Bewitching the Baron (28 page)

“Silence!” James roared, and banged a rolling pin against the central work table. “Oscar! Hairy! Quiet, both of you!”

Hairy snarled and snapped in answer. Valerian made haste to recover Oscar. “You are a very naughty bird, Oscar. There will be no biscuits for you,” she scolded.

Into the newly fallen silence of the kitchen Oscar sent up a loud wail of distress. “Pooooor hungry bird,” he cried.

The tension in the room dissolved into laughter. Most of the staff were at least passingly familiar with Oscar. It had been his sudden and unexpected arrival amidst stressful preparations that had set them off.

“There now,” Judith said, brushing her hands off on her apron and coming towards Valerian. “No need to berate the poor creature.” She took a scrap of dough off one of the tables and held it out to Oscar.

“He is a shameless fake, and well you know it,” Valerian said, watching Oscar gulp down the treat. Around them the sounds of a kitchen at work gradually built up again, and Judith led her out the door to their cozy quarters.

“I will come back in a few minutes to help you with your lacing,” Judith said. “Will you need anything else?”

“Perhaps a bottle of whiskey.”

Judith raised her eyebrows in question.

“I would have to be drunk to think any of this a good idea.”

Judith gave her a knowing smile. “Sometimes the human spirit cries out to do stupid things, especially when there is a man involved.”

Valerian made a face. “How reassuring. Go on, get back out there before James clobbers someone with that rolling pin.”

Judith ducked out the door, and Valerian gave an exaggerated sigh and sat on a stool. This was a monstrous mistake. She should be back at the cottage, reading by the fire, watching over Theresa. A week ago Valerian had more or less decided that she would not attend the ball, for Theresa had seemed to have grown so weak as to be approaching death.

Then, for no reason she could tell, her aunt had rallied, and appeared to be doing better than she had for a month. Yesterday Theresa had wound all of Valerian’s freshly washed hair onto scraps of cloth, tying them off at her scalp. She had put the finishing touches on the black mask that sat now in the basket, covered in iridescent black and green bird feathers. She had even arranged for Charmaine’s husband to make Valerian a new pair of black shoes, without letting disapproving Charmaine know the exact purpose of the footwear.

That last had not been too difficult. Charmaine was seven months pregnant now, and her mind was almost wholly occupied with the child growing within her. What little attention she had left for others was occupied with convincing herself that her mother would be there to see the birth. Charmaine visited the cottage to be examined by her mother, and to discuss the signs and symptoms of her pregnancy, but would not allow Valerian to touch her. She had let it be known that she trusted only her mother to see her through this.

For her own part, Valerian was just as happy with that. If she did touch Charmaine, she might confirm what she had dimly suspected the day they were told of the pregnancy: that all was not well with the babe. It was her own exercise in denial not to confirm that, but she had hopes that whatever was wrong had righted itself. She feared even her abilities to heal were not strong enough to save a baby that grew wrong in the womb. She would deal with the birth, and with Charmaine’s preference for her mother, when the time came.

She stood and went to look at herself in the small mirror on the wall, surveying the damage done by wind, rain, and raven. Unwound from its rags this afternoon, her hair had become a nest of snaky black ringlets. She had then made the mistake of running her comb through them, with the result that the compact curls became a wild froth of hair that dwarfed her in its immensity. She had gazed upon herself in horror.

“Sit down and let me handle this,” Theresa had said.

“You are not strong enough. No one is strong enough. You will be devoured,” Valerian had moaned, feeling hot and cold flushes of panicked vanity. It was a new sensation, and not welcome.

“Nonsense. Sit.”

And bit by bit, Theresa had shaped the wild shrubbery of her hair into a complex work of art, composed of braids and knots and trailing ringlets. Much of the coiffure was still in place, but there was a disheveled look to it now. She tried to tuck escaping wisps back into place, but they refused to be captured.

She shrugged at herself in the mirror. It was a masquerade, after all. No one would know that this was not quite her intended appearance. In her basket along with the dress and shoes were several vines of ivy that she had thought to wrap neatly round her head in a coronet of sorts. Perhaps an effect a little closer to nature would better suit her costume. With Oscar watching and vines in hand, she set to work.

