by Megan Bryce
Faith jumped from the sofa to sit with her siblings and Honora said a little more loudly, “But one week, just as she was settling into a comfortable position, a grumbling at her feet interrupted her solitude and before she could jump up and run away, a large head poked out from beneath the bridge. It was a troll!”
The children jumped, and Temperance gasped, “Was he hideous?!”
Chastity squealed. “Did he smell?!”
“Yes. And of course. And he had a large bogie dangling from his nostril.”
All three girls shrieked and Freddy laughed hysterically and Fanny shook her head. “Honora.”
“He’s a troll. It’s de rigueur. And before the troll had even come all the way out from under the bridge, he snatched the princess up in his large, roughly calloused hand.”
Temperance covered her mouth and mumbled, “Did she faint?”
“Did she faint?! She poked him with her parasol! And said, ‘You do not scare me, you grumpy sour troll.’”
Chastity put her arm around her sister and said, “It’s okay, Temp. The princess really was scared, she just didn’t want the troll to know,” and Honora blinked and then looked down into her lap.
So that no one could see that she really was heartbroken over what she had given up. That she just didn’t want anyone to know.
Her stepmother covered her hand and squeezed, and Honora cleared her throat and channeled perky Miss Blackstock so she could finish her story.
“Well, the troll roared at the princess and he puffed his trolly breath in her face and she poked him again with her parasol. ‘Stay back, Troll,’ she said. ‘And kindly put me down this instant.’”
“Did he?”
“No. He didn’t. But he was a troll, so the princess wasn’t at all surprised. And looking down into the rushing water beneath her, she realized that she had come for a picnic by the river and here she was, by the river, so she climbed into a comfortable position in the troll’s hand, poking with her parasol until she’d made a nice flat area, and then she set out her lunch.”
Freddy looked impressed. “Right there in the troll’s hand?”
Honora nodded. “And the troll watched her with a stupid, confused look on his face because he’d never met anyone who wasn’t afraid of him before.”
Temperance knotted her eyebrows and Honora amended, “The troll had never met anyone who didn’t act afraid of him before, not even when his stomach grumbled loud enough to make the bridge shake. And when he lifted his hand up to his nose and sniffed her freshly baked bread, the princess whacked him on the nose.”
Her stepmother murmured, “I had no idea a parasol could be so useful a weapon.”
“Then the princess said to the troll, ‘I suppose you will want to share my picnic,’ and he replied, ‘I suppose I could just eat you.’
‘Well, it is my favorite smoked ham so let me think about it for a moment,’ she said, and the troll laughed at her wit.”
Honora stopped, remembering her sour troll trying not to laugh, and Faith said, “She should share.”
Honora laughed. “She should, and she did. The fairly ordinary princess broke her bread in two and offered half her ham, and they ate their picnic, both of them surprised to find the other was good company. And when the food was all gone, the troll grumbled that it hadn’t been enough.
“‘No,’ the princess said because it hadn’t been. ‘Should I come again next week?’
“And the troll sighed and huffed and puffed and finally agreed that she could come. The princess nodded and packed up her basket and when she was down on the ground once again sniffed and said, ‘I would have come anyway.’”
Temperance said, “Did the troll want to marry her?”
“Of course he did. She was a princess, and she made him laugh when no one else could. And every week the princess brought her picnic to the bridge and they slowly fell in love.”
The girls sighed and Fanny smiled and Freddy made a face, and Honora said, “But the princess had a secret.”
Her stepmother shifted in her seat and Honora leaned forward again. “The princess wasn’t really a princess. She was a witch! And when the troll discovered this, he covered his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see her.”
Chastity crossed her arms. “But he’s a troll. That’s no worse than a witch.”
“Maybe if she hadn’t lied it would have been okay. But there is one thing no troll will ever forgive, and that’s lying.”
The children thought about that and Temperance asked fearfully, “Are you really a witch, Honora?”
“I am the worst kind of witch imaginable. The kind of witch who doesn’t visit her sisters and brother. The kind of witch who forgets birthdays.”
“The kind of witch who doesn’t bring presents?”
Honora nodded and whispered, “I am that kind of horrible witch.”
Chastity jumped up. “But you said you would make it up to me.”
“I will. And next month it is Temperance’s birthday and she will be eleven and I will send a present and not forget because even if I am a witch who doesn’t bring presents, I will always be a witch who sends presents.”
Temperance said quietly, “Does that mean you’re not staying?”
Honora nodded and Faith said, “I wish you’d stay forever and get married and have babies and I would hold them for you.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Well. If I ever get married and have babies, I will let you hold them.”
Chastity said, “And stay here, in York?”
“If I can.”
“When you’re married, you won’t have to live here with Papa and then maybe you won’t make him so angry and he won’t make you so angry.”
