The Gates of Sleep (28 page)

“Once a week or so, except when she and my father
were in Italy; less often then,” Marina replied, trying to keep her tone
light and conversational. “She told me what she was doing, about the
books she had read, the friends who had visited. Not when I was a child, of
course,” she amended. “Then she told me mostly about her garden,
and made up stories to amuse me. At least, I think she made them up, although
they could have been stories from the fairy tale books she read as a child.”

“What sort of stories?” Arachne asked, leaning
forward.

I wonder why she’s so interested?

“Oh, fairy tales and myths, about little creatures
that were supposed to live in her garden, gnomes and fauns and the like,”
she replied with a slight laugh. “Entirely whimsical, and perhaps that
was the problem, why I never cared much for them. I was not a child much given
to whimsy.”

She thought that Arachne smiled. “No?”

“No. I preferred the myths of Greece and
Rome—and later, the stories about Arthur and his knights and court and
the legends of Wales and Cornwall,” she said firmly. “And serious
things; real history, Shakespeare and adult books. And poetry, which I suppose,
given that I lived with artists, was inevitable, but the poetry I read was
mostly Elizabethan. I was a serious child, and mother didn’t seem to
understand that.” She chose her words with care. “Oh, just for
instance, she seemed to think that since I lived with the Tarrants, I should be
a painter, when my real interest is music. She would send me expensive paints
and brushes, and I would just give them to Sebastian Tarrant—and
he
would buy me music.”

“An equitable arrangement. How very businesslike of
you.” Arachne chuckled dryly, a tinkling sound like broken bits of china
rubbing together. “And when you were older, what did your mother write
about then?”

“What I’ve told you—mostly about her
everyday life. Her letters were very like journal entries, and I tried to write
the same to her, but it was difficult for me.” She shrugged. “I
think, perhaps, that she was trying to—to bring us together again. To
make us less than strangers.”

“I believe you could be right.” Arachne shook
her head. “Poor Alanna; I knew her even less than you, for I did not even
have the benefit of letters, but all I have gleaned since I arrived here makes
me think that she must have been a seriously troubled young woman. I begin to
wonder if the estrangement between my brother and myself might have been due in
part to her.”

“Surely you don’t believe that my mother would
have wanted to come between a brother and sister!” Marina exclaimed
indignantly. “That doesn’t sound anything like her!”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Arachne replied,
unruffled by the outburst. “No—but I must wonder if—if my
brother was afraid that if I saw her, I would—” She shook her head
again. “No, surely not. But if I saw that he had bound himself to someone
who was—not stable—well, he must have realized that I would urge
him to—”

“It puzzles me, but that I really did not know them,”
Marina said, sitting up straighter. “If you have any guesses that would
explain why I was sent away, I would be interested to hear them, and I assure
you, I am adult enough to deal with them in a mature manner.”

Oh, very pompous, Marina. On the other hand—I’m
tired of being treated like I’m still in the nursery.

Arachne paused. “You know that I told you how your
mother seemed to have a—a breakdown of her nerves following your birth.
Now, when you tell me of these letters of hers, well—what if she was not
telling you whimsical tales as a child? What if she actually thought she saw
these creatures in her garden?”

Marina for a moment could not believe what her aunt was
trying to tell her. “Are you suggesting that she lost her wits?”
Her voice squeaked on the last word, making her exclamation a little less than
impressive.

“It would fit the facts,” Arachne said, as if
musing to herself. “My brother’s refusal to see, speak, or even
write to me, their reclusiveness, the fact that he sent you away. He could have
been protecting you—from
her.”

It was a horrible thought. And one which, as Arachne
pointed out, did fit the facts.

And it would explain why the uncles and my aunt wouldn’t
tell me why I’d been sent away. And why the reason was never, ever
brought up in those letters.

Now, Marina knew that the little whimsical creatures that
her mother had described really did exist—and had lived in her garden.
But just because an Elemental Master was able to work magic and see the
creatures of her element, it did not follow that she was sane… in fact,
Elemental Masters had been known to become deranged by the very power that they
wielded. Especially after a great stress, such as a death, an accident—or
childbirth.

