Faery Weddings

by Jo Beverley

  He stepped down onto the drive and turned the glare on her. "Who the devil are you? Oh, I suppose you're little Gwennie. Where's my son?"

  She cast a quick look around, wondering what he was seeing to make him so angry. "Out angling, sir."

  "I thought I sent a demmed tutor here."

  "Mr. Fenlock is with them, sir."

  "Them?"

  "Drew and Hal."

  "Hal?"

  "Hal Ferryman, sir."

  "Blast their eyes!" With that he stalked into his house and Gwen raced up the back stairs to her mother's room.

  "Mama! Mama! Wake up. Sir Thomas is here, and he's angry!"

  Ever since Gwen had realized that they had no real right to live at Elphinson Hall, she had been haunted by the fear of having to leave.

  Her mother sat up, tucking her graying hair back under her lacy cap and blinking. "Sir Thomas? Here?"

  "Yes, Mama. And angry."

  "Oh dear." Mrs. Forsythe didn't sound particularly agitated.

  This wasn't reassuring since nothing agitated her mother. Of course, nothing ever happened in the dale to agitate anyone. As for the outside world, the only newspapers they received were weeks old and her mother didn't see any purpose in fretting about events already so far in the past.

  Gwen tugged her plump mother out of bed and helped her into her gown.

  "Does he want to see me?" Mrs. Forsythe asked.

  Gwen realized he'd not said as much. "I'm sure he will, Mama. And anyway, we must see to his comfort."

  "Oh yes. Comfort," said her mother, like an ancient war horse called to battle. Comfort was something Amelia Forsythe understood and appreciated. "Certainly. Come along!"

  Soon Sir Thomas's bed was made up and warming, and his long-unused rooms checked to see that all was in order. The kitchen had been ordered to produce a full meal rather than the plain one usually taken, and Gwen and her mother even ventured down to the wine cellar in search of manly drinks.

  Drew and his tutor returned through the kitchen quarters as Mrs. Forsythe was trying to force the rusty lock to turn.

  "What are you two up to?" asked Drew with a laugh. "Finally decided to drown your sorrows?"

  Seventeen, nearly six foot tall, and glowing from a day in the fresh air and sunshine, he clearly had no need of alcohol. With the fright of Sir Thomas's sudden appearance made worse by an eerie sense of foreboding, Gwen wanted to throw herself into his arms and hold him tight.

  He'd think her demented.

  "Your father's here," she said. "And we're sure he'll want some wine or brandy or something. But no one's opened this door since the last time he was here. And that was when I was still in my cradle!"

  Mr. Fenlock, a sinewy young man with fine mousy hair but a glow nearly as healthy as his student's, raised his brows. "I wonder what treasures we'll find. But you'd best leave this to me, dear ladies. Though I've no taste for such beverages, I know something of the matter. Old wines need careful handling. In fact, Andrew, this will fill in a gap in your education."

  "You're going to get me drunk?" teased Drew.

  "That will doubtless happen without my intervention, you rascal. I am going to teach you about wines and spirits. And about opening rusty locks."

  Gwen and her mother were waved away, but by the time the adults sat to dinner, claret, port, and brandy were available, and presumably handled correctly for Sir Thomas did not complain.

  Gwen, of course, ate in the schoolroom, but she heard all about it from Drew when they met as usual in the garden later that night. They sat on their favorite perch, a low wall looking out over the Dale, and Drew angrily tossed bits of rock down the slope beneath their feet.

  "Father kept pressing me to drink more. Heaven knows why. Said I had to develop a head for it, but Fen's warned me of the head a man gets from drinking too much and it doesn't appeal."

  Gwen plucked a sprig of lavender from the bushes that ran along the base of the wall and breathed in the soothing aroma. "Fashionable men seem to drink a great deal, or so I hear."

  "I think that's the plan."

  "What?" But she knew and breathed deeper of the plant-magic.

  "To take me away and turn me into a fashionable man."

  "Oh dear." That certainly didn't express the agony in her chest, or the way her lips quivered.

  He glanced sideways at her. "That's not much help. Any idea how I get out of it?"

