Sixpence and Selkies

by Tilly Wallace

  Hannah awoke the next morning a married woman in every sense of the word. But as she stretched out her arms, instead of finding hellhound warmth, she discovered cold sheets. Given the chill on his side, Wycliff must have slipped from the bed some time ago. A frown pulled on her brow as she dragged the blankets up over her naked body. She might be a married woman, but she was still alone.

  She had imagined that taking the final step toward physical intimacy would be the missing piece needed to craft a happy ending for their marriage. Instead of a marvellous contentment coursing through her mind and limbs, Hannah confronted a cold hollow in her chest.

  Hannah suffered no misgivings or regrets about the previous night. True to his word, Wycliff had treated her tenderly and cradled her in his arms afterward until she drifted asleep. She had foolishly thought that being physically close to him would mean that she now stood close in his heart. But as she replayed the night in her mind, there had been no words of love spoken between them.

  Had she sought his devotion when she offered her body? Yes.

  In that moment, she realised that love for her husband had taken root inside her, but she suspected it was not reciprocated. While she did not doubt Wycliff admired and desired her, the cold sheet beside her shouted that lust was not the same thing as love. Hannah knew enough of the world to understand that a man did not need to love a woman to take her to his bed. In her naiveté, she had believed their situation to be different.

  Why hadn’t he said that he loved her? She could conjure only one reason why he had never said the words—because he didn’t feel them.

  Hannah sat up with her back against the bed frame while a tear formed in the corner of her eye. With the heel of her palm, she wiped it away. “There is nothing to be achieved by staying in bed all day and moping,” she muttered to the empty room.

  Or almost empty. One spider stubbornly refused to be evicted and had re-spun its web overnight.

  A cup of hot chocolate would go a long way toward heating the chill inside her, as would cuddles with Sheba. Since she had much to do, Hannah chose a plain gown of sturdy cotton and laced up practical boots for roaming the gardens and fields around the house. She walked on the balls of her feet to the kitchen, not wanting to disturb any slumbering ghosts. The house creaked and groaned around her and at times, she felt as though she violated a crypt.

  In the kitchen, the oven was stoked but there was no sign of Mrs Rossett. Sheba wagged her tail from the blanket by the range, but the spaniel was content to stay put in the warmth. Wycliff had most likely let her out on his way through earlier. Hannah patted the dog, then filled the kettle with water and set it to boil. The glass doors to one side of the kitchen drew her, as curiosity itched to be satisfied about what lay beyond. Last night it had been too dark to explore.

  Hannah pushed the doors open and gasped. Within was a conservatory that once would have provided the house with delicate produce and flowers for the tables. It would have grown fragile plants that could not survive outside, where they would be buffeted by the winds whipped off the ocean.

  The floor was laid with red bricks in a herringbone pattern. In the very centre stood a raised pool, in the centre of which stood a brass statue of a woman wearing a linen gown laced around her torso with braid. Her arms were outstretched and she appeared to have a shawl draped over her shoulders. When Hannah peered closer, she realised it wasn’t a shawl at all, but feathery wings. The image scratched at her memory and women from myths and legends throughout time raced across her mind. The statue represented someone, but she couldn’t call the name to the tip of her tongue. She would ask her mother when next they spoke.

  Her attention drifted to the knee-high pool around the statue. The water, fish, and any lilies were long gone and a layer of dirt clung to the once brightly coloured tiles laid around the sides and bottom. Overhead and all around her, the panes of the conservatory were coated in years of dirt and grime, but the soaring metal structure revealed its beautiful shape. The conservatory formed a rectangle with a vaulted ceiling, with garden beds running around the outside edge in a scalloped pattern that left a circular path free around the pool.

  “Her ladyship loved to tend the plants in here.” Mrs Rossett came in on silent feet and joined Hannah. “We had tomatoes all year round under her touch and the most beautiful orchids.”

