“Whew!” He sat up and looked around, then rubbed his eyes. “Funny, I must have been seeing double.” Cobnut, ever wary of humans, was gone. John went on humbly, “Reynata, I don’t know how to thank you. What shall we do now?”
“Hurry home!”
They set off, John on foot now, hatless and looking distinctly the worse for wear after his sojourn in the well. As they went, Reynata told him his wicked brothers’ plans. She saw no further reason to keep the firebird’s identity secret.
“It’s Aldwin?” John was aghast. “Can Mistress Gresham change him back?”
“I hope so. You had best go straight to the Towers while I go home and fetch Grandmama there.”
“Oh yes. You run ahead, don’t wait for me. I’ll go as fast as I can.”
Reynata ran fast, but the wise-woman moved slowly, so they caught up with John at the gates of Wick Towers. He was arguing with the gatekeeper. Scruffy as he was, bare-headed and tousled, his coat torn, his face scratched, he scarcely resembled the Honourable John Drake, who was, besides, rumoured dead. At last the gatekeeper was persuaded to admit him, but as for the old woman in the shabby cloak....
Gammer Gresham threw back her hood, drew herself up, and looked at him. Hastily he apologized and hurried to open the gates. Reynata slipped through unnoticed while he bowed to the wise-woman and Master John.
They came to the massive, iron-bound oak front door of the Towers. John opened it and stepped in, Mistress Gresham on his arm, Reynata close at his side.
In the great hall, a tableau met their eyes. Lord Androwick sat in an ancient carved chair by the fireside. In its twin, across the hearth, Lady Helen wept bitterly. Damon and Basil, hearing the door open, had swung round and were gaping at the newcomers. Several servants also turned and stared.
In spite of the drama, and though she had never entered the mansion before, Reynata had eyes only for the firebird, confined in a wicker cage to one side. As she moved towards him, the Earl demanded, “Who the devil...?”
The butler recovered from his surprise and directed several footmen to eject the intruders. As they converged on John and Mistress Gresham, Lady Helen raised her golden head. “John!” she cried, and ran to him, to be folded in his arms.
“What the devil...?”
Working at the cage latch with her teeth, Reynata did not listen to the muddled explanations which followed. She was aware that Damon and Basil tried to slink out, to be stopped by the footmen on the Earl’s orders. Then Grandmama joined her and pulled the latch-pin.
Aldwin stepped out of the cage. “Reynata,” he whispered, and brushed her foxy face with his feathery head. Then he spread his wings and launched himself into the air, to alight on the arm of his father’s chair just as John at last got around to telling the Earl who the firebird really was.
“My son!” the Earl lamented.
From an obscure corner, Reynata watched her foster-mother approach the hearth. She carried herself with pride and dignity, ignoring aches and pains. Lord Androwick rose to meet her, silent, holding out both his hands. She gave him hers.
“It has been a long time, Stephen.” She spoke softly, but Reynata’s vulpine senses heard every word, and wondered.
“Now will you marry me, Rosa?”
Mistress Gresham shook her head. “No, my dear. It is too late. I am content in my cottage. But you may visit me there.”
“I shall!” vowed the Earl. “Rosa, can you help my son?”
“I believe so. But first I must dispose of the miscreants who are still a danger to him.” She turned to Damon and Basil and said thoughtfully, “Black beetles, I think.”
“Grawk!” came a voice from the roof-beams. “I love crunchy black beetles!”
The wicked pair fell on their knees. “Have mercy!” they cried.
“Had you any? Well, I daresay it would be an embarrassment to your family to have to own two beetles as relatives. Perhaps you would prefer to enlist as soldiers. Though your presence will scarcely compensate the army for Lord Drake’s absence, two sons of one family will surely suffice.”
Damon and Basil sulkily consented to take the King’s shilling—the Earl agreed that they did not deserve to have commissions purchased for them—rather than be turned into tidbits for Tibb’s dinner. Their father had them confined in a scullery while a recruiting sergeant was sent for.
