by Ken Altabef
“Why should you?” she asked, the words clipped. Steadying the bulging waterskin with both hands, she cinched the thong with her teeth.
“Do you know who I am?”
At last she glanced up. She threw an appraising glance at him, her slightly pointed chin held high and proud. “Someone important, judging from the silver trimming on that cloak.”
“No more important than anyone else. Just born lucky. Or unlucky…” He was thinking of his family crypt and its recent additions. “Your name?”
“Stump. My father is Finnegan Stump, the shoemaker.”
“Finnegan. An Irishman.”
“Partly. But he holds allegiance to the British king.”
“As well he should.”
She didn’t bother to smile. “Good day,” she said. “I have three brothers waiting on this water. And a thirsty cat.”
Eric was too intrigued to let her get away so easily. “Well, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your cat. But I do hope I’ll see you again.”
She shook her head. “My father wouldn’t like it.”
Eric chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t he? You may be surprised.”
“He isn’t impressed by money. And neither am I.”
“Oh.” That seemed a strange attitude. “Tell me, what does impress you?”
“A good heart.”
“Can’t a rich man have one of those?”
She lifted the heavy waterskin and settled it on one hip. “In my experience—not likely.”
Eric flushed with anger. How dare she? Perhaps she didn’t know who he was, that he owned practically all of Graysport and Graystown, including the fresh well she depended upon for water. Or maybe she did know. “Is it a crime to be rich? In your opinion?”
“More often than not.” She tossed a wry smile at him, and his heart melted. She was a marvel. Where there should have been the self-consciousness of youth he saw the self-assurance of vast experience. For all her apparent vulnerability there seemed a different person beneath, a young woman as confident and capable as any he could imagine.
“You don’t know me.”
“Thank you for the water, Lord Grayson.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait. You didn’t answer my question. Your name? There must be more to it than just simply Stump?”
“Theodora.”
Theodora Stump. Eric thought the name suited her perfectly. Theodora had a sophisticated, almost regal turn to it. Such a sharp contrast to that coarse and unpleasant surname—Stump—surely a name best suited to some grungy peasant. He felt certain Theodora could be so much more if she’d only manage to get rid of that last name.
“Are you completely lacking in ambition then? What will you be, Miss Stump? A cobbler like your father?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the patience. No, I’ll be a simple fishwife. Not important at all.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You’ll be very important—to someone.”
That got a real smile out of her, and a wonderful thing it was. His heart, previously melted, was now completely gone. “May I call on you some time?”
“Not a good idea.” She paused to reconsider, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Meet me under the big elm tomorrow evening.” She flicked honey-colored eyes at a tall, broad tree a few yards away where the trampled dirt met the surrounding woods. “If you want. Near sundown.”
Eric was delighted. He didn’t recall any cobbler named Stump. He made a note to look up the leaseholders in the area but never got around to actually doing so. Oh, he eventually met Finnegan Stump, but that was another story. And there were still some questions he’d like to ask that man if he ever got his hands on him again.
“Forgive me,” said March, snapping Eric’s thoughts back to the present, “but I don’t see why you should be so concerned about this Hightower girl just now. Did something happen?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Eric returned, at a loss for anything more. He didn’t dare reveal his unfounded suspicions about his wife to anyone, not even this man whom he’d trusted implicitly all his life. “If you’re headed to Graysport, I’ll ride out with you and see about those delinquent leaseholders.”
“You needn’t bother yourself with that. I can handle them.”
“Of that I’m sure. But a good ride will help clear my head.”
Chapter 3
The lady of Grayson Hall woke with a ravenous hunger. It seemed as if she’d hardly slept at all. She dressed quickly in front of a tall standing mirror. She arranged her hair, parting it in the middle with a pair of long curls trailing each side of her face and the rest gathered in a large Greek knot in back, secured by an elaborate scheme of hairpins and little French combs. It was tedious work. So much of her time and strength was devoted to keeping up appearances. Meanwhile, her stomach grumbled. She could hardly wait for breakfast.
