The Changeling Bride (17 page)

She recalled the little he had shared about his father. Perhaps he had often needed such an escape. “It’s strange, isn’t it, how solitude is a comfort for loneliness.”

“You sound familiar with the experience.”

She smiled a bit. “I doubt anyone is immune to it. There was a poem I had to read, as part of my schooling . . .” she trailed off, feeling foolish of a sudden.

“I will not laugh if you wish to recite it,” he said, a tinge of humor in his voice.

“Just one stanza, it’s all I remember.”

“Then it must be the most apropos, as well as being blessedly short. Please.”

She pretended to clear her throat, then paused, closing her eyes to dredge up Robert Frost’s words and the proper tone.

“They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.”

They were both silent, and Elle opened her eyes to look up at the stars far above, shining impossibly distant in the blackness of space. She let herself lean back until she lightly rested against Henry’s chest.

“Mmm,” he said, and for a moment, she thought she felt his cheek press against the side of her hair. “Not the most uplifting of sentiments, but painfully true.” He stepped away from her, breaking the spell, and held out his hand. “Come.”

She followed him down the walkway to the turret. When she looked up she could see faint light in the windows under the dome, and realized there was a room in there. She followed him through the door and up yet another narrow set of stairs, until at last she emerged into the turret room.

“The banquetting house,” Henry announced, bowing to her.

She blinked about her at the room, done in a Moorish motif of tiled designs, the pillars between the windows as richly decorated as the ceiling. In the center of the room sat a built-in tiled table, no more than four feet across, and covered now with plates of fruit, tarts, marzipan, and an urn of either coffee or tea, kept warm by a spirit lamp underneath. A brazier like those in the greenhouse sat to one side, providing warmth.

“Henry, it’s lovely,” she said, enchanted. “Do all the turrets have such rooms?” she asked, tracing her fingers along the complex pattern on one of the pillars. Sleeping Beauty could have spent her century drowsing in such a place.

“They are in different styles. This one is in the best shape. Only one window is missing, and I had the bird nests cleaned out.”

“I had no idea. I had thought the turrets were only decorations.”

“My great-grandfather had plans to build a banquetting house in the middle of the lake as well, but my great-grandmother
talked him out of it. She protested that she did not want to smell stagnant water while she was eating her sweets.”

Elle let him hold her chair for her while she sat and accepted the cup of coffee he poured for her. “I met your great-grandmother today, while I was exploring the house. That’s why I was late for lunch. She’s an interesting woman.”

Henry paused, half-lowered into his chair. “Great-grandmother? Lady Annalise spoke with you?”

“Briefly.”

“What did she say?” He appeared unusually curious, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead in an uncharacteristic display of interest.

“Not much. She said you were an amusing boy, and that I’d make you a good wife.” Elle made a face and reached for a marzipan peach.

He looked distinctly unconvinced but took a seat. “Did she say anything else?”

“No, not really. She invited me back, but that’s about all. Is there some problem? Should I not have disturbed her?”

“She has not said an intelligible word to anyone for the past two years.”

Elle choked on her bite of almond paste. “What?” “She just mumbles and sleeps. Or pretends to, I am never sure which.”

“But she knew who I was, knew that you had married, and without my saying anything about it.”

“You are telling me she has just been pretending to be deaf and dumb all this time?”

“How should I know what she’s been doing? I’m telling you what she said, that’s all. Are
you
telling
me
that I’m making this up?”

“That is not what I said.”

Maybe it wasn’t what he’d said, but it was clear to her that was what he had been thinking. He wouldn’t believe
her unless he talked to Lady Annalise himself. “Why does she live in such a distant part of the house, anyway?”

“She has always lived there, certainly as long as I can remember,” he said, his tone becoming careless. “I think my father forgot she was even there. Either that, or she frightened him enough that he did not have the nerve to sell her furnishings when he gutted the rest of the house.”

“I have a hard time thinking of her as frightening.”

