Chapter One
August 1816
An additional log on the fire brought a burst of light and warmth to the small parlour of Doireann Vale.
Hecate needed it as she intended to sit for a while and read; the miserably cold and damp weather seemed to seep into every tiny crack of the house, so a good fire and a blanket had been welcomed for most of this non-existent summer.
“It rains again, Miss Hecate,” sighed Dal, brushing his hands and leaving the hearth as it settled into a comfortable blaze. “Will it ever end, do you suppose?” He walked to the window and stared out at the grey, looming clouds and the raindrops that spattered against the glass.
Hecate shook her head. “I cannot say; I wish I could. Indeed, this year has been quite dismal and I fear for the crops. Our local farmers cannot hope to bring in any kind of decent harvest after so many months of cold and rain.”
He nodded. “You were wise to have us set up such a well-thought out storage cupboard.”
“Mrs. Trimmer thinks so.” Hecate smiled as she mentioned her housekeeper and cook. “Has she spoken to you today?”
“She said good morning.” Dal looked hopeful. “We progress.”
“Excellent. I know she’ll come around. We both know that you are not a run-of-the-mill Devon gentleman, so a period of adjustment is only to be expected.”
He nodded. “I think she is very happy in the servants’ quarters since we added all the things she asked for. And most especially since we have given her the reins of the household.”
“Well, let’s say she thinks we have,” grinned Hecate. “And I agree that converting the old hen house into a new kitchen addition, and giving her the little sitting room it also provided, was a brilliant notion. A little more than I wanted to spend, but in the long run, I believe it will pay for itself. Plus Mrs. Trimmer’s cooking skills cannot be denied, and our hens are doing well in their weathertight new quarters.” She patted her stomach. “I have to remind myself that being kept indoors by the weather means I cannot walk off her pies.”
“I do not believe there is any cause for concern yet, Miss Hecate.” Dal smiled. “Even though we have plenty of food to see us through these strange and unpleasant months.”
“I can only hope others heeded my suggestions.” Her lips firmed. “Sometimes my gift is very frustrating, because I cannot simply announce that I know it will be a terrible summer. Nobody would believe me if I said it was just my intuition.”
Dal turned with a small smile curving his lips. “If I may be permitted to say so, I cherish great admiration for your creative use of grasshoppers in the market last week.”
She chuckled. “Well, I had to say something. Mentioning that I’d seen one or two small blue ones, which could be harbingers of a long spell of bad weather…it helped a little, wouldn’t you say?”
“I can say it amused me. Have you ever seen a blue grasshopper?”
“Er, no.”
“I doubt anyone else has, either. But that fact alone may have spurred a few people to fill their pantries. I hope so.” Dal turned his attention back to the window.
“As do I,” she agreed. Crossing the room, she picked up a small bundle of letters, then returned to the fire, tucking herself into her favourite chair. “Will you join me, Dal? I have letters from the family. Lots of news, I expect…”
“You honour me,” bowed Dal.
She sighed. “No I don’t, but you’ll never stop doing that will you?”
He merely looked at her, his eyes dark, his expression calm, the jewel in the centre of his turban twinkling in the firelight.
“Oh very well.” She grinned at him and turned to her letters. He was part of her life, a very important part, and she couldn’t imagine managing without him, but now and again the urge to tease him out of his customary Indian restraint overwhelmed her.
She opened one letter, read a little way and laughed. “I told him so.”
“Told who what?”
“Richard.” She waved the letter. “Cressida writes that there are definitely two sets of feet dancing inside her. Apparently that fact has finally been confirmed by their local midwife.”
“Twins.” Dal blinked. “How wonderful for them.”
“They shouldn’t have been surprised. Richard is a twin, after all.”
She read on. “Everything else is going well, and they’re planning a trip to Ridlington if the weather lets up.” She folded the paper and set it to one side. “Everyone seems to talk of little but the weather. I suppose it’s to be expected, but goodness, what a widespread effect it’s having.”
“Indeed.”
