Reverend Alder was waiting outside the chapel when she arrived. She spotted him through the curtains on the carriage door. Her coachman jumped down to help her out. The Reverend was a middle-aged man who had been in charge of this parish Edward's entire life, from christening to consecration. He had dark hair winged-tipped with silver and a clean-shaven face. A thin man with long arms he opened in welcome to Catherine as she walked up the pathway leading to the chapel.
"Lady Thornton, how are you faring?" he said as she approached him.
"Well enough," she said with a faint smile. She did not want to burden him with her grief.
He gave her a sympathetic smile full of pity. Catherine turned and faced her guests, who had begun trickling in. The villagers came out en masse to pay their last respects to Edward. The neighbors stopped and spoke with Catherine, giving a kind word or offering assistance should it be wanted. She gave them all a gracious uncommitted response. The ceremony was simple, and Catherine managed to disguise her tears behind her handkerchief. She sat in the same row as Lydia, her husband, Patrick, and their two young sons. The boys did well not to fidget, but Lydia wept openly at the loss of her brother. Edward's youngest sister, Edith, was away on holiday in France and could not return in time for the funeral. Catherine had received a thoughtful letter of condolence from her sister-in-law. Edward's cousin and heir, Henry, was also absent--he was away on business in India.
The ceremony ended, and the wake was to be held at the manor. Catherine rode back alone in the carriage and wept, not caring if anyone saw her red tearstained face when they returned. When she arrived at the manor, she felt empty, like a doll which could be placed upon a chair. The guests tried to talk to her, but she did not remember any of her conversations. Lydia took over as hostess, and Catherine was able to melt into her grief. At some point a man in a smart suit approached Catherine. He leaned over to speak with her.
"Lady Thornton, my name is Mr. Clark; I am your late husband's attorney."
She looked up at him. He was a squat short man with red hair that was liberally shot with gray. He had a pair of spectacles resting on the edge of his nose as he regarded Catherine.
"Mr. Clark, a pleasure," she said, trying to summon the energy for polite conversation.
"I am sorry we must meet under such circumstances. I hoped we might speak about your husband's estate."
"I do not want any of it," she told him quite bluntly.
He scrunched his face for a moment. He was not prepared for her announcement. "May we speak in private?" he asked to avoid addressing her lack of decorum.
She stood up and led him out into the hall. The nearest room where they could speak privately was Edward's study. She hesitated, but Mr. Clark took the reins and went there directly. She followed after him. They went inside, and Catherine stood in the center of the room, uncertain of what to do. There were signs of Edward all over. His favorite jacket was slung carelessly across a chair in the corner, a dog-eared book sat on the desk, and a portrait of him hung above the mantel. She looked away from his likeness and closed her eyes against the tears.
Mr. Clark folded his hands in front of himself and smiled at Catherine. "I would rather not have rushed these proceedings, but I felt, given the state of things, it was necessary."
She nodded her head, signaling for him to continue.
"Your husband had a will, as I am sure you are aware. We had recently finished drafting it, coincidentally. He left you a considerable amount, five thousand pounds a year, for the remainder of your life."
Catherine took in a sharp breath. This was much too generous; they had been married less than a month and had not known each other much more than that.
"I cannot accept that," she replied.
Mr. Clark looked as if he had been struck. He staggered back a step. "Lady Thornton, I know you are grieving, but this will be enough to let you live very comfortably for the remainder of your life. If you choose to marry again someday, this allowance will continue..."
"I do not want it. I did not marry Edward for his wealth."
"No one has said that. Your husband wanted you to be taken care of. When he made these plans, I am certain he did it thinking you would have had years together."
The tears were spilling down her cheeks. It was too much; even in death Edward had thought of everything.
"Excuse me, Lady Thornton, I have been inconsiderate." He handed her his handkerchief.
She took it and dabbed at her cheek. "Please, continue."
