Markus and Wilhelmina spread out a blanket and sat down together, hands loosely twined while they watched their children.
“We could have another, you know,” she said.
He twisted to look at her, alarm in every line on his face. “You’re not—”
“No.” She laughed and ran her fingers through the gray at his temples. “I was only teasing, my love. These two are more than enough for us. I feel no need to attempt to rival Lord and Lady Montgomery, even by magic. Leave that for the young.”
“Good.” He relaxed, and lay back, putting his hands behind his head. “Did you bring any sausage?”
“As if I would ever forget.” She rifled around in her pack, then passed him a thick slice. She saluted him with a slice of her own. “To what comes next.”
“To what comes next,” he agreed, raising his sausage in return. They both bit off hunks, and returned to watching their children play—Edel had begun to toss rejected flowers off the cliff for Georg to attempt to catch—as the sun sank and the amber glow of the mountains faded towards rose.
To what comes next, indeed, Wilhelmina thought.
She smiled.
Author's Note
Frau Beck was one of my favorite characters to write in the earlier books in this series. In talking about all the versions of Beauty and the Beast from around the world I could think about when visiting my writing partner in crime, somewhere in the middle of describing Prince Lindworm I stopped and said "Oh, shoot, I'm going to have to write Frau Beck's story, aren't I?"
This is, of course, the eventual result.
This isn't the end of the Hedgewitches' Tales, either; that one breakthrough led me to start planning for future books in this alternate history universe. Not all of them will be as interconnected as these first three have been; I plan to branch out from the European setting and therefore we'll have to say goodbye to Wilhelmina and the others for the time being. We may yet return to catch up with them again in a future book.
As always, much thanks are due to my partner in crime, Storyteller Knight, for being the first eyes other than my own to see each chapter. Thanks also to my editors, Cathy Heinbaugh and Kathe Fovargue, for catching everything I was too close to the project to see. And of course, my husband, Phil, for just being supportive through what has been a very busy and stressful year. A book might be only as good as its author, but it's also only as good as the team behind the author as well.
Keep reading to get a sample of the first book in the Hedgewitches' Tales series, Poppies & Roses: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast!
A Sneak Peak at Poppies & Roses
Intrigued by Clara, the midwife who helps Wilhelmina? Here's a look at the beginning of her journey to break a curse and find her own path back from the losses of war...
Clara stepped off the train in Castle Cary with great care for her still-healing leg. She leaned on her cane more than she would have liked, but there was no help for it. Fortunately the station master—or in this case mistress, since England in 1918 was largely a country of women—appeared to assist her down the final step.
“All right, miss?” she asked. “Is there someone to meet you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Parsons, there should be someone coming from the Castle estate to fetch me.”
The woman looked her up and down. Her mouth opened in a surprised ‘O.’ Then she smiled. “Clara Prescott, it is you. You’ve been gone such a long time; I barely recognized you in that smart uniform. You’ll be the nurse coming to care for Lord Montgomery, then.”
Clara nodded.
“Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look up to much.”
Clara smiled crookedly. “I’ll mend. It’s only a broken leg.”
“How’d you come by it?”
“Ambulance accident.”
“Oh.”
No more needed to be said. Clara knew Mrs. Parsons, who knew everyone’s comings and goings in the town of Castle Cary, had surmised most of the rest of the story from there.
“Not going to see your father first?” she asked as she graciously took charge of Clara’s bag.
“I’ll visit when I’ve settled in at the Castle and had a chance to rest from my journey,” Clara said with a vague wave of her hand.
Mrs. Parsons pursed her lips but chose not to comment. Clara could tell she disapproved, but wasn’t going to interfere with personal business. The two of them slowly made their way off the platform and out of the station.
“I must be getting back. Will you be all right here until your escort from the Castle comes?”
“Of course.” Clara settled herself on the steps and Mrs. Parsons set her bag beside her. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Parsons.”
