A shudder passed through Hippolyta's body as she steeled herself for what she guessed was to come. How would she ever explain it to her brother? His daughter had been compromised by an unspeakable man whose abandonment of her would be preferable to the offer of his name.
"I do have reason to believe Lothian was in Diana's chamber last night. But you must believe me—it was not at all what it seems! You see, the fact is," he continued miserably, "Diana was not there, Polly."
"What do you mean?" she asked slowly.
"Well," he said, hanging his head, "she was with me all night."
"Oh… dear," she said hollowly.
"But it is not like that, Polly. Heavens! We were certainly not in my chamber, either!"
Hippolyta closed her eyes and counted to ten. "Exactly where did the two of you pass the night?"
"Downstairs," he muttered. "In Mrs. Bannock's parlor."
"In Mrs. Bannock's parlor?" she repeated. This was not making sense at all, but at least it was not as dire as she had thought.
"Yes, we went downstairs to eat a cherry tart or two after this Lothian…" He glanced up at her perplexed expression. "I see I had best start earlier in the evening."
"Yes," she said wearily. "Please do."
She listened to his tale with a growing fascination. A good deal was necessarily left out, for it was clear Diana had not confided in him what Lothian had done to frighten her so. Perhaps she would learn later. It would be terribly difficult, she now realized, to do as Trevalyen had advised in his letter, and "trust to the children." It might well be that their actions would inadvertently bring about a resolution to the problem of Lord Lothian, but what entanglements would they tumble into in the meanwhile?
"And so, you see," he was concluding, "when we discovered there were no tarts to be had, we settled not unnaturally on the cordial which made Diana quite drowsy. But I want to assure you, Polly," he went on earnestly, "that I took great pains not to fall asleep myself, for that would have been unchivalrous."
"And you must agree it is much better for Diana to have slept below stairs rather than returning alone to her chamber—for if Lothian did indeed go there in search of her last night, the resulting encounter must have been far more disastrous."
He stopped for a moment as if to catch his breath, for he had told the story in something of a rush. "So, you see why I wished to know whether Diana had gone today. I did not like to think of her being caught unawares with that beast creeping about."
Hippolyta nodded slowly. Clearly the amber's protection had worked, she realized, but unfortunately, magic knew nothing of society's conventions.
"I do see, Edward," she said evenly. "However, I do not know quite what to tell you. The results of this lark have been surely far less calamitous than you had any right to expect. We are prone to forget convention in this odd household, but in society, a young lady's good name cannot be replaced."
Edward blushed furiously and hung his head.
"We shall keep this episode to ourselves, however. Diana is to have her first Season soon, and she will forget this strange circumstance."
Edward looked up in surprise. "Diana is going to London?"
"Most young ladies do eventually, Edward. But let us think of other things. I shall try to discover what it is Lothian is searching for—and how to remove him from this house."
When Hippolyta left Edward, he appeared a good deal chastened. St. Ives had earlier pointed out to her that Edward appeared to be smitten with her niece, but she had not taken his observation seriously. Clearly, she should have done. Edward and Diana were both far too young to consider anything so serious as marriage. The course of her own life had been vastly altered by an abbreviated Season. And even more than she, Diana would regret the loss of the fetes and parties of London. No, she would not encourage this flirtation.
"Lady Polly?"
Once more her progress to her chamber was interrupted, this time, by a distressed Lady Bristlethwaite. The poor soul's eyes were red-rimmed and her face a weary grey.
"What is the trouble?" Hippolyta smiled, attempting to hide her own fatigue.
"It is my stepdaughters, of course. They will give me no peace! I know they were mortified to their cores last night, and I quite sympathize with them," she said, her voice beginning to waver tearfully, "but now they tell me they will not stay here another day and we must remove at once to Brighton. They simply cannot face the company after what transpired last night, but…"
"But?" Hippolyta prompted.
"But I cannot bear to leave Sir Godfrey!" she wailed. Huge tears appeared in her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. "I do not know what to do! I was wondering if you might not have something… to make them forget their disgrace?"
