Echoes of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  He blushed and smiled.

  A comfortable silence fell upon the room as the three sipped their tea.

  George slurped the last swallow of his tea. “Da, may I go outside to check on the nest of baby robins?”

  “Yes, but don’t disturb them. If you get your scent on them, the mother will abandon them.”

  George made a valiant attempt at closing the door quietly, but failed.

  When Henry turned back to Bethan, his gut wrenched at the despair on her face.

  “Poor robin, gentle robin,

  Tell me how thy leman doth

  And thou shalt know of mine.”

  She sang the old William Cornysh tune in an effortless high soprano. The song echoed in the room long after she finished, desolate and bittersweet.

  He touched her hand. “What has made you so sad, Bethan?”

  “I was just thinking; sometimes human mothers aren’t too different from birds.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pulled her hand away. “I should be getting back.”

  “Will you not rest awhile longer, and tell me what troubles you?” He would gladly take the pain from her and carry it himself.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then straightened her shoulders. “My sister has been ill a long time, since the age of thirteen or so. She…sees visions, horrible visions. One day she’ll converse with me, be the sister I’ve always known, and the next she’ll be unreachable, in her own hell.” She paused and sipped her tea. “I never know what to expect from one day to the next.”

  He nodded.

  “Doctors can do nothing for her. They practically bled her dry, and the treatments they attempted were cruel and useless.” She shuddered. “I cannot help her. I can only watch and wait until it’s over. And I fear one day she will sink into madness and never return to me.”

  He longed to hold her within the shelter of his arms. “How is it you have come to bear the full weight for your sister’s care?”

  She laughed without humor. “Mother cannot abide by Elunid’s ‘moods,’ as she calls them. She believes Elunid has a choice in how she behaves. She has no power over it, I tell you.” She grasped his hands again, nails biting into his skin. No matter, if it gave her comfort.

  She cleared her voice and loosened her grip. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. I’d be angry too, have been angry. When George’s mother died, I railed against the unfairness of it. And when my family…”

  “What?” She leaned forward, dark eyes searching his face.

  Should he tell her? To what end? No, this moment was about her pain, not his. “It’s a story for another time. Please tell me what happened since I left the inn last night.”

  Her telling came in waves, anguish growing as the story unfolded. What could he do to ease her suffering?

  “I’m sorry, Bethan. It must have been horrible.”

  She nodded. “And I can do nothing to help her.”

  “No. But she can depend on you to be there, even when she’s not aware.”

  She drew a shaky breath. “For all it’s worth.”

  “To have the comfort and pleasure of your presence is worth a thousand treasures.”

  She set her cup in its saucer and brushed nonexistent crumbs off her lap. He had the sudden intense urge to lay his head upon it.

  “I’ve lingered here too long.”

  Chapter Ten

  Here she was, sitting with a man in his home, with only a young boy as chaperone. But what did it matter? The town already considered her unladylike after her encounter with the ne’er-do-well, Freddy. What of it? She would defend her sister above all things. Who cared if they did not approve of her unladylike behavior?

  Suddenly, she became aware of a lifting of her spirit, a return to her natural buoyancy. How much of it was due to the comfort of being with Henry, who shared her burden? For the first time in a long time, she felt safe, protected.

  “How is your hand feeling?”

  She blushed. “You must think me a savage to have hit a man.”

  “No, Bethan. I think you are both fierce and tender. You do what you must.” He seemed to understand the heart of her. How could this be?

  “I am often angry. It’s not ladylike to be angry.”

  “You have every reason to be.”

  “No.” She lowered her head.

  “What is it?” He lifted her chin.

  “I cannot say.”

  “Whatever you have to say will not shock me. I’ve been through the fire, Bethan.”

  The way he said her name, like a caress. “You will think me the worst kind of person.”

  “No, I promise you I will not, and I will honor your confidence with my life.”

  She nodded. Who else could she talk to? “I am angry at God.”

