by Tracy Lynn
“Staying young and beautiful is a full-time job. Be glad you are not a woman, Fiddler.”
Alan cleared his throat respectfully. “Being kind and wise is a full-time job, for anyone, My Lady. You are clearly beautiful, but I am sure people notice more than that.”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
Uh-oh.
“You are full of wisdom, Fiddler. I do not think I like that. Here, pick this mirror up and hold it where I can see myself more clearly.”
It was a huge thing, and it took all of his strength just to hoist it up so it could rest against his stomach.
“You try being wise and good and getting a second husband when you are forty. Then I will take advice from you.”
While Alan struggled to hold the thing, the duchess went to one of her boxes and took out a golden necklace. “A gift,” she said with a slight smile. Before Alan could object she fastened it around his neck and fixed it under his shirt. “Very manly. Maybe … maybe we’ll get you a little charm for it—a violin, or the like. Something appropriate.”
Alan started to say “Thank you,” or “My Lady, you are too kind,” or “This is a little strange,” but the duchess hadn’t finished. She backed up to look at herself in the mirror.
“From now on,” she said, smoothing her hair and admiring her reflection, “you will speak to me only when I wish an answer. And you will find yourself unable to tell anyone about what we discuss or do.”
Alan prepared a respectful bit of flattery, but when he opened his mouth he found he had nothing to say.
The duchess smiled.
“Good. Now, for instance, if I ask something—like, ‘Mirror boy, of all you have seen thus far, who in this remote land is the most beautiful woman?’ you would say …”
Alan found himself able to speak. “You are, without a doubt, My Lady.”
“Excellent. We shall get along splendidly. Now put the mirror down and help me unpack my things.”
Although he was worried about his sudden lack of wit—his teacher always said that musicians were almost like modern jesters and had to flatter as well as play for their clients—he was also just relieved to put the heavy mirror down.
Chapter Three
ALAN
Jessica was given a fortnight’s vacation. “Time for the new couple to become acquainted,” was what Dolly said. It was ridiculous thinking of them as a new couple since they were both relatively old, and previously married and everything. She overheard whispers and rumors of heirs and hopes for a child. Jessica, far more knowledgeable on the subject than her father would have liked, rather hoped she would get a baby brother, even if he would be really only half her brother. If that’s all I can get! It would give her someone to play with; she strongly suspected her wild roaming about the estate was at an end.
She ran with the pack of kids in the castle these last fourteen days, climbing roofs, fishing in the stream, and stealing muffins when they thought no one was watching. Once, however, Jessica caught Davey planting a kiss on the cheek of one of the coachman’s granddaughters and catching at her hand. The sight made her uneasy, and she felt like she was being left out of something.
She noticed the new boy, Alan, squatting on the steps of the driveway, frowning at a piece of paper in his hands. A perfect opportunity to subtly find out what his story was.
“Hello,” she said, marching up to him.
Alan raised an eyebrow and cocked his head back to look at her, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. His face was covered in freckles, like hers, but his were soft and red and all over, whereas hers were brown and sprinkled profusely around the nose. His eyes were a sunny blue, much prettier than her muddy brownish-black ones.
“Oh, hello there. And who might you be?”
“I’m”—she took a breath—“Jessica Abigail Danvers Kenigh, daughter of the duke.”
“Oh, are you now?” he replied, nodding seriously “Well, I’m Alan McDonald. Pleased to meet you.” He stuck out his hand. They shook, very formally.
“Where are you from?” She figured such personal questions were okay now that they knew each other’s names.
“Down the road aways.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “I don’t think so. Your accent is all wrong.”
“Oh it is, is it?” he laughed. “You caught me. I’m from the Isle of Arran, Scotland.”
“Is it very pleasant there?”
“It is if you like sheep and cows and heather and sky.”
She thought about this, frowning.
“The cows are very shaggy,” he added helpfully, “with long brown hair that hangs over their eyes, like a dog’s. They’re much smaller than your English or Welsh cows.”
His voice had a lilt as he spoke, and he made everything sound like a question. She decided she could listen to him all afternoon.
“Is it true you can play the violin?”
“Word gets around, eh? Aye, I fiddle a bit. My mother and father would have sent me to music school in Italy if they had the money.”
“Why didn’t they?”
As soon as it was out of her mouth she realized this was probably a rude question, but Alan laughed. “Because, Jessica Abigail Danvers Kenigh, daughter of the duke,” he said as he touched her nose, “I have six sisters, younger and older, and farming cannae get you much gold.”
“Six.” Jessica tried to imagine this. There were other children on the estate who she pretended were related to her, but it wasn’t the same. If she had six sisters, she would always have someone to play with.
She noticed the paper in his hands.
“What are you looking at?”
“Among my other duties as servant and house fiddler of Kenigh Hall, I have to find all of these herbs for the duchess.”
“Herbs?” She grabbed the list from him, again rudely, and again realizing half a moment too late. “Wolfsbane? Mugwort? Mountain mint?” The only people who used herbs like these were servants, who couldn’t afford proper medicine or morphine from the chemist. “Is she a witch?”