"Perhaps," Hippolyta sighed, placing a comforting arm across the woman's trembling shoulders. "Come with me and I shall devise a tisane to dim the memory. Perhaps it would be wise to instill in them a passion for bonfires, as well, so they do not sulk about the Hall tonight. I should like to think we shall all stay together tonight. Midsummer's Eve is not a good time to be apart."
When Lady Bristlethwaite left at last, carrying away with her ingredients to brew this interesting tisane, Hippolyta found she had little enough time to prepare for the evening. Her bath had been drawn and sat cooling before the fire. Taking the tongs, she pulled an ember from the grate and circled it above the water three times. Then she dipped it quickly in the water. As its hiss died, the bath began to bubble and steam, and she tossed the spent ember into the hod. Then she gathered a handful of soothing herbs and dried blossoms, blue pimpernel, valerian, sweet myrtle, and sprinkled them over the simmering water.
While she waited for the mixture to release its fragrance, she looked put the window. The Midsummer forest shimmered on the hillside, a slight aura of rainbow colors hovering above. It would disappear by moonset, she knew, but it was a lovely reminder of the power she had in her charge. Not all weighty duties, she reminded herself, were so sweet. If only St. Ives would…
Do not think of it, she told herself sharply, turning away from the scene. She could not, would not, ask him to abjure one world for another. It was too much to ask. If Trevalyen's matchmaking were to prosper, it must do so without her efforts.
She undid the tapes on her simple morning gown and dropped it onto the floor. Then she stepped out of her chemise, untied her slippers, and peeled off her stockings. The heady fragrance of the water beckoned to her. She lowered herself in with a sigh, shut her eyes, shut out her troubles, and let the water bubble about her.
Eighteen
Julian St. Ives stood in the Chinese Salon looking out the window at the wood in the distance. Its sudden appearance was at once unsettling and captivating. It was a confirmation of all the childhood fantasies he had dutifully put away on assuming his adult role. How dreary life would be when he left Rookeshaven.
If he left Rookeshaven.
Since last night, pragmatic arguments, sensible considerations had warred with his desires and instincts. He was not, after all, certain the assumption of his great-uncle's title and estate was a matter of any great importance. Not to his way of thinking, at any rate. True, the rest of the world would brand him a fool for forsaking "my lord" for the title of "Mister" all his days. Blakensly Manor had great potential, but it cried out for attention after the neglect of his uncle's declining years. Polly was right. The five-day journey to Rookeshaven was an unthinkable distance if he were to properly discharge his duties.
Duty. What was it, after all? Would it truly matter if he abdicated his inheritance to the next twig on the family tree? In comparison with Polly's charge to confront the powers of darkness, it seemed hardly a consideration at all. It was not as if he were forsaking anything he held dear—or, at least, not so dear as he held Polly.
Part of the decision, if it came to that, must be Edward's, however. Rookeshaven, after all, was his. If Polly would not leave, St. Ives must come there, but how would a young man feel about
that contingency?
"Good evening, St. Ives. Studying the landscape, I see."
He turned to see that Edward himself had entered the salon.
"Yes," he returned thoughtfully. "It's extraordinary to see that a wood has sprung up overnight."
Edward joined him at the window. "You are fortunate. I spent many long hours as a lad hoping to see the Midsummer woods. My father used to stand with me at this very spot and point out to me where it ought to have been, but I always disappointed him. I believe I caught a shadow of it once or twice, but I am too old for even that now." He paused a moment and stared out over the evening countryside. "This house can be something of a burden when one has not an ounce of magic in him."
St. Ives glanced back out the window. He could see the woods quite clearly, yet it appeared Edward could not. How ironic, that each of them seemed misplaced in their lives. It had not occurred to him that the young man might find his inheritance as much a burden as St. Ives did his own. Edward would very likely find a life of ton parties and the commonplace setting of Blakensly Manor quite to his liking. Again, St. Ives felt the tug at his heart, yearned to cast off his comfortable future in exchange for the far more perilous world of magic. The uncertain world of love.
