by Jo Beverley
She halted, unwilling to take the final steps, but he tugged her onward. "Come. No matter which path, they all go in the same direction."
Three other couples were walking back down to the fire, but they were entwined, whereas she and Just Maberley walked hand-in-hand, connected, but already sliding apart.
If only.
She searched desperately for a way to seize happiness. She needn't move in grand circles in Halifax. He was in trade, a merchant. She could call herself Mrs. Maberley and if she was careful, perhaps she'd never meet anyone she knew.
Then she remembered something and halted. "The Maberley family. You said you were the last of the line. You're Viscount Maberley?"
"I am."
All hope faded.
She knew how her world worked, even on the far side of the Atlantic. Lord Maberley would be one of the Halifax elite, even if he engaged in trade. Businessman or not, he must be the most eligible gentlemen there, especially with his splendid looks. His bride, the new Lady Maberley, would be fawned upon and envied. She certainly wouldn't be ignored and allowed to live in obscurity.
Figures still danced around the fire and he was leading her there, but she tugged her hand free. "I need to get back to the house. I don't want to be missed."
"Where are you staying?"
"At Maberley Hall."
"Of course you are. My wits are addled. There are two other ladies here from there."
"I know, but I don't want them to know I'm here. My clothes," she explained. "My hair. I'd undressed and let my maid free to come down here. I'm wearing no stays."
His eyes twinkled. "I know. You mean that's not your usual style?"
Her cheeks went hot. "Of course not! You must understand. I'm normally the most conventional sort of lady."
He captured both her hands, there near the fire's warmth and heat. "No. Or you wouldn't be here. Run away with me, Sarah. I can't bear to leave you in your prison."
"And I can't bear to leave it. Believe me, Just, I'm a caged bird. I couldn't survive that sort of freedom. I'm a terrible coward. You need to know that. I'm a coward and I'm too old to change."
"A coward would never have come out here and would never have ventured into the woods. I love you, Sarah."
"It's the night, the fire, the dancing. No one falls in love in an hour. No one!" But it was denying her own heart. "What's happened to us?"
"Titania blessed us. She probably thought it a kindness."
"She blessed us with love?"
"I believe so. Before that I liked you. I desired you. But I felt nothing like this." He fell to his knees. "Parting from you, my precious one, will be like tearing myself from my other half. I will be bereft all my days. Don't do this to me, to us."
"Don't!" She turned away, hands over face, fighting the power of his words.
Bereft all my days.
She, too. She, too.
She gathered the words and turned back. "If it's faery magic, it will lose its strength the further we are from this place. In Canada, you'll wonder what insanity possessed you. Titania can have no dominion there."
"Impossible to believe now, and I don't want it to be so. I want you. Come with me. Now."
"No." She made it firm even though her heart was beating at the bars and screaming, "Yes!" He was going to fight on so she made her decision stronger. "I know myself. I need security and propriety more even than I need you."
"Immune to Faery," he said wryly, rising to his feet. "Astonishing. Are you quite sure?"
His calm voice almost broke her, but she managed to say, "Completely."
"Very well. Let's get you back inside."
Back in security and propriety.
Back inside her gilded cage.
They slipped away from the fire's bright light and worked their way in shadows to the village. He knew the way well and guided her through the deserted village until they could follow a path that brought them toward the house from a different direction.
"The estate's been improved," she said. "I'm surprised you know the way so well."
"Changed. Not necessarily improved."
"Not everything can stay the same, or Canada would only be inhabited by Indians."
He laughed. "A true point. There are things I remember. That beech over there? It was my favorite climbing tree, and the kitchen gardens are still enclosed in the same old walls. It's odd to see a different house where my home once stood."
"I'm sorry it was torn down."
"I'm not. Dry rot, wet rot, death watch beetle, woodworm. When I was young, I thought all wood came with little holes in it. That all houses had mold staining the ceilings and ivy creeping in through the window frames like ghostly green fingers. I didn't mind, but it was dreadful for the servants, which is why we had very few, and the damp might have killed my mother."