“Perhaps not now, but once upon a time she was known to have a way of getting what she wanted. Or so go the stories. I think the servants mostly forget she is there, all except Sally, who takes care of her.”

“Sounds rather lonely.”

“Like I said, she has not let pass an intelligible word for a couple years.”

“And I wonder how much good it’s done her confusion to leave her mouldering in an uninhabited corner of the house.”

“No one left her to moulder,” Henry said, his voice tightening. “If you think you can persuade her to join the rest of the household, be my guest and try. I guarantee you, you will not succeed.”

“Did you try so hard, then?”

A silence grew between them. Elle felt shame creep up on her. What right did she have to scold him for his treatment of his family? She herself had hardly been the model daughter or sister. “Well, really, it hardly looked like she’d appreciate being moved,” Elle conceded. “And if she’s been faking senility, she must have the wits about her to arrange things as she likes. Maybe she prefers to be alone, I don’t know.”

“I shall ask her.”

Elle had the uncomfortable feeling that she had just added yet another burden to his shoulders. Why had she ruined the evening, when he had brought her to this
lovely room, and they had been getting along so well? “Never mind, I’ll take care of it. I’m the one she bothered to speak with, after all. Isn’t that what wives do, deal with family matters?”

“I am glad there is something you are willing to do in that role,” she heard him say softly, and wondered if he had meant her to hear.

Chapter Thirteen

Elle winced at the faint creaking of her corset. The laces were holding on for dear life, strained to their limit. Eleanor’s riding habit was a tight-fitting affair, consisting of a double-breasted, deep-lapelled jacket over a false shirt front with frothy jabot, and an oddly darted skirt. She felt remarkably unattractive in it, and the physical discomfort was almost enough to make her give up the thought of going for a ride, but she still felt bad about ruining last night, and she wanted to mend that if she could.

The hat was the only aspect of the entire ensemble she approved of. It was a tricorn, with a ribbon cockade on one side. She insisted that Marianne arrange her hair in a low single-ringlet pony tail and tie it with a black silk ribbon. With the hat on, she felt like Paul Revere.

She creaked her way down the stairs and let a young male servant lead the way to the stables. Good thing the horse would be doing all the walking: She’d black out if
she had to breathe any harder. She was going to have to do something about these clothes when she got the chance. She really couldn’t live like this.

Henry was waiting for her, along with two horses and stableboys. It was readily apparent which was hers by the odd-looking saddle with the hornlike protuberances. There was only one stirrup. How in God’s name was she supposed to sit on that?

“Belle should suit you well. She’s a bit high-spirited but gentle at the heart of it.” The way he looked at her, it seemed he thought the description could apply to her as well.

Elle eyed both Henry and the horse with disfavor. She didn’t like the sound of “a bit high-spirited.” “She’s lovely,” she muttered uncertainly. The mare was a pretty color, dark brown with black legs, mane, and tail. She looked like a police horse. Beyond that, Elle had no idea of how to judge the beast. The simple fact that it had a sidesaddle upon its back made it sinister.

Henry went to mount his own horse while a stableboy led Belle up beside a portable set of wooden stairs. Elle quickly surmised that this was some manner of mounting block, and with a pained smile upon her face, she dragged herself and her heavy skirts over to it. She surveyed the stable yard one last time, as if expecting help would appear and save her from this fate. Her faithless dog was off sniffing a suspicious pile, looking like she was seriously considering either taking a bite or rolling in it. Henry was already mounted and was discussing something with one of the stable boys. At least he had his back to her.

She climbed the stairs, placed a hand on the saddle, and tried to make sense of the contraption. She knew that both her legs had to go on one side, which must mean . . . what? Did she drape one leg around the horns, or two? Or none? She lifted her skirt so it would have space to give, then turned half around and plopped herself,
backside first, onto the saddle with the horns between her thighs. By the feel of it, she had not gotten it right. She shifted and spread her legs until she could get both of them under the curling ends of the padded horns, jerking on her skirt for more give all the while.

She stole a glance at Henry. His back was still to her.

