Bewitching the Baron (7 page)

Valerian smiled. “So perhaps you are of a mind with Pope, then: ‘All our knowledge is, ourselves to know.’ ”

“You read Alexander Pope’s work?” he asked, amazed, but the moment he saw her reaction, he knew he had made a mistake much worse than that with the tea. Anger sparked in her eyes, where only exasperation and a hint of teasing had been before.

“It would appear that I do. Imagine that. Wherever did the little country lass learn to read?”

“Valerian—” Theresa warned.

“Do not worry yourself, Aunt Theresa. He fancies himself too far above me to be offended by my utterances. He pays no heed to what I say.”

Nathaniel grimaced, reminded that he had followed her home despite her protestations. “I meant no offense.”

When Valerian remained silent, Theresa spoke. “You are welcome to stay for supper if you so desire.”

Nathaniel suddenly realized that the light had grown dimmer as they had talked, and that he was no doubt keeping the two women from their meal and chores. He stood and gave a short bow. “My thanks for the tea and biscuits, and for the delightful conversation. I fear I must be going. Paul will no doubt think I have been carried away by succubi if I do not make an appearance soon.”

“It has been a pleasure, my lord,” Theresa said. “I do hope that you will feel free to visit us. If ever you need a guide for the surrounding countryside, Valerian knows every hillock and stream.”

Nathaniel caught the glare that Valerian sent to her aunt. “I will keep that in mind.” He headed for the door, aware of a subtle change within himself in his attitude towards these women. They were not to be taken lightly, that much was clear. He was beginning to get a sense of why the villagers would be wary of them. They might not be witches, but both aunt and niece shared an intelligence and force of personality that could be intimidating when they chose.

Not that he would describe himself as intimidated, of course. A better description would be . . . challenged. It had been years since he had had an intellectually demanding discussion with anyone. Who would have thought he would have it here?

Almost as an afterthought, he turned to Theresa. “The greenhouses at Raven Hall are half empty. If it would be of help to you, please do use them for whatever plants might require them.”

“Thank you, my lord. I will do that. Valerian, show the baron the path that leads to his orchards. It will save him no end of time.”

Nathaniel fetched his horse while Valerian waited, then she led him to a narrow break in the wall of woodland around the meadow.

“Stay to the most trodden path,” she explained brusquely. “You will come out at the back of your orchards.”

“You have no wish to guide me?”

“No, I do not. I will give you credit for sufficient wit to find your own way home.”

“Most generous of you.”

“I thought so.”

He smiled at her, then took her hand in both of his own, not allowing her to pull away. “Give me another chance, Miss Bright. I would hate to think that I had irrevocably botched any chance at friendship between us.”

“Friendship?”

“There is much that we could learn from each other.” He raised her hand and gave her knuckles the barest whisper of a kiss. “Your servant, Mademoiselle.” He mounted, gave her frowning face one last look, then rode through the break in the foliage.

The darkening woods were heavy with shadows, the rustlings and snappings of the forest making the horse’s ears twitch. He thought about Valerian and her aunt as he rode through the deepening dark, considering their intensity on the subjects of superstition and religion. It occurred to him that they might consider their own safety in this village to rest on his good will, and had been testing the depth of his tolerance and convictions.

By the time he reached his orchards, all he had concluded was that nothing was as simple as it looked with those two. He would not agree with Paul that they were witches, but it was quite obvious they were women.

That alone could baffle the most intelligent of men.

Chapter Five

A river of pain shot through Theresa’s gut and she grimaced, grinding her teeth to keep from groaning out loud. She pressed her hand to her belly and leaned against the high windowsill, fastening her eyes on the early morning vista of the meadow and trying to stifle the pain.

Bit by bit it eased, and she exhaled in relief. Her fingers searched her flesh, prodding until she found the small lump that was daily growing larger in her abdomen. It was an irregular mass, firm to her touch, and if she was not mistaken it had already spawned an offspring. The second lump was no larger than the tip of her finger, and nestled in the vulnerable flesh under her left arm.

