The Changeling Bride

by Lisa Cach

  “And do you do crystal ball readings, as well?”

  “It’s always reasonable to predict war, isn’t it? I mean, how many years go by in any given century without one? About twenty?”

  “If that. Still, I find it hard to see a continent-wide conflict erupting from France, a country that is falling apart as we speak.”

  “But that’s just it. It will be so chaotic for so long, that when a dictator emerges who promises order and prosperity, the people will jump at the chance to follow him. They will be united by finding an enemy outside of their own country, and will be more than happy to trounce foreigners rather than each other.”

  He was quiet for a moment, considering her words. “You may have a point, at that,” he said reluctantly, and regarded her with something akin to respect in his eyes.

  She looked away, feeling suddenly ashamed. She wasn’t brilliantly deducing the fate of France: She was repeating information she had learned long ago in school. If Henry thought her intelligent, it was only because she cheated. She picked at the food on her plate, then fed a slice of roast beef to Tatiana.

  Henry loaded his plate with meat and set it on the ground for the dog. Tatiana took a large piece in her mouth and carried it off.

  “She’s burying it,” Elle explained. “She did this at home, but never ate the things she dug up later. At least she knows better than to bring a rancid pork chop into the house, much as she’d like to.”

  They watched in silence as Tatiana returned and ate the remainder of the meat on the plate. Meat tended to give Tatiana gas. Given the cool manner in which Henry had dealt with their motion sickness, she doubted he would so much as raise an eyebrow if that occurred in the carriage.

  Henry had unshakable composure, but everyone had their limits. Sooner or later, with her as his wife, he would reach his.

  Chapter Ten

  Henry’s mood darkened as they approached his home. Seeing the effect of years of neglect never failed to anger him or make him silently curse his father. He hoped the man was suffering the fires of Hell. How his father had been so content to let his ancestral home crumble and fall into decay—the fields lie fallow, the livestock sold off, furniture and paintings going to pay his debts—Henry would never understand. Even worse than the physical destruction was what his father’s irresponsibility had cost the people for miles around.

  The late earl had ensured that Brookhaven was anything but a thriving community. The majority of the aristocracy understood that their own fortunes depended at least in part upon those beneath them, and took care to maintain their end of the bargain. The late earl had been one of those foolish enough to ignore the bond, and as he spent the wealth of his estates, the estates had become less and less able to support his habits.

  As the coach turned down the lane that led to the house, he saw it as a stranger would. The front gardens had not seen the touch of a gardener’s hand for several years, and some of the windows facing the drive had been boarded over, since there had been no money to replace the broken glass. Grass and dandelions sprouted in cracks in the stone steps, and the drive itself was mostly rutted, potholed dirt, only scattered shards of crumbled oyster shell remaining. The facade was of dark red stone, with white stone accents on the corners that had not been washed in decades. There were domed turrets on the roof in whose window frames birds had built their nests.

  He turned his attention to Elle, certain of what her reaction would be to her new home. She had grown up in wealth and opulence, the spoiled daughter of a rich man. She was undoubtedly appalled at the squalor to which he was bringing her to live, and regretting more than ever being forced into this marriage.

  She was fairly gaping out the window at his home. “My God, this is where you live?”

  “Yes,” Henry answered flatly.

  “And I’ll be living here?” She turned to him, her eyes wide. “You said you were poor.”

  “Yes.” How much of this would he have to endure?

  “But this house, it’s . . . it’s . . .” she turned back to gaze at the house. “It’s astonishing,” she finished. She looked at him, her eyes bright. “You don’t expect me to clean for you, do you? I certainly hope I brought you enough money to afford servants.”

  “I do not expect you to do any cleaning whatsoever,” he said, jaw tight. He did not find her the least bit funny.

  “Can we go inside? Yes, of course we can. What am I thinking? I’m mistress of the great pile of stones now,” she laughed. The carriage stopped, and she fumbled with the latch, then scrambled out before he could quell his annoyance enough to give a civil response. Great pile of stones, indeed.