“John shall have Winworthy Manor,” he said. “I daresay, my boy, if you write a properly contrite letter to the Duke he will overlook Lady Helen’s elopement. Never thought you’d do so well for yourself. A duke’s daughter and a dashed pretty one!”
Lady Helen kissed his lined cheek. “La, sir, you are excessively kind!”
Mistress Gresham turned her attention to Aldwin. By then half the Towers’ staff had gathered in the great hall. Reynata lurked in the background. If the front door had not been closed, she would have made her escape, for once Aldwin was human again there was no place for a fox in his life. Her presence could only embarrass him.
Between two twittering maids, Reynata saw the firebird perched on the edge of a long, carven table. Firelight glinted redly on his golden plumage. Grandmama brought a steaming pot from the hearth, and poured the contents into a porcelain bowl. The fragrance of sweet herbs drifted through the hall.
The wise-woman stared at the liquid, muttering. Then she looked long and hard at Aldwin, seeming to read his mind as, with a proud lift of his crested head, his crystal eyes met her gaze.
In both hands she raised the bowl. “Drink,” she commanded, and the proud head bowed to sip.
The firebird blurred—or was it the tears in Reynata’s eyes? No, a gasp went up from all the watchers as shimmering red-gold feathers blended into a scarlet uniform with gold braid. Aldwin, Lord Drake, straightened from his seat on the edge of the table and looked around, searching the excited crowd.
“Reynata?”
Had he forgotten how to speak?
“Where is my deliverer, my love, my little fox?”
The servants parted to leave a passage before her. She had nowhere to hide. Trembling in unbelief, she padded forward as he came to meet her.
The world swirled about her. She was human. She was in his arms, enveloped in a tender, passionate embrace.
“Good gad!” ejaculated Lord Androwick.
Aldwin led Reynata forward. “Father, Miss Gresham, my bride. Give us your blessing.”
The Earl leaned forward. “Can you do that again, Miss Gresham?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes, sir,” she said, blushing. “I am a wer-fox.” Now he would forbid the marriage.
But he did not. He slapped his knee and exclaimed, “A wer-fox, by Jove! There’s not another collector in the country—”
“Father! Reynata will be Lady Drake, not an exhibit in your menagerie.”
“Of course not,” said the Earl, covering a sigh of disappointment with an injured air. “Wouldn’t dream of it. A wer-fox in the family, even better! Come, my dears.” He held out a hand each to Reynata and Lady Helen. “Give an old man a kiss. We’ll have a double wedding, hey?”
Each gave him a kiss, promptly repaid a thousandfold by their respective lovers.
Dizzy with happiness, Reynata jumped when Tibb landed on Aldwin’s shoulder.
“My felicitations,” said the raven. He peered backwards at John and Lady Helen, who were gazing into each other’s eyes like a couple of moonlings. “Grawk! Just between us birds,” Tibb went on confidentially, “you got the better deal, my lord. Gives a fellow ideas. I don’t suppose you could spare some of that gold braid for a nest?”
********************************
SUPERSTITION
First published in All Hallows’ Eve, Walker & Co. 1992
“Come and dance, Melly!” Peter seized Amelia’s soft little hand and tugged her towards the far end of the room, where the fiddler was tuning up.
“Later.” The white ruffles on her pale pink muslin gown swayed about her ankles as she resisted. “It is near
ly my turn to have my fortune told.”
“I’m dashed if I know what you see in such nonsense,” he snorted.
She tossed her head, her dark, glossy ringlets bouncing. “I would not miss it for the world. This year Mr. Gregg has hired a genuine Gypsy woman who can really see the future.”
“Pure superstition.” Laughing, he gestured at the admirable decorations Mr. Gregg, landlord of the George, had hung about the walls of the assembly room. “I suppose you believe in witches, too, riding on broomsticks in their pointy hats. And as tonight is All Hallows’ Eve, no doubt the ghosts will all waft from their graves at midnight and dance around your revered papa’s churchyard. What an adorable ninny you are, Amelia.”
