The Changeling Bride (6 page)

He reached out, placing his hand on her shoulder, and she froze, wide-eyed, trying to gauge his intentions.

“Stay a moment. I will not spoil your fun if you wish to watch longer. ’Tis harmless enough.” His hand gently squeezed her shoulder, sending an unexpected ripple of sexual awareness through her.

“You won’t tell anyone you saw me, will you?” His hand became a subtle invitation, its warmth seeping through the cloak to her skin.

“Mademoiselle, there is nothing to tell. I have not seen you.”

His head bent down to hers, and for a moment she knew he was going to kiss her. “No!” She jerked out from under his hand, wild thoughts of what a stranger alone with her in the dark might do. “You think you can force your attentions on any young woman you find?”

He straightened. “Your pardon, but I had no intention of doing any such thing.”

He sounded amused by it! “Right. I’ve read about men like you, wenching with helpless servant girls.”

“I am terribly sorry to disappoint you, but I was merely trying to see your face.”

“Oh! Oh!” Her face flamed as she heard the truth in his voice. She was so
stupid
. “Well, you had no right to do that, either. My face is my own business.”

For the first time traces of suspicion crossed his composed features, and he grabbed her arm. “Just what
are
you up to out here?”

Elle glared up at him, his face once again in shadow. She debated for a moment, then hiked her skirt and kicked his self-controlled person in the shin.

His grip loosened in surprise, although he did not gratify her with a noise of distress. She pulled free of his hand. “You have no right to hold me,” she told him, then turned and gathered her skirts in both hands, leaping down the terrace steps and running into the safety of the night.

Embarrassment and anger burned her cheeks. How dare he grab her arm? But it was her own stupid expectation of a kiss that appalled her, and his unflappable composure. That almost emotionless face clearly said he had never considered such a thing, and never would.

She made it back to the cobbled stableyard, and seeing no one about, she darted across it and off to one side, where a dirt road led off into woods. She went slowly once she reached the cover of trees, uncertain of her footing and the direction of the road.

The sounds of the night countryside surrounded her: owls softly hooting, leaves rustling in the breeze, insects buzzing and whirring. Some animal moved through the underbrush to her right, snapping twigs as it went. Elle tried to think of what animals roamed wild in the English countryside, but couldn’t think of anything more dramatic than deer and hedgehogs.

The road was uneven beneath her feet, rutted by wheels. She tried to stay between the ruts, and as a result tripped several times on what she strongly suspected to be piles of horse manure. It certainly smelled that way.

The road eventually led out of the woods and through a field, where the moonlight let her see a hill across the open space. The breeze picked at the opening of her cloak, its chilly fingers seeking to pull it wide. She clenched the woolen folds more closely, her step a bit faster. The road veered away from the hill, heading into the trees across the field. She left the road and cut across the short grasses.

The hill itself was no easy climb, and it wasn’t until five minutes later that she found herself near the top, winded and sweating from the exertion. She sat on the grass and tried to catch her breath, surveying the silver and black landscape before her. It looked similar to what she could recall from last night, but that was saying little.

“Hello?” she called softly into the night, self-conscious of her own voice in the lonely air, breaking
the quiet. “This is Elle, the woman you took from Portland. Is anyone there?” The wind soughed, leaves rustled, and owls hooted. No other answer came to her. “I want to go home.” No answer. “Or at least ask some questions.

“I don’t know what you want of me, or why you’ve done this. I’ve been pretending to be Eleanor all day. Is this what you wanted? How long do I have to do it? When is she coming back?” The image of Eleanor, dead on the cave floor, flickered in Elle’s mind. “She is coming back, isn’t she? I mean, you got me out of that landslide, which should have killed me, so a bit of the flu shouldn’t stop you from resurrecting Eleanor Moore. You dressed her in my clothes; does that mean she’s living my life?”

Elle thought about her dreary job and her small apartment, and came to a startling conclusion. Besides for being scared out of her wits and worrying about Tatiana, she was almost enjoying herself. It was that feeling she got when skiing down a too-steep, too-advanced slope: Each moment she managed to stay upright was a victory over danger and chaos. For months now—no, for
years
—she had been feeling dead. Now, at this moment, alone on a hill in the dark in an unknown land, she felt vitally alive.

