The Changeling Bride

by Lisa Cach

  She spooned a healthy glob of strawberry jam onto her roll. “Which reminds me,” she began tentatively, looking up at him from under her brows, her eyes huge and dark. The candlelight made her skin look like cream. “There are some things I’d like to ask you about my job description.”

  “Job description?” Her question did not succeed in distracting him from his perusal of her flesh. Was her skin even whiter beneath her clothing? He had almost felt guilty leaving her to lunch alone this afternoon, she had looked so woeful. Already his plan was working. By the end of the week she would be seeking out his company, and soon all that lovely skin would be his to touch.

  “You know—what I’m expected to do, as countess. What will my responsibilities be? What do you expect me to be in charge of? What am I supposed to do all day?”

  “The usual.”

  Elle put down her roll, her brows drawing together. “I think my parents may have misled you, if they gave the impression that I knew much about running a house. Maybe they thought I paid more attention than I really did. I don’t know. The truth of the matter, I’m sorry to say, is that I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing with my time. I don’t know how the food for the kitchen is purchased or cooked, or the dishes cleaned. I don’t know how the laundry gets done. I don’t even know how much anything costs. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be directing, if I’m to be directing anyone at all. I am completely unprepared for this position. I just thought you should know.”

  Henry watched her list her incompetencies, his eyes on her mouth. She had marvelously straight teeth, white as proverbial pearls. And her lips were so full, so soft. They were slightly pouty now, indicative of her present discomfiture. Apparently she was not pleased to admit her ignorance of household matters. He listened to her with half an ear, more intent on those moist lips, and thoughts of what it would be like to have them touch his bare skin. His eyes moved to her neck, and he imagined placing his hand there, stroking her, then running his fingers up into her hair and pulling her to him, bringing her to him without resistance, even eager for his touch, her lips parted and waiting. . . .

  “Well?” he heard from a distance. The ringing of a spoon against the side of her water goblet brought him back to the real world. “Anyone home in there?” she asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. That should not be a problem.” So, Mr. Moore had lied to him about her housekeeping skills. Apparently the good merchant had lied about a number of things concerning his daughter. At least the money was real enough, and the money had been the impetus for the marriage, after all. It would not do to become angry with Elle, when the mendacity had been her father’s.

  “I already have a steward,” he continued. “He is in London at the moment, hiring servants. It may be a few weeks before he is finished. He can take care of the more mundane details of running the house, such as making purchases, keeping the books, paying the servants, and so on. Abigail and Thomas can direct the servants, as they have been, if you do not wish to do so.”

  “Then what is it that a countess is supposed to do?”

  “She has only one absolutely necessary duty, and the rest are optional.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “To bear heirs, of course. Given your present reluctance to take on the preliminaries to that task, I suppose it is the optional activities you will have a greater interest in, at least for the moment. I hardly think they will prove as entertaining as the first would be, but I am determined to submit to the vagaries of my beautiful bride.” He smiled mildly at her.

  Her frown deepened. He wanted to rub his thumb between her brows.

  “So what are these optional duties?”

  “For the most part they are social and aesthetic. You can choose the style in which the house is refurbished, you can choose the weekly menus, you can decide on livery for the footmen, you can have a say in how the gardens are landscaped. You can send and receive invitations to visit friends and relations, and eventually plan parties and balls, and do your part to ensure that our future offspring are viewed as the civilized children of civilized parents. I imagine it is much how your mother spent her time.”

  “That’s it? Lovely home, lovely garden, and teach the children manners. Throw good parties. At least it sounds like there is shopping involved,” she concluded, sounding a bit letdown.

  “There are also the charity visits. Bringing food baskets to tenants in need, and taking care of minor health concerns, if that is an area in which you have knowledge and feel inclined to act. But surely you know all this already?”

  “As I explained before, I am ignorant on the most surprising topics.”