“Be careful up there, dear. Word is the lord’s gone…strange…since he got back from the front.”
Clara shrugged. With what she’d seen in the years since she’d left Castle Cary, it would take a great deal to shock her now. “Strange how?”
“No one knows for certain. For sure no one’s seen him. We see the gardener and the houseboy when they have business in town, and every once in awhile the housekeeper herself, but they say the lord won’t leave his room. Some people say he must be disfigured or crippled, some say he was sent back for cowardice, others shellshock. Some even say he has terrible fits and has to be tied down like a madman.”
Clara shrugged again. None of these possibilities was surprising, given where Lord Montgomery was coming from. No one who had been safe at home the entire war could really understand, so of course they’d think his behavior strange. “I’m certain I can handle any oddities he might exhibit.”
“Even so…”
“I need the work until my leg heals, Mrs. Parsons. The position pays well. Rumors can’t scare me off of that.”
That was one thing Mrs. Parsons couldn’t argue with. Everyone understood the need to work, with the war driving up prices on everything and all of the men off fighting. Clara certainly couldn’t go to her father for help. “Very well, dear. Best of luck to you.” Mrs. Parsons went back inside.
Clara stretched out her injured leg, still bound tightly with boards and metal and gauze. It was less than two weeks old. Any doctor would have said she should stay off it, not going off to work as a nurse for a man who, according to the advertisement place by his housekeeper, needed significant care for injuries sustained while fighting. But Clara could not afford to convalesce; she had told Mrs. Parsons the truth about that. Nor did she particularly want to rest. She hated the idea of being idle while people needed her help. Especially the particular brand of help she could provide.
Just for a month or two, perhaps the season, she reminded herself. Her leg would heal quickly, she could guarantee that. Then she’d be back to nursing and ambulance driving at the front, where she was needed most. In the meantime, she was fairly certain that she could handle anything that was wrong with Lord Montgomery. Odds heavily weighed that she’d seen worse. He was still alive, after all, and well enough to be shipped home without too much risk to his health. She’d have him better soon, and then be on her way to Belgium again, with luck with some money saved against the future.
Though she’d grown up in this town not far from his estate, the Castle from which the town of Castle Cary partially took its name, she’d never interacted with any of the local nobility, let alone the latest scion. Their company had been far too exalted for the likes of her and her family. She doubted she could have picked the current—or for that matter the previous—Lord Montgomery out of a crowd. But the war had upended everything. Old ideas about rank and social order were breaking down. Women were doing everything, from farming to factory work. Older and younger men were disappearing into the churning mud of Flanders, now that the men who should have been fighting had largely been depleted, wasted on pointless charge after pointless charge. Not even parents’ only sons were spared the hardship of the trenches. As a result, people were learning that noble sons died just as quickly as the common sort, even if t
he noblemen were automatically made into officers.
She continued to sit in the sunshine with her musings as the light grew more golden. After perhaps two hours, parts of her had gone numb and she was just thinking about getting to her feet to hobble around and get the blood flowing again when the rumble of a wagon sounded up the street. Into view hove a farm cart driven by an elderly but still serviceable horse. Surmising that this was her ride, Clara struggled to her feet.
The cart did indeed pull to a stop in front of her. Its driver was ancient and wizened, but he hopped down with more dexterity than she’d expected. “Nurse Prescott, I presume?” he said with a respectful nod.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Thompson, gardener at the Castle.” He touched his cap. Clara extended a hand to shake. He looked a little surprised, but took it. His hands were certainly rough enough to be a gardener’s. He was also so old that it was easy to see why he hadn’t been drafted.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thompson,” she said.
“Likewise. This your bag?” Clara nodded, and Mr. Thompson lifted it easily into the back of his cart. He eyed her bound leg uncertainly. “Can I…help you up?”
“Do you have a mounting block in the cart?” Clara asked. He nodded. “Then I can manage.”