"Edward," he said slowly, "there is a matter of some importance I would discuss with you."
"Why, certainly, St. Ives. Just let me ring for some sherry. Ah, here is Nigglesby."
The old gentleman was indeed shuffling slowly into the room, dressed in a curious robe. Made of a fine white wool, it tied about his spare waist with a thin cord and ended just below his knees. Upon his balding pate there sat a laurel wreath.
"All decked for Midsummer's, I see, Nigglesby. Is the bonfire lit?"
"Aye, 'tis this hour an' more, my lord. An' Lady Polly gone down already. Time for't' gentlemen, belike."
"So it is," Edward frowned. "I thought we had more time, but it's gone pesky on us. Midsummer! Sorry, St. Ives. We shall talk later. Aunt Polly will not like it at all if we are late. Are we the last, Nigglesby?"
"Aye, Sir Godfrey and Lady Bristlethwaite 'ave gone down, an' those two daughters tearin' out't' door as if they couldn't wait."
"What about Lord Lothian?" Edward asked.
Nigglesby made a deprecating noise in his throat. "Aye, he, too, more's't' pity. Made a plaguey nuisance of hisself all day, now more like he'll drain't' punch bowl, great brute, before't' rest o' us has a taste."
"Best move along and be first in line then, Nigglesby. We shall follow close behind."
When St. Ives and Edward joined the others, the bonfire was already burning high into the sky, golden sparks flying from it in bright swirls. Several sturdy lads were still piling faggots onto it, while other folk milled about and chatted companionably. Sir Godfrey and Lady Bristlethwaite stood hand in hand, while the Honorables stared in apparent rapture at the flames.
He recognized Jane, too, who stood draped with garlands of garlic glancing suspiciously over her shoulder at every darting shadow. Clearly the prospect of an evening in a deserted Rookeshaven had driven even this soul out into the summer night.
The fire had been lit in the center of a stone circle. The circle was not, certainly, as impressive as that on the Salisbury Plain, but far older looking. The stones were white and virtually round from centuries of wear.
Polly, he could see, stood in front of the tallest of these stones, her hands folded serenely before her. She wore a long gown of deep blue, dusted with golden stars and silver crescent moons. When the breeze came up and caught her hem, the gown shimmered with a life of its own. She seemed as much a part of this magical scene as the trees or the sky or the moonlight.
"It looks as if Nigglesby has taken my advice," Edward said at his side. "He will be fortunate if Mrs. Bannock does not toss him into the punch bowl as well for his hovering so near it!"
St. Ives was intrigued, "This is particularly good punch, I collect?"
"More than that," Edward laughed. "Legend has it one's dearest wish will be granted soon after one has drunk a cup of punch, should the powers of Midsummer decree. There's a story told about our Nigglesby—not in polite company, I might add!—that when he was a young man, his heart was torn between two of the local lasses. Not only could he not decide which he loved the most, but both of them spurned him. It seems, however, that just after he tossed down a cup of punch one year, the scales fell from the ladies' eyes and they pursued him, mad with love, into the Midsummer woods. I believe he is hoping for a repetition of that blessing once before he dies!"
"A worthy goal," St. Ives laughed. One's dearest wish granted? What would it be for Polly? he wondered. He thought he knew what it might be for himself.
"Look!" Edward whispered suddenly. "There is that fellow Lothian lurking about on the edge of the darkness. He has done nothing but sneak about all day!"
St. Ives could just make out the figure Edward had pointed to. Odd that Lothian looked a good deal less ominous than he had, in spite of the darkness and the flickering fire light. He looked almost… smaller than he had. How odd.
Before St. Ives could comment, however, a song broke from the direction of the woods and the maidens came dancing out arm in arm, their heads crowned with crimson flowers. They seemed to be accompanied by a host of flickering lights. He could make out Diana from among the maidens, although she seemed quite changed, laughing unaffectedly as though among dear friends rather than her social inferiors. Extraordinary.
