by Jane Feather
So here he was, trapped into having to marry, knowing what hell marriage could be, unwilling to expose himself to the rigors of a Society alliance. That’s why he’d thought of Mélisande. She was the solution to all his problems. With Mélisande, known to her family as May, he would avoid the loveless misery he’d witnessed between his own parents. He would spend his life with a peaceful angel, away from war and blood and pain. And Fidkin was wrong. He wouldn’t continue to interest himself in Lady Alberta with May for a wife. At least, not as much. There was the possibility that too much tranquillity would grow boring. If that happened, well, he would see. If there was one thing a man learned quickly, it was how to be discreet. No doubt his angelic Mélisande would understand.
SHELLEY AND Wordsworth would have loved the village of Exbridge. Just west of the sprawling London suburbs, it contained a lively market, a street of brightly painted shops, and was surrounded by forested hills, and streams that splashed their way into shadowed valleys. Exbridge also contained a doctor, for when one got sick from food purchased at the market or broke a leg climbing one of the hills.
The widowed doctor lived in a modest house called Ivy Park outside the village with his three daughters, a cook, a coachman, and a lady’s maid for the girls. He’d been to the Crimea and survived. A remarkable feat, even for a doctor. And now he was busy marrying off the last of his daughters, or so the village gossips said. Of course, they didn’t count the eldest, Miss May, whom the doctor and the village gossips had long ago given up for a hopeless spinster.
The doctor had lost hope when, at the age of eighteen, May failed to attract the attention of an eligible man from among his large number of acquaintances in medical circles or in those of the numerous relatives of her late mother. The Exbridge gossips could have foretold this failure if they’d been asked, the reason for it being illustrated at this very moment.
On this late afternoon, the time of day when the light turns gold and shadows lengthen, a small woman in an old-fashioned housedress handed a few shillings to a peddler on Exbridge’s High Street and ignored his attempts to sell her anything else but the small bottle she now held up to the golden sunlight. She had been attracted by the unusual range of colors that seemed to appear and disappear in the depths of the glass. Lit by the deep, soft glow of the setting sun, she caught sight of dark forest colors that shifted into the teal, then lapis lazuli and midnight blues of the sky. These were colors that had always attracted her.
May touched the silver top of the stopper and the bands of it that flowed down the sides of the vessel. She was so distracted by her purchase that she failed to acknowledge the greetings of several acquaintances. Her fingers plucked the stopper from the bottle. She was about to replace it when she saw something lodged in the neck. Using a hairpin, she pried out a rolled scrap of leather, discolored with age. When she unrolled it, she read words in an old style of writing, the age of which she couldn’t place.
To thine own wish be true. Do not follow the moth to the star.
“How odd,” May whispered. She contemplated the inscription, but soon decided that some child had placed it there as a game.
May raised her brows. “Moths to stars? What advice is this? Perhaps caution against foolish ventures. Father certainly doesn’t want me to go with him to India. What a coincidence.” She contemplated her father’s approaching journey for a moment, then looked down at the bottle.
“Thine own wish,” she said with a faint smile as she replaced the leather roll and stoppered the bottle.
Her wish, what would it be? If she wished for anything, it would be to have enough of a fortune to care for all her charges, keep them safe, fed, in good health. It would take a large fortune, for the need was great, so great that it kept her awake at night contemplating what horrors might be taking place that she could not prevent.
Sighing, May put the bottle in a pocket of her gown. “No use wishing for what Providence hasn’t seen fit to provide.”
As she settled her skirts and pulled her mantelet straight, a village lad ran up to her and babbled excitedly. May picked up her skirts and burst into a sprint behind the lad, who hopped and capered ahead of her while gesturing wildly and urging her to hurry.
Here, then, are the proofs of why Miss May is not married, which the village gossips beg to present—a habit of unseemly haste, a regrettable lack of attention to personal appearance, and no sense of the impropriety of a young woman rushing about the streets unescorted.
To which proofs May Peabody would reply, “Rubbish and cant!”
