Carola Dunn (8 page)

 “And I have had joy of him,” said Lady Tarnholm sadly, “along with the pain. Robin Goodfellow warned me just in time to prevent the worst. Edward was the sweetest child, always affectionate and considerate, always patient despite his difficulties, and he has not changed as a man. I could not ask for a better son.”

 Martha nodded agreement, but she said with a puzzled frown, “I have the oddest feeling, ma’am, that I once read a tale about all that has happened in the past week. Only in the story, the duke was a king, and the miller’s daughter had to spin straw to gold.”

 “I daresay, dear,” said the nixie. “These stories get badly garbled before anyone writes them down. What Lewis Carroll made of that pig and duchess business! Or is it the other way round? And Shakespeare—you mentioned Shakespeare—put in a bit at the end, where Oberon casts a protective spell:

 “‘And the blots of Nature’s hand

 “‘Shall not in their issue stand;

 “‘Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,

 “‘Nor mark prodigious, such as are

 “‘Despised in nativity,

 “‘Shall upon their children be.’

 “Only, of course, he was too late for Edward. Oberon was, that is. Or perhaps Shakespeare?”

 “But Shakespeare was hundreds of years ago! And how could I have read the story of the miller’s daughter when it only just happened?”

 Lady Tarnholm groaned. “Don’t ask. Time has me going round in circles. Why, when you arrived today—was it today?—I quite thought you had already...But I mustn’t say,” she added hastily. “It’s against all the rules. You will come and visit me again, won’t you?”

 “Oh yes, my lady, if I may. Thank you so very much for your help.”

 “Not at all, my dear. I am sure everything will turn out for the best.” Lady Tarnholm waved graciously, then performed a complicated twist and, with a shocking display of legs, she dived into the depths of the lake.

 Martha made her way back through the bushes. In the birch wood she found a rabbit path leading in the direction of the baron’s house. His mama had given her the answer to his riddle. Now she was free to marry the duke without dreading his anger over her promise.

* * * *

 Lord Tarnholm’s manor was not at all like a palace, more like a larger version of the Stewarts’ comfortable vicarage, a solid, friendly-looking house of warm red brick. Martha walked around to the servants’ entrance, dreaming of the day when, as Duchess of Diss, she would roll up to the front door in her own comfortable carriage with the ducal crest on the door.

 The housekeeper, Mrs. Wellcome, was Pa’s sister’s husband’s cousin. “It’s nice to see you, Martha,” she said. “I don’t get down to the village often these days, mostly just christenings and funerals and weddings. You’ll be marrying young Tad one of these days, I daresay?”

 “That’d be telling, Mrs. Wellcome. Can I see his lordship?”

 “Brought a message from your father? I hope it’s nothing urgent, for his lordship’s not well in himself, if you know what I mean.”

 “He is ill?” Martha asked, alarmed.

 “Not exactly ill, no more than usual with his poor leg and his aches and pains, poor dear gentleman. No, he was up at the great house for three days,” Mrs. Wellcome explained, “and since he came home he’s been that blue-devilled. We’re all worried about him. Not but what he’ll see you, anyway, for he don’t ever turn anyone away.”

 Dismayed, Martha followed the housekeeper. Why was Lord Tarnholm unhappy? Was it so important to him to bring up his cousin’s son and heir—her son? Did he regret leaving her a way out? She hated to disappoint him, but she was frightened of the duke.

 She seemed to hear her own voice echoing in her ears, singing:

“She’s robbed him of his horse and ring,

“And left him to rage in the meadows green.”

 And Edward’s voice: “The ladies emerge victorious in all your favourite songs.”

 But songs were not real life, alas. In real life, a poor girl did not refuse a rich duke’s hand for the sake of her true love. In real life, she married him, Martha thought muddledly, as the miller’s daughter in the story had married the cruel king who threatened to cut off her head if she failed to spin straw into gold.

 Mrs. Wellcome opened a door and Martha recognized the room where Edward had been christened. The brocade chairs and sofas were covered with blue-striped satin now, and a fine fire blazed in the fireplace opposite the french windows.

 “It’s Martha Miller, my lord, wants a word with your lordship. Go on in,” Mrs. Wellcome urged as Martha hesitated on the threshold. “His lordship won’t bite.”

 Edward rose from a chair by the fire and limped towards her, smiling wryly. “Three days,” he said. “I take it you have discovered my name?”

