Bewitched

by Cullman, Heather;

  At any rate, it was late afternoon when the tempest that had prompted the legend had struck, hitting suddenly and without warning, streaking the storm-blackened sky with lightning and furiously pelting the moors with hail and rain. According to the abbot’s report, it had been wash day, and though the brothers had managed to collect most of the laundry from the oak tree, the fierceness of the wind had caused several sheets to become entangled in the branches, thus making it impossible for the monks to free them without risking hazard to themselves. Hence, they had been left in the tree.

  The youths, having arrived just after vespers, were extended every humble hospitality the monks had to offer, after which they were shown to a chamber in which they were invited to pass the night. The chamber, as fate would have it, had a window that overlooked the courtyard. When the youths peeked out that window later that night, no doubt attempting to gauge the storm, they beheld the sodden sheets swinging from the tree branches, illuminated only by the eerie bursts of lightning.

  Because of the speculation about the Cistercians, some of it involving madness, they had imagined the sheets to be the corpses of hanged monks; a macabre vagary that had made them flee the cloisters in horror without awaiting either confirmation of their suspicion or an explanation of what they saw. Their report of the incident to the other peasants had planted the seeds of the legend, which had thrived and grown over the centuries to include wind spirits, ghosts, and curses.

  When Michael had at last fallen silent, Emily, whose mind had been eased by the explanation, had pensively smoothed her hand over the time-glossed surface of the stump, speculating aloud as to the fate of the once mighty oak. Pointing to the nearby well, Michael had explained how the tree’s roots had threatened the cloister’s water source, thus necessitating that it be chopped down. At her prompting, he had then given her a most fascinating tour of the ruins, detailing the original purpose of each building and describing how it was reported to have once looked. He was telling of the fire that had reduced the cloisters to their current rubble when Mr. Eadon had appeared, informing his employer that he had business requiring his immediate attention.

  And that had been that. After escorting her back to the house, Michael had disappeared into the bowels of the abbey, from which, as far as she knew, he had yet to emerge.

  Wondering if, perhaps, he’d secretly thought her questions about the legend ridiculous and was now avoiding her for fear of being roped into another silly tête-à-tête, Emily picked up one of the paper strips she’d cut and began clipping it into a featherlike fringe. It was possible, she supposed, just as it was conceivable that he’d deemed her a peagoose and had judged her friendship not worth his while. She paused mid-snip, crushed by the notion. Truth be told, she found him extremely worthwhile. Not only was he charming, intelligent, and amusing, but he was a pleasure to behold.

  As always happened when she envisioned her husband, Emily felt the queerest tingling in her belly. He was such a handsome man, too handsome, really. It ought to be illegal for a man to look so. She sighed. He was especially stunning when he smiled, flashing what had to be the most perfect set of teeth God ever granted a mortal man.

  And then there was the improvement in his color. As if he hadn’t been far too attractive before, his smooth cheeks had boasted a faint, but extremely becoming hint of pink the last time she saw him, an enhancement that rendered him devastating.

  For several heartbeats her mesmerized mind’s eye remained riveted on Michael’s exquisite face, glorying in its perfection. Then she shook her head and tried to tear it away. To her dismay, his provocative image remained firmly fixed in her thoughts. After several more fruitless attempts to banish him, she gave up and surrendered to her daydream.

  Hmmm. All and all he’d looked better during their walk around the cloisters … healthier. Not only had his color improved, there had been a spring in his step and strength in his arms, something she had noted when he’d helped her over the rubble during their tour of the ruins. Yes, and she mustn’t forget the sparkle in his eyes … his beautiful, extraordinary eyes.

  Another sigh escaped her. Never in her life had she seen eyes that color, that brilliant bluish-green. Why, they perfectly matched the jade in the bracelet her oldest brother, George, had brought her from Turkestan … the one that currently graced her left wrist. Emily glanced at the exotically wrought piece of jewelry, her cheeks heating with embarrassment at the romantic fancy that had led her to don it.

