An Ill-Made Match (Vawdrey Brothers Book 3)

by Alice Coldbreath

  “What are you adding?” asked Eden, cupping her chin in her hand.

  “White wine,” said Cuthbert, pouring from the jug. “And spices.” He added three liberal pinches from the bowl, before sniffing it. “Nutmeg and cloves.” Then he stirred the pot, replaced the lid and left it to heat, returning to rifle the pantry. When he emerged, he was carrying honey and milk.

  Eden felt her stomach rumble. “This is Linnet’s favorite, did you say?”

  He nodded. “She used to say it could revive her even from the depths of despair.”

  Eden looked up sharply. “It’s not as bad as all that,” she mumbled, hoping her face had not shown too clearly her dismay at her new home. Cuthbert merely shrugged, intent on his task.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked. “With Linnet and her husband?”

  He shook his head. “The old Baron, he practically moved to Cadwallader after his grandchildren were born. This place was shut up and forgotten.”

  “Odd that Roland’s never brought you here,” Eden frowned. “He seems so proud of the place.”

  “He’s got his fortune to make in the tournaments,” said Cuthbert sensibly. “He’s the youngest son. They never inherit.”

  “Roland inherited Vawdrey Keep.”

  “Only cos no-one else wanted it,” answered Cuthbert smartly.

  Rather like me, thought Eden. Then she caught herself. Was she becoming melancholy? That would never do! Sitting up straighter on her stool, she cleared her throat. “The pot’s bubbling.”

  Cuthbert crossed to the hearth and inspected the mixture. He fiddled with the height of the hook before returning to the table and mixing the egg whites with the milk.

  Eden sat brooding over the fact Roland had been forced to marrying a dowerless girl when he needed to make his own way in life. If he had wed Lenora as planned, no doubt Uncle Leofric would have awarded him a handsome sum. She frowned a moment, as her uncle’s outraged countenance swam into her mind’s eye. She didn’t want to dwell on how much disgrace she must be in with her family. If she thought about her uncle, then her cousin and her grandmother would surely follow.

  A sudden weight on her knee made her look up. The black and white dog’s large head was lying there, his eyes gazing up at her soulfully. “Seth?” she said in surprise. His tail wagged. Eden cast a furtive look around the room. Cuthbert was crouched over his pot again, adding the dairy mixture to his concoction. She reached out and stroked Seth’s ears as she had seen Roland do to Hector earlier. He huffed out a breath and leaned against her legs. Eden smirked. “I have your measure, dog. If Castor were here, you would not fraternize with me.” He wagged his tail harder. Eden lightly tweaked his ears. Somewhere above them a door banged shut. There was a heavy thud of boots on floorboards. Seth sprang back from her guiltily and they both looked up as they heard Roland’s voice conversing with Fulco. It sounded like they were coming down the steps together.

  “… You cannot keep them for love nor money!” Fulco boomed. “They say the place is haunted. No maid will stay here after dark.”

  “Haunted?” repeated Roland in surprise. “By who?” There was an awkward silence. “My Father?” suggested Roland when Fulco did not speak. “He’d be more likely choose Cadwallader to haunt in death, like he did in life!”

  “Not the old Baron,” admitted Fulco. He had arrived at the bottom of the steps now, and cast a startled look at Eden as if he’d forgotten her very existence. Or maybe, he just did not expect to see her there.

  “Who then?” demanded Roland clattering down behind him. They both stood in the kitchen now. “Answer me, damn you!”

  “His wives,” said Fulco, scratching the back of his neck and looking a picture of abject misery.

  “What?” Roland was visibly taken aback.

  “You know how superstitious country folk can be,” mumbled Fulco red-faced. He darted an embarrassed glance at Eden.

  “Bloody fools!” Roland swore. “I notice they didn’t start with this horse shit while he was alive.”

  Then he too seemed to notice Eden sat perched on her seat and fell silent, though he was still scowling. Seth skulked over to the hearth, and with a rather ostentatious yawn, settled himself down in front of the fire.

  “Posset’s ready,” said Cuthbert cheerfully. He poured some into a large cup and brought it over to Eden.