She took another sip of her tea, knowing that its mild analgesic effect would mask only a fraction of the pain. To take a strong enough painkiller would be to render herself senseless, and she was not ready to do that. Not yet. And neither was she ready for Valerian to know what was happening. Fortunately, Valerian had attributed her recent weight loss to grief over the death of the old baron.

“Silly bird!” Valerian grumbled up in the loft. “Do not just look at it. Eat it! That beak is good for something other than talking.”

“Oscar is a superior bird,” Oscar croaked back.

“You are not too good to pick through garbage.”

“What is going on up there?” Theresa called.

Valerian’s head appeared over the edge of the loft, her heavy braid sliding over her chemise-clad shoulder and flopping down, hanging like a rope. “Good morning, Aunt. It is the maggots again. They keep falling out of the thatch, and Oscar, the useless creature, refuses to eat them.”

“You could always dispose of them yourself.”

Valerian screwed her face up in disgust. “ ‘Tis bad enough to have them dropping on me as I sleep, the fat little things. I keep thinking one will fall into my hair, or crawl in my ear. I can smell it, too, whatever it is that died up there.”

“You are welcome to share my bed until they are gone. The canopy will keep you safe from the mortal threat of falling worms.” She tried to keep her face serious, a losing battle.

“You would not laugh if they were falling on
your
head. No thank you, I will face the beasts. You know I can never sleep that close to your snoring.”

“Rude girl.”

Valerian snorted, and her head disappeared, the end of her braid flipping up over the edge of the loft a half-second later. Theresa smiled, enjoying her niece’s company. Her own daughter Charmaine had always been serious and self-conscious, and unable to outgrow her embarrassment over her mother. Being an outsider had been too painful for her, and she had found relief only by rejecting her family and becoming a villager heart and soul. Theresa understood that, even as it hurt her.

She eased herself down into one of the chairs by the fire, quietly cherishing the mundane routines of the morning, and Valerian’s voice as she continued to chide Oscar for his fastidiousness.

“What type of scavenger are you, anyway? Will not eat worms. I have never heard of such a thing.”

How long had it taken her to discover that it was the small moments that made up a life, and not the big ones? Theresa’s mind wandered back to the days when she had moved in different social circles, and had encounters with men whose rank would put the baron to shame.

An image of herself flashed to mind, dancing with a young nobleman, in a room filled with silks and satins, and the heat of candles and bodies. It was strange to think how important appearances had been to her then. Strange, too, how all the passions from that time had faded into nothing. It was as if someone else had lived that life.

Valerian climbed down the ladder from the loft, enjoying the pressure of the smooth rungs on her bare arches. She was dressed in her oldest clothes, the skirts not even reaching her ankles, the waist having been let out several times. The edges of her bodice were frayed.

“Are you certain you do not want to come with me today?” she asked her aunt.

“Yes, my poor plants have been under Daniel’s care long enough. It is time I went and checked how many he has killed.”

“What would you have done, if the baron had not offered his greenhouses?”

“Asked, I suppose. Or perhaps kept using them anyway. I do not think he would have minded. We are lucky in the character of Nathaniel Warrington, you know.”

“I find it hard to be enthusiastic about the man.”

Theresa smiled. “That is because you are attracted to him.”

“I have always been impressed by your imagination, Aunt Theresa. You do say the most ridiculous things.”

“Not imagination, my dear. Perception.”

Valerian was silent a moment, hesitant. “You do not . . . have any sense about him and me, do you?” She felt her cheeks flush.

Theresa sat back and closed her eyes, her limbs visibly relaxing. Valerian waited, heart beating nervously. She had plenty of time to regret asking, and to wonder what had prompted her to, before Theresa let out her breath in a long sigh and opened her eyes.

“What?”

“You know how this goes,” Theresa warned. “I sense possibilities. I get a feel for what is happening now, and in the immediate future. Not everything I sense will happen—it is tendencies I sense, not facts.”

“I know, I know.” She came and sat on a low stool beside her aunt, her fingers twining about each other. She bent her head down and examined her nails, scraping at a hangnail, trying to hide her eagerness to hear what her aunt had seen.