  “Perhaps you will again, one day.” Hannah reached out and touched a pane. It would take weeks, if not months, of hard labour to breathe life back into the house. Not to mention the finances they would need to repair the obvious damage caused by the storm long ago, and years of subsequent neglect. The list of chores in her mind grew exponentially until their imaginary pages swirled around her like a paper blizzard. No wonder Wycliff had left early, no doubt driven by a similar tally of tasks calling for his attention.

  “You have a job ahead of you, milady.” Mrs Rossett stared up at the roof where, on either side of the metal frame, bird droppings added an additional thick layer of material to remove.

  Hannah couldn’t do everything, so chose one thing as a place to start. “There is an old Chinese proverb—a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. As my first step, I will concentrate on restoring the conservatory. Along with providing us food, it will be a marvellous place to sit in winter, since it faces south and will capture the sun.”

  “There used to be rattan furniture in here. It’s stored somewhere, assuming the rats haven’t found it,” Mrs Rossett said.

  Rats? A quiet shudder ran down Hannah’s spine. Why was it she could handle mice with no concerns, but one mention of their larger cousins and she considered the benefits of fainting like Mary?

  “Have you seen his lordship this morning?” Hannah managed to form a smile by the time she turned to face the housekeeper.

  “He was up early and set off to meet Mr Swift. Some problems with the boundary walls to keep those fancy sheep from roaming too far. They took that big ugly fellow of yours with them to help carry rocks, and that extra hand. Can’t see what he can do, although he might be useful for scratching the spots you can’t reach on your back.” The housekeeper chuckled to herself as she walked back to the kitchen.

  “I imagine there is much to be done while Wycliff is here, and there will be many demands on his time.” Hannah knew how to run a household, but only a little of how to manage an estate this large. She could guess that there would be livestock and tenant farmers to consider. She should examine the books in the study more closely; there might be one on estate management that would educate her further on what to expect and on her new role as the viscountess.

  “The kettle has boiled, milady, if you’d like a cup of tea or hot chocolate? And that maid of yours is rousing,” Mrs Rossett called as she walked back to the kitchen.

  Hannah cast one last look at the barren conservatory and then closed the doors behind her. She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat. “Hot chocolate would be marvellous, please. After breakfast I would like to walk to the village to collect a few things I might need, if you would point me in the right direction?”

  Mrs Rossett toasted bread and winked at Hannah. “Of course. The villagers will love to have a good gawk and gander at you.”

  “Oh.” The cold lump inside Hannah grew a little larger. She didn’t want to be an object of curiosity, but there was probably no avoiding it. “Better make it two cups of hot chocolate. For fortification.”

  5

  Wycliff had awakened early that morning with an odd mix of contentment and anxiety churning through his gut. Rather like oil and water, the two didn’t combine, and the constant battle wouldn’t allow him to sleep any later than the first hint of dawn.

  The contentment came from Hannah. At long last, he had her in his arms, to discover an inquisitive and responsive lover. The closeness he shared with her soothed the hellhound, even as fire burned through his veins to repeat the night’s events again. He considered locking the study door and spending the next few days
and nights getting to know every inch of his wife’s body intimately.

  Oddly, his anxiety also arose because of her. What must she think of the derelict house? He had forgotten, or perhaps suppressed, the sad state of the once grand Mireworth. She had degraded into a horror fit for a gothic novel. When they’d been searching upstairs for a bed frame he had altered his vision, wondering how many of his ancestors still roamed the halls. He spied only two lost souls, but couldn’t identify them without searching the many portraits stored in the former billiards room.

  He had brought his wife to the estate and couldn’t even provide her with a bedchamber. Instead, they were camped out in his study, where she used his desk as a dressing table. The spectre of failure loomed over him. What sort of husband couldn’t even provide a watertight roof over his wife’s head? Admittedly, the roof above them was rather expansive, but the storm-damaged slates from years ago had allowed water to seep into the timbers. The constant drip of moisture over a number of years spread rot and decay like a creeping plague.

