by Sharon Lee
The breeze rustled through the curtains again, a little more strongly—and she smiled as the scent of the flowers reached her.
A sharp exclamation came from the third occupant of the parlor, seated before the gold and white escritoire. The pretty piece of furniture complimented the lady's own white-and-gold coloring, but the legs were loose and the surface too small, so Rebecca thought, for comfortable writing. Nonetheless, it was a charming piece and Caroline made a charming picture seated before it, with her dark day skirt swirled artfully, and her little slipper peeping beneath the hem.
"What is it, my love?" Mother murmured, without looking up from her work.
"The wind made me smudge Mr. and Mrs. Eraborne's card!" Caroline said aggrievedly.
"Write another, then," said Mother patiently. "And be more careful."
Caroline pulled another card to her, dropping the spoilt one to the pile on the carpet.
"Can't we close the window?" she asked. "The wind makes it difficult to write."
"The desk is rickety and moves under your pen," Rebecca said, as she finished Lady Quince's card, and put her pen down. "It is that which makes writing difficult—" she raised her head and met her sister's wide blue eyes "—not the breeze."
Caroline's eyes narrowed, which foretold unpleasant things when the two of them were alone. The Beauty, alas, possessed a thin skin and a spiteful temper.
"It might also help," Rebecca continued, turning her gaze away, and sanding the card, "if you faced the desk straight on and not as if you were riding sidesaddle."
"Your sister gives you good advice," Mother said, glancing at her youngest daughter. "Address the desk squarely and you will make fewer errors. You may make fewer still if you will write at the card table with Rebecca. The escritoire is not as solid a surface as one might prefer."
Sighing prettily, Caroline turned in her chair and faced the escritoire, her skirts ruched and untidy, and dipped her pen.
Rebecca drew the next card to her, picked up her pen, ticked off Lady Quince's name and glanced at the next on the list—
Sir Jennet Hale.
She did not sigh. There was no reason to do so, after all. Sir Jennet was the man to whom her father had promised her hand, and astonishing it was that he had found anyone to take her. That he had located a gentleman of lineage, who was neither a newlander nor a merchant must be to his credit.
As for Sir Jennet himself—Rebecca held nothing against the gentleman, having met him precisely once, at her betrothal dinner. He was a quiet-spoken man of about her father's age, somewhat portly and a bit red in the face, who had recently come heir to his elder brother's estate. His brother's lady having tragically predeceased him, Sir Jennet required a wife to hold his household. That Rebecca was the daughter of an Earl could only increase his consequence.
For herself, she found it slightly fantastical that by summer's end she would have left her parents' home, the land she had grown up on, an elder brother of whom she was sincerely fond, and a younger sister of whom she was, perhaps, not quite so fond, to become mistress of an estate in the Corlands, and the wife of a second son.
There was surely nothing to sigh about in any of that. In truth, she was fortunate to be established in an unexceptional marriage, which her father and her sister took great care to impress upon her.
So thinking, and sighing not at all, Rebecca wrote out Sir Jennet's card in her best hand. She then paused for a moment, pen poised, considering if it would be polite or unbecomingly forward to add a note indicating that she would be happy to see him at the dance. In the end it was the realization that she would be neither dismayed nor gladdened by his presence that stayed her pen.
Sir Jennet was to become a fact of her existence, like rain, or sun, or Caroline's pouting. He had thought enough of her future comfort, during their single conversation, to tell her that his estate included several gardens and a conservatory.
"They'll need a dab o' work, mind," he'd told her, as he poured himself a third glass of wine. "M'brother didn't care to keep 'em up. I hear you're a keen one for the plants and flowers, though, and I'm sure you'll know just what to do to bring 'em 'round."
Her fingers itched to set the neglected conservatory right, and she dared hope that one or another of the other abandoned plots he had offhandedly mentioned might be allowed to become a wild garden. She would not wish to lose her lore.
The door to the ladies' parlor opened precipitously, admitting the young viscount, still in his riding clothes, his fair hair rumbled and his cheeks rosy with exercise.
"Good afternoon!" he said cheerily to the room at large. Laying his hat, gloves and whip on the flower shelf, he strode to the card table.
"Hallo, Becca, old love! I'd made certain you were in the wild garden this day."
She smiled up into her brother's brilliant grin.
"Hello, Dickon," she said in her matter-of-fact way. "Mother had need of me here."
"Oh, aye," he said, picking Sir Jennet's card up and running his eye down the lines.
"Not very loverlike," he remarked lightly, and Rebecca felt herself flush.
"I thought to add something," she said, softly. "But, truly, Dickon, I hardly knew what. Ought I have written that I looked forward to his attending?"
"Only if you meant it," her brother said, putting the card with the rest. His gaze moved to her face, his own serious.
"Father should be flogged," he murmured, too softly for Caroline or Mother to hear. "You deserve better than an old roué with gambling debts and a rotting estate to put right."
