Carola Dunn (6 page)

 “Even if I did have a son, he would not be heir to the dukedom,” Edward pointed out. “Our families’ connection is through your mother.”

 “Yes, yes,” Reggie said impatiently. “One way or another, what it comes down to is that I shall have to marry, sooner or later.”

 “You should have no difficulty whatsoever in finding a blue-blooded bride.”

 “But a nobleman’s daughter will expect all sorts of finery and gewgaws! A well-born bride might even want to join me in Town, of all the ghastly thoughts, though Mother never complained when Father left her down here.”

 The late duke’s only interest in his family had been to ensure that his heir grew up as arrogant and selfish as himself. Though he rarely set foot in Norfolk, the duchess had admittedly always seemed contented with her lot. Edward assumed she had realized long since she was better off with her unsatisfactory husband at a distance.

 “But Martha—Miss Miller—wishes to see London,” Edward protested, recalling the light in her blue eyes when she spoke of going to Town with Lizzie.

 “Then she can go on wishing,” Reggie snapped. “I’ll be damned if I’ll parade a miller’s daughter before the Ton. Or any female, come to that, but her parents ain’t likely to rake me over the coals for neglecting her as Lord and Lady This or That would. I daresay the girl will be perfectly happy to stay here sewing and breeding. She’ll be a duchess, after all. What more could she ask for?”

 Not a word of argument would he hear. Pleased with himself, he went off to complete his toilet, leaving Edward to wonder if he could conceive of anything more painful than to see his own beloved the wife of his cousin.

 He tried to consider Reggie’s plan from Martha’s point of view.

 Unlike his aunt, Martha had not been brought up as a diffident, biddable young lady. She had set her heart on going to Town and she had too much spirit to give up easily. On the other hand, naturally she would be overjoyed to become a duchess. She would revel not only in the wealth and comfort, but in the power to assist her family.

 Whether she could be happy as a neglected wife was another matter. Perhaps she might be contented enough with children to occupy her. Reggie’s children.

 Bitter jealousy flooded through Edward. For a moment he failed to distinguish its throes from a different, peculiar sensation in his head. Then he recognized the unmistakable tingling touch of magic.

 Once before he had had a similar involuntary experience, a brief vision of another time. His mother had explained that her own immortal people lived in a timeless world incomprehensible to humans, where past, present, and future mingled. His veins half filled with faerie blood, Edward was capable of seeing events that would take place in his own lifetime, or had already happened, or might happen.

 Now, slumping back against the pillows, he saw the bedchamber subtly change.

 It was evening. Gas lights replaced the candle sconces; the blue brocade curtains changed to green velvet; a florid pink and green paper covered the white walls and a patterned broadloom carpet the polished oak floorboards.

 A young man stood before the dressing table, tall, broad-shouldered, golden-haired. He wore a black frock coat with a high, folded collar and loose-fitting black trousers. When he turned his head, Edward saw that his cravat was a small, modest affair. A fringe of reddish beard disfigured his jaw.

 Like his hair, his cornflower-blue eyes were Martha’s, but his expression was pure Reggie.

 “I’ll be damned if I’ll dress up for the yokels, Uncle,” he said sulkily. “They should be honoured that I have accepted the invitation. Father has never condescended to dine with the neighbours in his life.”

 “Surely you do not mean to pass up a chance to bedazzle them?”

 Edward recognized his own voice, quiet, persuasive, yet with an irony Reggie always failed to perceive. He looked towards the doorway, whence the sound came, but the scene was dissolving, shifting before his eyes. The harsh gas light faded to grey midwinter daylight; the cabbage roses on the wallpaper merged, then paled to white; the carpet shrank to a rectangle of Turkey rug.

 Reggie appeared in the doorway. “Are you coming with me to see what the girl has produced, coz? Oh, you’re still not up. I can’t wait to see her face when she hears of the honour in store for her.” He took himself off.

 Haunted by his vision of the duke’s heir—so obviously Martha’s son—Edward rang for the footman who acted as his valet when he stayed here. Martha depended on him. He could not let her down. He would use his magic to help her win the duke’s hand...

 On one condition.