  No sign of shock, not even a change of expression. He nodded. “Because of your sister.”

  “Why would he make His beloved daughter suffer so? What did she ever do to deserve such pain? How is it I am well, whole? He’s not a fair God.” She put her hand over her mouth. “I’ll be struck down.”

  This time, when he put his hand upon her arm in comfort, she let him. “No. For I believe God gave us intelligence, to ponder things, to question our plight and His part in it.”

  He nodded in the direction of George, who struggled valiantly with the bit as the horse took advantage of his youth and tossed her head around.

  “I often had discussions with God, after my first wife died, and as George grew older, and it became obvious he was not normal, and my family… I wondered why He would kill an innocent woman. I tell you, I was angry. You may have heard my second wife died of smallpox. We had only been married six months. One night, when George was six, he touched my face and gazed at me. ‘You are sad, Da.’ ”

  “I am, Georgie,” I said. “I’m sad God chose to take Jane away from us, that He lets bad things happen.”

  “Da, don’t you see Him?”

  “See who?”

  “See God. Feel God. He cries with us. He feels sad when we do.”

  “And as I sat there, I felt the comfort of His presence. I think what George was saying is God doesn’t cause bad things to happen, but He suffers when we suffer. He is with us.” He searched her face. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  She nodded. “It’s a lot to think about. I’m glad you’re not angry anymore. Young George is an old soul.”

  “Always has been. I’m thankful for what I have. A healthy, happy son, a worthy occupation, though you may disagree.” He grinned. “And a new friend, may I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes lit up, making her want to bathe in the warmth of them.

  “And I promise I won’t tell anyone about our conversation.” He paused. “Or that you saw me naked.”

  Chapter Eleven

  She ripped her arm away from him.

  He shouldn’t have said it, but he was only human.

  She straightened herself up to her full height, which was impressive, and glared down at him. “You want me to applaud you for doing the right thing?” She turned and stalked toward the wagon, where George sat in the driver’s seat.

  Did she not know how many men would be happy to spread the news they’d paraded nude in front of a maiden?

  She climbed in the wagon, covered her mouth with a handkerchief, stared straight ahead, forbidding as any dowager he’d ever met. Mayhap she wouldn’t be as formidable if she knew…no, she must like him and respect him for who he was now. Not who he’d been.

  He took George’s place at the reins. Once they moved down the lane, the breeze blew any remaining stench from the wagon. She removed the handkerchief from her mouth, her lips pursed with disapproval, but as they rumbled down the lane, the mild summer weather and birdsong made her eyes shine with delight. She wouldn’t speak to him again for the remainder of the trip.

  No matter, for it was enough to glance over at her and soak in the waters of her dark blue eyes, d
eep as any lake. And the smooth forehead below her widow’s peak, the proud straight back and the strength of her.

  “Bethan, would you like to stop at your sister Polly’s?”

  She frowned. “No, I must get back to Elunid. Besides, I don’t care to explain to her how I ended up at your cottage…”

  “Da,” George called from the back of the wagon. “Why don’t I have a granny?”

  This was new. “Why do you ask, lad?”

  “Robbie’s granny lets him eat bread and jam, and he gets to spend the night with her. She takes him to the fair sometimes.”

  “And you would like a grandmother too.”

  “Yes! Where is mine, Da?”

  He hadn’t anticipated this question and let a moment or two go by while he struggled for an answer. He would not lie to the boy, exactly. But neither could he tell the whole truth.

  “Your grandmother lives far away.”

  Bethan stared at him. Something in his voice must have given him away.

  “Can we visit her? I should like to meet her, Da.”

  “I’m sure you do, but it’s too far to travel at this time.”

  “All right, Da.”

  Damn. He couldn’t bear to hear the disappointment in the boy’s voice. He seldom asked for anything. But he couldn’t tell the boy his grandmother didn’t want him.

  He longed to unburden himself with someone. Would Bethan understand? But then he would have to tell her everything.