  The front door opened before she had climbed halfway up the wide stone steps, and he saw her stop to look at the elderly man and woman standing there.

  Henry joined her on the steps, taking her arm a trifle firmly and leading her the rest of the way up. “Elle, I would like you to meet Thomas and Abigail Johnson, butler and housekeeper for Brookhaven. They have been here longer than I have. Thomas, Abigail, let me introduce Lady Eleanor, the countess of Allsbrook.”

  Elle smiled and stuck out her hand, and Henry gritted his teeth. Why did she mock Thomas and Abigail? Abigail saved the situation by giving her husband a barely perceptible nudge, and he took Elle’s hand and shook it. Elle then turned to Abigail and shook her hand as well, the two servants trying to look as if nothing unusual had occured.

  Thomas and Abigail now bowed and curtsied to her, as was proper. Waiting just inside the door were several other servants, looking at their new mistress with eyes both wary and curious. Henry introduced them all. There were about twenty, in varying sorts of dress, male and female, their ages ranging from early teens to sixties. They worked here out of loyalty—and because it gave them a place to live, and a chance for a regular meal—rather than for the poor wages they were paid. Those wages would be one of the first things to be changed.

  Introductions complete, he led her through the entrance hall, floored in a black-and-white marble checkerboard pattern that he had played upon as a child, leaping from one black square to the next. At the back of the hall were the many trunks of Elle’s trousseau, waiting to be opened. A dark wooden stairway lead up to a gallery above the hall, where his mother used to walk on rainy days. A suit of armor stood at the foot of the stairs, and Elle stopped to look at it. She lifted the visor a few squeaking inches, then let it drop with a metallic clank. He hoped it met with her highness’s satisfaction.

  He led her up the stairs and down one of the corridors, seeing in his own mind how the house once had been, and watching Elle’s face for her reactions to the wreck it was now. The floors were bare, unpolished wood, the walls devoid of any decoration but an occasional water stain. The hall was lit only by light reflecting through windows and bouncing off walls, leaving much of the corridor in obscurity. Their footsteps echoed on the hard floor, the boards beneath their feet letting out creaks of protest. Her eyes darted about, taking in details.

  They turned a corner, and then came to the end of a hall. Henry threw open the door and watched Elle blink at the light that spilled out of the room. She stepped inside and gazed at the massive four-poster bed with the plain off-white draperies and covering, and at the marble fireplace with the ornate carving. There were a few pieces of faded, tapestry-covered furniture sitting about the room on the dark, polished wood floor.

  “This is our room?” she asked him.

  “It is your room. Mine is the one through the dressing rooms.”

  “Separate rooms?”

  “You would prefer we share?” he asked.

  “No, I just . . . I thought married people usually slept in the same room. You’ll have to pardon my naïveté. You’ll find I’m ignorant on the most surprising topics.” She gave him a mischievous smile.

  “I had not noticed,” he said dryly.

  “Can we see the rest of the house?” Her voice was filled with that malicious enthusiasm. “I want to see if all of it is as l
ovely as this room.”

  His patience was wearing decidedly thin. “It has been a long day. Perhaps it would be better to wait until tomorrow.” He should not care what she thought of Brookhaven. He loved the place, and that was enough.

  “But there’s exploring to be done! This really had not been what I was expecting, Henry. I thought you had no money, yet look at this place. And twenty servants! I never dreamt I would live in such a house.”

  That did it. He let loose. “Enough! I do not need you to point out all that is wrong—I can see it very well for myself. Brookhaven is in a sorry state of disrepair. I know that. Look at this room. It was the best that could be put together, and there is not even a carpet on the floor. The bed coverings are muslin, the furnishings are minimal at best, dented and scarred.” He went to one of the chairs and rocked it on its uneven legs. “See?” He could not stop himself from pointing out the flaws. “There are no paintings on the walls, there is no clock on the mantel. We use rushlights instead of candles whenever possible, for beeswax is too dear, and you could not find a silver candlestick if your life depended upon it. The roof leaks, windows are missing, and the doors hang crookedly upon their hinges, when they hang at all.”

