by Lisa Cach
They arrived at the Frowdy farm far sooner than Valerian had expected. A horse had definite advantages over walking. She straightened up, pushing away from his back, and tapped his shoulder.
“Let me down. I do not want Mrs. Frowdy to see me up here. ’Tis bad enough that you are with me.”
Nathaniel reined in, and with his help she slid off Darby. Nathaniel followed suit, and walked beside her up the dirt track to the stone cottage.
A scrappy-looking dog barked his hoarse warning at their approach, drawing Mrs. Frowdy out of the house, a toddler peeping round her skirts.
“Good day,” Valerian called.
“Good day, Miss Bright.” Mrs. Frowdy stared at the baron, surprise and embarrassment pinkening her cheeks, and Valerian made the introductions. Mrs. Frowdy curtsyed, and looked considerably more flustered than Valerian had ever seen her.
“I have brought the tincture for Toby. How bad have the fits been?”
Mrs. Frowdy cast a self-conscious glance at the baron. “Not so bad.”
Valerian gave Nathaniel a look that said this would go better if he made himself scarce, and she subtly shooed him with her hand. He raised an eyebrow at her. His curiosity obviously outweighed any impulse to accommodate her.
Valerian moved closer to Mrs. Frowdy and lowered her voice. “How bad?”
“It is not that they have been so bad,” Mrs. Frowdy whispered back, darting glances over Valerian’s shoulder at the baron. “But they have been too often for my liking. Once or twice a day it is happening. The poor little thing shakes something terrible, twitching and jerking.”
Valerian nodded and handed her the bottle. “Give half a spoonful every morning. It is valerian, same as last time, only my aunt has strengthened the concentration.”
“Will it stop the fits?”
“It should, especially if you can keep him from getting too upset by anything. If it does not stop them . . . Well, there are always other things we could try. If it does work, though, I can give you some plant starts, and teach you how to make the tincture yourself. I do not think this is something Toby will grow out of.”
Mrs. Frowdy thanked her, and curtsyed again to the baron, who nodded in acknowledgment. The farm wife stood in the doorway and watched as Nathaniel remounted, and then in complete disregard to the concerns Valerian had expressed upon arriving, he put down his hand to help her onto the horse.
Valerian ground her teeth. She could not refuse his hand, hanging there in the air, with Mrs. Frowdy watching. He would make a fuss, and that would be even more of a spectacle. He probably wanted people to think he was bedding her. She mounted with ill grace behind him, giving him a hard pinch in the side as revenge.
When she turned to make her farewells to Mrs. Frowdy, it was plain from the woman’s sparkling eyes that gossip would be flying by nightfall.
“I told you I did not want her to see us like this,” Valerian hissed at the back of Nathaniel’s neck as they headed down the road.
“Others have.”
“But not Mrs. Frowdy.”
“Is she a particular problem?”
“Let us say she is not always kindly disposed towards Aunt Theresa and me. She will make the worst of this.”
“I disagree. She will no doubt conclude that you hold a special place in my heart, and be reluctant to speak against you. I do, after all, hold the deed to the farm she lives on.”
The man had no understanding of how life in Greyfriars worked. “That will not stop her. She is devious. She would never speak openly against me: She is mistress of the innuendo. She spreads rumors, and gossips with the innkeeper’s wife, which is as good as putting out a news sheet.”
Nathaniel leaned to the side and craned over his shoulder to see her face. “I do not understand. If she causes you and your aunt such trouble, why do you go out of your way to help her? I understand treating the child, but why offer to teach the woman to make the medicine herself? Why deliver it to her, when she could come get it?”
“I cannot hold against her her failings,” Valerian said, “although at times I confess I am hard-pressed to hold a charitable frame of mind. She does not mean to be so terrible. She fears us, and so she strikes out. What good would it serve to be petty in return? That would only increase her resentment, and then perhaps Toby would not get any medicine at all.”
