Free Ring of Flowers by Brian Andrews Page B

was untied and bouncing in waves as she ran. She clutched a mop of wildflowers in her left hand, her sandals in her right, and was looking over her shoulder giggling as eighteen-year-old Paul Foster chased after her. Paul was laughing too, but he stopped abruptly when he spied Ethan Cromwell and George Vicars.
    Kathryn, who was still not looking where she was going, saw the expression on Paul’s face morph from delight to dread. Something was wrong. Her heart sank. Then, she ran into something big, and squishy, and unyielding. She bounced back and would have fallen down hard on her backside if two powerful hands had not grabbed her by the arms. She looked up and found the disapproving eyes of Ethan Cromwell staring down at her. He maintained his grip on her for a moment longer than was necessary before releasing her. Then, his frown changed into a furtive smile, which caused a sudden chill to run down her spine.
    “Mister Cromwell! Please accept my sincerest apologies. I’m so clumsy,” Kathryn said, her eyes lowered and fixed on her bare dusty feet.
    “Out for a bit of exercise I see. Very spirited of you.”
    He looked beyond Kathryn’s bowed head. His gaze settled on young Paul Foster, who was frozen dead in his tracks twenty yards away. Cromwell took note of Paul’s muscular, tanned arms—arms well-conditioned from sixty-hour weeks of hard labor in his father’s fields. A jealous ember ignited in Cromwell’s chest, in what felt like a spot just beneath his heart. Then he looked at the tailor.
    It was only a single glance, but in that glance Cromwell spoke volumes. And Vicars, whose eyes were obediently fixed on Cromwell, understood the silent diatribe with perfect clarity: Get control of your daughter. This childish romance ends today. If I catch her with the boy again, I’ll seize his father’s farm, fields, and livestock. I’ll make sure no one will hire anybody with the surname Foster from here to London. As for you, Vicars, if you want your daughter to become a Cromwell, you better teach her how to behave as a proper lady should.
    “I’m off to London for a couple of days. I have a bit of jewelry shopping to do. Kathryn, you look beautiful today,” Cromwell announced cheerfully. Then to Vicars he added, “Remember what we talked about.”
    The tailor smiled and waved, but uttered no reply.
    “Kathryn, daughter, why don’t you come and give your papa a hand. Say goodbye to Mr. Cromwell and the Foster boy,” said Vicars.
    “Good day, Mister Cromwell. Safe travels to London,” she said to Cromwell, who nodded, turned on his heels, and strutted off down Church Street. She waved at Paul, let her eyes linger on him for a prolonged wistful second, and then headed grudgingly toward the cottage.
    “Let’s go inside, Kathryn,” Vicars said, motioning to the open door of the cottage. “I have something important to discuss with you. It’s time that we talk about your future.”
    Kathryn frowned. She already knew what her father was going to say to her … the whole town knew what was ordained for Kathryn Vicars. What Ethan Cromwell wanted, Ethan Cromwell got. Her lower lip quivered.
    “Okay, Papa.”
    Vicars offered her a tender, fatherly smile, but she did not notice. As he followed her inside, he scratched at the back of his neck, where an angry, tiny welt had risen. Inside, millions of Yersinia pestis bacteria were already beginning to multiply and spread throughout his bloodstream. Unbeknownst to George Vicars, his daughter, and the other four hundred residents of Eyam, Death had arrived in a parcel of linen and lace from London.

CHAPTER 2
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    K ATHRYN V ICARS SAT at the dining table half-listening to her father and wholly feeling sorry for herself. She sat with slightly hunched posture in an armless wooden chair, her arms crossed and folded tightly under her bosom, her legs together, ankles crossed and tucked beneath her seat. She rocked rhythmically, as if trying to soothe