Emily eyed her warily, her evasive response suddenly making her wonder if the woman was somehow in league with the spiteful sprites. Forgetting all prudence in her rush of suspicion, she narrowed her eyes and pointedly inquired, “Just how is it that you happened to spy me out here?” The instant the words flew from her mouth, she wished she could take them back, miserably aware that she might possibly have just tempted more fairy mischief.
Rebecca shrugged yet again, clearly unperturbed by her insinuation. “I was returning from gathering peat when I saw you walking in circles and concluded that the pixies were up to their naughty tricks again. When you collapsed on the stones and began to weep, I was certain of it.”
Emily felt her cheeks flame at the woman’s reply, embarrassed by her ridiculous suspicion. And she was again reduced to responding with a weak, “Oh.”
“What I do not understand is what you are doing out here alone,” Rebecca continued, frowning in a way that did nothing to diminish her stunning looks. “The moors are a dangerous place, especially for the unwary. Do not tell me that no one has warned you of the hazards?”
“I was looking for tansy,” she muttered, her cheeks heating another degree. Even to her own ears the excuse sounded lame.
“But alone?” Rebecca shook her fair head. “Surely his grace doesn’t condone such recklessness? Indeed, by all accounts he is extremely protective of those beneath his care.”
“He doesn’t know I am here,” Emily miserably confessed. “I wished to surprise him with tansy pudding for dinner.” Her cursed cheeks were blazing now. “I know I should have brought one of the servants, but”—she shook her head—“what can I say? I wished an outing by myself and simply did not stop to consider the consequences.” The real truth was that she’d wanted to be alone with her thoughts about Michael.
Rebecca studied her for a second, the keenness of her silvered gaze giving Emily the disturbing sensation that she looked into her mind. Then she smiled faintly and nodded, as if satisfied with some conclusion. “Ah, well. I suppose that there is no need for him to ever learn about any of this, eh? From what I’ve heard, the poor man has troubles enough without having to worry about his wife getting lost on the moors.”
Indeed he did, as did the rest of the household. Not wishing to add to those troubles by raising an alarm with her prolonged absence, she stood, ignoring the ache in her tailbone as she replied, “Thank you, Miss Dare. You are most kind. Now, if you would be so good as to direct me, I should probably be returning to the abbey.”
“Rebecca, please. And I shall be glad to direct you. But wouldn’t you like to collect your tansy first? It seems a shame for you to return empty-handed after all you have gone through to procure it.”
“Do you know where I might find some nearby?” Emily inquired, her mood instantly brightening at the prospect of obtaining the coveted herb.
Rebecca nodded. “It so happens that I have a particularly fine batch of tansy growing in my garden … the wild sort, which is considered best for helping reduce seizures, which is the reason, I assume, you are so set on making his grace tansy pudding?”
“Yes,” Emily admitted, struck anew by the woman’s uncanny ability to divine her thoughts.
“Well, then. As I said, I live just over that hill.” She again indicated the verdant hill to her right. “It is but a short walk to my cottage.”
Emily started to nod her consent to the plan, then hesitated, suddenly wondering at the time. Better for Michael to be deprived of his pudding than to suffer the agitation he would no doubt experience were the kitchen staff to raise hue and cry over her delayed return to the house.
As if again reading her thoughts, Rebecca reassured her, “It is early yet. You have plenty of time before anyone at the abbey will even think to miss you.”
“All right then,” Emily acquiesced with a nod, accepting the woman’s verdict without reservation. Somehow, she just knew that Rebecca was correct in her assessment.
Nodding back, Rebecca shifted her keen gaze to a point behind Emily, scowling abruptly at something she saw. “Magellan! Stop eating that groundsel this instant! You know it gives you wind.”
Curious as to who Magellan was, yet almost afraid to look for fear of what she might see, Emily stole an uneasy glance over her shoulder.