Nathaniel blinked at her, and turned to face front again. “You are kinder than I.”
“Cruelty is a luxury I cannot afford.”
They were silent, heading up into the hills. Valerian had to cling tightly to his waist, and scoot herself forward when she began to slip back over Darby’s broad back.
“What was it you gave her?” Nathaniel finally asked, breaking the silence.
“Mrs. Frowdy? A tincture of valerian.”
“Is that an herb of some sort, or a mixture named after yourself?”
Valerian laughed. “It is a plant. The roots make a strong sedative. My parents named me after it, as it is so useful in healing. The name means strength.”
“It was a good choice for you.”
Valerian smiled, her cheek against the warm cloth covering his back.
They came to the peak of a small mountain, and Valerian felt Nathaniel catch his breath. Stretched out below them was the ocean, and to the left the bay. Greyfriars, set back some way from the shore, was a short strip of thatched and slate roofs partially hidden by trees, with the river flowing by beyond, nothing more than a sparkling line at this distance. On the horizon in front of them, the Isle of Man was a mysterious shadow hunched in the sea.
Valerian dismounted, and staggered. Her legs felt like she still had a horse between them. She put her hands on her thighs to check that her legs were not indeed spread wide like they felt. Her skirt was damp with combined human and horse sweat where it had been beneath her legs.
“I want to show you something,” she said as Nathaniel dismounted. The hill sloped down in front of them for a hundred yards, then dropped off in a cliff. She led Nathaniel down near the edge, then got down onto her belly, inching forward. He followed suit, leaving Darby to crop grass, and together they peered over the top of the cliff.
Powerful winds scaled the cliff and provided lift for dozens of ravens, swooping and hovering along the cliff face. Their nests clung to cracks and outcroppings, and to bits of brush growing from the stone. Far, far below, waves crashed upon jagged black rocks.
“This is where I got Oscar, when he was a baby still in pin feathers.”
“Here?”
“I had come up here for the view, and was peering over the edge like we are now. As I watched, a chick in one nest tumbled out, bouncing halfway down the cliff. The nest was crowded, the other chicks larger, and I think they shoved him. I climbed down and rescued him, carrying him up tucked in my bodice.”
His eyes were wide in amazement. “That was a terrible risk you took.”
Valerian shrugged. “I was more concerned about Oscar than myself. It was not long after my parents had died, and I did not care much what happened to me. The only thing I was afraid of, really, was being attacked by the adult ravens while I was climbing. I thought they might make me lose my balance.”
“They left you alone?”
“Yes. And I do not know why. Maybe they knew I would not harm their chicks, or maybe. . . .”
“What?” Nathaniel prompted, when she did not continue.
“Oh, a silly idea I had at the time.” She had never told anyone this part of the story, and felt now how foolish it sounded, especially being told to this man who had seen so much more of the world than she had. “When I had regained the top of the cliff, with Oscar still alive, I imagined that the ravens had wanted me to have Oscar, so I would have something to live for.”
“And did he give you that?”
She paused, remembering what those first few weeks had been like. “In a way. He gave me someone else to think of, someone who needed me.” And then there had been that other thing she had d
iscovered when she held Oscar in her hands that day, the discovery that set her even further apart from the folk of the village.
“He distracted you from the guilt of surviving, when others had not.”
Valerian turned to look at him, but his eyes were still on the ravens coasting the air currents below. “Yes, that was a part of it.” She watched him, the wind ruffling his dark auburn hair, and saw the lines of some deep regret etch his face. “I think you know something of loss.”
He gave a grunt of false humor. “I have some familiarity with the feeling. Or at least with the guilt part of it.”
“Is this anything to do with the rumors that you left London after a terrible scandal?”
He finally turned to look at her, his hazel eyes meeting her own, and she read pain there. Their shoulders were touching. He leaned his head in close enough that their foreheads almost touched as well. “The rumors—whatever they may be—no doubt have as much truth to them as the ones that fly about you.” He looked away again. “Only you are more innocent than tongues would say, while I am far less.”
