Carola Dunn Read online

  Whether she could be happy as a neglected wife was another matter. Perhaps she might be contented enough with children to occupy her. Reggie’s children.

  Bitter jealousy flooded through Edward. For a moment he failed to distinguish its throes from a different, peculiar sensation in his head. Then he recognized the unmistakable tingling touch of magic.

  Once before he had had a similar involuntary experience, a brief vision of another time. His mother had explained that her own immortal people lived in a timeless world incomprehensible to humans, where past, present, and future mingled. His veins half filled with faerie blood, Edward was capable of seeing events that would take place in his own lifetime, or had already happened, or might happen.

  Now, slumping back against the pillows, he saw the bedchamber subtly change.

  It was evening. Gas lights replaced the candle sconces; the blue brocade curtains changed to green velvet; a florid pink and green paper covered the white walls and a patterned broadloom carpet the polished oak floorboards.

  A young man stood before the dressing table, tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired. He wore a black frock coat with a high, folded collar and loose-fitting black trousers. When he turned his head, Edward saw that his cravat was a small, modest affair. A fringe of reddish beard disfigured his jaw.

  Like his hair, his cornflower-blue eyes were Martha’s, but his expression was pure Reggie.

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll dress up for the yokels, Uncle,” he said sulkily. “They should be honoured that I have accepted the invitation. Father has never condescended to dine with the neighbours in his life.”

  “Surely you do not mean to pass up a chance to bedazzle them?”

  Edward recognized his own voice, quiet, persuasive, yet with an irony Reggie always failed to perceive. He looked towards the doorway, whence the sound came, but the scene was dissolving, shifting before his eyes. The harsh gas light faded to grey midwinter daylight; the cabbage roses on the wallpaper merged, then paled to white; the carpet shrank to a rectangle of Turkey rug.

  Reggie appeared in the doorway. “Are you coming with me to see what the girl has produced, coz? Oh, you’re still not up. I can’t wait to see her face when she hears of the honour in store for her.” He took himself off.

  Haunted by his vision of the duke’s heir—so obviously Martha’s son—Edward rang for the footman who acted as his valet when he stayed here. Martha depended on him. He could not let her down. He would use his magic to help her win the duke’s hand...

  On one condition.

  She greeted him with stars in her eyes. “Edward, did His Grace tell you? He wants to marry me! I can hardly believe it, the most handsome, dashing nobleman in the world, and he has chosen me to be his duchess. Is it not the most wonderful thing imaginable?”

  Edward’s heart sank. So it was not only the great position she coveted, she actually admired Reggie. Despite the way he had treated her, the meanness and the threats, all she saw was his outward attractions, his good looks, his splendid physique, his fashionable dress.

  Nonetheless sorry to bring her back to earth from her air-dreams, he asked bluntly, “What do you have to accomplish to earn such felicity?”

  Her nose wrinkled in an enchanting grimace. “He has given us sackcloth this time, to make six ball gowns and a formal court dress. I did not realize a ball gown is different from an evening dress, more elaborate still, and a court dress is dreadfully complicated. Two petticoats and a robe with a train! But I know we can do it.”

  “What will you give me for my help?”

  Her face fell. “You know I have nothing worth giving.”

  “Nothing?” Your love, Edward cried in silent agony, but that was impossible. Now was the moment to present his condition: “Then give me a promise,” he said slowly, “that when you are Duchess of Diss, you will let me bring up your first-born son. Let me guide his steps, direct his discipline, oversee his education.”

  “What an odd request,” she exclaimed, surprised and doubtful.

  She glanced from the bundle of sackcloth on the table to the open magazine lying beside it. The illustration showed a court dress: zephyrine trimmed with lace, over a lace petticoat, over a hooped satin petticoat, all richly decorated with pearls and silver lamé. It would not do to skimp on the trimmings for Lizzie’s presentation to the Queen, who was a notorious stickler for every observance.

  Not that the trimmings made any difference, when she had nothing but sackcloth to work with.