  “Da.”

  “Yes, George.”

  “I just thought of something. I would have two grannies, wouldn’t I? The mother of you, and the mother of my mother in heaven.”

  “Yes.”

  He’d been so intent upon their conversation, he hadn’t heard the racket of the oncoming wagon until it was just behind them.

  “Well, they’re dangerously close. They’ve got a lot of nerve,” Bethan murmured. “What’s their hurry?”

  “Fancy carriage,” George exclaimed. “Look at the horses! They must be important people.”

  “Well, then. We must let them pass.” Henry pulled the carriage to the side of the road.

  As the carriage overtook them, a man with a great plumed hat stuck his head out the window. “Your horse is so ugly, I don’t know whether you’re going backward or forward.”

  “Silly louts,” Bethan said. “Never think of anyone but themselves.”

  “I’ve rarely heard an unkind word fall from your lips, Bethan.”

  “Experience.”

  What would she think of him if she knew? He let the horses graze alongside the road. “Tell me.”

  She avoided his gaze. “It’s in the past. No sense bringing it up now.” She folded her arms.

  “Do you dislike all aristocracy?”

  “They’re useless. Shallow. Selfish.” She stared straight ahead, lips pressed together.

  George patted her shoulder. “Don’t be upset, Mistress Bethan.”

  She leaned her cheek against his hand. “You’re right, young George. It’s too lovely of a day.”

  Just as they passed the Landgate, the Wayfaring Wastrels sallied out of the Ale House.

  “Look who’s back, George!” Bethan said.

  “Yes,” he crowed. “Master Reginald and the China Doll!”

  Reggie, the leader of the travelling musicians, held the arm of Charlotte, the petite songstress with the voice of a temptress. Not his type, though. He liked his women tall and statuesque. His woman. If only it could be so.

  “Oh ho, Mistress Bethan!” Reggie abruptly broke away from Charlotte and bowed. “The sun has kissed your face in the most alluring manner.”

  She smiled, pink-cheeked. “You’re back. How were your travels?”

  Henry didn’t care for the delight in her voice, and the smile clearly not meant for him. And she didn’t look at the dandy like he’d shite on his face. Stop, man. You’ve no claims on her.

  “Reggie, good to have you back in town.” His smile felt stiff and must have looked even more so.

  The musician made him feel like a humble man indeed, with his fine coat and all the accessories of a young dandy. Truth be told, Reggie cut a masculine figure in the dark blue suit, hair neatly tied back. He approached the wagon.

  “Henry, a pleasure indeed. Hallo, Georgie!”

  “Hallo, Master Reggie.” George hopped out of the wagon and stood in front of him.

  He tousled the boy’s hair. “Have you been singing?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “The decent songs anyway,” Henry said.

  Reginald turned toward Bethan. “You are summer itself, in all its ripe beauty.” He had the temerity to meet her gaze. Lout.

  “Er, and you, Mr. Reginald.”

  “Oh please, call me Reggie. All my friends do.” His eyes were very dark under even darker brows, his cheeks lean and nose straight. The ladies seemed to swoon around him; he radiated an element of danger which seemed to attract them. What about Bethan?

  He kissed her hand, and she turned her head away. Then she blushed, a clear radiant pink, like the inside of a sea shell.

  Charlotte tugged on his sleeve. “Reggie, let’s go to our lodging.”

  Her bodice was laced tighter than the strings on a smuggler’s bundle, and her ample breasts all but tumbled out. A man couldn’t help but stare.

  Bethan snatched her hand away from Reggie’s grasp. Hurrah!

  Reggie continued to gawp at her.

  “Reggie!”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, your highness.”

  Bethan had rallied, and now her eyes were alight with amusement, bringing out specks of green, like fresh summer grass on a lawn.

  Reggie brought his hat to his chest and bowed. “Your servant, madame.”

  George giggled and bowed, a perfect imitation of Reggie. “Your servant, madame.”

