Unnatural Issue (20 page)

But a full stomach and a truly soft and warm place to lie in—and the comforting aura of nurturing Earth magic about her—all conspired to ambush her. She had not even begun her spell-spinning when her eyes closed of their own accord, and she fell deeply, dreamlessly asleep.

Only to awaken abruptly and with a start, to find the building full of sunlight and four sets of eyes staring down at her—two equine, with indifference, and two human, with bemusement.

One of the grooms-turned-mechanic had come to fetch Charles and Peter just as they were about to go out for a canter by way of a change from Peter’s impersonation of an artist.

“Eh, Marster Charles, tha’s got a sleeper in auto barn,” he said, without any sort of preamble. “’Tis a wench.”

“Young wench or old? Cleanly or slattern?” Charles asked, immediately turning his horse’s head toward the part of the carriage house where the autos were kept.

“Cleanly, an’ middlin’,” the groom said immediately. Charles nodded.

“Come along, old chap,” he said to Peter. “We’ll have a look at her.”

So they found themselves looking down on a young woman bundled into lap rugs meant for winter journeys. She looked worn and a little disheveled, but as the groom had suggested, clean. Her clothing suggested she had seen better days, or at least more prosperous ones. The fabric was very good, suggesting that she’d remade some hand-me-down from someone well off. She had a good face in repose: dark, nearly black hair, aristocratic nose, good cheekbones, and a firm chin. He wondered what color her eyes were—then got an immediate answer when they flew open.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Charles said immediately. “We’ve no intention of driving you off. This is Branwell Hall. I’m Charles Kerridge. And I assume you are looking for work?”

The young woman sat up slowly, then got to her feet and gave a little deferential curtsy. “Begging your pardon, m’lord,” she said, instantly. “Aye, m’lord, come looking for work. Didn’t mean to trespass here, but I been crossing moor, ’twere dark when I got here, and yon storm—”

“Oh, nonsense,” Charles replied, waving his hand. “The gates are unlocked and that
was
a wicked storm last night. Since you aren’t from Branwell Village, you couldn’t have known that you could present yourself at the kitchen any time if you’re looking for work.”

“I
am,
m’lord!” she said eagerly, looking up at both of them, directly in their eyes. “Been working for an old man, he died, here I be, no job and no one to give me a character. I’m a plain housekeeper, plain cook, kitchen maid, good in yon dairy—”

“Jill of all simple trades eh?” Charles interrupted her. “Excellent. Just run off to the kitchen, we can use another dairymaid, Cook told me that weeks ago. Tell Cook I said to take you on trial.” Charles smiled at her, and she looked dazzled for a moment. “You’ll find the kitchen that way,” he continued, pointing, by way of a hint.

She shook herself out of her daze, bent, and picked up a bundle from among the rugs, then curtsied again. “Aye, m’lord,” she said hastily. “Thank you, m’lord.”

Charles didn’t wait for her to withdraw, although she scampered off like a puppy after a stick; instead, he urged his horse back toward the door. Peter followed.

“Do you always do that?” Peter asked curiously, once they were out of the building. “Offer strays a job?”

Charles nodded absently, as if there were something else occupying him. “Usually. If they’re up to no good, the offer of work generally makes them do a bunk, and if they’re honest, they’re grateful. But in this case, Peter, it would have been a crime to turn her away! Didn’t you
feel
it?”

“Feel what?” Peter asked, reflecting that at the moment the one thing he was feeing was
thick.

“Magic! Earth magic! The girl is an Earth mage!” Charles exclaimed. “She’s heavily shielded, but there’s no doubt in my mind. As soon as she realizes what she’s stepped into, she’ll fit in here in no time.” Charles looked to Peter as if he were going to start rubbing his hands together in glee at any moment.

“Oh,” Peter said, blankly. Then, “Oho! That was what I was—”

But Charles snorted. “Don’t pretend you were sensing Earth magic, Peter, old man. I saw you. The girl is a handsome thing, I’ll admit to you, and I don’t blame you for looking, but she’s not to be meddled with. We might have a wild past, but this is the twentieth century. You can’t trifle with her, and you certainly can’t marry her, so it’s best not to think about her at all.”

For one moment, Peter was taken aback. In the next moment, it was a good thing that Charles had ridden on ahead, because he was consumed with outrage. How
dare
Charles suggest that he would—

And then the outrage was replaced by a more impersonal indignation. Just what kind of arrogant blighter was Charles Kerridge, saying “You certainly can’t marry her”? Not that Peter was interested in marrying anyone at all but, since when was Charles Kerridge so much loftier than this girl? For all Charles knew, she was a better magician than he was! And what was wrong with—

Then the indignation ran out too.
Everything is wrong with the idea,
he thought bitterly. It was that old double standard of “gentry” and everyone else, and never mind that attitude should have died with a stake in its heart ages ago. The fact was it was alive and well.

Take Peter himself, for instance. Oh, it was all very well for people like him to run about the Continent and toy with opera singers and ballet dancers and professional courtesans, but the arrangements were always perfectly understood by both parties, and the boundaries were established from the beginning. There were generous presents, generous living arrangements, and generosity when the time came for the arrangement to end. But there was no talk of marriage.