 She greeted him with stars in her eyes. “Edward, did His Grace tell you? He wants to marry me! I can hardly believe it, the most handsome, dashing nobleman in the world, and he has chosen me to be his duchess. Is it not the most wonderful thing imaginable?”

 Edward’s heart sank. So it was not only the great position she coveted, she actually admired Reggie. Despite the way he had treated her, the meanness and the threats, all she saw was his outward attractions, his good looks, his splendid physique, his fashionable dress.

 Nonetheless sorry to bring her back to earth from her air-dreams, he asked bluntly, “What do you have to accomplish to earn such felicity?”

 Her nose wrinkled in an enchanting grimace. “He has given us sackcloth this time, to make six ball gowns and a formal court dress. I did not realize a ball gown is different from an evening dress, more elaborate still, and a court dress is dreadfully complicated. Two petticoats and a robe with a train! But I know we can do it.”

 “What will you give me for my help?”

 Her face fell. “You know I have nothing worth giving.”

 “Nothing?” Your love, Edward cried in silent agony, but that was impossible. Now was the moment to present his condition: “Then give me a promise,” he said slowly, “that when you are Duchess of Diss, you will let me bring up your first-born son. Let me guide his steps, direct his discipline, oversee his education.”

 “What an odd request,” she exclaimed, surprised and doubtful.

 She glanced from the bundle of sackcloth on the table to the open magazine lying beside it. The illustration showed a court dress: zephyrine trimmed with lace, over a lace petticoat, over a hooped satin petticoat, all richly decorated with pearls and silver lamé. It would not do to skimp on the trimmings for Lizzie’s presentation to the Queen, who was a notorious stickler for every observance.

 Not that the trimmings made any difference, when she had nothing but sackcloth to work with.

 “Yes, I promise,” Martha cried, “for without your help, I shall never be duchess.”

 At the instant she pronounced the words, “I promise,” Martha became aware of the tenuous strands of the web between herself and Edward. It had never disintegrated, she realized, only hidden itself from her sight. Now, slowly, it stiffened until slender yet rigid crystalline rods held them at once together and apart.

 Again the eerie manifestation vanished from view. Invisible and intangible, it did not affect the physical distance between Martha and Edward. Despite its elasticity, though, and despite its fragile appearance, Martha sensed it was as strong, as enduring as a millstone.

 Yet a millstone could be fractured by a blow in the wrong place.

 She had no time to wonder about the significance of that strange lattice, nor to worry about her promise, for the task before them was the most formidable yet.

Chapter VI

 The sacking was near impossible to work with, difficult to pin, fraying when cut, refusing to lie flat when Martha tried to smooth it. As she wielded the hot iron, a mournful song,
The False Bride
, rose to her lips.

“‘Oh, when I saw my love out the church go,

“‘With the bridesmen and bridesmaids they made a fine show,

“‘Then I followed after with my heart full of woe,

“‘For I was the man should have had her.’“

 She heard Edward humming the plaintive tune as he struggled to change silk thread to silver, with the aid of every silver sixpence and threepenny bit in his pocket.

 Hour after hour they worked together. By now they knew each other’s methods and abilities; they could guess in advance what Martha needed to prepare to ensure that Edward’s magic was not overstretched.

 This advantage was offset by such problems as an asymmetrical overdress looped up with a garland of alternating knots of pearls and bouquets of flowers. Though they simplified the ornaments, it was still dreadfully complicated.

 Dawn crept through the mullioned windows, and still they laboured.

 Martha’s arms were heavy, her hands cramping, her fingertips sore. She did not complain. Edward’s pale, tight face and cautious movements told her his shoulder and leg hurt, yet he never paused to rest. Courage and kindness—for her sake, for her family’s sake, he defied pain as resolutely as he defied the duke’s orders.

 Recalling his sensitivity when she enquired about his mother’s healing powers, she said nothing. Had he not been a man and she a maid, had he not been a lord and she a villager, she’d have offered to rub his shoulder and his leg. Though magic could not ease his suffering, sweet herb unguents might, and hot fomentations, or cold compresses.

 Once she was duchess, his superior in rank and his cousin by marriage, she would see that he had the care he needed, she vowed.

 “Don’t fall asleep now, Martha,” he said with an effortful smile. “We are nearly finished. The very last thing I need is a rosebud to copy for this corsage.”