"There was one other stipulation in Edward's will. The manor and his fortune have been entailed, and his cousin Henry shall inherit. He is to be the next Lord Thornton since Edward had no male heirs. The problem is Mr. Thornton has been missing some six months. It will take time to find him, if he does live, and if not, then..."
"Who will the house fall to?"
"It would be the next male heir, Lord Thornton's nephew, Johnathan Oakheart." Lydia's oldest son was no more than five years old.
"But he's a child. What will happen... to the estate." She intended to say to the forest but corrected herself at the last moment. She could not imagine that small boy could manage to be the guardian of the Thorns, not for many years. Mrs. Morgan said I was the chosen guardian, but that cannot be possible. I thought it must be a relative of the Thorntons. Then again, who is to say the Thorn Dwellers could not change when they see fit.
"Mr. Wolfe will manage the estate, and I will do my part with the finances. I do not tell you these things to scare you, Lady Thornton. There is nothing for you to worry about. Lord Thornton prepared everything so you would not need to worry. I wanted to inform you so you may know that you may stay at Thornwood Abbey as long as you like. Lord Thornton arranged everything. I only wanted to tell you so I could put your mind at ease."
Catherine nodded stiffly. "Thank you, Mr. Clark. You have put my mind at ease." The truth was she doubted every word out of Mr. Clark's mouth. Not because she thought him insincere, but this entire scenario stank of Fae intervention. It was all too tidy.
When her guests left, Catherine dressed in her coat and went out into the garden. Dusk was falling by then, and an orange and pinkish light fell over the hedges and the manicured lawn. She headed for the path that bordered the garden and looked upon the wild woods beyond. She reached the edge where Isobel had attempted to force Catherine to open the gateway to the world of the Fae. Where she had nearly took another's life to save her own. Most of that night had faded into a foggy haze, but that moment stood out clearly in her mind. When Mr. Thorn had left, she thought she would never see him again, and now she did not know how to summon him to her. Should she enter the forest and try to find his dwelling? If she called out to him, would he appear at her side as he had done so many times?
The branches nearby rustled, and Catherine startled as Tabitha flew past her and landed on a branch nearby. She placed a hand over her rapidly beating heart.
"Tabitha! You startled me!" Catherine exclaimed.
The owl did not reply other than to hoot softly, tilt its head, and blink its large yellow eyes at her.
Maybe this is not a talking owl. I could have mistaken her for a different owl. "I was a fool to come here, wasn't I?" she asked the owl.
"You are many things, Lady Thornton, but a fool is not one of them," Mr. Thorn said, as of yet unseen.
Catherine spun in place and saw Mr. Thorn leaning against the tree in which the owl sat. He gave her a lazy smile that she was itching to slap off his face. We are all just a game to him. Our lives mean nothing.
"I have come to ask you to remove this spell from the manor. I have no desire to be your guardian."
His smile faded. "I would remove it if I could, but that is beyond my ability."
She took a deep breath. It was the only way to keep her temper in check. "Then I would speak with whoever can break this spell."
He pushed off the tree and walked over to her. She wanted to turn and walk away. When she looked at him, she saw Edward's
blood on his hands. She saw the flaming sword he used to end her husband's life.
"Believe me, if I had the power, I would be the first to break you from this tangled web, but I cannot. As it is, this may be the last time we meet."
Relief swept through her, Mr. Thorn had been nothing but trouble for her. "If you will not help me, then I will find someone who will." She turned to walk away, but he grabbed her wrist and forced her to face him.
"You cannot run away forever. It will not bring him back."
"I know that, Mr. Thorn," she snapped and pulled her arm free. "But there is no rule that says I must spend time in the company of my husband's murderer." She regarded the ground. She did not have the strength to meet his gaze. She expected him to deny it or to make some excuse.
"I cannot refute you, but know this, I did not ever intend to hurt you, Catherine."
Tears stung the back of her lashes, but she held them back. She had done enough weeping for a lifetime. She looked up, but he was gone, which was for the best. In his place stood a petite woman with long dark hair, round hips and bust. The owl was gone as well.
