Echoes of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  “The sun has risen, Ellie. All is well.”

  A spark of awareness lit her eyes, then they drifted shut.

  Bethan rose and stretched, her back aching with strain. She took the opportunity to creep into the kitchen for a tray of tea and a bite to eat and returned to sit with Elunid. She must go somewhere to purge the anger roiling inside of her, choking her. Why had God chosen Elunid to suffer so? She murmured the words of the Bard to slow her breathing, but it gave her no comfort.

  ****

  She’d no strength to move, but their whispers rustled like leaves before a storm, rumors of threats and punishments to come. They would return. What was Sister saying? Old words, bold words from the great ugly Bard. Sister lapped up his words like a cat laps cream. How sweet is ignorance when Evil perched in every bit of her body, holding her limbs on the bed.

  ****

  Elunid slept deeply, and if it resembled her other attacks, she would sleep for hours. Had Ian’s concoction helped? No, she would not hope, for what was the sense in it? She grabbed her cloak and searched for Lena.

  Lena shook her head. “Why did you not wake me, Bethan? I’ve told you time and again you are not alone in this.”

  “Don’t be angry, Lena.”

  “You should sleep.”

  ‘I cannot. I am going to see Polly. Could you check on Elunid from time to time?”

  “Of course, Liebchen. Wait.” She handed her a fresh roll from a basket on the table. “If you won’t sit down to eat.”

  She embraced Lena. “Thank you, my friend.”

  She walked up Siren Street, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, the muscles in her neck cramping. A walk would do her good. A light breeze from the Channel caressed her back like a tender mother, but how could she enjoy the summer day when her sister suffered so?

  Why Elunid? Useless question. God never answered it, no matter how hard she prayed.

  The anger enveloped her again, making her cough. Why would a God who was supposed to be merciful let one of His lambs suffer such torment? Why Elunid and not her? God knew she would gladly trade places with her, to spare her the pain. What a little fool she was, to think Ian’s remedy could work magic.

  She nodded at the butcher hanging his goods but didn’t stop to chat, for it would do no one any good to see how angry she was. They would only ask why, and how could she admit she was angry at God?

  Once she passed the Landgate, she kept an eye out for ne’er-do-wells camped on the edge of town. How could God create such beauty yet cause such pain and suffering? Elunid had done nothing in her young life to deserve it, and she, her sister, was helpless to prevent it.

  Her pace quickened. What was the use of getting angry? She should go see Vicar Andrews. He was a kind man; he could pray for her. No. She couldn’t share her innermost, sacrilegious thoughts with him. She would cope on her own as she always did.

  The larks sought food from the field, dipped down and up, twigs in their beaks. The lowing of cattle which normally brought her a feeling of peace only taunted her with elusive normalcy. A bit of blue glimmered through the trees, a calm sea, a perfect day for a picnic, an outing, a fair. Life could be simple for some. Hadn’t been simple since Ellie turned thirteen.

  When Elunid first started slipping away from her, it was like one of her moods, here one day, gone the next. Over the course of a year, Ellie stopped speaking the secret language they’d had since early childhood. She felt the loss as she would a limb torn from her body. Bethan tried to reach her, but her sister became more and more distant. Then Elunid took up needlework, only speaking of the sins she’d committed and must atone for. With Mother always taking to her bed, it left Bethan and Polly to deal with Elunid’s increasingly bizarre behavior.

  And she could do nothing for her. She quickened her speed, though her heart beat against her chest like a battering ram. But if she kept moving, she would not scream, would not cry.

  She glanced up from her dark thoughts to see she’d gone past her sister’s lane and had walked into a thick patch of woods. She struggled for breath and dropped to her knees.

  She wheezed, tried to draw air into her lungs through the burning in her chest. Breathe, Bethan. In and out. A child’s laughter broke through the deafening beat of her heart. There must be a cottage nearby. If she could get to it, breathe through the burn in her chest. If she could get to the cottage, she could rest.

