by Jo Beverley
Sir George looked a little taken aback at being the center of attention, but he was game. “Well, sir, let me see. What I know, eh? Demmed if I know what I know.” He scratched beneath his brown wig. “Well, you all must know of Walpurgis Night.”
“Yes,” said Morden, “we all know of Walpurgis Night. The question is: Is it the eve of Saint Walburga’s feast day, or the night of the demon Waldborg?”
Sir George swiveled to face him. “Dym’s Night? When a Walpurgis Night falls on Ascension Day? There’s not been a Dym’s Night in my lifetime, Morden, nor in my father’s, and with the fiddling with the calendar, I’ll go odds no one knows if there’ll ever be a real one again.”
“A real one?” Morden queried.
Sir George flushed. “A proper one. I mean, a . . .”
Rachel interrupted out of kindness. “But you’ve been at a Walpurgis Night, Sir George?”
“Aye, Miss Proudfoot,” said Sir George, turning to her in relief. Then he glanced at his wife and added hastily, “Before me marriage, of course.”
“Can you describe it, Sir George?” Rachel asked.
“Well, if the ladies don’t mind a little raciness.”
They all assured him they didn’t.
“There’s Dym’s Bride, you see, and the goings-on are sort of like a wedding. The bride’s a young village girl, and they vie for it. She gets a pretty dress and flowers in her hair, and the tradition is that she’ll marry well within the year. Then she and everyone go up to Dymons Hill where a fire’s been lit and there’s dancing, drinking, songs, and such. . . . “He trailed off uncomfortably. “When the sun rises, it’s over and everyone goes home.”
“Come, Pritchard,” said Morden, “that’s not much of a tale. What of Dym’s Bride? What becomes of her?”
“Becomes of her? Why, nothing, Morden, except that she gets to keep the dress, and ends up well-wed. It’s my suspicion that they choose a girl already planning her marriage.”
“She does nothing special? Nothing special is done to her?”
It was clear to Rachel that the earl was angling for embarrassing details. When he winked at her, she realized she’d been frowning at him, as if she had the right or responsibility to chide him.
Sir George, oblivious to undercurrents, frowned back ten years or so. “Nothing special as I recall, Morden, no. The Bride dances with all the men who want to . . . Oh, yes, she leads some special songs, then . . .” He straightened and looked at Rachel’s father. “Now I think on it, this might be of interest to you, vicar. You like these curiosities. She has this knife, you see, and she plunges it into the earth.”
They all waited, but after a moment it became clear that was the extent of it.
“Into the earth,” said Morden. “But Dymons Hill is solid rock. There’s mighty little earth up there.”
“Aye,” said Sir George. “That’s what I thought the first time I saw it. I was sure the blade would snap, and it’s a fine one that they use. Old-looking.”
“A crevice, then,” Morden said.
“That must be it, aye. Seemed to me some older women showed her where to stick it. . . . But there’s more.”
“Yes?”
Rachel realized that impatient voice was hers.
“The Bride cuts herself. Just a little cut on the hand. One of the years I was there the girl made a silly fuss over it, and had to be helped. You could see the people didn’t think much of her for that.”
There was another silence. Rachel glanced around wondering if anyone else desperately wanted to wring information out of Sir George like a washerwoman wringing water from a cloth. Her father clearly did.
“What happened after she cut herself, Sir George?” he asked.
“After? She stuck the knife in the ground. Didn’t I make that clear? She cuts herself, smears the blood on the blade, then sticks it in the ground.”
“And then what?”
Sir George frowned. “Everyone goes back to drinking and dancing. It’s a grand affair.”
And that appeared to be all Sir George had to add, despite having been at the event on a number of occasions. He clearly didn’t realize the year just beginning was a year that would include a Dym’s Night.
But then would it? What was the effect of the changed calendar on such matters? No wonder the local people still fretted about the government’s interference in days and dates.