  “So? You have money now; you can fix it. What do I care for silver candlesticks? You sound like you don’t even like the place.”

  “It is not a matter of liking. It is a matter of responsibility, and you need to understand that if you are going to be mistress here.”

  “Be responsible to your heart’s content. I like my room; I love this house. You’re not going to change my mind, no matter how you whine about leaky roofs.”

  She was accusing him of whining? Him? He looked long into her eyes, which met his with unflinching, joyful openness. “You like this house?” he asked.

  “I love this house. It feels . . . well, like home.”

  It slowly dawned on him that she had not been being sarcastic, that she had meant every word she had said since setting eyes on Brookhaven. For whatever reason, however impossible it was to believe, she really did love the place, loose shingles and all.

  Something twisted within him, and a warm flood of emotion had him pulling her into his arms. He bent and claimed her mouth with his own, her lips parting under his sudden assault, allowing his tongue to slide inside even as one hand slid down to cup her buttocks, lifting her and pressing her tight against his hips. He savored the warmth of her mouth, and the lingering taste of wine from their lunch.

  She submitted at first, relaxing in his arms, but then she began to struggle against him. The warmth he felt quickly drained away, and he let her go, not quite certain why he had kissed her in the first place.

  A small silence grew between them, which he finally broke in a voice that he hoped showed no sign of his momentary loss of control, or of a heart that had not yet slowed its rapid beat. “Well, then, I will leave you to rest before dinner.”

  Elle watched him go, feeling suddenly empty without him, then scolded herself for a fool. One ravishing kiss, of the type that made bones melt and inhibitions fly out the window, and she was ready to haul him to bed and chain him there. It was her loneliness that was making her so susceptible, that was all. She just had to remind herself that the man had the emotional range of a stick.

  She went to the windows and looked out at the grounds stretched beneath her, a wild tangle that once had been a garden. Tatiana was pouncing through the overgrowth, on the trail of a rodent. A hundred yards off, a small lake shimmered under the effects of the breeze and sun, reeds bending and swaying along its shores. Beyond the lake the land rolled gently, the low green hills hiding what lay beyond.

  She turned back to the room, wandering, touching the sparse furniture. The house had none of the elegant comforts of Eleanor’s, but the smell of the wood that permeated the rooms reminded Elle of the old farmhouse she had grown up in, a house where the floors also creaked and the furnishings were simple. The faintly smoky scent from the fireplaces and the slightly musty air, coupled with the wax that had so earnestly been applied in an effort to ready the rooms, were familiar and homey to her, and gave her a sense of comfort that Eleanor’s rich rooms had failed to do. From the moment she’d laid eyes on the house, she’d felt an inexplicable rightness.

  She felt as she always did upon arrival at a destination after hours of traveling: too wound up to relax and as if she did not yet fit into her new environment. The room felt as if it did not yet recognize her presence, as if it expected her to pass through without disturbing it.

  She kicked off her shoes, leaving them in the middle of the bare floor, then stepped over to the bed and sat down, testing the firmness by trying to bounce up and down. It didn’t bounce much. She got up and examined the mattress, thick and heavy, feeling like an old feather pillow that had turned to sand. She lay back down and stared up at the wood and fabric canopy overhead. She rolled over, thoroughly mussing the covers, and climbed onto her knees. The hanging draperies were pushed to the four posts of the bed, and walking on her knees across the stiff and lumpy mattress she pulled them shut, then sat down on the pillows at the head of the bed and surveyed her cocoon.

  A familiar sliver of distress at being stuck alone in this alien world started to surface in her mind, and she quickly suppressed it. She could not allow herself to panic, could not give in to her grief, not if she was going to survive. Better to take things moment by moment, day by day, and keep herself sane and healthy until she found a way to get home again. She would get home again. She was not willing to give up that hope, or to give in to the despair she had felt this morning.

  A brief rapping knock came on the door.

