Under The Wishing Star

by Farr, Diane

  Under The Wishing Star

  by Diane Farr

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

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  Copyright 2003, 2011 by Diane Farr Golling

  All rights reserved

  Margie, I miss you so

  UNDER THE WISHING STAR

  Diane Farr

  Chapter 1

  Her roses were gone. Natalie halted in mid-stride and stared out the library window, too shocked to move. Her rose bushes, the plants she had lovingly tended since she was fourteen, were simply not there. Ugly gashes in the turf marked the spots where they had stood.

  For a few moments she stood frozen, aghast and uncomprehending. Then her bewilderment ignited into anger. Why this barbarous act had been committed she could not imagine, but who had done it, she surely knew. She spun on her heel and flew out of the library, heading directly for her sister-in-law’s quarters. Only Mabel would order her beloved roses dug up. Only Mabel was capable of such a crime.

  By the time she reached Mabel’s morning room—which she would forever think of as Mabel’s morning room, since her sister-in-law had insisted on choosing and refitting a room which had never before been used for that purpose—Natalie was pale with anger. She burst in without bothering to announce herself.

  Mabel cringed at her Natalie’s hasty entrance. “Please,” she whimpered, dramatically lifting one limp hand to her brow. “My head.”

  Natalie felt her jaw clench with the effort to control her temper. She wanted, oh, she wanted to be fair. It was hard to be fair to Mabel. She was one of the most infuriating persons on the planet—her husband, Natalie’s young brother, being another—but she was, after all, in a delicate condition. One must remember that. At the moment she was stretched languidly on a chaise longue, so perhaps her head really did ache.

  On the other hand, Hector was perched sullenly at her feet, rubbing her puffy ankles. So it was more likely that Mabel was simply playing to her audience. Judging by the sour expression on Hector’s face, her performance wasn’t very convincing.

  He paused in his task to shoot Natalie a glance of dislike. “You might knock before barging in,” he snapped.

  Natalie’s control broke. “You might ask permission before uprooting my roses,” she countered hotly.

  Guilty looks flashed across their faces. It was instantly plain to Natalie that they had both been in on the scheme, and that both had known it to be cruel. The slyness of Hector’s smile, poorly hidden, told her that he took a perverse delight in her reaction.

  He immediately assumed an air of superiority, saying, “Your roses? I like that! The Hall belongs to me now.”

  It was a difficult tone to take from one’s little brother. Natalie took a deep breath, struggling to remain calm. “The estate belongs to you,” she said, steadily enough. “But the roses were mine.”

  Papa had given her those roses. A pang of loss stabbed her. Papa had given her so little over the years. His strange gift of rose bushes, brought home from one of his journeys, had taken on an emotional significance it would not otherwise have had. She knew it was ridiculous to feel so attached to a set of plants, but Natalie had loved those bushes the way some children love a pet. And Joe Willard, their old gardener—gone these ten years now—had taught her how to care for them during the last few months of his life.

  Hector’s expression turned ugly. “You’ve been ruling the roost here too long, sister dear. Your precious roses were planted on my land, and if I want them dug up they’ll jolly well be dug up.”

  Natalie’s hands curled into fists, but she managed to keep her voice level. “You did it to vex me,” she said in a low tone. “You did it purely to vex me. You ruined something beautiful just to cause me pain. For shame, Hector! How much of Crosby Hall will you deface with your spite?”

  His eyes narrowed. “As much as I choose, Natalie. As much as I choose.”

  “But there’s no sense in doing so! Since the estate is yours, you should care for it.”

  Two angry red spots appeared on Hector’s cheekbones. “I intend to take excellent care of what is mine, thank you, but if I want to make changes, I will. I’ll do what I please, and you may keep your nose out of it. I don’t know how Mother put up with your interference. I’ve only been home six weeks and I’m sick of it already.”