That is what she would have said now, if she bothered to stop. But she was in haste, and only paused at the blacksmith’s shop to summon Small Tom, the proprietor’s massive son. Small Tom emerged from the smithy, wiped his hands on a rag, and set off in May’s wake.
May was already near the end of High Street. There she suddenly plunged into the ancient inn after the lad. She had heard the yelping from the other end of High Street, and it was loudest in the old inn yard. Racing across the parlor past the boy, who was one of her scouts, she hurried through the kitchen and out to the yard. There May saw the inn’s owner, Mr. Blunt, flaying a coach dog with a whip. May flew across the yard as Blunt raised the whip over his shoulder. She snatched the end of the weapon and yanked hard. The whip jerked out of Blunt’s hand as he sought to ply it, sending him off-balance. Blunt wasn’t a tall man, but he was wide and built like a beer barrel, so he recovered quickly and turned on May.
“You! I told you to keep yourself out of my inn, Miss. I’ll have the law on you, I will.”
Blunt tried to snatch the whip back, but May ducked and placed in on the ground. Then she stepped on it, bent the handle, and broke it. Blunt’s howl was almost as loud as the poor coach dog’s. May ignored him and knelt beside the dog as Small Tom arrived. Blunt was reaching for May when Small Tom wrapped one of his hands around the innkeeper’s neck and lifted him off his feet. Blunt hung in the air, strangling and kicking his legs.
May paid him no attention. The coach dog’s white fur was dappled with black spots and stripes of red blood. It was a young male, and would have been strong had he been fed. May could see his ribs. She felt his body gently while he lay still and whimpered a bit. Behind her Blunt was making noises like a sick pig.
May took off her mantelet, laid it on the ground, and lifted the coach dog onto it. Wrapping the garment around the creature, she picked it up. The animal was so weak it hadn’t the strength to be frightened or to struggle. The dog should have been too heavy for her, but Blunt’s treatment had made lifting him easy. Cradling the dog in her arms, May turned to face the innkeeper. His face vermilion, Blunt could only make choking sounds while Small Tom looked on impassively.
May surveyed Blunt, her manner seemingly calm, her voice revealing the turmoil within by its tremor. “Not two days ago I warned you about your cruelty, Mr. Blunt, and you haven’t mended your ways. Put him down so that he may speak, Small Tom.”
Blunt’s feet were allowed to touch the ground. The man gasped, coughed, and then swore at May. Small Tom’s hand closed around his neck, and he flew into the air again to dangle for a few moments before being dropped. Blunt landed on his knees this time, but he stopped swearing.
May said, “You are a poor creature, Mr. Blunt. To beat and starve an animal is abominable. You will not do it. Do you understand?”
“I’ll have the law on you!” Blunt croaked.
“No, you will not, Mr. Blunt.”
“I will, you bleeding—eck!”
Small Tom cuffed Blunt on the side of his head with a massive fist, and the innkeeper subsided.
“I can see that you’re a man whom no one’s words will control, Mr. Blunt, and I’m sorry for it.”
May nodded at Small Tom, who suddenly acquired an interest in the sky. Walking away from the two, he clasped his hands behind his back and whistled as he contemplated the clouds. When he was a few yards away, May bent down to hiss at Blunt.
“Infamous crea
ture, upon my soul, if you ever seek to own another dog again, I’ll see to it that you pay.”
“You can’t touch me.”
“I won’t have to,” May said in a vicious whisper. “I’m a doctor’s daughter, Blunt. I know how to get medicines that will make you puke until your stomach dissolves and slides up your throat.” Clutching the dog tightly, May drew close to Blunt’s purple ear. “You hurt one more animal, and you’ll end up floating in your own bile.”
“I’ll have the law—”
“Oh, do shut up, Blunt,” May snapped. She turned on the smile of a sweet innocent, which made the innkeeper blink. She addressed an imaginary person in a treacly sweet voice. “Upon my soul, Constable, I have no notion what Mr. Blunt can be speaking of.” May’s smile vanished. “Who will the constable believe, Mr. Blunt?”
