Geran released him and stood aside, clearing his view of a regal woman seated on the kitchen’s best chair, her gnarled face set with glinting eyes, each spilling over from a warm and affectionate smile.
“Lady ... Lady Charlotte? Is it really thee?”
The woman’s smile now seemed to hint at tears, clearly fought back as she slowly nodded. “A long time, dear Lord Nephril. A long time indeed,” and she opened her arms, Nephril soon stooping to hug her warmly.
Their poignant meeting stilled the room for some time, each slowly stroking the other’s back, an occasional firm pat, a choke of tears. Lady Charlotte eventually eased them apart, holding Nephril by the arms, her head cocked, her smile brightly glistening through her eyes once more.
“I hope,” she said, “you’ve been looking after my granddaughter, although she does speak highly of your treatment ... if not your manners.”
Nephril clearly found it too hard to summon words.
“Your mother- and father-in-law were most kind in inviting us to your function, Nephril,” she said, and Winifred appeared beside her, standing at her shoulder.
“My family,” Winifred said, “have decided to move back into the castle, to a nice place in the Lords Demesne.”
“Move from Haweshead Manor?” Nephril finally managed to say. “From your family seat?” and he looked from one to the other.
“Grandmamma is staying at the Bluebell Inn in Chop Gate for a few days, whilst preparations are completed at the estate. It’s quite convenient for here, and she did so want to see you after all these years ... and to bring a little gift for your daughter of course.”
“And one for yourself, my dear Nephril,” Lady Charlotte said and waved her hand at Winifred.
A document roll appeared from a bag beside Lady Charlotte’s chair and into Nephril’s hand. He removed its cap and slid out and unrolled a large sheet of parchment. “Your defeasance perniman,” he declared and lifted his wide eyes to her smile. “You didn’t destroy it.”
“No, Nephril, I didn’t. I hid it, just in case.” She leant forward and tapped the parchment. “’Tis now our proof of good standing in this new Dican realm of yours,” and she grinned. “Plus, it rightly belongs in your own collection, given your recent election as Guardian of Dica.”
Nephril gently raised the lady’s hand and pressed his lips to her wrinkled and liverwort-speckled skin. “Rest assured, my good lady and true friend, this will be officially registered and retained. You and your family are most welcome within the precincts of Dica. Speaking of which, have you as yet seen your son?”
A cloud passed across the lady’s eyes. “I have, Nephril, but Melkin is a little ... a little frail of mind. Naturally, he took badly to his daughter’s death, but apparently he had been weakening before that.” She sat a little straighter. “It seems he’s long been in no fit state to look after himself, so he will move in to Highgate House with us: our new seat in the Lords Demesne.”
Nephril noticed Falmeard moving through the room, tray in hand, dispensing incongruously fine crystal glasses full of a dark, rich wine. “Another gift of the good Lady Charlotte,” he kept repeating until all held the makings of a toast in their hands.
Only when everyone stood, glasses at the ready, did Nephril begin to recognise yet more familiar faces. There were many everyday friends and family of course, some not seen since their wedding, but a few from much further back.
As the room stilled, and before Falmeard could clear his throat, Nephril had already nodded at Pettar and Dialwatcher, and Penolith beside Braygar and Phaylan. Stella now slipped her arm around his waist and smiled up at him.
“If I can have your attention,” Falmeard rather hesitantly called above everyone’s heads, and the whole room turned to bring a flush to his cheeks.
He stared at everyone then grinned a little sheepishly. “I had it all worked out before, but, well...” He shrugged and turned his gaze squarely on Nephril. “From an old and valued friend to a young and even more valued son-in-law: how strange are our times, but how much joy they’ve brought both to myself and my treasured Geran.”
That joy filled his gleaming eyes when they moved on to behold his daughter, and he coughed again before saying, “A love unbound is truly a love that can never again be denied, Stella, that cherishes the more the incomparable gift of a granddaughter.”
Falmeard finally steeled himself to address them all. “And so, here we are, to celebrate Mirabel’s fourth birthday, although,” and he looked around the room, “she’s clearly still besotted by more important matters.” Another distant squeal affirmed it, bringing a ripple of laughter to the room.
“Mirabel’s birthday, though, coincides with yet more causes for celebration. I think most of you are already aware of Nephril’s new guiding role in our realm’s affairs, but I can now tell you yet more wonderful news. My beloved daughter has also been recently appointed,” and here he did look at his notes, “as ‘Principal of Celestial Studies at, and Vice Chancellor of, Yuhlm College’.”
Congratulations were heaped upon Stella, but Falmeard eventually quietened the room. “I don’t think she’ll mind me giving away a little secret now when I tell you she will be creating a new faculty called ... err, what was it again, Stella?”
“Ethical Studies, Dad.”
“Ah, yes, Ethical Studies, and no one better to nurture it along.” For a moment he stared at Stella, a single tear trailing down his cheek before he raised his glass. “Stella,” he announced. “May she guide Dica’s new beginnings towards a healthy, prosperous and balanced future. To Stella,” he cried, and the room echoed his words as glasses lofted above the smiles all around her.
The room fell silent as her toast was drunk, until a small voice insisted, “Look, Mummy. Look what Uncle Grog gave me,” and everyone looked down at Mirabel, holding out a bemused looking rabbit.
“Aw, isn’t he cute,” Stella enthused, crouching before them. “What are you going to call him then? I bet you’ve thought up a fine name.”
“Bugs,” Mirabel declared, a triumphant beam on her face.
“Bugs? Err, well, that’s an unusual name, petal. Where did you get that one from?” and Mirabel turned abruptly to Falmeard, the poor rabbit’s ears and legs spinning out in an arc.
“Granddad,” she said, grinning up at him.
“Bugs, eh?” and Stella eyed her father. “Bugs Rabbit? Well, it doesn’t really have a ring to it, but if you like it, Mirabel, then Bugs it is,” and knowing father and suspecting daughter now gazed at one another, broad smiles clearly etched across their undeniably happy faces.
About the Author
Clive Johnson was born in the mid-1950’s in Bradford, in what was then the West Riding of the English county of Yorkshire. Mid-way through the 1970s, he found himself lured away by the bright lights of Manchester to attend Salford University.
In addition to getting a degree in electronics, he also had the good fortune of meeting Maureen (Kit) Medley - subsequently his partner and recent Editor. Manchester retained its lure and has thereafter been his hometown.
Torn between the arts (a natural and easy artist) and the sciences (struggled with maths), youthful rationality favoured science as a living, leaving art as a pastime pleasure. Consequently, after graduation, twenty years were spent implementing technologies for mainframe computer design and manufacture, and being a Group IT Manager for an international print company.
The catalyst of a corporate takeover led to a change of career, and the opportunity to return to the arts. The unearthing of a late seventies manuscript - during loft improvements - resurrected an interest in storytelling, and one thing led to another. A naïve and inexpert seed finally received benefit of mature loam, and from it his first novel - Leiyatel’s Embrace - soon blossomed.
Find my website at http://www.flyingferrets.com
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Starmaker Stella (Dica Series Book 6) Page 27