  She rose, forced her feet to plod forward. Don’t panic, Bethan. You’ve not died yet from these attacks. But she could, just now.

  The child laughed again, accompanied by an answering laugh, deep and rich. She stumbled through the forest toward the sound, came to an edge of a clearing. A small cottage stood, with a wagon a fair distance on the far side. She recognized the wagon. She stumbled to the back of the cottage in the direction of the sound, blinking to clear her fuzzy vision. Nestled among the trees was a pond, steam rising from its waters.

  She gasped. Henry, the night soil man, sat upon the bank. He was grinning, hair streaming wet to his shoulders, powerful bare chest covered with black hair. Oh sweet God. He looked like Neptune, mighty and benevolent. And naked. The muscles in his legs tensed and relaxed as he splashed young George. His manhood stood stiff against a thicket of black curls. She tried to suck in air, but a wave of dizziness slammed into her.

  Through the buzzing in her ears, a voice called to her from far away, low and resonant.

  Strong arms cradled her, naked, and so warm. Her head lay against his chest, the hairs upon it tickling her ear. The muscles of his broad chest were hard and solid against her side, and so reassuring, rising and falling against her, encouraging her to suck in breath. But it was as if she sucked through a hollow reed.

  “Bethan, you will be well soon. I’ll take care of you.”

  He smelled of soap and earth. She clasped her arms tighter around his solid neck and closed her eyes. She’d not been held like this since childhood. He began to walk, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a kitten. Heat radiated from his chest, and his stomach muscles shifted and tensed as he headed toward the cottage.

  She wheezed, then coughed.

  “Don’t worry, Bethan. I know what to do.”

  She nodded, her cheek rubbing against his chest, the curls there soft, yet pleasantly rough. His heart beat a reassuring rhythm against the uneven frantic beat of her heart.

  “Georgie has the same problem. I’ve some herbs will help you. George!” he yelled. “Is there water left in the pot?”

  “Aye, Da. What’s wrong with Mistress Bethan?”

  “She’s having trouble breathing, much like you do.”

  “Da always makes me feel better, Mistress Bethan.”

  Protected. Safe.

  George ran ahead and opened the cottage door. He had a towel wrapped around his waist. He stopped and gaped at them. “Da.”

  “Not now son. We must help Bethan.”

  “But Da, you…”

  Henry stepped sideways to accommodate Bethan’s long legs through the narrow doorway, and she lifted her head, eyes slowly adapting to the dimness in the simple room. A fire glowed in the hearth; a homespun rug lay in front of the fire, with a divan on one side. A simple trestle table stood by the open window. A collection of sea shells and a daguerreotype of a woman graced the mantel.

  He stood over the divan. “Can you sit up?” His breath upon her face was warm, his eyes dark.

  “Yes.” The small effort made her cough.

  “You’re going to be fine.” He leaned over her to put a pillow behind her back, and she gasped. His member nearly rested in her lap. But there was nothing restful about it; it stood stiff and huge against a forest of dark hair. Her nostrils filled with an exotic and earthy smell, as if she’d travelled to a foreign land. And so warm.

  He pulled back. “Don’t worry. We’ll soon set you to rights.”

  She explored the flecks of hazel in his brown depths.

  “Da!”

  Henry turned his head. “Geor
ge, I said not now.”

  “But…”

  With a gentleness that almost made her weep, he put a blanket over her, tucked it under her chin, smoothing the wrinkles. Her body awakened to his light touch.

  “Da, you’re naked.”

  “George, be still.”

  “Naked!”

  “What? Oh, dear God.”

  He backed away, and she saw all of him then: muscular chest, black hair curling around his nipples, and the tight, banded muscles of his stomach, a line of darkness leading to his manhood. But it wasn’t resting. It moved. She closed her eyes. She shouldn’t be seeing it, but she must. Her eyelids popped open again.

  She couldn’t remove her gaze from him. She didn’t need to breathe, as long as she could look upon him. His eyes followed the path of her gaze.