  How very missish of her to wear it, just because the color of the stones happened to match the eyes of a man she admired. One would have thought that she was a schoolgirl with a crush to behave so, which she most assuredly was not.

  Shaking her head, she resumed her cutting. No. Just because she liked looking at Michael didn’t mean that she had a crush on him. Indeed, she couldn’t imagine anyone not finding the sight of him pleasurable. He was, after all, an exceptionally beautiful man, and viewing him was rather like beholding a stunning work of art. That she also enjoyed his company … well, thinking him handsome and agreeable was a long way from the breathless captivation one felt for the object of a crush. Another head shake. No. She hardly suffered a crush. The long and the short of the matter was that she liked Michael Vane and wished him for a friend.

  Too bad he didn’t share her feelings.

  A pang of disappointment tightened her throat. Despite her camaraderie with Bennie and her cordiality with the servants, she was lonely. And not a day had passed since her arrival in Dartmoor that she hadn’t wished for a friend, a special someone with whom she could exchange thoughts and confidences. After the rapport she’d shared with Michael, she’d thought that he might be that someone. The fact that he’d seemed as starved for company as she, displaying the eager, almost desperate animation of a person who was alone too often, had merely strengthened her belief.

  Obviously she had been wrong. Obviously he wasn’t starved enough to overlook her silliness and adopt her as a friend. Obviously he preferred Eadon’s company, though judging from the grim expression on his face when the man had appeared, he found the relationship less than enjoyable.

  She was just trying to imagine exactly what that relationship might be, having no clear idea as to Mr. Eadon’s actual position in the household, when there was a scratching at the door. Frowning, more at her thoughts than at the interruption, she called out, “Yes?”

  It was Francis, the first footman, a pleasant-faced man in his late twenties whose main duty seemed to be leading her about the house and seeing to it that she didn’t get lost in the impossible maze of halls. As always, he was immaculately garbed in elegant dark green and gold livery, his hair, which Emily had never seen, neatly tucked beneath a formal powdered wig. Smiling with an ease that was at odds with his decorous appearance, he sketched a stately bow and uttered, “Dinner, your grace.”

  Dinner? Emily’s scissors froze mid-snip as she stared at him in surprise. Was it really so late? One glance at the shadows outside the row of round-headed windows told her that it was. “Oh, my. Wherever does the time go?” she murmured, laying her project on the table. The answer, of course, was obvious. The time, which had dragged up until two days ago, now flew whenever she thought about Michael.

  Wondering if her cheeks were as red as they felt, another discomfiting consequence of thinking about Michael, she self-consciously smoothed what she was certain was her impossibly mussed hair, adding, “I am afraid I’m rather a mess. Perhaps I should freshen myself before going downstairs.” Why she should bother, she didn’t know. Except for Francis, who stood stationed behind her chair at meals, and the other footmen who served the food, she always ate alone.

  The footman bowed again—all the servants in England bowed overly much in Emily’s opinion. “Unless you would feel more comfortable in doing so, I hardly think it warranted. You look quite splendid, as always, your grace.”

  “Well, if you are sure I am proper
,” she slowly replied, dubiously eyeing her simple pomegranate-and-black-checked jaconet gown. “I wouldn’t wish the other footmen to think their mistress a slovenly frump.”

  “I can assure you that they will think no such thing, your grace. Indeed, it is often commented upon in the servants’ hall that we have the loveliest mistress in all of England.”

  If Emily’s cheeks weren’t red before, they most definitely were now.

  “Besides,” he continued, “we mustn’t keep, er”—a faint, uncharacteristic flush stained his fair cheeks—“uh, what I mean to say is that dinner is ready, and that since I was detained from my duty of escorting you downstairs, well”—a head shake—“I needn’t tell you what a terror Cook can be when she is kept waiting to serve.”