Theodora and the children took their breakfast in the main dining room. In no time at all she’d devoured two buttered scones, a heap of spiced chicken, bacon and eggs, and washed it all down with fresh apple juice and coffee. Now she finally felt ready to start the day.
The children did a fair amount of damage as well, but in the end the table was still cluttered by silver platters overflowing with fruit pastries, scalloped potatoes and roasted ham. A green velvet cloth covered most of the table but, too huge for any standard tablecloth, the hard wood stubbornly peeked out around the edges. Griffin’s table, she thought. The old man’s portrait looked down on them as they ate. Theodora disliked that painting immensely. The old man seemed so smugly satisfied with his legacy of pain and death. She wondered what Eric’s legacy would be.
“Have you finished with that omelet, James?” she asked. “I still see a bit more egg on your plate.”
James obediently forked the last of his breakfast into his mouth.
Nora asked, “Do we have to do our lessons right away? Can’t we go out for a walk instead?”
“You promised we could play quoits today,” reminded James.
“And we will. But you must both have your lessons first. Teacher will be cross if you don’t.”
“But she wouldn’t be angry with you,” James reasoned. “You could tell her.”
Theodora smiled. “I could. But you still need your lessons, James.”
“But we want to play.” Nora’s little round face crumpled with a cutely annoyed look that illustrated the children’s position perfectly well. They longed to be outdoors on these fine summer days.
Theodora forced herself to put on a stern expression. “I understand.” More than you know, my darlings. “But you must have your studies first. We’ll play at quoits right after. I promise.”
“But we found a cardinal’s nest yesterday, with chicks and everything. We wanted to watch the mother feed them. This afternoon will be too late.”
“A cardinal’s nest? Where was this?”
“It’s our special place,” said James with a wink toward his sister. “I don’t want to tell.”
“It’s fun to have secrets,” Nora said.
Theodora folded her napkin with a show of great care. No, it’s not. It’s not fun at all.
She nodded at the nurse, who dabbed a smear of raspberry jelly from Nora’s cheek.
“Time for your lessons.” Theodora ignored the children's frustrated groans and stood up from the table. “I’ll see you soon.”
She passed through room after room of Grayson Hall, the great manor house that had been her home for the past ten years. The furniture was beautifully carved, the walls covered with rich mahogany panels and elegantly crafted wainscoting. The house was warm and homey but it still felt alien to her. It was a place where she could never truly relax. It was a perfect house on a perfect estate, but it was still a cage.
The day was warm enough she needed no cloak over her shoulders. She wore a plain country dress, as much as any of her dresses could be said to be plain. This particular frock had only three layers of lace over a bodice of richly embroidered w
hite linen. Still, the hem was short and narrow enough to avoid getting caught on twigs and branches.
This was her element—bright sun, blue sky, and all the lush greenery of the estate. As she passed among the well-manicured hedges, a harsh gust blew in from the west, tousling her hair. The wind snapped a few nearby branches, reminding Theodora how very fragile her life here really was. One misstep and it would all fall apart. Perhaps such a disaster was inevitable but she didn't want it to happen, couldn’t stand the thought of it. She loved the children so much, and Eric...
Eric was really everything any woman could ask for. A good man, a loving husband and father. She couldn't bear to break his heart.
She walked south across the rear lawn and headed toward the dairy farm. She didn't look back at the estate, though she knew she was being watched. Grayson Hall had been overrun by disgruntled mobs twice in its long history. But there had been no such trouble since Griffin Grayson had installed a pair of armed guardsmen to walk the parapets of the main house day and night. Those men were surely observing her right at this moment, but wouldn’t notice anything amiss. It was not unusual for the lady of the manor to take a walk in the mornings and she often visited the dairy farm.