“Drat you!”
“Remember, Mr. Blunt, floating in your own bile.” May turned on her heel. “Come, Small Tom. It’s time for tea.”
May handed the dog to Small Tom, who cradled the animal even more gently than she had. Lifting her skirts, she picked her way back through the inn as if crossing a swine pen and marched back down High Street. The lad who had fetched her, Ian, preceded her like a herald, and their group attracted the attention of the Exbridge gossips.
Old Mother Sneed just happened to decide to sweep the stoop in front of her daughter’s bonnet shop as May went by. The Honorable Mrs. Horace Pettyjohn and her friend Miss Prudence Tadgett whispered together in the window of the sweet shop. The old shepherd Thadeus Twig dug an elbow into the side of one of his cronies as May swept past the ancient oak where the old fellows gathered to drink ale. Newly married Mistress Jane Pattle and her sister Florence whispered behind their gloved hands on the threshold of the draper’s shop. May nodded to them politely and strode past without stopping. She hadn’t taken notice of the whispering since she was a schoolgirl.
Back at home, May led Small Tom to the old stone barn behind the house. Inside, she had him lay the coach dog on a long table that had been scrubbed and set up there when she’d taken over the building years ago. Barks and yelps came from her various patients and the regular inhabitants of the barn. There were at least seven dogs of various sizes and lineages, as many cats, a pony that was nearly blind, a few ferrets, a family of displaced hedgehogs, and an old milk cow that was more bone than flesh.
Using medicines and instruments filched from her father’s supplies, May set about mending the dog’s injuries. By the time she was finished, teatime had long passed. She left the dog sleeping in a bed of blankets. Returning to the house, she was met by her youngest sister, Marie-Claire, at the door.
“Cook said you’ve brought another one home,” Marie-Claire said as May headed for the stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor.
May blew a stray curl of red-brown hair off her forehead. “Yes, the coach dog from Blunt’s.” Gathering her skirts, she mounted the stairs. “I’ll wash and dress for dinner.”
“Shall I see if the poor thing will eat?”
May paused and smiled at her sister. Marie-Claire wanted to feed every creature she met, animal or not. “He should be feeling better by now. You might try broth. If he takes that well, we can try a bit of meat in the morning.”
They heard the double doors to their father’s library slide open. Dr. Peabody appeared in dinner dress, his tie askew as always, a pipe in one hand and a letter in the other. A man who prided himself on his storytelling and ability to calm his patients with an amusing manner, Dr. Peabody’s features were set and unsmiling. May and Marie-Claire glanced at each other while their father glared at the letter in his hand.
“May, a word if you please.”
“It’s not Madeleine, is it, Father?” Marie-Claire asked. “She’s still coming to fetch me?”
Dr. Peabody waved a hand at her. “No, no. Your sister and her husband will escort you to the wilds of America to marry your precious Timothy as we planned, my dear. May, please. A private word.”
May came down and entered the library. She took a seat at her father’s request while he shut the doors. Dr. Peabody sat opposite her in his heavy leather armchair. He leaned toward her, propped his arms on his knees, and puffed on his pipe in silence for a while. Then he looked straight into her eyes.
“Daughter, it has been my one care in the world since returning from the Crimea to settle you and your sisters.”
“I know that, Father.”
“And I’m sure I don’t know how I’m going to settle you.”
“You mustn’t mind it, Father. When you leave for India, I’ll do very well here on my own.”
“There’ll be little money once I’ve provided for your sisters. Not enough to keep going as we have, if I’m in India.”
“I’ll make do, Father. I don’t need a lady’s maid and a cook. We’ll get a maid of all work, and we won’t keep a carriage.”
“And who will protect you?”
“Father, we’ve discussed this. I could go to India.”
“It’s too hard a journey, too dangerous,” said Dr. Peabody. “No, I won’t have it.” He knocked his pipe against a side table, then emptied ashes into a tray. “No, I shall see you settled, too.”