  Indeed he did not. Judging from the crashing and scolding she’d heard coming from the kitchen on those occasions when she’d been late for a meal, and the redness of the footmen’s faces afterward as they had come racing forth bearing trays of plain but hearty food, it was clear that the cook, plump Phoebe Swann, ruled the kitchen with an iron spoon.

  Not wishing to subject the footmen to the tribulation of Cook’s temper, Emily rose, pausing only the briefest of moments to smooth her rumpled skirts with her hand. Dismissing them as hopeless, she nodded at Francis, who bowed yet again and ushered her from the room.

  The sewing room was located in what was referred to as the new wing of the house, new being seventy years old, which in comparison to the original sections of the abbey was very new indeed. Being new meant that it was far removed from the dining areas, all of which were situated in either the old abbey or the addition built by the first Vane owner sometime during the reign of Henry VIII.

  In accordance with Emily’s preference, meals were always served in the breakfast room, a cozy nook at the end of the Tudor wing, rather than in the enormous banqueting hall, which was where her first dinner at Windgate had been served and which she had found far too large and grand for her comfort.

  Thus when they reached the hall where the breakfast room was quartered, Emily was surprised to be led in the opposite direction. Wondering if perhaps the footman’s mind was on other matters and that he had inadvertently taken a wrong turn, she pointed out his mistake.

  He smiled a cryptic smile and shook his head. “Dinner is being served in the Italian dining room this evening, your grace.”

  She frowned at the oddness of his information. She had seen the Italian dining room only once, while on a tour of the house with Grimshaw. And while not as vast as the banqueting hall nor as formal as what was referred to as the little dining room, it was still far too imposing for her taste. Indeed, all that marble, those florid wall murals, and the numerous alcoves with Romanesque statues were quite enough to take away one’s appetite with the confusion they caused the eye. Add the gaudy shell-shaped buffets and the long table, neither of which were Italian at all, but yet more of the rococo monstrosities that blighted the abbey, and you had a room in which she’d hoped never to dine.

  As they stopped before the door, Emily murmured, “How very irregular that dinner should be served in here. Are you quite certain that you aren’t mistaken?” That last was uttered with a note of forlorn hope.

  “Quite certain, your grace.”

  “But why? I mean”—she shrugged her puzzlement—“why the sudden change? I was quite content dining in the breakfast room.”

  Another cryptic smile. “You shall see.” With that, he flung open the double doors. Indicating with a sweeping hand motion that she was to enter, he murmured, “If you please, your grace?”

  Not quite certain what to make of his queer conduct, Emily did as directed, only to stop on the threshold in the next instant. Michael was there, sitting at the far end of the long table.

  At her appearance, he rose unsteadily from his seat, his whole body visibly trembling from the effort. Pressing his palms against the linen-draped table to brace himself, he nodded, smiling weakly. “Good evening, dear wife.” His voice sounded hoarse, as if it had been skinned raw.

  Emily stared at him in shock, more taken aback by his appearance than by his presence. Good heavens! What had happened to him? He was so pale, far paler than she’d ever seen him. And thinner, if such a change were possible in only two days’ time. In truth, he looked positively wasted. Then there was the way he trembled with weakness and the fragility of his voice. All and all he looked and sounded like a person who had recently suffered a grave illness and had barely survived to tell of it.

  Alarmed, she lifted her skirts and rushed to him. Unmindful of the footmen, who stood at attention along the wall, pretending not to notice her harum-scarum entrance into the room, she came to a skidding stop beside him. “Your grace … oh! What has happened? You look terrible.” It was no lie. Up close he looked even worse, bad enough to drop where he stood.

  His ashen lips curved into a semblance of a rakish smile and he even managed a rasping chuckle. “I must say that that is hardly the sort of greeting I envisioned. Then again, I am unfamiliar with your American customs.” He tipped his head to one side, his stunning eyes, the only thing about him she found unaltered, dancing with amusement as he gazed down at her. “Tell me, wife. Is blurting out the brutal truth about another person’s poor appearance an accepted convention in America?”