“And you are odious!” Rosy lips pouted, delectably kissable—but the long room was full of families, friends and neighbours. “If you truly loved me,” she complained, “you would not always be laughing at me.”
“But I do love you, Mel.” Distractedly running his fingers through his fair hair, Peter wreaked havoc on the Brutus he had laboured over for quite half an hour. “I have loved you since you were in leading strings and I wish you will make up your mind to marry me.”
“You cannot want a ninny for a wife.” She turned away towards the fortune-teller’s gaudy tent, pitched in the corner. A blonde young lady in blue dimity was just coming out. “Jenny! What did the Gypsy say?”
Peter’s youngest sister gave a theatrical shudder. “It was perfectly horrid, Melly,” she declared, her blue eyes bright with relish. “But I cannot tell you what she said or it will not come true.”
“Horrid?” Amelia faltered.
“Come on.” Peter seized the excuse to put his arm around her slender waist. “I shall go in with you. I wager you have forgot silver to cross her palm, anyway.”
“No, I have not. I brought a shilling.”
“I daresay sixpence would be enough, but perhaps you will get a better fortune for a shilling,” he teased.
The garish outer covering of the tent was composed of alternate red and yellow panels, embroidered in green with cabalistic signs. The contrast with the interior was startling. Inside, black hangings of a sheenless material absorbed the light of the single candle, flickering in a sconce behind and above the fortune-teller’s head. The Gypsy woman, her face in darkness, sat at a small, round table draped with black. Before her, a crystal ball seemed to shimmer with an inner light.
Peter had to admit—strictly to himself—that the effect was decidedly eery.
The still figure spoke in a low voice. “Squire’s son and vicar’s daughter, come.” She beckoned.
Amelia pressed close against Peter’s side. It was a delightful sensation, but he gave her a gentle squeeze and pushed her forward. “Go on. I shall be right here.”
She sat down on the spindly chair facing the Gypsy and he stood behind her, resting his hands on its back. “How did you know who we are?” she asked, awed.
“Is that the question you wish to ask of the Powers?”
Detecting a hint of amused irony, Peter felt more comfortable. After all, Sir William Lovatt’s heir and the Reverend Blake’s daughter were well known in Amesbury. No occult Powers were needed to discover their identities.
“No, I just want to know the future,” Amelia assured her. “My future.” She proffered her shilling.
The Gypsy pocketed the silver coin and nodded, her dark eyes reflecting a fugitive gleam. “Hold my hands and gaze into the crystal ball. Concentrate on what you want to know.”
Amelia cast a nervous glance up at Peter. He squeezed her shoulder encouragingly, sensing the fragile bones beneath the satin-smooth skin revealed by her modest décolletage. Gingerly she clasped the Gypsy’s hands.
Muffled by the tent’s draperies, the music and laughter and talk in the assembly room outside seemed far off. Peter heard the ticking of his watch. Amelia’s pulse beat rapidly against his fingertips. He could not tear his gaze from the glowing crystal.
The Gypsy’s voice startled him. “I see a ring... stones...white robes and a ceremony. In an ancient place, you will find your heart’s desire. Wait.” She paused for a long, tense moment. “No, now a mist is rising, hiding the scene. That is all.”
“I did not see anything,” said Amelia doubtfully.
The response was harsh. “It is not given to the uninitiated to read the future!”
Amelia jump to her feet, then bobbed a curtsy and said with dignity, “Thank you, ma’am.” Peter was proud of her as she took his arm and walked straight-backed from the tent.
Outside, a plump farm girl was waiting with her swain, giggling. “What’s it like, Miss Blake?” she asked. “Did the crone tell you who you’re going to wed?” She flirted her eyelashes at Peter and he winked at her.
“It was spine-chilling,” he said in a sepulchral voice.
“It was strange,” said Amelia slowly. “You had best take Ernie in with you.” As the couple entered the tent, she turned to Peter. “I do not understand what the Gypsy meant.”