Despite certain aging peers making a habit of marrying actresses, these were
aging
peers, with no other family, and these days people were amused rather than scandalized. But if someone Peter’s age and rank even hinted at an interest that was anything other than irregular, there would be hell to pay.

And to show a similar interest in servants? His mother’s outrage would last until Everest melted. There would be more trouble than he could sort out in a year. All very well for the squire to marry the Poor But Honest Country Lass in some romantic bit of fluff, but the plain truth was, it was impossible. She’d never fit in. She’d be snubbed by the other women in Charles’ circle; country society was even more backward in that regard than London society. Her former peers would be insufferably jealous and hateful. Her life would be confined to Branwell Hall.

So incredibly unfair. Because if she was strong enough to have shielded her magic from
him,
she’d have made a perfect partner for Charles—

Oh, good lord, now I’m matchmaking,
he realized with chagrin.

“Well, if we can tame this one down quickly enough, she might be able to provide me with the information I need,” he said, urging his horse up beside Charles.

“She’s certainly stronger than I am,” he agreed. “It will be a matter of winning her trust, though, and seeing just how trained she is.
I
don’t recognize her, I doubt Alderscroft knows of her, so she might be entirely self-taught, which could be less than useful.”

“And she might run off when she realizes she won’t be able to steal the butter,” Peter added glumly. “Just because she’s pretty and an Earth mage, it doesn’t signify that she’s honest.”

Charles grinned. “Do I detect a sadder-but-wiser tale behind your words?”

Peter snorted. “
Moi? Mais non!
I was as wise in the wicked ways of the world when you were still in your cradle, my lad. Just reflecting on the failings of mankind.” He rubbed the side of his nose as their horses ambled off down a shaded lane. “Mankind, be it noted, not womankind. No, her tale has the sad ring of truth to it. I can certainly imagine someone hired out to an irascible old skinflint who dies without making any provision for her. I just hope she really does have the skills she claims, for her sake as well as yours.”

Susanne wasn’t sure where that story about an old man dying and leaving her without a place came from; it just popped into her head, and she recited it with (she hoped) the conviction of the honest. The story certainly explained away everything that needed to be explained, and in a reasonable fashion. The moors were dotted with reclusive old men with just enough money to hire a single girl to “do” for them, and girls like Patience and Prudence were often desperate enough to take any work at all, never thinking ahead to what would happen when their employer died. By the time Susanne got to the kitchen door, she had her story firmly in her head.

The door was open, and inside was all abustle with preparations—not for breakfast, for that was long over, and the cleaning up for that meal was half done—but for luncheon. She opened her mouth to say something, when someone who wasn’t the cook spotted her.

“Tha must be Mary’s eldest, Jane, and thee’s come not a moment too early!” the woman exclaimed, and the next thing that Susanne knew, she was enveloped in a bleached, clean apron and elbow-deep in bread dough, doing the kneading before the second rising. No sooner had she finished that than she was presented with a mammoth bowl of potatoes to be peeled for boiling, and when those were done, with another mammoth bowl of turnips to be mashed for the “downstairs” meal. She set to all of these tasks with rising cheer; she knew she was good at them, and she was going to make a good impression by helping without complaint and even without being officially taken on!

It was only when the gentry’s food was sent upstairs and the “downstairs” meal laid out on the now-clean kitchen table that anyone actually took a good look at her.

“Mercy me, thee’s not Jane!” exclaimed someone at Cook’s end of the table.

For a moment she, and they, stared at one another. She cleared her throat and put on her broadest accent. “Eh!” she said. “I come across moor, when Marster died an’ left me nowt, not even a character. I come lookin’ for work. Marster Charles said I was to let Cook know to try me in dairy.”

The Cook looked her up and down, then smiled. “Well, ’tis true tha’ didn’t sneak away from a mort of hard work. Thee’s not the first Marster Charles sent here. Thee’s a good hand in kitchen. We’ll try thee in dairy. But first, thee’s earned tha nuncheon.”

The kitchen maids on the bench nearest her grinned at her and scooted over, making room for her. Someone found her a plate, a cup, and some cutlery, and then the cheerful chatter, like a tree full of starlings, began.

The ones nearest her plied her with questions about where she had come from and what she had done until they were satisfied and turned back to their own gossip. Susanne was quite sure that Cook’s sharp ears caught every word of her answers, and she was pleased to find that the others made sure to include her in the gossip by explaining who they were talking about as they twittered. Susanne was careful to keep her story as simple as possible; she had been taking care of an old man who never saw anyone and lived in a lone farmhouse out on the moor to the east. Her mother had hired her off; Susanne borrowed Prudence’s family shamelessly for that part of the tale. Yes, she had done something of everything for the old man. A cousin had turned up when he died and turned her out. No, she couldn’t go back home, there were too many mouths to feed as it was. Everyone nodded at that. So she had come across the moor to find another place.

From there, her story swerved right into the path of pure truth. She talked about making her way across the moor with her meager belongings, sleeping rough. She spoke of outracing the storms, elaborating on it as the eyes of the other maids widened. She talked of finding the unlocked gate and hoping this was a sign she could find a place.

She deviated from truth a little, then, claiming she had stumbled into the carriage house when the deluge began; no one begrudged her taking shelter without leave when a storm like
that
one was raging.