Alan cocked his head at her. He opened his mouth, then scratched his head and tugged at something at his throat; Jessica saw a brief glint of gold. He opened his mouth a few more times, then finally said, “I think … it might have to do with … a baby.” He kept smiling, but the words sounded forced.
His answer was enough to satisfy Jessica. Women always seemed to try mad things when they were trying to get pregnant. She was tiny and easily hidden, and heard many, many conversations.
“I don t even know where to start looking,” he sighed. “Back in Scotland I could have found at least a couple of these.”
“I can show you some places,” Jessica volunteered enthusiastically. “I run around all over here.”
“I’d be honored to have the company of such a fine young lady,” Alan said, standing and offering her his arm.
Jessica took it with great seriousness, formally keeping a few fingers on his wrist.
They had a grand day in the woods, though Jessica wondered a little about why a boy so much older was being nice to her. As long as she could remember, all of the older kids on the estate never hung out with the younger ones and were often standoffish and mean. Alan always listened to her and was patient. Maybe he could be like an older brother—if he could stand one more sister.
Seven, seven, lucky and heaven …
Chapter Four
BEST YEARS, A BOOK OF HOURS
6:00 A.M. Rise
True to her word, the duchess made Jessica follow her around like a small, occasionally disobedient puppy, starting every day as soon as she rose.
With the darkness of night not yet lifted and icy air not yet banished, the duchess washed. And so did Jessica. The duchess had a washbowl, a pitcher, and Turkish cloths; Jessica had a bowl and mug. The duchess applied unguents, oils, and creams at her vanity in front of a smaller version of the mirror Alan was often forced to hold. A high chair was brought in, and Jessica perched next to her,
aping her actions. The duchess thought it charming the first time Jessica “accidentally” covered her face in too much sticky white cold cream, but after the fourth time, she smacked her.
7:00 A.M. Beautify
Cucumbers were applied to the duchess’s eyes and a cold wet towel to her neck, and she lay back in her chair like the dead for exactly fifteen minutes. Jessica, not being old, did not require this treatment.
The smells at the table, the softness of the ribbons, cloths, and cushions in the duchess’s dressing room, and the muted pink and cream colors reminded Jessica of something she believed she half-remembered, something warm and feminine. When Anne wasn’t looking, Jessica would crawl up to the back of the ivory-striped silk divan and open the locket with her mother’s miniature and stare at it. With the duchess simply lying there and not speaking, Jessica could almost believe it was her real mother in the room with her.
8:30 A.M. Breakfast
“A lady should not eat too much,” the duchess instructed, “nor should she let the flesh fall from her bones.”
Jessica was given porridge and cream, hot black tea, and a piece of fruit, often an apple.
“An incomparable aid to digestion,” the duchess said.
9:30 A.M. Traditional Lessons: French, Latin, and Sums
A tutor was eventually found, which was a great annoyance to Jessica. Terrence was a young and good-natured man, however—if not as handsome or nice as Alan. She became excellent at sums and her times tables. When she wanted to do more, Terrence just laughed and said it wasn’t necessary because she would never become a shopkeeper or a banker. Girls didn’t do such things, especially one of her station.
When Jessica told this story offhandedly to the duchess, the older woman’s face froze in a steely blankness Jessica hadn’t expected. When Terrence was dismissed and a new teacher found, Jessica thought it was something she had done. This one was far less friendly, an older woman with glasses that pinched and an Adam’s apple that stuck out so far it looked like she had permanently swallowed a cannonball.
2:00 P.M. Lessons of a Different Sort: Lying, Hiding, and Sneaking About
After her studies, Jessica had the afternoons all to herself. The duchess disappeared to her bedroom, to nap, read improvement books, or perform strange experiments, depending on who was asked. Jessica spent every scrap of these precious moments in the kitchen with her old family, or outside with her old friends or Alan, her best friend of all.
The duchess would have been appalled if she knew. But Jessica was perfect in her little frocks at dinner. Lying came as naturally to her as running. She never told the duchess she was catching frogs with Davey; she was always “picking wildflowers” or “getting some air.” She was never running races with the servants children; she was “playing with her hoop” or “enjoying the company of someone else’s small dog.” The duchess had taught her a key point in the importance of dress; Jessica very carefully kept her outdoor playclothes separate from her indoor, parent-approved ones.
4:00 P.M. Tea
Sometimes with stuffed animals and stories, sometimes with Dolly and extra sweets, sometimes with the duchess and instructions:
“A lady takes one lump, never two.”
“Always offer to pour.”
“Raise your finger—thus—while you sip.”
“This is the correct fork for pie.”
Jessica would nod sweetly, face scrubbed and tea frock on, and she scratched the scabs on her knees when she could.
6:00 P.M. Illicit Wanders, Dangerous Discoveries
The duchess was accustomed to spending this hour going over meals and groceries with the housekeeper and the cook. Jessica thought this a splendid time to go through the older woman’s things in her other room—the one Jessica wasn’t allowed to enter. Alan did not like this game at all, playing rarely, reluctantly, and only, he said, to keep her out of trouble. Jessica had been dying to see the secret laboratory everyone whispered about. The rumors of the duchess’s being a witch doubled her curiosity.