  “Enter!” Elle called and pushed one of the draperies open.

  Marianne rushed into the room, her heels clacking loudly on the floor, followed by male servants hauling trunks. “Ah, milady, how glad I am to see you.” She click-clacked quickly across the floor to the bed, then lowered her voice as if she did not want the male servants, busy with the trunks, to hear. “Are you well?”

  “Whyever wouldn’t I be?”

  Marianne cast a quick, sly glance at the servants. They ignored her completely. “I thought, seeing you in bed, that the shock may have been too much.”

  “What shock?”

  “The house, milady. I would not have thought that an earl would bring his countess to such a dreary place. You are used to much better than this. Indeed, even in my own home we were used to much better.”

  “What’s wrong with you? It’s a lovely house. You’re going on about the place as if it were a ghostly ruin, ready to fall down about your ears.”

  “Ghosts?” Marianne’s eyes grew wide. “Milady, do you think so?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Marianne.” Elle didn’t think of herself as domineering, but something about Marianne brought out her worst tendencies in that direction. “Why don’t you see if you can find me some warm water to wash my face, and something more comfortable to wear. This wool is making me itch.”

  “Yes, milady.” Marianne dropped a small curtsy, and quickly set about her duties. Elle watched her, almost envying her. At least Marianne knew what, who, and where she was supposed to be.

  Marianne arranged for a bath in the dressing room and then unearthed an amber gown that was soft and slightly looser in fit than the others, which meant Elle’s stays need not be laced quite so tightly. Elle directed Marianne to pull her hair to the back of her head, and let it fall from there in curls and ringlets to her shoulders. She hardly trusted the primitive curling iron that Marianne wielded with deft hands, heating it near the fire, but the maid apparently knew what she was doing.

  By the time the two of them finished with the bathing and dressing and primping, almost two hours had gone by and the dressing room looked as if it had been lived in for months, not part of a day. It was warm and cozy, and filled with the scent of perfumed soap. Elle almost hated to leave it, but her stomach was rumbling with hunger, and she was eager to see somethin
g more of her new home, however temporary it might be.

  She had directions to the dining room, but took her time along the way, opening doors and peering into the rooms that she passed. The rooms were as sparsely furnished as her own, what furniture there was covered in dust sheets. She moved on, going down the staircase to the first floor, and found a large room off the main hall with a cheery fire in the grate. Tatiana lay stretched before it, sound asleep. There were two ratty, high-backed settees on either side of the fire, looking much used.

  She stepped back into the main hall as Henry came through another door, dressed in black evening wear. She felt her heart leap into her throat at the sudden sight of him, seeing him for a moment as a stranger would, dark and handsome and in control of himself and his environment. He moved with graceful surety, his carriage confident. She took a step backwards, irrationally seeking to avoid him, as she would have avoided a good-looking, successful man in her previous life. Men like this never gave her a second look.

  “There you are. I have been waiting for you. That is the role of a husband, you know, waiting for his wife to dress.” He smiled as he came towards her, and she felt her heart give a maddening thump. If she’d had a tail, she would have wagged it. Pathetic.

  He took her hand and pulled her out into the hall, placing her hand on his arm as he led her to the dining room. She was close enough to smell the clean scent of his clothes, and the faint scent of a masculine cologne, just barely discernible when she leaned her head closer to him, close enough to feel the change in air temperature from the heat that his body generated.

  The dining room was long and dark, the ceiling invisible in the gloom. A precious candle sat at either end of a warped table too small for the room, yet still large enough to seat a dozen diners. The candlelight illuminated the two place settings that were a good ten feet apart.

  “My father could find no one willing to buy the table, else it would not be here either,” Henry explained. “It was stored in a cellar that flooded, and thus the warping.” He led her to her place and seated her. She watched him disappear in the darkness between the pools of light, then reappear at the other end of the table, his white collar and cravat glowing in the candlelight. His face and hands were visible, but seemed detached from one another, floating in the illusion of space created by his dark clothing.