The Demon's Bride (7 page)

 

 

Spring came to Suffolk with its usual magic touch, and soon the green and fertile land was cheered by birdsong and the bleating of newborn lambs. Apart from remaining observant for any hint of wickedness in the congregation, Rachel and her father had put aside their enquiries about Walpurgis Night until closer to the event.

Rachel was now collecting local songs. These were interesting in themselves, but often related to customs, sometimes long-forgotten ones.

She sat one day with Widow Tufflow as the old lady span fine thread despite the fact that her sight was almost gone.

“Ester, ester, egg is bester,” chanted the woman in a cracked voice as the wheel hummed, “green is swester dimmy’s wife. Bester dancer, ester chancer, blood agrounder dimmy’s knife.”

Rachel had recorded it mindlessly, just making sure to get the sounds down, but now she looked in fascination at what she had written. “That’s an interesting song,” she said carefully. “Was it sung at any particular time, Mrs. Tufflow?”

“Children sing it,” said the old woman. “It’s just a bit of nonsense.”

“But what of this dimmy?” When the woman didn’t respond, Rachel resorted to a direct question. “Could that have anything to do with the Dym of Dymons Hill and Dym’s Bride?”

The milky eyes turned toward her. “Why, that it might, miss. Yes.”

“And Ester would be Easter. And on Easter Sunday, I understand, one household finds a blue egg on the doorstep. The youngest unmarried woman of that house will then be the Dym’s Bride that year, yes?”

“Aye, miss.” The woman nodded amiably.

Rachel looked over the words. “Do you have any idea what ‘green is swester’ might mean, Mrs. Tufflow?”

The wheel span steadily, bewitchingly on. “Well, the bride must wear green, miss.”

“Must she? I didn’t know that.”

“Aye, green and simple. No hoops or anything. Like in the old times.”

How old, Rachel wanted to ask. Druid times?

“And she dances and chants. That’s dancer and chancer,” Rachel mused almost to herself. “And put’s blood and earth on Dym’s knife! This is all about Walpurgis Night.”

“Doubt not it is,” said Mrs. Tufflow, unexcited. “I were a Dym’s Bride once, you know.”

And the woman sat there and calmly recounted the whole event in detail. Even as she scribbled it down, Rachel was aware with some apprehension that Widow Tufflow had always intended to tell her this.

The bar on the village’s knowledge had been broken.

But why?

 

 

Sure enough, f having to scratch for every scrap of information, now Rachel and her father were drowning in it. It seemed every person in the locality had a song or story they wanted to share, many of them connected to Walpurgis Night. Rachel, who was distressingly inclined to pine over an absent, heartless rake, threw herself into this torrent of information with enthusiasm.

They soon had a complete picture of the festivities. They didn’t contradict Sir George’s account, but merely filled it in. The bride was dressed in a simple green robe of rather medieval style and wore flowers in her hair. She was taken in precession to Dymons Hill where the bonfire was already lit. There was a lot of dancing, drinking, and singing up until midnight. At that time some special songs were sung, the bride cut her hand, smeared the blood on the blade, and plunged the knife into the earth.

The people believed that by the ceremony the earth had been fed, assuring good crops and kine for the next year, so they celebrated till dawn.

It appeared no more wicked than many other country festivals. Just to be sure, Rachel and her father complied a list of all the Dym’s Brides since 1668 and interviewed those still living. No Dym’s Bride had come to harm in the ceremony, and true to tradition, they had all married well within the year. There was no suggestion of anything untoward.

“So that’s that,” said her father one evening, making a final note in the book in which they had recorded everything. “Whatever happened to Meggie Brewstock was to do with her personal affairs, doubtless her liaison with the earl. Quite possibly the attack upon him was for the same reason. Perhaps it was intended that he end up on the fire with her. That’s a serious enough matter to require secrecy, but not at all mystical. Our investigation of Walpurgis Night here is complete except for our direct account of this year’s rites. After that, I’ll send it to the
Gentleman’s Magazine
for publication.”

 

 

Lord Morden returned in the week before Easter. The first Rachel knew of it was when he walked into the vicarage parlor where she was transcribing a song.

