The Changeling Bride

by Lisa Cach

  “In other words, you’d like to be free to focus on the structural improvements to Brookhaven and wish to leave the aesthetic, less-important decisions to me.” She saw his eyes go to her feathered turban.

  “Subject to my approval, of course. There are certain traditions of style I want to keep alive in this house, traditions you might not be aware of . . .”

  “You think I have bad taste?”

  “No, it is not that. It is just that I have certain ideas of how I would like the house—” He cut himself off at her muffled snort of disbelief.

  “Be honest, Henry. You’re afraid your house will end up a mess if I’m given free rein.” When he couldn’t come up with an immediate reply, the devil in her came to life. She knew she had poor fashion sense and wouldn’t trust herself to decorate her own home.

  “I would of course feel much more as if I belonged here if I could fully take on the responsibilities of my station, now that we have reached an agreement on, er, that other topic,” she said in utmost seriousness. “Do other countesses ask their husbands for approval before choosing an upholstery pattern? Do they ask permission to have a bed of roses planted? I think not. And what will the staff think of me, if every time I make a decision, I have to amend it with, ‘If his lordship approves, as I haven’t the wit to decide for myself?’ What type of marriage can we have, if you cannot trust me to perform my most basic duties?” She stared up at him, trying to maintain an air of wounded innocence and sincerity.

  A long moment stretched between them, and beneath his composed mask, she could detect currents of emotion. Anxiety, mostly, which faded into a sort of hopeless acceptance. “Very well, then,” he said abruptly, “I leave the house and grounds to you.” He sketched her a short bow and disappeared back into his office.

  She stared at the empty space where he had been standing. Little as she knew him, one thing she already understood was that Brookhaven was holy ground to Henry. And yet, he had chosen to trust her with it. She, Elle, the one who couldn’t dance or ride sidesaddle and who got lost in the woods chasing fairies.

  She could not now let him down. It wasn’t her own pride or desire to prove herself that she cared about; indeed, arranging furniture seemed a hollow way to show one’s worth. It was that she was responsible for that which Henry held dear to his heart.

  Feeling somewhat burdened by the task she had set herself, she flagged down a passing maid and had her lead her to where the tailor and seamstress had set up shop. If she had bad taste herself, she was going to have to rely heavily on the artistic sense of the professionals.

  It was to be such a Herculean labor, this regarbing of the old and new employees of the house and grounds, that a long gallery room on an upper floor had been given over to the task. Long windows lined one side of the room, providing quantities of sunlight that would make the task of sewing easier.

  Old worktables were being set up at intervals, and on one long one against the wall, there were bolt after bolt of fabrics. Even as she watched, young men came in and deposited several more on the growing pile. As she observed the activities, it became apparent that there were two factions controlling opposite ends of the room. The end closest to her was under the supervisory eye of a small, wiry man that she took to be the tailor. At the other end, a young woman with flyaway platinum hair escaping from her cotton cap was overseeing the placing of a screen and the arrangement of several large portfolios, with sheets of paper escaping from their edges. The dress she wore had a high waist and was less structured than those of her companions.

  The wiry little man noticed her first and straightened up. “Lady Allsbrook!” he exclaimed and bowed sharply. “Casper White, tailor, at your service.”

  “Who is the young woman over there?” she asked, indicating the busy blonde.

  Mr. White followed her pointing finger. “Ah, now she is a girl who knows what she is about, when she cares to. That is my daughter, Charlotte. She will be taking care of the women’s clothes, milady. Charlotte!” he hollered across the room. “Come here, and be quick about it.”

  The young woman flashed a look of irritation at her father but obeyed quickly enough when her eye lit on Elle. She threaded her way through the workers and tables, and dipped a low curtsy. Her eyes were a lovely gray-green, set off by the sprigs of light green in the print of the dress she wore. Her face was otherwise colorless, but the eyes made up for the lack. They were filled with intelligence and life, and bespoke a creative mind beneath the mob cap and wispy hair.

