Kissed by Starlight

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  Felicia found the information she sought. Closing the book, she gently caressed the leather cover, worn and smoothed by generations of hands until one would have been unable to tell it from the finest silk. She restored the Bible to its proper place and went out.

  Meeting Varley in the corridor as he went about his last duty for the night, she said, “See to it that the library is cleaned tomorrow. It’s becoming rather squalid in there.”

  “Yes, miss. Very good, miss.”

  Felicia forbore to rub at the bruises he’d left on her arms. The marks Lady Stavely had raked into her throat were harder to conceal. Though they had not been painful since Blaic had held her, the marks remained. If she were to have a calm conversation with Lady Stavely, better to hide the marks of her ladyship’s fury.

  Felicia stopped in her room to drag out a different fichu, edged with wide lappets of muslin. She covered her bosom with it, pinning it high around her throat.

  At her knock, Lady Stavely’s maid opened her chamber door, though only enough to poke her narrow nose through. “Oh, ‘tis you. Bide here.”

  The door, imperfectly closed, allowed Felicia to hear Liza announce her. There was a long silence before the maid came back. “She’s retired. She’ll speak to you after church t’morrow.”

  “Kindly tell Lady Stavely that I have decided to go to Tallyford on Tuesday. I trust that meets with her approval.”

  From behind the maid, Lady Stavely called, “Permit her to enter, Liza.”

  The maid looked back but didn’t turn her head so much that Felicia could not see her grimace of surprise. When confirmation was given, Liza rolled her eyes. After a moment, during which Felicia plainly heard heavy footsteps, she swung the door open.

  Lady Stavely lay tucked up in her bed, a myriad of pillows clustered behind her to prop her up. She wore a soft, lace-trimmed cap, tied beneath her chin in a broad bow. Cap and lace were both black. Her robe, equally inky in hue, was fastened down the front with wide ribbons. The blackness of her clothing lent Lady Stavely’s face an interesting pallor. Felicia was fascinated to learn that her stepmother wore her numerous rings to bed.

  “So,” Lady Stavely began, all but purring, “you’ve decided not to accept Sir Elswith’s offer?”

  “You knew of it?”

  “I’m not quite a fool. I know when a man is in rut for some chit. This evening, I could all but smell it in the air. I confess to a curiosity. What is the going price for a mistress in these degenerate days?’’ Felicia did not know quite what to make of her stepmother in this mood. She seemed almost playful, if such a thing were possible.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t consider it of enough importance to listen closely. Something about Paris.”

  “In truth? You surprise me. Sir Elswith must be infatuated beyond anything I’ve ever known of him.”

  “I doubt somehow that he ever intended any such journey.”

  “Alas! Men are deceitful, are they not? Or perhaps, in your experience, you do not find them so? Do they pay for their pleasure where you are concerned?”

  Felicia had grown almost used to her ladyship’s little knives. She said, “I trust that my taking up my new post so soon won’t inconvenience the present directress. She will be welcome to stay on until she marries.”

  “On the contrary. Miss Dravoget says she is only waiting for your arrival to wed. The sooner the better, in fact.”

  Felicia had no doubt Lady Stavely meant that. She said, “I’d leave tomorrow were it not the Sabbath.”

  “Ah, yes. We must respect that.” Looking past Felicia, the older woman motioned to Liza. The wizened maid carried to the bed a wooden box bound with brass hoops. A chatelaine belt, jangling with the silver-chased implements of a lady — three-inch-long scissors, the keys of the house and cupboards, a small ivory fan, a needle-safe — rested on top of the box.

  Lady Stavely chose a key and fitted it to the box’s small brass lock. Handing the belt back to Lisa, she balanced the box on her knees and threw open the lid of the box. Felicia could only see part of the contents—jewels that caught the candlelight and threw it back in a glittering rainbow, everything from near-midnight amethyst to the cold brilliance of diamonds. Then, as Lady Stavely’s hand delved into the box, Felicia heard the metallic slip and slide of coins.