Valerian inched back from the edge and rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand so she could watch him. “What did you do?”
“Your aunt asked me the same question, albeit not quite so bluntly. I did not answer her.”
“You are going to answer me.”
He laughed and drew away from the edge, sitting up. “And why is that?”
“Because you want me to know you.” She did not know where the words came from, but she felt their truth as they left her mouth.
“If you truly knew me, you would lock yourself inside your cottage and never come out again. You would warn mothers to hide their daughters and tell fathers to fetch their swords.” His tone was light, but the crooked smile had the barest hint of a quiver in it.
“Do not assume that I would judge you so harshly. I have been on the receiving end of such judgments too often to do that.”
“You and your aunt both, mother confessors. Telling you will do nothing to change what happened.”
“I never said it would. I did not mean that telling me would change the past, any more than praying will change God. The telling, and the praying, are to change yourself.”
“Ah, but I am quite enjoying my shame and guilt. I richly deserve them, and am not so ready to give them up.” He stood up, dusting off his breeches, and reached down a hand to her. “And it is much too lovely a day, and my companion far too beautiful, for hours spent morosely reviewing the low point of my life. Come, we shall return to Raven Hall for something to eat, and then I shall bring you home, chaste and pure, with all your illusions intact of me as a frightfully handsome, charming, and slightly mysterious man.”
She snorted, taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet. “I do not think I am the one with the illusions.”
Chapter Eight
To Valerian’s dismay, Paul was sitting hunched over a bowl of soup, slurping loudly, when they came into the dining room. He paused mid-slurp and dropped his spoon back into the bowl with a splash and a clatter, his eyes going from Nathaniel to her, and back again. “Nathaniel. What a surprise.”
“Good afternoon, Paul,” Nathaniel said cheerily. “Are you enjoying your private dining, or would you like a bit of female companionship to enliven your meal?”
Paul cast a disparaging eye at her. “I would have thought you would much rather have her to yourself. And God knows, she will do nothing for my appetite.”
Whatever sense of well-being and comfort she had begun to feel in Nathaniel’s company collapsed with brutal abruptness. She suddenly felt the difference in her and Nathaniel’s stations, and that she did not belong at this table in her rough dress and stained leather shoes. It was as if she could feel each bit of grass and vegetation clinging to her clothes, and the inelegant picture she made with her braid hanging down her back, wisps of hair rubbed free.
“Surely you can forgive her for having seen you with your breeches down,” Nathaniel cajoled, not taking his friend seriously.
Paul grunted in response, giving Nathaniel a look of disgust little kinder than that he had given her.
Valerian narrowed her eyes. Nathaniel might not be aware that his friend was serious, but she certainly was. “Lord Ravenall,” she said formally, doing her best impression of a duchess, holding tight to her pride, “I am afraid I must decline your earlier offer of dinner. I will just slip down to the kitchen and beg a crust of bread before I go—I am much more comfortable down there than in these fine surroundings. Why, heaven only knows what a mess I might make of things!” She dropped a mock curtsy and swept away, her cheeks burning.
His hand on her arm swung her around before she had taken two steps, her skirts swaying with the force of his pull. She gave his hand a vicious slap without thinking, and he let go. Perhaps ladies did not hit. Their eyes met, and she saw the confusion there, and she almost relented. Then his eyes shifted to Paul, and she turned on her heel and stomped off down the corridor. She expected his hand or voice holding her back, but neither came. It was only Paul’s mocking laugh that followed her down the hall.
The way down to the kitchen was familiar to her from her many visits to the manor with her aunt. Familiar as well were James and Judith, king and queen of the cooking domain. She had not meant it when she had said she would go beg in the kitchens, but it occurred to her that it was not such a bad idea. Far better company was to be had down there than above stairs. James and Judith had always been kind to her, whereas most of the other staff gave her a wide berth.