  “Charlotte, is it? Come, show me what you have in mind for the women,” Elle said, threading her arm through that of the startled young seamstress and leading her away from her father. Mr. White was undoubtedly in charge of all this and competent at his work, but Charlotte’s empire-style dress had caught Elle’s eye.

  The drawings Charlotte showed her were beautifully executed, and the dresses themselves lovely and simple. They were in the style with which Elle had become familiar: tight bodice, narrow sleeves, a long skirt given only slight fullness by the petticoats or bum roll underneath.

  “You obviously have talent for your work,” Elle complimented the young woman, who stared somewhat lifelessly at her own drawings. “I was wondering, though . . . do you perhaps have some designs that are a little more innovative?”

  Charlotte flashed a sidelong glance at her, then glared across the room at her father. “Innovative in what manner, milady?”

  “Oh, I don’t really know. Designs that are a little more distinctive, a little more original?”

  “These do not suit, milady?”

  “I like what you’re wearing. Did you design it yourself?”

  “I design all my own clothes.” Charlotte’s eyes were beginning to spark. “Father does not approve, of course. He would like it if we all still wore panniers, for God’s sake, milady.”

  “Do you wear a corset under that?”

  She didn’t seem embarrassed by the question. “Father would truly whip me if I did not.”

  “Mmm.” Elle was disappointed.

  “I have my personal designs here, if you would like to see them, milady?” she offered tentatively, the hope fairly vibrating in her voice, her hand resting lightly on a battered portfolio off to the side.

  “I would like that very much.”

  She and Charlotte quickly became so caught up in discussions of dresses and fabrics, undergarments and shoes, that they decided to adjourn to a more private room where tea and food could be brought in as they sat and conspired. Elle had complete respect for Charlotte’s sense of style and her knowledge of fabrics and construction, and Charlotte was fascinated by Elle’s real concern for comfort and her ideas on proper undergarments. Hours went by, and they were not even half finished when Marianne appeared, reminding her that she needed to change for dinner.

  With great reluctance she set aside the drawing on her lap and rose. “We’ll meet again tomorrow morning, to continue?”

  “I will look forward to it, milady.”

  When she had her new clothes, Elle decided, she was going to have a corset-burning party.

  Elle suffered housewifely shame over the quality of the meal served at dinner and vowed to talk to Mr. Tey, who apparently did the hiring. A proper chef must be found and Abigail liberated from the kitchen before they all expired of indigestion.

  Mr. Peabody, the architect-engineer, seemed quietly, inexplicably fascinated by her throughout the meal, contributing little to the conversation. He had a freckled face, wide nose, fine bones, and hazel eyes that watched her whenever he was not watching his plate.

  Richard, viscount Atherton, was less obvious in his interest, but she felt the effects to a greater degree. He asked her questions about her home and upbringing, questions that were perfectly acceptable, only she didn’t know the answers. She evaded answering his questions directly and had the distinct sense that he would catch her in any lies she told. Her evasiveness seemed only to intrigue him the more.

  Henry, for
his part, looked as if he found the byplay amongst the three of them rather amusing, like a biologist watching a family of chimpanzees.

  Her ordeal did not end with the flavored jellies served for desert—they bore a remarkable resemblance to the familiar Jell-O of home, rather than the jam she half expected—for afterwards she was required to go sit alone in the room across the entrance hall while they drank their brandies, made toasts, and smoked, and wait for them to join her.

  Her dinner had not settled well in her stomach, and she was tired after the long day poring over dress designs and enduring the tension of a meal with strangers. What she really wanted was to adjourn to her own room with a book, change into something warm and comfortable, and huddle under the covers reading by candlelight.

  She sat at the end of the ratty couch nearest the fire, and let her head rest against the high back. Her eyes began to close. Tatiana lay at her feet, a paw over the toe of one of Elle’s shoes.

  A small noise disturbed her, and then a shiver suddenly ran down Elle’s spine, accompanied by the sensation of being watched. She opened her eyes, her head snapping forward, and scanned the room. Tatiana lifted her head, ears pitched forward, dark eyes staring at the mullioned windows.

