The Michaelmas Daisies, Among Dede Weeds Bloom For St Michael’s Valorous Deeds.
“THE MICHAELMAS DAISIES, AMONG DEDE WEEDS BLOOM FOR ST MICHAEL’S VALOROUS DEEDS.”
(ANON)
Jugglers, wrestlers, contortionists and rope dancers.
Fiddlers, drummers, pipers and singing birds.
Puppet shows, ventriloquists, glass blowers and a blindfolded dog who could tell the time.
Cutpurses, horse thieves and Ursula the pig-woman, who apparently sold more than pork.
All were gathered within the fields surrounding Kingston town, stalls stretching north of the old Thames bridge, around the church and south unto the minor river of Hogsmill.
Such an atmosphere of vibrancy and Verity breathed deep of it: the sweet fragrance of comfits, trampled grass, meat pies and an exotic eastern scent that she was unfamiliar with drifting from the fortune teller’s tent.
It seemed as though people from every stratum of society had travelled to be here today. Nobles brushed shoulders with pie men, country folk gawked at the town dandies, ladies purchased ballads from grubby tinkers and the masses caroused, children in silks or rags darting amongst their legs.
As a child, Verity and her father had always attended the travelling fair that had come to town in August. The brightly striped tents, feats of horsemanship and stalls with every gee-gaw imaginable were cherished memories of fun and frivolity.
Yet she had always sensed that beneath all the frivolity, there pulsed an intoxicating, almost ominous energy.
And today was no different. A week ago, this meadow had been a quiet haven of butterflies and birdsong but now it seethed at frenetic pace: children shrieked and money was misspent, feet danced and music was cacophonous, magicians awed and pockets were picked.
An almost desperate grasp at fleeting time, as before the week was out it would all be gone, vanished within a sunrise.
Back to the quiet haven of butterflies and birdsong.
As though the fair had never been there at all…
Verity and her cousin were waiting outside a tent whose painted board promised a Living Skeleton to make you Shiver & Shake while Miles had offered to forage for sustenance – or rather had waded into the crowd surrounding the roasted goose stall.
Mr Firth was conducting small talk but Sephi was utterly silent for once, enthralled by it all.
The journey to Kingston-upon-Thames had passed in a trice, through Kensington and then onto the open fields of Richmond and past the Botanical Gardens of Kew, which she’d not visited for so long.
And all the while, Miles had ridden alongside them, his magnificent deep-chested horse obedient beneath the commanding grip of his thighs. Not that she’d been looking…
Oh, what fibs. Of course she’d been looking.
She recalled he’d not been so adept a rider when young but within the dragoons, he had clearly developed a superior horsemanship.
As for his attire…
Beneath a Weston jacket of leaden-grey, he wore a waistcoat of indigo, the shade of blueberries crushed between warm fingers, black stems and leaves embroidered onto it like pressed botanicals.
But why had Miles escorted them?
When departing London this morning, his eyes had been all that was stern but as they’d reached the quieter lanes and put pace to their steeds, she’d caught sight of white teeth gleaming and heard laughter with his cousin.
Such laughter had doubtless been over some male banter but it had still filled her with joy, and all her reasons as to why he really should be escorting the Taits had been lost to her.
They’d arrived at the inn well ahead of the others and whilst herself and Sephi had arranged refreshment – over two cups of tea and a plate of crumpets obviously – the men had disappeared with the grooms and innkeeper to talk of available space in the stables.
Then clatter and chatter had announced the arrival of everyone else and after availing themselves of more tea, their party had ventured forth over the old Kingston bridge with its twenty wooden struts.
It would have been a pleasant stroll if not for Miles’ aunt who had loudly feared for her life, having read that the bridge had partially collapsed only three years past.
Which was true. Though unlikely to reoccur today.
Entering the throng of the fair, they’d all agreed to meet at the menagerie two hours hence, although most were ambling together in any case.
Verity had thought Miles and his cousin would abandon them for the Taits but they’d instead clung to their sides like ivies to an old oak and she could not help but wonder why… Again.
Miles returned with their roasted goose, a tradition for Michaelmas Day, its crispy skin and moist meat held within a bread bun and paper wrapper.
“So where to now?” asked Mr Firth. He was a handsome man, but Verity, on occasion, felt herself recoil from those piercing ice-blue eyes that showed not a hint of warmth. “Mime show? Astrologist? Seven-legged horse in yonder corral?”
“Astrologist!” And Sephi beamed.