“It’s a possibility, at least. It could be that York is just too small for the both of us.”
“You could live outside the wall.”
Honora smiled. “Perhaps.”
Temperance decided suddenly that the troll story was just a story and asked, “Honora, why aren’t you married yet?”
“I’ve haven’t met anyone I wanted to marry.”
Fanny said knowingly, “Except for the troll.”
Honora smiled sadly. “Except for the troll.”
Fanny finally sent Honora to her borrowed room to rest from the journey and shooed the children off, telling them they would have plenty of time to visit later.
Chastity slipped her hand in Honora’s, showing her to her room and then jumping up to sit on the mattress of the four-poster bed.
“I’m your favorite,” Chastity whispered as Honora sat next to her and smoothed her brown hair and looked into her brown eyes.
Honora tried so hard not to show it. To not give any indication that she felt differently about Chastity than she did Temperance and Faith and Frederick, and she forced herself to ask why the little girl could possibly think that was true.
Chastity answered calmly, “Because you named me.”
“No. Papa named you.”
“But you picked my middle name.”
Honora nodded because she had. “Chastity Hope.”
“And that’s why I’m just like you,” she said with pride. “Papa says I am.”
“Then you must be just like him as well.”
Chastity nodded solemnly. “Yes. Hard-headed and very stubborn, that’s what Mama says.”
Honora laughed. “Your mama is very wise.”
“She isn’t your mama.”
“No.”
“Your mama died.”
“Yes.”
“You must have been very sad.”
“I was sad. And angry.”
“At your mama?”
Honora shook her head. “At God. For taking her away. At Papa, for letting her go, even if there was nothing he could have done.”
Chastity leaned her head against Honora’s arm, forgiving so easily her many, many sins.
“Do you think you could not fight with Papa and stay?”
Chastity nodded. “I’ll tell him not to fight with you, either.”
“Does that work? Telling him what to do?”
“It works on Temperance.” She kicked her foot out. “It never works with Papa. He gets angry.”
“Like you get angry when he tells you what to do.”
“Temperance doesn’t get angry.”
“She must take after your mother.”
“Yes. They are good and kind and sweet and slow to anger.”
Honora laughed and said, “That sounds like a quote,” and Chastity nodded.
“But you and me and Papa are strong. We’ll protect them when they are scared and hug them when they are sad. And they’ll love us when we are hard and remind us when we are prideful.”
Fanny stopped in the doorway, raising her eyebrows at her wayward child. “Come, Chastity. Let Honora rest before dinner.”
Chastity bounced off the bed, running to her mother and taking her hand and saying, “I think I’ll have to fall in love with a troll when I grow up. He’ll roar and everyone will be scared and I will whack him on the nose with my parasol.”
Fanny nodded absentmindedly and told Honora what time dinner would be served.
Honora hedged, not ready to sit down to an entire meal with her father. “Aunt Beatrice is very tired.”
“I’ll send a tray up for Beatrice and Arnold.”
“But not me?”
Fanny smiled. “Welcome home, Honora.”
Honora did try to get along with her father when they sat down to dinner. But all she could think when she looked at him, was that he’d taken her daughter from her.
She knew that he’d done it to save the both of them, and himself, from the consequences.
And she still hated him.
And still felt pathetically grateful that he’d cared for Chastity as if she was his own.
She had no mild and easy feeling for the man.
He waited until their plates were full before he said, “I hear talk of a suitor. I think.”
Fanny indicated to the servants that they would serve themselves and Honora girded her loins for a battle. For an evening of lectures and bible quoting and she considered for one long moment following the servants out the door.
But she’d come here. Thrown herself at their mercy, knowing they would never turn her away no matter what disappointment she’d caused them, and she knew, this was her punishment.
She watched the door swing shut quietly and said, “There was a man, at least. And there was interest, I think. But it’s a new world, Father. A man can know a woman without wanting to marry her.”
He snorted. “We are all aware. And that is not new.”
Honora remembered one moonless night, George’s arms around her and his lips touching hers.
It was a wicked thing to do, Twiggy. To make me fall in love with you.
She’d felt that night. Not hate, not the bitter raging fire in her veins for all men.
A different heat altogether, and if she could have married him, she would have.
She would have risked everything to tell him the truth, she told herself. And she wondered if she really would have been as brave as she was in her imagination.
“He was a grump and a troll, but his interest was honorable.”
“A suitor, then.”
She shrugged. “It was cut short.”
And she’d have to talk with her aunt and uncle before anyone mentioned her grumpy suitor to them.
Her father said, “Cut short by your lies.”
“We are all aware, Father, what one big lie I have carried with me for ten long years.”
That silenced him and they looked at each other, unblinking, until he nodded and went back to his meal, cutting into his meat with force.
“It is for the best, Honora. You’d have to tell any man who wanted to marry you and then…how could he not but question your resolve.”