  “Da!” George tapped him on the shoulder, and she came to her senses.

  The boy handed him a towel, which he quickly put around his waist. He stood so very close to her, his upper body still bare. “I apologize, Mistress Bethan.”

  No, he did not look sorry, his lips lifting and a look of man pride darkening his eyes. Why shouldn’t he be proud? He wore his body well.

  She shouldn’t be here. A blush of heat crawled all the way down to her breasts, lingered there at the memory of his hard chest against them. She should be ashamed. What was wrong with her? But without his warm body against her, she felt bereft. Her body grieved the loss of his warm arms around her, his hand gripping the length of her thigh.

  “I thought nothing of my nakedness when I saw you crumpled to the ground.”

  She closed her eyes to avoid his gaze, but her lids opened of their own accord. She watched as he turned around and bent to find something in the cupboard.

  He had a broad back and powerful haunches, and the outline of his buttocks behind the towel spoke of hard labor and strength. No wonder he could lift her as if she weighed no more than dandelion fluff.

  He returned with a packet of herbs. “George, fill the basin with hot water. Take care not to burn yourself.”

  George nodded, eyes still wide upon his father.

  “Indian tobacco,” Henry murmured. “I shan’t get dressed until your breathing is better.”

  She would have laughed had she the breath. Mayhap I shall not get better if it means I can gaze my fill at you.

  He handed her a linen cloth and bent to put it around her shoulders. “Place this over your head, and breathe the steam. It will help.”

  She obeyed. She coughed, panic seizing her again.

  “Slowly, in and out. There you go.”

  The low rumble of his voice helped to calm her, as if he still held her to his chest. She breathed in the medicinal vapors, felt her passages slowly open up, and after a while, she was able to breathe deeply. She must remember not to take the simple act of breathing for granted!

  George sat at the table, eating out of a bowl. Her stomach rumbled. She’d not eaten anything but the roll this morning.

  “Now then.” Henry chuckled.

  How embarrassing, though why she would worry about such a thing when she’d seen him completely naked…

  “George, fetch Mistress Bethan some stew,” he said, his gaze still meeting hers. “It’s one of my specialties, you see.”

  “It’s the only thing he can make.”

  Henry winked at her, and she suddenly felt as if she’d plunged from the sky into a bed of feathers.

  “Da, you’ve no shirt on.”

  He started. “Oh, yes. Again I’m sorry, Mistress Bethan.”

  “Ye don’t sound sorry, Da.”

  Henry grinned.

  She closed her eyes to hide his body from her view, but why bother? His image would forever be imprinted on her mind. She should memorize every detail of it, for she would never have the pleasure of touching him again, the pleasure between a man and a woman her sister Polly hinted at. Her life was dedicated to her twin. What was she doing here, virtually alone, with a man who made her want more out of life?

  She couldn’t help watching as he walked away.

  “I’ll get dressed now if you’ll hide your eyes.”

  Oh, he’d caught her looking. She blushed and turned her head away.

  “Better?” He’d put on a pair of simple homespun breeches and held one hand on his narrow hip. His shirt was white against the brown of his shoulders.

  “Thank you.”

  He led her to the table, handed her a steaming bowl of stew, eyes intent upon her. “I hope you like it.”

  The rich flavor of the broth, tender meat, and the carrots and potatoes did much to revive her. “It’s delicious.”

  He grinned. “If I do say so myself.”

  “I grew the carrots,” George crowed.

  “Well done.”

  She surveyed the small cottage while she ate. It was humble and Spartan, but neat and tidy. Soft morning light bathed the room, and a bookcase in the corner groaned with books.

  Henry joined her, and she watched his fingers hold the spoon, his mouth as he chewed.

  He stopped. “What’s the matter? Have I something on my face?”

  “No, no.” She must have been staring at him like a dolt.

  He grinned. “I see you’ve finished. Would you like some more?”

  She hesitated. “Mother always said my appetite was very unladylike.”

