“Yes, yes!” Mary cried and flung her arms around Frank’s neck. Frank’s hand jerked upward and launched Barnes, who did a somersault in the air and landed on the table—still clutching the ring.
Frank took the ring from Barnes and slipped it on Mary’s finger. She held it out and stared at it. Joy sparkled in her eyes.
“Oh, milady, thank you,” she whispered. Unshed tears glistened as she glanced at Hannah.
Hannah hugged her maid. “I am sure you and Frank will be very happy. You will have to decide whether you want to marry here at Mireworth, or back at Westbourne Green?”
Wycliff shook Frank’s hand and Barnes strode up and down the table looking as pleased with himself as though the whole thing had been his idea.
“Well, that’s a bit of excitement. Shall we have a drop of port with our tea, to celebrate?” Mrs Rossett winked at Hannah.
“An excellent idea, Mrs Rossett. It seems the old estate has worked her magic to bring this couple together.” Wycliff gazed at Hannah as he said the words.
Would the old house work some magic for her, and finally bring them together in the way she dreamed?
21
In celebration, they toasted Mary and Frank, and wished them happiness. Hannah found a quiet moment to pick up Barnes. She carried him over to the conservatory doors and held him to eye level.
“Well done, Barnes. You are a true friend to both Mary and Frank.” Then Hannah kissed the hand’s knuckles, which she hoped was an approximation of kissing him on the cheek.
Barnes flopped to his back in her palms, his fingers in the air. Hannah suppressed a laugh—she had either slain him or he had swooned. Then she carried him back to the table and set him down.
Mrs Rossett poured a splash of port into a saucer and placed it before the hand. “Here, I don’t know if you can eat or drink, but you deserve to be a part of the celebrations.”
Barnes stood in the middle of the saucer and appeared to paddle in the liquor. He splashed around for a few moments, then went still. The body of the hand pulsed up and down on his fingertips, like a spider hovering over its prey. Oddly, the port disappeared from the saucer. Then the hand lurched to one side and toppled over the edge of the saucer to flop on to the tablecloth. He waggled his fingers in the air as though someone tickled his palm.
“How did Barnes manage to achieve inebriation with neither mouth nor stomach?” Wycliff asked Hannah, laughter glinting in his eyes.
Hannah watched Frank’s friend roll around, attempting to get his fingertips under him. She really should start a journal about life with the disembodied hand for posterity. Few people would believe such a tale unless they saw it with their own eyes. “The skin is a type of organ and possesses the ability to absorb liquids. Somehow, Barnes has sped up or amplified that process. And, of course, he still has a circulation system, blood, and veins. We simply don’t know how any of it works.”
Her father would be fascinated to hear of this new turn when they visited. Hannah could imagine evenings spent with Sir Hugh experimenting on how much it took to get the hand drunk.
Due to the happy occasion, love and relationships were much on Hannah’s mind as she preceded Wycliff down the corridor to their temporary bedchamber. She loved Wycliff and needed to know if she could ever have a place in his heart. She twisted her hands together, contemplating how to begin such a conversation.
“They are an odd couple, but no one can deny their affection for one another.” Wycliff dropped his jacket over a chair and undid the buttons on his waistcoat.
“Indeed,” Hannah murmured. She unlaced her gown and pulled it over her head. Shaking out the material, she draped it over the side of a cabinet to wear again the next day. Her bravery nearly deserted her. Then the glass of port she had consumed to celebrate the engagement steeled her spine, marshalled her resources, and yelled Charge!
She swallowed several times before managing to whisper, “Wycliff, can I ever hope to hold your affection in a similar way?”
“Whatever makes you doubt such a thing?” He paused in his undressing, his fingers on the placket of his shirt. For whatever reason, he chose not to answer her question.
Hannah stared at him and snapped her mouth shut before she caught a moth. How was it that for all men declared themselves the superior sex they could be so…dense about certain things?
Because you have never said the words I love you, she wanted to cry, but managed to hold on to a few shreds of dignity.