A goat. Magellan was a plump goat with dusky gray fur and curly horns. At the moment he was rigged rather like a pack horse with large baskets full of what she assumed was peat strapped to either side of his bulging body, heedless of his mistress’s command as he continued to chomp away at the dainty yellow weeds before him.
“Magellan,” Rebecca called again, this time injecting her voice with a note of warning. “You take one more bite and I shall make you sleep outside tonight. I swear I will.”
The goat lifted its head and emitted a belligerent bleat.
“Oh, no. We will have none of that,” Rebecca responded, shaking her head. “Now come along, we have a guest.”
To Emily’s amazement the animal began trotting toward them, as if it had actually understood the command. Then again, maybe it had. She glanced away with a shrug, surprisingly unperturbed by the notion. After all the queer happenings she’d experienced during the past hour, there was nothing particularly fantastical about a goat understanding a simple command.
“Shall we then?” Rebecca inquired politely of Emily, gesturing toward the hill.
“A-a-a-a!” the goat bleated, as if in response.
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Rebecca tartly replied, shooting the animal a sharp glance. “And I will thank you to stop where you are. After all the groundsel you ate, I have absolutely no desire to walk downwind from you.”
Again the beast bleated and again Rebecca responded, this time with a sigh. “Her name is Emily Vane—her grace, the duchess of Sherrington to you. And no, you may not be introduced. You are hardly in a state to be meeting nobility.” Shaking her head, she looked back at Emily, explaining with another sigh, “Magellan has always had an eye for the ladies. Apparently he is quite taken with you.” By her nonchalance, you would have thought that being able to converse with goats was the most ordinary thing in the world. Then again, in Rebecca’s instance, perhaps it was.
Genuinely taken aback now and not quite certain what to say to such strangeness, Emily helplessly sputtered, “He, er, seems to be a rather—uh—pleasant sort of goat.”
The animal fixed her with a beady-eyed stare and let out a soft, quivering bleat.
“No, you may not show her just how very pleasant you can be, wicked beast. Now enough of such talk!” Rebecca hissed. Casting Emily an apologetic look, she said, “Let us proceed to my cottage now … your grace.” By the look she darted at the goat, it was apparent that she’d used Emily’s title as an example to it, rather than out of deference for her rank.
Emily nodded, keeping a wary eye on the goat, who was now staring at her backside as if contemplating either biting or butting it.
“Oh, just ignore him,” Rebecca exclaimed, apparently noting her misgiving. “He might look, but he wouldn’t dare touch. For all that he is a goat, he’s no fool.”
Not about to even contemplate the meaning of that queer statement, Emily lifted her moor muck-soiled hems and trailed after Rebecca, who had already started toward the hill, her thick, flaxen braid bouncing jauntily against her slender back as she walked. Behind her she heard the goat begin to follow, occasionally making muttering bleats, which she wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn were complaints. Judging it best to heed Rebecca’s advice, she ignored the beast, not sparing it so much as a backward glance as she quickened her pace to catch up with her guide.
Easily falling into step beside her, despite the fact that Rebecca was a good four inches taller than she and had a much longer stride, she walked in silence for several moments, her curiosity multiplying with every passing second. Finally unable t
o contain the thousand or so questions swirling in her mind, she discreetly probed, “Have you always lived in Dartmoor?”
“Oh, no. I am originally from Gloucestershire.”
“Hmmm. That explains that,” she murmured, more to herself than to Rebecca.
Rebecca slanted her a querying look. “Explains what?”
“Your accent. You sound nothing like any of the Dartmoor natives I have met.” It was true. Rebecca’s voice was cultured and genteel, rather like the nobility she’d met in London.
Nobility? She stole another quick glance at the woman beside her, her eyes narrowing with speculation. Could it be that Rebecca, too, was a duchess? Or some other such title … one with a penchant for rustication, as the Londoners referred to a preference for the country? It would certainly explain her lack of awe for the Sherrington title.
The duchess or fairy, or whatever she was, smiled. “I must admit to being somewhat surprised by your observation. After living here for three years, I would have thought that I’d have adopted at least a trace of moor accent.”