Nathaniel greeted guests in the grey robes of an abbot, the design stolen from a portrait of one of the long-dead abbots who had once been head of Grey Friars Abbey, now Raven Hall. He could not fault the robes for their comfort, but he still felt half a fool for wearing them.

His older guests seemed no happier than he to be playing fancy dress, and several of those more advanced in years had done no more than add last-century details to their clothes, and call themselves images from Rubens or Van Dyck. Or perhaps the clothes
were
from the last century—Nathaniel got the distinct feeling that times did not change quickly in Cumbria.

The younger guests were a different matter entirely. Persian princesses, shepherds and shepherdesses, pilgrims and Gothic abbesses, and more nymphs than could fill an Arcadian forest swarmed happily through his home. His own house guests had decked themselves out as a troupe of wandering gypsies.

A quartet of fifth-rate musicians scraped out what passed for music in the great hall, the only room large enough for dancing. Other rooms had been opened for card playing, sitting and chatting, and for the buffet. He had no doubt that his house would be crowded well past midnight. Old Uncle George had been more likely to entertain men his own age than to invite their wives and daughters for an evening of dancing and flirting, and so this novel invitation to the hall to meet the new baron had been met with enthusiasm in the district. His neighbors were starved for a good look at both the hall and himself.

Coaches were still arriving, a short line of them waiting to let their passengers off in front of the door. He stood in the open doorway, watching torches flicker in the wind and rain, and began to wonder if Valerian had changed her mind and stayed home.

“Warrington! Or I suppose it is Ravenall now,” a man said, clasping his hand. “I almost did not recognize you.”

Nathaniel drew his attention back from the dark night. “Good lord! Lord Carlyle, this is an unexpected pleasure.” Nathaniel vigorously shook the man’s hand. “Paul did not tell me that you were expected.”

“That could be because I was not. Expected, that is. My son did not see fit to tell me where he had disappeared to.” Lord Carlyle gave a smile that promised a dressing-down for Paul, for all that he was a grown man now. “And I see that I have surprised you in the midst of an entertainment.”

Nathaniel waved away the festive scene. “It is my introduction to the neighbors, and not entirely my idea.”

“Becoming fond of banishment and isolation, were you?”

“It has its advantages,” he said, and then in a lighter tone, “You are welcome to join the party, if you wish. There are extra masks. But let me have a room prepared for you, so you may refresh yourself after your journey.”

Lord Carlyle waved off the offer. “Your staff has enough to contend with. I will share with Paul for the moment.”

“As you wish. And may I say, it truly is good to see you, sir.”

Nathaniel sent Lord Carlyle off with a footman. Paul would faint when he saw his father. Nathaniel had always liked Lord Carlyle, for while the man had stringent rules of conduct, they were based on his own sense of human decency rather than the teachings of the church or the appearances of society. He was an exacting man, but fair. Unfortunately, Paul saw rather more of the exacting side of the man than the other.

It was another half hour before the last of the carriages deposited its occupants at the front steps, and then at last he was free to roam the crowd and seek out Valerian. He was hoping that she had sought out her own surreptitious entrance, since he had not seen her at the door.

It was getting so that even a day without her company was unbearable to him, the time he spent with his friends resented as it took him away from her. Each time he saw her he longed to take her back to his bed and make love to her. If his bed were not possible, the cave would do, or the bushes, maybe an open field—even the cliff top was beginning to seem feasible.

And yet, as much as he wanted to hike her skirts and take her the moment he lay eyes on her, something held him back. It had been one thing to spend a whole day with her and have making love be a part of it. But now, when they only had a few hours at a time, there was something distasteful to the idea. He did not want her to feel that he came to her only for sex, when she meant so much more to him than that.

He kept searching for her in the crowded rooms. She had not told him what she would be wearing, but she should be easy to spot. Her costume would undoubtedly be one of the more simple ones, likely a milkmaid or some such as would be within her means to create. Whatever it was, he knew he would be proud to have her on his arm.

Valerian peered through the crack of the door at the room where the buffet had been set up. Guests had already devoured a considerable portion of the spread, and servants would be coming soon to replace empty platters with fresh delicacies. Judith had taken her from her quarters in a roundabout fashion, to avoid going back through the kitchen and being seen by staff.