"No brothers or sisters?"
"Only me."
They walked on, taking the path through the rose garden. He paused by the sundial in the center and stroked the worn stone edge.
"I'm surprised this has survived." He looked around. "The Stoneycrofts have built a fine house. They're good to the people here. They pay fair wages and treat everyone kindly. Faery considered what had become of my family and put an end to them, installing a better in its place."
"That's generous. If Faery has the powers some claim, they could have supported you. You would have been a good lord."
"Perhaps, but the Maberleys had sinned here for generations. They deserved no mercy. Perhaps Faery did what it could for me. Truly, I don't grieve for this place, or for England. I like Canada. I like my life. Or did."
She covered his hand on the stone. "Don't. Don't grieve for me. Be happy. All your days."
She hadn't seen him grim before, and it could break her heart.
"Promise that you'll try," she said.
"Very well." He turned his hand to curl his fingers over hers. "Promise to try hard to find happiness in your life, Sarah. Can you do that?"
It seemed impossible, but she could try. "I promise."
He nodded, and then without a special look or a touch, he walked away and her heart broke.
There was no pain. There was no noise. But she knew it shattered. Ah, no − it crumbled, crumbled into dust. Perhaps a person only gets one chance at magic and she'd just thrown hers away.
She watched him go, eyes fixed on his pale shirt until it disappeared into the shadows. She turned her eyes to the flaring fire and the woodland beyond. At its heart the hillside glowed. It was still the eve of the Lady's Day and Titania and Oberon were celebrating it in a very special way.
A pity they could only bless rather than work miracles.
Chapter Five
The next day the whole house seemed to have a drunkard's head. Sarah knew why the servants yawned, and she supposed the gentlemen must have drunk and talked far into the night, but why were all the ladies slow to emerge from their rooms, and rather odd when they did so? It was nearly noon when they gathered in the drawing room.
"Such a racket," Lady Augusta said, pinch faced. "Surprised it's allowed."
Amanda Stoneycroft wasn't wilted by the criticism. "It's important to respect tradition, don't you think?"
She didn't seem wilted at all. She must have returned from the revels at a decent hour.
"I thought it was all splendid!" said Miranda. "I adore bonfires. And so does my dear husband."
"He wasn't out there, was he?" Lady Augusta demanded. "They discussed politics late into the night."
"Fairly late," said Lady Goostrey. "Goostrey woke me when he came to bed. I think it was about midnight."
"Yes," said Mrs. Tillyard. She blushed. "My husband, too, woke me."
"Inconsiderate brutes," said Lady Augusta, but Sarah was having an odd notion. Had some of the husbands woken their wives for special duties? Had faery wantonness spilled into the house? She glanced at Amanda Stoneycroft and Amanda's eyes widened with the same question, but also full of laughter.
Sarah bit her lip. Had Lady Barmouth, who'd declared she was glad to be done with it found that she was not? She hoped sweet Mrs. Tillyard had enjoyed her faery pleasure and that it would continue.
Clearly even Faery couldn't carry Lady Augusta's husband to her bed. Or had he tried and been repulsed? Laughter almost won, but then sadness drowned it. If there'd been faery magic swirling, Edward's resolute regimen had been proof against it, which only confirmed the worst. She didn't know how she could face the night.
Amanda suggested a walk in the fresh air, and everyone agreed except for Lady Augusta, who gave rheumatism as her excuse. Decently provided with gloves, bonnets, and shawls or pelisses, the other six ladies left the house by the glass doors.
Mrs. Goostrey suggested they walk to the village, but Amanda said, "It's Lady Day. There'll business going on. The servants around here don't change employment often, but other matters will be being settled. We can stroll around the gardens, then those of us who feel more active can go as far as the deer park."
