by Cach, Lisa
I want…
Nathaniel smiled to himself, glancing occasionally at Valerian’s head of dark curls beside him. She came to just above his shoulder, and looked extremely cross, putting a little stomp into each footstep. He had bungled this encounter, but although he was presently in her bad graces, he suspected that she was already on her way to forgiving him.
Although, perhaps, she would be best off if she did not. He had privately sworn not to involve himself with her, but obviously he couldn’t trust himself. Ten minutes alone together, and he had been unable to keep his hands off her. It had sounded so sad, her lonely insistence that she did not need frivolities, that he had felt impelled to reach out and touch her. And then, when he had felt the silk of her cheek, and seen the way his touch affected her…
Of course, if his intention was to behave, he should not be following her home, but he was enjoying himself too much to leave her just yet. He had spent a week learning about her from others as he tried to figure out how he had managed to offend her, but none of the information he had gathered seemed to bear any relation to the woman he saw before him.
Most everyone in Greyfriars was afraid of her and her aunt. Yes, there had been those who thought well of her, but even they could not hide their nervousness in speaking of her. His curiosity was piqued, and the mystery was a welcome distraction from his own troubles. This was no ordinary village girl. No ordinary healer, either. There was something special about her, beyond her lovely face, something that begged him to discover more about her life. And there was that moment in the orchard, when he’d seen her in the snowfall of petals and felt on the verge of understanding something important…
It had been a mistake to treat her like a London girl and offer her trinkets, he could see now. He didn’t know how he should treat her, to break through her defenses, but trusted that he’d figure it out in time. Even as he had that thought, he felt a stirring of self-loathing: he should leave her alone, he could only bring harm to her. Nothing good could come of his interest in her.
He was a selfish bastard.
But when did selfish bastards ever say no to themselves, even when they knew they should?
Content to let Valerian stew in silence, he followed her lead down the path and through pockets of woodland, always staying a little closer to her than was strictly polite. The set of her shoulders revealed her tension, and he was pleased she could not ignore him.
They emerged from the woods into the meadow, and he stopped a moment to take in the bucolic scene. He had seen enough of the countryside to know that dirt and malnutrition were the norm for most country folk, with nary a picturesque scene where man had laid his hand. This meadow, though, with the footbridge over the stream, and with the thatched cottage, freshly whitewashed, was a marked exception to that rule. The meadow felt magically enchanted, removed from the world, and the cottage not at all the dingy “witch’s hovel” he had imagined after his talks with the villagers.
He tied his horse to the limb of a tree and followed Valerian to the cottage. She called out for her aunt, who appeared in the open doorway, drying her hands on a stained work apron. The woman cut a formidable figure, the impression made all the stronger by her aura of calm, omniscient confidence.
Valerian made the required introductions. Nathaniel leaned the shovel against the side of the house, then bowed over Theresa’s hand. A bitter green scent tickled his nose, and he wondered what she had been doing. Mixing potions, perhaps?
“Let me offer my condolences, my lord, on the death of your great-uncle,” Theresa said as he straightened. Her eyes met his own, and in that moment he felt her perception reach down to his very soul. “I know that he would be pleased that you are here now, looking after Raven Hall and Greyfriars. He was quite fond of you. I know he had great hopes for the kind of man you would turn out to be.”
Nathaniel was struck by the horrifying, irrational certainty that this woman knew of the disgraces in his recent past. “Thank you, Mrs. Storrow,” he finally managed to say, feeling unbalanced. “I in turn have heard a good many things about both you and your niece since my arrival. It sounds as though between you, you keep the local population in good health.”
“Good health and good spirits, I like to think. Come, let me fix you some tea. Valerian? Do bring out the biscuits from yesterday.”
He followed them into the cottage, the heels of his boots sounding hollowly on the wooden planks of the floor, loud in contrast with the silent movements of the women.