When it was time to leave, the earl usurped the footman’s place, and wrapped Rachel’s woolen cloak around her shoulders as if it were velvet lined with fur. “I’ll give you a pretty gown and flowers in your hair,” he murmured.
Rachel clutched the cloak at her neck, unable just yet to manage the clasp.
“I’d make a good demon, don’t you think? Would you lie on the ground for me and smear my blade with your blood?”
She wrenched herself out of his lax hands and glared at him. “You are a demon, my lord.”
His eyes twinkled. “A compliment at last!”
“I don’t consider it one.” She swung to face the mirror and managed to clasp her cloak.
He appeared behind her, beautiful, irreverent, and devilish. “Will you marry me, Rachel?”
She met his eyes in the glass. “I give you fair warning, Lord Morden. If I do marry you, it will be to reform you. I’ll drive the demons out entirely.”
He blew her a kiss. “What amusing battles we’re going to have, my sweet savior.” He captured her hands and placed his fan in it. “A gift for the season.”
Rachel broke free and hurried out after her father, clutching the fan. She should have thrown it in his face, but with the Earl of Morden, she never did anything she should.
It was terrifying.
Rachel spent a restless night struggling with her feelings for Lord Morden. He was a rake, with no shred of decency. In rank, he was far beyond her touch. He couldn’t be serious about his talk of marriage—but his mere presence set her heart pounding, and his touch turned her body to fire. . . .
What should she do when next they met and he pressed her again to marry him?
She was terrified that she might say yes.
When she came downstairs the next morning she was in a state of nervous anticipation, wondering when that proposal might happen.
Mrs. Hatcher was crossing the hall. She slid Rachel a look and said, “I hear the earl’s gone back to Lunnon, Miss Proudfoot. Never stays long, do he?”
Rachel went into the parlor and deliberately smashed a very ugly pottery vase. Then she stared aghast at what she’d done.
Her father came from his study, pen still in hand. “Are you all right?” He looked at the broken pottery. “Ah well, it was a distressing piece of work.”
“I smashed it,” said Rachel.
“So I gather.”
“Deliberately.”
Reverend Proudfoot twinkled. “I know. Your mother was much given to such things in her younger days. Threw a milk jug at me once. Would have done for me had it hit, I think.”
“Mother? I can’t imagine that.”
“Emotions tend to settle once people wed. Though not entirely, thank goodness.”
Rachel could feel the heat rise in her cheeks at her father’s perception. “He’s gone back to London.”
“Ah.”
“I can’t marry a man like that.”
“You certainly can’t marry a man who is in London.”
“I can’t marry a man who spends most of his time in London! He’s a rake and a reprobate. He drinks, he gambles, he fights duels. I’m sure he . . . You know what I mean.”
“Consorts with loose women,” said the vicar calmly. “Undoubtedly.”
Rachel knelt and began to pick up the shards of pottery, fighting tears. “I don’t even know why he pesters me so. We’re worlds apart.” She got to her feet and looked sadly at the broken fragments.
Her father smiled at her. “Rachel, my dear, you will do as you think best, and I have great faith that you will do what is best. But I confe
ss I would not be displeased to see you wed to Lord Morden. Of course, in worldly terms it would be a great thing, but we won’t consider that. I think, however, that he is a man of many excellent qualities. Those qualities may be drowned in excess, but they could be nurtured. I believe you can nurture them if you will, and be very happy in the result.”
“He teases me to death!”
The vicar nodded happily. “As I said, I think you could be very happy with the result.”
Rachel was left in even more confusion than before. Her father’s approval of the match must count with her, but how was she to settle her mind when her suitor was not here suing?
Or was it suiting?
How was she to know him better, and be able to make this fateful decision, when he was in London, and she was in Suffolk? Surely any suitor whose intentions were honorable would stay close to the object of his attentions!
She threw herself once more into her research, though she and her father seemed to have drained the well of available information about Dym’s Night in general, and Meggie Brewstock’s death in particular. The death in February of old Len Brewstock from a winter chill seemed to close the final door.