He grinned. “The usual garbled nonsense, but easy enough to decipher. A betrothal ring, obviously, and a wedding ceremony with you wearing a white wedding dress.”
“And the ancient place?”
“The church.”
“It is old,” she admitted, disappointed and dissatisfied. “Papa says parts of it are Norman. That was an excessively dull fortune. I wanted something exciting.”
“Isn’t marrying me exciting enough for you?”
“She did not say it was you I shall marry,” Amelia pointed out with a saucy look, recovering her spirits.
“She would never commit herself to anything so specific. As it is, you are bound to be betrothed and married some day so she could hardly go wrong.”
“Well, I believe what she said, and I am not so sure it was as simple as you say.”
“Nothing will convince you it’s all superstition?” Several glasses of Mr. Gregg’s notorious punch put the next words into Peter’s mouth. “I’ll tell you what, I shall prove to you that ghosts don’t exist.”
“How?” she challenged him.
“We shall go up to Stonehenge at midnight. The Druids used to build huge fires at Halloween to drive off the evil spirits they believed were let loose at midnight by the god of the dead. Can you imagine any place or any time when ghosts are more likely to appear?”
“N-no.”
“Then if we are there and nothing materialises, you will have to believe that there is no such thing as a ghost.”
Her head cocked, she gave him a speculative look from beneath long lashes. “Perhaps,” she conceded.
“You are not afraid?”
“Papa says if ghosts exist they are immaterial beings who cannot harm the living.”
“Good enough. You go and bob for apples while I make arrangements.”
“Bob for apples! Not I. My ringlets would dangle in the water.”
“That would be too dreadful for words. Did you sleep in curl papers all night?”
“No gentleman would ask such a question of a lady! I shall go and dance with one of my other beaux.”
Peter watched her cross the room, slight and graceful in her high-waisted gown with its straight skirt and puff sleeves.
Before she was half way to her mother’s side, she was surrounded by friends, both male and female. A moment later her father’s curate led her onto the dance floor, where a country dance was about to start up.
How could she bring herself to stand up with such a wretched, stoop-shouldered fellow? He would probably step on her toes—he was no better at dancing than he was at riding, and he couldn’t drive a pair to save his life. A whey-faced, mealy-mouthed flat, he didn’t even know the difference between wheat and barley, and a boar in rut would send him scampering for—
“Yellow with jealousy, Peter?”
“Freddy, you are just the man I need.”
“No, no, old chap, can’t challenge a man of God to a duel. Simply isn’t done.”
“Druids!”
“Haven’t you read old Colt Hoare’s stuff? You know, Sir Richard, my father’s friend over at Stourhead who’s forever writing books about Wiltshire antiquities. He proves pretty conclusively that Stonehenge was the chief Druid temple, and never mind those Banbury stories about the Romans or the Danes building the place.”
“Yes, but whoever built it, you are two thousand years too late to see them cavorting there,” Freddy protested.
“Not them, their ghosts. It’s the perfect place for ghosts. Remember when we read Caesar at school—”
“Devil take it, you’ve never told Melly about the human sacrifices!”
“Of course not—and she is Miss Blake to you.”
“You’re not betrothed yet.”
“Not yet,” said Peter smugly, “but believe me, we soon shall be after we have been seen alone together at Stonehenge in the middle of the night. Now listen, will you? Here is what I want you to do.”
With some argument he persuaded his friend that his plan was a harmless lark, and gave him the blunt to buy a few old sheets from Mrs. Gregg, the landlord’s accommodating young wife. While Freddy went to round up his accomplices, Peter stood for a minute watching the dancers.
Amelia was light on her feet as a week-old lamb. Her ringlets bobbed merrily as she smiled at her partner and turned on his arm. She loved to dance. If only she didn’t change her mind about going with him!
Then she grimaced, and he guessed the curate really had trod on her toes, bless him. Peter went to harness his gig.
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