Kissed by Starlight

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “ ‘Tis as bad as I guessed. Here, let me feed you.”

  The hot soup warmed Felicia down to her cold toes. The strange sinking feeling went away, and her head stopped feeling as though it were stuffed with fog. She found she could lift the claret glass without spilling any of the wine.

  “That’ll thicken up your blood,” Mary said with an air of personal satisfaction.

  “I remember seeing you in here,” Felicia said. “Have you been caring for me all this time?”

  “Aye. Me ‘n’ Rose. Watch and watch, like the sailors zay. That wench of her ladyship’s only come now and then, if one of us need to leave for some’at. None of us would let the devil come nigh you.”

  Felicia lay back as Mary took the tray away. The effort of eating and talking had tired her. “How long have I been ill?” she asked drowsily.

  “This ‘ud be the third day. It’s turned fine, after that masterly storm last night.”

  “Storm?”

  “A right bad ‘un. Half the houses are open to the bare sky from here to Tallyford. Wind ‘n’ snow ‘n’ lightning! An’ the dairymaid a-screamin’ that the end of the world was come, and Mr. Varley drunk as David’s sow in pantry. Such a night as I never zee in all me borned life! Some do zay it was the spirit of the master a-going to heaven.”

  Felicia had drawn back from the edge of sleep at this news. “Were any of our people hurt?”

  “No, they’m all right. Barring them statues out in the garden.”

  “Statues?” Now all desire for sleep had fled.

  “T’head gardener zeemed like to cry, poor man. Smashed clear to glory, some of ‘em. That big naked one from biblical places...”

  “Hercules?”

  “I daresay it. And that itty one of the young gel with the lambs. I always liked that ‘un.”

  “What about... ?” Felicia licked her lips. “The one all muffled up in a cloak. Do you mind the one I mean?”

  “I can’t zay for zhure, Miss Felicia. I only remembered them two ‘cause I liked ‘em zo.”

  “Thank you, Mary. If you will be so good as to tell Lady Stavely that I await her convenience?”

  “That Liza’s gone to tell her, but don’t you zee her until after Doctor comes. I’ll tell her you be sleepin’, as you should be. You lie down and close your eyes and never mind the house. It’ll bide ‘til you be well again.”

  Obediently, because she knew faithful, stubborn Mary would not leave until she obeyed, Felicia snuggled under the blanket. She closed her eyes as the maid picked up the tray, the dishes clattering. Felicia peeked from beneath her lashes to see if she had gone.

  Mary stood at the window, pushing it open. A chill breeze came in and danced around the room. Taking the glass from the tray, Mary shook the last few drops of wine out the window.

  “Drink the wine,” she whispered, “and defend the drinker.”

  Felicia snapped her eyes closed as Mary lowered the sash. She was used to the “magic” of the Devonshire people, how they planted and harvested by the moon, how they relied on the folk medicine of their ancestors. With what she knew of modern medicine, she could hardly blame them for this reliance, for even kindly Doctor Danby killed more than he cured.

  Nevertheless, it was unnerving to see the magic practiced before her eyes. Usually it was something kept hidden from the “gentry.” Lady Stavely, for instance, strongly disapproved of such superstition and never missed the opportunity to scoff when the subject was broached.

  Her father, born and raised at Hamdry, had been more sympathetic. “There’s more bread put out for the fairies than ever reaches the master’s table. And unless Varley’s a habitual drunkard, I’ll lay odds more of my good burgundy disappears in sprinkled appeasement than ever wets a dry throat. The fairies are always thirsty, it seems.”

  Had it all been a fever dream? Compounded of grief for her father, starvation, and the onset of illness? Yet the man had seemed so very real. Even now, she could describe him in every detail, from the pale cut end of the thong that held his hair to the veins that ran down his muscular arms.

  She recalled other dreams, monstrous things dimly glimpsed in the depths of her fever. Yet in memory they were misty and confused. He was not. She remembered everything....

  “I am Blaic, Prince of the Westering Lands. My liege lord is Boadach the Eternal, King of the Living Lands and of all the Realm Beyond the World That Dies.’’

