People might guess because of the speed. But Joshua was going to be her father’s business partner in this exciting mayope
venture. He was rich, of good blood (presumably—how else would he inherit a starship?), a fine manager able to take on Cricklade.
An eminently suitable (if unusual) match for the Cricklade heir. Their marriage wouldn’t be that extraordinary. Her reputation
would remain intact. And the Kavanaghs’ respectability would remain unblemished.
After the wedding they could travel Norfolk’s islands for their honeymoon. Or maybe even to another planet in his starship.
What was important was that she wouldn’t have the baby here, with everyone noting the date of birth.
Real life could match up to her most fantastical daydreams. With a fabulous husband, and a beautiful baby.
If Joshua…
Always,
if Joshua…
.
Why did it have to be like that?
The lone Romany caravan stood beside a tall Norfolk-aboriginal pine in a meadow which until recently had been a site for more
than thirty similar caravans. Rings of flat reddish stones confined piles of ash, cold now. Grass along the bank of the little
stream was trampled down where horses and goats had drunk and people had scooped water into pails. Several piles of raw earth
marked the latrines, their conical sides scored with fresh runnels, evidence of last Duchessnight’s rain.
The caravan, a hybrid of traditional design riding modern lightweight wheels, had seen more prosperous times. Its jaunty and
elaborate paintwork was fading, but the wood was sound. Three goats were tethered to its rear axle. Two horses waited outside,
one a mud-spotted piebald shire-horse with a wild shaggy mane which was used to pull the caravan, the other a black riding
stallion, its coat sleek and glossy, the expensive leather saddle on its back polished to a gleam.
Grant Kavanagh stood inside the caravan, stooping so he didn’t knock his head on the curving ceiling. It was dark and faintly
dusty, smelling of dried herbs. He enjoyed that, it brought back sharp memories of his teenage years. Even now, the sight
of the Romany caravans winding their way through Cricklade’s wolds as midsummer approached always made him feel incredibly
randy.
The girl pulled back the heavy curtains hanging on a cord across the middle of the caravan. Her name was Carmitha, twenty
years old, with a big broad-shouldered body, which, Grant knew with depressing instinct, would be horribly overweight in another
six or seven years. Rich black hair hanging below her shoulders harmonized with dark, smooth skin. She had changed into a
flimsy white skirt and loose-fitting top.
“That looks fantastic,” he said.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She curtsied, and giggled effusively.
Grant drew her closer and started to kiss her. His hands fumbled with the buttons down the front of her blouse.
She pushed him away gently, and removed his hands, kissing the knuckles lightly. “Let me do that for you,” she said coquettishly.
Her fingers moved down to the top button in a slow, taunting caress. He looked in delight as her body was exposed. He pulled
her down onto the bed, immensely gratified by her ardour.
The caravan squeaked as it started rocking. A hurricane lantern hanging from a brass chain on the ceiling clanged loudly as
it swayed gently to and fro. He barely heard it above Carmitha’s exuberant whoops of joy.
After a time which was nowhere near long enough, he came in drastic shudders, his spine singing raptures. Carmitha quickly
squealed, claiming multiple orgasms were nearly making her swoon.
He collapsed onto the bed, prickly blankets scratching his back. Dust mingled with sweat and trickled among the curly hair
on his chest.
By God but summer conjunction makes life worth living, he thought. A time when he could prove himself again and again. The
Tear crop had been one of the best ever; the estate had made its usual financial killing. He had tumbled nearly a dozen young
girls from the grove teams. The meteorological reports were predicting a humid month ahead, which meant a good second harvest.
Young Joshua’s audacious mayope proposal could only add to the family’s wealth and influence.
The only blot on the horizon was the reports coming out of Boston on the disturbances. It looked like the Democratic Land
Union was stirring up trouble again.
