Sacrifice (Book 4)

by Brian Fuller

  “So, Pureman,” Mrs. De’Bellamaine began after a lull, “you mentioned that good health has blessed us. Are there no cases of sickness, even now?”

  “There is, unfortunately, one situation that is outside the normal run of headaches, nerves, and coughs common in all seasons. The Barnes, a poor family that live on the Downs, have a young girl, Alna, afflicted with the pig fever. She is a dear girl of only six years, her voice as pleasant an instrument as ever tuned by Eldaloth’s hand. I’ve just received word and will attend to her this evening. She is a bit young to overcome the sickness, I fear, not to mention that her family’s situation isn’t such that encourages health or recovery. I have little hope of her improvement.” He noted the concern in Mrs. De’Bellamaine’s eyes.

  “That is unfortunate,” she said.

  “We should visit them this afternoon,” her husband commented, face grave.

  “Yes,” she continued, “and see what we can do to support them.”

  “Do you think they could use a blanket for the child?”

  “I believe so,” Mr. De’Bellamaine answered thoughtfully. “Wholesome food would certainly be in order.”

  “They do scrape by down there,” Merta said. “I wonder if they are cleaning as they should?”

  The Pureman jumped in before they could continue. “I think it best if you leave it to the ministrations to the Church. We will know how to succor them. It would be dangerous and . . . inappropriate . . . for you to go there. It is a filthy place.”

  “Why, Pureman,” she remonstrated, “we shall hardly be deterred by a little dirt. As for the danger, surely you noted that we have some skill with weaponry. We have metal swords to go with the wooden ones. Would you like to see them?”

  “Ah, no,” he declined. “But may I ask, do you fence with each other often?”

  “When we get the chance of it,” Mr. De’Bellamaine answered. “I like to keep my skills sharp, so I have asked her to ambush me about the house unexpectedly.”

  Pureman Whatman frowned. “I’m sure we could find other young men in the country who would be happy to spar with you.”

  “No doubt they would be happy until they sparred with me,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  His wife laughed. “Oh, Frederick, you mustn’t be so cocky! I’m sure the Pureman could arrange for some eligible opponents, though they may object to being smacked on the bottom as you do to me. I would love to watch a match. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you humiliate someone.”

  The Pureman couldn’t believe the forwardness of the woman. “Yes, yes. The young Darby Mills is quite handy with the blade, as is the Sheriff. Either one could provide you ample sport without you needing to put upon your wife for such an office.”

  “I am not put upon, dear Pureman,” she objected. “I quite enjoy the instruction. I was actually thinking of asking the other ladies about town if they should wish to learn.”

  The Pureman snapped his jaw up. Where did these people come from? “I assure you, Mrs. De’Bellamaine, that such invitations would be universally despised and rejected. But the disclosure of your plan allows me to address, now, the object of my visit. I do not know your history or the land of your upbringing, but several of my parishioners have commented on how your manners are quite different from what is typical of the people in this area of the country.”

  “Oh, really?” Mr. De’Bellamaine said, though the Pureman failed to detect much gravity in his face. Hers was a mask of saucy amusement. “I do hope we have not caused overmuch offense. We have enjoyed the neighborhood, though Mrs. Foresythe does seem a bit rigorous in her vigil of our house.”

  “Do be clear, dearest,” Mrs. De’Bellamaine put in. “This is a Pureman, and we shan’t beat about the bush. What you meant to say was that Mrs. Foresythe is an insufferable spy.”

  The Pureman coughed. “I assure you that she is an honorable, though observant, woman.”

  Mrs. De’Bellamaine laughed again. “Observant! Very good, Pureman. Very good. It’s like saying Aughmere and Tolnor were merely uncomfortable with one another and that Mikkik suffered from a bit of distemper.”

  Mr. De’Bellamaine grinned widely at his wife’s quip. I am losing control of this conversation! the Pureman fretted. He cleared his throat loudly. He really had no idea how he would divulge the long list of complaints leveled against them, so he just plowed into them—in the kindest way he could imagine.

