by Jane Feather
So the years had passed. Her sister Madeleine had married, and May’s opinions hadn’t changed. Madeleine was governed by her husband. Luckily, he was a good man. However, May knew that had she married him, he would never have stood for her constant animal rescues, the dozens of creatures in residence at the barn, her battles with those whose cruelty she was determined to eliminate. No, a husband wanted a wife who would devote herself to him, who would vanish into his life, his interests, his convenience.
But a spinster didn’t vanish. True, she had to endure people’s pity and barely concealed contempt for her failure, but the reward was that, as an unmarried woman, she had the same rights as a man. May could do as she wished. Of course, without a fortune, she couldn’t really do what she wanted—take in many more lost and starving animals and provide a permanent shelter for them. To do that, she would need to build a special building. Although she would have a small sum upon which to live, she would never be able to afford her dream.
Dreams. Dreams were like wishes. May straightened and shoved aside yards of merino until she located a bulge in the pocket of her mantle. She stuck her hand inside and drew out the green glass bottle. It fit in the palm of her hand.
Holding it up to the light from the carriage window, she watched the iridescent glow of green and blue. Shades of the dark woodland, new meadow grass, and of lichen swirled with the color of the sky before sunset and mysterious hues of amethyst, madder violet, and hyacinth. When she looked into the glass of the bottle, she was reminded of her dreams and wishes.
“What a pretty thing, May.”
“What? Oh, yes, Aunt. I bought it from a peddler the day the earl’s letter arrived.”
“Is it a scent bottle?” Aunt Violet was frequently taken faint and had a large collection of scent bottles.
“No. There is something in it, but not scent.” May pulled out the stopper and removed the tightly rolled piece of leather.
Aunt Violet took it and unfurled it. “It’s only senseless scratches.”
“Look on the other side.”
“‘To thine own wish be true. Do not follow the moth to the star.’ How pretty, but what does it mean?”
“I don’t know,” May said. “Possibly some children were playing a game and put the message in the bottle.”
“The leather looks terribly old, my dear. Where did the peddler get it?”
“I don’t know. I’d just discovered the message when Small Tom’s cousin came to me about the innkeeper’s dog, and by the time I thought to inquire, the peddler had left Exbridge. I’m afraid I’ve been upset about… Well, I have been thinking about the letter from the earl.”
“I understand, my dear.”
May barely heard Aunt Violet. She was beginning to feel guilty. She’d been determined to refuse the earl, had been steadfast in her protests to her father. Then, one evening she had retired to her room and was walking past the table where the bottle rested beside her sewing box. Some trick of light from the candle next to it caused the colors to shimmer and shift, catching her attention.
On a whim, she opened the bottle, read the message, and remembered her own wish, her dream. Temple Stirling had promised that he would study to make her comfortable and happy. To this end he would settle a sum upon her for her own use. The sum named in the letter had been enormous, more than enough to build a refuge for her animal orphans and keep it running forever.
The message had given her the idea, but she’d immediately rejected it. How could she marry a man to get her hands on his money, even if it was to save her animals? How could she, when the earl had proposed based on much finer feelings? He had remembered Father’s stories about her, had admired her, and wanted her to be his wife because of what he knew. A dream, that’s what she would have called such an occurrence if she’d heard about it. That a man would conceive an admiration for a young lady solely by what he’d heard—but that wasn’t entirely true. Temple Stirling, earl of Darent, had her picture. And he still wanted her.
Perhaps this was why she’d accepted. He’d already seen her picture. He’d seen the short little body, the plain brown hair and brown eyes, all working to create the impression of a field mouse in a dress. And then there was that other reason, the one she hadn’t allowed herself to contemplate. She would have a home of her own, a family, children. There were many excellent reasons for remaining a spinster, but if she did, there would be no children. And every time she thought about that, she felt a dull, throbbing ache in her chest. Which was why she tried not to think about it.