  “Yes, I promise,” Martha cried, “for without your help, I shall never be duchess.”

  At the instant she pronounced the words, “I promise,” Martha became aware of the tenuous strands of the web between herself and Edward. It had never disintegrated, she realized, only hidden itself from her sight. Now, slowly, it stiffened until slender yet rigid crystalline rods held them at once together and apart.

  Again the eerie manifestation vanished from view. Invisible and intangible, it did not affect the physical distance between Martha and Edward. Despite its elasticity, though, and despite its fragile appearance, Martha sensed it was as strong, as enduring as a millstone.

  Yet a millstone could be fractured by a blow in the wrong place.

  She had no time to wonder about the significance of that strange lattice, nor to worry about her promise, for the task before them was the most formidable yet.

  Chapter VI

  The sacking was near impossible to work with, difficult to pin, fraying when cut, refusing to lie flat when Martha tried to smooth it. As she wielded the hot iron, a mournful song, The False Bride, rose to her lips.

  “‘Oh, when I saw my love out the church go,

  “‘With the bridesmen and bridesmaids they made a fine show,

  “‘Then I followed after with my heart full of woe,

  “‘For I was the man should have had her.’“

  She heard Edward humming the plaintive tune as he struggled to change silk thread to silver, with the aid of every silver sixpence and threepenny bit in his pocket.

  Hour after hour they worked together. By now they knew each other’s methods and abilities; they could guess in advance what Martha needed to prepare to ensure that Edward’s magic was not overstretched.

  This advantage was offset by such problems as an asymmetrical overdress looped up with a garland of alternating knots of pearls and bouquets of flowers. Though they simplified the ornaments, it was still dreadfully complicated.

  Dawn crept through the mullioned windows, and still they laboured.

  Martha’s arms were heavy, her hands cramping, her fingertips sore. She did not complain. Edward’s pale, tight face and cautious movements told her his shoulder and leg hurt, yet he never paused to rest. Courage and kindness—for her sake, for her family’s sake, he defied pain as resolutely as he defied the duke’s orders.

  Recalling his sensitivity when she enquired about his mother’s healing powers, she said nothing. Had he not been a man and she a maid, had he not been a lord and she a villager, she’d have offered to rub his shoulder and his leg. Though magic could not ease his suffering, sweet herb unguents might, and hot fomentations, or cold compresses.

  Once she was duchess, his superior in rank and his cousin by marriage, she would see that he had the care he needed, she vowed.

  “Don’t fall asleep now, Martha,” he said with an effortful smile. “We are nearly finished. The very last thing I need is a rosebud to copy for this corsage.”

  “I cannot make a rosebud with sackcloth. Is there a strip of crimson silk?”

  “Here.” The green scrap Edward passed her changed colour as it changed hands.

  Snip, snip, a deft twist, a few stitches, and a rosebud blossomed. “I was not going to sleep, just thinking about what I shall do when I am a duchess.”

  With a disheartened expression, he said wryly, “I hope you will not be disappointed. Remember, the duke will still be your master, even when you are his wife.”

  Fixing his ga
ze on the silk flower, he muttered, gestured. Two rosebuds appeared, then four, eight...

  “We only need three,” Martha protested, and then gasped as a rich, summery fragrance reached her.

  The deep red roses heaped on the table were real!

  She picked up three or four, avoiding the thorns, and raised them to breathe in their sweetness. Over their velvety heads, her eyes sought Edward’s face.

  He avoided her gaze. “I’m sorry, I lost control for a moment. I shall get rid of them.”

  “I wish I could keep just one,” she said wistfully.

  “A rose in January is bound to arouse Reggie’s suspicion. I cannot begin to imagine what he might think.”

  The flowers in Martha’s hands turned to sackcloth. On the table lay three silk rosebuds, pathetically artificial after the real thing.

  As Martha gathered them in a posy and sewed them to the shoulder of the last gown, Edward’s warnings resounded in her head. The duke would still be her master, even when she was his wife, and the duke’s suspicion was to be feared.

