A Mysterious Season

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “See? Potter doesn’t mind, now tell me quickly before Olivia comes back. What the devil happened? I thought I could at least rely upon you not to dress me up like a cake.”

  Portia’s expression was pained. “I wanted something simple. Olivia wanted this monstrosity. We found ourselves at an impasse, so we cut cards for it. Olivia won.”

  “And I lost,” I said bitterly. “Couldn’t you at least have persuaded her that white is scarcely suitable for a widowed bride?”

  “The queen was married in white,” Portia pointed out. “Olivia was hardly likely to let you do less.”

  “That was nearly fifty years ago and she was a virgin,” I reminded her.

  Portia shrugged. “If it is good enough for royalty, it is good enough for Olivia.”

  From the floor, Potter gave an indelicate snort, and I bit off what I was about to say.Olivia returned then, bearing a wide swath of lace draped over her arm, beaming in triumph. “This is just the finishing touch it needs,” she pronounced.

  I opened my mouth to draw the line at a veil—really, a veil for a widowed bride was entirely too much, even for Olivia—but she did not fix it to my hair, as I expected. Instead, she used it to ruche the rear of my dress, creating clouds of lace just atop my sitting place.

  “Olivia,” I began firmly, “I really do not think—”

  But before I could finish, a shriek rang out from the corridor just as the great bell in the Jubilee Tower—silent since the Dissolution—began to ring.

  The four of us looked at each other, horror dawning.

  “FIRE!”

  * * *

  We hurried out of the Abbey, at least we hurried as much as humanly possible with Potter amongst us. Portia took her under one arm and I the other, and between us, we managed to propel her to safety. Family, friends and servants poured from every door. Morag came carrying Grim’s cage, while he hurled insults at her for bashing him about. A tidy line of cats—Peter Simple and a heavily pregnant Christopher Sly and their assorted progeny—processed outside with as much dignity as the royal family on parade while the Duke of Aberdour was carried out on Aquinas’ back and poor old Hoots was rolled out in a Bath chair by a footman.

  The scene was utter chaos. From the top of the kitchen chimneys, fire and sparks shot straight into the air, a spectacularly menacing display. Soot floated on the light breeze, and the heat from the thing drove us all back into the garden. The cook and kitchen maids emerged from the kitchen covered in flour and feathers, wailing and shrieking. The chambermaids flocked together like a covy, ruffled, but not quite so willing as the kitchen girls to show it. The parlour maids, superior creatures each and all, simply stood at attention, waiting for the fuss to die down while the footmen and all of the gardeners from the outside staff formed a line to haul buckets of water from the nearest carp pond. Father oversaw it all, and moved quickly through the crowd, ordering a head count to make sure everyone had left the Abbey.

  “A chambermaid seems to have gone missing,” Aquinas reported in a low voice. “Bess, the new girl,” Father turned to marshal volunteers to go and fetch her, but just then Aunt Hermia gave a sharp cry, clutching at Father’s arm.

  “Crab,” she said, her voice breaking on the word. Crab was Father’s mastiff, beloved by all and unfortunately not blessed with as much wit as his good looks might have suggested. In fact, he was entirely stupid, and I realised with a twist in the pit of my stomach that the poor fellow would never have thought to follow a crowd out the door if it meant the roast intended for dinner would be left unguarded.

  “He’ll be in the kitchen,” I told Father. His face drained of colour, and it was a measure of his distraction that he was more immediately concerned for his pet than his chambermaid. If I had asked him, I was sure he would have said the maid would be smart enough to shift for herself, but Crab was far too simple to accomplish such a feat.

  Without a word, he left off asking for volunteers and turned on his heel, striding straight for the kitchen door.

  “Father!” I cried, running after him, but he took no notice. The fire was burning hotter than ever, but he simply stripped off his coat and doused it in the nearest bucket. Holding it over his head, he approached the door, waving an arm to clear some of the thick smoke.