A log popped in the hearth as if punctuating Dal’s statement. Hecate turned to the next letter.
“Ah, this is from Kitty. She’s well, Max is apparently hovering over little Margaret—she describes him as a fatherly presence that barely leaves the baby’s cot. There will be more soon, I’m thinking. Which is probably a good thing, since the Seton-Mowbray line needs a son as well.” She read on. “Ah…London news, none of which is really very interesting for us down here. Aunt Venetia has a beau.” She giggled. “Oh my goodness, how lovely for her. Kitty says he’s a handsome elderly gentleman who is completely smitten.” She looked up. “That is quite delightful. Aunt Venetia is such a wonderful person. She deserves every bit of happiness she can get.”
“I am most pleased for her. She seemed very caring when I met her briefly in town.”
Hecate nodded, not caring to recall that period of time. She’d been unconscious, unaware of the events taking place around her. It had been immediately after the accident that had shattered her leg, her life, and killed Dancey Miller-James.
As if in response to the memory, she stretched out that limb, rubbing it absently.
“You are in pain?” Dal noticed her movements.
“Not at all,” she shook her head. “I think what I most need is a walk. No exercise for several days is most trying. But to go on…” she returned to the letters. “This last one is from Edmund. Hmm…”
It was lengthy, full of practical advice and business details.
“Well, he is very thorough,” she commented, after five minutes of deciphering his handwriting. “Apparently Ridlington Chase and the village are feeling the effects of the weather. He’s worried about their harvest and their tenants, so he thanks me for my advice about stocking up. Which, God bless him, he took.” Hecate glanced at Dal. “At least someone listened.”
“Your brother knows you and is aware that you are to be heeded when you offer advice, Miss Hecate.”
“Good thing too.” She folded Edmund’s letter and set it on top of the pile. “Other than that, all is well. Hugh grows apace, Simon and Tabby’s daughter Helen is the perfect child, according to everyone who has met her, and Letitia is busy on a new book and most often in London with James.”
Silence fell for a few moments when Beelzebub, as was his wont, strolled in and surveyed the room. Finally, he decided to take up his position at his mistress’s feet, rubbing against her briefly, then settling himself into a black brick, paws neatly folded in front of him, between her feet and the fire.
“Do you miss them, Miss Hecate? I know they will always have a place for you at Ridlington.” Dal voiced the question he’d asked several times before.
“Yes, as I’ve said every time you ask me that, I do miss them.” She shrugged. “But I will also repeat what I say next. This is my place, Dal. I knew it as soon as I saw it. This little patch of land, Doireann Vale, the fields around it and the families who depend on it, it’s mine. It called to me in a loud and undeniable voice.”
“Why?”
She paused. “I wish I knew. Something…someone…I can’t explain it, even to myself. But the moment we stopped here, in spite of it being rather dilapidated, I had this immediate sense of belonging. That I had come home.”
“Could there be a family link, perhaps?” Dal wondered.
She blinked. “Um…well…that’s an interesting thought, but since my mother was from Ireland and Papa was Baron Ridlington…I don’t see how.”
“Ah well.” A gust of wind rattled the trees outside. “I am glad we are here, Miss Hecate. And indoors by the fire.”
“As am I.” She smiled back at him.
A tap on the door heralded the entrance of Winnie Trimmer, their maid. She tended to Hecate’s needs as necessary, and the rest of the time made herself useful around the house, mostly at her mother’s direction.
“Come in, Winnie,” beckoned Hecate.
The girl dropped a curtsey. “I’ll be headin’ off to m’sisters, then, Ma’am, unless there’s aught else yer be wantin’ me fer?”
“I can't think of anything. You told your mother?”
“I did, Miss. She’s all set wi’ yer dinner an’ everythin’s cleaned up.”
“Good.” Hecate stood. “I think it would do us good to walk with you. I know I need the exercise, and you’ll have company on the way to your sister’s house.”
“All right then, Ma’am. I’ll get yer coat.”