  She stabbed her needle into the pincushion and turned to Edward. “I dread to think what his Grace will do if I give you his heir to bring up,” she said in a quavery voice.

  “You promised.”

  Frightened now, remembering the duke’s threats against her family, she pleaded with him. “Do not hold me to my promise. Please, Edward...my lord. I shall find another way to reward you for your help, when I am duchess.”

  His face twisted and he said sadly, “Very well. If you can find out my faerie name within three days, I shall release you from your promise.”

  Shoulders slumped, his limp more pronounced than ever, he left her.

  * * * *

  Lord Tarnholm did not return at noon with the duke and Lady Elizabeth. They were both delighted with the gowns.

  Lady Elizabeth even gave Martha an impulsive hug. “I shall have the best abigail in London,” she cried.

  “Not her.” The duke shook his handsome head.

  “What? Why not? I want Martha!”

  “Don’t fuss so, Lizzie,” he snapped. “You shall have a perfectly adequate abigail, but not her. Come down to the drawing room and I’ll tell you why.”

  He strode from the room, followed by his sulky sister. At the last moment he glanced back over his shoulder at Martha and said testily, “You had better come too, girl.”

  It was not what Martha expected of a betrothal, not the joyous, festive occasion the villagers made of those happy events. Obviously the nobility regarded such matters differently.

  She was too tired to be disappointed. Concentrating on not stumbling, she followed her future husband and sister-in-law down the winding stairs and along passages. He stopped at a grand double-door, through which came the sound of music. Flinging it it open, he marched in.

  The music stopped instantly. The duchess jumped up from a sofa by the fire.

  “What is the matter, Reggie?” she asked apprehensively. “Why did you want me and the girls to await you here?”

  Standing numbly by the door, hands clasped before her, Martha saw Lady Elizabeth’s younger sisters gathered around the pianoforte with their governess. They all stared at their brother.

  “I have an announcement to make,” he proclaimed. “No doubt you will be glad to learn, ma’am, that I mean to take a bride. I am going to marry the miller’s chit.”

  There was a moment of dumbfounded silence. The duchess’s mouth actually dropped open. Then she recovered herself and said uncertainly, as though she thought her ears must have deceived her, “Martha Miller, Reggie? You are to wed Martha Miller?”

  “That’s the one.” He turned and gestured at Martha. “You, girl, come here and make your curtsy to your mama-in-law. I’m off to London,” he added carelessly. “While I’m gone Martha can finish making Lizzie’s wardrobe—pelisses and such. When I come back, we shall discuss the wedding.”

  He departed without a backward glance.

  The duchess sagged back onto the sofa. Her daughters clustered around her, giggling and twittering like a flock of sparrows, and casting sidelong looks at Martha.

  She scarcely noticed. After curtsying as ordered, she stood rooted to the ground, unable to summon up the energy to think what she ought to do next. The only thing she actually wanted to do was sleep.

  The youngest of the young ladies suddenly dashed to the window. “Reggie is leaving already, Mama!” she cried. “He must have ordered his carriage brought round before he told us.”

  At a gallop, the four black horses pulled the elegant royal-blue carriage past the window, and Martha’s betrothed was gone.

  Perhaps she had dreamed the whole thing?

  But the duchess patted the place at her side on the sofa. “Martha, my dear, do come and sit down,” she said, kind though still flustered. “I must confess, this has come as quite a sh...surprise. I assume the duke—Reginald—acquainted you with his intentions long since, but it is quite new to me.”

  “He told me yesterday, your Grace.”

  “Told? Oh dear, not asked? How very like Reggie, to be sure. But of course you would have accepted had he troubled to request your hand.”

  “Oh yes, your Grace,” Martha said fervently.

  “I suppose there is nothing to be done. Once Reggie has made up his mind, nothing will shake him, and it is excessively uncomfortable to cross him. He grows more and more like his father, I fear.”

  Martha could think of no polite answer to that, so she held her tongue.

