Beautiful Freaks (4 page)

And I would always respond, “Hello, Ugly.”

When he put the box down, I’d skip over, excited to see what treasures he’d brought us. Sometimes our hands would accidently touch as we reached out for the same thing. He’d turn to me and smile, let his finger return to the spot where it had touched, and then he’d stroke it whilst he watched my reaction with fascination. When he did this it was enough to make me feel so giddy I thought that I might faint.

The rest of o
ur lives were so separate that there was little for us to say in these fleeting minutes, but they
were weighted with possibility; a possibility of happiness and freedom.

These precious moments made me hate my ‘upstairs’ life even more. Mama and I argued constantly, and she seemed to be going out of her way to increase my frustration and entrapment. She’d made it a mission, seeing as my curiosity in boys had clearly surfaced, that she would ensure I was spending my time with the ‘right’ boys. She’d taken to inviting
disgustingly overdressed women and their
‘
darling sons
’
to afternoon tea
.
T
hese ‘
little
gatherings’ were
awful,
but not as
intolerable
as the soiree’s,
for which
I was dressed, primed for market
,
and forced to play
cards
with
pompous, dough-faced,
heirs.

Ever since my father’s death, everything about our lives was
pretence
and I grew increasingly
embarrassed by Mama’s sense of desperation.
When he had died, our ancestral fortune had been almost entirely swallowed up by death taxes. Mama had scaled back our previously extravagant lifestyle and was now just waiting in the hope of finding me a ‘good’ match – by which she meant a ‘wealthy’ match. Although she had made a valiant effort to keep up the impression of wealth
amongst her aristocratic neighbours, there had been rumours of our family’s demise for years. I knew that most of the women who came and courted their sons to us came only to have a nose around the house and to take a cruel delight in seeing that the rumours were true.

It was me who had to carry the burden of hearing our guest’s mocking laughter as they made a hasty retreat at the
end of the evening. It was me who heard
their cruel
,
unnecessary comments about the dusty fabric
s
, outmoded silks
,
and poor quality wine.
Mama would sit in her chair, drinking sherry and congratulating herself on a successful evening. At times like these I felt the desire to smash every object in the room – including my mother’s smile.
I longed for outdoors,
for the forests and the meadows, for
the vast expanse of sky above my head instead of the heavy velvet drapes, the candlelight
,
and cigar smoke.

In this way, s
ummer passed
. Throughout all that time Rowan and I never moved forward from our gentle flirting. I could have sought him out – used my horse-riding as an excuse to steal away and see him, but something stopped me; a knowledge that it would be like throwing a ball of string into the air and watching it unravel at speed.

He was patient. He knew his place. Rowan understood that we could never be together; that I would be married off to a gentleman with a big house and a cruel heart. Which is why, when he gave me flowers for my birthday it was the moment our lives began their inevitable journey towards tragedy.

The day before my birthday, Rowan failed to show up for his delivery. In his place came a knock at the door. When I rushed to open it, the box of vegetables had been left on the doorstep and a large bouquet of cornflowers, tied with a scarlet ribbon, had been placed unceremoniously on top. Laughing, I stepped out into the yard, thinking Rowan must be hiding and about to goose me but I couldn’t see him anywhere. I picked up the card that had been placed amongst the flowers.

Happy Birthday, Beautiful!

May all your wishes come
true.

Forever yours
, Ugly x

I stared at the ‘x’
imagining
the ink and
the
paper were our lips
pressing together. He had written a kiss and my only wish was to make it real.
I lifted the card to my lips, pushed it against them, and dreamt it was Rowan I was kissing. When I opened them, I saw him sitting on the wall at the far side of the yard. I blushed – embarrassed he should have seen my silliness. He lifted his head and smiled at me, and I could see that he was blushing
too.

I tucked the card into the top
of my dress to hide it from Mam
a,
and carried the box into the kitchen. I arranged the cornflowers in one of the stoneware jugs before running them upstairs to my bedroom. I tied the scarlet ribbon around my wrist and spent all day smiling at it.

From that point forward, I made every effort to ‘accidently’ run into Rowan as many times a day as I could get away with. I took him
chocolates and bonbons, which I stole from the kitchen, lent him
books
from our never-used library, and painted him little watercolours of flowers from the garden. In exchange, Rowan would put aside deformed vegetables, which he knew would make me laugh, pick me bunches of wild flowers, and make gifts of ribbons, which he’d bought at market.

When at last we kissed
,
it was
at the
Festival of Fires.

*

The Festival of Fires was the
most celebrated night in our village. It took place after the harvests, when the farmers burnt the wheat rubble in preparation for the winter ploughing. I
t had started in ancient times as a way to purge the land of decay, making it ready for the coming spring. As well as setting the fields alight, a large bonfire was built in the village market-square. Tradition dictated it should be built from the outgrown cradles of the village newborns and the beds of the deceased. In this way, it was thought to keep away the darkness of winter and celebrate the never-ending cycle of life.