“And I’ll need my boots.” Hecate followed Winnie out into the hall and together they prepared for their walk out into the miserable afternoon. For Dal, it was much easier. His choice of footwear was always sturdy boots, and all he needed was a thick hooded cloak to protect him. Hecate joked that he resembled a monk from some mystery tale, but he merely shrugged and said that being warm and dry was more important than how one looked.
He was right, of course. But she slid her arms into her woollen pelisse, fastened the front, and then covered herself with her own cloak, one that her brothers had bought her as a Christmas surprise. It was deep green wool, lined with the softest fur, and the hood featured a large ruff of it around her face. She thought it might be sable since the pelts were light but amazingly warm. Whatever it was, she always felt like a fairy princess when she snuggled into it. As long as it wasn’t raining too hard, this cloak was her customary outdoors attire. As was her cane.
With Winnie wrapped up warmly at her side, Hecate opened the front door onto the grey scene and stepped out bravely into the damp air. The rain had lessened to a drizzle; no improvement in overall cheer, but less intrusive than a full on downpour.
She turned with a smile. “It’ll be all right. As long as it stays like this for half an hour, we’ll do quite nicely.”
She walked down the two steps to the pathway, her cane taking her weight and steadying her. It had been hand-carved the year before by a travelling gypsy she’d met, and his magic touch with his tools had brought the wood to life. Her hand wrapped around the smooth head of a cat, her fingers fitting perfectly between the ears. It was made of a deeply hued rosewood, and the colour seemed to become richer as time passed. Hecate loved it as not only a help to her movements, but an ornament to her life.
Beelzebub watched them until Dal closed the front door. He did not particularly care to get his paws wet, so Hecate knew where she’d find him upon her return—curled up in her chair.
She breathed in and they set off, maintaining a steady pace, in spite of her handicap. In fact, she was moving better now than she had done in quite some time, and cherished some private hopes of being able to take a few steps soon without her cane. But she was aware that her injuries had been most serious, and that she would have to be patient as her body relearned how to move and balance with one damaged limb.
The short walk to Winnie’s sister’s home was accomplished with ease, and Hecate chatted with the two of them for a few moments, but refused an invitation to tea. She thanked them, but told them that she and Dal would take their time walking back, so she’d see Winnie on the morrow.
Farewells were exchanged, and they turned back toward the Vale.
“You are well, Miss Hecate?”
It was Dal’s way of asking if she was all right. “Yes, thank you. And better for being outside, I think.” She took a deep breath, recognizing the scent of damp leaves, moist earth and the tang of salt from the ocean. “I’m sorry we can’t see the sea today. Although it’s probably as grey as the skies.”
“Most likely,” he agreed.
They chatted for a while about a book Dal was reading, and then, as they reached Doireann Vale, Hecate paused. “May we go a little further, Dal? Perhaps the clouds are thinner up toward the headland.”
“If you wish.” He nodded. “Not too far though.”
She grinned. “Of course.”
They walked up the road, a slight rise toward the top, where the view opened to the sea and the trees of the forest bent inland by the strong winds that battered them.
It was bracing, still very foggy although a few whitecaps were showing down at the base of the cliff.
“Low tide,” observed Hecate, looking at the strip of sand along the bottom of the sheer drop.
“Not a day to be fishing,” added Dal. “Although I’m sure the village fishermen are starting to pray that one will happen soon.”
“Indeed they must be.”
Hecate fell silent, letting the elements drift over her, opening herself to the wind and the water and the very pulse of the earth upon which she stood.
Dal let her be, knowing in moments like these, conversation would not be welcome.
Suddenly, she froze.
Then turned away from the coast to face the forest behind them. “Dal…”
He was at her side in an instant. “What? What is it?”
“Can you hear it?” She glanced at him. “Can you hear the cry?”
He frowned, turned his head a little, and then shook it. “I hear nothing but the wind and a few gulls…”
“Someone is in trouble, Dal. Someone needs our help.” She heard the sounds again and pinpointed the direction from which they came. “This way. Follow me.”
*~~*~~*
He was cold. So very cold.