  She remembered his voice and his words so well that they seemed to echo in her silent room as though spoken aloud. She opened her eyes, lifting her head above the ridge of her rumpled blankets to look around for him. Surely she couldn’t have dreamed him.

  “If I did, I can dream him again,” she whispered, and closed her eyes.

  She’d no sooner fallen into a doze than she felt someone standing over her. “Blaic?” she asked, her voice thick.

  “No, my child. But I am glad to know you are so much improved.”

  Lady Stavely, Viscountess of Hamdry, looked as mild as a nun in her simple black gown. She wore a cross of brown topazes on her bosom and her hair was neatly covered by a small, black lace cap. A woman of about forty years, she kept her figure well and her cheeks were relatively unlined. Yet her skin was dry, crisping into small wrinkles under her long-lashed eyes. They were blue, like her daughter’s in color if not quite so intense in tone. The white hands, stiff with jeweled rings to the knuckles, were never still.

  They moved over one another with a rustle like a snake gliding through dry grass. The rings clinked and clattered softly. “Liza tells me you have taken nourishment?”

  “Yes, my lady. Cook made soup.”

  “Ah, broth is excellent when one has been unwell. Doctor Danby said you might find it difficult to eat at first. You are fortunate to have been spared. The fever was at its height last night. He held out but little hope to us.”

  Felicia fought the paralyzing influence of Lady Stavely’s cold blue eyes. In another moment, she’d be apologizing for her failure to die. Then she remembered what she’d seen and heard in the conservatory the day of her father’s funeral. Her anger broke the spell.

  She struggled to sit up. Lady Stavely offered no support, not so much as the touch of a bejeweled finger. Though Felicia had but little strength, she tossed aside the blankets. Something about her father’s wife always made Felicia feel that she’d be more comfortable with her sword arm free, and she didn’t even know how to wield a sword.

  As the bastard child of Lord Stavely, Felicia had not looked for love from his wife. His infidelity had been a year before their marriage, yet Lady Stavely could not forgive it. It had perhaps not been wise of Lord Stavely to flaunt the fruit of his unsanctified union before the eyes of his wife. But Lord Stavely had done it from kindness, picking Felicia up from the slum where she had dwelt with her natural mother.

  Felicia had not looked for love, but she’d found it with her first sight of Hamdry Manor. The house had welcomed her, as the mistress of it did not. But Felicia had not felt Lady Stavely’s hatred until Clarice’s “accident.”

  “My daughter was very much upset at your illness. There were some tactless comments passed by the servants.... Clarice overheard.”

  “So I understood. She will forget now that I am better.”

  Lady Stavely looked toward the door. “My daughter has been to see you?”

  “Yes, she came for a moment.”

  The slow, even voice dropped for an instant. “Unwise,” she said. “We shall hope there are no ill effects.”

  “She has not fallen ill since her accident,” Felicia said.

  “No.” Lady Stavely moved away to seat herself in an armchair. Her back remained perfectly straight, disdaining to touch the cushion. Not more than five feet two inches tall, she bore herself with queenly elegance. A greater contrast to her bounding, joyful daughter could not have been found.

  “If you are not too tired, Felicia, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you. Mr. Ashton made the attempt to
speak to you before but you put him off.”

  “I am rather tired,” Felicia said, though she knew that Lady Stavely meant to have her say out no matter what. It was always thus. Even when speaking to her lover that day, it had been Lady Stavely who’d given the orders, despite the piping of “Matilda, Matilda” from Mr. Ashton.

  “I shall not keep you long. As you may know, your father left some debts. They are not overly large, but with the diminution of income inherent on the death of the master of a household—do try to pay some heed to what I am saying!”

  Though she knew that nothing offended Lady Stavely more than inattention, Felicia had not acted out of malice. She hadn’t had any intention of closing her eyes. One moment she was looking at Lady Stavely, the next she was again deeply asleep.

  She awoke to the sound of an angry voice and, until she recognized it, kept her eyes tight shut.