  “I shall pay you your stipend now,” she said. “Let me see.... Your father’s will has guaranteed you a hundred pounds a year, exactly the amount of your present allowance.”

  “That’s correct.” Her father had not foreseen that his wife would be so eager to see the back of her. Perhaps he should have guessed it, but he had always been one to think the best of those closest to him. A hundred pounds would keep the wolf, and the duns, from her door, but he had never intended her to live on that sum alone. He, at least, had expected her to marry one day, though he thought nineteen too young to do so.

  Lady Stavely said, “Then there’s to be your salary as directress. Miss Dravoget received sixty-five pounds a year and the Governors were kind enough to vote her an extra twenty as a wedding gift. Most suitable. Your father then dipped into his pocket for a further twenty-five pounds.”

  “He was always most generous.”

  “Hmmm.” Lady Stavely tightened her lips as though keeping back her opinion of her late husband’s kindness. “As you are inexperienced, you cannot expect to command the same salary as Miss Dravoget. Too, the Governors are aware of your private means. Therefore, it was agreed that you should be given a salary of fifty pounds, with a rise in salary dependent upon your manner of discharging your duties.”

  She began to draw coins out from the box, one at a time. “I shall give you fourteen pounds, ten, now, even though you have not served any portion of this quarter. It must last you until your father’s will is proved, whereupon I shall instruct Mr. Ashton to send your allowance directly to you. You are, of course, not yet of age, but I do not believe we need let it weigh with us.”

  She seemed to be expecting thanks, so Felicia thanked her.

  “Oh, don’t thank me — it’s your own money. You don’t realize, I’m certain, how fortunate you are. Most women are never permitted any but their pin money to play ducks and drakes with; you have a respectable income. You can command the necessities of life, if not necessarily its elegancies.” Did her eyes slide to the oppressive elegance of her own chamber, every surface burdened with its load of lace and fripperies?

  The coins slipped and slid in Lady Stavely’s small hand. “Liza,” she said petulantly, “bring me that little beaded purse. Yes. The bronze one I don’t care for.”

  The maid brought it over and Lady Stavely poured her “bounty” into it. “There. You may keep that, as well.”

  “You are too kind, Stepmama.”

  “I know it. You will attend church with us tomorrow. I intend to give humble thanks for my daughter’s deliverance. If you like, I shall lend you Liza to help with your packing.”

  “Thank you. I think Mary will be able to do all I wish.”

  “As you like.” Lady Stavely shut her jewelry box with a snap and gave it to the maid. “Lock it up. I shan’t want it anymore this evening.”

  Felicia, who had been standing by the bedside throughout this interview, took this as a sign that she might go. But Lady Stavely recalled her attention as she approached the door. “Understand me well, Felicia. After you leave this house on Monday, you are not to return to it. I have arranged this position for you at some cost to myself. If you lose it, you can look for no further aid from me.”

  “I am aware of it, Lady Stavely. You do not need to tell me. After all, I did not ask you to do even so much for me as you have done.”

  “Fine, proud words. Yet knowing you from a child, knowing your mother full well, I wonder at them. Remember who you are. Henceforth, you are nothing to me but a way-begot child of my late husband’s. I shall neither acknowledge your existence nor lend you any assistance. If I am asked about you, I will change the subject as I would from any indel
icacy.”

  Felicia admitted freely that Lady Stavely had always brought out the worst in her. She could never be natural under the older woman’s criticism, either silent or viciously expressed. Hating the knowledge, Felicia knew she turned into a younger version of Lady Stavely whenever they spoke — stiff-necked, cold, and sarcastic. Yet, for all this, she had imagination enough to picture what it must have been like for Lady Stavely, having one’s husband deposit on the family doorstep a bastard about whom one had known little beyond the fact of her existence. What humiliation and mortification she must have suffered.

