by L G Rollins
He rubbed her hand gently. “We could stoke up the fire in here.” It wasn’t low, but with a bit of wood, they could get it bigger.
“Please,” Peter pleaded.
“Oh, very well.”
It took only a moment for Hugh to have the fire roaring while Peter explained the necessity of recapturing the bridge. Martha sat quite close to the hearth with her back to it. Peter was on her left and Hugh sat himself back down on her right.
The bridge was won, after much loss. Nonetheless, victory was claimed. Of course, the moment they retook the bridge they lost control of a nearby village. That would never do, so they rallied their best men and sent them out by cover of night to spy on the enemy army. All the while, Martha moved closer, then a bit closer again to Hugh. Eventually their shoulders were touching. By the time their soldiers had discovered the enemies’ desire to control the nearby castle, Martha’s head leaned heavily against Hugh’s shoulder.
“Martha.” Peter’s voice was impatient.
Hugh softly shushed the boy, earning himself a sign and a displeased shake of the head from Peter. Hugh slipped an arm around Martha and helped her stand. “Come on, dear, you need to lie down.” He walked her over toward the settee.
“I only need a minute,” she said, her words garbled with sleep.
“Rest as long as you want.” He laid her down, placing a pillow beneath her head, and then retrieved a blanket, draping it over her.
He turned back to find Peter still scowling.
“Sisters,” Peter said with a groan.
Hugh picked up his captain and moved it closer to the general. “Terrible news, sir. Private Martha has t-t-taken ill.”
Peter gave him a flat stare.
Hugh pressed on regardless. “We’ll have to save the castle ourselves.”
Peter’s expression changed. He picked up his soldier, a look of self-sacrifice crossing his face. “Never let it be said the general wouldn’t do the hard stuff when his men were losing their breakfast.”
Hugh bit down hard to keep from laughing out loud.
Chapter Eighteen
It was one week before Christmas Eve, the day they were going to perform. Martha blinked several times, willing her eyes to focus on the fabric in her hands for just a few stitches more. She was so close to being done.
Martha poked her needle into the fabric, drawing the green thread through it. She could not thank Hugh enough for having Anne take over almost half of the work. Without the dear girl, there was no chance they would have been done by today. Martha had originally thought they’d do the performance tomorrow week; that was when they were most often done. But she couldn’t bring herself to be away from Tim on Christmas Day and if she wasn’t going to perform on Christmas, then any other day would be just as good as another. Besides, performing anytime during the jolly season wasn’t terribly unheard of.
Martha tied off the thread and put her needle in the pin cushion. She held the costume up by the shoulders. Hugh would look quite the sight in this. Her mind flitted back to the day before and how she’d fallen asleep against him. She certainly hadn’t meant to, only she’d been so tired.
She only had vague memories of him helping her to the settee and then taking Peter to the opposite side of the room to play quietly. Her thumb stroked over the fabric. He was such a hard man to figure out. When he was around his house guests, he was the Silent Duke and nothing more. How shocked she’d been to find him sitting on the floor, playing with Peter yesterday.
Martha lowered the costume onto the chair beside her where the other costumes were already spread out.
What a mystery the duke was. She couldn’t continue to deny that when it was just the two of them, or when they were only in the company of her family, she very much liked the man Hugh was. She never minded his silence, even if his distance angered her sometimes. But when he was comfortable, when it was only them, he was also funny and thoughtful and kind. More than once, he’d left her heart melting.
The door to her bedchamber opened without a knock and Peter came bounding in. “This just came from Grandfather.” He held out a small note.
Martha took it, unable to assuage the sudden rush of concern that came with it. They were to meet him at the office in only a few hours. She quickly unfolded it.
Terribly sorry, Martha. I cannot get away today. Tell Peter to slay the dragon and never mind him coming back to life.
Oh, no. He’d been so certain he could slip away for a few minutes. Mr. Scrooge must have found out and insisted he not leave his desk. Martha glanced up to see Peter reading over her shoulder.