  She took it from him and took a tentative sip. “Delicious!” she exclaimed with surprise. “Truly.” She turned to Roland. “You should try some. Apparently, it has restorative powers.”

  He ignored her words, but gave a start. “Which reminds me,” he said accusingly, turning back to Fulco. “There is barely any bedding above stairs!”

  Fulco shrugged helplessly. “It all fell into disrepair and we’ve had no need of it.”

  “Well, we have need of it now,” said Roland pointedly. “I’m newly-wed.”

  Eden bristled. Did he have to be so obvious?

  “I could ride to the village,” said Fulco uncertainly. “But new bedding would likely have to come from somewhere like Pryors Naunton, not Sitchmarsh!”

  Again, Eden felt her lack of dowry keenly. Most brides would bring such things with them as embroidered sheets and coverlets to their marriage bed. She had never prepared a trousseau like girls with expectations did.

  “I can re-stuff an old mattress,” offered Cuthbert. “In the meantime.”

  Roland grunted. “We’re going to have to use the one on the box bed, in the second largest bedroom. What will you stuff it with?”

  “I’ll go take a look in the out-houses, and see what there is. Maybe fresh grasses or feathers?”

  “There’s nothing like that out there,” said Fulco shaking his head. “Though we can likely get some materials such as those in the village.”

  “Let’s for the village then,” said Cuthbert. He looked at Roland, who nodded.

  “Aye. No time like the present,” he agreed. “Fulco, you take Cuthbert in with you to Sitchmarsh for provisions.” He reached into his tunic for his purse and tossed it to Cuthbert. “Get whatever is needed.”

  Cuthbert nodded and made for the stairs. On the bottom step he hesitated and turned back toward Eden. “Milady?” he said. Eden looked up. “Have you any commission for me?”

  “None,” said Eden simply. “I’m sure you will think of everything.” She listened to their steps ringing out as they headed up the staircase.

  Roland walked to the fire and threw some more logs on it. “I want you to stay in here where it’s warm for now.”

  “Very well.”

  He came over to her. “Hold up your cup.” She looked up in surprise to find he’d brought the rest of the posset over to her.

  “Are you not trying any?”

  He shook his head and re-filled her cup. “Stay here with Seth.” He touched his hand briefly to her cheek, then he too mounted the stairs and was gone.

  Eden wasn’t sure how long she’d spent staring into the fire, when she heard grumbling and faltering steps descending down toward them. Seth raised his head from his front paws and glanced around, but then re-settled himself, looking unconcerned. Clearly, he recognized the owner of those scuffling feet. Eden drained the last of her posset and set the cup down. She turned her eyes expectantly to the doorway, and sure enough at last there appeared a hunched old man carrying a brace of dead birds. He started a moment when he saw her, but other than a sharp breath in and a hunch of his shoulder, he gave her no other greeting and shuffled over to the kitchen table where he slammed down the birds bad-temperedly. Eden cleared her throat. He stiffened. “I see ye,” he muttered. “I see ye well enough! But be ye sprite or harlot, I’ll have none of ye!”

  Sprite or harlot? “I am neither of those things!” Eden told him loudly. “I am… Lady Eden Vawdrey,” she said with only the slightest hesitation over her new name.

  He made a quick gesture which Eden recognized was to ward off evil spirits, but otherwise refused to look her way.

 
; “I am lately married,” she said, starting again. “To Master Roland.”

  He muttered under his breath and started tearing out the feathers on the uppermost bird.

  “Perhaps you know his older brother, Oswald, who is now styled Earl Vawdrey?”

  He turned his head sharply at that. “Don’t ye be trying to tell me you’m married to Master Oswald,” he said pointing a small bladed knife at her. “He married a local lass. Sitchmarsh born and bred, and you’re none of her!”

  “I never said I was married to Oswald,” said Eden. “I am married to his brother Roland, who is now master here.”

  “Master here, you says?” cackled the old man, shaking his head. “That he b’aint!”

  Eden gazed at him irritably. “He most certainly is,” she stated firmly. “And I am not going to sit arguing here with you about it. What is your name?”

  He gave a snort. “I knows better’n that, I’m country-raised.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Eden, momentarily thrown, despite herself.