“You look pained, my dear. You really shouldn’t worry about marriage. It all takes care of itself.” Aunt Violet had been married for over thirty years when her husband died, and thought that every woman worshiped her husband as she had hers.
“Yes, Aunt.”
“And think of it. You’ll be a countess.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“I think a title does so much for a young woman’s character.”
May blinked, trying to sort out the logic of this statement.
“You’ll go to London for the Season,” Violet said, her hands clasped in rapture. Then she leaned toward May and touched her hand while giving a confidential wink. “And best of all, you’ll be presented.”
“What?”
“Presented. To Her Majesty the queen!”
“Oh, Aunt, do you think that is a reason to accept a gentleman? I—I accepted because Father was so worried about me, and because, because the earl seems a man of good character.”
“I’m sure you did, dear.”
“I did!”
“I’m not disagreeing.”
“Oh.”
The carriage suddenly turned off the road, and they passed through a gate formed by huge brick pillars surmounted by a great coat of arms in gilded iron.
“We’re nearly there,” Aunt Violet cried as she peered out the window. Suddenly she fell back, fanning her face with a handkerchief. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”
“Are you ill, Aunt?”
“Oh, dear.” Violet gestured out the window.
May stuck her head outside and looked down nearly a mile of avenue bordered by ancient oaks and a succession of rectangular pools, the last of which bore a fountain in the form of wildly galloping horses ridden by sea gods. Beyond this lay a broad expanse of emerald lawn from which rose the shining white expanse of Stirling Hall. With an elongated facade surmounted by a balustrade, and statues of Greek deities on a parapet below, the house rose like a temple before her. May swallowed hard, noting the massive central portico with its Corinthian columns. Her gaze traveled along rows of tall, glittering windows.
“Oh, dear,” she said.
She drew back inside. Isis had been disturbed by her movements. The cat rose, jumped to the seat beside Aunt Violet, and began to stretch. Puck raised his head and shook it, sending his ears flapping. Echo stood on the seat beside May and swished her tail while watching May and trying to decide whether to risk barking. May paid the animals no heed.
“Oh, dear.” She began patting her hair, resetting the pins in her hat, pulling at her veil. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have come. I’m such a noodle.”
Aunt Violet had taken a few sniffs from her scent bottle and composed herself. “Nonsense, Mélisande Peabody. You’re of good family and a proper choice for his lordship. Your mother was a Seymour, you know. And your grandfather’s stepfather was an admiral and a Percy.”
“What does that matter, Aunt? I don’t know the earl, and look at that house. It’s not a house; it’s a confounded palace!”
In her agitation, May grabbed Isis and began stroking her. The sudden attention irritated Isis, who began struggling as the carriage neared the house. The vehicle turned down a semicircular gravel drive that would take them to the portico. May glimpsed a long line of servants, footmen in livery, others in formal black.
Then she saw a tall figure at the foot of the entry way stairs. In a brief moment, she glimpsed the face of a man.
She perceived angles covered by smooth flesh, glittering eyes like those one expected to see over a bandit’s mask, and hair as black as hell ought to be. Her mouth went dry. Was that Temple Stirling?
The carriage bounced. She heard the wheels grind into the gravel of the drive. Time seemed to slow while colors grew more vivid, and the sun grew brighter, sharpening contrasts between light and shadow. Isis continued to struggle in her hands while May stared. This couldn’t be the earl. Now she realized she’d assumed the earl of Darent would be much older, more like a stately uncle. Earls were stuffy, pompous, with rounded stomachs and fuzzy whiskers.
This man had no whiskers to mar the clean lines of his cheeks. He looked severe, but not pompous. May glimpsed an exquisitely styled dress day coat, pristine linen, a gold watch chain. That was when the carriage came to an abrupt stop, sending Echo sliding off her seat. Isis lost what little tolerance she had left, spit and yowled before clawing free of May. She leaped to the seat, then balanced on the window while Echo erupted into ear-piercing barks. Then the cat sprang out of the carriage as a footman opened the door.