So what if that
had
happened to Alanna? Then Hugh
would have wanted to get the infant Marina as far away from her as
possible—
he
was protected against anything she might do,
magically, but a baby would not be. And who better to send her to than the
Tarrants, whose power could block Alanna’s?

It all made hideous sense. “I have to wonder if you
are right, Madam Arachne,” she said slowly. “It does explain a
number of things. In fact, it is the only explanation that fits all of the
facts as I know them.”

She felt a horrible guilt then; here, all this time, she
had been blaming her parents for sending her away, when they were protecting
her, and in the only way possible! And those letters, filled with anguish and
longing—had they come from a mother who
dared
not bring her
child home lest she harm it? What worse heartbreak could there be?

Without Marina realizing it, Arachne had bent forward, and
now she seized Marina’s hand. “It is only a theory, child. Nothing
more. And I know—I
know
—that if nothing else, your mother
must have been quite well and in her full wits when they went to Italy this
year. I am certain, as certain as I am of my own name, that your parents
intended to bring you here after your eighteenth birthday. Everything that I
have found in their papers points to that.”

When I would be able to protect myself, even if mother
wasn’t
quite right yet.
She nodded. “I think, from the
letters I got, that you are right.”

Arachne released her hand. “I hope I haven’t
distressed you, child. I didn’t intend to.”

“I’m sure not—” Marina faltered. “But
you have given me a great deal to think about.”

Arachne made shooing motions with her hands. “In that
case, dear child, perhaps you ought to go to your room where you can think in
peace.”

Marina took the hint, and rose. “Thank you. I believe
that I will.”

But as she turned to leave, she caught sight of her aunt’s
expression; unguarded for once.

Satisfaction. And triumph. As if she had won a high wager.

MARY Anne did not ride. Mary Anne was, in fact, afraid of
horses. It was all very well for them to be at one end of a carriage, strapped in
and harnessed up, while she was at the other, but she could not, would not be
anywhere near one that was loose or under saddle. And for once, not even
Arachne’s iron will prevailed. When confronted with the order to take to
saddle, Mary Anne gave notice. Arachne rescinded the order. Or so Sally had
told Marina, in strictest confidence.

Supposedly a groom was detailed to ride with Marina for her
safety. Supposedly, in fact, a groom was to lead her horse (as if she was a
toddler on a pony) in a parody of riding. In actuality, the stableman took one
look at her firm and expert seat, her easy control of the reins, and the way in
which she could handle every beast in the stables (not that there were any
horses that Marina would call troublesome) and snorted with contempt at the
very idea. “I’m shorthanded enough as ‘tis,” he said, “‘thout
sending out one on fool’s errands. The day Hugh Roeswood’s daughter
needs to be in leading-strings is the day they put me to pasture.”

So Marina (whether or not Arachne was aware of it) rode
alone, and for the last week, she had gone out every day for at least an hour.

She was learning the paths and the lanes around Oakhurst
slowly, for the horse that the stableman assigned to her was a placid little
mare, disinclined to move out of a walk unless there was a powerful incentive.
But the old hunter that Marina used to ride at Blackbird Cottage was the same,
and on the whole, she would rather ride a sedate and predictable horse than a
spirited, but unpredictable one.

She took great pleasure in her riding habit, of black wool
and trimmed with fur, not the least because it came with a riding-corset that
allowed her almost as much freedom as going uncorseted. She needed it; she
needed her riding-cloak as well, for it was cold, with snow lying deeply on the
fields, and especially in the lee of the banks and hedges. There might be more
snow some time soon, though for now, nothing much had come from the
cloud-covered sky.

Her rides had taken her down to the vicarage on two visits
so far—not too often, and only by invitation, which Mr. Davies had been
punctilious about sending up to the house after his teatime visit the Monday
afternoon following her foray to church. In fact, she would be going there
today on a third visit, this time with a peculiar bag slung over her shoulder.

She’d seen this bag in the gun room—dragged
there by Reggie so that he could boast about previous triumphs in the
field—and rather thought it was a falconer’s game bag. Whatever its
original purpose in life, it was now a carryall when she went riding, as it sat
very nicely on her hip and was large enough to carry almost anything. Today it
held copies of her embroidery patterns, tracing paper, her spare
pricking-wheel, and pounce bags of chalk and charcoal.