  Gwen swallowed. "Can you not just say no?"

  "I can try," he said with a grimace, "but something about him.... It's odd to have a man appear out of nowhere assuming he has the right to order me about."

  "He is your father."

  "So I'm told. He last visited here when I was six and I can hardly remember it." He looked around, and she knew he was drawing in the sights, sounds, and smells of the dale as she so often did. "He hates this place."

  "Hates it?"

  "Yes. I don't know why." He suddenly took her hand, holding tight. "I don't want to leave, Gwennie."

  She squeezed his hand back, knowing he was just seeking friendly comfort, but that she was reacting in a different way. She thought wryly how young she must look to him, with her skirts still at calf length showing her long pantalets underneath, and her blond curls tamed into a plait down her back.

  A child. That's all Gwennie Forsythe was to him.

  But underneath her gown her breasts were budding. She would soon be a woman.

  If he were around to see it.

  As if he'd caught her thought, he turned suddenly to look straight at her. "I'll miss you most of all, Gwennie."

  Her heart somersaulted. "I'll miss you terribly. But it'll only be for a little while, Drew. If he makes you go, you can do what he wants then come back."

  "Fen says he probably wants me to go to university. Cambridge. Sir Thomas was lamenting that the war's put an end to young men making a Grand Tour of Europe."But then his usual spirits shone bright again, and he grinned as he rose and swung her to her feet. "You're right, though. Even if I have to go, it won't be for long. I'll come home for holidays. And we can write. You can tell me everything that goes on here."

  She clutched his hands. "Oh, I will. But you'll have to write back!"

  "Of course." Then, almost awkwardly, he pulled her to him for a hug.

  They'd grown up together, playing and wrestling, and if either of them were hurt, they had hugged. It was not a strange thing. And yet, and yet, thought Gwen, snuggling against his chest, this was different. If she were a little bit older, she thought he might kiss her. But she wasn't so he didn't, though she couldn't help wondering if the idea had been in his mind, too, perhaps a tiny bit.

  She'd be older when he came back.

  Perhaps by Christmas she could persuade her mother to let her put her skirts down, and her hair up. The trouble was that since she'd never shown interest in such matters before, her mother would either guess, or think her running mad. After all, penniless Gwennie Forsythe, daughter of the poor relation, was no match for the future Sir Andrew Elphinson.

  He pushed her back, but kept his hands warm on her shoulders, frowning as if he would say something important. If the words were there, she never heard them, for Sir Thomas came storming along the path, swinging his cane as if he'd use it on them.

  "What the devil do you think you're doing, sir! Unhand her!" He emphasized it with a poke of his cane to Drew's side.

  Drew dropped his hands as if she burned him. "I'm not hurting her, sir. We were talking."

  "A gentleman talks to a lady without handling her, sir!" Swish. The cane broke a line of lavender spikes. "And he doesn't talk to a child at all. What are you doing out here, miss?"

  Unused to anger, Gwen felt her knees knocking. "I often come out in the evening, Sir Thomas."

  "Well, desist while I and my son are about. Keep to your place, which is out of my sight!"

  It was clearly a dismissal, and a very rude one. Gwen hesitated for a moment, thinking Drew would defend her. When he didn't, she tu
rned and left with as much dignity as she could muster, tears streaming down her face. Sir Thomas's words had not just been an instruction to stay out of sight, but a clear reinforcement of her thought that there could be no future for her with Drew.

  One day Drew would bring a rich fashionable bride home to the dale, and her heart would break.

  She felt as if her heart would break the next day when she woke to find that Sir Thomas had already left, taking Drew and Mr. Fenlock with him. There had been no chance for a proper farewell. The only consolation was that Hal Ferryman had been taken as well, to act as manservant.

  Sir Thomas had doubtless shaken the dust of the dale off his shoes. Mr. Fenlock had no real ties here. She hated to think of it, but it was possible that Drew might begin to forget the dale and all its people. But Gwen knew that Hal Ferryman, son of a family who had lived in the dale since before the Conquest, never would. Sooner or later, Hal would come back.