  Just then, the smoke parted, only for an instant, and a pair of figures emerged—Bess and the mastiff. The maid was bent double, coughing hard, her frizzy, mouse-coloured hair streaming loose. She had removed her mob cap to pull it down over Crab’s eyes. He must have proved stubborn about walking through the fire, and with her quick thinking she had saved him.

  Father gave a cry of jubilation and dropped his sodden coat as he fell to his knees. He pulled the cap free from the dog’s eyes to reveal Crab regarding us all with a faintly quizzical expression.

  The buckets came quickly then as the boys made quick work of putting out the fire. Father sat with Crab, letting the fellow lick his face as I moved to the maid. I took her firmly by the hand.

  “You are a very brave young woman, Bess,” I told her. Her face was entirely covered in soot and her unkempt hair hung in her eyes, but the face was familiar and I realised she must be related to one of the village families that kept us supplied with maids and grooms. No doubt this country loyalty was at the heart of her courageous actions.

  She ducked her head sheepishly. “He is a good dog, and I cannot stand to see an animal hurt.”

  “Then you have a good heart,” I replied.

  Before she could reply, the head gardener emerged from the kitchen and went straight to Father.

  “Just the chimney, that was. Far more smoke than aught else. ’tis put out now, and apart from the stove, there be not much damage.”

  The cook stopped her caterwauling and put her hands on her hips.

  “What do you mean, ‘apart from the stove?’” she demanded.

  The gardener, his face streaked with grime, pushed back his cap. “I mean, the stove is fair wrecked, missus.”

  “I have a wedding feast to cook in that stove,” she said darkly. “I have to feed a hundred and fifty people tomorrow, and you mean to say I must do it with no stove?”

  “There, there,” Father said, never stirring from Crab’s side. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

  “Well, it’s about to be,” the cook said stoutly. She removed her apron and cap and dropped them to the ground. “I quit.”

  Olivia, quivering with rage, stepped sharply in front of her. “You cannot quit. We have a wedding tomorrow.”

  “And without a stove and a cook, I wish you the very best of luck,” she returned tartly. “But I have had quite enough of the upsets and calamities of serving this family. ’tis back to Brighton, I am.” She turned on her heel and left.

  While Olivia stood staring openmouthed after the departing cook, Portia seized her chance. She snatched up one of the buckets of filthy pond water and, without even pausing to draw breath, dashed it over my gown, soaking me from head to hem. The muddy water ran in rivulets down the white taffeta, forming a puddle at my feet while clusters of slimy lily leaves clung to my gown.

  “What the devil—” I began.

  “You were on fire,” she said, her expression perfectly bland. Olivia’s jaw had opened further still and she gave a cry of disbelief.

  “The gown! It’s ruined!” she howled.

  Portia turned so that only I could see her face as she gave me a wink. “You are welcome.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later Brisbane appeared. I had taken a seat at the far edge of the kitchen garden, perching myself on a low wall.

  “I heard the fire bell,” he explained.

  “Kitchen chimney,” I told him. “It is out now, and no one is injured, thank heaven.”

  He seated himself next to me. “Thank God for that.”
He looked me up and down, his expression thoughtful. “Your gown appears a bit the worse for wear.”

  “That was not the fire. That was Portia.”

  He tipped his head. “Oh, well. I am certain she had a good reason.”

  I plucked at a sodden ruffle. “I think you can see the reason.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I was being polite. It is frightful. If you had walked down the aisle in that, I would have left by the vestry door. Wherever did you find such a monstrosity?”

  I inclined my head in Olivia’s direction. She was striding with pale-lipped fury amongst the staff, giving orders, which was not at all within her purview, considering it was not her house. But Aunt Hermia seemed a bit undone by the afternoon’s events, and was content to let someone else take the reins. Father was pleased simply to sit and scratch Crab’s ears and feed him bits of cold meat salvaged from the larder. Scores of staff were scurrying to and fro, carrying out the ruined food.