  Bethan laughed. He’d give up a kingdom to make her laugh in such a way.

  Reggie and Charlotte walked arm in arm, singing a merry tune, George following them down the road. Henry urged the horses on.

  Bethan sat upright in the wagon, a dreamy expression on her face. Did she have a soft spot for the wastrel? He cleared his throat, and she glanced at him, lifting one eyebrow. Waited.

  “I don’t presume to tell you what to do, Mistress Bethan, but might I give you a bit of advice?”

  She smirked. “Because of your vast experience in the world?”

  She thought him the lowliest of species. He would not react.

  To her credit, she said, “I’m sorry. It was a mean-spirited thing to say.”

  “I know it’s not your way.” He nodded toward Reggie. “Yon Master Chevalier uses women and tosses them away like an empty mussel shell. As Shakespeare says, ‘Some report a seamaid spawned him and some, that he was begot between two stockfishes.’ ”

  She burst out laughing. The folks on the street turned to stare.

  She looked him full on this time and smiled, making a dimple dance on her left cheek.

  He had the odd sensation of being lifted high into the air, then spun like a top. He blinked to get his bearings.

  “Angelo, the lout. Reggie seems harmless enough to me.” She tilted her head, eyeing him.

  Was she teasing him? She could not see how breathtaking she was.

  “You need watching over.”

  She bristled then, smile fading. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, and my sister as well.”

  “He’s not an honorable man.”

  “I’ll decide for myself.”

  “Clear the way, man! Do your courting off the road.” A farmer with a load of turnips yelled.

  She must think him a real gawk; he’d stopped the wagon again without realizing it. In an awkward silence, they travelled the rest of the way to the Siren Inn.

  “My sister, I’m sure she’s awake by now and wondering where I am.” She scrambled down from the wagon before he had a chance to help her, making him look like a right dolt. She stopped, smoothed her s
kirt, clasped her hands in front of her. “Thank you for your help today,” she said formally.

  He nodded. “I’ll be in presently to help with the evening’s meal. You can’t get rid of me quite yet, Mistress Bethan.”

  He would watch over her whether she liked it or not.

  Chapter Twelve

  Upon her arrival, Bethan found Elunid sitting with Lena in her private parlor, staring at the fire, needlework in her lap.

  “She’s fine. Woke up as if nothing ever happened,” Lena whispered. “Didn’t mention you. I can’t get her to eat, though. Little Josef eats more than she does.” The babe suckled at her breast, one chubby hand on her white flesh.

  Bethan put her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Hello, Elunid.”

  Elunid lifted one eyebrow. “How is the brown one?”

  “What?”

  Elunid sniffed delicately. “Yon shite master. You’ve been with him.”

  Lena glanced up. “Vas ist das?”

  Bethan sniffed her clothes. “I do not stink.”

  Elunid grinned. “I never said you did.”

  That was her sister: unhinged one minute and lucid the next, just long enough to bedevil her. She would spend a lifetime puzzling over her, no doubt. She poured herself a cup of tea. She might as well enjoy this moment of normalcy.

  “Yes, Elunid. I know you have a preternatural sense of smell.”

  Her twin met her gaze, and Bethan had the oddest feeling of looking at herself in the mirror. “There’s a warmth about you, Chwaer.”

  “No, I’m not warm at all.”

  “Yon shite master.”

  “Would you kindly stop calling him that?”

  “It matters not what he does. He warms your blood.” Elunid fanned the air in front of her face. “I can feel it.”

  Elunid’s current mood recalled their childhood days, when they felt the other’s emotions as if they were their own, and finished each other’s sentences.

  Lena chuckled, dislodging the baby from her nipple. He squawked, and she set him to rights again. “Oh, you carry a torch for Henry? I thought as much.”

  “I do not!”

  “You wait for him every morning to come by. Don’t think I don’t know why you rise so early. Then you light up like the sunrise.”