 “Yes, my lord.”

 Gazing into his silvery eyes, she saw unhappiness, yearning, and an unselfish kindness that was glad for her sake that she had won.

 Something glimmered between them, a faint, insubstantial pattern, connecting them with a tracery as strong as steel—and as brittle as glass. Martha realized she could shatter it with a single word.

 She recalled Edward’s loathing for his grotesque, taunting faerie name and she knew she could not bring herself to pronounce it. She could not bear to hurt him because...because....

 How could she have been so blind?

 “Your name is Edward James Frederick,” she cried. “I don’t want to marry the duke, after all, because I love you.”

 And she ran into his arms, and he clasped her to his heart.

ALADDIN’S LAMP

Prologue

 Though Alan’s mind still followed a strand of the tangle of English jurisprudence in the books he left behind, his feet bore him out of the college and round the corner into Holywell Street. As he passed the dusty window of a curiosity shop, a blue glitter caught his eye. A sunbeam had fought its way through the murky glass to sparkle on a string of beads. It reminded him that today was his mother’s birthday, a fact liable to get lost in a head full of legal complexities. The necklace would be a good present.

 A bell tinkled as he pushed open the door and went in. “How much are you asking for those beads in the window?” he asked the stooped old man who appeared from a back room.

 “The blue ones? Half a guinea.”

 “I’ll give you half a crown.”

 “Ten bob, and that’s rock bottom. They’re genuine Strass glass, they are.”

 Even for “genuine imitations,” ten shillings was much more than Alan could justify spending on anything so frivolous. He shook his head, but he went on to poke amongst the extraordinary collection of oddments on the shelves.

 They varied from a forget-me-not decorated chamber-pot with a broken handle to an exquisite ivory horse from China; from odd forks and spoons of both silver and Sheffield-ware to a ship’s compass. Alan found a gold watch with a repeater mechanism. He listened to its chime, and was regretfully replacing it on the shelf when he saw the perfect gift.

 The small vessel was the exact shape of Aladdin’s lamp in the illustration in his mother’s favourite book. Pointed at one end, it was rounded at the other, with a curving handle and a circular foot. It would amuse her, and it only needed a wick and oil to be useful, too.

 Taking it from the dim depths of the shop over to the counter at the front, Alan saw that his find was heavily coated with verdigris. Cleaning it was going to be quite a chore.

 “How much?” he asked.

 “A crown.”

 “Five bob? But it’s green with age!”

 “Proves it’s copper or brass, not just tin.”

 “There may be nothing left once the corrosion is cleaned off.”

 With a grunt, the dealer prodded the lamp. “Tell you what, I’ve had it lying around for years. Half a crown.”

 “A shilling.”

 “A florin.”

 “Eighteen pence,” said Alan hopefully.

 “One and nine,” the man countered.

 “All right, if you’ll wrap it for me.”

 Grudgingly the old man nodded. He produced brown paper and string, while Alan dug the coins from his thin purse.

 The parcel safe in his coat pocket, Alan continued along Holywell Street and across the grounds of Magdalen College to the footpath on the bank of the Cherwell.

Chapter I

 “A perfect day, and amazing warm for May,” Lady Beatrice said gaily, as the boat slid out from the willows’ shade into a patch of sunshine. Conscious of the admiring gaze of a shabby young man tramping along the river-bank path, she adjusted her pink and white parasol to frame the golden curls beneath her Leghorn hat. “A punt is a delightful mode of transport, is it not, Miss Dirdle?”

 Her companion and ex-governess nervously surveyed the smooth, grey-green surface of the River Cherwell. “Delightful,” she murmured in a tone utterly lacking in conviction.

 “I shan’t upset you, ma’am, never fear!” cried Cousin Tom, the young gentleman wielding the punt pole. “Punting’s safe as houses.”

 “It’s my turn, Tom,” insisted Lord Wendover. Tom’s best friend and a fellow-student at Magdalen College, he was madly enamoured of Bea, and always trying to impress her. Impeccably dressed in fawn trousers and a blue morning coat, he had tied his starched white cravat so high it held his chin up at an uncomfortable angle.

 Tom, in buckskins, a shooting jacket, and a red Belcher kerchief, said scornfully, “Don’t be a sapskull, Windy, you can’t punt in that rig-out.”

 Resorting to nursery language, Lord Wendover snapped, “Can too!” as he stood up and reached for the pole.