The beautiful summer day lifted her spirits. It had been a rough morning, starting with Eric waking early and casting suspicious glances at her. If her glamour was slipping, the entire house of cards would soon come toppling down with terrible consequences for them all. She must prevent that outcome for as long as possible. She must hold on, no matter how tired and weak she felt.
But now she took a moment to relax. The fresh air was fortifying and the wide open spaces helped calm her worries and fears. She pictured her children laughing and running across this same field, Nora in a short white dress trailing ribbons behind, and James soiling his miniature version riding togs as he rolled on the ground, tumbling and laughing.
Theodora’s morning walk had taken her to a stand of fruit trees near the old, dried-up fresh well. She continued slowly, lingering a second or two behind each bole. She glanced casually at the guard walking atop the balustrade. In a moment he would turn the corner. When he did, she slipped gracefully to the side, making sure to keep behind the tree. It wouldn’t do for them to see the lady of the house disappear into the woods.
She had fifteen seconds to cut across the open expanse behind the fruit grove before the second guard moved into position.
Chapter 4
Theodora moved deeper into the woods, luxuriating in the fresh pine scent. She kept up a brisk pace, her feet instinctively avoiding the roots and snares that might otherwise have tripped her up. After a few hundred yards the trees took on a much wilder appearance than before. These branches, untamed by the gardener’s blades, snatched playfully at her dress. If it hadn’t been cinched so tightly at the waist, her frilly bodice would have been badly torn.
Sunlight pierced the canopy in striped sheets of bright light and deep shadow, the light shifting with the fickle branches, offering a hint of chaos. Theodora smiled quietly to herself. Free and natural, just the way she liked it.
She felt a sting as an acorn bounced off the back of her neck. She glanced up into the trees but didn’t see anything there.
Walking a little further she was pelted again. She stopped, looked carefully around.
“Niamh?” she called. “Meadowlark?”
She received no answer. Why couldn’t she see them? Had her power faded so much that she’d become blind to the presence of faeries? Or were they just playing tricks?
A monkey chattered in the trees, a cockatoo trilled. Those kinds of animals couldn’t possibly be there. Someone was imitating their voices to tease her. She’d have to break glamour to find them and she didn’t dare do that. And they knew it. Theodora cursed under her breath. She was trapped by circumstance. They didn’t have to rub it in.
“Rosebud? Come now. Show yourself.”
Something, perhaps another nut, struck her on the point of her chin. Theodora looked down just in time to catch herself tripping over a shifting patch of moss that giggled as it moved.
The little faery shifted deftly to avoid Theodora’s clumsy lunging feet, leaving the lady of Grayson Hall to stumble a few steps before regaining her balance.
Theodora spun around to find herself directly facing another faery. This was a woman as straight and tall as herself, with close-cropped red hair worn in a pixie style. Her dark crimson tresses contrasted sharply with her creamy complexion. Her pale skin was accentuated by a ragged scar just below one eye, which was no scar at all, just an affectation, for no blade had ever touched her face and likely none ever would. She was dressed in tight-fitting green silk pants and a brown leather vest that showed her muscular arms to great advantage. A slender dagger hung at either hip. She was young and so devastatingly beautiful the sudden sight of her sent a tremor of desire through Theodora’s soul.
"Oh!” said Theodora. “Redthorne. You surprised me.”
The faery assassin offered a smile that was both breezy and cruel. “Surprised that I can move through the woods without a sound? That's my job, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” said Theodora. She had never been too fond of Redthorne’s profession nor her penchant for sarcasm.
Something pinched Theodora’s buttocks. She spun around again. “Now that’s too much. Who is that?”
A playful faery wearing the appearance of a young girl, a child of nine or ten, came slowly into focus. A chubby face smiled up at Theodora with large soulful eyes, a cute button nose and high, wildly pointed ears. Her skin had a greenish tint that barely distinguished itself from the surrounding fronds and leaves, though her blond hair was bright and stood straight up, resembling a stand of tall yellow tulip buds. She was dressed in a halter top of soft brown bark and pale moss.