This was not the first time Dickon had made his displeasure with her upcoming nuptials known. It warmed her that he cared so much for her comfort, while at the same time making her a trifle impatient. Surely he knew that no one else would have her.
She looked down, and drew the next card to her.
"Father is pleased to have found anyone to take me," she said patiently. "And now Caroline will be free to marry well." She raised her head and met his eyes once more. "Truly, Dickon, I am content."
"You are always content of late," he answered, his voice louder this time.
"Indeed," Mother said from her desk. "Rebecca is an example to us all, and she will make Sir Jennet a fine wife. Good afternoon, Dickon."
Rebecca saw her brother's eyes close, his shoulders rising and falling with a silent sigh, then he had turned away from her, and was striding across to the room.
"Good afternoon, Mother," he said dutifully and bent down to kiss her cheek. "Father sent me to tell you that his business with Mr. Snelling is proceeding well and that they will dine together. Pray do not wait the evening meal for him."
There was a pause, long enough that Rebecca raised her head to glance down-room. Her mother's shoulders seemed to droop—then straightened as she looked up at her tall son.
"Thank you, Dickon. Will you be with us?"
"Yes, of course, darling," he said warmly. "My business this afternoon is Gately and the accounts books, and my reward for tending it shall be an intimate meal with my lovely mother and beautiful sisters."
Their mother smiled, obviously pleased, though what she said was, "Piffle. You, sir, are a sad scamp."
Dickon bowed solemnly, and Rebecca bit her lip so as not to laugh. Their mother looked to her youngest, bent industriously over the escritoire.
"Caroline, pray tell Cook that we will be four at dinner. In the small dining room."
"Can't Rebecca go?" her sister asked, petulantly. "I'm writing."
"But I asked you, my love," Mother answered, in the tone that meant she would not be brooked.
Sighing loudly, Caroline dropped her pen, spattering ink over her portion of the list, rose, and flounced toward the door.
"Doesn't a brother get a welcome, Lady Caro?" Dickon called, placing his hand over his heart.
Caroline barely spared him a glance.
"Good afternoon, Dickon," she said coolly. "You are quite ridiculous." She was gone in a swirl of skirts.
Lady Quince, so Mother had heard from Mrs. Settle only this morning, had recently redecorated her receiving parlor. She was therefore questioning Dickon closely on its new style, until he threw up his hands, laughing.
"Mercy, then, Mother! You know I was only there for ten minutes to do the pretty before Ferdy and I rode out! I hardly had time to memorize the number and color of the pillows on his mother's chaise!"
"If I had asked you about a horse you had spent ten minutes with . . ." Mother returned, with a smile.
"Nay, then! Though I risk my reputation as a keen observer of horse flesh by so doing, I must confess that I was this very afternoon in the company of what Ferdy assures me is a pretty filly, indeed, and I can scarcely recall anything of her!"
"No!" Rebecca laughed, putting down her fork and reaching for her wine glass. "Were you ill, Dickon, or bespelled?"
She expected a laugh in return, and perhaps a bogus swoon, but Dickon turned serious eyes to her.
"Odd you should say it," he murmured, picking up his own glass. He looked at their mother over the rim.
"I wonder, Mother, have you met the Quince's house guest?"
Mother tipped her head. "House—ah! Mrs. Settle had said something—a foreigner, I apprehend?"
"I believe his lands are at some distance, though I would hesitate to style him a foreigner." Dickon sipped wine, set the glass down, and addressed his plate once more.
"You, sir, are unhandsome!" Mother cried after he had eaten two or three forkfuls and had said nothing further.
Dickon looked up with an innocent face. "Oh, you are interested? Mind, I did not take note of the fabric of his coat, though I'll allow it to be well cut, if you will—and it suited him. The whole day suited him, it seemed. Very odd fellow. 'Course, I believe Fey often are, according to our lights, at least."
Caroline stirred, and leaned a little forward, interest sharpening her face.
"Fey?" she asked, voice breathy. "You spoke to a Fey?"
Dickon sent her a glance. "Interested, are you? As it happens, I did. Altimere of the Elder Fey, as he styles himself. Quince met him at the Boundary nine seasons ago; bought the grandsire of that filly I can't recall off him at the time. No man alive could ride the beast, but he was magnificent, and Quince bred him to his finest mare. That produced Thunderbolt, the filly's sire, half-Fey and half-mad. The filly, Ferdy tells me, is spirited but not murderous, and Quince counts her his success."
"But a Fey lord," Caroline persisted, her eyes wide and focused on Dickon's face. "Why is he here?"
"Quince invited him to visit, the next time he was on the roam, and Altimere took him at his word. Now he's on the lookout for land, says Ferdy."
"Land . . ." Rebecca murmured. "To farm?"