  “Give a spirit your name and you gives ‘em power over you.”

  “A spirit?” Eden pursed her lips. Still, Fulco had said the village girls all thought the Keep was haunted. “I am no more spirit than you.” Another thought occurred to her. “I suppose you know Fulco? He recognizes me as mistress here.”

  “Fulco?” the old man spat. “Ah, you’re one of his slatterns, are you? Might have known. Shameless! Giving yourself airs and graces and coming into my kitchen!”

  “That is quite enough!” said Eden, drawing herself up. “You go too far!”

  The old man gave her a hard look, and puffed out his cheeks. “Well,” he conceded. “You’re done up fancy, I’ll give you that. Fine as the Faery Queen herself.”

  Eden glanced down at her finery. The fur-lined cloak and mittens from Cuthbert, and Lady Payne’s wedding dress. Maybe she did look rather frivolous sat among his pots and pans? She lapsed into silence, cupping her chin and leaning her elbow against her knee. She’d waste no more words on the stubborn old buzzard. The old man carried on dressing the birds in silence, and Eden’s eyelids began to droop. The fire was hot at her front, but her back felt chilly. In spite of that, she was feeling sleepy. The old man was ignoring her, and she would return the favor. If anyone looked like a bad faery, it was him. A hobgoblin or brownie. She frowned. She was thinking of her old nurse’s tales again! Weren’t brownies paid for household chores with a bowl of cream on the hearth? Insulting them was said to bring bad luck. Perhaps she ought not to have spoken to him so harshly. How did you free brownies from labor? Was it them you had to sew a smock for or was that elves? And which ones turned into boggarts when they went evil?

  The next thing Eden knew, she was being carried in a pair of strong arms.

  “It’s me,” said Roland, when she started.

  “A boggart runs your kitchen,” she murmured, before dropping her head back to his shoulder.

  “A boggart?” repeated Roland. “That’s funny. He accused me of wedding a wicked faery. Said I must have found you sat in a rowan tree.”

  Eden considered this a moment. “They must be very superstitious parts around here.”

  “The boggart’s name is Baxter,” said Roland. “He’s been here for years. Before my father’s time even.”

  Eden thought this over. “Maybe he’s more of a goblin than a boggart. Boggart might be a bit harsh.” She glanced at one of the narrow windows that they passed and gasped. “Has night fallen? How long was I asleep?”

  “It’s late afternoon,” said Roland. “It looks darker due to the thunderclouds.”

  “And now it’s raining,” observed Eden, catching sight of another glimpse through an arrow loophole.

  “It rains a lot round here. That’s why it’s so green.”

  “Are Cuthbert and Fulco returned from the village?”

  “Hours ago. We’ve tidied up a bit since then.”

  “I can’t believe I was so tired,” she yawned. “Did Baxter put a blanket over me?”

  “No,” said Roland dryly. “That was me. Baxter threw salt over you.”

  “Salt?”

  “It’s said to counteract malevolent beings.”

  Eden digested this. “Boggart was not too harsh, after all,” she said darkly. Roland smirked, but said nothing. “Did Cuthbert re-stuff the mattress?” she asked, determined to fill any silence. Being cradled against his body like this was creating a false sense of intimacy, she just was not comfortable with.

  “Yes. He used hay, and a good quantity of wool from the village.”

  “I see. He is a very useful boy, is he not?”

  Roland’s gaze flickered. “He can be, when it suits him,” he said cautiously. He shoved the door open on the second landing. “We have covered a fair few miles the last few days, likely more than you’re used to riding.” he reminded her. They were in the dining room, which had been tidied and swept out. The floorboards were now bare instead of strewn with dirty rushes, and the benches were arranged tidily around the tables. Four of the dogs were lying under the benches. Castor, Hector, Seth and the grey gargoyle one. They all raised their heads at their entrance, but did not make a sound. Roland strode right across to the table next to the fireplace, and deposited Eden there. “We’re about to eat,” he told her, and sat down next to her. Eden looked about the room in approval. The scuffed table looked a lot better covered in a plain linen cloth. It was already set out with heavy silver candlesticks and set with platters and goblets of pewter. Reluctantly, she reached for her cloak fastening. She should really take it off now, though she did not feel thus inclined. She wished she had her wool mantle with her. She had a lovely one in dark green that she would give her eye-teeth for right now. Doubtless it was lying unused in the bedchamber she used at Hallam Hall. She dropped the cloak from her shoulders and gave a little involuntary shiver. Lady Payne’s ice blue gown was not designed for warmth. As she was drawing off her mittens, the door opened, and Cuthbert sailed in, carrying a large soup pot, and a platter bearing two small loaves.