 A brief tussle rocked the boat, till Miss Dirdle’s cry of alarm made Tom let go. A moment later, Lord Wendover was left clinging to his trophy as the punt moved on without him. Tom made a grab for his friend, the punt tilted, and Bea found herself floundering in the chilly Cherwell.

 Annoyed, but not particularly alarmed, for Tom had taught her to swim years ago, Bea quickly found her feet in three feet of water. She looked around, recovering her breath. The punt, tenantless, was heading downstream for the Isis. Lord Wendover still clutched his pole as it slowly tilted riverward. Tom stood waist-deep laughing at him, heedless of the plight of his cousin and her companion.

 “Miss Dirdle!” Where was she?

 “I have her, ma’am.” The shabby fellow from the footpath emerged from the river like Neptune from the waves, the elderly gentlewoman coughing and spluttering in his arms. “Just let me carry her to the bank and I’ll come back to give you a hand.”

 “Thank you, sir!” Bea exclaimed gratefully. She started to wade towards the bank, her thin muslin skirts dragging at her legs. Miss Dirdle’s heavy bombazine gown (“Ne’er cast a clout till May be out” was one of her favourite maxims) together with panic must have pulled her down. She might have drowned but for her gallant rescuer.

 He laid her on the grass and turned to help Bea.

 “Don’t come in again,” she said, looking up at the hatless figure, water streaming from his short, dark hair. “Though you can scarcely get any wetter, I admit.” Reaching the bank, she held out her hands.

 Grasping them, the young man hauled her out. She stumbled against him and he caught her in his arms, but he let her go at once. As he stepped back, one hand out to steady her, their eyes met.

 For an instant, an electrical current seemed to sizzle between them. Bea lost her breath again.

 Then his gaze rose to her hat and he said, a quiver in his voice, “I fear your bonnet will not recover from its ducking.”

 “N-no matter.” Her voice quivered too. “I shall enjoy shopping for another. I must thank you, sir, for saving my companion.”

 “It was nothing.” His eyes dropped and a slow flush rose in his cheeks. Hurriedly he turned away, stripping off his sodden coat. “I hope the lady... Ma’am, are you all right?”

 Miss Dirdle sat up, gasping. Dye from her black bonnet streaked down her cheeks, and the bombazine adhered to her bony chest. Bea took a step forward to join the old lady.

 The young man stopped her and thrust his coat into her hands. “Here,” he muttered with apparent confusion, “it’s no drier than your...than you are, but...but...”

 “Lady Beatrice!” cried Lord Wendover, sploshing up onto the bank. “I say, I’m most awfully sorry.”

 “Bea, you are a sight!” That was Tom, of course.

 Bea looked down at herself and realized her gown clung like a second skin. With renewed gratitude, she shrugged into the stranger’s coat. He was tall, so the tails reached almost to her ankles and concealed—from the back, at least—the greater part of her exposed figure.

 He was leaving, at a rapid stride. Bea hurried after him, as close to running as allowed by her wet skirts and Miss Dirdle’s rigorous training in ladylike conduct. She caught his shirtsleeve.

 “Sir, how shall I return your coat?”

 Half turning towards her, but not looking, he mumbled, “Alan Dinsmuir, at Wadham College, ma’am.”

 The patched cambric slipped from between her fingers, and he hastened on.

 “Bee-ya!” Tom called.

 She paused for a moment, staring after him, hugging his coat about her. Had she imagined that shock of awareness between them? It had struck her like the jolt from the electrical apparatus Tom once brought home to Hinksey Hall. Mr. Dinsmuir must have felt it! Or had his voice shaken because he was trying not to laugh at her disgraceful appearance?

* * * *

 Alan’s feet bore him automatically across Magdalen Bridge, up Headington Hill, and through the village. He was unaware of the stares as he passed soaking wet, hatless, in his shirtsleeves. Before him floated a piquant face with golden curls, and rosy lips parted in a saucy smile, and eyes the blue of a cloudless summer sky—which yet had the power to strike a man with lightning.

 His gaze still on this vision, he came to his mother’s cottage, a short way beyond the village. Opening the gate in the high hawthorn hedge, where bees hummed amidst the may-blossom, he crossed the tiny garden in a few strides, and stepped into the low-ceilinged, stone floored kitchen-parlour.

 Mrs. Dinsmuir dropped her sewing in her lap. “Dearest,” she exclaimed, “what has happened?”