  “You are an intelligent young woman. You will learn.” He took a sip of his wine. “Perhaps you would like to see some of the estate tomorrow, since you have already seen the house. You can ride, can you not?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Splendid. Tomorrow morning, then, we shall ride out after breakfast. But for now, my dear, what say you to adjourning for our dessert?”

  Elle put her hand on Henry’s arm and let him lead her from the dining room, her mind stuck on the topic of riding. Yes, of course she could ride. Her neighbors had had horses, and she had often ridden with them. Bareback. Astride. This was the eighteenth century, though, and women here rode sidesaddle. Oh, joy. The last thing she was about to do, though, was admit to yet another thing that she could not do. How hard could a sidesaddle be, anyway?

  Henry led her upstairs, and it wasn’t until they were climbing their third set of stairs that she came out of her sidesaddle fog.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To one of the banquetting houses.”

  “Ah.” Of course. That made perfect sense.

  He laughed softly. “You shall see.”

  They climbed a final, narrow set of stairs, and Henry opened the door at the top. She stepped out onto a railed walkway, a lantern beside the door making a circle of yellow light in the darkness. Another lantern hung some distance away, beside a door at the base of one of the domed turrets she had noticed from the ground below. She was on the roof.

  She leaned against the rail and looked out into the darkness. The sun had set some time ago, but the horizon to the west was tinged a light charcoal blue. The moon hung above it, fuller than it had been a few days ago, with bright-shining Venus close by. Above her, the stars were silver glitter thrown across an endless sky of midnight blue.

  Henry stood close behind her, his legs pressing slightly against her skirts. He brought his face down close to her ear.

  “I shall have to bring you back to watch the sun set.”

  She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “It’s a beautiful view even in the dark.” Every fiber of her was aware of his presence. “Do you come up here often?”

  “Not in recent years. As a boy I would sometimes come to lie on the roof and watch the stars.”

  “An amateur astronomer?” Her back tingled with his closeness.

  “I was not such an intellectual. It was more of an escape, a place to be completely alone with myself . . . and my thoughts.”

  She recalled the little he had shared about his father. Perhaps he had often needed such an escape. “It’s strange, isn’t it, how solitude is a comfort for loneliness.”

  “You sound familiar with the experience.”

  She smiled a bit. “I doubt anyone is immune to it. There was a poem I had to read, as part of my schooling . . .” she trailed off, feeling foolish of a sudden.

  “I will not laugh if you wish to recite it,” he said, a tinge of humor in his voice.

  “Just one stanza, it’s all I remember.”

  “Then it must be the most apropos, as well as being blessedly short. Please.”

  She pretended to clear her throat, then paused, closing her eyes to dredge up Robert Frost’s words and the proper tone.

  “They cannot scare me with their empty spaces

  Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
r />   I have it in me so much nearer home

  To scare myself with my own desert places.”

  They were both silent, and Elle opened her eyes to look up at the stars far above, shining impossibly distant in the blackness of space. She let herself lean back until she lightly rested against Henry’s chest.

  “Mmm,” he said, and for a moment, she thought she felt his cheek press against the side of her hair. “Not the most uplifting of sentiments, but painfully true.” He stepped away from her, breaking the spell, and held out his hand. “Come.”

  She followed him down the walkway to the turret. When she looked up she could see faint light in the windows under the dome, and realized there was a room in there. She followed him through the door and up yet another narrow set of stairs, until at last she emerged into the turret room.

  “The banquetting house,” Henry announced, bowing to her.

  She blinked about her at the room, done in a Moorish motif of tiled designs, the pillars between the windows as richly decorated as the ceiling. In the center of the room sat a built-in tiled table, no more than four feet across, and covered now with plates of fruit, tarts, marzipan, and an urn of either coffee or tea, kept warm by a spirit lamp underneath. A brazier like those in the greenhouse sat to one side, providing warmth.