  “Your mother took no interest in Crosby Hall, as well you know.” Despite her best efforts, Natalie’s voice was shaking. “Even when Papa was alive, Lucille kept you in London for most of the year. Since he died, I don’t believe I’ve seen her above twice. Or you, until now.”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” announced Mabel, apparently deciding it was time to draw the attention back to herself. “Crosby Hall belongs to Hector, and I am mistress here. Just because he didn’t rush back the instant he inherited, doesn’t mean he deeded it to you. Hector was only a boy at the time. Well, he’s a man now, and married. You aren’t the lady of the house any longer.”

  “In point of fact, she never was,” said Hector, sneering. “She was only five when her mother died and my mother took the reins. After Father died, Mother chose to live in London—why wouldn’t she? This is a Godforsaken place!—so Natalie started putting on airs around here. Fancying herself the lady of the manor.” He gave Natalie an overly-sweet smile. “Old illusions die hard, it seems.”

  Natalie swallowed past a lump in her throat. What he said was true, but it was difficult to hear. “I never meant to ... usurp your mother’s authority. Or yours. But someone had to take charge. A house as large as Crosby Hall won’t run itself.” She took a deep breath to steady her voice. “With Lucille in London, there was no one else to manage things. I merely ... stepped into the breach.”

  “Well, you may step out,” said Mabel rudely. “I may be young, but I have very decided ideas.”

  “Both those facts are abundantly clear.” To her dismay, Natalie felt tears rising. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin defiantly. Hector and Mabel would not get the better of her. “I do try, you know, to hold my tongue. I do try to stay out of it, even when I think ...” Her voice trailed off. She mustn’t express her opinion yet again. She had already pleaded in vain for so many things, unable to help herself when Mabel had plunged ahead, changing things just for the sake of asserting her youthful authority. The worst had been Mabel’s sacking most of the staff and replacing them with strangers—but she mustn’t think of that; it was too distressing. She was thankful that Mabel’s pregnancy had led her to keep Nurse, at least. Nurse was the only rock left for Natalie to cling to.

  She tried to appear reasonable. “You are mistress here. I realize that. But I am asking you, in simple charity, to refrain from destroying my personal property.”

  Mabel pouted. “If you must know, the roses haven’t been destroyed,” she said, in a voice of long suffering. “They’ve only been moved.”

  “Moved?” Natalie stared. Relief swamped her, then doubt. “But you can’t transplant mature rose bushes in this heat. They’ll never survive it. Moved where? And why?”

  Mabel waved a vague hand. Her voice rose into a whine. “Hector, pray explain it to her,” she begged. “Oh, my aching head! I don’t know why every unpleasant task should fall to me.”

  Hector looked annoyed. “A bee flew in the library window yesterday,” he said shortly.

  N
atalie wasn’t sure she had heard him properly. His words made no sense. “A bee. Yes?”

  He shrugged. “Mabel dislikes bees.”

  Natalie was speechless.

  Mabel folded her arms across her ample chest. “I am terrified of bees,” she announced. “I can’t bear insects at any price, but a bee is worse than anything. Except, perhaps, a wasp. Or a snake. Yes, Hector, I know a snake is not an insect, so kindly take that look off your face.”

  Natalie closed her eyes for a moment. “Let me be sure I understand this,” she said carefully. “Mabel ordered my roses taken out because she is afraid of bees?”

  Hector snickered. “It may be difficult for you to understand, Natalie, having lived in the country all your life—”

  Hector’s snicker apparently hit a nerve; Mabel sat up. “Don’t you dare make excuses for me,” she cried. “I can’t help how I feel. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, whatever you may think. Many people are afraid of bees. They sting! And you needn’t look down your nose at me, just because I’m a Londoner. You’re practically a Londoner yourself! Why are you forever harping on that? What’s that to do with a fear of being stung?”

  “Nothing,” said Hector hastily. “For pity’s sake, Mabel, be calm.”

  Wasted breath, thought Natalie, but she did not say it aloud.