Her feet tapped their way down the stone stairs, which had depressions worn into their surfaces from two hundred years of servants rushing up and down with platters of food. At the moment all that rushed up was the combined scents of roasting meat, pastries, and spice; and the clattering noise of kitchen workers at their jobs.
She banked her anger for the moment, seeking distraction from the hurt in the company of others—others who did not think her too dirty and poor to sit at their table. Let Nathaniel pacify his friend for the insult of having brought her before him while he ate. Fine! It served her right for forgetting she had no place in their world.
She poked her head around the corner of the doorway, observing James as he rolled out pastry dough on the large center table, other kitchen servants dashing to and fro like bees around their hive. His belly was as big as ever, covered by a food-stained, once-white apron. His thin, grey-streaked hair was pulled back over his balding head and tied off with a sad and scraggly strip of twine. “Good day, James!” she called.
He looked up, and his face creased in a smile that was missing the left half of its teeth. “Valerian!”
He claimed he had lost the teeth fighting brigands on a road outside Yarborough, and that he had narrowly saved Judith from their rapacious hands, but the truth was he had walked into a wall while drunk. Given his fondness for his own sweets, Valerian was not surprised his teeth had been so loosely anchored as to tumble out upon impact. Hygiene had never been one of his strong points.
“It has been too long since you have been down to see Hairy and me,” James said. “He misses you dreadfully, you know. He does not like anyone else.”
Valerian laughed, and went over to the huge fireplace with its low-burning, wood-scented fire. A huge chunk of beef turned slowly on a spit, the juices dripping into a pan beneath. A belt attached to a small wheel on the spit was in turn attached to the axle of a three-foot exercise wheel mounted on the exterior stone of the fireplace.
The black and white spotted dog inside the creaking wheel, loping to nowhere with his tongue hanging out, was the infamous Hairy. The wheel wobbled on its axle, and Hairy tilted his scruffy head and twitched a floppy ear as Valerian approached.
“Hairy, you lovely dog, have you been good?” His ears perked and his brush-like tail wagged, and he ran a little faster in his spinning cage, the meat jerking on its spit at the increase in speed.
“Lov
ely! Har!” James said behind her, loading up a plate with cheese and bread. “I have never seen a sorrier example of the species. Bred in a stinking midden, he was, with the manners of a rabid rat. We will be making bow-wow mutton of him one of these days, just you wait and see.”
Hairy cast a urine-yellow eye at his master and growled, his raised lip showing a broken canine tooth.
“Eat Hairy, indeed! ’Tis no wonder he bites you, if he must endure such threats and insults.”
“He bites me for sausages. Are you hungry, Valerian girl? I would rather feed you than that mangy piece of flearidden cur. Or any of these other louts,” he said, gesturing at his staff in general. Valerian noticed that several were taking the opportunity of his distraction to slip from the room for a break.
“I will eat only if you join me and tell me how you have been since I saw you last.”
“You mean since the new baron came. Ha! Cannot fool me. You want to hear the dirt.” James wrinkled his face in disgust at the plate he held, dumped the cheese and bread back where he got it, and started reloading the plate with tarts and roast beef. “Cheese and bread, paugh!” he grumbled. “Let them eat it, as do not work for their living.” And then, louder, “So, I must bribe you with gossip to get you to eat my food. Seems a poor trade.”
“Nonsense. You have the pleasure of my delightful company, which is worth any amount of gossip and pastry.”
“Give me Hairy any day.”
“Paul, what in God’s name is the matter with you?”
“With me? Nothing, My Lord Baron, Sir! ’Tis your brain I wonder at.”
“For bringing Miss Bright to my home for dinner? What do you have against her that you cannot treat her with even a modicum of civility, and this after she was kind enough to help tend your sorry ass?”
“I have nothing against her, except for the very real possibility that she is a witch and a poisoner, and has put you under her spell,” Paul said, his voice rising.