  Yet Felicia wondered how much warmth Matilda, Lady Stavely, had possessed even prior to her own arrival at Hamdry. If she had been a different sort of woman — more imaginative herself, or more emotional—perhaps they could have had a meeting of minds and become reconciled to their situation. As it was, all the understanding was on Felicia’s side alone. Therefore, she closed her lips over whatever cutting remarks occurred to her and simply curtsied, to the exact degree of the directress of an orphanage to her patroness.

  “Good night, Lady Stavely.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It should have been quite easy to know what to pray for. In two days she would start a new chapter in her life. The health and spiritual well-being of a group of children, none of whom she knew the first thing about, would be her responsibility. She should have been on her knees praying for wisdom, for kindness, for strength.

  Instead, because she had caught a glimpse of a broad-shouldered masculine back topped by a head of light brown hair, she permitted her feelings to be overset like some silly fool. What could be less likely than to see Blaic in church? Whatever his People believed, she doubted it was the tenets of the Church Established.

  Even if she had wanted to turn and stare about her, the construction of the family pew made it impossible. All she could see was the feet and gaiter-bound ankles of Mr. Hales, the vicar. He was preaching on charity. Felicia tried to silence her thoughts by listening attentively. Mr. Hales was an excellent sermon-maker, yet today he utterly failed to keep her interest.

  For about the last one hundred and fifty services, it had been Clarice who’d found it impossible to sit still long enough for the sermon to do her any good. And even now, though Clarice smiled up at Mr. Hales from under her wide-brimmed, feather-fancied hat, Felicia felt somehow confident that the girl was not paying attention to the story of Ruth. She wondered what pleasant daydream her half-sister had created for herself.

  She herself thought about Tuesday and the journey she would undertake. Knowing little or nothing about her future residence, and cursing herself for being too proud to ask questions of Lady Stavely, she hardly knew what to pack. All her personal effects, of course, and those few movables that her father had given her.

  When church was let out, Felicia had the beginnings of a list in her mind. When both Mr. Hales and Doctor Danby bore down upon her in the aisle, she did not at once understand what they were saying. That they spoke at the same time didn’t help her comprehension.

  “It’s a good Christian thing you’ve done,” said the parson.

  “It’s a reckless piece of nonsense,” the doctor said nearly simultaneously. “No good will come of it, mark me!”

  “All the best traditions of womanly kindness ...”

  “You should ‘a’ left ‘em to rot.”

  “Well worth whatever minor difficulties it may cause you.”

  “I hope you’re grateful to me. I listened to Garfield blather on for two hours and the better part of two bottles before he’d agree.”

  Felicia turned toward Mr. Hales and gave him her gloved hand. “You are too kind. I could only think how happy I was to be delivered. I wanted the others to have the same joy.”

  The parson, a youngish man whose sweeping robe always seemed too big for him, gave her hand an ardent squeeze. “Truly a noble spirit...”

  Felicia extracted her hand. “Perhaps it is just me,” she thought, giving him the benefit of her doubt. “Surely he wouldn’t be of the same mind as Sir Elswith...not a man of the cloth.” No doubt it was simply that she’d become overly thin-skinned where men were concerned; every smile seemed to be a leer, every touch a loathsome caress. Nonsense! Mr. Hales had never given anyone the idea that he even knew there was such a thing as the female of the species.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hales,” she said. “But ‘twas all Doctor Danby’s doing.”

  Mr. Hales eyed the doctor warily — they’d had noisy confrontations before on the conflict between science and theology. Bravely, Mr. Hales said, “I’m sure the good doctor wrestled most valiantly.”

  “Ha! Pot-valiantly! That judge could drink Bacchus under the table, but not me!”

  Felicia turned gratefully to the doctor as the parson, a slight, condescending smile on his lips, went out to speak to Lady Stavely, waiting for him in her carriage. The living he enjoyed had been in her husband’s gift.

  “I’m leaving in two days to take up my new position,” Felicia said. “What do you know about the orphanage at Tallyford?”

  “Worse than some, better than most. They don’t lose many children, ‘cept now and again. I’ve never been called there, but feeling about me as Lady Stavely does, that’s no wonder. It’s to be hoped you’ll be happy there.”