  “Against my orders, I find that half the household has been traipsing through my patient’s bedroom! Is it not enough, Lady Stavely, that I’ve been at pains to save this girl’s life? Do you expect me to perform the same miracle twice?”

  “Doctor Danby?” Felicia pitched her voice to carry into the hall.

  He came bustling in, the only hair on his head a pair of eyebrows as elaborately plumed as an egret’s. His wire spectacles spent more time on the end of his nose than in front of his eyes. He peered over them at her now.

  “Hmmm, you’re looking well for a girl who was at Death’s door but yestere’en. What have you to say for yourself, my fine miss?”

  “I feel ever so much better. I suppose Death wouldn’t have me.”

  “He knew I’d come after him and pull you back. I’ve lost one in this house; as I told Lady Stavely, I don’t mean to lose another!” He plunked his worn leather bag down on the bed and rummaged briskly inside. “I’ll listen to your heart to be sure there’s been no strain. You needn’t worry about that, though, I feel sure of it. You’re young and strong; this illness only got a grip on you through your grief.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are right.” Just past the doctor’s shoulder, Felicia could see Miss Liza’s grim face. She stood inside the doorway, her small black eyes never leaving the doctor and his patient. Felicia tried to ignore the presence of the maid. Yet waves of disapproval emanated from the woman as the doctor performed his examination.

  Felicia knew that Liza did not stand there as chaperon for an innocent young girl. On the contrary, she was there to protect Doctor Danby. Though Felicia had never shown any signs of wanton behavior, there were those who believed it was just a matter of time before the mother’s wicked ways would appear in the daughter.

  Even as a young girl, if chance led her to a male playmate, someone was sure to call her in at once. When Clarice was twelve years old and still in possession of her faculties, she’d had a male music teacher, but Felicia had been forbidden to take lessons. Because the Italian artist who had come to teach Clarice to paint had too lavishly praised Felicia’s skill, he’d been roughly dismissed. She’d learned to ride, but only with female supervision. Though much of this had been Lady Stavely’s doing, even her father at times seemed to mistrust Felicia.

  “Did I hurt you?” Doctor Danby said in reaction to her wince.

  “No. I don’t mind the cup.”

  “I shan’t take much blood from you. I want to quiet the black humors in order that you may rest.”

  “I hope I need not stay in bed too much longer. There’s so much I need to be doing.”

  “Patience,” the doctor cried. “You can’t expect to shake off the effects of a prolonged illness in an hour or two, and so I told her ladyship. You’ll need to stay quiet for at least a week, perhaps more.”

  “A week?”

  “At least.” Doctor Danby winked at her. “Take your leisure, my dear, lest you fall ill again.”

  “Doctor...”

  “Yes?”

  Aware of the black eyes watching and the ears on the prick, Felicia couldn’t bring herself to describe her strange experience in the garden. Liza was always ready to twist a tale to Felicia’s disadvantage—what would she make of a statue turning into a man? What could she make of it except to declare that both Felicia’s mother’s wantonness and the madness of the Stavelys had come upon her in one day?

  For that matter, would Doctor Danby make any less of it? It had been he who, failing to find a cause for Clarice’s illness, had reminded everyone that her great-grandmother had believed herself to be a hen. Though that woman had been the mother of four children, none of whom had gone mad, a later cousin had violently attacked her husband and been locked away.

  Lady Stavely had kept her own daughter safe at home when she’d become so strange. Felicia had no hope that she would find such kindness. Better to keep her delusion a dark secret, putting it down to her incipient illness, and to keep a careful watch over herself.

  Doctor Danby said, “I’ve no doubt in the world you’ll be well as ever in a week.”

  “Thank you. I have no doubt of it myself.”

  From the door, Liza said, “If you are ready, Doctor, her ladyship would like a further word with you.”

  Doctor Danby cast his eyes up to heaven. “Oh Lord,” he said under his breath. He patted Felicia’s shoulder through her shift and said clearly, “Take rest in the afternoons and take those blue powders before bedtime. Light but nourishing meals, and no pushing the plate away before it’s all gone. You’ve always been too thin and you’ve lost more weight being ill. Remember, a plump woman is a delight before man and God.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” His own wife had the contours of a Rubens Venus, and a happier woman couldn’t be found in Devon. Her five children might have contributed to both size and happiness, but neither could be disputed.