As much as it pained her, Hannah had to mention his first, and possibly only, love. She didn’t blame her husband for loving a woman with fairy-tale beauty, whom he chased along the halls of Mireworth as the two got into mischief. Indeed, she entirely understood if his heart had broken the day the ocean snatched Lisbeth from his life, and he would never love another in the same fashion. The question was, could he create a sliver of room in his heart for her?
Her hands fell to her sides and she tangled her fingers in the soft linen of her chemise. “I walked to Lisbeth’s cottage and found a stash of love letters, written to her and hidden in the roots of the tree. They are such desperate outpourings of emotion, speaking of a vast and deep love.” The writer compared his love to the ocean and said he would drown if his love was not reciprocated.
The frown on Wycliff’s face deepened and he took a step toward her. “Whatever you might have been told, Hannah, I did not write those letters.”
On that point, at least, they agreed. Despairing that her husband loved a ghost, Hannah had stealthily opened the account ledger in order to compare the handwriting to that of Wycliff. While both had a restrained, neat hand, the unknown lover was not he. The author of the letters had a particular way of flicking the tails of his letters that Wycliff did not do. Although that only proved he had not written the letters Hannah found. It did not reveal the state of his heart.
“Are you denying you loved her?” Hannah whispered. Now that she had started down this dark path, she was determined to follow it to the end.
Wycliff pressed a hand to his temple as though the memory hurt him. “Of course I loved her.”
Hannah’s heart fractured at the raw emotion in his voice. She had opened an old wound and caused him fresh pain, and for that alone she was sorry.
Then he extended his hands to her. “As a sister, Hannah. Her father was the estate manager before Swift, and with no other siblings or children here, we often played together. I considered her my sibling.”
“Mrs Rossett said that everyone thought the two of you would marry.” Hannah couldn’t stop herself—she had to keep picking at the old memory. As the daughter of a physician, she knew any wound had to be scrubbed clean before it could heal.
Wycliff fisted his hand and dropped it to his side as a heavy sigh made his shoulders heave. “I considered it, yes. I was fond of Lisbeth and she was good company. What more could a man ask for in a wife? But Lisbeth would not have me. Even though I was content to make a match without passion, Lisbeth was not. She announced she would only ever marry if a man truly and deeply loved her. Like the ocean, she used to say—boundless and wild.”
“That was what she found, according to the letters. I wonder what happened?” Lisbeth had found the deep love she sought, so why had she tumbled from the cliff that night a year ago—had the lovers quarrelled?
Hannah walked to the window and stared out at the night. The inky darkness gathered up her worries that multiplied during the day. What wouldn’t she give for an hour alone with Lizzie to pour out her heart! Perhaps she should take up Mr Hartley on his offer of a broad shoulder. Her instincts said the vicar would be sympathetic to the condition of a woman’s heart. Hannah could not imagine she would be the first to cry on his jacket. That thought swirled through her mind and etched itself into her consciousness. There was something in it that she needed to examine more closely.
In the morning.
Returning to her current predicament, Hannah didn’t know what to say to Wycliff. Her husband admitt
ed that he had been prepared to content himself in a marriage without love, and that the most he aspired to in a wife was good company. Well, if that was all they had, at least friendship created a solid foundation for a partnership. Nor did his lack of love for her stop her from loving him.
A gentle touch on her shoulder made her blink away the tears and turn.
Wycliff stared at her, his dark eyes wide with concern. “Good lord, Hannah, do you not know that you are loved?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and looked away. “I know ours was a marriage of convenience. But I thought since we came to Mireworth and with the change in things…that possibly…but then you never said anything…” She fought back more tears and couldn’t finish her sentence.
“Damn wolf,” Wycliff muttered.
“Wolf?” The disconnect broke her train of thought and halted the sobs building in her chest.