As they did so Miranda moved beside Sarah. "Lady Stoneycroft and I slipped out of the house this way last night and went down to the bonfire. It was such fun. You should have come."
"No one invited me," Sarah said.
The young woman looked taken aback and Sarah would have apologized except that Miranda said, "I knew you wouldn't want to."
"You were correct," Sarah said, trying for an amiable tone but knowing she sounded stuffy. "It must have been damp and disorderly."
Miranda waved a pink-gloved hand. "Who cares for that? I heard," she said in a lowered voice, "that the local people believe that couples are blessed on the Lady's Day Eve. Won't it be delicious if all the ladies here are blessed in a nine-month?"
"If Lady Augusta is, it will be close to a miracle." Before she could help it, more words slipped out. "In many ways."
Miranda stared at her then giggled. "So terribly true! Oh, a sundial. I must see if it works."
Sarah watched her flit away, praying the empty-headed chit wouldn't repeat her words.
Amanda came to her side. "Has Miranda been irritating you? She's like a kitten unaware of her claws, but I think she'll improve with age. Are you all right, dear? You seem distracted."
"Everyone seems a little odd today. Perhaps it's lack of sleep. I gather you went down to the bonfire."
"Perhaps a number of us did."
Lord save me, did she recognize me?
Did she see me go into the woods?
And with whom?
But Amanda showed no sign of special meaning. "It was most enjoyable," she went on as they all passed the rose garden and followed a path. The path Sarah had walked with Just last night. "I went to keep Miranda in line, for I knew if I forbade her she'd slip out anyway. But I found the village women were easy with us in that setting, and I think I understand them better now. And I met Viscount Maberley, would you believe?"
"Viscount Maberley?" Sarah asked, hoping her steady eyes and mildly curious tone concealed a panicked heart. "From the family who owned Maberley Hall?"
"Yes. We purchased it from him, but through third parties because he was still a lad. He lives in Canada now, but he had business in England and decided to come here for memory's sake. I invited him to stay at the house, of course, but he declined. It's not the same house. Perhaps it offends him. All the same, he's an excellent young man, not at all like the Maberleys I've heard about, and so very handsome!"
Amanda fanned herself with a gloved hand, eyes bright. So that hadn't been faery magic. Sarah realized she'd never seen him by daylight and now never would.
"It's as well he didn't take up the invitation," Amanda went on. "Our gentlemen wouldn't wish to feel obliged to do the fancy with a stranger. I'm wearying you with my chatter."
"Not at all. The situation is interesting. Is he staying at an inn in the village?"
"At the Green Man. I asked if there was anything remaining here that he would like, though anything of value had been sold by his father. A few family portraits remained, all by inferior artists. I had them sent to his solicitor in London and he thanked me for them. Maberley, I mean. He said he'd be taking them back to Canada. Very wise. They have no value as art, but his children and grandchildren might appreciate them."
His children and grandchildren.
Miranda called for them to come and explain the sundial, so Amanda went. Sarah walked on alone. His children. She resented the mere idea of those children and the woman who might bear them.
But then she halted.
What if she'd conceived a child?
The adventure had been so unreal that she'd not considered real consequences. What on earth would she do then?
Edward would accept the child with triumph. He would finally have achieved his aim, especially if the child was a son. He'd be happy, but she'd know the truth and it would eat at her. Worse, one day he too might know. Children resembled their parents. She and her whole family were slim and blond. Edward's hair was a light brown and his features were blunt.
If a child of hers was dark haired and handsome everyone would wonder where those attributes came from. She knew of two noble families with children who bore an unfortunate resemblance to men other than their supposed fathers, and in one case it was the heir.
Might Edward prefer a cuckoo child to no child at all? Her conscience rejected that weaselly argument. She walked on, praying that the fault lay with her. Then there'd be no child.