  One of his many tasks would be talking to the tradesmen about the scale of the work needed on the roof. He cherished a dim hope that he might be able to raise the finances to start critical repairs. They had only a few short weeks in Dorset until his mother-in-law would descend upon them to renew the spell that kept Hannah frozen in time, and allowed her heart to continue to beat. He found himself uncomfortable at the thought of viewing the estate through her parents’ eyes. Did Hannah regret her decision to marry him, now that she saw the amount of work and money the estate would consume?

  He remembered his conversation with Sir Ewan Shaw the night of the duke’s wedding, when he had sought counsel about his relationship. If you cannot find the words to tell her how you feel, Wycliff, show her instead. Words alone are empty unless accompanied by action. Wrap her in your devotion and your feelings will filter through to her.

  To win his wife’s heart, Wycliff needed to become rather similar to the creeping rot or the droplets of water that the timbers and plaster absorbed. Drip by drip, he would show Hannah the depths of his devotion to her. Decision made, and considering he had kept Hannah awake a good part of the night, he let his wife sleep on undisturbed. He kissed her exposed shoulder and drew the blankets around her before he slipped from the bed. On silent feet he gathered his clothes and pulled on his breeches and shirt, but took the rest out into the hall.

  There was an overwhelming amount to do and he needed to show Hannah some improvement in the month available to them. Part of him hoped that she would see this as their family home. If her parents found the cure for the Affliction, it could even one day see their children running along the cliffs and swimming in the ocean.

  He finished dressing seated on the bottom stair next to a griffin. As he pulled on his boots in the gloom, he made a note of immediate chores. The stone walls needed repair first, to ensure the valuable sheep stayed where they wanted them. Then he would count the few pounds left over to see what could be done about the house. He suspected the choice would be between the roof or the broken windows. A piece of timber would fix the draft in the study and the money saved might buy a few roof slates.

  Despite the early hour, he found Mrs Rossett in the kitchen, clad in her dressing gown and slippers, stoking the fire.

  “Morning, Mrs Rossett. Do you have anything I can eat on my way to see Swift?” He had agreed to meet the farm manager early, to begin the first of many tasks. He also had to find the time to visit the tenant farmers, particularly those who had fallen behind in their rents.

  A more immediate problem that clamoured for his attention could be easily remedied. The spaniel bounced at his feet and Wycliff flung open the door to let her out.

  “I made some pasties yesterday. You can take one of those with you and it will fill your belly until morning teatime.” The housekeeper opened the larder and removed a large tin. She prised off the lid to reveal a row of fat and golden Cornish pasties.

  With their filling of meat and vegetables, each savoury would be a meal almost on its own. Wycliff selected two—one for him and one for Frank, who would be useful for the heavy work ahead.

  “Is her ladyship awake?” Mrs Rossett asked as she put the lid back on the tin.

  “Hannah sleeps on, Mrs Rossett. She seems quite worn out from her first night at Mireworth.” Then his good mood burst forth and he winked and waggled his eyebrows.

  The old housekeeper giggled like a young girl and swatted at him with a towel. “Get out of here, you rogue. I’ll wait until I hear Lady Wycliff stirring before I start on toast, or perhaps she will need something more robust to revive her?”

  Wycliff barked in laughter, let the puppy back inside, and wandered across the packed earth yard to the stables. He found Frank up and mucking out the horse stalls. Barnes sat on a beam above, next to the barn cat. Hand and cat eyed each other as though a fight was about to break out.

  “The horses can go out in the field, Frank.” Wycliff left the pasties on a ledge, while he clipped a lead to a halter and the monstrous man did the same. Leading two horses each, they soon had their small herd out in a pasture, where the animals cantered away and kicked up their heels.

  Barnes slid down the pole and Frank picked up the hand and placed him on his shoulder. Wycliff handed over a pasty, and the two men ate as they followed a beaten dirt track to the cottage where Swift lived with his family. Not far from the main house, the two-storey home was picturesque, with wildflowers growing around it. Unlike the manor house, this one had sparkling clean and unbroken windows and a watertight roof. Smoke curled from the chimney and the laughter of children drifted past his ears.