The Union was a motley collection of reformists and political agitators, a semi-subversive group who wanted to see land distributed
“fairly” among the People, the foreign earnings from the sale of Norfolk Tears invested with social relevance, and full democracy
and civil rights awarded to the population. And free beer on Friday nights, too, no doubt, Grant thought caustically. The
whole blessing of a Confederation of eight hundred plus planets was that it gave people a massive variety of social systems
to choose from. What the Democratic Land Union activists failed to appreciate was that they were free to leave for their damned
Communistic workers’ paradise as soon as the workshy little buggers earned enough cash to pay their passage. But oh no, they
wanted to liberate Norfolk, no matter how much damage and heartache they caused in the process of peddling their politics
of envy. A chapter of the Democratic Land Union had tried to spread its sedition in Stoke County about ten years ago. Grant
had helped the county’s chief constable round them up. The leaders had been deported to a Confederation penal planet. Some
of the nastier elements—the ones found with home-made weapons—had been handed over to a squad of special operations constables
from the capital, Norwich. The rest, the pitiful street trash who handed out leaflets and drank themselves into a coma on
the Union-supplied beer, had been given fifteen years’ hard labour in the polar work gangs.
There hadn’t been sight or sign of them on Kesteven ever since. Some people, he thought sagely, just never learn. If it works,
don’t try and fix it. And Norfolk worked.
He kissed the crown of Carmitha’s head. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow. Most of my family has already left. There is fruit-picking work in Hurst County. It pays well.”
“And after that?”
“We’ll winter over in Holbeach. There are many deep caves in the cliffs above the town. And some of us get jobs in the harbour
market gutting fish.”
“Sounds like a good life. Don’t you ever want to settle down?”
She shrugged, thick hair sloshing about. “Be like you, tied to your cold stone palace? No thanks. There might not be much
to see in this world, but I want to see it all.”
“Better make the most of the time we’ve got, then.”
She crawled on top of him, calloused hands closing round his limp penis.
There was a pathetic scratching knock on the caravan’s rear door. “Sir? Are you there, sir?” William Elphinstone asked. The
voice was as quavery as the knock.
Grant chopped back on an exasperated groan.
No, I’m not in here, that’s why my bloody horse is outside
. “What do you want?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s an urgent phone call for you at the house. Mr. Butterworth said it was important, it’s
from Boston.”
Grant frowned. Butterworth wasn’t going to send anyone after him unless it was genuinely important. The estate manager knew
full well what he was up to at a slack time like this. He was also wily enough not to come looking himself.
I wonder what young Elphinstone has done to annoy him, Grant thought irreverently.
“Wait there,” he shouted. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He deliberately took his time dressing. No damn way was he going
to come dashing out of the caravan tucking his shirt into his trousers and give the lad something to tell all the other junior
estate managers.
He straightened his tweed riding jacket, smoothed down his muttonchops with his hands, and settled his cap. “How do I look?”
“Masterful,” Carmitha said from the bed.
There was no detectable irony. Grant fished around in his pocket and found two silver guineas. He dropped the gratuity into
a big china bowl sitting on a shelf beside the door as he went out.
Louise watched her father and William Elphinstone ride up to the front door. Grooms appeared, and took charge of the horses.
From the way the animals were sweating it had been a hard ride. Her father hurried into the house.
Poor old Daddy, always busy.
She strolled over to where William was talking to the grooms, both boys younger than her. He saw her coming and dismissed
them. Louise stroked the black stallion’s flank as the big animal was led past her.
“Whatever is all the fuss about?” she asked.
“Some call from Boston. Mr. Butterworth thought it important enough to send me out looking for your father.”
“Oh.” Louise started to move away. Rather annoyingly, William walked in step with her. She wasn’t in the mood for company.
“I’ve been asked to the Newcombes’ bash on Saturday evening,” he said. “I thought it might be rather fun. They’re not quite
our people, but they set a decent table. There will be dancing afterwards.”
“That’s nice.” Louise always hated it when William tried to put on graces. “Our people” indeed! She went to school with Mary
Newcombe.
“I hoped you would come with me.”
She looked at him in surprise. Eagerness and anxiety squabbled over his face. “Oh, William, that’s jolly nice of you to ask.
Thank you. But I really can’t. Sorry.”
“Really can’t?”
“Well, no. The Galfords are coming to dinner on Saturday. I simply must be there.”
