Duainfey (9 page)

"You will outstrip us both," she said, the merely pleasant words heavy with a conviction she had scarcely intended.
Are you,
she asked herself crankily,
a future-seer?

Harin was bowing, even deeper than her usual, but not before Becca had seen the blush staining her brown cheeks.

"Thank you, Miss Beauvelley," she said breathlessly. "Thank you."

Becca lay staring up at the dark ceiling. The breeze murmured gently through the curtains, bringing her scents from the midnight garden below her window, the froglings paean to their pond, and the occasional giggle of a night hawk.

Ordinarily, such homey sounds soothed her into slumber. Tonight, they irritated. Moreover, her left arm ached; she was too warm—and too cool when she pushed the coverlet aside. Her pillow was lumpy, her nightgown chafed, and she was not, in any case, sleepy.

Though she was, she owned,
infinitely
tired of Caro's dance; a sorry circumstance, indeed, as the event was yet three days ahead of her.

Sighing, Becca gave up on sleep entirely, cast the covers aside, wriggled into her robe, stirred the fire, lit a candle, and curled into the battered chaise, Sonet's herbal on her lap.

It was a thin book; much thinner than Sonet's ledger, from which Becca had copied the pages to begin her own book, as an apprentice. The green ink was so strong it seemed that the entries, written in Sonet's clear and careful script, and the careful renderings of leaf, root and berry seemed to float slightly above the page.

Bending above the vibrant page, Becca read of the wonders of the herb alamister, which grew in the ice moors, and was efficacious as a sleeping draught; and of bentolane which, when made into a tea and drunk every day, prevented pregnancy; of cadmyon, used in elixir to soothe coughing. Of the dourtree, the bruised fresh leaves repelling biting insects, while the dried leaves disgusted mice and rats; steeping the bark produced a tea that gave relief from pain, and wine could be made from its berries. It grew along river beds, where it set shallow roots, and resisted cultivation.

Certainly, an altogether useful plant, Becca thought, around a tight feeling in her chest. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself, as her riding instructor had taught her to do, so that her unruly emotions did not confuse her mount.

Her chest somewhat easier, she opened her eyes and turned the next page.

Duainfey,
read the bold notation.
The leaves, dried and steeped into tea, purifies the blood. The dried and crushed blossoms may be added to watered wine, or made into a sachet for the taming of unruly thoughts. The fresh leaves, taken by mouth, give surcease from pain.

The page blurred. Becca blinked to clear her vision, and a single tear fell among the green letters, like a rain drop into a welcoming garden. Lower lip caught between her teeth, she blotted the spot with her sleeve, as even more tears fell.

Gasping, she closed the book, and set it aside, closed her eyes and tried to breathe evenly and deeply.

I will not cry,
she told herself, the mantra that she had devised for herself in the long months after her accident.
I will not cry. I will do my part without complaint.

She was panting, her chest so constricted she felt she must surely strangle, and still the tears flowed, faster, wracking sobs now, as if she mourned a death.

"No," she moaned. "I cannot go there—"

And yet, if she did not—
How
could she not? Refuse, after all, to marry the man who would make all as it ought to be: Herself a respectable wife, Caroline free to marry, her father rid of the sight of her and the daily reminder of his failure to rule a mere daughter? Would she run away entirely, and—and live as a wild woman in the hunting park?

Becca hiccuped, caught between a sob and a giggle.

No, she thought, using the sleeve of her robe to mop her face. No, Sir Jennet had been accepted, and so must the Corlands. She would . . .  She would simply need to think practically. Was the climate she was bound for cold? Then she must see to it that her trousseau contained warm clothing, and plenty of it. Blankets and quilts—Mother's aid must be enlisted, to suggest such items as bride's gifts. She would need to—

Why, she would need to talk to the man, when she saw him at the dance, and—and be frank regarding her concerns. Perhaps—no,
surely
—he would be able to advise her, even, perhaps, assist her. It was, she told herself carefully, the old, useless pride that led to these frights and starts. Had she not resolved to ask for help when it was needed, and to do so with good grace? And if she could not ask for help from her affianced husband . . . 