  Wycliff went around back and knocked on the kitchen door.

  Mrs Swift opened the door and bobbed a curtsey. “Lord Wycliff, how lovely to see you here! Do come in, sir.” Her eyes widened at the sight of Frank, with Barnes sitting like a bird on his shoulder, but the woman said nothing.

  Swift rose from the table where he was having his breakfast. The gaggle of children at the table fell silent as Frank entered the cosy room.

  One of the boys pointed and let out a long ahhh of wonder. “Is he a pirate and that’s his parrot?”

  Before Wycliff could answer, excited chatter erupted and Frank was surrounded by little ones, most of whom barely came to his knees. One boy stood on a chair, snatched up Barnes, and held him to his face. The hand wriggled and twisted but couldn’t break free.

  “I see you brought an extra hand.” Swift gestured to Barnes with his teacup.

  Wycliff chuckled under his breath. Those jokes hadn’t grown tired yet. “Yes. That’s Barnes and he’s good in a pinch. The taller one is Frank.”

  “You have some odd servants with you, milord,” Mrs Swift said as she poured tea and handed the cup to Wycliff.

  “Lady Wycliff is the daughter of Lady Seraphina Miles, the mage. They have an eclectic range of staff in their household.” Wycliff leaned back in his chair and sipped the tea. The hot brew was just what he needed after their walk.

  “Lady Miles? Isn’t she dead?” Swift asked.

  “Yes, but that hasn’t stopped her from continuing her work.” Wycliff took a warm scone from the plate offered by Mrs Swift. The Cornish pasty warming his insides would appreciate the buttery company.

  A quarter hour later, when the men rose from the table, children dribbled off Frank like water from a stone. The giant plucked Barnes free of the mob and the hand waved farewell from his perch as they headed out the door.

  They walked to a nearby field, where the sheep snoozed in the soft morning light. Wycliff surveyed the flock with a growing sense of satisfaction. Even to his untrained eye, their fleece appeared finer and superior to their more common breed counterparts. With the money from Lord Pennicott, he had purchased the ewes, along with a ram, and the resulting spring lambs would augment their stock and establish the new business. In the coming years, he planned to breed enough merino to be able to spread them among his tenant farmers.
One day they would build their own mill to produce wool cloth from the fleece.

  But first there were practical measures to see to, as a portion of drystone wall had collapsed and needed to be rebuilt. The sheep grazed contentedly, oblivious to the men working alongside them. Frank hauled the larger stones and made a pile while Wycliff and Swift placed them.

  “What has been happening in my absence, Swift? Which tenants do we need to call upon?” Wycliff found a rounded stone to wedge between two larger ones.

  Swift pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow before replying. “There are three in arrears, my lord. Two are struggling—made some bad choices last winter. They’re good folk and a decent harvest this autumn, a bit of leniency, and some sound advice should see them right.”

  Wycliff nodded. The harvest was susceptible to the weather. He’d rather see his tenants supplement their crops with a more reliable source of income, like sheep or cattle. If the merino breed adapted to the Dorset climate in the way he envisioned, they would one day spin the wool themselves. The increased profit margins would benefit the entire community. Although that was merely a dream; he didn’t have sufficient cash to mend his roof, let alone build an expensive mill.

  “What of the third tenant in arrears?” Wycliff removed the cork from a water bottle and took a deep drink.

  Swift blew out a sigh and stared at the ground, as though searching for an answer in the grass. “Old man Miller. He’s a rotten drunk, that one. Never recovered after his granddaughter Amy died before Christmas. He sits out in his yard watching the chickens scratch and the weeds grow. He hasn’t paid his rent in over six months and, given the sorry state of his place, has no hope of ever making amends. He needs moving on, if you don’t mind my saying so, milord. Put a young fellow on that farm who will roll up his sleeves and get the land productive again.”