Dickon shook his head. "Horses," he said succinctly. "Apparently the outcome of Quince's breeding program got this Altimere to thinking about what profit he might realize from half- and quarter-Fey horses. If he breeds here—and produces horses whose sole object is not to murder their riders—then he has a fair shot at the city market." He shrugged.
"If he settles, I suppose he'll become quite commonplace. But as the first Fey in the county—"
"Not quite the first," Mother said surprisingly. "We had a Fey lady and her suite with us the winter Rebecca was born. They put up at the Hound and Horn, as I recall it, and made sure to visit all the houses in the neighborhood. She came to us for tea, she and her—well, I suppose I can only call him her bodyguard. He stood the whole time behind her chair, straight and silent as a blade."
"Really?" Dickon frowned slightly. "I don't remember that."
"You were with your aunt and uncle, my dear. Ask your father—I'm certain he'll recall. He and the lady spoke together privately for some while. She was looking for news of kin, and wished to inspect the—"
"But what does he look like?" Caroline interrupted impatiently. "Lord Altimere."
"Well." Dickon pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. He fingered his wine glass and looked up at the pale ceiling.
"He's a tall man," he said slowly, "tops me by a hand or two. Slender for his height—you know how Fey are."
"How should we?" Rebecca asked, interested despite herself. "We don't go to the Boundary to trade, and I was an infant when Mother's Fey lady came to call."
Dickon met her eyes. "True enough. Say then that he's tall and slender, sharp-faced, but with a good, strong nose."
"His hair?" Caroline asked, when he paused. "Is it yellow, like mine?"
"Yellow, oh, aye," Dickon returned slowly; "you might call it yellow—but not like yours, Lady Caro. And his eyes—you see I anticipate your next question!—you might say that his eyes are a pale brown. His coat—attend me now, Mother—was tawny, and his breeches rust colored, his boots polished so high I could see Ferdy reflected in them."
"What did he say?" Caroline demanded. "Was his voice sweet on the ear?"
"Really, Caroline," Mother said. "Such inquisitiveness!"
Her sister lifted her chin. "Why should I not know what this Fey lord is like?" she asked defiantly. "How if I meet him in the village?"
"Caroline!" Their mother was clearly shocked, but Dickon only raised an eyebrow.
"Looking to attach the Fey, Lady Caro?" he drawled, and Rebecca looked at him sharply. "I'd be careful with that one, were I the Earl's second daughter."
"Oh, pooh!" Caroline returned scornfully. "I'm not such a goose as Rebecca. And why shouldn't I look to a Fey lord? I may marry where I will."
It was hardly one of Caroline's sharpest barbs, but it cut, nonetheless. Rebecca closed her eyes, and her left hand clenched into a weak fist on her lap.
"Caroline, such self-consequence is hardly becoming," Mother said sharply. "Your father has made an unexceptional marriage for your sister, and you may hope that he does as well for you."
"I may hope that he does immensely better for me!" Caroline answered roundly. "I am not ruined and crippled into the bargain. It's a wonder Father found anyone to take Rebecca. Even an old man in need of funds might be expected to have some sensibilit—"
"That will do!" Dickon bellowed, making the china dance on the table. "You are distempered!"
Rebecca's eyes flew open in shock. Her brother's nature was impetuous, but to shout at one of his sisters over the dinner board? Mother would surely have his—
"I believe your brother is correct," Mother said coolly. "Your nerves are in disorder. Pray retire to your room and compose yourself. I will be up presently to hear how you mean to make amends to your sister."
Caroline lifted her chin. "I needn't make amends for speaking the truth," she said, but the effect was spoilt by the quaver in her voice.
"Perhaps not," Mother returned implacably. "But the way in which the truth was spoken—for that, you owe much. You are excused, Caroline."
It appeared for a moment that the Beauty would argue the point. Her usually pale cheeks were stained red, her eyes flashing fire. But that fiery stare faltered and fell before Mother's cool, dismissive glance. She bundled her napkin onto the table and rose with a mumbled, "Excuse me," which went unacknowledged by both her parent and her brother.
Rebecca, the goose—the cripple—Rebecca waited until her sister was decently out the door before she placed her own napkin on the table and pushed her chair back.
"If I may be excused," she murmured, keeping her eyes modestly on her plate. "I woul
d like to walk in the garden before the moon goes down."
"Now, Becca—" Dickon began, and—
"Of course," Mother said, somehow managing to override him without raising her voice. "You missed your walk this afternoon, I know. Take your shawl—and remember to come bid me goodnight before you retire."
"Yes . . ." she murmured and got hastily to her feet, deliberately not meeting her brother's eyes. "Good evening, Dickon."
" 'Evening, love," he said softly. "Bold heart wins all, Becca."
It was an old joke, and she smiled for it as she moved down the room, keeping her steps sedate with a sheer effort of will.