She passed the gravy to her father before he asked. “Of course. I mean, the experience was so very rewarding. I can hardly keep myself from doing it again.”
The Very Reverend Kempe drenched his plate with gravy, then stopped before taking a bite. “Your morality is in question, the very fiber of your soul has been corrupted. A fallen woman is more likely to fall again and any man who married you would not only question you but also your children. Were they his? Were you true? It would be an intolerable situation for both you and him.”
“Especially if he was a vicar,” she said and her father put his cutlery down with a bang.
Honora patted her mouth with her napkin. “He was a vicar. The troll. My erstwhile suitor.”
Charles settled back in his seat, knowing she’d meant to insult him. And maybe he was getting older because he merely let it go and said, “Even better that his interest was cut short.”
“The best. I know I can never marry, Father. We do not need to rehash this lectur– conversation.”
“If I could undo your actions and give you the future we all want for you, I would. If I could give you a husband and children, even now, I would.”
“I know, Father. It makes it very difficult to hate you.”
And it did.
She smiled brightly. “But at least I can travel. And at least I have an aunt and uncle willing to accompany me. And pay for it.”
“You have your mother’s portion. You could live quite nicely on it if you economized.”
“I was not raised to live simply.”
“You were not raised for a great many things and that did not stop you, if I recall.”
Fanny interrupted them. “I do envy your travels, Honora. How was London? And Manchester?”
Honora forced a small bite down. “It was enchanting. You simply must go.”
And then she felt terrible because Honora’s stepmother had never shown her anything but kindness.
Honora took a too-large gulp of wine and said with less bite, “The children would thoroughly enjoy the train. Though I would go north to Edinburgh. I enjoyed Edinburgh.”
“Not Manchester, then?”
Honora didn’t answer, hoping that was answer enough, and her stepmother said softly, “Perhaps you can go back to Edinburgh.”
“I was thinking the continent after Brighton. Or someplace just as foreign and exotic, like Cornwall.”
Her father shook his head. “I don’t think the continent would be a good idea for you. They are too loose with their morals.”
Honora folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes, suddenly so tired.
“Father, is that all you see when you look at me? Seventeen years of trying to be good– seventeen years of succeeding at being good and one stupid moment and all is lost? You have not known me for the last ten years and still you think I’d fling off my clothing at the first Frenchman who cocked an eyebrow?”
He didn’t yell but she flinched anyway when he said, “That is how sin works.”
“I’m not asking God if He can forgive me. I’m asking you.”
His silence was his answer and Honora opened her eyes and pushed her plate away.
“Thank you for giving my mistake a future. A family. Comfort and safety when I had none to offer. I know you didn’t have to. The sins of the mother, and all that.”
Her father said with all the authority money and power and respect had given him, “That sin will not be passed on. There will be no opportunity. Not even one moment where she can be deceived and tempted. I will protect her as well as I failed you.”
Honora rose. “And thank you for extending your hospitality to my aunt and uncle. To me. We won’t stay long, a week at most.”
Megan BryceTo Tempt The Saint
Eight
The rain dribbled down the window and George watched it blankly.
So gray and dreary. Life.
But it continued on.
George had discovered that early on, and here he was discovering it again.
; No matter how one felt about the matter, life continued on.
Collin pushed in the door without knocking, he’d probably brought tea, and George, for one bright moment, was grateful for his friend.
A true and steady friend, here whenever he was needed.
Collin held a letter in his hands, not tea, and George closed his eyes.
“It’s from your father, George.”
“Throw it in the fire.”
He’d been so looking forward to writing his father, months ago. To having the satisfaction of choosing a wife before the old man could.
To knowing that, no matter what his father said or thought, George had chosen his own future.
And now, he had nothing again.
No want or purpose. No reason to be anything but what someone else had long planned for him to be.
Collin dropped the letter on George’s lap and said softly, “It’s Henry.”
George didn’t wait for Collin to be ready, didn’t pack anything, didn’t stop to even think how long he would be gone.
And he was grateful to be so close to home. Grateful that it only took a couple hours of hard riding to be running up the front steps, hardly taking the time to throw the reins of his borrowed horse to the nearest servant.
He ran to his brother’s room, stopping with his hand on the knob.
He didn’t pray, just paused. And wished he could pray.
He pushed the door in and Lord St. Clair sighed in relief and then stood, looking as if he’d aged ten years. Old and frail and worn out.
And Alice, sitting next to the head of the bed, stared vacantly at a spot on the floor, tear tracks marring her face though no tears were falling right then.
She didn’t look at him; he doubted she knew he was there.
Henry lay in his bed, his breath ragged, his face pale and ghostly.
Dying. Again. For the last time, it looked like.
Henry had been getting sick for years, closer to death with each episode, and George had never come before.