Two days after his burial, Rachel went to stand by the old man’s grave pondering the way people’s knowledge died with them. He had known things—she was sure of it—but now they were irretrievably gone.
There were a number of new graves, for winter took its toll. A raw mound covered Thomas Caldwell, crushed when his chimney collapsed from too much heat. Two small graves marked the Grigham children who had died of the croup. In the crypt lay the remains of Lady Ida Brandish who’d been carried off by pneumonia. Her great-nephew had returned to see to her burial, but had not sought out Rachel at all.
Rachel looked around the gravestones of people great and small, young and old, and thought about the finality of death. It could come at any time, stealing secrets.
And leaving so many things unexperienced.
Like marriage, and children, and the fullness of the passion to which a certain wretched man had awoken her senses.
It was inconceivable to damn a person in a churchyard, but Rachel was wickedly tempted.
Spring came to Suffolk with its usual magic touch, and soon the green and fertile land was cheered by birdsong and the bleating of newborn lambs. Apart from remaining observant for any hint of wickedness in the congregation, Rachel and her father had put aside their enquiries about Walpurgis Night until closer to the event.
Rachel was now collecting local songs. These were interesting in themselves, but often related to customs, sometimes long-forgotten ones.
She sat one day with Widow Tufflow as the old lady span fine thread despite the fact that her sight was almost gone.
“Ester, ester, egg is bester,” chanted the woman in a cracked voice as the wheel hummed, “green is swester dimmy’s wife. Bester dancer, ester chancer, blood agrounder dimmy’s knife.”
Rachel had recorded it mindlessly, just making sure to get the sounds down, but now she looked in fascination at what she had written. “That’s an interesting song,” she said carefully. “Was it sung at any particular time, Mrs. Tufflow?”
“Children sing it,” said the old woman. “It’s just a bit of nonsense.”
“But what of this dimmy?” When the woman didn’t respond, Rachel resorted to a direct question. “Could that have anything to do with the Dym of Dymons Hill and Dym’s Bride?”
The milky eyes turned toward her. “Why, that it might, miss. Yes.”
“And Ester would be Easter. And on Easter Sunday, I understand, one household finds a blue egg on the doorstep. The youngest unmarried woman of that house will then be the Dym’s Bride that year, yes?”
“Aye, miss.” The woman nodded amiably.
Rachel looked over the words. “Do you have any idea what ‘green is swester’ might mean, Mrs. Tufflow?”
The wheel span steadily, bewitchingly on. “Well, the bride must wear green, miss.”
“Must she? I didn’t know that.”
“Aye, green and simple. No hoops or anything. Like in the old times.”
How old, Rachel wanted to ask. Druid times?
“And she dances and chants. That’s dancer and chancer,” Rachel mused almost to herself. “And put’s blood and earth on Dym’s knife! This is all about Walpurgis Night.”
“Doubt not it is,” said Mrs. Tufflow, unexcited. “I were a Dym’s Bride once, you know.”
And the woman sat there and calmly recounted the whole event in detail. Even as she scribbled it down, Rachel was aware with some apprehension that Widow Tufflow had always intended to tell her this.
The bar on the village’s knowledge had been broken.
But why?
Sure enough, f having to scratch for every scrap of information, now Rachel and her father were drowning in it. It seemed every person in the locality had a song or story they wanted to share, many of them connected to Walpurgis Night. Rachel, who was distressingly inclined to pine over an absent, heartless rake, threw herself into this torrent of information with enthusiasm.
They soon had a complete picture of the festivities. They didn’t contradict Sir George’s account, but merely filled it in. The bride was dressed in a simple green robe of rather medieval style and wore flowers in her hair. She was taken in precession to Dymons Hill where the bonfire was already lit. There was a lot of dancing, drinking, and singing up until midnight. At that time some special songs were sung, the bride cut her hand, smeared the blood on the blade, and plunged the knife into the earth.
The people believed that by the ceremony the earth had been fed, assuring good crops and kine for the next year, so they celebrated till dawn.