Bertie, too, was watching this entertaining scene. He thought the maidens with their silly gowns and flowers in their hair looked quite amusing. So must the other fellows gathered about, for it seemed they watched the maidens with an interest equal to his own. Bertie was carrying with him a small vial of the potion he had mixed that morning. He had tested it first on the kitchen cats and caused a gratifying uproar. Now, he could hardly wait to see what the potion's effect might be on people!
It was a good thing everyone seemed to be watching the maidens. It would be quite an easy thing to mix the potion into the punch, but there was an added inducement: what a joke for some fellow to think he would be granted his heart's desire and instead be chased by females!
Mrs. Bannock had just given the pot a final stir, when Bertie marched up and dumped the entire contents of his vial into the mixture. A peculiar violet haze rose out of the pot, but disappeared on the breeze. Bertie glanced at the sky. When the moon was directly overhead, anyone who had drunk from the pot would fall top over tails in love with whomever they next laid eyes on. Bertie looked about for a comfortable spot from whence he could watch the fun.
Hippolyta's sixth sense was twitching. She knew that something cataclysmic was about to take place, but she did not know what. A moment ago, there had been a strong whiff of magic in the air that was not of her making. If only she had thought to slip her crystal into her pocket! Diana still danced with the maidens and Edward watched from afar, but even across that distance, the glances they exchanged cut lightning bolts in the air. From the edge of the clearing, she could see that Lothian watched Diana like a cobra about to strike.
The moon was almost immediately above. It was time to begin.
"Good people of the countryside," her voice rang out. "Welcome. And to our friends of the green world, welcome, too. Our maidens have renewed the bond between us. Now, do you roam among us and bless our land. We shall burn sweet herbs on our fire and drink a cup in your honor, and hope you will bestow upon the fortunate their hearts' desires."
"Hear, hear!" Nigglesby seconded loudly.
Hippolyta took a bundle of herbs from a basket at her side and tossed it onto the fire. It flared up in a flash of gold. Then she passed the basket to the maidens, each of whom took up her own herbs and did likewise.
Mrs. Bannock brought a cup to Hippolyta. She drank it down and handed it back. Now others stepped to the pot and waited their turn.
Well met, my friend, a voice buzzed at her ear.
"Well met, indeed, Titani
a," Hippolyta whispered.
You bring… curious friends to the Midsummer fire this year. Love, danger, and mischief all about you. Shall we lure it all away to the green glade and save your pretty brow from wrinkling?
"The danger you may have. The love, I do not know. What is this of mischief?"
The human counterpart of our Robin Goodfellow, I fear. A very naughty sort of child—he must be a changeling! How comes he to be invisible? I thought that a trick reserved for faerie folk.
"So Bertie is invisible!" Hippolyta exclaimed. "That explains a great deal. Is he up to a great deal of mischief?"
Tinkling laughter rang out beside her. No more than you poor mortals merit.
The voice faded into the darkness and Hippolyta looked about her. The household party were gathered together watching the revelers and drinking their punch. Edward and Diana were sharing a cup.
As Hippolyta came up to join them, Lothian approached, too. He was holding a cup of the Midsummer brew which he drank off and threw aside in the grass. His locks were disheveled and he looked dangerously agitated. Taking Diana suddenly by the wrist, he pulled her aside from the gathering.
"What have you done with it, witch?" he snarled.
Edward lurched forward, his fist raised. St. Ives caught Hippolyta's horror-stricken expression and pulled her stepson forcibly back.
"I am sure I do not know what you mean," Diana said coldly, raising a contemptuous chin.
"My amulet," he hissed. "I have searched for it everywhere. You must have spirited it off me. Where is it?"
"If you must know," she snapped, "I gave it away to a green creature in the woods. Now go away."
Much to Hippolyta's surprise, Diana was not transformed at once into a toad. So, it was his amulet he had been searching for! He must have concentrated a good deal of his own strength into it in order to intensify its magical power. That was quite a perilous practice, however, if one were so unfortunate as to misplace the object. Apparently, he had but little power left. Trevalyen had been quite correct: trust to the children.
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