Oh please, you must believe me!" He tried to take her in his arms, and as she felt his strength, his comforting warmth, she wanted to melt, but she could not, not yet.

"No, no, no!" she protested, pulling away.  "Oh, Tony, let me be!"

"Miss Goodbody?" came a smooth voice out of the dark. "Are you in need of rescuing, my dear?"

Go to Part Five