  “Only when the person in question looks as if he should be on his death bed, which you do,” she replied, frowning as he swayed precariously and had to clutch the edge of the table to steady himself. Though he continued to smile, his face blanched a shade whiter and a fine sheen of perspiration misted his brow. Certain that he was about to faint at any moment, Emily thumped the arm of his chair and sternly ordered, “Sit down this instant, your grace. Before you topple over and put yourself into a worse state than you are currently in.”

  Michael out and out grinned at her scolding tone, stunned and pleased by her genuine show of concern. Though they had been companionable during their walk, he’d hardly expected her to care enough about him to fret over his welfare. That she did made him all the more determined to improve on their tentatively cordial relationship, which was the reason he’d dragged himself from his sickbed to dine with her this evening, despite both Eadon’s and his own infirm body’s vigorous protests against him doing so.

  Truth be told, he’d been afraid to stay away from her for any longer, worried that the fragile bud of their blossoming friendship would wither from a lack of nourishment. The required nourishment was, of course, conversation and companionship, the administration of which necessitated him being near her as often and for as long as she would permit. It was nourishment he was eager to provide … so eager, in fact, that the prospect of doing so had done much to sustain his spirits as he’d lay recuperating from the debilitating effects of Eadon’s latest course of treatments.

  Now determined to make the most of his hard-won moments with Emily, Michael replied in as teasing a tone as his emetic-traumatized throat would allow, “I shall sit only if you promise to call me Michael. I wish to be friends, you know, and friends refer to each other by their given names.”

  She sniffed. “By the look of you, you shan’t live long enough to be friends with anyone if you don’t start taking better care of yourself.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.” He shrugged one shoulder and broadened his smile. “Then again, what is the purpose of living if you refuse to be my friend?”

  She flushed a glorious shade of red, visibly flustered by his flattering response. “I never said that I didn’t wish to be friends with you … Michael. There.” She nodded. “I called you by your name. Now do sit down and tell me what has happened.” Nodding again, she motioned to his chair, demanding his immediate cooperation.

  Which he gladly gave. In truth, it had taken the last of his meager strength simply to stand; thus he more collapsed than sat back down in his chair. Disregarding the fact that her place had been se
t at the opposite end of the table, Emily pulled the chair at his right as close to him as she could get it, then plopped down, scrutinizing his face with a frown. The instant her backside hit the chair seat, the footmen sprang into action, gathering up her place setting and moving it to her selected spot at the table.

  Ignoring them, or perhaps she was merely oblivious to their bustling in her concern for him, she laid her hand over his, which continued to more clutch than rest on the edge of the table, and began stroking it in a soothing manner. After several moments of doing so, she softly inquired, “So?”

  “M-m-m?” he murmured, the tranquilizing sensation of her caress having made him lose his train of thought. It was her woman’s touch, of course. Nothing robbed him of his senses quicker than a woman’s touch.

  “What ails you?” she clarified.

  “Ails?” He met her intense stare with his glassy, sopited one.

  Her brow furrowed. “Perhaps I should summon a doctor. You are clearly even worse off than I imagined.”

  His daze of contentment shattered at her mention of a doctor. Shaking his head to fully restore his wits, he muttered, “No … no need for a doctor. It’s just Eadon’s treatments. They always leave me like this.”

  “Treatments?” The furrows deepened. “Then Mr. Eadon is your physician?”

  “More or less. Though he doesn’t actually bear the title of doctor, he has studied seizure disorders and knows more about treating them than anyone else in England, or on the continent, for that matter. My grandmother engaged him as my nursemaid.”

  Rather than lighten her frown, his explanation darkened it, and she shook her head. “Whatever his experience, I cannot say much for his cure. Indeed, I cannot even begin to imagine what sort of treatments would leave you looking so dreadful.”