  “Mr. and Mrs. De’Bellamaine, I urge you to hear me with all seriousness. In this part of the country there are some matters of decorum that must be heeded if you are to endear yourself to the community here. We believe women are too delicate for the coarse nature of handling weaponry. While it behooves every man of substance to learn the art of war for the defense of his honor, his home, and his country, the female sex should pursue those occupations for which kind hearts and gentle hands are best suited.

  “Then there is the matter of staying out of doors until all hours of the night. Genteel people should keep respectable hours save for the direst of emergencies. What good could come of wandering the dark, or what good could those who witness such wandering think of those who wander? The dark hours are for the idle and those of disrepute. It would be a danger to the person and the honor of anyone to be about during the late watches.”

  Gen perked up. “But Pureman, isn’t this a bit like children accusing their siblings of opening their eyes during the oblation when they themselves would have had to open their own eyes to witness the infraction? Or did the idle and disreputable tell you this of us?”

  “It is Mrs. Foresythe,” Mrs. De’Bellamaine conjectured. “Watching us is her chief form of entertainment. Since she stays indoors to do it, she can stay up late without tarnishing her reputation. I guess that makes her idle, but not disreputable.”

  “Please, I do not mean to offend,” the Pureman soothed. “Mrs. Foresythe. . .”

  “But, Pureman Whatman,” Mrs. De’Bellamaine interjected, “haven’t you seen the stars at that time of a clear winter night when the glow in the west has dissolved into utter blackness and every lamp in the city is extinguished? They shine and twinkle like a room full of the eyes of the happiest children ever to breathe a blessing on the world. If those who view this habit as amiss would just sit up late, walk into a midnight field, and look up, then their censure for us would turn into a sympathetic joy! Have you seen them, Pureman?”

  The Pureman was taken aback by her sincere passion. “Of course. I am about late on many errands to the sick,” he answered, though he admitted to himself that he never had quite taken notice of the sky. He changed the subject quickly. “But in addition to this, you win too much at cards, often arrive at functions to which you were not invited, and insist on keeping no servants, which places you in the position of doing low work when you should instead be about the improvement of your minds and attending to some social obligations that are your duty to perform.

  “But lastly, and perhaps most seriously, it has been noted by several of the people in this demesne that you two are frequently, and in public places, guilty of that sort of . . . affectionate contact . . . which discomfits those who may, perchance, view it. Such activities are for the discreet confines of your own walls, here, in private. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mrs. De’Bellamaine smiled oddly. “Frederick, I do believe the Pureman is desperately trying to convince us to stay indoors a great deal more, despite the warming weather. I don’t think we ever been that demonstrative, have we Frederick?”

  “Dearest,” Mr. Bellamaine said, “remember that time at Mrs. Chisolm’s, on All Peace Day? The wine cellar?”

  “Oh! I had forgotten about that! Why would Mrs. Foresythe ever come down to a wine cellar? Seems it would be beneath her dignity. And now that the subject is broached, I do recall the balcony at Mr. Lourde’s ball, though I would hardly think Mr. Havelton could be that shocked that two newlyweds would be kissing in the moonlight. Surely he isn’t that stodgy at his age.”

 
“You are mistaken, Merta,” Mr. De’Bellamaine corrected. “Miss Greene found us at the ball—remember her shriek? Mr. Havelton stumbled upon us in the thicket at Winter Park.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Was that ever cold, especially when the snow shook off the branches and . . . well, what business did Mr. Havelton have in that particular thicket at that time of day, anyway? I’m sure I don’t want to know and thus spoil the memory.”

  Mr. De’Bellamaine turned back to the Pureman. “You have a point, though in our defense, I would argue that the problem isn’t that we aren’t discreet. We just aren’t very good at it. Please continue.”

  The Pureman, however, was done, vaguely mumbling that he was finished and hoped they hadn’t taken offense, though he doubted they were capable of taking any in the first place. There was some hope for Mr. De’Bellamaine, though the wife was clearly beyond amendment. The Pureman decided he would need to talk to Frederick alone. Perhaps by inspiring him to more judicious behavior, he might exercise some control over his spouse. Of course, Eldaloth was patient, and a few years might invest them both with a bit more sobriety. A devastating trial might do them good, as well. The sound of a horse and cart entering the drive cut short the Pureman’s announcement that he was leaving.