  Chapter Three

  Elphinson Hall, Derbyshire. May, 1815

  Gwen stared at old Matt Ferryman, who'd come up to her in the herb garden. "Go with you into the woods at night, Matt? Certainly not!"

  The old man, Hal's grandfather, kept his gray head properly lowered. "I'd keep you safe, Miss."

  "I'm sure you would." What on earth was wrong with him, seeking her out with such a request? The way he was nervously turning his hat showed he knew how peculiar it was. It was years since she'd run wild in the country. Not since Drew and Hal had left.

  "You must see it would be improper, Matt."

  Old Matt gave a toothy grin. "Reckon I'm past doing you any harm, Miss."

  Gwen blushed. "Reckon you're past protecting me, too." She bent to check a chive plant, hoping that would be the end of it.

  "The Folk'll take care of you, Miss, never fear."

  Gwen straightened, gave him a look, and moved on to the dill. She loved the dale stories of the faery folk, but she'd hardly trust the imaginary creatures with her safety. "Why on earth do you want me to go with you anyway?"

  The old man worked his mouth and glanced around. "Lady wants to see you," he mumbled.

  Gwen turned to pay closer attention to his words. "What lady?"

  "The Lady, Miss," he whispered. "The Queen of Faery."

  Gwen managed to hold back a laugh. The local people took these matters so seriously, and none more than Old Matt. Now she thought of it, back when she'd been mingling with the village children, she'd heard him called the faery-man because of his faith in such things.

  But really. Clearly the poor man was growing senile.

  "No, Matt. I'm sorry. I could not possibly do such a thing. If the Faery Queen wishes to see me, she will have to come here."

  His face crumpled almost as if he'd cry. "Miss Gwennie, please don't be like that about it!"

  "Oh, Matt. I'm sorry." She tried to think of something to say that would help and failed. "I don't really believe in all those things any more and I can't pretend I do."

  With that Gwen turned and walked briskly back to the house feeling horribly as if she'd kicked a defenseless creature.

  She wished Hal was around, for she could talk to him and see if his grandfather needed any help. The dale folk were remarkably healthy, but if Old Matt was turning foolish, some provision must be made.

  If Hal were around, Drew would be around. She wasn't even sure any more that she wanted that for he clearly had no interest in her, while her obsession with him seemed to grow despite his absence. All his rare letters were in her bureau, tied up with ribbon, and when a small portrait had been sent to be hung in the portrait gallery, that had become her favorite place to sit and read.

  If he turned up, she'd doubtless make an utter fool of herself.

  She washed her hands and went into the kitchen to speak to the cook about the evening meal.

  "Why, Miss Gwen, has something bothered you?" asked the plump woman, wiping her hands on her apron.

  "No, why?"

  "It's rare to see you frown."

  "I suppose I was just worrying about old Matt Ferryman."

  "There's no need to worry about him, Miss, that's for sure." With this absolute statement, Mrs. Biggin turned back to tying up a haunch of beef.

  "He is getting old."

  "Old or not, he's still the faery-man."

  "And what does that mean?"

  The woman made an elaborate and very secure-looking knot. "Means he keeps the stories, Miss. And tells the Folk about our doings here. And brings back words from them."

  Or thinks he does, Gwen told herself, but not without a twitch of unease. She'd spent many an evening listening to Matt Ferryman telling stories.

  "One thing's for sure, Miss. He'll be sound in mind and body till the day he dies. Naught bad'll happen to him."

  "Oh, really...."

  The cook gave Gwen a meaningful look. "Just as naught bad happens to anyone in these parts, Miss."

  "It certainly is a very healthy spot, Mrs. Biggin, but before you go on about faery blessings, I'll remind you that one of the legends says that none of the Elphinsons will die young. Yet Drew's mother did just that."

  The woman turned back to her beef. "Aye, well, she kept young Master Drew by her side and away from the dale. The Folk have their ways, Miss."

  Gwen shook her head. Logic made absolutely no impression on the local beliefs. "Did you say you needed new tinning in some pots, Mrs. Biggin?"

