by Kate Elliott
“My lord,” said Southern, a little hoarse with emotion. “I do not deserve such a blessing, or such generosity.”
The earl examined him with a combination of skepticism, amusement, and straightforward appraisal. “I shall not even attempt to make that judgment.”
“I refuse,” said Charity. When everyone looked at her, she repeated it, louder. “I refuse. Completely. Maretha, surely you cannot expect me to marry him.”
“But Charity. How can you say that? Why else would you—” She faltered, blushed.
“It is my fault,” said Southern quickly. “I am weak. The sins of the flesh held too much temptation for me. I ruined you, Charity. It is only right that you let me bear the responsibility.”
The earl spoke before Charity could reply. “Ruined her? I think it more likely she ruined you. She was certainly no virgin when I met her last spring.”
The silence this statement produced was so profound that they could all hear the infant’s snuffling and panting on the other bed.
“Charity—” Maretha began.
“Very well,” said Charity in a tight voice entirely uncharacteristic of her. “I may as well admit that it is true. I don’t know how you found out.”
“Like recognizes like,” said the earl, cold and cryptic, “and unlike, as well. I have—had—certain gifts.”
“Charity—” Maretha shook her head, unable to go on. Southern was evidently too stunned to attempt speech.
Charity was quite pale, but her eyes bore the intensity of an old and deep anger. “Don’t think I wasn’t grateful for your and your father’s charity, Maretha. Lady, how I learned to hate that word—‘charity.’ Uncle always thought his sister was a saint, but the truth is my mother isn’t dead, as far as I know. She ran off with a discharged navy captain when I was fourteen, leaving me with Father, who for all I ever knew was not my father at all. At any rate, he had no compunction about using my beauty to make a living for himself. I must have been sold as a virgin ten or twelve times before Uncle traced us, and Father, thank the Lady, died in that carriage accident, and I came to live with you. I’m not proud of it. I meant to live cleanly and decently, but without any dowry at all what hope had I of a good marriage? I thought I might at least have some pleasure out of my life.” Her eyes strayed to Thomas Southern, who was, Maretha saw clearly, the kind of man who is most handsome when he is suffering. But there was a calculation in Charity’s eyes that Maretha had never seen there before, meek and gentle as she had always seemed at Farr House and throughout their travels, and it gave her cause to wonder.
“Why did you take the cup?” she asked.
Charity hesitated, came to a decision. “To buy a dowry for myself.”
“I wonder,” said the earl, “where you expected to sell such a thing, Miss Farr. Or how Colonel Whitmore came to suspect that you had it in your possession. And whether it was a struggle that sent you into labor, or the simple act of taking the cup—which is, indeed, a thing of magical value, and thus tends to act upon its possessors in ways they cannot necessarily predict.”
“Wait a moment, my lord,” said Southern. “What are you accusing Miss Farr of?”
“Collusion. How do you think the Regent found us so easily?”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Maretha. “There were over one hundred laborers, a good half of whom were hired in Heffield.”
“Few of whom can write. And none but Mr. Southern knew our destination.”
“Is this true, Miss Farr?” said Southern in a stiff, distant voice.
“I told her nothing but unimportant things,” said Charity recklessly. “How was she to know the difference? She could have had us followed easily enough in any case. I never saw that that was any great secret. And she had a man amongst the laborers. I can’t remember his name—Tagmill, or something. I would give him messages.”
“Oh, Charity.” Maretha clutched the arms of her chair tight in her distress. “How could you have done it? It’s terrible.”
“So is poverty.” Charity’s voice was heavy with exhaustion, her face drawn and lined with it. “The treasure and a little information, and she would provide me with a dowry and the means to marry well. What other way had I to provide that security for myself, having no other resources? You would never have understood, Maretha. You always had your father’s work.”
“I would have helped you.”
“I suppose you would. I never meant to hurt you. But I’ve no choice now, have I?” Her gaze shifted to rest with loathing on the earl. “You’ve trapped me.”