“At Harden’s wedding I sought a quiet word with Sir Ewan Shaw, as the man seems to possess some magical ability in matters of love. Unlike me.” Wycliff flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Shaw suggested that if I had trouble saying the words, I should show you the depth of my devotion through action. That if I wrapped you in my affection, it would seep through to you. Somewhat like damp rot. He should have mentioned that there are certain words that still need to be said out loud.”
He placed a fingertip under her chin and lifted her face to his. With his other hand, he caught the single tear that had escaped and rolled down her cheek.
“I love you, Hannah. I’m sorry you ever felt overlooked and forgotten. The truth is the exact opposite. Thoughts of you drive me from our bed early every morning, and I have worked like a farmhand, all for you. I wanted to achieve something here, so that you might regard Mireworth as our home and not as an abandoned ruin fit only to be demolished.”
She gulped a breath of air, her mind scuttling in several directions at once, as though Barnes had multiplied inside her head. “You truly love me?”
Wycliff smiled and caressed her cheek with his thumb. A heat shimmer drifted around his head as though the hound sought to take over his form. “I love you, Lady Hannah Wycliff, with all that I am and in a way I have never, nor ever will, love another. If you would still have a hellhound shifter with only a tarnished title and a rundown house to his name.”
Hannah reached up and brushed her hand through his hair. The phantom smoke curled around her fingers and she wondered if, when Wycliff experienced high emotion, it allowed the other creature to break through from its realm. “Despite what you have imagined, I happen to be rather fond of Mireworth. I think there is an ancient magic at work and I find myself wanting to spend more time here. With you, husband. Always with you. I love you.”
His smile turned into a very hound-like grin and he kissed her.
The next day, Hannah awoke with her husband’s warm form curled around her and a sense of love and peace washing through her. Last night, matters had finally been resolved with Wycliff and the knowledge that she was loved lapped at her limbs like gentle waves against warm sand.
“Good morning, Hannah,” he murmured against her skin as she stirred. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”
She bit her lip and tried very hard to make her tone somewhat serious as she replied, “No, my lord, I do not believe you have.”
Wycliff then proceeded to whisper words of love as he kissed his way down the side of her neck. Hannah decided this was the most marvellous way to wake up. Far better than an empty bed and cold sheets, no matter how well intentioned.
Love as a topic remained much on her mind. After breakfast, Hannah retrieved the bundle of love letters written to Lisbeth and showed them to Wycliff. “Who do you think wrote these? I cannot help but think this is our clue to what happened to Lisbeth, and possibly Amy and Sarah, too.”
He unfolded a letter and studied the handwriting. “It seems familiar, but I cannot place it.”
“Mrs Rossett, do you have your tonic handy that Mr Seager makes for you?” Hannah wondered if the apothecary had penned the love letters. She tried to recall the entries she’d seen in his journals, but a stolen glance was insufficient to allow a comparison from memory.
“I have it here.” The housekeeper opened a cupboard and produced the glass bottle. They compared the instructions on the label to the hand in the letters. It transpired that Mr Seager had a lavish hand with curls and flourishes, completely at odds with his dour personality.
“It’s not him. What of Mr Cramond?” Hannah suggested.
Mrs Rossett returned the bottle to its home. “Unlikely. Not many of the men around here can read or write.”
“Oh. Is there not a school in the village?” Hannah pondered little Esther Tant and hoped the child might receive an education to fit her curious nature.
Wycliff picked up another letter and scanned the contents. “There is, but it’s common for the lads to skip their schooling and head to work at an early age. When Cramond signed the agreement for the farm, he struggled to form his letters.”
“Then who is our mystery lover?” Hannah sipped her tea.
“I know this hand. I only need to remember to whom it belongs.” Wycliff refolded the letters and made a tidy stack.
“Let’s worry about it tomorrow. Tonight is the village ball and there is much to do. We will need a quantity of hot water to ensure everyone is clean. Including you, Barnes, and under your fingernails, mind.” Hannah pointed to the hand. Not only did he scramble through the dirt, but Sheba liked to lick him. He needed to be scrubbed twice as hard to ensure he was presentable.
