The Forest Lord (13 page)

She breathed in carefully. "Yes."

"Is that why you treat Donal as if he were your son?"

The baldness of his question jarred her out of the temporary illusion of fellowship. He'd gone far beyond any previous effrontery. Though he seemed to concentrate on his driving, she knew his question was more than an idle rudeness. He was waiting for her answer.

The set-downs she'd devised never passed her lips. "Donal is… all I have," she said, listening to her own admission with dazed astonishment. "Take us back, Shaw."

He continued on through the gate as if he hadn't heard her. At long last, he pulled the cart to a stop.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I… spoke out of turn, your ladyship."

His apology was right and proper, yet she felt just as much amazement at his contrition as she had during the rest of their unorthodox conversation. He was as proud as any duke, and far more unpredictable.

But even he could admit when he was wrong.

"I accept your apology," she said. They looked at each other, and
Eden felt the beginnings of warmth in the pit of her stomach.

If she gave up now, she'd be back where she started with Shaw. She glanced at Donal. He was watching them with that remarkable stillness, too young to understand the nature of the adult conflict but aware of it nevertheless. She must set an example for him.
And for herself.

"Very well," she said, smiling at her son. "Shall we go on, then?"

Shaw's answering smile made her heart tumble like a clown in a Sadler's Wells pantomime.

Winter still gripped the dale, just as it had seized a
Fane heart five years ago with claws of ice and hopelessness.

Hartley's last glimpse of this land had been in December, the month of Donal's birth. The snows had fallen heavily on the day that he consigned himself to Grandfather Oak and abandoned his pact with mortal man.

It was as if the storm had never ended.

Copper drew the cart from Hartsmere's heights, over a road long since in need of repair, and down into the dale. Hartley saw the farms he had once known—small, fellside establishments and those that rested alongside the beck—battered by harsh weather and hard times. Dirty, unmelted snow formed icy drifts alongside stone walls and byres, and even the trees looked brittle as twigs.

This was what he had left behind.

Eden
sat very quietly beside him, the recent disagreement—and the moment of peace that had followed—already forgotten. It was only her third day at Hartsmere, and for the first time she confronted what years of neglect had wrought of paradise.

His
doing.
And
Eden's.

According to Mrs. Byrne,
Eden's father had been absent from Hartsmere for years. He had left employees and servants to manage the estate, farms, and Birkdale village. Their efforts had not been enough. Nothing would be enough as long as the land lay under Lord Hern's curse.

Contradictory emotions churned through him with such violence that he wondered how humans could tolerate the pain.

Hartley glanced at
Eden. He did not yet know why she had returned to Hartsmere, but clearly she had not expected this. In her eyes—eyes that had always laughed until that day at the inn—was the bleak weight of sorrow.

She had known sorrow before. He could not guess what that sorrow was, only that she had borne it while he slept in the oak, cursing mortals as he sank into oblivion.

He should have been pleased by her suffering. Was it not what he had wanted, to know that she paid for her betrayal?

But he could still feel her touch, her sympathy when she had claimed to understand how it felt to lose a child. She was not mocking him; how could she, when she didn't know who he was?

Donal, she claimed, was all she had. When she had admitted it, he'd burned with fierce joy that no mortal had planted a seed where his had grown. That was the wild spirit in him, the horned god of ancient times, who lived by the rhythms and tides of Nature.

The shame that came after was something new and unwelcome.
And very human.
Eden made him
feel
, now as before. She had taught him the extremes of human emotion, violent enough to tear an unguarded Fane apart. Chains of that emotion still held him as winter held the countryside.

He had accompanied
Eden on this ride for the sole purpose of testing her attraction to him. It had not lessened; to the contrary, it grew stronger each moment they were together. Soon she would begin to trust him.

The inconvenience of emotion was a small price to pay for his son. What was
she
willing to sacrifice?

"It has changed," she murmured. "It has changed so much." She made a loose, helpless gesture with her hand. "It was beautiful, once."

When had she ever noticed that before? Hartley smiled bitterly, remembering how, when she had known him as Cornelius Fleming, she had spoken constantly of returning to
London and introducing him to the
ton
.

"
Winters
can be harsh in the north," he said, knowing that was not the reason. "Perhaps you have forgotten."

"No. I thought I had, but…" She sighed.

Donal clambered over the rear-seat railing and across the top of the carriage into
Eden's lap. An expression of pleased surprise crossed her face, and then she gathered him close.

"Lady Eden," Donal said, "why is the land so sad?"

My son
, Hartley thought with a deep swell of pride and sadness.
He already knows so much
.

Eden
smoothed Donal's hair. "The whole country is sad since the war ended," she said. Her gaze, darting in Hartley's direction, betrayed her guilt. "We'll find a way to make it better."

"Did it ever matter to you, your ladyship, if the land prospered?" he said. "You have not been here for many years."

She looked at him sharply. "How do you know?"

"Servants talk."

Her voice faded to a near whisper. "I did not think it mattered. Now I know that it does."

"And what made you abandon Hartsmere for so long?"

The color left her cheeks. "I will not discuss it. The past is gone. This is my home now. All this is in my care, and I intend to make it right again."