“Isis!” May lunged for the Siamese and missed.
To her horror, Isis landed in the arms of the black-haired man standing before the carriage. He gasped, fighting off a whirlwind of claws just as Echo hurtled onto him from the carriage. May tried to follow, but Puck scrambled between her feet, jumped, and landed on Echo. The added weight sent the young man toppling backward to land on the bottom stairs with Isis clinging to his chest.
There was a moment of frozen shock. Then everyone moved at once. May lifted her skirts and hopped out of the carriage as the footman rushed to the gentleman. A butler hurried over and tried to shoo Isis away. Isis hissed and slashed at him. The butler cried out and clutched his hand. More servants crowded around while Puck put his paws on a wide shoulder and fell to sniffing every inch of the man’s face and neck. Echo stationed herself on the other side of the man’s head and uttered an endless series of shrieking barks, wagging her tail the whole time.
The footman shouted. The butler shouted. Maids screamed. One or two covered smiles. May shoved her way through the crowd surrounding the prone figure. Grabbing Puck’s collar, she pulled him off the young man.
“Puck, sit!” The springer immediately lowered his bottom to the ground and sat wiggling his tail.
“Echo, no bark.” Echo yapped on happily.
May darted over the young man, and gave Echo’s long nose a tap with her index finger. “Echo, no bark.”
Echo seemed to wake from her frenzied state. Panting heavily, she stood over her victim and waved her tail back and forth in victory. With the dogs out of the way, May turned her attention to the man lying at her feet.
It was then that she noticed the glare. It was a glare that had weakened the knees of battle-hardened cavalry officers. It was the kind of glare that reminded its victims of barbarians threatening the city of Rome, of Mordred’s wrath against Arthur, of Satan cast out of heaven. Its owner raised himself on his elbows and spoke for the first time.
“Get this damned cat off me, my girl, or I’ll wring its neck.”
May gasped. “You leave her be!”
The young man’s jaw tightened, and he said through stiff lips, “Then get the bloody thing off me, damn you.”
Always ready to take offense at anyone who threatened her pets, May glared back at the stranger, her fears forgotten. When he refused to be cowed by her scowl, she knelt beside him and whispered to Isis. “That’s my kitty. Sweet kittykitty. My Isis, my sweetie.” She stroked for several moments.
“Are you going to take the whole afternoon?” the young man snapped.
“Hush,” May said.
He gave her a startled look, but kept his mouth shut. Slowly, May pulled Isis’s claws from the young man’s coat. The last was embedded in his shirt just above his vest. When she drew back the paw, the cat’s claws came free, leaving behind a tiny pool of blood.
Biting her lip, May folded Isis in her arms and stood. “I’m sorry.”
The butler helped the young man to his feet.
“Are you hurt?” May asked.
“Are you hurt, my lord?” the butler asked.
Temple Stirling jerked his coat into place, brushed dust from his sleeves, and replied, “I’m fine.”
May felt blood rush to her face. “I’m sorry, my lord. My cat was startled.”
The earl finished straightening his clothing and looked down at her. Dark brows drew together. “Who are you, and where is Mélisande?”
PART OF him was standing in front of this strange young woman. Part of him was still trapped in the vision the sudden attack and noise had provoked. While staring at his unexpected guest, Temple fought waves of memory.
Part of him was falling from his horse, hitting mud mixed with the blood of his friends. A galloping horse splashed more of the reddish-brown sludge in his face. He thrust himself upright, knowing that he had only a few seconds to find a mount with artillery shells bursting and hundreds of men locked in death battles all around him. Temple wiped his face and experienced the nauseating taste of blood mixed with dirt.
A Russian careened toward him, his horse wild-eyed, his saber pointed at Temple’s heart. Temple waited until the last moment to jump aside, turn, and fire at the man with his pistol. Then something hit him from behind, and he was thrown to the ground again. Struggling wildly, he shoved the weight from his back. As he came up, he pulled his revolver free and fired—just as he recognized the features of young Corporal Henry Beddowes, Harry. It took him precious seconds to realize that Harry’s legs had been blown away and that he hadn’t killed his own man.