“You have trapped yourself,” replied the earl. “I believe that is what most of us do.” He looked at Thomas Southern, who stood at the opposite end of the bed, one hand so tight around the bedpost that it seemed that his grip was the only thing holding him there. “Do we not, Mr. Southern?”
“The Son is merciful,” said Southern, “and forgives us even as we sin. I would ask a boon of you, my lord.”
“You may ask.”
“For your—your generosity,” he continued, very formally, “we would ask that you allow us to name our son after you.”
“No!” cried Charity. “I will not—”
“Charity. You will.” He did not look at her, but his tone silenced her. “My lord.” He waited respectfully.
“I am not used to receiving compliments,” said the earl, a trifle aloof. He put out his arm for Maretha to take, and pushed aside the tent flap. “But if you wish it, you may call your son John.” Behind, as they left, Thomas Southern sank to his knees beside the bed and began to pray.
Outside, Maretha had to blink several times until her eyes adjusted to the bright late-morning light. Across the way, Julian had crouched to bid farewell to a tearful Mog and Pin, had even gone so far as to hug each in turn, for once heedless of his cravat.
“John,” Maretha said, musing.
The earl began to answer, stopped, perhaps self-conscious, perhaps offended.
She risked a glance at him, but he was impossible even now to read, and she reflected that his eyes were still black—enchanter’s eyes. She shuddered. “It just seems so ordinary and common a name.”
His smile, in answer, was cool and ironic. “Have I never told you? I too am named after a saint. St. John, the Martyr, who gave his life that another might live.”
Sanjay had fallen asleep on the parlor’s only couch when the innkeeper brought the tea trays in and poured tea for his guests. Julian stood by the window, staring out at the lowering dusk. In the three chairs that surrounded the table on which the tea was laid out sat the three women, talking, a low, soothing sound that, like rain, seemed to blend into the background.
“I wish,” said Kate, not for the first time, “that your Gates hadn’t been taken as well. We could have at least tried to use them to get to Heffield in one magnificent jump.”
“Using you to test the idea? I wouldn’t have tried it.” Chryse frowned, took a sip of tea to hide her real worry over the loss of their cards. She and Sanjay had discussed it only once on the journey, and that discussion had ended in an argument—not because either blamed the other, but precisely because neither was to blame.
“But you know that they are capable of transporting over greater distance—you yourself came over the ocean from Vesputia with those cards.”
“Oh, Kate. Please.”
“Sorry. Just like me to keep reminding you of it. What are you dreaming about, Maretha?”
Maretha had been watching the fire with a distant, considering expression. She started, smiled self-consciously as she picked up her tea. “Nothing important. I was remembering just that—what I was dreaming about last night. It’s that strange dream I’ve been having this entire trip.”
“What, the one about turning into a rose bush?”
“A climbing rose, actually,” said Maretha. There had been a slowly perceptible change about her since that last day on the site: she had grown more subtly attractive, not so much in looks but in magnetism, as any pers
on does who has gained inner self-confidence. “Leaves and shoots budding out of my limbs, my body slowly turning to wood. Except,” and here she looked puzzled, “that it wasn’t me, but someone else. I don’t know who. Someone like me, but the connection—” She shrugged. “It’s gotten more vivid, stronger, as we’ve gotten closer to Heffield, and last night—” She trailed off.
“Last night we had quite a windstorm.” Kate grinned. “And we’re only a half-day’s ride from the city tonight. Well then, Maretha. You’d better stay up all night with me, gambling. I’ll take some of your husband’s fortune off your hands. I’m destitute.”
“But Kate,” said Chryse. She glanced at Sanjay. He was dozing lightly, mouth a little open. “But I thought there was a remedy for that.” She looked across the room at Julian, but he was now gazing at Kate’s back with a look both pensive and slightly angry.
Kate made an impatient gesture with one hand. “Bloody hell, Chryse. Give me some time to get used to the idea.”