He had but once or twice been in the homes of the lower classes, and so the interior of the cottage surprised him with its open space, having never been divided into rooms. There was a large canopied bed to one side, the draperies half open, and a loft with a well-polished ladder leading up to it. The rest of the space was dominated by an enormous worktable, black with age, looking as if Merlin himself could have prepared his elixirs upon it. The large fireplace was surrounded and occupied by an astonishing assortment of kettles, pots, bottles, bowls, and items whose use he could only guess.
Overlying all was the combined scent of wood smoke and the vast assortment of herbs that hung in mysterious clusters above his head. The cottage was plainly as much workshop as it was home, and he wondered at the uses the women knew for all those herbs, and how effective their cures were.
Theresa indicated he should sit on the bench at the clear end of the table nearest the fire. Valerian was busy taking dark brown biscuits from a jar and arranging them on a plate. Theresa began making the tea. They both appeared to ignore him as they went about their business, which gave him a further chance to gawk at the assorted collections on the shelves lining the walls.
The lighting was dim—the day was overcast, and the windows not overlarge to begin with. The daylight that reached inside was augmented by the orange flickerings of the fire, the light of its flames caught and refracted from dozens of intriguing sources. Dark humps revealed themselves as carvings of animals, their jet eyes shining in the firelight, watching from their aeries on the shelves. White shapes became bones as his eyes adjusted, the skull of a sheep juxtaposed with that of a man. There were pewter dishes and candlesticks, leather-bound books, several shelves packed with opaque jars, and baskets heaped with unidentifiable sundries.
A flutter and swoosh announced the arrival of Oscar, who landed gracefully upon a perch attached to the mantel. “Poor hungry bird!” he cried.
“Nonsense, Oscar,” Valerian chided, and set the plate of biscuits on the table. “You have been out foraging all day.”
“He’s a shameless beggar,” Theresa said, pouring tea into a set of delicate china cups, incongruous in this practical household. She sat down across from him. Valerian dawdled for a moment, petting Oscar, then sat on the stool at the end of the table.
For a brief moment he saw himself as if from the outside, sitting in this peculiar cottage with two eccentric women, a talking raven on the mantel. He could almost believe that a sort of magic inhabited this cottage in the meadow, and that these two women were witches, as the townsfolk suspected.
“Now then,” Theresa said, “I’m sure you have heard countless rumors about us, so if you have questions, feel free to ask them.” Her green eyes met his with friendly mischief.
Surprised again by the sense that she read his thoughts, he glanced at Valerian and saw her lips quirk before she hid them behind the rim of her teacup, taking a sip. He smiled at her and followed suit, in the hopes of buying time to compose a suitable query for her aunt.
The moment the liquid hit his tongue he jerked, and spluttered the stuff back into the cup. “Good God!” he cried. “What is this stuff?” He squinted at the liquid, trying to make out the color, too startled by the unidentifiable taste to apologize for the gross faux pas he had just committed.
“It’s Valerian’s own blend,” Theresa said, laughter in her voice.
He looked at Valerian, and saw her frowning at him, a biscuit almost to her lips. He gave her a strained smile, gat
hered his courage and his manners, and took another sip. After letting the hot liquid sit in his mouth for a moment he decided that it was not quite as awful as at first taste, as long as he did not try to think of it as tea.
“Rosehips, lemon balm, orange, and a few other things,” Valerian finally explained.
“Delightful,” he murmured, setting down the cup.
“Biscuit?” Valerian asked, holding out the plate.
“Pooooor hungry bird,” Oscar wailed from the mantel.
Nathaniel took one of the dark biscuits and chomped off a bite. An explosion of peppery spices filled his mouth, and his eyes widened. The hard little cookie was enough to make his eyes water.
“Spice biscuit,” Valerian said.
He coughed as a crumb of the potent pastry lodged in his throat, and quickly took a sip of tea, thankful now for its harmless fruitiness. “So I gathered.”
“You know, we aren’t actually witches in league with Satan,” Valerian said. “We don’t poison people.”