  “It’s not only the bees,” Mabel complained, the rising note in her voice warning of impending fireworks. “I don’t see what is so wonderful about your beastly country life. You promised I would like it here. Well, I don’t, and I don’t believe you do, either! There’s nothing to do, and nobody to see, and I can’t sleep a wink. There’s a perfectly frightful row all night long from those horrible crickets, and another in the morning from the ghastly birds! No wonder you haven’t lived on your precious estate since you were ten years old! If I weren’t expecting a baby in the autumn I daresay we wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “It’s a safe bet you wouldn’t be,” said Hector nastily. “For I wouldn’t have—”

  He choked off his sentence with a visible effort. The unspoken words, married you, hung in the air. Natalie gave a tiny gasp, and Mabel’s eyes grew round. She burst into an impassioned medley of tears and shrieks.

  Well. There it was. Natalie eyed her half-brother in disgust. She had wondered why he had saddled himself with a wife—and, all too soon, a child—at nineteen. Now she knew. The newlyweds’ hasty removal to Hector’s country seat, and Mabel’s rapidly-rounding belly, had been very bad signs ... but in such cases, whatever one suspected, one naturally hoped that one was wrong.

  She sighed and covered her eyes with her hand while Mabel’s tantrum raged. The storm was directed at Hector, for which Natalie could only be thankful. At times like this, she told herself grimly, one’s only comfort was the general knowledge that Hector Whittaker was her half-brother. With luck, when the villagers shook their heads and whispered about his hasty marriage, they would blame Lucille for her boy’s behavior. And for his dreadful choice of bride.

  She knew she should be ashamed of these uncharitable thoughts. Somehow, however, she could not summon the energy to scold herself any more. She had been fighting to suppress her feelings, one way or another, ever since Hector and Mabel had arrived at Crosby Hall six weeks ago. She opened her eyes again and looked at them. Mabel’s tears were streaking the powder with which she had caked her plump cheeks, and Hector’s sneering features were beet red with fury. They made an unlovely pair.

  For once, she gave up the everlasting struggle to give them the benefit of the doubt, and admitted the truth to herself: she honestly had no doubts to give them the benefit of. Hector and Mabel were both nasty pieces of work and, God help her, she disliked them. That was the stark reality. They were her family—but family or not, she disliked them.

  Natalie slipped out of the room. Hector and Mabel were too engrossed in their tiff to notice her departure. Now that her anger had dissipated, depression settled on her spirits. She went in search of Mabel’s new gardener, or groundskeeper, or whatever he called himself.

  She found him outside the kitchen door, passing the time with a dirty-faced wench in a mob cap whom Natalie did not recognize at all. More new staff, she supposed. The girl ducked back into the scullery the instant Natalie appeared, and the gardener straightened and tugged sullenly on his forelock.

  “How do you do?” she said briskly. “I’ve come about my roses.”

  His expression became wary. “Aye? Wot about ‘em?”

  She forced herself to remain pleasant and businesslike. It wasn’t easy. “Where are they?”

  He jerked a dirty thumb. “Back o’the garden.” In response to her obvious bafflement, he amplified this statement. “Last row. Be’ind the carrots.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’ve put them in the kitchen garden?”

  An oily smile spread across his face. “Bless me, miss, the roses don’t care. Wot they need’s a bit o’sun and a drop o’water from time to time.”

  “Yes,” said Natalie faintly. “Of course.”

  It wasn’t, she thought detachedly, the fact that her roses had been moved to the vegetable garden that was pushing her over the brink. It was the steady drip-drip-drip of little digs and stings that had been her lot since Hector and Mabel’s arrival. Everyone has a limit, and she was rapidly approaching hers.

  Well, she promised herself, she wouldn’t lose her temper in front of the new gardener. She could salvage that much of her pride. She took yet another deep breath and began yet another inward litany of reminders. First she reminded herself that this latest insult wasn’t the gardener’s fault; he had merely followed Mabel’s instructions. Then she reminded herself that the roses—if they survived the move—wouldn’t care whether they stood beside orchids or onions. They would not feel slighted. It was Natalie who felt the slight. As, no doubt, she was meant to.