"Who are you?" Catherine asked.
She gave a curtsy. "You know me as Tabitha the owl, but you may call me Miss Olson, I am your new lady's maid."
Catherine stared at the tiny woman for a moment, not sure how to respond. "I have no need of a lady's maid. I do not plan to stay here."
Miss Olson smiled. "You are in need of protection. Isobel is not finished with you, and if you are alone, you will be vulnerable."
She regarded her for a moment. "Why would you be willing to risk yourself for me?"
Miss Olson tilted her head to the side. "I think you can help me regain what I lost," she said enigmatically.
She considered arguing, but from the firm set of Miss Olson's jaw, she knew there was no use trying. If she had learned one lesson, it was there was no use arguing with the Fae; they always got what they wanted. "I suppose I can bring you round and make introductions to the housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan."
"No need to trouble yourself. I am sure you will find Mrs. Morgan has already found a new lady's maid for you." She winked.
Catherine shook her head. "I am sure I will."
Epilogue
She had been waiting for this visitor. Indeed, she had delayed her departure in anticipation. Isobel saw the carriage roll up outside her window. The curtains had been taken down, and the windows cleaned. She had a clear view from the parlor. She had been admiring her garden, memorizing the white fence and the rows of vegetables and flowers. She had tended them as a mother does her children, with a loving hand, for many years. She had lived in her gilded prison for too long. If she was being honest with herself, there were moments she had enjoyed the domestic tranquility that Thornwood had to offer, but she equally chafed at it. She was meant for more, so much more. Now I am free at last!
A young man with a flat face and dull-witted eyes jumped down from the coachman's seat. He scurried to open the carriage door. His buttons did not line up correctly and the hem of his shirt hung down below his coat. The paint on the exterior of the carriage was faded and chipped. Though she could not hear it, Isobel imagined the door to the carriage swung open with a creak.
The inside was dark like an open mouth yawning. The coachman reached into the dark interior of the carriage, and a white gloved hand took the large calloused one. Mrs. Ashton emerged and looked down at the garden with a crinkled nose as if she had smelled something foul. She leaned on the coachman as she took a step down onto the cobblestones just outside the garden gate. The coachman rushed to open the gate for Mrs. Ashton. Isobel watched her careful approach as she picked her way through the garden and up to the front door. She disappeared from view as she reached the door.
Mrs. Ashton rapped upon it, and Isobel waited. Henrietta had been sent ahead to Isobel's next destination. Only Isobel and her most faithful servant remained at the cottage, and her pet was out hunting at the moment. She sat in her chair, hands folded in her lap. She was clever to discover me. She will be much more useful than her daughter. Isobel could see the coachman watching his employer from beside the carriage. He was wringing his hands and glancing furtively from side to side. He can sense what she cannot. That child has more Fae blood than Mrs. Ashton, though she thinks of herself as a child of the Thorns. A smile curled Isobel's lips as Mrs. Ashton knocked on the door with more urgency.
Isobel rose gracefully and exited the parlor. Her footsteps did not make a sound; she moved about the empty house as a ghost does. She strode across the empty foyer. The hardwood floor looked barren without her possessions. There were signs of habitation all about the room, a faded silhouette of a table against the wall, a few scuffs on the ground, and the lingering scent of baked goods. It was difficult to leave behind, she had only ever known Thornwood, but the next step in her plan required it. I will return soon.
Isobel opened the door and found Mrs. Ashton standing in the doorway, her hand raised to knock. Mrs. Ashton dropped her hand and pretended to straighten her coat instead.
"Mrs. Ashton, what a surprise," Isobel lied.
"Mrs. Rosewood, I have come to speak with you." There was a determined set to her expression that delighted Isobel. She was hard-pressed to hide her mirth, and the corners of her lips curled up.
Isobel raised an eyebrow in question to disguise her amusement. Mrs. Ashton's thin lips were pressed together to where they nearly disappeared against the white of her face.
"I am afraid I am in no position to entertain at the moment." She swept her arm back to show the empty room, vacated of furniture and curtains.