  The doctor’s prediction came true. In a week, Felicia felt as well as ever she had. Her dresses were still too loose at the waist and her hair had lost some of its shine, but she could walk without tiring and return to her duties. She kept the accounts for the household as well as conferring with the housekeeper, dairymaids, and stewards.

  These were Lady Stavely’s duties, but she was not interested in them. Felicia had often wondered what her father’s wife did all day. She spent the mornings in her room, walked in the garden in the afternoon on the days that she did not take a leisurely drive in the landaulet. In the evenings, she read to Clarice or listened to the girl’s monologues about the day.

  Felicia now knew that at least part of Lady Stavely’s day was occupied by the solicitor, Mr. Ashton. She’d tried not to think of the pair of them meeting, for it troubled her. Yet she would find scraps of their conversation creeping into her mind, like a snail crawling onto the petal of a rose.

  “I’ve done everything you asked of me, Matilda. Always. ‘‘

  “And I am most grateful, Palamon. You know my gratitude. ‘‘

  “Then why ... ?”

  “Because I wish it. Isn‘t that enough ?’’

  When late one afternoon a summons came from Lady Stavely, Felicia put down her brush and magnifying lens with a sigh.

  Today was the first time since her father’s illness had befallen that she’d stolen an hour to work on a painting. It was a landscape copied from one hanging in Hamdry’s gallery. She’d left it half-finished. The background had been done, a mythical scene of gently swelling hills topped by spindly trees, leading the eye toward a round Grecian temple on a small island in the center of a still blue lake.

  Today, she’d just begun to add the figures, no more than two inches tall. For a long time, she studied the masked men and women in the original, marveling at how they were so tiny and yet so detailed. Finally, she decided they must have been painted with a magnifying glass and had taken the one from her father’s desk.

  She waited for Lady Stavely in the small salon, decorated like so much of the house with relics of the ancient world. She’d always rather liked the busts of Romans that lined the walls in individual niches. But today, she
felt uneasy.

  At least twice, she could have sworn she saw something move out of the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, however, everything was just as it should be. Shaking off this foolish notion, she went to turn over the pages of a sketch album that lay open on the desk—Views of Pompeii.

  Then she heard, or thought she heard, a scraping noise behind her. She whirled around, her hands raised for either flight or battle.

  Nothing was there. She realized that this was the first time she’d been in a room with statuary since the day of the funeral. Forcing herself to be rational, Felicia walked up to one bust and rapped it firmly on the forehead. The marble was pitted and cracked by years but it was definitely stone.

  “What on earth are you doing, child?”

  Lady Stavely, a complete contrast to the white busts in her black weeds, stood in the doorway. She didn’t wait for an answer but swept into the room. “Are you entirely recovered now from your unfortunate illness?”

  “Yes, my lady. But you’ve asked me that before.”

  “Now, as before, I’m delighted to hear it. One cannot hear good news too often. Pray, be seated.” The older woman sat in an armchair near the lively fire. Felicia took the place across from her. “Do you remember what I said to you the other morning?”

  “About my father’s debts?”

  Lady Stavely ran her gaze over her late husband’s daughter. “If you recall so accurately, I am surprised you did not come to me to ask what I meant.”

  “I knew you would open the subject again when you felt it was time.” Felicia tried to stop herself from flexing her right hand. There was not a sword in it, and there was no use in wishing for one to use in her defense. Lady Stavely kept her sword in her mouth, and was not reluctant to use it.

  “In fact,” Lady Stavely said with a cold smile, “you thought you could continue to live here at my expense for another week. Little good it will do you.”

  “I earn my keep,” Felicia reminded her, her chin up.

  “Indeed you do. But not enough. The diminution of income inherent in the death of his lordship makes it imperative that I limit the size of my household. I will be dismissing several of the maids and cutting back on the number of horses and consequently, the number of grooms. Your father’s horses will be sold.”