No! It’s over; leave it. Temple wrenched himself back to the present, praying no one had noticed. The young woman hadn’t answered him. He was almost certain of it, so he repeated his question.
“Where is Mélisande?”
All at once he noticed that there was a great space around Temple and this young woman he did not know. The servants had retreated with blank expressions. From the carriage an older woman fluttered a handkerchief at a footman to summon his help.
“Well,” he demanded again. “Where is Mélisande?”
May swallowed hard. “I am Mélisande Peabody.”
Temple flexed his arm, which he’d hurt in his fall. He glanced up, wincing, and really looked at her for the first time. He hoped he wasn’t as pale as he felt, for he was still possessed with the vision of Harry’s black, staring eyes flecked with tiny bits of dirt.
“You’re not May. You’re the Pea, the little plain one, Madeleine.”
“I am not.”
Her cheeks grew red, then paled as blood ebbed from her face, but Temple had no feeling for her. She was the cause of this nightmare of screaming horses, men, and shells. She and her cursed animals and their noise and chaos. He couldn’t abide her, for she’d made him weak again.
“I’m May,” she said.
His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. “You can’t be.”
“I am, I assure you.”
“What is this?” he asked, barely controlling his desire to bellow his agony. “I never thought Dr. Peabody would try to get off with me just because I have a lot of tin. But perhaps I wrong him. Have you tried some trick, miss, by replacing your sister with yourself?”
“Ohhh!”
He remained silent. The older woman, who must have been the aunt Violet Dr. Peabody had written about, had left the carriage and joined them in time to hear this last statement. Her handkerchief fluttered wildly. Her plump frame tottered, and the impostor rushed to her side. Holding her aunt’s arm, she found the old lady’s scent bottle and waved it in front of her nose. The butler appeared with a newspaper and began to fan the lady. The young woman thrust her aunt into the arms of a waiting footman and rounded on the earl.
“Why you pompous, self-important, mannerless wretch!”
No one said anything. Temple was speechless for a moment before his back straightened.
His shoulders went back, and he thrust one fist behind his back while his other hand remained white and clenched at his side.
“I do not have rows on the front steps of my house with impostors.” He lifted his gaze from the young woman as if she were a vegetable vendor who had had the temerity to present himself at the front door instead of the tradesman’s entrance. He signaled to the butler. “Breedlebane, show these … persons to the Blue Drawing Room.”
A crimson flush had returned to his guest’s cheeks. “I shall not enter your house—”
“Silence!”
The roar shocked even him and startled her into obedience. He glared at her, waiting for further transgressions. When none came, he continued.
“You will wait in the drawing room. I shall see you there in good time. Until then, your animals will be tied up. Breedlebane will see to it.”
Without waiting for her consent, he turned his back on the young woman and left. He had only to reach his study before he lost all composure. It wouldn’t do to allow himself to give way to his rage, even if she was responsible for his disappointment and misery.
MAY STARED after the earl, wishing she had one of the mud pies she and her sisters used to concoct. It would make a most satisfying splat right in the earl’s pretty face. He was mad, and he’d called her little and plain. Did he think her so stupid that she would be unaware of her shortcomings? Oh! She hated the way her cheeks burned, but she was so humiliated. He didn’t want her; he’d never wanted her. She’d been conceited to think he would. He was mean, mean in the soul, or he wouldn’t have been so horrible about Isis and Echo and Puck.
She was scowling at the front door and stroking Isis when a footman approached, his gloved hands outstretched to take the cat. May took a step back. Puck immediately broke his stay, jumped between her and the footman, and growled. He was a spaniel, but he was a sixty-pound gun dog with canine teeth the size of crocodile fangs. The footman stopped in his tracks.