“You had best go now,” Judith said from behind her.

“I do not belong out there. What if one of the staff recognizes me?”

Judith nudged her aside and peered out the crack herself, then eyed Valerian. “First off, you are dressed as fine, or finer, than most of that lot. Half of them are pretending to be farm folk to begin with. And second, none of the staff here will recognize you, or give away the secret if they did. I myself would not know it was you if I had not laced you into that gown myself.”

Valerian lightly touched the mask on her face. It covered her from her forehead to the end of her nose, and feathers swept down to cover her cheeks almost to her jaw. All that was visible was her eyes, darkened by the shadows cast by the mask, and her mouth, which she had stained red.

Footsteps and voices approached from behind them. “Go, now!” Judith hissed, and opening the door gave Valerian a push out into the room and directly into the path of a gypsy.

“Your pardon, miss!” the man said, as he fumbled the plate of food in his hand, reaching with the other to steady her.

“ ‘Twas my fault, sir.”

“Nonsense. Accidents are never the fault of a beautiful woman.”

Valerian glanced up at him, frowning for a moment until she placed the voice. Christopher, Kate’s brother. She had heard his voice on the night they arrived, when Kate had thought her a servant. “That is most kind of you, sir,” she murmured, looking down and pulling from his grasp. She started to move away.

“Did your curiosity get the better of you?” he asked.

She stopped, fear of discovery quivering in her belly. “I beg your pardon?”

He gestured with his head towards the door. “Taking an unescorted tour of the hall, doing a little snooping? Not that I blame you.” He came up beside her and took her elbow, leading her out to another room where people milled about, chatting. She could hear the strains of tortured music from the great hall.

“ ‘Tis not every day one gets invited to Raven Hall,” she said.

“My own curiosity has been eating at me. Do you suppose we might be wicked, and explore together?” he asked, leaning close.

She looked at him in puzzlement until it dawned on her that he assumed she did not know he was staying at the hall. Why, the lying lecher! “Ah, but the great fun of wickedness is that it can only be indulged in small doses,” she said, giving him a flirtatious smile. “Give it free rein, and it becomes rather a bore, do you not think? Now please excuse me, but I truly must speak with my . . . cousin.” She turned her back on him and walked away towards a pair of dowdy nymphs, her shaking hands belying her calm and confident front.

The nymphs watched her approach with a wariness apparent even through their masks, but with Christopher watching she had no choice but to join them and continue the charade. “I wanted to come tell you both that you look lovely in those costumes,” she said when she reached them.
Pretend that you belong here
, she told herself.
No one will know you do not unless you tell them. And stop shaking! Breathe!

The two young women flushed, their hands fluttered, and at last one of them spoke. “You are too kind.”

“Indeed,” the other said. “ ‘Tis plain that yours is the most striking figure in the room.” She paused, and glanced at her companion, who gave an infinitesimal shrug. “I am afraid that we neither can guess your identity, although you seem acquainted with ours. Do you care to give us a hint?”

“And spoil the purpose of the masquerade? No, you will have to wait until the unmasking,” she said, and smiled sincerely at the two.
They are as nervous as I!
She saw that Christopher was deep in conversation with another man, and for the moment at least paying her no attention. “Now do excuse me, I must find my . . . brother.”

She slipped out of the room and into the great hall, a smile playing on her lips. She was still nervous, but she was beginning to think that this evening might not turn out so badly after all. Tonight she was not Valerian Bright, healer cum witch, pariah of Greyfriars, forever cautious of her words and actions. Tonight she was the Lady in Green, mysterious and “striking.”

A familiar titter of nearby laughter drew her gaze. Standing a few feet away, yet another masked male gypsy had his head bent down towards a curvaceous country girl, who was giggling at whatever words he whispered close to her ear. Even from behind Valerian knew that giggle, and knew as well that the clothes the girl wore were her best. Her eyes widened at the realization that she was not the only changeling in the house tonight, nor perhaps the only woman sleeping with her betters. The giggle belonged to Gwendolyn Miller.