She was so startled she snapped, “Where did you come from?”

He brought a hint of fresh spring air but his eyes were dangerous. “I materialized from a hole in the ground like the demon I am.” He grasped her chin and kissed her.

His skin was cold, but his breath was hot. Rachel snaked her arm around his neck and rose to kiss him back.

With no start of surprise that she could detect, he deepened the kiss and collapsed her onto the new carpet with him on top. Rachel struggled then, but he carried her forward into passion with the irresistible force of a river in full flood. . . .

It was a very loud, repetitive coughing that gained their attentions. The earl broke the kiss and they both looked up.

Mrs. Hatcher stood in the doorway, hands folded on her apron, blank of expression. “I’m sure, miss, you’ll think better of what you’re doing, given the chance.”

Rachel felt heat flood her body. She pushed fiercely at Lord Morden and he rocked to his feet with an unrepentant grin, helping her up in turn. “You were so eager, my sweet. It seemed a shame to waste it.”

Rachel turned all her embarrassment into fury. “Get out!”

“Oh, don’t be predictably prudish, Rachel. I’ll leave if you can deny that you invited that.”

She glared at him, but truth was sacred to her. “Very well, my lord, I did. It was foolish. Perhaps I thought to teach you a lesson.”

“Remarkably foolish. In this, I’m the master, and you a mere infant.”

“I would not be so proud of that if I were you.”

“Do you want tea, miss?” interrupted Mrs. Hatcher.

Tea, the universal antidote to folly.

Rachel wanted to throw Morden out—or a part of her did—but there was no chance of removing him before he wished to leave. She had best tame him with tea.

“Yes, please. Thank you, Mrs. Hatcher.” She meant the thanks to be more for the interruption than for the tea, and the woman nodded.

Rachel returned to her seat, directing the devil in her midst to a seat a safe distance away. He took one closer.

“What were you so busily engaged in, my Rachel? More demonic enquiries?”

“A song, only.”

“Sing it to me.”

“I do not have the music.”

“Then how can it be a song? Recite it to me.”

With a sour smile, Rachel picked up the paper. “One ewe, two ewe, three ewe, dim. Round up, still tup, ring tup, lim. More?” she queried sweetly.

“That’s the nonsense the shepherds chant when they’re counting the sheep. Why on earth are you recording that?”

“I record everything. That’s the way it’s done. One never knows what might be of interest. And it does say ‘dim.’”

“Still obsessed with our local demon? If you want to be a Demon’s Bride, be mine.”

Mrs. Hatcher came in at that moment and put the tray down with a thump.

Rachel turned to her. “Mrs. Hatcher, you heard that didn’t you? He offered me marriage.”

“I heard nothing, miss.”

“Miss Proudfoot,” said the earl clearly, “please marry me.”

“His lordship’s making a game of you, miss. Why, the first thing he did on arriving yesterday was to visit his daughter, Catty Hesset.”

The flash of fiery anger from the earl’s eyes bounced off Mrs. Hatcher. She sent him a grim smile and left.

Rachel looked at the tea tray, unable to pour because she was sure her hand would shake too much. “Is it true?”

“That I have a daughter? Yes. Did you think I was a virgin?”

Her cheeks burned with mortification. “I think you should have married the mother.”

He laughed out loud. “My father would have had me shot! I was sixteen and Catty’s mother was the assistant dairymaid.”

Rachel stared at him. “Like Meggie Brewstock! I suppose your victim was fortunate not to be thrown into a fire, too.”

“Don’t be idiotic.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t seduced a maid.”

“I haven’t. She seduced me.”

Rachel gave an unladylike snort of disbelief.

“Can’t imagine a woman making the first moves? Nan was four years older than I and knew what she was doing, certainly better than I did. Though I was willing enough. We had a merry month of May, as I remember, and when she was with child both she and her family were pleased as punch. The dowry she got from my father set her and Jed Hesset up for life.”

“And that makes it right?”

“If all parties are happy, can it be wrong?”

“Of course it can. What of the poor child?”

“Catty’s twelve and pretty as a picture.”

