Disenchanted

by Susan Carroll

  Chapter 10

  Horatio Crushington could be an intimidating figure when riding through Midtown, his piercing gaze fixed on the populace. He was even more formidable as he snapped to attention, the blue jacket and dun-colored pantaloons of his uniform starched to crisp perfection. I had always realized that he was a large man, tall and broad shouldered. Never had he appeared more overwhelmingly masculine than he did when surrounded by our dainty parlor furniture.

  He doffed his black beret and bent in a stiff bow. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  My stepmother murmured a greeting. My sisters curtsied and ogled the commander with an interest they had never shown before. Whether it was because they were still hoping to discover he was part ogre or simply because it was a novelty for me to have a prospective suitor, I could not tell.

  I held out my hand and smiled, trying to look glad to see him and not like someone plotting to rob the king. “Good afternoon, Commander. How kind of you to call.”

  “Kind of you to receive me,” he said gruffly. His large hand engulfed mine. His steady grey eyes drank me in as though it had been a twelvemonth since we parted and he had been parched for the sight of me. The man seemed oblivious to my disordered curls or worn frock.

  When moments passed and Crushington continued to hold my hand, muffled giggles escaped from my stepsisters. The commander reddened and released me at once. I cast a quelling frown at the girls before saying, “Please do be seated, sir.”

  Crushington cast a dubious look at one of the delicate armchairs. He lowered himself gingerly onto the silk cushion. The rest of us settled into our seats and an awkward silence descended.

  Crushington cleared his throat. “I trust I have not called at an inopportune moment.”

  “As a matter of fact—” Imelda began.

  “Not at all,” I said hastily. “We needed a rest from our sewing. May I offer you some tea, Commander?”

  “No, I thank you, but I would not put you to any trouble.”

  “It would not be any trouble,” Netta spoke up. “Ella makes excellent tea and biscuits. She is quite the best cook and seamstress in all of Midtown.”

  I winced as I realized what my sister was doing. Scenting the possibility of a romance between me and Crushington, she was attempting to help by singing my praises. She often did the same for Amy. Much as I loved Netta for it, I wanted to clap my hand over her mouth as she continued enthusiastically, “Ella quite excels at everything.”

  “Indeed,” Amy said, slanting a mischievous look at me. “You will quite adore her—I mean her strawberry jam.”

  Forget using my hand, I thought as heat flooded my cheeks. I needed pillows to stifle both of them.

  Crushington smiled and said, “I am sure Miss Ella’s jam is excellent, but I really only stopped by to see if she is entirely recovered from—”

  I cut him off with a shake of my head, trying to warn him I did not want my assault mentioned before my family. Taking the hint, he subsided, but my stepmother demanded, “Recovered from what?”

  Crushington appeared at a loss. Obviously the man was not as adept at inventing instant fiction as I was.

  “My headache,” I filled in quickly.

  “But, Ella, you never have headaches,” Amy protested.

  “That day I did, but yes, as a rule, I am seldom ill.”

  “Besides being so beautiful, Ella is the healthiest girl,” Netta said eagerly. I stifled a groan.

  “Indeed, Miss Ella always appears quite—” Crushington floundered beneath the weight of my sisters’ anticipatory stares. “Quite robust,” he finished.

  More smothered titters issued from my sisters. If I had been sitting closer, I would have poked them. Crushington kneaded his beret, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed.

  My stepmother had been unusually quiet since the commander entered the parlor. When she began to question Crushington, I heartily wished she had remained that way.

  “What about you, Commander? Have you been well?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you, madam.”

  “And what about your family?”

  I shot Imelda a warning glance, but she ignored me. “Is your father in good health?”

  “Er—no. Actually he’s dead.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” I cried.

  Crushington gave me a sad smile. “Thank you, Miss Ella, but I lost him many years ago.”

  “What about your mother?” Imelda pursued.

  “She was quite well the last time I was able to visit her.”