  This train of thought failed to make her feel better.

  She did not trust her voice, so she gave the gardener a nod and a strained smile, then turned to walk back into the house. She would look at the roses later. After she had had some time to grow accustomed to the idea of visiting them in the row behind the carrots.

  The instant she re-entered the house, the sound of Hector and Mabel’s quarrel assaulted her. She could not make out the words, but the angry, high-pitched voices carried past the flight of stairs and the closed doors between herself and the newlyweds.

  Overwhelmed, Natalie halted inside the cool, dark passage between the kitchen and the main portion of the house and closed her eyes. Grief swamped her. It wasn’t just that her roses had been uprooted so rudely; they were mere symbols. It was her life that had been uprooted, ripped up with an unforeseen abruptness when Hector brought Mabel back to Crosby Hall. The pervasive changes were permanent, permanent, and none of them were pleasant.

  Now that it was gone forever, she realized how much she had valued her tranquil existence. She had loved the peaceful days when she could order things exactly as she wished, the quiet pleasure the smooth running of a large house had given her.

  She had done it well, she thought wistfully. Unfortunately, it was not her job. It had never been her job. What Hector said was true: Crosby Hall, the home she had lived in all her life, had never truly been hers. And now that the rightful mistress of Crosby Hall had taken possession, Mabel was rubbing Natalie’s nose in that sorry fact.

  Upstairs, the rightful mistress of Crosby Hall could be heard working herself into a fit of strong hysterics. Her maid would soon be summoned and the house would be set on its ears. Again. How could Mabel bear to make such a spectacle of herself?

  Natalie could stand it no longer. She had to get away. She wanted air. She wanted exercise. She wanted a little solitude.

  She did not stop to brush her hair or change her dress. She had always kept a stout pair of walking shoes and a deep-brimmed hat in the kitchen passage; she donned these homely articles and headed for the fields. Ten steps from the kitchen door, she could no longer
hear Hector and Mabel’s quarrel. With every step she took, she left them farther behind. Her heart soared with relief.

  A fresh wind out of the west heralded a possible end to the heat wave. The breeze rattled her hat and she paused at the first stile to tie the ribbons more tightly beneath her chin. Standing on the stile, she took a moment to gaze across the lush patches of green and gold spread neatly as a quilt over the gently undulating terrain. In the distance, a field of flax in bloom shimmered with blue like a sheet of cool water. The peace of summer settled on her spirit. She felt better already.

  “Natalie Whittaker,” she murmured, “you should spend more time counting your blessings and less time feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Her lot in life was not such a bad one. She had a roof over her head, for heaven’s sake, and a fine roof at that. There were many people in the world who never knew where their next meal was coming from. There were women who were beaten and abused, starved, or made to work themselves to death. She ought to be grateful for her life of comparative leisure and prosperity, and stop bemoaning her lack of freedom. Stop resenting her powerlessness.

  Ah, but it chafed her.

  She frowned and jumped down into the next field, tramping fiercely through the sheep-clipped grass. There was no point in denying reality. She was sick of telling herself a string of optimistic lies. She was sick of trying to pretend she was lucky. She wasn’t lucky. Her life was small. She felt as walled up at Crosby Hall as those nameless wretches in the Bastille, overlooked and forgotten by the world.

  While a girl she had dreamed of romance and adventure, but romance and adventure apparently had better things to do than visit an obscure gentlewoman in a remote country backwater. At any rate, neither romance nor adventure had ever come calling. And a proper young lady wasn’t allowed to leave her home and seek them out.

  On days like this, thought Natalie crossly, she could almost kick herself for turning down Jasper Farnsworth. Anne seemed happy with him, so he evidently had redeeming features Natalie hadn’t quite glimpsed. And Squire Farnsworth took his wife to London every year or two. It was galling that plain little Anne Farnsworth had experienced far more of the world than Natalie had. Children, too! Really, it hardly seemed fair.