“Not come back to life?” Peter said. “But that’s the best part. I can’t be St. George without a dragon who swears fealty to me.”
Martha wrapped an arm around Peter. “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.” Though what, she couldn’t imagine. The story of St. George was normally told with no less than six performers, often with upwards of a dozen. But now, there were only the three of them.
Martha pulled away from Peter, facing him directly. “Which would you rather have? A pompous knight to fight before the dragon? Or a dragon who comes back to life?”
“You’re going to be the doctor?”
“I can only be one or the other, but if you’d rather have a doctor than a knight, I think I could do that.” Her costume looked nothing like a doctor’s garb and the one she had prepared for Grandfather wouldn’t fit her well. But she couldn’t let Peter down.
He thought about it for a moment. “I really wanted to stab you through with my sword, and St. George doesn’t kill the doctor.” He thought a bit more. “But, I think I’d rather have a dragon swear fealty.”
“Very well; go ring for Anne. We’re going to need her help.”
It took every minute between then and when she and Peter were supposed to meet Hugh out in the gardens to alter Grandfather’s doctor costume so that Martha wouldn’t trip in it. Finally, with everything altered, Martha slipped into the breeches and man’s jacket. She felt quite strange dressed thus, quite as though she had not enough on at all. Good gracious, and she was going to prance about in such a get-up?
She turned and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Martha almost let out a laugh. She looked utterly ridiculous. Something of a cross between a very short man and a girl who had yet to bloom. She walked over to the dressing table. The extra layers of fabric between her legs was odd and uncomfortable. At the same time, it was somewhat freeing.
Martha pulled on her pelisse, mostly hiding her costume, then gathered up the masks she’d redone and the other items they would need, placing them inside a thick canvas bag. Moving to the bedchamber door, she cracked it open slightly. Lady Fitzroy was strolling down the corridor, Lady Wilmington beside her. They spoke in soft tones, not so much as glancing her way. Martha quickly, noiselessly, shut the door. She’d believed everyone to be in the parlor. Perhaps if she gave them a minute, they would leave, and she could make her escape. There was a soft knock and the servants’ door opened.
Anne stepped into the room. “Pardon me, miss, but His Grace thought you might like to take the servants’ hallway out.”
Martha smiled. “That sounds perfect.”
It only took a few minutes to make their way out back, surprisingly less time than it would have taken Martha had she stayed to the main corridors of the house. A carriage sat waiting, and a footman hurried forward and opened the door for Martha.
Hugh was already inside, Peter sitting beside him and chatting without ceasing, shoe blackening having been applied to his face in such a way that he appeared to have a beard and thick eyebrows. He not only looked older, but the make-up fully obscured his identity.
Seeing Martha, Hugh reached out to help her in. As he did so, his many-caped greatcoat opened a bit at the throat, showing his green dragon costume beneath.
The sight sent a bit of a thrill through Martha.
They were really doing this. Martha sat but couldn’t relax, no mat
ter the luxurious squabs about her. Hugh rapped on the side and the carriage rolled forward.
“Ready?” Hugh asked.
Martha only smiled and nodded. They’d practiced their lines, rehearsed in the nursery where no one would accidentally come across them, tailored their costumes, and gathered all the necessary supplies. Now, here they were, off to perform. Her nerves were on edge, but she was still filled with excited anticipation.
Peter crawled over to the window and was instantly transfixed with the passing view outside. Martha’s gaze moved from her brother to Hugh, sitting across from her, his knees occasionally brushing against her own.
He was watching Peter, however. His mouth was tilted up in a small smile, and there was an easiness to his posture. He was so changed from that first day when she’d met him in the church house. Then, he’d been all stiff and standoffish. Now, he looked quite . . . well, happy.
Perhaps after so many long days of stuffy company and pompous conversation, a little bit of mischief was exactly what they all needed.