  “I hope to make myself useful.”

  “There’s a need.” He walked on with her a few steps, then stopped on the square-cut stone laid in the floor over the mortal remains of a sixteenth-century Viscount Stavely. “Those ‘friends’ of yours that you liberated from gaol — never let me hear you blame me for that again!”

  Felicia shook her head with a muffled laugh and swore she would take all the blame in the future.

  “Very well then. Those ‘friends’ of yours have been spreading a queer tale.” He walked on again. “Aren’t you going to ask me what it is? Or do you know?”

  “People talk,” she said.

  “Indeed they do. As a rule, I take no notice of gossip, but this is different.” They reached the square of sunlight that poured in like warm honey through the open church door. “They’re saying —’

  “Witch!”

  A missile flung by some strong arm flew toward her.

  Felicia froze on the church steps. Only Doctor Danby’s quick work in jerking her back inside the church kept her from wearing the clod of dirt as an addition to the flowers on her hat. He pushed the door to as the splattering of dirt hit against the oak.

  “Idiots!” the doctor growled, making the word sound like the most vicious of oaths.

  Someone pushed on the door, but the doctor held it fast. “Go to the front, my dear,” he said.

  “Wait. Open it.”

  “Are you mad? Let that mob in here?’’

  “It’s not...” She caught the sound of a familiar voice. “It’s Mr. Hales.”

  To his credit, the doctor hardly hesitated. The young man staggered in, his black robe with the furred collar powdered with dirt, his triple-curled wig askew. He stared and shivered like an offended cat. “In my own churchyard — in my own churchyard!”

  “Who was it?” the doctor asked.

  “I didn’t see. Some few ruffians at the edge of the congregation. Several of the yeomanry set off in pursuit when, after their cowardly assault, they ran away.”

  “Good. If they catch them, the constable will stop moaning about his empty gaol.” Doctor Danby wedged his small body into the angle of a stone niche and folded his arms as he prepared a dogmatic argument. “Superstition breeds contempt for his betters in the mind of the workingman. I could bring you a hundred examples from the annals of human history, yet...”

  “Yes, quite.” Mr. Hales turned from his adversary to Felicia. “You are not hurt, Miss Starret?”

  “No. Doctor Danby kept me from harm.” She fixed her eyes on the younger man. “Why did they do that?”

  “Some foolish tale, believed by the credulous. As a rational man...."

  The do
ctor snorted. “Has your sort stopped burning witches yet?”

  Mr. Hales glared at him. “I, sir, am from Oxford. We don’t burn anyone...unless some doctor deserves it.” His tone softened as he turned again to Felicia. “Some of those persons you had delivered from gaol...”

  “What about them?” she prompted.

  “Of course, these stories are told at fourth and fifth hand. No doubt the details are garbled.”

  “What do they say?”

  A third male voice, never to be mistaken for another, came out of the dimness of the cold interior. “Didn’t you hear? They are calling you a witch. Feeding the hungry as a noble endeavor has gone entirely out of fashion.”

  “Blaic!” She hurried away from her old acquaintances and went toward him. His eyes were smiling at her with true affection, though his face was grave.

  In voice that did not carry, she said, “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here.”

  “In a church? In one so old as this, there are ways to enter that do not force me to cross iron, not even a nail.” He let his gaze wander about the plain walls and multi-colored panes of glass in the windows. “This church is built on the foundation of the one that was here in Sira’s time. For all I know, she may be buried here with her husband, her children, and her grandchildren.”

  “I did not see her name in my father’s Bible.”

  “No, you would not. She is so far in your family’s past that she is little more than a legend by now, I’d surmise. Not even the earth remembers her. I thought the stone might.” He closed his eyes as though listening.

  Felicia kept silent, not wanting to interrupt his reverie. A tiny jealousy awoke in her heart. She tried to tell herself it was merely curiosity. What would it be like to have a man love her so much that not even time, the destroyer, could defeat his longing? Yet all the while, she knew it was jealousy, all the more bitter in that the rival had been dead for centuries.