  A low growl started in Tatiana’s throat, and the dog stood, her tail held motionless behind her. Elle felt the hairs on the back of her own neck begin to stand, and slowly turned towards the windows.

  The windows were dark, reflecting only faint glimmers of fire and candlelight. But down in the bottom corner of one window, almost hidden by the folds of the open curtain, there was a smudge of face-size paleness. The indistinct shape moved, then vanished.

  Tatiana gave a sharp bark, then rushed at the window, yapping and howling, her paws up on the sill. Sweat trickled down Elle’s sides.

  Elle slowly stood, her knees shaky, and joined the dog at the window. Taking her courage in both hands, she unlatched the casement window and pushed it out, peering into the darkness.

  It might have been a curious person, snooping about. Or it might have been one of those fairy people. She was certain that the latter was the case.

  She could see nothing in the darkness outside, and Tatiana had stopped barking. The dog sniffed the air, then dropped back to all fours, her interest gone. Elle closed the window and brushed her damp brow with shaking fingers.

  She wasn’t going to wait here alone for the men to join her and then try to make small talk. The day had been too long, and a face watching from the window was too much, whatever its intention had been.

  “Tatiana, come.” She strode from the room, across the checkerboard hall, and pushed open the door to the dining room.

  “Henry, excuse me, but I’m not feeling altogether well—” Her speech was interrupted by the loud clatter of a metal pan hitting the floor. Her eyes flew to Mr. Peabody, standing near the dilapidated sideboard with his back to her. A small cupboard door was open, and the pan that had dropped was obviously a metal chamber pot.

  “What?” she asked, not understanding what she was seeing. Mr. Peabody made the distinctive motions that, even from behind, told of a man tucking his privates back into his pants.

  “You were relieving yourself in my dining room?” she screeched. “What do you think this is? A barn? We eat in here, for God’s sake!”

  Henry was suddenly at her side, trying to pull her from the room. She hadn’t even seen him approach.

  “Animals! Men have always been, and always will be, animals. Disgusting, I call it! And look at that, it’s spilled on the floor. Do I have to eat my dinner in a room that smells like a urinal? And what are you laughing at, Mr. Smart-Ass?” she snapped at viscount Atherton. The target in question put his face in his hands, his shoulders jerking. Mr. Peabody had his shoulders hunched, and peeped over his shoulder at her, his face scarlet.

  Henry finally had her out in the hall and firmly shut the door behind them.

  “You let him do that in my dining room?” she challenged him. “Pee?”

  “For God’s sake, Elle, do not try to tell me you do not know that men use the pot after dinner.”

  A look of horror came over her face. “Oh, Henry, don’t tell me . . . not you, too?”

  “Did the men in your home never relieve themselves?” he asked in exasperation.

  “Not in the dining room!”

  “Be thankful times have changed enough that he waited until you had left the room. I want you to go back in there and apologize to Mr. Peabody. You have deeply embarrassed our guest.”

  “He was peeing.”

  “Elle!”

  Her face set in a mutinous expression. “Very well, then.” She stomped back to the door, swung it open, and declared loudly, “Mr. Peabody, I’m sorry I scolded you for urinating no more than a couple feet from the place I eat my meals. I was not aware that you, and all other men, were raised with the sensibilities of baboons. It is not your fault, for no one taught you better. Please forgive my outburst.”

  Mr. Peabody mumbled a stunned reply, his face still beet red, and didn’t meet her eyes. The viscount had tears rolling down his cheeks and was audibly gasping for breath. Elle felt Henry’s grip on her arm, and she was dragged back out the door.

  “You are being irrational and unforgivably rude! You will go to your room and stay there, until you are willing to make proper amends to Mr. Peabody.”

