For Rye by Gavin Gardiner (books for 10th graders txt) 📗

constantly within its tattered pages. It seemed as if whatever he believed to be within his reach was edging closer, and he knew it.

They’d heard the tolling of the midnight bell from across the fields over an hour ago. Renata thought of the young vicar having now spent two nights in the spare room of the Wakefield house. To her surprise, it had been he who’d suggested the lengthening of his stay to give Renata the chance to put some serious time in at the film set. Either he was finally hitting it off with Thomas Wakefield, or he was trying for his scouts badge in the care of abusive old men. Scouts badge it must be.

Quentin cast the final sheet to one side and stared at the empty space where the pile of papers to be worked had been. ‘There’s more,’ he said, ‘but for now, we’re done. I don’t know how to thank you, Ren. You’re so gifted, so talented. You’re…’

He took her hand.

‘…amazing.’

As the rain tapped against the window, as Quentin pulled her in by her trembling hand, as the distance between them closed, Renata imagined herself back in the clock tower. In her mind, she sat in the middle of the little stone room above the churchyard, candlelight warming her pale skin, walls glowing.

you were NOT meant to go anywhere near her

Overprotective, that’s all.

She felt his breath upon her cheeks.

Even now she was a spectator. She watched from afar as Quentin edged closer and ran a finger down her arm. Suddenly, the peephole exploded, its lifelong distortion giving way to reality. Finally, the door began to open.

There must be some mistake. These were the last words to fly through her head in the moments before their lips met. There must be some mistake, and he’ll realise any moment.

If he did, and if there was, it didn’t alter the course of events. His lips sat unmoving upon hers, the warmth of his breath causing her to halt both in body and mind. Then – so that’s what it feels like – he kissed her deeply, pressing his forehead against hers in an expression of uninhibited relief.

She felt him breathe in her scent. She felt him, already as close as he could be, try to edge through space that was not there. She felt his longing for her, and despite a fleeting attempt at restraint, she responded. She watched from afar against a backdrop of glowing stone, in her mind still hiding in that clock tower, the warmth of the candlelight causing her skin to rise in submission.

…and let the marriage bed be undefiled, for God will judge the sexually immoral and…

Guilt stabbed. She took a deep breath and pushed aside He who had pushed her aside. She was on her own now, with Quentin.

She peered through slits in her closed eyelids as she succumbed to the touch of his lips. All at once, she saw the stone of the clock tower fall away, its candles extinguishing. Her mental hideout was replaced by piles of books, dusty furniture, a discarded script, and the man who would show her how to love.

She stopped observing. Finally, Renata Wakefield arrived – here, now. She closed her eyes and sunk into the moment, and into Quentin’s arms.

11

 

The crate tumbles down the stairwell. The girl sets the lantern against the wall and balances the smaller of the two wooden boxes on the stone steps, then descends to rescue her fallen comrade. Approaching the foot of the spiral staircase, she hears the clattering of wood on stone from above.

The second crate crashes down.

Remarkably, both are undamaged. The crates are strong. Not only have they survived their respective tumbles, but they’ve also endured the long walk from town and across the fields into the woods, where she stashed them until the sun went down. The girl is scrawny and weak. She dropped them more than a few times.

And her arm still hurts. Finger-shaped bruises wrap around her wrist from where Father had yanked her from the bookcase. Still, better than the fist. The books disappeared from the shelves the day after she was caught in the act, along with all those in her bedroom. Luckily, the current book she’d borrowed from Mr Harper had been in her schoolbag, but she couldn’t risk her father catching her reading those oh-so-blasphemous romance stories again, so she’d set out to find a safe place to read and write and stash her books. Her excursions had led her far and wide; forests, the long grass of the surrounding fields, even an abandoned building. Whether too far from home or too likely to collapse under her feet, there was always a reason to keep looking.

Life continued throughout her searching. School, church, home: those were the three primary stages upon which the not-so-funny pantomime of her life unfolded. School, church, home. School, church, home. School, church…

Church?

Yes, that was where the answer had presented itself. It had been right on her doorstep the entire time. Well, give or take a few fields.

It was as the chattering congregation had gathered in the churchyard after Sunday service (learn the love of our Lord, then get gossiping) that she’d seen the cat. He was black and white and he was fluffy, just how she liked them. The girl had watched him rub against the side of the church, before he’d proceeded to sample some other parts of the stone wall. Goldilocks and the Three Bears had popped into her head; this bowl too hot, that bowl too cold. He just couldn’t find the perfect spot, poor Mr Kitty – or maybe Jazz? That’s a cute name for a cat. Nearly as cute as Misty-Moo, the name she’d given the delicate little kitty she regularly found sleeping in amongst an old fleece on the seat of Father’s ride-on lawnmower. Jazz’s