And for that, you must have my help
—
if I choose to give it
. Hartley clucked to the gelding, though he needn't have made a sound. Copper knew what he wanted. As they continued down the slushy lane, Hartley reconsidered the changes in
Eden.

She had never shown interest in the responsibilities that came with the control of land in this country. She'd been quick to see the pleasure and merriment in everything, slow to notice what she did not wish to see.

Was he so different? Had it been his intention to punish all of Hartsmere's people in his rage against the Flemings? Or was this the result of the hatred that spread like a sickness within him? His control over nature was confined to this dale, but it was powerful. His merest thought might alter the balance.

When he had held to the pact, the dale had been abundant with life. But he had not wished to see how dependent the folk of the dale had become upon his blessing. He did not know what fortunes of man's world had challenged the people of the dale. Perhaps, like toy dogs bred from wolves to be man's playthings, they had lost the ability to survive the harshness of the outside.

Eden
, too, had been like a flower from warmer climes, unable to thrive where snows fell.
London had been her hothouse. Now she was thrust into a snowdrift, but she intended to do more than merely survive.

He—yes, he admired her for that, as much as one of his kind could admire any human. And he was grateful for her kindness to his son. Admiration and gratitude, in proper measure, were not too great a peril.

Wetness kissed his cheek. A light snow had begun to fall from the darkening sky.
Eden shivered, pulling Donal close to adjust his coat.

Hartley looked up and willed the clouds to thin. The snow stopped, and the edge of cold faded.

"It can be made well again."

Eden
's face turned toward him, and he realized that he'd spoken aloud. Hope—another human emotion—transformed her eyes to the color of the lake in summer.

"Hartley—" She hesitated, waging some inner battle. "You are not of this dale, but you know the district. You are clearly a man of some education. Until we employ a new steward, perhaps you can… assist me in speaking to the tenants, and learning what they need. They may trust you more than they would—"

A Fleming
?
It must have taken courage for her to admit that to him, to ask for his help so humbly. She even went so far as to recognize how much she had to learn.

"I'll do all I can to help you, your ladyship," he said with more sincere warmth than he had expected in himself.

"Of course there is nothing to be done about this dreadful weather,"
Eden said with a short laugh. "We shall muddle along as best we can until spring. Meanwhile, we can determine which of these houses most needs repair, and what may be done to help the poorest tenants. At least they should not lack for wood!"

Indeed, there were coppices aplenty that the dalesmen could visit for fuel, as long as they didn't invade Hartley's own forest. But many of the coppice woods were untouched or sickly.

Guilt and shame returned, closing up his throat. He wouldn't help
Eden only to win her trust and liking. He had his own misdeeds to mend, if only to rid himself of this all-too-human burden of conscience.

At long last they drew into Birkdale. It was much like any country village in the north, surrounded by farmhouses scattered across the fells. There was only one road—linked to the neighboring dale—and nearly every building lay along it.

But it was apparent that many houses were empty, and those yet occupied appeared dreary and run down. The alehouse had a board nailed across its door, and the few shops were closed.

"Please stop here, Shaw,"
Eden said. Her voice was quiet, chastened.
"Mind Donal for me."

Hartley felt, absurdly, as if she'd handed him a precious gift. He stopped the cart, jumped down, and offered his hand to her.

She took it and permitted him to help her to the ground.

Her riding boots gave her some protection from the muck and slush, but her skirts dragged no matter how she tried to arrange them. With a shrug, she let them fall and set out for the nearest stone cottage.

Smoke meandered in a thin line from the chimney, the only sign of life.
Eden knocked on the poorly fitted door. She waited for several minutes before it opened.

The woman who answered was thin save for an immense belly declaring her expectant state. A stained apron barely covered the expanse. Brown hair hung in straggly clumps about her face, and Hartley could not guess at her age.

Eden
greeted the woman, who stared as if she gazed upon a two-headed calf.
Eden's small figure, every bit as vulnerable as that of the daleswoman, aroused unwonted pity in Hartley's chest. For a woman so sheltered, this must take great courage.

"Donal, will you hold Copper while I go with your mother?" he asked.

"Copper says that the snow is going to melt soon," Donal said gravely. "He can smell it."

"He's right." Hartley smiled and handed Donal the ribbons.
"If he should like to wander to that patch of dry grass there, let him.
He won't go far."

"I know." Donal carefully adjusted the ribbons. "I can manage him."

In the boy's voice was all the pride of responsibility. He had not inherited it from the
Eden that Hartley had known.

Leaving horse and boy together, Hartley strode to the cottage. The door closed behind the women just as he approached. It was no obstacle to him, for any Fane could eavesdrop on mortal conversation without fear of being seen. He cloaked himself in a glamor of invisibility and eased the door open.

The interior of the cottage was dark, dank, and smoke-filled. Portions of the floor were covered with stone, but others were bare earth. Dirty water dripped from the dilapidated thatch roof, and a rickety ladder led to a loft where the ends of two simple beds could be seen. A few oft-repaired pieces of furniture clung to the sides of the crooked walls.

It was evident that the woman had made efforts to keep the place clean, but she had no hope of success under conditions such as these.