  The woman accepted the change of subject without complaint, but when Gwen eventually headed off to change her gown and take tea with her mother, she heard the cook say, "Just you don't ignore the Folk, Miss. It's not wise to do that."

  Goodness, she loved the dale dearly, but there were times when it would be pleasant to mix with more rational people!

  Perhaps that was what had seduced Drew away from them all.

  After his father had dragged him off to Oxford, Drew had only returned twice, and each time he'd seemed more distant. After that, there had only been letters carrying excuses that he was busy here, there, and everywhere. Letters from London about balls. Letters from Bath about beauties. Letters from Ireland about horses.

  All of them talking of a world Gwen didn't know, a world into which she could never fit.

  For the past two years, the letters had been few and far between, for he was now even further away. He'd joined Wellington's army to fight the French. Gwen tried to bury that deep in her mind, but she could never ignore it entirely, the thought that Drew was involved in war.

  That he could die.

  She'd wept for joy last year when Napoleon had abdicated and the war had ended -- or so everyone thought. But now the man was back, once more trying to conquer Europe. The British army was once more in the field. She prayed, despite the arguments of logic, that the legend had some basis in truth, and that an Elphinson couldn't die young.

  She put on a smile as she entered the drawing room. At least her mother could be relied upon not to talk about faery nonsense, or to fret about such distant problems as war.

  Chapter Four

  Two days later, Gwen became inexplicably lost in the woodlands in the valley of the dale.

  She'd wandered out to look for wild herbs, not intending to go far. Then, despite the fact that she had been walking and riding these hills and valleys almost from birth, and knew every path and tree like her garden, she'd become lost. Suddenly it was as if the woods were not the countryside she knew at all.

  Panicked, she pushed on in one direction, hoping to see something familiar. Then, sure she had somehow wandered far from home, she turned back, only to find the scenery behind her now equally strange. The woodland near Elphinson Hall was not even big enough for her to have walked so far without finding a cultivated field or a sheep-dotted hill. Nor was she walking in circles, for nothing was familiar.

  She sat down, trying to calm her mind, telling herself that sooner or later men would set out to look for her. But it could be hours before she was missed, and it was so silly to be sittin
g here all day, so she walked again, sure that at any moment she must come across a landmark, or a person who could help.

  Eventually, however, as the light began to fade, exhaustion felled her. Shaking, she collapsed down at the base of an oak, hugging herself against the growing chill of evening and the fear of the peculiar. Her stomach rumbled with hunger and her mouth was parched, for she'd not even come across a stream of sweet water.

  The first hunting owl hooted and she flinched, but she told herself there was nothing to be afraid of, even at night. There were no dangerous animals here, and no one who would hurt her. She must have been missed by now so the village people would be out searching. The dalesmen knew every inch of the countryside. They would soon find her.

  She'd thought she knew every inch of the countryside.

  She shivered again and glanced around nervously. Where on earth was she? Had she somehow managed to leave the dale? She couldn't believe that, for one needed to climb steeply rising ground.

  Even though she told herself there was nothing to be afraid of, fear rose in her, all the worse for having no cause or focus. Irrationally, she wanted Drew. He'd find her. He'd save her from whatever it was that lurked in the shadows here. She sank her head on her knees. One thing was sure. Drew wouldn't suddenly appear. He hadn't even come home last year when his father had died and he'd inherited the estate. Or later when Napoleon Bonaparte had been exiled to Elba and the war had apparently stopped.

  Where was he now? They were so out of touch in the dale that he could be in battle and she'd have no hint of it....

  Suddenly, with scarcely a rustled leaf to announce his coming, a handsome man moved from behind a tree and strolled toward her. His fashionable country-wear of jacket, buckskins, top-boots, and beaver made him seem quite ordinary, but Gwen leapt to her feet nervously.

  He was a stranger.

  She saw few strangers in the dale.

  Inclining his head, he raised his hat with a fine air. "Good evening, Miss," he said, as if he were encountering her in the village street.

  "Good evening, sir." Good manners made her drop a curtsy. Since there was no way to disguise the fact, she added, "I fear I am lost."