“She’s had about seven weeks, hasn’t she?” said Chryse to Maretha. “I can’t believe how bad the roads have been.”
“And you haven’t been forced to ride next to old prim and proper for all that time, either,” retorted Kate. “Lady! You’d never guess someone could change so fast overnight.”
Chryse shared a smile with Maretha. “Oh, I rather think he’s always had a tendency that way.”
“Is that so?” asked Kate with a dangerous gleam in her eye. “Did you know that he’s decided to adopt the children? Not as legally his, obviously, but he’s going to give them a home, educate them for a good trade. Can you imagine? Julian, after all!”
Chryse chuckled. “Are you raising your voice so that he can hear you? It’s no use, he’s gone back to looking outside.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Of course. For the last seven weeks I’ve had Sanjay on one side, being stoic about how long it’s taking his leg to heal, the earl on another, speaking two words a day if we’re lucky, Thomas Southern being stiff and worried about Charity and the baby back north, Julian doing his imitation of Thomas and the earl combined, and you being annoyed about Julian. The only fit company around here is Maretha, probably because everyone is afraid to annoy her. And you know very well, Kate, that you wouldn’t be angry if you didn’t care.”
“Sometimes,” said Kate ominously, “I don’t like you.”
Chryse smiled. “You’re just like me, you know. Contrary. As soon as someone tells you to do something, you immediately decide not to.”
“And furthermore,” added Maretha. “You haven’t been such fit company either, Chryse, brooding over music most evenings and breaking off in the middle of conversations to scribble down pieces of compositions.”
“There!” Kate grinned. “Have some of your own back.”
“This is unfair,” protested Chryse.
“And you’ve been fussy about food the last couple of weeks,” continued Maretha with a wink at Kate.
“That’s true.” Kate nodded wisely. “Usually you eat like a horse.”
“Thank you,” said Chryse. “It’s such an—evocative phrase. I guess I’m simply not used to riding all day, every day, whether in or out of a carriage. It’s caught up to me. I get tired so easily.”
“Sweetheart,” said a sleepy voice from the couch. “Could you hand me some tea?” He yawned as Chryse brought him a cup.
“Had a good nap?” she asked, enough concern in her voice that she sounded worried. “How is your leg?”
“Fine,” he answered. “A little sore today, but I think that’s the rain. I was dreaming that I was back in the forest.”
“No wonder you looked content.”
He shrugged, looking over at Kate. “Have you—” He hesitated, took a sip of tea, looked at Maretha, at Julian across the room, back at Kate. “Have you ever seen a dragon?”
Kate laughed. “Have I? Lady, no. Only saints, simpletons, and madmen can see dragons.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Sanjay softly. Chryse took his hand in hers, but said nothing.
“It strikes me,” said Maretha slowly, looking thoughtful, “that none of us left that place unchanged.” She stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see if John would like tea.” She left the parlor.
“John.” Kate dwelled expressively on the syllable. “How very familiar of our Maretha. Do you suppose—but no. He’s been so reclusive since we left, as much to her as to anyone. But I’ve long suspected she harbors a certain affection for him. Much good it will do her.”
“How unfortunate for her,” said Julian from the window.
Kate blushed, but managed to ignore him.
“I have wondered,” said Chryse quickly, filling the breach, “why you never noticed that Charity was pregnant. You did share a tent with her.”
“She always dressed behind a screen. And like everyone else, it simply never occurred to me.”
In the lull generated by this remark, Julian walked over from the window and sat down in the chair Maretha had vacated, helping himself to some tea. Chryse left Sanjay and went back to her chair. The lull stretched into an uncomfortable silence.
“It certainly seems that we’ve seen a large number of people on the road today,” said Sanjay. “Going away from Heffield. You would think folk would be going in, to see the coronation.”
This remark fared no better. Julian sipped his tea, looking, as he lounged in the chair, elegant and disdainful. Kate looked as though she was about to say something everyone would regret.