  “There goes our wedding cake,” I told Brisbane.

  “Pity. I do like a nice fruitcake.”

  I turned to him. “Do you think your aunt cursed us?”

  His expression was pained. “I do not believe in curses, Julia. Those are faery stories mean to frighten children.”

  “I know. Of course I know that. It is just that the calamities do seem to be piling up,” I said, shivering a little as a goose walked over my grave.

  Brisbane pinned me with a look. “You said once you would follow me to the ends of the earth in a white petticoat to be my wife, if that is what it took.”

  I pursed my lips. “You were not supposed to hear that. You were unconscious.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  I held that striking black gaze with my own. “You must know I did.”

  “That is why I know you will be there tomorrow, whatever calamities may come. As I will be.”

  I looked down at the soaked, sooty gown. “I may have to wear a white petticoat, if it comes to it.”

  Brisbane gave me a slow smile. “I wish you would. The sooner I can get you into just your petticoat—”

  “Ah, Brisbane! Good of you to come, my lad,” Father said, rousing himself from his reverie. “Did you hear, we nearly lost poor old Crab.”

  He bore Brisbane off to commune with Crab just as Portia approached. “Come along, dearest. We must get you out of that wet thing before you catch your death of cold. And you ought to know Olivia’s not speaking to me.”

  I grinned. “Yes, but you are now my favourite, so it all balances.”

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. “I have always been your favourite. Now, come along. I have an idea.”

  * * *

  Portia hauled me into the Abbey where maids were busy opening all of the windows to air the place out. The atmosphere was thick with the smell of smoke, but there was little damage beyond the odd overturned chair or jostled bibelot someone had upset in the initial panic. Only Maurice the bear seemed to have sustained damage.

  “Poor old Maurice,” I commented as Portia whisked me past. “Someone’s knocked into him and his seams have split again.”

  Portia rolled her eyes. “Tarquin, no doubt. I have told that boy a thousand times he hasn’t any business playing with the taxidermy, but he will not listen.” No doubt Portia was correct. Our nephew was precocious beyond his years and had a penchant for obsessive interests. The previous winter it had been pirates, but he had since moved on to archaeology—digging up the whole of the kitchen garden in his quest for Saxon gold. His most recent interest was taxidermy, and he was not above hacking his way into every trophy in the Abbey when no one was looking.

  Portia interrupted my musings on Tarquin. “Forget about the bear and hurry up. If this works, you will look an absolute picture,” she promised.

  “Yes, but a picture of what?” I muttered.

  She did not bother to reply. Once in my room she rang for Porter and there was a good deal of hushed discussion while the sodden remnants of the gown were stripped off and Morag was dispatched to organise a hot bath for me. I was soon whisked off to scrub myself from head to toe, and I luxuriated, soaking myself until my hands were withered. I had a good think in the scented steam, and when I emerged I scribbled a few lines of instructions and dispatched one of the footmen to the village for a project I had been inspired to undertake. By the time I was properly dressed with my hair tidied, it was striking half four and I went in search of tea.

  “There isn’t any,” Portia told me flatly. She had sent the maids off upon a variety of mysterious errands, and we were for the moment alone. She poked at a box of sweetmeats on the dressing table.

  “Those are Grim’s. If you don’t mind sharing some Turkish delight with a raven, help yourself.”

  Portia pulled a face and slammed the box closed. “Did you know there is a dead mouse in there?”

  “No, but he will have his little titbits. Now, what’s this about no tea?”

  “The fire ruined it—and dinner as well. Aquinas is laying in a supply of boiled eggs and bacon from the Home Farm, and he has ordered bread from the village baker, so at least breakfast is managed, but there is no dinner to be had. We will have to eat at the festivities tonight and hope that hare pies are enough to hold us.”

  “Festivities?”

  “Honestly, Julia, I think you would forget your feet if you did not need them to walk. Tonight is Midsummer Eve, have you forgot?”

  A feeling of dread I had been suppressing surged back. “I had. Deliberately.”