“I sense men attracted to you. The baron, and others. They are coming toward you, and there is turmoil as well. Trouble.”

“No doubt caused by the baron,” she said.

“I did not say that. I do not know.” Theresa sighed. “Men chasing women. They are like children chasing butterflies. They do not mean to harm what they catch, but often they do.”

“It must be the baron. No one else ever approaches me.”

“You know this is why I do not do this for people,” Theresa said, sounding mildly annoyed. “They always see what they want to. They do not listen, just as you do not now. I did not say the baron would do you any harm.”

“I knew I should stay away from him,” Valerian muttered.

Theresa threw her hands in the air. “Go dig your clams. I have plants to tend. They are much better listeners than infatuated young women.”

Valerian had a quick breakfast of oatmeal hasty pudding, kissed Theresa on the cheek, went out to the shed behind the cottage to get the clamming shovel, and dumped an old pair of shoes caked with dried mud into a bucket. She would put the shoes on when she reached the rocky edge of the shore. Even her thick calluses were not proof against barnacles.

The morning sky was a rich turquoise, dotted with cumulus clouds that promised a day of gentle sunshine. The tide would be at its lowest point for the month in about an hour and a half, and she knew she would not be the only clam digger down on the bay today.

She tried to push any thoughts of the baron out of her mind. He was a scoundrel in aristocrat’s clothing, and if she knew what was good for herself, she would not have anything more to do with him.

The walk down the narrow, overgrown path from the meadow took her twenty minutes, winding between hills and through wind-brushed pockets of trees. The walk back up would not be half so pleasant, she knew, lugging a bucketful of clams and tired from the digging. Oscar flew off ahead, eager to scavenge, leaving her to her own unsettled thoughts and the breezy quiet of the walk.

The path ended at the shore, dumping her out onto a bank of rounded stones and driftwood. The main path from Greyfriars ended a half-mile to the south, across a shallow stream that emptied into the bay, its waters carving a channel through the sandy mud. She saw figures in the distance, dotting the shining expanse of muddy sand, and smiled, breathing deeply. The air smelled of rotting eggs and salt water, the familiar scent of the uncovered seabed.

She sat on a pale piece of driftwood and slipped on her shoes. They felt stiff and crusty on her feet, the mud flaking and falling off in scales. It was a relief to start walking and wade through a saltwater puddle, and to feel the cold squish of the water in her shoes, softening them.

The seabed was a mix of sand and mud, fairly firm in places, slippery and soft enough to sink into several inches in others. She poked the ground in front of her with her shovel every few steps, testing for quicksand. She had been out here many times before, and knew there were several places, fed by underground water, that it formed.

The mud suddenly quivered beneath her, and her foot sank past the ankle into liquefied sand and mud. With her free foot she calmly took a step backwards, and pointing the toe of the buried foot, slowly pulled it out, watching in mild fascination as the vibrations of her movement kept the mud liquid. Once she was free, the ground resumed its firm appearance. With her knowledge of how to escape, the treacherous sands had long ago lost their power to scare her.

She made a wide circle around the area, and continued on, finding a nice stretch of mud perforated with the holes denoting buried clams. She set to digging, feeling a vague sense of community with the other clam-diggers, for all that they were some distance away and gave her no greeting.

Eddie the blacksmith’s son and his two best friends were slouched behind a pile of driftwood, enjoying a jug of purloined liquor. Johnnie, whose father owned the inn, had filled the jug over the course of two weeks with splashes of whichever alcohol was at hand as he served, and whatever dregs were left in the cups. His father kept an eagle’s eye on his inventory, and knew too well the temptations of drink for a young man. He did not trust his son with a key to the cellar.

“Gawd, Johnnie, this is a hellish mixture you have made,” Stinky Samuelson declared, gasping, as he passed the jug to Eddie. Stinky’s real name was largely forgotten, his present moniker being the result of a sad fact of his existence: If something around had a foul stench, sooner or later Stinky would manage to fall into it.

“I think I got more whiskey this time,” Johnnie said, and belched.