"This is not a social call, Mathilde." She narrowed her eyes at Isobel.
Isobel laughed darkly; the rich husky sound echoed off the barren walls. Mrs. Ashton shifted from foot to foot. Not the greeting you were expecting, is it?
"Please, come in." Isobel stepped aside, letting Mrs. Ashton into her home.
Mrs. Ashton looked over towards the coachman before lifting her chin and stomping into the empty foyer. Her shoes clattered on the hardwood. She marched to the center of the room and spun around to face Isobel.
"I presume you are here about your daughter?" Isobel asked as she closed the door behind her and locked it. The bolt caught with a click that reverberated across the chamber and seemed to strike Mrs. Ashton, as she flinched. Mrs. Ashton's eyes flickered to the locked door and then up to Isobel's face.
"Mary has been missing since the ball, but I am sure you are aware of that," Mrs. Ashton said without preamble.
Isobel leaned back against the door, smiling. "I do recall seeing her that night, dancing with Lord Thornton. He shared two dances with her in a row, if I recall. Quite the scandal in the making, perhaps she has gone to ground to save some shred of her reputation." She smirked. I buried her in a shallow grave at the forest edge. Not that I will ever tell you that.
"Tell me the truth; is she... did the Thorn Dwellers take her?" There was no real hint of despair in her demeanor, more a cool indifference as if they were speaking about the weather rather than the untimely end of her only daughter. This is a woman who cares little for others. I can use that.
"She is gone. Along with your last hope of clawing your way out of the sinkhole you find yourself in."
At this Mrs. Ashton did blanch. "I knew it. I should expose you to the village--"
"To what end? I have more power than you. I could turn you into a harmless white rabbit if you even considered turning against me."
"I have some power. Do not test me, witch." Mrs. Ashton took a step forward and jabbed a finger at Isobel.
Isobel laughed. "Do not threaten me with your hearth magic; it will get you nowhere. You were clever enough to see through my glamour, and you thought you could blackmail me to do your bidding. However, that is not how this game is played."
Isobel pushed away from the door and strode over to Mrs. Ashton; she circled her. She took her time, and with her inner eye she probed Mrs. Ashton. She
was ambitious and cunning to a fault. She was so confident in her own ability and her own intelligence that it often blinded her to her mistakes. She reeks of pride. That can be broken--it would make her a valuable tool. I need eyes in Thornwood while I am away. Mrs. Ashton pivoted, following Isobel's movements.
"Please enlighten me," Mrs. Ashton replied.
"I had plans for your daughter, but she failed. You, however, have much more power; I can see that. It is flagging, but I can remedy that for a price."
Mrs. Ashton licked her lips. "What sort of price?"
Isobel stopped her pacing and stood in front of Mrs. Ashton. She reached out and caressed Mrs. Ashton's cheek. Mrs. Ashton shivered and closed her eyes. She feared Isobel, but she desired her power. She would cut out Isobel's heart with her own two hands if she thought it would gain her an advantage. Isobel dropped her hand to her side and said, "I want you to watch Catherine Thornton and report back to me all that you see."
Mrs. Ashton's eyes flew open. "Why? She is nothing but an insignificant ladder climber."
She did not acknowledge her ignorant commentary. She was a fool, too human to see the greater picture. She, like her daughter, desired human things, money, influence, and worldly possessions. They had never witnessed real power. They had not seen the Thorn Kingdom in full bloom. They had not tasted the ambrosia, danced beneath the stars with bare feet and hair loose, made love beneath the canopy of the trees. Isobel sighed. Each time she had tried to reach for the memories and hold onto them, they crumbled to ash in her hands. Mrs. Ashton did not have even an ounce of Catherine's potential power. And therefore she could never understand what power and beauty waited just beyond the village. "It does not matter what I want her for. Do this for me, and I will restore your magic and more."
Mrs. Ashton rubbed her hands together, feigning contemplation. There was only one choice to be made. She was desperate.
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