The Rose Garden

But I paid no attention. I was busy staring at the man who stood not far in front of me, my man in brown who looked as though he’d just been at the stone-built stables set beyond the sweep of yard. His boots were clumped with mud and there were straws still clinging to his sleeve. There was no welcome in his eyes. His gaze had locked with Fergal’s past my shoulder in a wordless kind of warning.

And beside him, dressed in black as he had been before, the constable stood watching us as well. Or, more correctly, watching me.

‘Well, now.’ The constable’s voice was as smooth as the fin of a shark slicing water. ‘And who have we here?’

CHAPTER TEN

I’d met people in my life who were pure poison. I had learnt to know the look of them – the way their smiles came and went and never touched their eyes, those eyes that could be so intense at times and yet revealed no soul. Such people might look normal, but inside it was as though some vital part of them was missing, and whenever I saw eyes like that I’d learnt to turn and run and guard my back while I was leaving.

The instant that I looked into the cold eyes of the constable, I knew what sort of man he was. But here I couldn’t turn and run. I still had Fergal standing solid at my back.

The constable came forward slowly, sizing up this new turn of events. He looked to be in his mid-forties, not a tall man but a lean and wiry one, his long face lean as well and framed by the uncompromising curls of a white-powdered wig beneath the brim of his black hat. His gaze travelled my length from my loose-hanging hair to the hem of the gown that he too seemed to recognise. The sight of it kindled a new light of interest behind the dark eyes that returned to my face as he said, in a tone that was meant to provoke, ‘Butler, you do surprise me. I would not have thought you a man to waste time with a harlot.’

‘Mind your tongue, sir,’ said the man in brown, his voice controlled. ‘You speak of Fergal’s sister, come to help us keep the house.’

I felt the slight reaction of the Irishman behind me, though he barely moved at all, and for a weighted moment I was unsure whether he would play along.

The constable was unconvinced. ‘Your sister?’ he asked Fergal. ‘I was not aware you had one.’

There was silence as the Irishman appeared to be deciding something, then he drew himself up at my back, defensive and defiant. ‘I have seven of them, ay. This one’s next eldest to myself, she is.’

The constable was studying my face for a resemblance. Whether he found any I didn’t know, but I doubted it. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘She cannot speak,’ said Fergal, and his hard grip on my arm grew tighter, warning me to silence.

‘Why is that?’

‘You’d have to take that up with the Almighty, for He made her. All I know is that she never learnt the way of it.’ He was a brilliant liar. In his voice I heard no hint of hesitation, and I couldn’t help but admire the speed at which he’d seen the danger and defused it all at once. My voice didn’t fit here. Even if I’d been able to manage an Irish accent, my patterns of speech were too modern, I would have slipped up. Now he’d saved me from having to try.

The man in brown said, ‘Eva, this would be Constable Creed from the village. I do not doubt that, as he is a gentleman, he’ll wish to offer his apologies and bid you welcome.’

It was a daring gamble, but he stood his ground and pulled it off. The constable’s disquieting gaze took in my borrowed gown one final time before he gave an unrepentant nod and said unconvincingly, ‘Mistress O’Cleary, I meant no offence. You are welcome of course to Trelowarth.’ He took a step back and extended his nod to the other two. ‘Gentlemen.’ And then he turned and went out of the yard.

He left tension behind. I could feel it in the man behind me; see it in the squaring of the shoulders of the man in brown, who hadn’t moved a step from where he stood. He was wearing the clothes I remembered, the tight brown trousers ending just below the knee in boots, a full white shirt with what I thought was called a stock tied round his neck beneath the long brown jacket that he wore unbuttoned, hanging open. But he had shaved, his jawline clean and strongly drawn. It made him look more civilised.

I felt the exchange of looks over my head as he said to his friend, ‘Were you wanting to see me?’ The question seemed careless enough, and relaxed, but I knew from his face he was keeping his guard up, aware that the constable might still be listening.

Fergal no doubt was aware of that, too, but he had his own questions to ask, in his own way. He nudged me a half a step forward and said, ‘She’d a mind to come show you the gown, and to have me tell you how she does appreciate the gesture. ’Tis most generous.’

With a glance at Fergal’s hold upon my arm, the man in brown turned his attention to my clothes, and for a moment in his eyes I thought I glimpsed a fleeting darkness like the passing of a pain, but it was so swift I wasn’t certain. It had vanished by the time his eyes met mine. He said to Fergal, ‘Tell your sister I am pleased she finds it to her liking, for in truth it suits her well.’

I sensed a challenge had been made and answered, and with what seemed like reluctance Fergal let me go. He grumbled, ‘Sure you can tell her that yourself, she’s got her ears.’ And without waiting, he turned on his heel. ‘Come have your breakfasts, then, and perhaps one of the pair of you can tell me what the bleeding Christ is going on.’

The kitchen window had a different view than I was used to. There were no walled gardens, neatly kept and tended, to look out on – only two old apple trees that grew close by the house, both beaten by the unforgiving coastal winds into hard twisted shapes that reached towards the hill as though in search of refuge.