Whenever Margherita (or Sebastian, at her behest) had
created an embroidery pattern, Marina had made a copy; she had an entire
portfolio of them now. The vicar had asked for her suggestions for items for
the parish booth at the annual May Day Fair on her first visit. She suspected
that he hoped for items from Oakhurst for the jumble table, but she knew that
her mother had contributed a great many white elephants over the years to
little purpose. Marina had a better idea, and had asked him to gather the
materials—and people—she needed to make it work.

When she arrived at the vicarage, she left her horse tied
up at the gate, for she didn’t expect to be very long. At her request,
the vicar had gathered the women of the Parish Society together, and at her
entrance into his rather bare parlor, a dozen pairs of curious eyes turned
toward her. She smiled, and received some smiles, some nods, and one or two
wary looks in return as he introduced her.

Following her instructions, he had arranged for a worktable
in the middle of the room, and supplied some scrap fabric, which lay atop it.
The worktable looked to be purloined from the kitchen and the ladies of the
parish sat around it on a motley assortment of chairs, none new, most ancient.
A cheerful fire in the fireplace warmed the air sufficiently that they had
dispensed with their coats and cloaks, but all had kept their bonnets on, and a
wide variety of hat ornaments bobbed in her direction.

“Good afternoon, ladies!” she said cheerfully. “I’m
sure you know that I’m Marina Roeswood. I hope you don’t mind my
putting myself forward like this; Mr. Davies thought, because I was fostered
with the Tarrants of Blackbird Cottage, who are well-known artists, I might
have some original ideas for the goods for this year’s parish
booth—and as a matter of fact, I do.”

With no further preamble, she took her supplies from the
falconer’s bag and proceeded to show the women how a professional
seamstress, embroideress, or modiste transferred an embroidery pattern from
paper to fabric. They watched with amazement as she ran the pricking-wheel over
the penciled design, then laid the now-perforated paper on a piece of fabric
and used the pounce-bag along the lines of the design, tapping it expertly and
firmly on the paper.

“There, you see?” she said, removing the paper
to show the design picked out in tiny dots of white chalk. “Now, the last
step is to baste the lines of the design before the chalk brushes off, and
there you are! On dark fabric, you use a chalk-bag; on light, a charcoal-bag.
And this system allows you to use the pricked pattern over and over, as many
times as you like, doesn’t mark the fabric, and is a great deal less
fussy than sewing over the paper pattern.”

The vicar proclaimed himself astonished. The
women—the wives and daughters of the shopkeepers and the well-to-do
farmers—were delighted. As with most amateur embroideresses, they had
either stitched through a paper pattern, forcing them to use it only once, or
had drawn their patterns inaccurately on the fabric itself when the fabric was
too dark or thick to use as tracing paper. Many a fine piece of cambric or silk
had been ruined this way when the marks made by the pencil wouldn’t come
out—many lovely designs had been executed off center or lopsided.

“And these are all very new and fashionable designs,
similar to the ones that Messrs. Morris & Co. is producing, but quite
original,” she told them, spreading out the sheets of patterns before
their eyes. “My Aunt Margherita Tarrant is known all over England for her
art-embroidery, and has produced lovely things with these designs for some of
the best homes in London and Plymouth.”

That won them over, completely, and with these new designs
and tools, there was great excitement over what manner of things might be made.
Marina helped them to parcel out patterns, tracing them so that more than one
copy could be dispensed, and running the wheel over them since there was only
the one wheel to share among the lot of them. As they worked, they were happily
discussing fire screens, cushions, antimacassars, and any number of other
delights. No one else would have anything like this in the three other parish
booths from the churches that regularly had booths at the May Day Fair. Every
one of these ladies would make something that she would like to have in her own
home. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise Marina in the least to discover that
each would make two projects at a time—one to sell and one to keep. As
that cheerful fire further warmed the room, the ladies warmed to
Marina—who had, of course, seen exactly the items that had been
originally made with these patterns, and was ready to offer advice as to
materials and color schemes. Mr. Davies beamed on them all impartially; from
the scent of baking, his old housekeeper was making ginger biscuits to serve
the ladies for tea.