Emily smiled back, deciding that she liked Rebecca despite her uncertainty of what she was. “Perhaps you have and I simply do not hear it. I haven’t been in England long enough to separate the subtler differences in accents, though I am told they vary from county to county. I—oh my!” She stopped abruptly in her tracks, gawking down the hill at the vision that had to be Greenwicket cottage. It was lovely … like something out of a lushly illustrated storybook.
Unlike the moor dwellings she’d spied on her journey to Windgate, which had been crude, squat structures, Greenwicket was as neat and cozy a house as Emily ever hoped to see. Constructed of the inevitable Dartmoor stone, the cottage stood two stories high, its gracefully curving thatch roof extending downward in front to encircle the three second-story dormer windows, and then dropping sharply down on one side to embrace the attached garden shed. Ivy grew everywhere. It twined around the twin chimneys and festooned the golden roof; it tumbled riotously over the eaves to clothe the drab grayish-brown walls in a mantle of leafy green.
Like sections of the abbey, the cottage boasted stone mullion casement windows, these fitted with diamond panes that reflected the early afternoon sun with a brilliance that recalled their more precious namesake. Above each jeweled window curved a horseshoe-shaped cornice, a motif echoed in the stone hood suspended above the red front door. Like the rest of the cottage, the hood and door frame, too, were draped in vines, these burgeoning with prismatic blooms. Dramatizing the breathtaking beauty of the cottage was its setting.
Somehow Rebecca, or perhaps a previous owner, had tamed the wildness of the moor to create a garden unlike anything Emily had ever seen. Why, it practically exploded with color, even this late in the season, engulfing the spacious area within the bordering box hedges in a variegated blaze of scarlet, blue, yellow, pink, and white, and what appeared to be a hundred gradient shades in between. Adding a finishing touch of perfection to the idyllic picture was the merry little brook that wound past the front of the house.
“This land has been in my mother’s family for over five centuries now, a gift to be handed down from mother to daughter,” Rebecca commented, indicating the acreage in question with a sweep of her hand.
“Then your family built the cottage?” Emily inquired, barely able to speak for the awe clogging her throat.
“Oh, no. It was here at the time of the land grant. It has always been here, as has the garden,” Rebecca replied, beginning her descent down the hill.
Emily followed at her heels. “Always? Like in forever?”
“Well, perhaps not so very long as that,” Rebecca countered with a laugh. “It is quite ancient, though. Indeed, according to legend both the house and the garden were created by the Dartmoor fairies as a gift for their very first go-between.”
“Go-between?” She frowned, not certain what to make of the queer information. “What is a fairy go-between?”
“A human who serves as a link between the other-worlds and the mortal one. It is usually someone who was blessed by the fairies at birth and has thus been granted special powers.”
“W-what sort of powers?” Emily inquired nervously, slowing her pace to put distance between them. Considering the grim outcome of her last brush with special powers, she was more than a little reluctant to risk another.
Rebecca stopped several yards ahead of her, slowly turning as she recited, “Divination, healing, and the ability to see into otherworlds and communicate with their beings. Some go-betweens are given additional odds and ends of magic as well.”
“And—and do you believe in the legend?” What she wanted to ask was the obvious question: Was Rebecca a go-between? But of course, she couldn’t. Not only would it have been rude to the extreme, what with the briefness of their acquaintance, it could prove dangerous. Why, for all she knew the identity of a go-between might be considered a grave secret among the fairies, the discovery of which merited swift and grievous retribution.
Rebecca considered her thoughtfully for a beat, then turned to survey her kingdom. “One cannot help but believe it once one has lived here. It is a remarkable place, full of enchantment and wonder. Especially the garden. Things that shouldn’t logically grow in moor soil miraculously flourish there and continue to thrive during seasons in which they lay dormant everywhere else in England. There are even plants there that no one has seen in well over three hundred years.”
“Then this place truly is magic?” She more squeaked than uttered the inquiry in her dismay.