  “Then she does not live in Midtown?”

  “No, she resides in a small hamlet beyond the Red Grove Forest.”

  “Oh? What is the name of—” Imelda began, but I startled everyone by leaping to my feet.

  “Commander Crushington, would you care to take a stroll about the back lawn with me?” I asked in a tone of breathless desperation. “I have been simply perishing to show you—er— something.”

  Crushington stood, looking relieved at my suggestion, but my stepmother also rose and protested, “Where are your manners, Ella? We truly should serve our guest some tea.”

  “He already said he doesn’t need any tea.” I all but propelled the commander in the direction of the French doors. “He doesn’t want tea. I don’t believe he even likes tea.”

  “Well, it isn’t that I—” Crushington tried to interrupt.

  “In fact, I think he hates tea.” Yanking open the door, I thrust the commander outside. When my stepmother and sisters gathered as though preparing to join us in the back garden, I stopped them with a glare.

  “I believe you all have sewing to do.”

  “But, Ella,” my stepmother whispered, “do you really think you should be alone with that man?”

  “What do you think he’s going to do, Em?” I hissed back. “Devour me?”

  “He might try to steal a kiss.” Netta sighed.

  “The commander is so bashful, Ella will likely have to kiss him,” Amy said.

  They dissolved into giggles again and Imelda regarded me imploringly. I gave them all one last exasperated scowl before stepping outside and slamming the door closed.

  I leaned up against it, fearful they might try to follow me. When moments elapsed and the door handle did not rattle, I released a deep breath. As I came away from the door, I realized that the stiff set of the commander’s shoulders had relaxed. He stopped crushing his beret and tucked it inside his belt.

  I summoned up a rueful smile as I approached him. “You are well versed in the law, sir. Tell me. Is it entirely illegal to ever drop any of one’s relatives down a very deep well?”

  Crushington’s lips twitched, but he replied solemnly, “I fear that the law does discourage such actions, although perhaps allowances might be made for extenuating circumstances.”

  I laughed. “Do not mistake me, sir. Although my stepmother and sisters can at times be a bit…”

  “Solicitous?”

  “I was going to say as aggravating as mud fleas, but I do still love them dearly.”

  “I am sure they are all as charming as you are, Ella.”

  “They are usually a great deal nicer. I am not known for the sweetness of my disposition.”

  Crushington looked as though he would have liked to argue that point, but all he said was, “I believe you wished to show me something?”

  “What? Oh. Yes, that.” I had already forgotten my foolish excuse for dragging Crushington out of the parlor. My gaze swept across the lawn from my struggling vegetable patch to the ivy-choked pergola. I finally settled on the old stables.

  “I thought you might like to see my sister’s ponies.”

  “Indeed I would,” he agreed.

  It occurred to me that the man would have been just as pleased if I had offered to show him the algae floating on the surface of the bird bath, anything to spend time in my company. I cringed with guilt. I had only invited him to call upon me out of gratitude, not to encourage his suit. Perhaps being alone with
him in the stables was not the best idea. But glancing back, I could see my stepmother’s and sisters’ faces plastered against the French door windows.

  I sighed and led the commander away from the house. Our carriage house had once been an impressive structure for Midtown. Many of the local people did not bother stabling horses or owning a carriage. Everything in town was within walking distance and one could easily hire a conveyance from the Midtown livery stables if a journey into the countryside was contemplated.

  Although our coach house was nothing as grand as the stables on the great estates in the Heights, it boasted a broad set of double doors with a round window on the upper floor where the groom’s quarters had been. Once colored a rustic red, the paint had started to crack and peel, the doors beginning to sag.

  As I struggled to open one, Crushington moved to help me. I murmured apologetically, “I fear the stables have become rather neglected. Besides a fresh coat of paint, these doors need replacing.”

  Crushington tested the movement of the door, inspecting the hinges. “I think you only need to replace this section here where the wood has begun to rot.” He paused and added diffidently, “I could do that for you if you wished.”