  “It’s barley beef,” he announced, setting down the pot. “And there’s two types of bread. Maslin,” he said, referring to the darker rye and wheat loaf. “And Manchet,” which was the round white loaf. He sat down opposite Eden and started ladling the soup into the bowls as Roland poured the wine.

  The door opened again, and in came Fulco, looking rather ill-at-ease and bearing a platter of fried cheese curds with some flat cracker-breads and a garlic dipping sauce. Once he’d set the dish down, he seated himself next to Cuthbert.

  Eden perked up with surprise at the appetizing fare. “Did Baxter cook all these dishes?” she asked with surprise. For some reason she had imagined him to be a rather basic and unimaginative cook.

  “Yes,” piped up Cuthbert. “Baxter says if you’re tricked into eating human victuals, you’ll be stuck in the human realm.

  “Tricked? I’m ravenous,” said Roland, accepting his bowl of soup and tearing off a large hunk of bread.

  “Oh, he knows you’re real enough,” continued Cuthbert blithely. “He just thinks you’re ensorcelled.”

  Eden who was in the act of buttering her bread, put down her knife. “Is Baxter… sane?” she asked carefully.

  “He’s alright,” said Cuthbert heartily. “It’s normal for folks to hold the old beliefs in the country.”

  “He’s not going to throw salt in my face every morning or strike me with a birch wand?”

  Cuthbert chuckled, but Roland didn’t look nearly as amused. “He’d better not,” said her husband with a heavy frown.

  “He’ll calm down,” said Fulco awkwardly. “He’s not used to having people about the place. He’s gone a little peculiar, that’s all.”

  Eden refused the soup, but helped herself to some of the fried cheese and dipping sauce. It was delicious, as were the crunchy crackers. Cuthbert watched her with approval.

  “Baxter said I was to make sure you ate a little from e
very dish. He means to ensure you’re trapped here to keep Master Roland happy,” he quoted.

  Roland’s brows rose at that, but he turned to Eden. “In that case, you’d better take a sip,” he said.

  A week ago, she’d likely have refused the gesture, but now, Eden merely bent her head and put her lips to the soup spoon he offered her. The soup was flavorful. She could taste shallot, and parsnip as well as barley and the meat. “It’s good,” she said, with a nod.

  Roland cleared his throat, and took a swig of wine. “In fairness, my father always kept a good table. Is that not so?” When no-one answered, Roland lowered his goblet. Eden looked across at Fulco who was the only one qualified to say. He was watching her intently. Oh no, did he think she was a faery too? thought Eden with misgiving.

  Fulco flushed. “Oh aye, he was a great man, the old baron,” he said hoarsely, and started hastily tucking into his soup.

  Eden relaxed, though she thought Roland seemed to tense beside her. He sat up straighter and plunked his cup down rather heavily. For a few moments, the only sounds were of chewing or swallowing and the clink of knives against trenchers. Cuthbert nudged the plate of cheese and crackers towards her and she helped herself, though she eschewed more of the sauce, of which a little went a long way. Roland, she noticed, ate three bowls of soup and at least half of the small dark loaf, before turning to devour what was left of the cheese. When that was gone, he had a large slice of the manchet loaf and dipped this in the garlic sauce for flavor. Cuthbert and Fulco both excused themselves and removed the empty platters, descending below stairs to fetch the next course.

  “We’ll have to get some womenfolk up here and soon,” said Roland heavily. “You’re driving Fulco to distraction.”

  “Me?” asked Eden, in surprise. “Why? What have I done?”

  “Nothing,” he admitted. “Save sit there, eating daintily. You’re likely the prettiest thing he’s seen in a twelvemonth.”