The bones in his body felt as if they were made of ice, and even so, they ached so badly he moaned with the pain of it.
There was scant shelter; even in his delirium he knew to look for somewhere dry, but the ground itself seemed like wet wool, soft but lacking anything in the way of simple comfort.
He couldn’t remember how long it was since he’d eaten, or what day it was. He’d drunk fresh water from a spring…when had that been? Yesterday perhaps?
He shivered, knowing the heat was coming back, the violent surge of fire over his flesh and his skin. How much more could he take…how many more times could he survive the sweating and the shivering? He didn’t know. He itched, his gut had churned and emptied itself. Now there was nothing left inside him to lose.
His mind wandered, and this was the most frightening thing…he talked to people who weren’t there. They stared at him, pointing, amazed at the torn uniform. Sometimes they spoke French and he wondered if he’d been captured at Waterloo and was in a French prison.
His friends drifted by. Those he’d seen blown to pieces on the battlefield. Some were intact, others missing a limb or two. He cried for them, great ragged sobs, emotions he could not have released during the fight.
Tripping over a root, he found himself on a bed of moss beneath a large tree. It was damp, but as good a place as any to die.
For he knew death wasn’t far away.
It had been his companion during those terrible hours on the field. Dodging bullets, avoiding cannonballs and the pits they left, deadly traps for unwary horsemen.
He’d carried the colours that eventful day. A task he relished with pride and tried to honour as best he could. When the fighting grew thick and fierce, he’d grabbed a riderless horse and mounted, the flag unfurling as he rode toward the front, screaming like an Irish banshee. He recalled every detail now, although at the time he’d been aware only of death.
The sounds, the smells, the ugliness of war…all now a part of what made him human.
Who was he? He couldn’t recall his name for the moment, but it really didn’t matter. What was one more dead soldier, when added to the thousands who would march no more?
He let go of the pack he’d clung to for so long that his fingers were locked around the straps. He wouldn't need the few useless belongings it contained any more. Never would again, most likely. He could rest his head on it, at least, as he drew what was left of his torn blanket over his torn and grimy uniform and closed his eyes. He didn’t recall where he’d found the blanket. It no longer mattered.
Somewhere he could hear the ocean. Soft laps, ripples, the sound of the waves on a beach.
It was soothing, lulling him into a state of half-consciousness, encouraging him to let go of the agonies his body and his mind endured. I am eternal, it said. Be one with me.
He gasped as the heat hit, searing his skin, making him yearn to rip off his clothes. But he had no strength to do so, so he let the fever take him, praying it would be quick and painless.
Dimly, he heard the rain dropping from the leaves, and as he clung to the shreds of his existence, he prayed. Dear Lord, please forgive my sins and take me into your hands. I have no heart left for this life. Another wracking spasm of pain hit his bones and he cried out in despair, wonder if this was God’s answer. A reminder of the frailties and fallibilities of humans and the horrors they were capable of committing against each other.
He whimpered, his vision blurring, tears seeping from his eyes. “I am going to die…”
“No you’re not,” answered a soft voice. A hand touched his forehead. “But you are very ill. So please be brave just a little while longer? Soon you will be better.”
He forced his eyelids to open and saw…the face of an angel. Or a magical fae creature. Her eyes were the strangest shade of blue and she was gazing at him with worry.
“Yes, that’s it. Keep looking at me. I have a friend with me who is very strong. He is going to pick you up now, and carry you to my home.” She touched him, moving his clothing, laying her hand on his forehead. “He has no broken bones or wounds that I can find, although there is a bump on the back of his head.”
He was speechless. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking, his skin on fire and his mind…well if this was a dream, then he was probably dead already, or very close to it.
He tried to form words, but they stuck in his throat, and then he found himself wrapped again in the old blanket and lifted gently by a pair of strong arms. The movement made him feel quite sick, so he closed his eyes again as he groaned.
“Hold on, sir. Just hold on. We will help you, I promise.”
Once again that soft palm touched his face. He managed one more quick glimpse, and what breath he had left caught in his lungs.
“Moira…”