“Have you told your grandmother of your preference?”
“Countless times, but, well”—a head shake—“you have met my grandmother.”
“She’s a terror, yes,” Emily murmured, making a face herself at the thought of the imperious old duchess.
“Exactly. And I must, unfortunately, abide by her dictates. At least for now and on this matter.”
“But—”
“But enough of such dreary talk,” he interjected smoothly. “Your dinner awaits you, and I believe that John wishes to serve me my feast of shank jelly and ass’s milk.”
Emily didn’t miss his grimace as he uttered that last.
He might have promised to abide by his grandmother’s dictates, but she had made no such vow.
Chapter 10
Michael was going to be so surprised. And pleased.
Emily hugged the basket she carried tighter to her side, thrilled as she envisioned Michael’s delight when he saw his dinner that evening.
After seeing his dreary meal the night before and his lack of appetite for it, she had resolved to speak to Mr. Eadon and see if there wasn’t some way to improve his menus. After all, Mr. Eadon was a man, which meant that he most probably knew nothing about cookery and was thus unaware that light, wholesome fare could be made to taste delicious.
She, on the other hand, had spent the past two years in the kitchen creating dishes to tempt her father’s invalid appetite, and had learned all sorts of ways to make a restrictive diet appealing. During that process she’d concocted many recipes she felt certain would please Michael’s palate—ones she very much wished to make for him. In order to be allowed to do so, however, she knew that she must first advise Mr. Eadon of her experience, after which she must convince him of her competence to oversee Michael’s meals.
With that ambition in mind, she’d sent for the man early that morning, remaining closeted with him in the library for well over an hour, during which she’d quizzed him about Michael’s condition and medical regimen. Expecting him to be like her father’s physicians, who had dismissed her and her queries out of hand, she’d entered the meeting prepared for a fight. To her astonishment, Timothy Eadon proved not only receptive, but sensitive to her concerns, answering all of her questions with a thoroughness that had completely disarmed her.
The logic for Michael’s current diet, he’d explained, stemmed from the belief that highly flavored foods excited the senses, while heavy ones slowed the digestion, both states which were thought to bring about seizures. It was an opinion shared by many of the leading authorities on conditions such as plagued Michael. Thus, Michael was allowed only the blandest and most easy-to-digest foods, such as the meat broths and jellies she’d seen him pick at the night before, with the addition of an occasional poached egg, some boiled beef, mutton, or fowl, and dried fruits on those days when he was deemed strong enough to tolerate them. Those days, it turned out, were the two or three days between the end of his recovery from his weekly treatments and the beginning of the next round, which meant that he was afforded very little nourishment indeed for a man his size.
When Mr. Eadon had finished telling of his theory and Emily had carefully noted Michael’s dietary constraints, she had presented her own case. Speaking with as much authority as she could muster, she had told him of her experiences with her father and her success in his care, after which she’d outlined ways in which she thought Michael’s meals could be improved.
After gravely considering her suggestions and asking further questions, he’d agreed to allow several additions to Michael’s diet, all of which Emily had argued would improve his constitution, stipulating that he did so with reservations and that the changes would be made on a trial basis only. He had then asked her to make up several menus for his consideration. This she’d done promptly, and within an hour had had half a dozen menus planned, all of which promised to be not only delicious, but nourishing and gentle on Michael’s digestion.
Eager to surprise Michael with one of the meals that very evening, she’d requested Mr. Eadon’s immediate approval of the menus, which he’d given with a warm smile and liberal praise for her epicurean savvy. Despite her disagreement with his methods, Emily had to admit that he genuinely cared about Michael and seemed as anxious as she to improve his lot. His approval of her menus left only one obstacle to the success of her quest to build Michael’s strength: Cook.
Since the preparation of Michael’s new menus would demand a much lighter touch than the woman normally employed, including a clever substitution of herbs for the heavy sauces and highly spiced gravies she routinely depended upon to flavor her meats, she would be required to drastically alter her cooking methods. Knowing that such a suggestion was bound to send her into one of her legendary rages, which she would in turn take out on the other servants, Emily had approached her with caution.
In hopes of appealing to her vanity, she’d presented the menus with lavish praise for the woman’s skill, pointing out the difficulty of such delicate cooking and expressing her confidence that she, Phoebe Swann, and she alone in England, would be equal to such culinary mastery. As if that weren’t enough, which it most probably would have been, judging from Cook’s look of puffed-up self-importance at her flattery, she’d played upon her devotion to Michael, a devotion she knew the woman shared with every other servant at Windgate and which had had her barking orders at her helpers in her eagerness to do her part in bettering her beloved master’s lot.
In short, all had gone far better than Emily had dreamed possible. Indeed, the only real hurdle she’d encountered thus far was the one she now sought to overcome: a lack of tansy for the tansy pudding she wished made for Michael’s dessert. Not only was tansy reputed to help in the prevention of seizures, but everyone knew that nothing built an invalid’s constitution like eggs and cream, both of which were principal ingredients in the dish. Hence, she now searched the moor for the herb, where it was said to grow wild.