  Elle pulled back from him, and glared up into his glowering countenance. “You can’t tell me to go to my room like a child. I’m a grown woman, and I have more sense in my little toe than the lot of you have in your arrogant, self-important heads. Just because you’ve always used the dining room as a toilet doesn’t mean that it’s a good idea. It’s disgusting, and it’s unhygienic, and it’s not going to happen in my house. I’ve wondered why I was brought here, and by God, maybe I’ve found the reason. You’d all poison yourselves with your own filth if I didn’t do something about it.”

  “Go to your room.” Henry repeated firmly.

  “There are going to be some changes made around here,” Elle prophesied darkly. She gave Henry a final glare, then turned and marched up the stairs.

  Henry let out a long breath of air as Elle disappeared up the stairs. He had thought he had made progress in understanding her. Upon reflection, her fears of childbirth had explained so much about her behavior—why she didn’t want to marry, her unwillingness to be touched on their wedding night, her hysterical reaction after they made love in the forest, the attempt to control her fertility—but that could have nothing to do with this inexplicable outburst. And then there was the night she spent searching for fairies, but he did not want to think about that.

  He wondered if Elle’s sister, Louise, was as ignorant and as peculiar in her ways. Maybe Louise, too, thought fairies were real. Could it simply be the result of the class of society in which she was raised? Perhaps if Louise were here, he would have a better idea. She might prove a soothing effect on Elle as well—someone familiar, with whom she could talk about her troubles. And someone as well who might tell him if her sister were behaving in her normal manner.

  He rejoined his friends. Lawrence Peabody was huddled miserably in his chair, playing with the stem of his brandy glass. Viscount Atherton was mopping his face with a lace-edged kerchief.

  “I see you have complete control over your new wife,” Richard commented. “I had always wondered what type of female you would eventually choose to marry and confess that I thought it would be someone much more sedate. A docile, conventional sort of girl, rather dowdy. A practical choice that would fit the neat order of your world. But this woman—you have surprised me, Henry, truly surprised me.”

  “I have been in a constant state of perplexity since the marriage ceremony, so I can understand your sentiment.” He turned to Mr. Peabody. “Lawrence, my wife begs your forgiveness—”

  He was cut off by Richard’s laugh. “I am afraid that will not work, my friend. We heard everything.”

  “Richard, will you all
ow me to at least pretend that there is some civility left in my household?”

  “Do forgive me.” Richard waved his kerchief negligently in the air. “Please continue.”

  “As I was saying, Lawrence, my wife extends her apologies. She will no doubt express this sentiment to you personally, but in her absence I wish to do so myself.”

  Lawrence raised his head and made an attempt to appear unfazed by the scene with Elle. “Apology accepted. Do not concern yourself about it.” He briefly met Henry’s eyes, then glanced at Richard. “Of course, I may never again be able to make use of a dining-room pot without my bladder shrivelling in fear. . . .”

  Richard hooted in a most unaristocratic manner, and even Henry cracked a smile. It was several brandies, a room change, and three games of cards later that Lawrence Peabody made one final comment on the matter.

  “And you know, she may have had a point.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Elle slept in her own bed and wasn’t surprised when she was awoken in the small hours of the morning by a shift in the mattress as Henry climbed in next to her. He had said they would share a bed, and he was a man of his word. She lay in the dark, her eyes wide, waiting for his touch upon her skin.

  Her anger with him had faded when she’d reached her room and had time to settle down. If she hadn’t been so tense and in such a bad mood, perhaps she would not have reacted so strongly to the sight of Lawrence Peabody making himself one with nature. And then, if she did not have such a fetish about cleanliness, she might not have been so horrified.

  She would apologize to Mr. Peabody in the morning because she wanted to, not because Henry ordered her to. The poor man, he had been mortally embarrassed. She felt guilty just thinking about that shamed look on his face, like a puppy who hadn’t made it to his papers.

  The minutes passed, and Henry made no move to roll towards her or to touch her. Wasn’t he going to do anything? Not even a kiss goodnight? She started to fume, her jaw clenched. He could at least acknowledge her.

  She stared into the dark a while longer, and listened to his breathing deepen. He’d probably sedated himself, drinking with his buddies.