  “Well, well, it will take us all some time to grow accustomed to the idea. Perhaps you would like to go home and acquaint your family with your good fortune?”

  “Oh yes, please, your Grace.”

  “Stay a few days, my dear, while we...while we settle matters,” said the duchess vaguely. “I must decide which rooms you are to have—I daresay Reggie will not wish you to stay at the mill until you are married. Oh dear, I simply cannot think straight!”

  “Do not stay away too long, Martha,” said Lady Elizabeth. “Remember Reggie told you to make my pelisses and spencers before he returns to take me to London.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Oh dear, this is all most irregular, not to say improper,” the duchess sighed. She patted Martha’s hand. “Not your fault, my dear. What can Reggie have been thinking of? I must talk to Edward.”

  Recalling the fateful riddle Lord Tarnholm had set her, Martha ventured to ask the duchess, “If you please, ma’am, has Lord Tarnholm any other name?”

  “His Christian names are Edward James Frederick,” her Grace said. “However, when you are Reggie’s wife, it will be proper for you to call him Tarnholm, or Cousin.”

  “Those are all the names he has?”

  The duchess shuddered. “I cannot think what you mean,” she said with uneasy evasiveness. “I daresay his nurse may have called him Ned as a child.”

  Martha did not dare press her.

  No one thought to call out a carriage for the future duchess, nor did it cross her mind to ask for one, so she trudged wearily back across the park to the mill. As she walked, the crisp air revived her mind if not her body, and she tried to recollect the names of all the men and boys she knew.

  Most had ordinary names, like Edward, James, Frederick; like Pa, Thomas, and her brothers, Peter, Michael, Harry, and John; like Albert the footman and Will the cobbler. Will’s dad was Obadiah; Tad at the inn was Thaddeus; and Mr. Stewart, the vicar, was Swithin, all odd to be sure, but not quite odd enough to be faerie names.

  Then Martha recalled a play she had read to old Mrs. Stewart. The faeries in that had been called Cobweb and Mustardseed and Moth. Had William Shakespeare made them up, or did he really know? If Edward’s name was something like that, she would never guess in a hundred years.

  Reaching home, she fell into bed. Not rousing even when her sisters joined her, she slept the clock around and half way round again.

  * * * *

  When she awok
e at last, Martha knew what she must do. One person was bound to know the answer: Edward’s mother.

  Lady Tarnholm was a nixie, Edward had said, a water sprite who could undoubtedly turn Martha into a frog, a toad, or a newt if she so chose. Yet a faerie given to turning people into frogs was not likely to bring up her son to be kind and gentle and chivalrous.

  That day, Martha could not get away from her family. She swore them to secrecy and told them, all but the littlest ones, everything that had happened at the great house, except her promise to Lord Tarnholm. They were incredulous, excited, doubtful.

  Mam frowned and said forebodingly, “I don’t know as I wants my daughter being a duchess up at the great house. They’re not our sorts of folks. You won’t know how to go on among ‘em, our Martha.”

  “I’ll learn, Mam.”

  “Then you’ll be getting so high and mighty you won’t want to speak to the likes o’ your family.”

  “I won’t, Mam, I promise.”

  “How’re we to know they’ll treat you right? His Grace ain’t done too well so far.”

  “It’ll be different once we’re wed,” Martha said hopefully, though not without a tiny twinge of doubt, quickly suppressed. “Just wait and see.”

  “O’ course it will,” roared Pa. He was ecstatic, his round, red face beaming so wide it was like to split in two. “My girl a duchess! Don’t that beat all?”

  “Ye’re a fool, Thomas Miller,” Mam snorted. “Never could see past the end o’ your nose.”

  Pa paid her no mind. “What the fellows’ll say when I tell ‘em our Martha’s to be her Grace! I’m off to the Pig.”

  “That you’re not!” said Mam sharply. “Not but what they’d only think ‘twas more o’ your braggery, but look where your tongue nearly got us—out on the street if we was lucky, or mebbe in gaol.”

  Pa sobered. “Oh, ar,” he said with a sheepish look.