“Okay, maybe I wouldn’t mind staying through the wedding. I’ve always wanted one, you know. The dress, the flowers, maybe a carriage ride to the church. You’ve got to get me out of here before the wedding night, though. I’m not going to let some old man have sex with me. I’ll stay through the wedding, then you come get me and take me home.” She decided she’d just have to assume that they heard and understood and that she had some sort of say in what went on.

She stood up, brushing the back of her cloak free of grass and twigs. The night sky overhead was dense with stars, and she tilted her head back to gaze up at them.
The constellations were the same as at home, only brighter in this deep darkness. She was alone, completely and utterly alone in this past world, and it both thrilled and terrified her.

The image of Tatiana being washed under rocks and mud filled her mind, and she clamped down on it, shutting off the emotion that would come if she let it.

“I know that if you could save me from a landslide, you must have been able to save Tatiana as well,” she said to the stars. “It may not be convenient to bring her to me here, but when I get home she’d better be there.” She tried to sound threatening, but her voice quavered. “This little adventure isn’t worth it, if it means losing my dog.”

She remained on the hill some time longer, waiting for some sign, some evidence that she had been heard and understood, but none came. The warmth of exertion had faded, and she began once again to feel the chill of the air. She reluctantly picked her way down the hill and headed back to the house.

Elle was in bed asleep by the time, several hours later, the answer to one of her queries appeared on the hill in the forest. The unfortunate boy chosen as messenger was far from pleased with the task he had been assigned and was doing a poor job of it. His name was Mossbottom, and as far as fairies went, he was relatively inexperienced.

Mossbottom slipped out of a crack in the hillside, followed closely by Tatiana, whose white fur was powdered with greenish phosphorescence. Placing spells on people was a simple fairy trick, but animals were another matter. Mossbottom had been stuck with care of the dog by the more senior fairies, who thought it great fun to watch him flounder about their underground labyrinth of caves chasing the hyperactive dog. The senior fairies had also thereby escaped personal dealings with a creature that scared them. It had been, after all, a disastrous run-in
with some similar beasts that had started this whole confusing drama, so many years ago.

Mossbottom warily eyed Tatiana, who met his gaze with ingenuous brown eyes and smiled her panting smile. A twig cracked somewhere out in the dark, and Tatiana’s ears perked forward, her panting suddenly stopped as she strained her attention into the blackness around her. Whatever hold Mossbottom had temporarily thought he had over her disappeared, as the awareness of being outdoors came rushing to Tatiana’s senses. With a bark and a bound, she was off and running, shedding shimmers of fairy dust in luminous streams behind her.

If Mossbottom had been capable of crying, he would have done so. That wicked dog—she’d be the death of him. With steps unusually heavy for one of his sort, he followed the fading glimmers of her trail.

Chapter Five

The day of Elle’s wedding dawned bright and golden upon the countryside. She was awoken by Marianne, her new maid, who had spent last night upon a trundle bed beside her own bed. In fact, since she had chosen Marianne from the three maids presented by Mrs. Moore, Elle had not had more than ten minutes free of her company. The woman was cheerful and energetic, which had seemed to recommend her when compared with her more subdued competitors, but after nearly twenty-four hours in her company, Elle was beginning to wonder if she had made a serious error in judgment. The woman was driving her batty.

“Now, I have rung for your bath, and tea is on its way. Here now, let me help you out of bed. You must be fairly faint with excitement, yes?”

Elle rolled her eyes and suffered Marianne to lead her to the bench in front of the vanity, where she began to brush Elle’s hair.

“We’re going to wash it today, aren’t we?” Elle asked, looking in distaste upon her powdery locks. She had had a basin of water in which to wash her hands and face every day, and there was even a toothbrush and some toothpowder that tasted foul, but no one had made mention of a proper bath until today. Her hair had been kept somewhat clean by having powder rubbed into it and then brushed out. By the scent of Marianne, it was apparent that full-body bathing was not a daily affair.