A startled bark of laughter escaped his throat. “I never thought you were.”
“Your friend Mr. Carlyle did,” Valerian said.
“Paul is a man with a mind better suited to the imagination than to reason. No, I share the view of the courts of England on the existence of witches,” he said, a bit relieved to have something to say off the topic of the fare. “Hysteria and ignorance cause the simple to believe they exist, and those who believe themselves to be witches are either deluded or charlatans. If deluded, they are to be pitied. If charlatans, then they deserve to be prosecuted, as the law allows.”
“I am pleased to hear that you hold such a sensible view,” Theresa said.
“But are you so certain that witches don’t exist?” Valerian asked, looking at him from the corner of her eyes with the slyness of a fox. She seemed more confident and at ease, now that she was beside her own hearth, with her aunt at her side. “What seems farfetched in London becomes easier to believe when there are no city walls between you and the night.”
“You may as well ask if I believe in ghosts and fairies, or the fortune-telling of gypsies.”
“A man of pure reason,” Valerian said, and he heard the hint of mockery in her voice.
“How else are we to know the world? Superstition is but a pap to quiet ignorant minds, fearful of what they cannot understand. While it comforts, to cling to that comfort is to reject the search for truth.”
“And do you view God with the same detachment?” Theresa asked.
He had not expected that their conversation would so quickly take such a serious turn, and wondered if this was how they always treated guests. “I don’t know if there is a place in reason for God and religion,” he said more carefully. “For many, it’s a habit more than a faith.”
“And just more superstition, I suppose,” Valerian said. “But have you never felt that all the reason in the world could not help you, could not succor you in your need? That there must be something more than this physical world, something that had the power to save you or to damn you?”
“I have felt my limitations, and seen my follies, but ultimately I don’t think it’s for any being but myself to save me or to damn me,” he said. He doubted that any god could be harsher in judgment upon his soul than he was himself, and he knew himself to be undeserving of forgiveness, either mortal or divine. “Any crisis of faith has been in myself, never in reason. I do believe that one day men will find in reason and natural philosophy the answers many now find in God.”
Valerian smiled. “So perhaps you are of a mind with Pope, then: ‘All our knowledge is, ourselves to know.’”
“You read Alexander Pope’s work?” he asked, amazed, but the moment he saw her reaction, he knew he had made a mistake much worse than that with the tea. Anger sparked in her eyes, where only exasperation and a hint of teasing had been before.
“It would appear that I do. Imagine that. Wherever did I learn to read?”
“Valerian—” Theresa warned.
“Don’t worry, Aunt Theresa. He fancies himself too far above me to be offended by my utterances.”
Touchy little thing, wasn’t she? And proud. “I meant no offense,” he apologized, thinking that she wore her annoyance like armor. What did she fear from him?
When Valerian remained silent, Theresa spoke. “You’re welcome to stay for supper if you so desire.”
Nathaniel suddenly realized that the light had grown dimmer as they had talked, and that he was no doubt keeping the two women from their meal and chores. He stood and gave a short bow. “My thanks for the tea and biscuits, and for the delightful conversation. I fear I must be going. Paul will no doubt think I’ve been carried away by succubi if I don’t make an appearance soon.”
“It’s been a pleasure, my lord,” Theresa said. “I do hope that you’ll feel free to visit us. If ever you need a guide for the surrounding countryside, Valerian knows every hillock and stream.”
Nathaniel caught the glare that Valerian sent to her aunt, and grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He headed for the door, aware of a subtle change within himself in his attitude towards these women. They were not to be taken lightly, that much was clear. He was beginning to get a sense of why the villagers would be wary of them. They might not be witches, but both aunt and niece shared an intelligence and force of personality that could be intimidating.
Not that he would describe himself as intimidated, of course. A better description would be… challenged. It had been years since he had had such a demanding discussion with anyone. Who would have thought he would have it here?