She paused beneath an ornamental tree that veiled her with bare hanging branches. She could smell the ghostly remains of wood smoke and see the village, which long ago had been Mabsfield. The hill behind now seemed ordinary -- the same broken pattern of evergreens and bare trees, with the first touches of green showing here and there. It had been magical in the night, however. Magical enough to make a barren woman fertile?
What blessing had Titania so carelessly dispensed? Was there any way to beg her to take back her gift and make everything safely as it was?
Except for the memories. She didn't want to forget.
"Are you all right, Lady Jardine?"
That was the second time someone had asked that this morning. She'd have to do better. Sarah turned to smile at Mrs. Tillyard.
"A little under the weather, perhaps. There was a great deal of noise last night, wasn't there?"
"Was there? Our room is on the far side of the house, so that will be why I wasn't disturbed. Until my husband came to bed."
She was blushing again.
Clearly it had been such a noteworthy experience that she wanted to keep mentioning it. If it had been anything like her own, Sarah could understand that.
"Did your husband wake you when he joined you, Lady Jardine?"
What to say? What to say?
"I only ask," the poor lady hurried on, "because the other ladies seem to have had the same.... To have been woken. Except for Lady Augusta, of course."
"My husband is very considerate," Sarah said. "If he comes to bed late he sleeps in his dressing room. When one is available. As here."
"Oh, yes, quite. Silas often does the same. Ah well, there'll be no such disturbance tonight." Mrs. Tillyard attempted good cheer, but wistfulness ran beneath it.
Sarah sent another wish to the Lady. For those ladies who feel blessed, may the blessings last.
* * *
She progressed through the day with increasing dread. She tried to tell herself that it was always like this -- three times a week, every week -- but it had never been like this before. In the past she'd been resigned, but now she felt sick at the thought.
She could refuse.
She'd never imagined that before. She was a wife. It was her duty to give herself to her husband, especially when bearing children was so important. Now, she began to imagine saying, "Not tonight, Edward."
Imagination took her only that far. Beyond lay a precipice in which her life fell apart.
She picked at her food at dinner. Afterward, with the ladies, she sat at the
piano to play so as to avoid conversation. But then Lady Goostrey "offered" to take her turn, clearly wanting to, and she had to surrender it.
She went to a side table to look through the book of the plans of the house. It started with a sketch of old Maberley Hall. She studied it again, remembering Just's words. Indeed, no one had exaggerated its state.
"So sad," Amanda said, coming to her side.
"It was probably never a particularly pleasing house," Sarah said, turning the sheet to a picture showing the rose garden. "You've done the world a service."
"I think so. That drawing shows the sundial. Lord Maberley surprised me today. He wrote to ask if he could have it."
"Have the sundial?" Sarah asked, staring at the drawing. It was merely a sketch and the artist's skill showed in the way the sundial was identifiable by a few lines in the midst of a tangled thicket.
"I was taken aback, but I felt I must agree. And after all, it's an opportunity to commission a new one."
"Even though a sundial serves no purpose?"
"Not everything has to be useful. There's a place for fancy and dreams."
I wish there was, Sarah thought, turning another page to a depressing view of the side of the tumble-down house.
He'd asked for the sundial and she knew why.
Forget me, she shouted in her mind.
Forget me and be happy.
* * *
As the clock struck ten Sarah waited in her bed. The men had disappeared into their plots and plans again so she had no notion of when Edward would come. She had even less idea of what she was likely to do. She desperately wanted to do as she had always done, -- welcome him with a smile and oblige him, but truly she feared she might be sick.
Even worse, an imp inside her was jigging and jabbering with words.
Words of refusal.
Words of struggle and insistence.
Words of explanation that she'd always regret.
Or would she?
If Edward discovered what she'd done he'd divorce her. Might it be preferable to live in exile from society, than to live like this? Some disgraced women left the country to find places away from critical eyes. Were there communities of sad adulteresses? Or were most adulteresses brass and bawdy, and enjoying their liberation?