True, she could have sent a servant on the errand. Or asked one of the kitchen maids, all of whom had reported seeing patches of tansy on the moor, to accompany her and help her locate it. But she had declined doing either, wishing to perform the task herself. Truth be told, she was restless for something to do, something productive and ultimately satisfying. It was a restlessness that had plagued her ever since her father’s death.
During her father’s illness she’d been constantly busy, her days hectically engaged in his care and in promoting his comfort. So accustomed had she become to being thus occupied, that her relative idleness in the weeks following his death had left her feeling oddly fidgety and bored. To put it bluntly, she was at loose ends in regards to her life. After two years of forsaking her personal interests for her nursing duties, she had quite forgotten what her interests were. When she’d rediscovered them, she’d found that they no longer held the appeal they once had.
Oh, she’d gone through the motions of doing them, and had even derived a small measure of joy from their execution, but beneath her pleasure had gnawed a need to do more. She’d missed being useful and had hungered for the satisfaction she’d derived from caring for her father. That she again had someone to tend, someone who needed her as clearly as Michael did, made her feel happier and more alive than she’d felt in a very long while. It renewed her purpose in life. And her purpose at that moment was to find tansy.
Her mind drawn back to the task at hand, Emily glanced around her, trying to establish her location. Several of the kitchen maids had reported seeing a particularly fine patch of tansy in the pasture of an abandoned croft a mile or so east of the formal gardens, and had said that if she walked in a straight line toward the twin tors that crowned the third hill in the distance, that she was certain to come upon it.
Tor, she’d learned, was the proper name for her stone giants. And as with everything else in Dartmoor, each had its own legend and significance. This particular p
air of tors was rumored to have been used by the Druids to count sheep and other herd animals, the theory being that the beasts could be driven only one at a time through the narrow passage between the enormous rock piles, thus affording an accurate count. Whether or not the tale was true, Emily didn’t know. All she knew was that there were no hauntings, murders, suicides, or anything else even remotely sinister associated with them, something she found an enormous relief … especially now, as she stood staring at them, wondering where she was and how she had gotten there.
Why, she could have sworn that she’d been on the left side of the tors only moments ago. Yes, and the hill over there, which had looked to be a stone’s throw away at last glance, now appeared to be at least a mile away. Frowning her bewilderment, she lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the harsh noonday sun, turning a complete circle as she searched for signs of the abandoned croft. By all accounts she should have come to it by now, or at least be near enough to see the ruined cottage.
What she saw was an utterly different landscape than she was certain had been there only a heartbeat before. Her senses reeling, she again surveyed her surroundings hoping to see something to untangle her snarled bearings. The sight that met her eyes merely deepened her disorientation.
Hmmm. Hadn’t there been another hill over there, a barren one scattered with forlornly stunted trees? And that queer circle of mossy stones, hadn’t she passed it a quarter hour earlier? As for the abbey, it seemed to have vanished completely.
Wondering how she could have wandered so dreadfully off course without noticing, she changed directions and looped back toward the opposite side of the tors, certain that she would catch sight of both the house and the hill at any moment.
She didn’t. All she saw was a wide, shimmering lake … one that moved with every step she took, and then evaporated altogether. As for the tors, they seemed to shift shapes, first appearing magnified, then dwarfed, the dark, stone-strewn ridges upon which they sat seeming to flatten and elevate in turn.
On Emily wandered, going first this direction, then that, her alarm steadily creeping toward panic when she could find nothing the least bit familiar. She’d thought to climb the tors, thinking to perhaps spy the abbey from atop their lofty height. But alas, she couldn’t even find her way to them, though they were constantly before her. What she found instead was a luxuriant expanse of purple melic grass, its liberal dotting of fluffy white cotton grass and spear-shaped rushes alerting her to the unnerving fact that she’d stumbled upon a moorland marsh.
Having been warned about the hazards of the bogs, Emily jumped back, half-expecting the spongy ground to magically slither beneath her feet and suck her down to a filthy, suffocating death.
Thwack! “Ouch!” She slammed into something rough and hard, the bruising blow to her calves collapsing her legs from beneath her.
Thud! “Oomph!” She landed hard on her backside, so hard that she saw stars from the pain radiating up her spine. Too sore and stunned to do more, she simply sat atop what felt like a throne of cold, damp stone, certain that she’d shattered her tailbone. When, at last, the stars cleared and her pain had receded to a dull ache, she glanced warily down at her seat, almost afraid of what she would see.
It was the same circle of moss-draped stones she’d passed twice before, only—only—a sob of frustrated desperation escaped her—like everything else on the moor, it appeared to have moved. A quick glance around her verified that it had indeed migrated, as had she, apparently, for the bog had disappeared and in its place stretched a wide field of bright pink harrow, purple teasel, and daisylike ragwort.
Afraid to move for fear that the bog might reappear and swallow her up, Emily sobbed drily several more times, her despair rising with every fractured breath. A couple of sniffles and she burst into tears. She was lost, hopelessly lost! Heedless of the fact that her gloves were stained with the odious-smelling moss that slimed the stones, she buried her face into her hands and wept in earnest.