It appeared no more wicked than many other country festivals. Just to be sure, Rachel and her father complied a list of all the Dym’s Brides since 1668 and interviewed those still living. No Dym’s Bride had come to harm in the ceremony, and true to tradition, they had all married well within the year. There was no suggestion of anything untoward.
“So that’s that,” said her father one evening, making a final note in the book in which they had recorded everything. “Whatever happened to Meggie Brewstock was to do with her personal affairs, doubtless her liaison with the earl. Quite possibly the attack upon him was for the same reason. Perhaps it was intended that he end up on the fire with her. That’s a serious enough matter to require secrecy, but not at all mystical. Our investigation of Walpurgis Night here is complete except for our direct account of this year’s rites. After that, I’ll send it to the Gentleman’s Magazine for publication.”
Lord Morden returned in the week before Easter. The first Rachel knew of it was when he walked into the vicarage parlor where she was transcribing a song.
She was so startled she snapped, “Where did you come from?”
He brought a hint of fresh spring air but his eyes were dangerous. “I materialized from a hole in the ground like the demon I am.” He grasped her chin and kissed her.
His skin was cold, but his breath was hot. Rachel snaked her arm around his neck and rose to kiss him back.
With no start of surprise that she could detect, he deepened the kiss and collapsed her onto the new carpet with him on top. Rachel struggled then, but he carried her forward into passion with the irresistible force of a river in full flood. . . .
It was a very loud, repetitive coughing that gained their attentions. The earl broke the kiss and they both looked up.
Mrs. Hatcher stood in the doorway, hands folded on her apron, blank of expression. “I’m sure, miss, you’ll think better of what you’re doing, given the chance.”
Rachel felt heat flood her body. She pushed fiercely at Lord Morden and he rocked to his feet with an unrepentant grin, helping her up in turn. “You were so eager, my sweet. It seemed a shame to waste it.”
Rachel turned all her embarrassment into fury. “Get out!”
“Oh, don’t be predictably prudish, Rachel. I’ll l
eave if you can deny that you invited that.”
She glared at him, but truth was sacred to her. “Very well, my lord, I did. It was foolish. Perhaps I thought to teach you a lesson.”
“Remarkably foolish. In this, I’m the master, and you a mere infant.”
“I would not be so proud of that if I were you.”
“Do you want tea, miss?” interrupted Mrs. Hatcher.
Tea, the universal antidote to folly.
Rachel wanted to throw Morden out—or a part of her did—but there was no chance of removing him before he wished to leave. She had best tame him with tea.
“Yes, please. Thank you, Mrs. Hatcher.” She meant the thanks to be more for the interruption than for the tea, and the woman nodded.
Rachel returned to her seat, directing the devil in her midst to a seat a safe distance away. He took one closer.
“What were you so busily engaged in, my Rachel? More demonic enquiries?”
“A song, only.”
“Sing it to me.”
“I do not have the music.”
“Then how can it be a song? Recite it to me.”
With a sour smile, Rachel picked up the paper. “One ewe, two ewe, three ewe, dim. Round up, still tup, ring tup, lim. More?” she queried sweetly.
“That’s the nonsense the shepherds chant when they’re counting the sheep. Why on earth are you recording that?”
“I record everything. That’s the way it’s done. One never knows what might be of interest. And it does say ‘dim.’”
“Still obsessed with our local demon? If you want to be a Demon’s Bride, be mine.”
Mrs. Hatcher came in at that moment and put the tray down with a thump.
Rachel turned to her. “Mrs. Hatcher, you heard that didn’t you? He offered me marriage.”
“I heard nothing, miss.”
“Miss Proudfoot,” said the earl clearly, “please marry me.”
“His lordship’s making a game of you, miss. Why, the first thing he did on arriving yesterday was to visit his daughter, Catty Hesset.”
The flash of fiery anger from the earl’s eyes bounced off Mrs. Hatcher. She sent him a grim smile and left.