“Did you wish to? Mrs. Moore did say that you were to wear a formal wig for the wedding, and really, that is the most appropriate thing, do you not think?”

“I don’t care if I wear the wig or not; I want to wash my hair. My scalp itches.”

Marianne seemed to think that was funny. “So now you will want to wash it every time it itches?”

“I’d like to wash it every day, before it even starts. I’d like to take a bath every day, too: a long, hot bath. I think maybe you should, too, Marianne.”

Marianne threw her hands up to her mouth to stifle her laughter. “If once a day is so beneficial, might not twice a day be even better?”

“I’m thinking that the entire staff could use a good scrubbing. What do you think, shall we order everyone down to the reflecting pool in the garden and give them a good dunking?”

The maid just laughed.

Soon a legion of maids was filing in and out of the chamber, depositing tub, towels, soaps, and bucket upon bucket of steaming water in front of the fireplace. They spread a linen sheet in the tub before filling it with water, draping the white folds over the edges. Elle sipped her tea and watched in awe the womanpower required for a simple act of bathing. She realized rather belatedly that she was not counting on being here past this evening, and wondered what the real Eleanor would think when
she came back and found a bath waiting for her every day.

Marianne and two other maids remained in the room when the tub was full, and Elle watched them patiently, waiting for them to leave. Instead, they just stood there. Two minutes passed, feeling like two hours, before Marianne finally spoke.

“Miss, the water will not long stay hot.”

“It rarely does.”

“No, miss.”

They looked silently at each other for a long moment. “I, ah, I’m a rather private person,” Elle said.

Marianne flicked a glance at the other women, back to Elle, then turned to the maids and ordered them from the room. “You can bring the rinse water to the door, and I will take if from there,” she told them. “There now, miss. I could pour some milk in the water, if you like.”

“To drink?”

“To obscure the water, miss,” Marianne giggled.

“Only if you intend to give me biscuits to scrub with.”

Elle thought that there was still one too many persons present for privacy, but this was obviously the best she was going to get. Besides, there was the matter of rinse water to consider as well, if she truly wished to have clean hair.

Elle threw off the nightgown she’d been wearing for two days and stepped gingerly into the tub, sinking down into the water with a sigh. The wet linen made a comfortable liner for the tub. She’d just try to ignore Marianne’s presence. She’d close her eyes and pretend she wasn’t going to have to scrub her nooks and crannies under the eyes of another woman.

Something splashed into the water in front of her, and Elle opened her eyes to see Marianne lathering a sea sponge with soap. The maid then reached into the water and grabbed Elle’s arm, lifting it above the surface, and began to wash it with the rose-scented foam. Elle gaped,
and barely stopped herself from jerking her arm away from Marianne’s touch.

“Marianne,” she said as softly as she could, trying not to show her tension. “Why don’t you have some of that tea? I’ll call you back when I need to wash my hair, and you can help me then.”

“Oh no, miss, I would not think of it.”

“Marianne, please. I am not an infant.”

Marianne stared a moment, then handed Elle the sponge. “As you wish, miss.”

After the bath, Elle combed out her own hair, bending from the waist and letting it dry a bit in front of the fire. Marianne had brought out the wig she was to wear, and Elle looked at it now from her upside-down perspective. It was an ugly thing, powdered a grayish white, frizzy on top with ringlets down the back and two rows of horizontal curls on either side, above where her ears would be. She had suggested forgoing its use, but when Marianne had let her know that the alternative was to have her own clean hair pomaded and powdered and arranged, the wig had started to look a whole lot better.

The first thing Elle put on was a long chemise that was identical to the sort that she had been sleeping in. Over that came a set of stays, which Marianne strapped her into with the help of another maid. They pulled steadily on the laces in back, tightening the boned structure until Elle thought her ribs would crack and her breasts spill over the top. They seemed dissatisfied with the results, but could pull the laces no tighter for fear they would break. Elle breathed shallowly and took small steps over to the mirror to see what the contraption had done for her figure.