May almost grinned. She was a spinster of twenty-five. Old. Past her prime husband-catching years, if she’d ever had any. The smile that hovered over her lips vanished at her father’s next words.
“I’ve had a most unusual letter, Daughter, and one that comes from Providence, or so I say. A gentleman of my acquaintance has written to me asking permission to marry you, and I’m quite decided that you should.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE SHINING BLACK carriage with the Stirling arms emblazoned on its doors turned away from the train station and Long Riding. The coachman and footmen stared proudly ahead, their livery brilliant, as the vehicle proceeded at a sedate walk down the lane. Inside sat May Peabody, her great-aunt Violet, Isis the Siamese cat, Echo the Shetland sheepdog, and Puck, an English springer spaniel.
Isis lay in May’s lap while Puck had curled up at her feet. Both were asleep, but Echo sat next to the window, directed her pointed nose at each new sight, and barked madly at it. Echo’s favorite occupation was barking. She barked at May. She barked at the entire Peabody family. Echo would bark at strange noises and at noises she heard every day. Echo would bark at a passing carriage, a creaking door, at leaves tossed in the wind. She only stopped when May scolded her.
May’s gloved hand stroked Isis’s cream fur as she listened to Aunt Violet’s chatter. Aunt Violet was a kind woman, but irritating in her silliness. She seemed to think May would be interested in the hallowed Stirling lineage and had been relating all she had gathered from her friends who lived near the earl’s family.
“What have I done?” May curled her fingers into the voluminous folds of her merino traveling dress. “What have I done? I never should have listened to Father.”
Aunt Violet shook her head, causing the little corkscrew curls gathered at her temples to bob. “Now, my dear, don’t upset yourself again. Your father assured you that the earl is of the finest character.”
“But there was no reason for all this haste.”
“Nonsense. Your father could hardly leave you alone in that house to embark upon this journey after he’d set sail. As it is, he’ll be gone in a few days. And just think of it, my dear. You’ll be marrying into a noble family. Not merely a baronet, but a true peer with a title that goes back to the Normans.”
“I’m sure I don’t care about titles, Aunt.”
“Of course not, my dear. But they are nice. Why, I remember when my friend Amelie de Frobisher-Frobisher married Sir Oswell Cheesewright…”
May let her aunt chatter while she settled back against the leather squabs and stared out the window at the gentle slopes of hills covered with grass. The carriage passed over a stone bridge and plunged beneath a canopy of beeches. The trip from Exbridge had taken only a couple of hours, and dew was still reflecting
off the leaves.
It was September. The air was crisp with the first chill that warned of approaching winter. It was her favorite time of year, but May was too fearful to enjoy it. She regretted allowing her father to accept Temple Stirling’s proposal three weeks ago. She was even sorrier she’d been foolish enough to get on the train to Long Riding, and now she was trapped in this carriage with her dear, silly aunt, on her way to meet a man she didn’t know and to whom she was now engaged.
Why did this strange fortune have to come upon her? She’d been quite content with her lot, having grown accustomed to thinking of herself as a spinster. Her unmarried state had become a familiar friend, well-known, comfortable, like old boots of good quality. And she’d accepted herself as she was.
From a child her character had been too forceful, her opinions too strong, her ability to hide them negligible.
By the time she had come out, the good families in the neighborhood had already formed their opinion of her—Mélisande Peabody was a fright. May was certain they held it against her that she rescued tortured frogs, otters, and hedgehogs from their sons. Just because she’d often been forced to give the boys split lips and boxed ears.
When she’d stood by the wall at dances while her friends and sisters were partnered, she had been humiliated. But she’d also been unwilling to amend her conduct. Every time she had thought of trying to, she would remember the suffering animals who would get no help without her.
By the time she was twenty, she and everyone else had accepted the fact that she was a spinster. At first May had been ashamed, knowing that her lack of softness, manners, and meekness had been the cause. But then, gradually, she had realized that, without a husband, there would be no one to tell her what to do. This was an excellent thing.