Although still rich in tradition, the sanctity of the fire rituals had given way to revelry and high jinks. Most of the village’s younger generation saw it as a chance to party and abandon the usually tight social rules of engagement. On the night of the Festival of Fires, all men were equal. They ate at the same table, drank from the same barrel, and danced with whomever they liked, regardless if they belonged to another or not. In order that no disputes might arise, everybody who attended the Festival of Fires wore a simple mask made from woven corn – freeing each man from judgement by his neighbour.

This year was the first time Mama had ever let me attend the festival, and it was only because I was to be accompanied by Charles Wainright, Esquire of the Broxley Estate, that she agreed to let me go. I could see from the flush of her neck and the sparkle of her eyes that Mama had high hopes of a union between our two families. In the end, going to the festival with Charles Wainright came with certain perks, such as Mama buying me a new white virgin gown and having my very own corn mask woven.

By the time Wainright’s carriage arrived at the village, the party was already in full swing. Everywhere I looked, I saw a swirling mass of people dancing and singing. I smiled at the thought of how easy it would be for me to steal away from Charles for a while. I’d been there for less than ten minutes before I felt a hand slip into mine and pull me away from the group of Charles’ infuriating friends. As soon as the hand touched mine, I knew it belonged to Rowan.

Against the black of the night, the flames of the bonfire created the image of hell; and it was delicious. Lost in the crowd, Rowan turned to me, placed his arm around my waist, and pulled me into dancing. We danced until we collapsed, out of breath and crippled by laughter.

The boy sat next to us suddenly gave Rowan a shove, giving him a heads up that I was being searched for. Once more I felt myself dragged away as Rowan took my hand and led me away from the bonfires, down the shadowy passages of the village and out towards the woods.
I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t.

When the noises
of th
e festivities were nothing but
background babble
,
we stopped our fr
enzied flight and stood with our hands to our chests, catching our breath.

In the dark of the forest, my white
cottons
shone out like the moon.

“Alone at last, Alicia,” Rowan whispered, untying his mask.

“Yes, alone
,
”
I repeated with an un-missable tremor in my voice.

I reached to unknot the velvet ribbon holding my mask in place, but the more I pulled, the tighter the knot fastened.

“Here, let me help you.” Rowan moved towards me, reaching out his arms to untie the ribbons. He leant in, searching to see the knot in the moonlight. I felt his breath on my cheek and I trembled. “
Are you scared?”
he asked.

“No – should I be?”

The mask loosened and fell into his hands but he didn’t step back – his nose brushed against my chin, his breath thickened as he nudged at my neck. He whispered into my ear, “
Mayb
e!” As his lips moved they touched my skin, causing a ripple of goosebumps. “
You know
what the
old wives
say
about these woods.”
He let the masks fall to the ground, leaving his hand free to reach out and hold my face.

“Those tales are childhood nonsense,” I said, with more boldness than I felt.

He moved back and looked into my eyes. The
corner of his mouth twitched into a smile as he asked
, “Are you no
longer a child
, Alicia?
”

I blushed, a burning heat spread
over my cheeks and into my breast. I winced
at
the
sharp
,
stabbing pain
that
needled my heart. It passed before I could know whether it was real. My lips sank into the flesh of my bottom lip and I wondered how I would keep the shakiness from my
voice
as I replied
,
“No.” I shook my head, “I am no longer a child.”

I could feel the heat radiating off
Rowan’s
body, the feel of his breath on my skin.
H
e licked his lips, weighing up in his mind when the right moment would be to strike. My chin lifted, my lips reach
ed
out to his
with a will
of their own
. Then they met; soft and firm, warm and cool – a w
hole range of delicious contradictions. His tongue pushed against my lips. My eyes closed and I was lost
and almost
faint from the exchange of air.

Then through the bliss came pain,
a searing cold that burnt my lips. I shivered as
a
chill travelled through the
cotton
of my dress. When I opened my eyes there was nothing to do but scream.
Where only moments ago Rowan had stood, full of warmth and vitality, there now stood a thing beautifully monstrous. I threw my head back in an attempt to get away from the sight in front of me, but with the tree behind me, there was nowhere to go.

I could still see his face, but it was as if he were trapped under glass, or under the surface a frozen lake. Through the hard, shimmering layer – his eyes were closed as if he were still kissing me. His whole body had been turned into a sculpture carved from ice. His arm was outstretched and his hand still cupped my cheek. He looked like a classical statue, captured in the moment of ecstasy. I slid out from under him, tripping to the floor.

My
desperate
screams echoed through the trees
, travelled down into the village and cut
through the music
, causing the band to stop. Fear gripped me and suddenly I knew beyond any doubt that I should flee
;
run far away before they found me.

Where
I left my
scr
eams, others joined them. They’d found Rowan and witnessed the harm I had done to him. The sound of
chaos erupted
as
the word “witch” rang through the trees. I ran for hours, knowing that in the morning they would bring the dogs.

*

At some point I passed out. When
I woke, it was
in a str
ange bed with the
smell of wood smoke
burning
my nostr
ils. I looked down at my muscle-
tired body. My dress had been ripped to ribbons by the branches and my soft leather boots, clawed by the brambles.