Almost as an afterthought, he turned to Theresa. “The greenhouses at Raven Hall are half empty. If it would be of help to you, please do use them for whatever plants might require them.”
“Thank you, my lord. I’ll do that. Valerian, show the baron the path that leads to his orchards. It will save him no end of time.”
Nathaniel fetched his horse while Valerian waited, then she led him to a narrow break in the wall of woodland around the meadow.
“Stay to the most trodden path,” she explained. “You’ll come out at the back of your orchards.”
“You have no wish to guide me?”
“I’ll give you credit for sufficient wit to find your own way home.”
“Most generous of you.”
“I thought so.”
He smiled at her, then took her hand in both of his own, not allowing her to pull away. “Give me another chance, Miss Bright. I would hate to think that I’d irrevocably botched any chance at friendship between us.”
“Friendship?”
“There is much that we could learn from each other.” He raised her hand and gave her knuckles the barest whisper of a kiss. “Your servant, Mademoiselle.” He mounted, gave her frowning face one last look, then rode through the break in the foliage.
The darkening woods were heavy with shadows, the rustlings and snappings of the forest making the horse’s ears twitch. He thought about Valerian and her aunt as he rode through the deepening dark, considering their intensity on the subjects of superstition and religion. It belatedly occurred to him that they considered their own safety in this village to rest on his good will, and had been seeking a sense of his tolerance and convictions.
He would not agree with Paul that they were witches, but it was quite obvious they were women.
That alone could bewitch the wits of the most reasonable of men.
Chapter Five
A river of pain shot through Theresa’s gut and she grimaced, grinding her teeth to keep from groaning out loud. She pressed her hand to her belly and leaned against the high windowsill, fastening her eyes on the early morning vista of the meadow and trying to stifle the pain.
Bit by bit it eased, and she exhaled in relief. Her fingers searched her flesh, prodding until she found the small lump that was daily growing larger in her abdomen. It was an irregular mass, firm to her touch, and if she was not mistaken it had already
spawned an offspring. The second lump was no larger than the tip of her finger, and nestled in the vulnerable flesh under her left arm.
She took another sip of her tea, knowing that its mild analgesic effect would mask only a fraction of the pain. To take a strong enough painkiller would be to render herself senseless, and she was not ready to do that. Not yet. And neither was she ready for Valerian to know what was happening. Fortunately, Valerian had attributed her recent weight loss to grief over the death of the old baron.
“Silly bird!” Valerian grumbled up in the loft. “Don’t just look at it. Eat it! That beak’s good for something other than talking.”
“Oscar is a superior bird,” Oscar croaked back.
“You’re not too good to pick through garbage.”
“What’s going on up there?” Theresa called.
Valerian’s head appeared over the edge of the loft, her heavy braid sliding over her chemise-clad shoulder and flopping down, hanging like a rope. “Good morning, Aunt. It’s the maggots again. They keep falling out of the thatch, and Oscar, the useless creature, refuses to eat them.”
“You could always dispose of them yourself.”
Valerian screwed her face up in disgust. “‘Tis bad enough to have them dropping on me as I sleep, the fat little things. I keep thinking one will fall into my hair, or crawl in my ear. I can smell it, too, whatever it is that died up there.”
“You’re welcome to share my bed until they’re gone. The canopy will keep you safe from the mortal threat of falling worms.” She tried to keep her face serious, a losing battle.
“You wouldn’t laugh if they were falling on your head. No thank you, I’ll face the beasts. You know I can’t sleep that close to your snoring.”
“Rude girl.”
Valerian grinned, and her head disappeared, the end of her braid flipping up over the edge of the loft a half-second later. Theresa smiled, enjoying her niece’s company. Her own daughter Charmaine had always been serious and self-conscious, and unable to outgrow her embarrassment over her mother. Being an outsider had been too painful for her, and she had found relief only by rejecting her family and becoming a villager, heart and soul. Theresa understood that, even as it hurt her.