And, yet . . . ice moors, and a land so inhospitable that even
aleth
would not grow—It was enough to take the heart from anyone.

She swallowed and put her hand on Sonet's book, recalling that there was another source of aid. Sonet was from the Corlands. Surely, she would have advice beyond herb lore, if Becca would simply ask her. It would take asking, of course, just as it had when she had been Sonet's 'prentice. But, she reminded herself sternly, Rebecca Beauvelley was not too proud to ask for help.

Granted, the next few days were overburdened with preparation for Caro's dance, but—after, she would certainly call upon Sonet. In fact . . . 

She frowned at the notion stirring in her mind, the worn cover of the northland herbal gritty against her palm. Perhaps there
was
another way. She would, of course, still need to leave her family and her land. But she need not go so far as the Corlands, and she need not be married.

Indeed, if she jilted Sir Jennet, she would have ruined her chances of ever marrying.

She closed her eyes against a new rising of tears. Like any properly brought up young woman, she had supposed that someday she would of course wed, bear children and preside over her husband's household. Until the accident, she had never doubted that future, nor her desire for it.

The accident had—changed everything.

"You, Miss Beauvelley," she whispered, "have far too many thoughts in your head. Some worldly advice might not go amiss before you continue further down this path."

The nearest source of worldly advice, however, was—hopefully unlike his sister!—asleep in his bed. But she assured herself; the matter would wait as long as tomorrow morning.

And as if taking that simple decision had released all of her worries, Becca yawned, suddenly very tired, indeed. She uncoiled clumsily from the chaise and went over to the bed, not bothering to remove her robe before she lay down.

"Good morning, Dickon."

The viscount looked up from his papers with a blink and a laugh. "Now, here's a surprise! Don't you know better than to beard a gentleman in his study, Lady Rebecca?"

"I do, actually," said Becca, easing the door shut behind her. "But I particularly wanted your advice."

Dickon cocked a blond eyebrow. "You could have asked it at breakfast, you know. I'm sure it would have been much more entertaining than Caro's transports and agonies over this damned—beg your pardon, Becca—dance of hers."

Becca smiled and moved into the room. "Yes, but you see, it's a . . . private matter, which I did not care to air before Caroline. I fear that I am not," she murmured as she sat in the chair next to her brother, pulling her shawl more snugly around her shoulders, "a very filial sister."

"Well, take comfort from the fact that Caro isn't, either," Dickon said, then, more gently, "Is the arm bothering you, love?"

"It's the damp," Becca said apologetically, throwing an exasperated look at the streaming windows. The rain had come in with the dawn, and the day looked fair to be soggy and dim. Not, Becca thought sourly, that it concerned her. Mother expected her help indoors today with a myriad of dance-related details.

Dickon followed her glance and frowned, leaning back in his chair. "As fine as it's been, we're due a tithe of rain," he commented. "But I'll wager that you haven't risked an affront to propriety just to talk about the weather."

"In fact, I haven't," Becca murmured. She looked down, saw her hand fisted on her lap and tucked it under the trailing edge of her shawl before looking back to Dickon.

"I . . . have been having—doubts about my . . . marriage. Almost I might call them 'second thoughts,' except I believe that I never once thought about it until now! I only heard what Father said—that I'd disgraced myself and put an undue burden on my family—and on Caro, who was blameless, but must remain unwed unless something was done to mend my error. Then he produced Sir Jennet and—oh! It was just as he said, Dickon, that
here
was the solution. It was rational, and symmetrical, and my mind accepted it."

"But your heart," Dickon murmured, "did not."

"Well . . . no," Becca said slowly. "But surely that hardly signifies. No secret was made of the fact that Sir Jennet needed a wife with a portion and that Father needed to see damaged goods hidden away." Dickon lifted an eyebrow. "You can't think that Sir Jennet cares for me!"

"Be at ease. I don't think that Sir Jennet cares a fig for you, Becca. But whether or not hearts are engaged, a man should have
some
care for his affianced wife, and make some push to become . . . friends, let us say. It would not have been improper of him to ask Father's permission to open a correspondence—and certainly it would have been given! A simple thing, and yet he bestirred himself not at all." Dickon sighed, and looked at her from beneath his golden lashes.