Verity rolled her eyes. “They ask for your birth date, bamboozle you with Latin star charts, make up some Banbury Tale and then fleece you for sixpence.”
Sephi pouted before Miles’ cousin bowed with elegance.
“Miss Nash, we should leave the sceptical Miss Seymour to other delights that I’m sure my cousin can show her, and we alone shall enter the realm of Mr Madrigal’s Astrology Astonishment.”
“Oh, yes!” Sephi gasped. “Oh, but no,” she amended. “No. Er…”
Sephi was clearly excited to have an astrologist chart her future but knew that Verity could not accompany her. And Sephi also knew only too well the risks posed by debonair gentlemen and secluded corners. That loathsome libertine had much to answer for.
So Verity lightly reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’ve visited an astrologist before so you must go. I’ve also just seen Mrs Tait join that queue so if you are quick, you can go in altogether.”
Sephi’s eyes brightened, though the crease between her brows persisted as she silently mouthed… Are you sure?
No, she was not sure at all but Sephi needed to regain some confidence and fun in her life so… Yes, she mouthed back.
And thus an excited Sephi was led away towards the brightly coloured striped tent.
“So…” Miles proffered an arm. “What delights would you like me to show you, Miss Seymour?”
“I…” Oh, drat. He was staring at her in that Captain Firth manner, that perfect brow hitched, broad shoulders…
so broad. Her eyes darted from such ruggedness to the surrounding fair.
Miss Juliet Tait was awaiting her mother with the elder of the Firth brothers, who was being sold a tonic for miraculous health.
“The seven-legged horse?” Verity proposed before tentatively placing her hand upon his jacket.
It was just wool. And a layer of cotton.
Yet somehow, it felt as though it were bare skin.
“Very well. Although if you are sceptical of astrologists…”
They stepped into the multitudes that wove through the fair, most of the entertainments raised upon stages so that one could view them from afar.
A jostle from a cider hawker and she clutched Miles’ arm, his corded strength rippling beneath her touch.
“I have you, Miss Seymour,” he murmured, and she was very much afraid that at this moment, he did.
The seven-legged horse turned out to be somewhat of a disappointment.
For a penny’s worth, a bored nag was brought forth from makeshift stables with an additional three plainly stuffed legs tied to his girth. Horseshoes had been sewed on so that the additional limbs dragged upon the ground.
Vegetables, a few goose bun wrappers and mouldy bread were thrown at the owner before he withdrew from whence he came, muttering that no one could take a joke these days.
Verity fidgeted with the coils of gold that embellished the bodice of her silver-grey Sephi-designed dress, its skirts wider for ease of walking and with detachable sleeves in case it became too warm. “Perhaps you ought to choose the next entertainment.”
Her escort smiled. Somewhat sensually.
A shiver caught her.
Best keep those sleeves on.
With a purposeful eye, Miles reconnoitred the attractions of the fair, his height enabling him to see well enough over the hats and bonnets.
It was all so damn crowded with nowhere to accommodate a little…interrogation. Until that was, he lit upon… “The conjuror?”
Miss Seymour followed his pointed finger but she appeared to suppress a shudder. “I… Such a tent would be most dark.” She swiped her tongue over her lower lip. “And small. And it’s a shame to be inside on such a beautiful day.”
“Ah.” Miles’ lips curved as he spied a lofty construction in the far distance… “How about the swingboats?”
“Er…”
“Good.” And he swept her off through the mêlée, on past a man juggling knives and a ventriloquist who held a puppet of Napoleon upon his lap.
Due to the space needed for such constructions, the swingboats were at the edge of the fair, near the Hogsmill river and ale tent, and a faint breeze carried the scent of trampled grass and flowing ale. But there first came a…
Well, a huge whirligig of some sort that was the height of a tree, fabricated from wooden struts and rope.
Boxes were affixed at intervals and children sat within them with beaming smiles.
Two grunting men, with the muscles for the job, turned a connecting wheel so that the entire whirligig revolved sedately around and around, the children squealing as their boxes rose to the top before descending again, a clever mechanism ensuring the boxes remained upright.
Ingenious but not as useful as a swingboat.
Each one consisted of two A-frames joined by a crossbeam, from which hung a brightly painted open boat suspended on sturdy ropes, a low door allowing entry. Once seated within, the boat’s sides would be almost at waist height…ensuring privacy.
A bearded man held an empty boat steady, while Miles assisted Miss Seymour up the short ladder and into one end before he climbed in to sit at the other, their feet brushing.
It was quite…cramped.