“I thought that perhaps now he’s left, you might find more time for my company.”
“Now who’s left?” she asked sharply.
“Your friend, the gallant starship captain.”
“William, you really are talking the most appalling tosh. Now I’ve said I can’t attend the Newcombes’ party with you. Kindly
leave the subject.”
He stopped and took hold of her arm. She was too surprised to say anything. People simply did not take such liberties.
“You always found plenty of time for him,” he said in a flat tone.
“William, desist this instant.”
“Every day, it was. The two of you galloping off to Wardley Wood.”
Louise felt the blood rising to her cheeks. What did he know? “Remove your hand from me. Now!”
“You didn’t mind his hands.”
“William!”
He gave her a humourless smile and let go. “I’m not jealous. Don’t get me wrong.”
“There is nothing to be jealous of. Joshua Calvert was a guest and friend of my father’s. That is the end of the matter.”
“Some fiancÉs would think otherwise.”
“Who?” she squawked.
“FiancÉs, my dearest Louise. You must be aware there is some considerable speculation upon whom you are to marry. All I’m
saying is that there are some Kesteven families of good breeding, and eligible sons, who would take exception to your… shall
we call it, indiscretion.”
She slapped him. The sound rang across the lawn as her palm struck his cheek. “How dare you!”
He dabbed at his cheek with the fingers of his right hand, a look of distaste on his face. The imprint of her palm was clearly
etched in pink. “What an impetuous creature you are, Louise. I had no idea.”
“Get out of my sight.”
“Of course, if that’s what you wish. But you might like to consider that should word get out, your currently enviable position
may well become less than secure. I don’t want to see that happen, Louise, I really don’t. You see, I am genuinely very fond
of you. Fond enough to make allowances.”
She seemed utterly incapable of movement, condemned to stand there in front of him, gaping in astonishment. “You…” It came
out in a crushed gasp. For a distressing instant she thought she was going to faint.
William knelt in front of her.
No, she thought, oh no no no, this can’t be happening. Joshua bloody Calvert, where are you?
“Marry me, Louise. I can obtain your father’s approval, have no fear of that. Marry me, and we can have a wonderful future
together here at Cricklade.” He held his hand out, face soft with expectancy.
She drew herself up into the most regal pose she could manage. And very clearly, very calmly said: “I would sooner shovel
bullock manure for a living.” One of Joshua’s better expressions, though admittedly not verbatim.
William paled. She turned on a heel and walked away. Her back held straight.
“This is not the last time we shall pursue this topic,” he called after her. “Believe me, dearest Louise, I will not be defeated
in my suit for you.”
Grant Kavanagh sat himself down behind the desk in his study and picked up the phone. His secretary had put a call through
to Trevor Clarke, Kesteven’s lord lieutenant. Grant didn’t like the implications of that one jot.
“I need you to bring Stoke’s militia to Boston,” Trevor Clarke said as soon as they had exchanged greetings. “A full turnout,
please, Grant.”
“That might be difficult,” Grant said. “This is still a busy time here. The rosegroves need pruning, and there’s the second
grain crop to drill. We can hardly take able men from the land.”
“Can’t be helped. I’m calling in all the county militias.”
“All of them?”
“ ’Fraid so, old chap. We’ve blacked it from the news, you understand, but the situation in Boston, frankly, doesn’t look
good.”
“What situation? You’re not seriously telling me that bloody Union rabble worries you?”
“Grant…” Trevor Clarke’s voice dropped an octave. “Listen, this is totally confidential, but there are already five districts
in Boston that have been completely taken over by this mob, rendered ungovernable. We have a state of open insurrection here.
If we send the police in to re-establish order they don’t come out again. The city is under martial law, insofar as we can
enforce it. I’m worried, Grant.”
“Dear Christ! The Democratic Land Union has done this?”
“We’re not sure. Whoever these insurrectionists are, they seem to be armed with energy weapons. That means offplanet complicity.
But it’s hard to believe the Union could ever organize something like that. You know what they’re like, hotheads smashing
up tractors and ploughs. Energy weapons break every letter in our constitution; they are everything this society was set up
to avoid.”