Hugh stood with his shoulder pressed up against the wall of an old shop. Out in the middle of the street, Martha, as Doctor Quack, praised the past accomplishments of Peter, or rather, St. George.
Her costume did a fine job of hiding her identity. The masquerade mask hid half her face and the other half had been painted a soft white, lips and all, both in an effort to disguise her and in an effort to make her appear more masculine. Though the effect did much to hide her curves and pink coloring, it did nothing to hide her grace as she moved about, drawing the attention of every passerby.
She was absolutely lovely, even acting the part of a self-aggrandizing old doctor. Peter stood beside her, only adding the occasional “amendment” to her speech. When she said he’d slain three bandits, he corrected her—it had been five. When she said he’d rescued the king’s daughter, he spoke up again—he’d actually rescued the daughter and the king’s entire council.
The audience was as enthralled as Hugh. Peter’s not-so-humble comments made them laugh, and Martha’s grandiose gestures seemed to weave a spell on them. He was still trying to figure out what to do about the spell she’d woven about him. There had been several moments, as of late, which had left him wondering if she perhaps was beginning to feel as he did. Was it only wishful thinking? After all, he didn’t know anything about “pitching woo,” as his Father once called it.
Granted, he had much to offer her, but only in terms of blunt. Someone like Martha needed more than just a business arrangement to secure her future—she needed support and love. She needed friends and family. He couldn’t see her being happy in his world of silence and solitude.
Martha neared the end of her monologue, and Hugh stepped back further into the shadows. He pulled off his greatcoat and pulled on the head of the dragon. It was made to rest on his shoulders and extend above his own head. With his face painted black and the front of his costume a matching dark shade, his own head appeared to be the neck with the dragon’s head hovering above his own.
Already tall enough to necessitate looking down on most people—he was more than a head taller than Martha, as their past few encounters had only emphasized—this dragon of his was sure to shock and entertain all.
Martha’s voice reached him. “And never have such heroics, such valor been needed more than they are now. For, St. George, our small town is, even now, being threatened by the most hideous, most vile beast ever seen! Please save us, St. George, save us!”
“Fear not,” Peter’s boyish voice cried out, “nothing is mightier than my sword or stronger than my shield.”
“Hark,” Martha said, and Hugh readied himself, “I hear it coming even now.”
Hugh darted out from between the shops, leaping the last few feet into the middle of the street. Landing with his costume claws out and legs spread, he let out a loud roar.
The audience drew back, and several ladies screamed. It was a better reaction than even he’d expected.
Peter, however, was not fazed—they’d practiced this many times—and drew his sword, leveling it at Hugh’s chest.
“Now beast,” he proclaimed, “meet your doom!”
Martha stepped to the side but didn’t leave the street as Hugh and Peter fought. They’d worked out a well-choreographed dance, making sure that the dragon got several well-placed swipes against St. George’s shield before Peter lunged forward and very nearly impaled Hugh. After moving back and appearing to be vanquished at any moment, Hugh dropped to a knee, bringing the dragon’s mouth down over Peter.
The boy cried out and crumpled, quite believably, to the street. With another roar, Hugh scurried back between the shops. Once in the shadows again, he looked back out over the audience. Gads, but this was going far better than he’d imagined. Martha was kneeling over Peter, crying out that now all hope was lost.
But wait! She could save him, if only she had the right ingredients. Producing a small sack, she pleaded with the audience for a few coins—the magic component that would save the hero and allow him to fight the dragon once more.
Hugh smiled as she went from one audience member to another, gathering up quite a bit of blunt. No doubt such an earning would set her mind at ease. Once she’d beseeched each person present, she returned to kneeling by Peter. She spoke as she pretended to grind up the coins with a large pestle. Then, after a bit, she reached in and took a pinch of the crushed coins—in truth it was only sand they’d placed inside before the performance—and sprinkled it on Peter.