Oh! Why hadn’t she brought one of the kitchen maids? Or had one of the grooms guide her, as she’d promised Francis she would do? She had been a peagoose to come out here alone … no, not a peagoose, the description allowed her far too much credit. She was a paperskull. She nodded and sniffled her approval of the title. Yes, she was a flighty, beetle-witted paperskull and it would serve her stupidity perfectly right if no one ever found her … something that was beginning to seem more and more a possibility, what with the way the scenery constantly shifted and changed. The whole situation was—was—phantasmagoric!—yes, rather like being stuck in a nightmare in which she thought she was awake, but wasn’t.
Emily paused midsob, wondering if such could be the case now. She’d been trapped in dreams before, more times than she could count. Thinking back now, it had felt exactly like this. Deciding that that must indeed be the case—what other explanation could there be for the bizarre scenery changes?—she screwed her eyes shut and willed herself to wake up. After counting to twenty and pinching herself twice for good measure, she slowly opened them again, hoping but not really expecting to find herself snug in her bed.
She was still on the moors, except now the field was gone and she sat facing what appeared to be the back side of the tors. Not even daring to speculate how she’d gotten there, knowing that there was no explanation, save a sudden bout of madness or magic, neither of which she cared to ponder at that moment, Emily swiped at the tears that again welled in her eyes.
Sniffling several times in quick succession, she tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that a search party would be sent when she failed to return to the abbey. Of course, even if the party somehow managed to find her, she would never locate the tansy in time for dinner and Michael wouldn’t get his pudding.
Exactly why something as trifling as Michael not getting his pudding should distress her at such a moment, she didn’t know, but it did and she resumed weeping. She had cried what felt like an ocean of tears when she heard, “It’s the pixies, you know.”
Emily looked up with a start, half-expecting to find the voice yet another trick of the moors. It wasn’t.
Or was it? She gaped at the being before her, uncertain what to believe. The being was a young woman, a tall, beautiful one, who looked quite unlike any human she’d ever seen. Everything about her seemed drenched in silver … her lustrous pale hair, her glistening gray eyes … even the sheen of her flawless skin, which summoned up the image of moonlit pearls.
Certain that the creature was one of the fairies Mercy claimed dwelled on the moors, and almost afraid to speak for fear of what she would do, Emily hoarsely whispered, “Who—who are you?” She’d almost asked what she was, but had refrained from doing so for fear of offending the being and invoking her wrath, the consequences of which, at least according to Mercy, would be very grave indeed if the woman truly was a fairy.
The fay creature smiled, revealing teeth every bit as perfect as Michael’s. “My name is Rebecca Dare,” she replied in a voice as uncannily beautiful as everything else about her. “I live in the dale just over that hill”—she pointed to her right—“at Greenwicket cottage. And you are Emily Vane, the new duchess of Sherrington.” Unlike everyone else she’d met thus far, Rebecca didn’t curtsy in deference to her lofty title, which in Emily’s mind simply gave proof to her suspicion of the woman’s otherworldly origins.
Feeling obligated to reply, but uncertain what to say for fear of inadvertently angering her—after all, what did she know about conversing with fairies?—Emily murmured, “You know who I am, then?” It seemed an innocent-enough question.
Apparently it was, because the fairy laughed, a sound like—what else?—silver bells. “Of course. Everyone in these parts knows who you are. How could they not? The duke’s marriage to an American was quite the most interesting thing to happen around here in at least a decade. Indeed, the topic has dominated every conversation for over a month
now.”
“But how did you know that I am the duchess in question?” she cautiously ventured, not wholly satisfied with the explanation. After all, she could have been anyone, yet the woman had instantly identified her as Michael’s bride.
The fairy shrugged. “You look exactly as Mercy Mildon described. Besides, your accent is similar to the one of an American who came to study our moor plants two years ago.” Another shrug. “So you see? There was no mistaking you.”
“Oh. So you know Mercy.” Emily more sighed than uttered the words in her relief. Mercy would most definitely have told her if she were personally acquainted with a fairy, which meant that Rebecca must be an ordinary human being after all. Well, not so very ordinary, perhaps, she amended, as the woman again smiled her enchanting smile.
“Mercy visits me from time to time.”
“Oh,” was all Emily could say in response, for she suddenly felt rather silly. Now that she really looked at Rebecca, she wasn’t so very unearthly. Indeed, who ever heard of a fairy wearing a black and yellow calico day dress? Or sturdy boots, she added, catching a glimpse of what her grandmother would most definitely pronounce as clodhopping horrors were she to see them. Smiling back now, the sight of those boots inexplicably endearing Rebecca to her, she asked, “What did you mean when you said that it was the pixies?”
“You are lost, are you not?” At Emily’s nod, she quizzed, “And did your surroundings keep changing in a queer manner?” When Emily again nodded, she explained, “You were being pixie-led, or mazed, as some in these parts like to call it.”
“What! Are you saying that there are really pixies out here, and that they were playing tricks on me?” Emily exclaimed, once again revising her opinion of Rebecca. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely of this world after all.
Rebecca shrugged. “Maybe.”
Bewitched Page 17