"Before we go further, my love, you must allow to me say how glad I am to see a fire in your eye, and a lift to your chin. You are quite the old Becca, full of passion and purpose.
Infinitely
preferable to the dutiful, dull automaton Mother professes to admire so greatly." He turned his palms up, smiling ruefully.

"Which is to say that, if you are having second—or first!—thoughts about this business now, it only confirms in me an admiration for your very good sense."

"If I had good sense," Becca pointed out somewhat acerbically, "then this problem of myself would require no solving."

"No, that's going a fence too far, my love. The problem of ourselves, in my experience, which you must admit to be vaster than your own—the problem of ourselves is in continual need of solution." He raised his hand, grinning. "No, don't eat me, Becca-beast!" he cried, calling up a name out of the nursery. "I only mean to say that, if not this problem, then another." The grin faded. "Though I will own that this problem is knottier than some. Do you wish my advice on whether or not you should go through with the wedding?"

"No! Or, rather," Becca stammered, "yes. I—Last night, I could not sleep, and so got up to read. Melancholy overtook me, as it has been wont to do these last few days, and I thought—oh, ridiculous things! At first, I thought that I could not marry Sir Jennet, and then I decided very rationally to engage his support, and then the next moment I was certain that I must run off to live as a wild woman in the park—" She frowned at her brother, sitting comfortably slouched in his chair, his expression no more than attentive.

"You hardly seem alarmed—or surprised."

"Nor am I. To be sure, the contemplation of marriage must make cowards of us all. But I am fascinated! Pray continue. What other mad thoughts came to you?"

"As for mad, no more, though I did have one other notion, which may or may not be rational. Therefore, I would like your advice about whether I ought,
really
to marry Sir Jennet, so that I might make a . . . sensible decision about my future." She smiled slightly. "If you please, Dickon."

"Well." He looked up at the ceiling for a time, his face unwontedly serious—and serious still when he looked back to her.

"One of the things my wide experience has taught me, Becca-love, is that it is never enough to decide simply what one will
not
do. One must also decide what one will do
instead
. We must, I fear, take it as a given that the local Parker will not allow a wild woman to stay long in his park. You, however, speak of another 'notion' which you cannily do not dignify as 'mad' immediately. In which case, I must ask you—and myself—what will you do instead, if you do not marry Sir Jennet?"

Becca shook her head. "I—cannot stay here," she said slowly. "That is decided. And I cannot go to Irene—oh,
she
might take me in, but Edward has more sense! My disfigurement, I think, precludes me from taking up employment as a governess, or," she smiled slightly, "a seamstress. The Wanderer's Village is—"

"Entirely out of the question," Dickon said harshly. He blinked, abashed, and waved a hand. "Your pardon, Becca. Pray continue."

She nodded and took a breath. "So. I have thought to ask Sonet to ask among the herbwise, to see if there might be a village or a settlement . . . at some distance . . . in need of an herbalist."

Her brother frowned. "A woman living alone, with only one good arm . . ."

"I might soon take an apprentice," Becca said briskly, having had this welcome thought while Lucy was doing up her hair.

Dickon turned his head to consider the rain-swept day. "It is a better scheme than running wild in the woods," he said at last, turning again to face her. "But, I must ask—Do you think that you can renounce all the comforts you have been raised to, and live as Sonet does?"

Becca made a show of frowning. "I am not precisely certain, but I do not believe it is required to forever have fifty foundlings and stray kittens about."

Dickon laughed—"A score!"

"Indeed. And, really, Dickon, you must have heard Sir Jennet speak of the condition of his estate. I scarcely think I would be less comfortable in my own cot, tending the health of the village." She paused. "Especially if it were . . . somewhat warmer. The Corlands—"

"The Corlands," Dickon said, completing her sentence for her, "is frigid even in high summer, and your injury will never cease to ache."

"It may," Becca murmured, "accommodate itself. After a time. But—I think it unlikely."