The laboratory did satisfy any child’s concept of a dangerous, mystical place. Where another woman might have had small paintings or statues, the duchess had strange machines with gears, knobs, and dials. Where other people might have stacks of favorite books or small bouquets of flowers, the duchess had racks of test tubes, some of which were empty and sparkled, some of which were stoppered and filled with strange, dark fluid. In a box that might have held correspondence with friends—like Jessica’s mother had—the duchess had letters from famous scientists. She signed her own missives, Jessica noted, only with her initials, and her handwriting was distinctly unfeminine. Is she pretending to be a man?
In place of a shelf of favorite novels or Greek philosophy, the duchess had new science journals and treatises, and ancient tomes, some with locks and all with inscriptions in strange or foreign languages, by foreigners with names like Alhazred.
“Spells!” Jessica exclaimed delightedly, flipping through one of the older books. “Magic! I could turn you into a frog! Let’s take one—”
“Jessica,” Alan said nervously, ruffling her hair. “Magic isn’t real.”
She looked at him, raising an eyebrow at his tone.
Then he added, more honestly, “Ye shouldna mess with magic, Jess. A bad spell turns back on the caster times three, as my grandmum says. And … it does things to people. Or maybe the type of people who do it are of a sort, touched….”
7:00 P.M. Supper
Before supper the duchess made sure the two of them got dressed together with the help of maids. Jessica had to admit that as much of a pain the bows, underclothes, tight shoes, and hair ribbons were, the new clothes the duchess bought her were the finest she had ever worn, and that she looked the perfect little noblewoman in them. Of course, she had to act like one too, which was an annoyance that involved careful eating, no talking, and more curtsying than she could stand.
8:00 P.M. Sleeptime
Before bed a toilet much like the one in the morning was repeated. Jessica thought her stepmother looked like an angel in the long, frothy white things she slept in.
The evening was grown-up time. Once in a great while Jessica would be called in after her dinner to recite what she had learned that day, or to kiss her father and the duchess good night, or, rarely, to share a cup of hot chocolate with them before they had their own dinner. In the books Jessica was now forced to read—though secretly she liked them—glamorous people like the duchess and rich people like her father threw parties and had giant dinners and constantly invited streams of guests through their houses, but no such events ever occurred at Kenigh Hall.
At first the arrangement suited both Jessica and the duchess. Jessica loved getting all of the attention of the beautiful and glamorous older woman, even if she wasn’t exactly a mother.
Years passed. The duchess spent more and more time “napping” or “reading,” and Alan was sent to gather stranger and stranger things, many of which Jessica was able to help him with, but some things he seemed unable to even tell her about. Otherwise, little changed.
Life at Kenigh Hall continued pleasantly for everyone, it seemed.
Chapter Five
LETTER FROM ALAN
Dearest Claire,
I hope this note finds its way to you. While my dreams of playing in sunny palaces in Europe—in gardens filled with lemon trees and honeysuckle—remain undiminished, they are for a while delayed. I have managed to secure a position with some minor duke in Wales, of all places. You were right; making enquiries with about-to-be-married royalty has paid off. I am a “gift” to his new bride. No, no, nothing like that.
The place where I ended up—Kenigh, if you ever happen by—is almost as pretty as the Highlands. A pleasant little town not unlike where we grew up, removed from time. The estate is only middle-sized, I am told, but large enough for everyone back home. If there are any more Roman (or English!) invasions I have no doubt we will be quite safe—the weather and rocks are mos
t forbidding. They gave me a snug little room in the servants’ quarters, far away from everyone so I can practice. Ha! Remember when you and Elsie were mad because I got my own room at home?
The duke is, well, I suppose like all dukes—his prime pastimes are being dead stiff boring when he is not putting on airs.
Everyone is too busy bothering themselves about the new duchess to concern themselves with a violinist. I sort of take second fiddle—pardon the pun—around here next to the flurry over her. Which is good; they don’t seem to be used to outsiders.
The duchess herself seems pleasant enough—cold, and beautiful in an older woman sort of way. Very polite. She has agreed to take me on and be my patron—yesf a real patron!—in return for doing other things for her as well. Minor things, like rearranging furniture to her contentment, and other tasks, hard to describe. No … I take that back. It seems I can write them, just not talk about them…. And those were her exact words: “Tell anyone …”
Claire, this is very strange—don’t be telling Mum or Da. The duchess has me all over the countryside looking for strange things—she wants a baby and cannot, so far. At first it was herbs and roots and leaves, but now it’s other things … animals, and—I fear to even talk about the others.
But that’s just it, Sis—she gave me a golden necklace with a fiddle charm; it would be pretty if it weren’t so strange. Since putting it on I cannot talk about the things I do for her. Almost like magic. She says it’s not, though, something about magnets and mesmerism. Science, she says. Spiritualism, I say!
But she has bought me music and strings and done nothing improper. She plans on taking me to a real symphony this month! It is my first real job, and I’ll take what I can get.