Her voice deepened as she chanted, sprinkling yet more sand over her brother. Her sing-song voice grew in volume until she cried out for all to hear.
“Arise,” she called, “and slay the dragon! Arise, and prove that goodness will conquer evil at last!”
Peter leapt to his feet and the audience clapped and cheered. He waved his wooden sword above his head, accepting their cries of joy.
Hugh crouched down, readying himself once more.
“Come vile dragon!” Peter cried. “You will not beat me again!”
Hugh leapt from the shadows, though no one jumped or screamed this time. Instead, he could feel the excitement rolling off the audience, their anticipation of his demise. Hugh and Peter moved through another well-practiced fight. Peter had insisted Hugh not appear too weak or cowardly—he claimed that such would only make himself appear less heroic. Hugh lunged forward, bringing his dragon head down. Peter deftly side-stepped it, whipped about, and brought his sword down across Hugh’s neck.
Hugh crumpled to the ground. He had to hand it to the boy; he knew how to slay a dragon with much aplomb.
The audience cheered again, and Hugh had to fight a smile. He was dead, after all. Dead dragons shouldn’t be smiling.
Martha came up beside him. “Horrible dragon, you have pillaged our town for the last time.”
Peter called out next. “I was dead once, too. Bring him back, Doctor Quack.”
“But, sir,” Martha said, her voice full of reverent respect, “will he only hurt and maim again?”
“I do believe he has learned his lesson,” Peter continued, speaking out so the audience could hear him clearly. “Bring him back, and he will swear fealty to me. After all, even a dragon deserves a second chance to choose good.”
Martha hesitated, asking the audience if they agreed with St. George. Of course, they did. After a show of reluctance, Martha finally knelt down beside Hugh. She began her sing-song chant once more as sand fell onto his cheek, shoulder, and hand.
“Arise, dragon,” Martha called out. “Arise and pledge your fealty.”
Hugh made a show of rising up slowly, stumbling, as it were, back from death itself. He stood up fully, peering down at Peter, who was decidedly far shorter than he. There was silence for a moment, then Hugh dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
“I pledge my fealty—to you, St. George.”
The audience erupted in cheers. Hugh stayed on one knee, gaze down. He’d had only a small pause
in the middle of his one and only line. Yet, he didn’t think anyone had noticed.
Hugh stood up straight, looking out over the large audience. It had grown since he’d first jumped out to fight St. George. Peter came to stand beside him, waving his sword above his head, eliciting more cheers. It was strange to think he had spoken in front of so many. In costume, no one had known it was him. It had made a surprising difference.
As the audience clapped, Martha returned, holding out the bag of “magic sand” and asking for any last contributions. Many people appeared to give generously, complimenting her on a performance well done. Martha and her family would not need to worry about food or heat for a while yet. This time, Hugh didn’t try to hide his smile. Martha was as clever a woman as any he’d ever known. Still, his heart was not calm. He was proud of Martha for working so tirelessly for her family. He still grew furious whenever he thought too long on Mr. Scrooge and the trifling amount he paid Mr. Cratchit. He ached to see to it that Martha and her family were never cold, never hungry. It would be easy for him to support them—but would she ever allow it? Would she even consider something long-lasting between them?
“Must we return to Stonewell already?”
The female voice off to Hugh’s left grabbed his attention, but he didn’t glance over. He hadn’t known some of his own house guests were present among the audience. He hadn’t even known they had intended to come to town.
“His Grace will miss us if we don’t return soon, I fear.” That was Lady Fitzroy—he was certain even without looking.
“I doubt it,” Lord Birks responded. “Why the lot of us ever came in the first place is beyond me.”
“You are so droll, Lord Birks,” giggled the same female voice he’d first heard. Hugh shot a quick glance that direction. It was Lady Harriet. She stood with her arm linked through Lord Birks’s. Lady Fitzroy and Lady Wilmington stood just beside them.