“Very good, Nurse.” He looked relieved as he went to fetch the wooden stool normally used for mounting horses. Likely left over from more prosperous days, if she had to guess, and never removed. Using her cane and the block for balance, she clambered into the seat and settled her uniform’s skirt neatly. Mr. Thompson replaced the block and hopped up next to her, then shook the reins. The horse snorted and began to walk forward.
“Sorry we weren’t here to meet you right off the train. Old Blossom’s not as young as she used to be,” said Mr. Thompson over the rumble of the cart as they left the outskirts of town.
“It’s no trouble,” Clara assured him. “Just being able to sit quietly after the noise of the train was a pleasant respite.”
He snorted. “I’d imagine. Never have done much traveling, myself, but those trains are noisy enough even from the outside.”
They sat in silence for awhile. Clara enjoyed the view of rolling green fields, so different from the brown, churned mud she’d grown accustomed to. The jostling of the road eventually began to make her leg ache, however. To distract herself, she said, “What kind of injuries does Lord Montgomery have? The advertisement for a nurse was very…vague.”
The gardener grunted noncommittally. “You’ll see for yourself. Bad enough to be sent home, you can be sure of that.”
“Of course, but—that could mean anything. Is he an amputee? Shellshock? Bullets or lacerations? I should like to be prepared.”
“You’ll see.”
Clara blinked in surprise at this evasion. It wasn’t as if it would be gossip—she wanted to know for strictly professional reasons. There wasn’t anyone she could tell, or likely anyone would overhear. They were in the middle of a field on an empty road.
Obviously this was a sore subject on which she wasn’t going to get more until the appropriate time. Instead, she tried for a topic which she was fairly certain she and the gardener had in common. “Well…do you have an herb garden, then?”
He brightened, as she’d hoped. “To be sure, Nurse. Mostly kitchen, but we have a few herbs for medicine as well.”
“I have some cuttings of my own in my bag. Would you mind if I planted a few more? If Lord Montgomery does have wounds that need tending, these will help, and they’re not the most common herbs. I’d tend them myself rather than give you more work, of course.”
“It’s no trouble, Nurse. Just tell me what needs doing for each of them. The gardens aren’t so extensive as all that. What is it you have, exactly?”
They spent the rest of the drive discussing herbs, specifically the growing of them. Mr. Thompson wasn’t particularly interested in their properties, which suited Clara just fine anyway. The less people questioned what she was doing, the easier for everyone. At least here there were no doctors or surgeons to avoid, the kind of people who would ask awkward questions if they discovered her using her own herbal remedies on patients instead of what they prescribed. Never mind that her patients always recovered at twice the usual rate.
They came over a hill and beheld an iron gate piercing a brick wall. If she were standing on the ground, Clara guessed the wall would come to about her shoulder. Mr. Thompson stopped Old Blossom, then hopped out to unlock the simple padlock that closed the gate against intruders with a key produced from his pocket. The gate let out a horrible rusty screech as he opened it wide to allow the cart to pass through. Clara noted that there were vines and moss growing up the bricks further along the wall, and there were even small chunks of the wall towards the top that had chipped away.
Mr. Thompson whistled to Old Blossom, who docilely pulled the cart through the gate and then waited until the gardener had re-locked the gate and pulled himself up beside Clara again before plodding forward. Around a corner where a stand of trees grew, and the main house came into view.
Whatever Clara had been expected from a house called the Castle, this wasn’t it. It certainly didn’t look like a castle. It looked instead like a relatively small version of manor houses all over England, the ones that had been constructed in the time of the Kings George that followed the classical pattern of exact symmetry. The stone was a warm yellow-brown which contrived to look mildly inviting despite the harshness of the vertical and horizontal lines of the columns and windowpanes. But that was the only part of this house that looked inviting. Like the wall surrounding the property, everywhere were subtle signs of neglect and ill repair.