“And known far and wide as the earl’s by-blow!”

“It won’t do her any harm to be blood-bound to the big house.”

“It wouldn’t do her any harm to be raised a lady, but I don’t suppose your beneficence would stretch that far, would it, my lord?”

His eyes narrowed. “I hope this vinegary disposition is the consequence of shock, Rachel. What would you have had me do? Snatch the babe from the mother’s breast at birth? Take her as an infant from her loving family and raise her at the Abbey with no other children? Or try to change her life now, when she’s happily equipped for something else entirely?”

 

 

Rachel’s cheeks stung under the rebuke and she had no reply.

“There are worse things,” he said, “than to be the well-loved daughter of a prosperous yeoman family. Be assured, if she ever has need of me, I will take care of her.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, though she couldn’t feel that all this was right. She poured him a cup of tea. “Do you have other children?”

“Not as far as I know, though there are quite a few junior sprigs of the aristocracy who could be mine. They could be fathered by half the men in London, though. Are you going to marry me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“After a saga of dissipations such as that? Need you ask?”

“Yes. Perhaps it’s my unmarried state that leads me into wickedness. It could be your Christian duty to marry me.”

“I do not have the disposition of a Holy Martyr, my lord.”

He stood restlessly. “What the devil do you want from me? I’m offering you a marriage far beyond your expectations.”

“Like your daughter, my lord, I am content with my station.”

“But you wouldn’t let that hold you back. Why? Why reject me?”

“Because you’ve provided no honest reason for your pursuit! You don’t love me.”

For a brief while, the cynical mask had lowered. She only knew it when it slid back into place.

“If you want the truth, Miss Proudfoot, you shall have it. My financial resources are stretched. Due to the peculiarities of the Mad Earl, the estate sank into a decline from which it’s never fully recovered. In addition, the unentailed part of the estate’s assets was left to his daughter, my dear great-aunt Ida. Upon her death, it was to have come to the current earl—which would be me. But the old witch has tied it up with a condition. I will only get free access to it when I wed. If I must marry, I would rather it be to you.”

Rachel swallowed against a bitter lump in her throat. “I see. I’m a slightly better option than debtor’s prison, am I? I recommend economy instead, my lord.”

“Even marriage would be preferable.” He leant forward on the table. “Have some sense, you foolish woman, and take what is offered. Marry me.”

Rachel made herself not quail backward. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I must decline your oh-so-flattering offer.”

He hissed in a breath and she thought he would pounce on her, but then Mrs. Hatcher appeared in the doorway as if she’d been hovering. “Did you want something, miss?”

With a muttered curse, the earl swept out of the room.

Mrs. Hatcher came in and sugared Rachel’s tea. “You drink this up and put that young man out of your mind for the while.”

“For the while?” echoed Rachel, clutching the cup. “Forever! I want nothing to do with such as he.”

“Now, now. No need to be hasty. But he’ll do better for you in a while.”

“When he reforms? Hah! That will be on Doomsday, or never!”

Rachel downed the strong, sweet tea and promised herself that no matter what tricks the earl played, what maneuvers he attempted, she would marry no man just so that he could stay out of the Fleet!

She turned her mind to another line of thought. “About the earl’s daughter . . .”

“Yes, miss?”

“Is it true that she’ll feel no shame at being his?”

“Aye, true enough. Such things happen.”

Rachel stared at the leaves in the bottom of her cup wishing she had the gift of reading them. “So if a girl were to behave improperly with the Earl of Morden, she wouldn’t be a cause of shame to her family?”

Mrs. Hatcher’s glance was sharp and rather alarmed. Rachel realized with embarrassment that the woman thought she was speaking of herself.

Before she could correct the impression, the housekeeper said, “Not in the farming families. For someone of higher station, it’d likely be different, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, I’m sure it would.”

Rachel’s question had not referred to herself. When the housekeeper had returned to her kitchen, Rachel pondered the fact that Meggie Brewstock’s immoral behavior might not have been cause for anyone to kill her. True, it had happened a century ago, but had matters changed that much? 1668 was well after the end of the Puritan regime. Charles II had reigned, and wickedness had been rampant.