  “I love to see a woman with a good appetite.” His eyes swept over her face. “Especially when it involves my food.”

  He filled her bowl and watched as she ate until the bowl was empty.

  She was filled with a glorious feeling of well-being. She may as well admit it; it wasn’t just the stew.

  “Tell me, Bethan, where were you headed before you became incapacitated?”

  They had moved back over to the divan, and she laid her head back against the cushion. “I was on my way to speak with my sister Polly.”

  “Can I help?”

  She wanted to taste his face, sink into those warm eyes of his, rich and warm as hot chocolate. She shook her head. “I don’t think anyone can.”

  “Surely it can’t be as bad as that.”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  Chapter Nine

  Henry resisted the urge to reach over and smooth the crease of worry between her brows. “I’m a good listener.”

  She glanced at the door. “I should be getting back to Elunid.”

  “You must rest.” She was pale, with beads of sweat on her forehead. “George and I will take you back in the wagon soon enough.”

  Did she sense his attraction for her? He couldn’t let it show; she didn’t feel well. Yet, he wasn’t so out of practice with a woman’s ways that he didn’t see her eye his naked body.

  “George, would you please make us a cup of tea? You remember how to do it properly, don’t you?”

  “Surely, Da.”

  Good lad. He watched with pride as George poured hot water into a teapot, setting it on the hearth, and dropping the tea leaves into it.

  Bethan’s dark blue eyes widened at the sight of the fine teapot. It was cylindrical, made of red stoneware, with a white flower design and lines etched throughout. It had belonged to Celia, George’s mother.

  “What an unusual teapot,” she murmured.

  “It was always one of my favorites,” he said.

  “From when?”

  “Another lifetime ago. As well as being beautiful, it keeps the tea nice and hot, the way I like it.”

  George carefully extracted a teacup out of a worn, wood cabinet in the corner. It was light yellow with a pearl luster, and blue flowers. George bit his upper lip with concentration as he carried it over, and with a sigh of relief, set the tea cup and saucer on the table.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “What’s a night soil man doing with such a fine tea service? I’ve known you long enough to know how curious you are, Mistress Bethan.”


  She grinned, displaying a charming dimple on her chin. “My mother has always said it would get me into trouble one day.” She shrugged. “I can’t help it.”

  “It’s a good thing to be curious, for it means we’re always learning. It makes life richer, no matter how humble we are.” He spread his hands out to take in the room. “You want to know why I would have such a fine set of teaware. Let’s just say it was from another place and time.”

  Her lips twitched. “You are purposely intriguing me.”

  He smiled. What a fine idea, for it made her focus on him. Seeing the light in her eyes again made a lump rise in his throat.

  She bit her lip.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re the most mysterious night soil man I’ve ever met.”

  He laughed aloud, making George clatter the teapot.

  “I am fairly certain I’m the only night soil man you’ve ever met.”

  The rich, husky sound of her laughter made his manhood tighten.

  “My occupation is only a small part of me.”

  “I’ve no doubt, but still…” She pointed toward the bookcase. “For example, so many books. How do you come to be so learned?”

  “How do you?” he countered.

  She fingered the hem of her apron. “When I was a young child, my mother used to read us stories. We had a fair number of books, because mother came from a fine family. She’d learned to read and taught us. I read every book in the lighthouse. Father used to indulge me by bringing books from his trips.”

  “You were raised in a lighthouse? How extraordinary.”

  “It sounds exciting, doesn’t it? I love the sea, but the winters are long and brutal, and it was just Mother, Elunid, and myself most of the time. Then father was lost at sea…”

  She brightened. “Since Elunid and I have come to King’s Harbour, it’s been such a joy to have people to talk to, something new happening every day. Who knows what the tide will bring in? At the lighthouse, after Father died, Mother was afraid to let us out. I could only watch the ships go by.”

  George handed each of them a cup of tea, then plopped down in a chair.

  “Thank you, George. What a fine job you’ve done,” Bethan said.