  “Henry, it’s lovely,” she said, enchanted. “Do all the turrets have such rooms?” she asked, tracing her fingers along the complex pattern on one of the pillars. Sleeping Beauty could have spent her century drowsing in such a place.

  “They are in different styles. This one is in the best shape. Only one window is missing, and I had the bird nests cleaned out.”

  “I had no idea. I had thought the turrets were only decorations.”

  “My great-grandfather had plans to build a banquetting house in the middle of the lake as well, but my great-grandmother talked him out of it. She protested that she did not want to smell stagnant water while she was eating her sweets.”

  Elle let him hold her chair for her while she sat and accepted the cup of coffee he poured for her. “I met your great-grandmother today, while I was exploring the house. That’s why I was late for lunch. She’s an interesting woman.”

  Henry paused, half-lowered into his chair. “Great-grandmother? Lady Annalise spoke with you?”

  “Briefly.”

  “What did she say?” He appeared unusually curious, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead in an uncharacteristic display of interest.

  “Not much. She said you were an amusing boy, and that I’d make you a good wife.” Elle made a face and reached for a marzipan peach.

  He looked distinctly unconvinced but took a seat. “Did she say anything else?”

  “No, not really. She invited me back, but that’s about all. Is there some problem? Should I not have disturbed her?”

  “She has not said an intelligible word to anyone for the past two years.”

  Elle choked on her bite of almond paste. “What?” “She just mumbles and sleeps. Or pretends to, I am never sure which.”

  “But she knew who I was, knew that you had married, and without my saying anything about it.”

  “You are telling me she has just been pretending to be deaf and dumb all this time?”

  “How should I know what she’s been doing? I’m telling you what she said, that’s all. Are you telling me that I’m making this up?”

  “That is not what I said.”

  Maybe it wasn’t what he’d said, but it was clear to her that was what he had been thinking. He wouldn’t believe her unless he talked to Lady Annalise himself. “Why does she live in such a distant part of the house, anyway?”

  “She has always lived there, certainly as long as I can remember,” he said, his tone becoming careless. “I think my father forgot she was even there. Either that, or she frightened him enough that he did not have the nerve to sell her furnishings when he gutted the rest of the house.”

  “I have a hard time thinking of her as frightening.”

  “Perhaps not now, but once upon a time she was known to have a way of getting what she wanted. Or so go the stories. I think the servants mostly forget she is there, all except Sally, who takes care of her.”

  “Sounds rather lonely.”

  “Like I said, she has not let pass an intelligible word for a couple years.”

  “And I wonder how much good it’s done her confusion to leave her mouldering in an uninhabited corner of the house.”

  “No one left her to moulder,” Henry said, his voice tightening. “If you think you can persuade her to join the rest of the household, be my guest and try. I guarantee you, you will not succeed.”

  “Did you try so hard, then?”

  A silence grew between them. Elle felt shame creep up on her. What right did she have to scold him for his treatment of his family? She herself had hardly been the model daughter or sister. “Well, really, it hardly looked like she’d appreciate being moved,” Elle conceded. “And if she’s been faking senility, she must have the wits about her to arrange things as she likes. Maybe she prefers to be alone, I don’t know.”

  “I shall ask her.”

  Elle had the uncomfortable feeling that she had just added yet another burden to his shoulders. Why had she ruined the evening, when he had brought her to this lovely room, and they had been getting along so well? “Never mind, I’ll take care of it. I’m the one she bothered to speak with, after all. Isn’t that what wives do, deal with family matters?”

  “I am glad there is something you are willing to do in that role,” she heard him say softly, and wondered if he had meant her to hear.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elle winced at the faint creaking of her corset. The laces were holding on for dear life, strained to their limit. Eleanor’s riding habit was a tight-fitting affair, consisting of a double-breasted, deep-lapelled jacket over a false shirt front with frothy jabot, and an oddly darted skirt. She felt remarkably unattractive in it, and the physical discomfort was almost enough to make her give up the thought of going for a ride, but she still felt bad about ruining last night, and she wanted to mend that if she could.