 “I cannot make a rosebud with sackcloth. Is there a strip of crimson silk?”

 “Here.” The green scrap Edward passed her changed colour as it changed hands.

 Snip, snip, a deft twist, a few stitches, and a rosebud blossomed. “I was not going to sleep, just thinking about what I shall do when I am a duchess.”

 With a disheartened expression, he said wryly, “I hope you will not be disappointed. Remember, the duke will still be your master, even when you are his wife.”

 Fixing his gaze on the silk flower, he muttered, gestured. Two rosebuds appeared, then four, eight...

 “We only need three,” Martha protested, and then gasped as a rich, summery fragrance reached her.

 The deep red roses heaped on the table were real!

 She picked up three or four, avoiding the thorns, and raised them to breathe in their sweetness. Over their velvety heads, her eyes sought Edward’s face.

 He avoided her gaze. “I’m sorry, I lost control for a moment. I shall get rid of them.”

 “I wish I could keep just one,” she said wistfully.

 “A rose in January is bound to arouse Reggie’s suspicion. I cannot begin to imagine what he might think.”

 The flowers in Martha’s hands turned to sackcloth. On the table lay three silk rosebuds, pathetically artificial after the real thing.

 As Martha gathered them in a posy and sewed them to the shoulder of the last gown, Edward’s warnings resounded in her head. The duke would still be her master, even when she was his wife, and the duke’s suspicion was to be feared.

 She stabbed her needle into the pincushion and turned to Edward. “I dread to think what his Grace will do if I give you his heir to bring up,” she said in a quavery voice.

 “You promised.”

 Frightened now, remembering the duke’s threats against her family, she pleaded with him. “Do not hold me to my promise. Please, Edward...my lord. I shall find another way to reward you for your help, when I am duchess.”

 His face twisted and he said sadly, “Very well. If you can find out my faerie name within three days, I shall release you from your promise.”

 Shoulders slumped, his limp more pronounced than ever, he left her.

* * * *

 Lord Tarnholm did not return at noon with the duke and Lady Elizabeth. They were both delighted with the gowns.

 Lady Elizabeth even gave Martha an impulsive hug. “I shall have the best abigail in London,” she cried.

 “Not her.” The duke shook his handsome head.

 “What? Why not? I want Martha!”

 “Don’t fuss so, Lizzie,” he snapped. “You shall have a perfectly adequate abigail, but not her. Come down to the drawing room and I’ll tell you why.”

 He strode from the room, followed by his sulky sister. At the last moment he glanced back over his shoulder at Martha and said testily, “You had better come too, girl.”

 It was not what Martha expected of a betrothal, not the joyous, festive occasion the villagers made of those happy events. Obviously the nobility regarded such matters differently.

 She was too tired to be disappointed. Concentrating on not stumbling, she followed her future husband and sister-in-law down the winding stairs and along passages. He stopped at a grand double-door, through which came the sound of music. Flinging it it open, he marched in.

 The music stopped instantly. The duchess jumped up from a sofa by the fire.

 “What is the matter, Reggie?” she asked apprehensively. “Why did you want me and the girls to await you here?”

 Standing numbly by the door, hands clasped before her, Martha saw Lady Elizabeth’s younger sisters gathered around the pianoforte with their governess. They all stared at their brother.

 “I have an announcement to make,” he proclaimed. “No doubt you will be glad to learn, ma’am, that I mean to take a bride. I am going to marry the miller’s chit.”

 There was a moment of dumbfounded silence. The duchess’s mouth actually dropped open. Then she recovered herself and said uncertainly, as though she thought her ears must have deceived her, “Martha Miller, Reggie? You are to wed Martha Miller?”

 “That’s the one.” He turned and gestured at Martha. “You, girl, come here and make your curtsy to your mama-in-law. I’m off to London,” he added carelessly. “While I’m gone Martha can finish making Lizzie’s wardrobe—pelisses and such. When I come back, we shall discuss the wedding.”

 He departed without a backward glance.

 The duchess sagged back onto the sofa. Her daughters clustered around her, giggling and twittering like a flock of sparrows, and casting sidelong looks at Martha.