“Yes, but it is good magic,” Rebecca tossed over her shoulder, along with a reassuring smile, as she resumed her descent. “No harm has ever befallen anyone here, nor will it ever.”
At that moment Magellan bleated, a sound that came from a place uncomfortably near her backside. Forgetting Rebecca’s advice to ignore the goat, Emily glanced behind her, still leery of the animal despite its apparent tameness. She could have sworn it winked at her. Looking quickly away again, she hastened after Rebecca, who had reached the stream and now hopped from stone to broad, flat stone across it.
Given the choice between the goat and Rebecca, she’d cast her lot with Rebecca any day. At least she had some inkling as to what she might be, which, if Rebecca was to be believed, was a benign being. She had just followed Rebecca across the stream and was jumping onto the bank when Rebecca called out, “Careful now, Magellan. Do not get the peat wet. You know how it smokes when it is wet.”
Emily shot another glance at the animal, this one in involuntary response to Rebecca’s warning, her gaze arresting at the sight of it expertly navigating the stones. That the beast possessed both the wit and the skill to cross in such a manner simply confirmed her suspicion that he was no ordinary goat.
When he had successfully reached the bank and Rebecca had ordered him around to the back of the house, where she promised to come directly and relieve him of his burden, she ushered Emily into her garden. It was even more magnificent up close than it had been at a distance.
There was bed after bed of artistically planted flowers, some she could identify, others she had never seen, most of which, as Rebecca had mentioned, were blooming out of season. The trees and berry bushes, too, flourished, their branches heavy with the most succulent-looking fruit Emily had ever seen. As for the herbs and vegetables, well, she’d never seen such an abundance.
“Ah, yes. Here it is. Tansy.” Rebecca stopped before a patch of tall plants with wing-shaped leaves and buttonlike yellow flowers. “Do take as much as you like, and anything else you desire as well. As you can see, I have more of everything than I can possibly use.” Nodding in affirmation of her invitation, she added, “Now if you will excuse me, I really must tend to Magellan. He gets cross when I keep him waiting.”
Well able to believe that, Emily nodded back.
Now alone, she drew her shears from the basket she ca
rried and clipped several particularly leafy stalks of the tansy, after which she strolled about the garden, delighting in its splendor. Not only did it look glorious, it smelled heavenly, the fusion of fruit, herbs, and flowers creating a scent far sweeter than any ever captured by man in a perfume.
She was just examining a small bluish herb that smelled rather like mint, but was unlike any mint she’d ever seen, when she heard Rebecca say, “Calamint, yes. How very astute of you. A decoction of calamint might help his grace at that.”
“Pardon?” Emily murmured, rising from her crouch with a smile.
Rebecca advanced toward her, nodding. “A decoction of calamint often proves helpful to people troubled by convulsions. Of course, having never met his grace, I cannot be certain that it would aid his particular case. I can, however, assure you that it shan’t harm him in any way should you care to try it.”
“Perhaps I will at that,” she replied, kneeling back down again.
Standing over her as she clipped, Rebecca instructed, “The decoction must be strong if it is to be effective, so do take a goodly bunch. Oh, and do not forget to add sugar when you boil it. Calamint turns bitter when boiled and the sugar will make it so much more pleasant on his grace’s palate.”
When Emily had at last harvested what Rebecca deemed an appropriate amount of the herb and again stood, Rebecca said, “I would offer you tea, but I fear there isn’t time. You shall be missed soon. Besides, you must start your pudding if it is to be ready in time for dinner.”
“Yes, of course,” Emily murmured, genuinely sorry to go. There truly was something magical about Greenwicket cottage, something that made her feel serene and safe. And despite her initial misgivings about Rebecca, she suddenly somehow knew that she could trust her. How could she not when it was so very clear that she had only her and Michael’s best interests at heart? Deciding then and there that she would like to further their acquaintance, she shyly added, “If it is agreeable to you, I would like to come again. Perhaps we could have tea then?”
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