  “You could?” I asked, unable to conceal my astonishment. “You do carpentry work?”

  “I do possess a few skills, Miss Ella. Beyond clapping innocent citizens in irons and intimidating informants,” he added wryly.

  I winced, recalling that I owed the commander an apology for the accusations I had made the day that he rescued me. I drew in a deep breath.

  “Commander, I have needed to speak to you ever since the morning you saved my life. I want to tell you how sorry I am.”

  “For what?” Dried paint flaked off and fell on his uniform sleeve. He paused in his inspection of the door to brush them off.

  “For all the dreadful things I said to you, the harsh way I accused you of bullying Withypole. I have since discovered how wrong I was, that Master Fugitate actually volunteered to spy for you.”

  Crushington frowned at me. “Where did you learn that?”

  “I don’t really remember,” I replied, avoiding his eyes. I could hardly tell him that my source was Long Louie, Mal’s friend from the livery stable. Not without betraying the fact that Mal was aware of the commander’s arrangement with Withypole and using it to his own advantage.

  I continued, “The point is that I wronged you with my accusations and I am sorry. It never occurred to me that Withypole would be willing to act as your informant. I still cannot understand why a fairy—”

  “Ella, please stop. I have already explained to you that I cannot discuss Withypole Fugitate.”

  I heard the ring of finality in his voice, but I rushed on, “There must be something more that you can tell me about Fugitate. This is very important to me.” I hesitated before adding, “That morning I sold him the emeralds, he told me the most extraordinary thing about my father.”

  Crushington’s brow furrowed. But his expression was encouraging enough that I related everything about how Fugitate had recognized my mother’s emeralds, how at one time he might have been friends with my father. I even told the commander about my book of fairy lore and the strange blurred inscription on the flyleaf.

  I had no idea what impelled me to blurt this out to Crushington, things that I had not even yet confided to Mal. Perhaps it was because these questions niggled at the back of my mind. I needed to talk to someone and there was something so solid and steady about Crushington.

  “Withypole claims that my father had once been a royal court advocate, passionate and brave, defending people who were wrongfully accused, even in defiance of the king,” I said. “But that sounds so unlike the quiet, reclusive man I knew. Or at least, I thought I did.”

  I bit down hard upon my lower lip before admitting, “My father and I were not on good terms near the end of his life. If only I had not been so foolish and stubborn, I could have mended the breach before he died. There is so much I wish I could say to him, so much I need to ask, and it is all far too late. If I could learn more of his past, at least, I might come to understand who Julius Upton truly was.”

  “I am sorry, Ella,” Crushington said. “I wish I could help you, but I never knew your father. By the time I assumed my command here in Midtown, your father was already deceased.”

  “But you do know something about Withypole. Perhaps learning of his past might help me discover more about my father.”

  “I know much of Fugitate’s past, but his story is not mine to share. All men and even fairies are entitled to keep their secrets.”

  “I thought that was part of your duties, to uncover and expose secrets.”

  “Only with regard to lawbreakers, but there is nothing criminal in Fugitate’s past, only deep pain and sorrow. If he does not wish to share his tragic history with the world, I would be wrong to betray him, even to you, Ella.”

  I nodded in understanding, but much as I admired the commander for his reticence, part of me wished the man did not have to be so frapping honorable.

  “There is information from Fugitate that I can share with you,” Crushington said. “He was able to identify the brute who attacked you. His name is Burt Iggy. I have crossed paths with him before, a man of most villainous reputation although I have never been able to prove anything against him. Unfortunately, it is never easy to track miscreants in Misty Bottoms. I have checked all the varlet’s usual haunts and been unable to find him. It is as though he has vanished into the fog.”

  Vanished? I felt the color drain from my face as I recalled Mal’s grim reaction when I had told him of Crushington’s pledge to hunt down my attacker and arrest him.