For the first time in their visit, the old house seemed alive with the tingle of excitement. Mary danced around the conservatory clutching the dusky pink dress. Hannah had quietly purchased it on her last trip to the village, and presented it to the maid as an engagement gift. The men were banished to the stables to bathe in the water troughs heated by Wycliff’s hellhound ability.
For the dance, Hannah selected a silk gown in a deep green. Mary piled her hair up on her head and then pinned a silver painted starfish among her locks. A shawl of blue and white echoed the waves of the ocean and Hannah felt rather nautical. Wycliff wore formal black pantaloons and a black tailcoat with an embroidered waistcoat in deep blue underneath.
Despite his challenging size, the three women had managed to cobble together a suitable outfit for Frank. He wore a cream shirt Mary had sewn for him, and a waistcoat Mrs Rossett had found in a trunk stored in one of the storage rooms, its tails removed to suit current fashion. Hannah wondered if a giant had previously lived at Mireworth, given that the enormous item fitted Frank perfectly.
“Don’t think you are being left out.” Mrs Rossett pointed to Barnes, summoning him. The hand scuttled across the tabletop and stopped before the housekeeper. From behind her back, she pulled out a tiny black collar with a miniature snowy cravat. She tied it around Barnes’ stump and beamed at him. “Now you look suitable to accompany us.”
Mary’s eyes shone with excitement and she twirled in her new gown. “My first proper appearance in company as an engaged woman.” She held out her hand with its ring and then compared the enamel work holding the pearl to the deep rose of her dress. The two were a perfect match for one another.
“You look very pretty, Mary. I’m sure many of the village lads will be disappointed to hear you are spoken for,” Hannah said as the women found their shawls and wrapped exposed shoulders for the journey to the village.
Wycliff handed them up into the large carriage, then Frank climbed to the driver’s seat and took command of the horses.
In the village, Hannah stepped over the threshold of the hall and hardly recognised the place, even though she had helped with the decorations. The old fishing nets were stretched across the ceiling and became the sky above. Starfish were dotted about like stars, painted with a phosphorus paint from Mr Seager that glowed in hues of soft orange and buttery yellow. Strands of shells hung everywhere, in some places ma
king curtains that revellers had to duck through. The magical paintings of fish seemed to dart among the seaweed that swayed to an ocean current.
Lanterns were surrounded by sheer fabric tinted green and blue, and cast the room in water hues. Movement from the artificial sea creatures caused the light to flicker as though they were underwater.
“Oh, it looks marvellous.” Hannah had seen it only by daylight, but now with the lanterns lit, it transformed into something truly magical.
A trio of men were seated at one end and took up their instruments to strike up a rousing country dance. Everywhere, people smiled and laughed.
Wycliff seemed in a rare good mood and called out to many of the men who hailed him. He kissed her hand. “Excuse me, Hannah, a small matter of business needs to be attended to. I want to ask Swift what price the fleece fetched.”
Mr Hartley appeared at Hannah’s side and bowed in a courtly fashion. “Lady Wycliff, might I have the honour of introducing you to the villagers you have not yet met? And if I could be so bold, perhaps a later dance?”
Hannah glanced at her husband’s broad back. He had gathered a semicircle of men around him and laughter rose from them. She turned back to her gallant companion. “That would be most pleasant, Mr Hartley, thank you.”
He extended his arm and she rested her fingers on his sleeve. He wore a waistcoat of sea green with an aqua silk cravat that increased his attractiveness. Hannah found herself wondering how Mr Hartley had managed to live in the village for two years and remain unmarried. He would be an excellent catch, with his good looks, easy manners, and intelligence.
“I cannot monopolise your time, though, Mr Hartley. Is there not a special woman here you wish to dance with tonight?” Since the dance had a sea theme, Hannah tried a spot of fishing to see where the reverend’s affections lay.
His gaze caught hers and he stroked her gloved hand. “I am exactly where I wish to be, Lady Wycliff. I have not found such a kindred spirit in any other.”
Sixpence and Selkies Page 19