“Milady?” the stableboy asked, holding up the reins for her to take.

“Thank you.” She smiled crookedly at him, mentally urging him to give her advice. The psychic call went unheeded.

She shifted on the saddle, fishing with her left foot for the stirrup that was buried somewhere beneath her hanging skirt. She knew the basics of how to ride a horse. How hard could a sidesaddle be, really?

“Ready?” Henry called over to her.

“Tallyho!” Elle called brightly, giving up the hunt for the stirrup.

Henry set his horse at a walk from the yard, and taking her courage in both hands, Elle gave Belle a gentle tap on the side with both feet, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth in encouragement. “Giddy up” would probably only be understood by a bicultural British-American horse.

Belle started forward, more to follow the other horse than to obey her mistress. The movement sent Elle rocking, and she clenched her legs around the horns. Her left hand clutched at the back of the saddle. This could not be right. She was seated as if the horse were a bench, and she felt like she was about to tumble off backwards.

They reached a dirt road, overgrown except for narrow ruts of bare earth where wheels had packed the ground too densely for even weeds to grow. Henry urged his horse into a canter, and Belle gleefully followed suit.

“Aieee!” Elle screeched. Caught off guard, her legs flailed for purchase, her arms flapped in the air, and she found herself looking at the sky, her head bouncing on
the rump of the horse. She was still mounted, thank God. She just happened to be lying down. Her legs had wrapped around the sidesaddle horns of their own volition, the crook of her right knee gripping the horns for dear life, her right foot hooking under her left leg for security.

Her mount came to a stop, and Henry’s astounded face appeared in her line of vision. There was no trace of cool composure. He looked alarmed. He looked bewildered. He looked thoroughly un-Henry.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice cracking as he sought his usual tone.

Elle tried to sit up. Her corset wouldn’t let her. She was stranded like a turtle. She looked at Henry’s face and repressed the hysterical giggle in her throat.

“If you couldn’t ride, you should have just said so. Were you trying to impress me?” He now looked very serious and concerned.

“Why, did I succeed?” she asked back and snorted with unladylike laughter. Her sides hurt, and she tried not to laugh in the corset while she was on her back, but the effort made her laugh even harder. “For God’s sake, help me up, will you?”

He looked at her, his frown even deeper, and she howled.

“I’ll have you know, I
can
ride,” she asserted from her prone position, once she caught her breath. “I’m just out of practice.”

“Apparently.”

“I’m more used to riding astride, that’s all. I’ve never had any fondness for sidesaddles.”

“I can hardly believe your father allowed you to sit astride a horse,” he said, finally pulling her upright.

Elle straightened her hat and unhooked her right foot from her left leg. “He doesn’t know I ever did.”

“I imagine not.” He looked at her with consideration, as if assessing her sanity. “Do you want to turn back?”

“I can ride, I tell you.”

He looked doubtful. She tried to return his regard with equal gravity, her lips pursed tight over the urge to smile. She wiggled in the saddle, testing her position. She could face forward more easily now, somewhat as she would have if she sat sideways on a wall. Her right leg was bent and up high, while the left dangled somewhat. She fished again for the stirrup and found it. With her legs in proper position, the odd darting of the skirt suddenly made sense. It fell in beautiful clean lines over her legs.

“Very well, then.” He nudged his mount into a slow walk, watching Elle from the corner of his eye as she followed suit. She was aware of his scrutiny and tried to sit on the horse as if she knew what she were doing.

They proceeded in silence down the path, which soon led into the leafy green shade of woodland. The leaves were still the light green of spring, and belled purple flowers grew in swaths beneath the trees. A small cloud of golden dust shimmered in a shaft of sunlight, and Elle closed her eyes as Belle walked her through it. She almost imagined she could feel it tingling on her skin, and when she opened her eyes again, a feeling of dreaminess overtook her spirit. The forest was magically lovely, idyllic, pastoral—it was soft, and peaceful, and somehow tame. She had the sense that people had travelled this path for hundreds and hundreds of years.