  She gave me a repressive look. “It is a special occasion for the village, and you must play your part.”

  “Portia, it is absurd. The dressing of the well ought to go to a young bride, not a widow past thirty!”

  The well, sacred since pagan times, stood on a tor overlooking the village just beyond the church of St. Barnabas. Every Midsummer Eve the well was dressed with flowers as a sort of offering to the water spirits, and the honour always fell to the bride whose wedding date was nearest Midsummer Day—usually a nubile girl with a sturdy village pedigree. Instead, I should have to put on the ceremonial robe and toil up the tor with a basket of flowers while the rest of the villagers and family sported on the green, eating pies and quaffing buckets of beer and ale.

  “Thirty is not so very elderly,” Portia reminded me. “And it is an honour that must not be refused. Remember, the Abbey was not exactly on splendid terms with the village last winter. This is a perfect opportunity for us to demonstrate precisely how much the locals and their customs mean to us.”

  “Feathers,” I muttered. But Portia was not wrong. There had been plenty of grumblings the previous winter when a murder and a reputed haunting had taken place at the Abbey. The local folk had gone in fear for their own lives, and for the first time in living memory, relations between the estate and the village had cooled considerably. But Father and Aunt Hermia, the only two members of the clan who lived at the Abbey regularly, had taken great pains to repair the damage, and it was the least I could do to support them.

  The rest of the family left early for the village, no doubt starving and in hopes of securing some of the refreshments. Portia walked with me, handing me over to the village woman in charge of the affair. The blacksmith’s wife was Mrs. Netley, a thin-lipped woman whose knowledge of local history was surpassed by none. She was the church organist as well, and in the interests of not offending her the day before she was to play at my wedding, I decided to adopt an attitude of abject biddability. I stood perfectly still as she draped me in a white robe that smelt so appallingly of mothballs my eyes began to water. Then she placed an enormous crown of flowers on my head, tugging it so low I could scarcely see between the petals, and shoved a basket full of flowers into my arms. “There you are, your ladyship,” she said approvingly. “You look like a proper nymph, you do. All you need do
is lift the garland out and wind it ’round the coping on the well.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Netley,” I said with suitable meekness. She towed me out of the smithy and onto the village green. The country folk from miles around had come for the festivities, and the Abbey inhabitants were there as well, as much from a desire to have a hot meal as anything else. The publican and his wife always prepared special hare pies for the occasion, the receipt an old and guarded one. It specified the pies be made from March hares—that is hares snared on March land—and Father always obliged by setting his gamekeeper to collect enough to fill the hundreds of pies the gathering would require. I smelt them, baked to puffed, golden perfection, and my mouth watered. But Mrs. Netley tapped my wrist when I reached for one.

  “After the well has been dressed, my lady,” she said firmly.

  In hungry defiance, I tucked one into my pocket for later, and picked up my basket. The publican had thrown open his cellars rather earlier than expected, and the beer and ale flowed freely. I saw Brisbane, his own pint foaming gently as he lifted it in salute to me. I pulled a face at him and set off, dragging the hem of the robe in the dirt. I struggled up the torchlit path as it wound its way upwards, ever upwards, coiling around the tor as it reached to the well. It reminded me of the labyrinths of old, the sort cloisters used to pave for contemplation. Around and around the tor I toiled, the robe dragging behind me, the basket weighing heavily on my arms.

  But as I walked, a most peculiar thing began to happen. I found myself moving more slowly, and the basket no longer seemed so weighty. The heady perfume of the flowers—dog roses and lilies of the valley and honeysuckle—filled my senses and I did not care for the squabbles of my siblings or the pettiness of my relations. I did not care for wrecked wedding breakfasts or ruined gowns or burnt kitchens. We were safe, all of us, and on the morrow I would marry the only man I had ever loved. I felt wrapped in peace that evening, and I blessed the blacksmith’s wife for insisting upon my acting the part of the bride.