  The hat was the only aspect of the entire ensemble she approved of. It was a tricorn, with a ribbon cockade on one side. She insisted that Marianne arrange her hair in a low single-ringlet pony tail and tie it with a black silk ribbon. With the hat on, she felt like Paul Revere.

  She creaked her way down the stairs and let a young male servant lead the way to the stables. Good thing the horse would be doing all the walking: She’d black out if she had to breathe any harder. She was going to have to do something about these clothes when she got the chance. She really couldn’t live like this.

  Henry was waiting for her, along with two horses and stableboys. It was readily apparent which was hers by the odd-looking saddle with the hornlike protuberances. There was only one stirrup. How in God’s name was she supposed to sit on that?

  “Belle should suit you well. She’s a bit high-spirited but gentle at the heart of it.” The way he looked at her, it seemed he thought the description could apply to her as well.

  Elle eyed both Henry and the horse with disfavor. She didn’t like the sound of “a bit high-spirited.” “She’s lovely,” she muttered uncertainly. The mare was a pretty color, dark brown with black legs, mane, and tail. She looked like a police horse. Beyond that, Elle had no idea of how to judge the beast. The simple fact that it had a sidesaddle upon its back made it sinister.

  Henry went to mount his own horse while a stableboy led Belle up beside a portable set of wooden stairs. Elle quickly surmised that this was some manner of mounting block, and with a pained smile upon her face, she dragged herself and her heavy skirts over to it. She surveyed the stable yard one last time, as if expecting help would appear and save her from this fate. Her faithless dog was off sniffing a suspicious pile, looking like she was seriously considering either taking a bite or rolling in it. Henry was already mounted and was discussing somet
hing with one of the stable boys. At least he had his back to her.

  She climbed the stairs, placed a hand on the saddle, and tried to make sense of the contraption. She knew that both her legs had to go on one side, which must mean . . . what? Did she drape one leg around the horns, or two? Or none? She lifted her skirt so it would have space to give, then turned half around and plopped herself, backside first, onto the saddle with the horns between her thighs. By the feel of it, she had not gotten it right. She shifted and spread her legs until she could get both of them under the curling ends of the padded horns, jerking on her skirt for more give all the while.

  She stole a glance at Henry. His back was still to her.

  “Milady?” the stableboy asked, holding up the reins for her to take.

  “Thank you.” She smiled crookedly at him, mentally urging him to give her advice. The psychic call went unheeded.

  She shifted on the saddle, fishing with her left foot for the stirrup that was buried somewhere beneath her hanging skirt. She knew the basics of how to ride a horse. How hard could a sidesaddle be, really?

  “Ready?” Henry called over to her.

  “Tallyho!” Elle called brightly, giving up the hunt for the stirrup.

  Henry set his horse at a walk from the yard, and taking her courage in both hands, Elle gave Belle a gentle tap on the side with both feet, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth in encouragement. “Giddy up” would probably only be understood by a bicultural British-American horse.

  Belle started forward, more to follow the other horse than to obey her mistress. The movement sent Elle rocking, and she clenched her legs around the horns. Her left hand clutched at the back of the saddle. This could not be right. She was seated as if the horse were a bench, and she felt like she was about to tumble off backwards.

  They reached a dirt road, overgrown except for narrow ruts of bare earth where wheels had packed the ground too densely for even weeds to grow. Henry urged his horse into a canter, and Belle gleefully followed suit.

  “Aieee!” Elle screeched. Caught off guard, her legs flailed for purchase, her arms flapped in the air, and she found herself looking at the sky, her head bouncing on the rump of the horse. She was still mounted, thank God. She just happened to be lying down. Her legs had wrapped around the sidesaddle horns of their own volition, the crook of her right knee gripping the horns for dear life, her right foot hooking under her left leg for security.