  “Is it Davis?” Mr. De’Bellamaine asked of his wife who had crossed to the window.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We’ll have him ready the horses.”

  “My thought exactly. I’ll find a blanket for Alna”

  The Pureman furrowed his eyebrows. “Davis Korbett?”

  “The very one,” Mr. De’Bellamaine confirmed.

  “What have you to do with the lad?” the Pureman asked, intrigued. “Have you hired him for some purpose?” He could think of few things worse than exposing impressionable children to people such as these. Davis was but ten years of age. His mother was a widow seamstress, quite poor, her son a bandy-legged, sickly wretch whose disability prevented him of being much service to his mother or anyone else besides. The Pureman reminded himself to pay Mrs. Korbett a visit, as he hadn’t seen her since Harvest Festival.

  “He performs some work for us around the house,” Mr. De’Bellamaine explained. “In exchange, Merta teaches him letters, and I am teaching him the care of horses and how to shoot a bow.”

  Is everyone to learn weaponry? The Pureman grumped to himself. Next he’ll be teaching me to swing a club and Mrs. Foresythe to knife fight.

  Mrs. De’Bellamaine crossed to the door and opened it before Davis could knock. “Good morning!” she greeted him brightly, embracing her freckled, sandy blond student, who received it gratefully and familiarly.

  The Pureman turned and his mouth dropped open. When last he saw the lad, he was a walking horseshoe, legs so severely bent he couldn’t manage steps or walk at more than a turtle’s pace. His face had been ashen, his eyes dim, and his manner so languid that he scarce could be placed in the category of the living. While there could be no doubt this was the same boy, the alteration in him was severe. Legs as straight as broomsticks supported a frame full of vitality. The Pureman stood and greeted the boy, amazed at the clarity in the brown eyes and the energy that beamed from a perfectly sanguine face.

  “But Davis!” the Pureman exclaimed. “You are so much improved since I last saw you I can scarce believe it! What blessing is yours? How have you come into such health?”

  As with most youth his age, he shrugged his shoulders and looked at the floor. “I dunno. Just got better, I suppose.”

  “Eldaloth has indeed favored you! I am very gratified.”

  Mr. and Mrs. De’Bellemaine looked at the boy with a great deal of pride and satisfaction, Mr. De’Bellemaine wrapping his arm affectionately around his wife’s slender waist.

  The Pureman shook his head and took his leave, resolving to visit the Widow Korbett immediately to inquire further into the matter of her young Davis. Surely there was some miracle there he could use to inspire his congregation.

  He untied his horse and mounted, noticing Mrs. Foresythe watching him expectantly from her front porch across the way as he rode out to the lane. No doubt she wished to speak to him, but he would defer that conversation until later. If the De’Bellamaines were to notice him with her directly after visiting them, it would seem as if he were reporting to her and thus confirm that she was indeed the instigator of his visit.

  The warming air and steady canter of the horse relaxed him after what he could only label an ordeal of a visit, but while at first his recollection of his visit to the De’Bellamaines only brought worry and irritation, as he rode by the spring fields and orchards burgeoning with life, his mind drifted on another tack.

  Satisfaction with his calling and his life had always accompanied him through the years, but amid the buzzing of insects, the blossom of the trees, and flood of sunshine, his heart felt sensible of some loss he couldn’t quite grasp. He tried to dispel these thoughts and feelings, but they persisted through his arrival in town and his half-hearted greetings to the men and women crowding the streets as he rode.

  As he turned toward the widow’s house, the passionate words of Mrs. De’Bellemaine sank into his heart. He sighed and smiled, making a quick resolution: Tonight, I will study late, walk into Farmer Justin’s pasture, and look up.

  Thank you for reading the Trysmoon Saga!

  Find out about upcoming releases and projects on briankfullerbooks.com and facebook.com/briankfullerbooks