Mr. Thompson followed her gaze. “There’s no one left to take care of the place but myself, Mrs. Perkins the housekeeper, and her grandson,” he said by way of explanation. “No steward, no maids, no grounds staff. Not even a cook anymore. This was never a very grand house to begin with, but it’s not looking its best at the moment.”
“That’s all right. I understand what the war has taken,” said Clara. She paused, then ventured, “…but, ‘the Castle?’”
The gardener grinned. “That’d be the little folly on the next hill over.” He gestured. Sure enough, in the distance a miniature castle-like structure crowned the view. “Some ancestor of the Master’s had it built when those things were popular with them that had too much money and a bit fewer brains. That’s why it’s called a ‘folly.’ There’s a pretty little wilderness garden over there too, on the far side of the hill. Or at least, there was. Don’t get over there much anymore.” While they’d been talking, he’d pulled the cart around the house to what must be the stable. He got out the mounting block for her and set about fetching her bag down as well. Clara slid to the ground, careful to keep her weight off of her bad foot.
From one of the unobtrusive side doors came a thin woman whose hair was nearly entirely gray, dressed in a neat black uniform that was clean but had seen better days. At her heels came a boy of perhaps twelve or so with a towheaded mop of hair so blond with sun it was nearly white. As they approached, Clara saw that they shared the same smile.
“Mrs. Perkins,” said Mr. Thompson. “This is Nurse Prescott. Nurse Prescott, Mrs. Perkins, the housekeeper.”
“How do you do?” said Mrs. Perkins with a crisp nod. She put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “This is my grandson, Eddie, the houseboy.”
“And stableboy,” piped Eddie.
“Pleasure to meet you both.” Clara put out her hand to the woman first. Like Mr. Thompson, she seemed surprised at the gesture but readily took the hand. Eddie shook with much more enthusiasm.
“Get her bag, Eddie, and take it up to her room,” his grandmother ordered. As the boy rushed to comply, the housekeeper said to Clara, “Come along, dear, let’s get you settled in. You’re just in time for tea. Don’t be late or it’ll get cold!” This last was directed at Mr. Thompson, who was unhitching Old Blossom. He made an inarticul
ate noise in response.
“You neglected to mention an injury in your letter,” said Mrs. Perkins as she led the way into the gloomy house.
“It will heal quickly, I assure you. I am up to whatever tasks are necessary in the meantime, so I didn’t think it important,” said Clara.
“Very well. We’ll see.” Mrs. Perkins looked doubtful. “We’ve been managing as best we can on our own, but now that you’re here all of us have our own tasks and we won’t be able to help you much.”
“I can handle it,” Clara said, trying to mask any lack of confidence in her abilities with a determined lift of her chin. “I managed to get myself here all the way from Flanders.”
The housekeeper pursed her lips but did not press the issue. The corridor opened out into a decently-sized kitchen. A large table with chairs around it sat on one side, while the rest of the kitchen held the enormous fireplace, the cast iron oven next to it, and various counters for preparation.
“Sit down, dear,” said Mrs. Perkins, gesturing at the table. “I’ll just finish getting everything ready for tea. We’ll eat when Eddie and Mr. Thompson come in. Can you use one of these?” she asked, gesturing at the oven.
“Of course,” answered Clara. “The one I grew up with was nowhere near as nice as that one.” She could cook over an open fire, as well, though she doubted she’d be doing any of that here.
“Good. You want to make anything yourself, you’ll be using this. You’d be surprised how many modern girls can’t operate an old oven like this one anymore. They’re used to all of those newfangled time-saving gadgets.”
There had been no such gadgets in Clara’s parents’ household—they couldn’t afford it. Her mother had spent most of her days either cooking or washing. Clara did not feel compelled to say so, however. She watched as the housekeeper bustled around efficiently, noting where essential things were kept so she wouldn’t have to ask later. Eddie came in next from a door that must lead to the rest of the house. He seated himself across from Clara and rested his chin on his fists as he waited. Things were nearly ready when Mr. Thompson came in.
The Dragon & the Alpine Star Page 19