“Perhaps there are some celebrations out in the country tonight,” said Chryse valiantly, exchanging an exasperated glance with Sanjay. “Isn’t this New Year’s Eve? And the Festival of Lights is the first day of the new year, but there’s a day in between, tomorrow. What’s it called?”
“St. Austin’s Day,” said Julian. “The day all your sins are forgiven.” He looked pointedly at Kate. She was examining the chipped rim of her teacup as if it were a great work of art. “It isn’t in one year or the other, just—out of time, as it were. It used to be a solemn holiday. Now it’s rather characterized by more—all—energetic activities.”
“Bloody riots,” said Kate. “Once a year the lower classes combine to trumpet their grievances. That’s how we met you, last year. It had spilled over onto Lightsmass.”
“You ought to temper your language, Kate,” said Julian.
“With what?” cried Kate, jumping to her feet. “Your damned officiousness? I’m going out to the stables to see how Mr. Southern is getting on. At least if he reads me sermons they’ll be from the scriptures.” She slammed the door behind her. A moment later the innkeeper appeared, enquiring anxiously if all was well. Chryse assured him that it was, and he left.
“You know, Julian,” said Sanjay finally, “it isn’t any of my business, but—ah—that isn’t usually considered the most successful method of courtship.”
Julian stood up as abruptly as Kate. “I know it. I know it.” He paced to the window, returned. “I knew it would be a disaster if I ever admitted my—my feelings. I don’t know what got into me.”
“I do,” said Sanjay softly. “The same thing that got into the rest of us.”
“But you can’t simply have been willing to go on forever like you were, could you?” asked Chryse.
“Kate was living in my house, wasn’t she? Now what can I expect? I’ve lost her.”
“Julian.” Something in Sanjay’s tone caught Julian’s attention, and he halted at one end of the couch and waited. “I suspect the direct approach is the very worst tack to take with Kate. She’s a little like Chryse.”
Julian looked at Chryse with the barest of smiles, back at Sanjay. “Then what do you suggest, since you have had, I presume, a certain degree of success?”
“Be patient,” Sanjay replied. “And be subtle.”
“I’ll try.” He gave them both a sketch of a bow. “If you will excuse me.” He left quietly.
&n
bsp; “I don’t know about subtle,” said Chryse.
“Of course you don’t. If you’d noticed, it wouldn’t have been subtle.”
Chryse laughed and, sitting on the rug beside the couch, kissed him. “It’s hard to believe we’ve been here an entire year.”
He put a hand on her hair and stroked it gently. “I feel as though we found things out about ourselves that we wouldn’t have otherwise,” He shook his head. “That does sound trite.”
“It reminds me of a quote I read once—about the real treasure being in your own home—that is, yourself—but that you have to go to a new land to understand it, that it can only be revealed to you by a stranger of … of another belief and race. Only said much better than that, of course.”
“What are you going to do, Chryse? If we get home.”
She laid her head against his. “When. We have to. I love this place, just like I loved the year we met, when we studied in Scotland, but there’s so much unfinished business at home right now. I’ve got to go back to school. I need more tools to compose—there’s just so much music waiting there.”
“Going to make me rich?”
She laughed again. “I doubt it. What will you do, Sanjay?”
“Quit school,” he said, decided. His hand, stroking her, paused on her neck. “I don’t know. I guess I have to work at seeing the truth. I’ve always had a fancy to—I don’t know—save the world.”
“Oh, Sanjay.” She got on her knees in order to embrace him. “I do love you.”
Maretha pushed open the connecting door that led from her room into her husband’s. They had chosen to stop at this inn a little early in the afternoon for the same reason they had chosen most of the others: it had a suite that the earl and his wife could share. He had insisted on it, as if to advertise some fiction about their marriage to a world which he refused to tell the truth. Even so, he had become so remote from her, from the others, that it was as if he was not traveling with them at all.