“Gryfflet!” Theodora said, smoothing the back of her dress where the faery’s pinch had bunched her bulky skirts.
The little sprite giggled like a schoolgirl. She tumbled nimbly forward, rolling under Theodora's skirts to come up behind and pinch again.
“Stop that!” said Theodora, “Surely you haven't come all this way just to pinch my arse.”
“We came to remind you Midsummer's Eve is only a week away," said Redthorne.
Theodora sighed. “Believe me, I know. I wish I could come with you right now.”
“Come with us!” sang Gryfflet. “Come with us!”
“A sudden disappearance?” mused Redthorne. “That wouldn’t be wise. They’d come looking.”
“I know,” said Theodora “but I feel so tired and weak.” She returned a warm hug from Gryfflet and a tiny spark of the faery's wild energy tickled her skin. It felt good. “And he almost saw through me this morning.”
“He suspects?” asked Redthorne.
“No. No, I don’t think so. Not really.”
“Have you found it yet?” asked Redthorne impatiently.
“Not yet.”
“Damn it, how hard are you looking?”
Theodora didn't like her tone. “Hard enough. It isn’t easy.”
“Really? Ten years and you haven’t gained his trust yet?”
“Of course I have. He just doesn’t talk of it. I can’t press too hard.”
Both Gryfflet and Redthorne's expressions turned grim.
“Time’s running out,” asked Theodora. “Isn’t it?”
Redthorne glanced reflexively up at the sky as if she might see some dark shadow descending upon them. But there was nothing ominous there—only a bright summer day. “Maybe we've put too much trust in you. If your husband is so obstinate, we’re just wasting time. Perhaps the soft touch of a woman’s body isn’t what’s needed here at all. Perhaps the point of a dagger would do better.”
“I’m not even sure he knows where it is!”
“Then you’ll have to find it yourself. And soon.”
“Soon, soon, soon,” echoed Gryfflet.
“Unless you’re too busy,” remarked Redthorne.
“Too busy fucking the Lord of the manor. Too busy tending to your great estate and warm cozy fires and your little halfling children.”
“Stop it. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Not well enough. You said it yourself. Time is running out. What will happen to your sweet ‘civilized’ life then? What will happen to your children?”
“That’s enough! You don’t need to threaten me. I’ve given everything I can, everything I have."
Redthorne's attitude softened a bit. “I'm not threatening you. I'm just reminding you. Midsummer's Eve, one week. When we come for you, be ready.”
Chapter 5
“The terms are agreeable,” said Edward Threnody. The merchant played to the crowd, speaking in a deep, earnest tone as if a great accord had finally been reached.
Eric watched him try to hide a self-satisfied smile. The merchants were always impressed when the lord himself came down to strike terms with them. It made them feel important.
Holding true to their usual negotiating tactic, he’d let March bluster about, stomping the pier with heavy feet, snarling threats under his breath and fingering the hilt of his rapier. Eric carefully restrained him, preferring to talk terms with the merchant in a quiet, conciliatory way.
These shopkeepers weren’t ignorant serfs like the tenant farmers. They were well-travelled men, armed with secret caches of muskets and dangerous, half-baked educations. Eric's education, a costly affair administered at the Priory School at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, had been far more complete than any these men could claim. Still it was not an easy thing to outfox hard men who’d been bargaining for a living since long before he'd been born.
Done. He shook Threnody’s sweaty hand and turned to walk away. Unlike the merchant, Eric wore no wig. He had little patience for the uncomfortable, nasty things and didn’t feel the need for flashy displays of wealth and position. The merchants all knew exactly who he was. His hair, shoulder length and black, was neatly tied behind his head. He wore simple riding togs whose only concession to title and status was an elegant cape of black and crimson silk bound at the neck with a short length of braided gold chain.