  Not if I find him first.

  Crushington must have misunderstood the reason for my dismay because he placed his hands reassuringly on my shoulders. “Don’t worry, Ella. You will be safe. That villain shall never come near you again. I will find him.”

  I smiled weakly, hoping that Iggy wouldn’t be found floating facedown in the Conger River. How far would Mal go in his zeal to avenge me? Even I was not sure.

  Suddenly I was aware of how close I stood to Crushington. I could feel the warmth of his palms through the worn fabric of my gown and experienced that same curious tingle as I had when he had blown on my wrist. His deep grey eyes seemed to turn to smoke. I sensed how badly he wanted to kiss me even though I had little experience of such things.

  There was my experiment with Mal when we were twelve, an awkward and uncomfortable experience for both of us that had involved more bumping of noses than actual lip contact. Other than that, there had only been my trysts with Harper, all those sweet, stolen kisses that had caused me to believe I would never want to feel any other man’s arms around me but his.

  I could not help wondering what it would be like to kiss Horatio Crushington. But curiosity is not a good excuse for toying with a man’s feelings.

  I eased away from the commander, murmuring, “The ponies are down here in the last stall.”

  I thought I heard him give a faint sigh as I ducked past him into the stables. The interior was shadowy and cool, the air redolent with the scent of sweet hay and the earthier aroma of horseflesh and dung. There were four stalls, two of them empty. We had had to sell off our horses and the gig a long time ago.

  As I led Crushington down the length of the barn, I could already hear Pookie and Pippa whickering and stamping their hooves with impatience, expecting it to be Amy bringing them a treat.

  When I had first bought the miniature ponies for my sister on her tenth birthday, she had wanted to share her bedchamber with them. It had taken much persuasion to convince her they would be happier in the stables. I had hired an itinerant carpenter to knock down the wall between two of the stalls and replace one of the doors with wooden slats.

  As we approached, Pookie and Pippa poked their shaggy heads over the topmost rail, their glossy coats the color of chocolate. I had never fully appreciated how small the
ponies were until Crushington loomed over them. They barely came up to his kneecap.

  Many horsemen would have regarded Amy’s pets with indulgent contempt, but the commander’s eyes lit up with delight.

  “Caballettes,” he exclaimed. “I have heard of the breed, but never saw one before.”

  “I bought them for my little sister from a gypsy at a traveling fair. The pair of them cost as much as a full-size horse, but thankfully they do not eat like one and it is easy for Amy to exercise them on the strip of grass behind the stables.”

  When Crushington hunkered down to pet the ponies, I warned him, “Be careful. They only like Amy and for such little creatures, they tend to bite. Hard.”

  Pookie’s and Pippa’s ears flattened back as they bared their teeth in ominous fashion. But the commander murmured something low and soothing. As he slowly extended his fingers toward them, an astonishing thing happened. The ponies whickered, their ears coming forward. They jostled each other in their eagerness to nuzzle Crushington’s hand.

  He stroked them each in turn, rubbing behind their ears, reducing the ponies to a state of equine bliss. It was as though the man had magic in his fingertips.

  “That’s amazing,” I said. “I have never seen them respond that way to anyone but Amy.”

  Crushington shrugged. “I have always been better with horses than people. Even as a small boy, I…” He trailed off.

  I waited for him to continue, but his eyes had clouded over. He straightened so abruptly, he startled me. Turning to face me, he burst out, “Ella, there is something I need to say to you.”

  My heart missed a beat. Surely he did not mean to declare himself so soon and here in the stables. Dismayed, I stepped back from him. My first instinct was to stop him, but if the commander intended to propose, perhaps it was better to have done with it. I could gently refuse him and that would be the end of the matter.

  Yet Crushington did not look a man about to avow his love. His eyes darkened with some inner torment as though he wrestled with a difficult decision.

  Finally, he said, “I overheard the remarks your stepmother made earlier. About me being a foundling.”