Hartley's stomach knotted in mingled loathing and pity. Far better the sky and the grass and the clean, cool breeze than this horror. Near the small fire, heating a pot of thin
gruel,
huddled two ragged children and an older girl. Their faces were smudged with soot, and their bodies were as thin as their mother's.
He had often been disgusted with mortal squalor, but not until now had he any reason to feel sympathy. This poor cottager desperately needed all the help
's face was ghostly with dismay. "Mrs. Singleton," she said, clearing her throat. "I—"
"Please sit down, your ladyship," the woman said. She indicated a three legged stool near the fire.
"Forgive my poor hospitality," Mrs. Singleton said, resting her hand at the small of her back. "We have a little tea, if you wish—"
"No, thank you."
Mrs. Singleton dropped her head so that her hair swung over her face. "I'd heard the house was to be lived in again," she said quietly. "I hope—" She, too, hesitated. "I thank your ladyship for your care."
"Please do not thank me until I have done something to earn it." As soon as she had spoken the words,
"He's gone." Mrs. Singleton gathered her children and gazed at the smoke-stained wall. "He was a bailiff at Hartsmere until a year ago, my lady. But when they discharged him, he couldn't find work—"
sprang to her feet. "Discharged?"
"Aye."
Mrs. Singleton did not look surprised at
sat down again, looking ill. Hartley almost rushed to her side, but she recovered and folded her hands in her lap.
"I regret what happened, Mrs. Singleton," she said. "Mr. Brown has also left my employ, so…" She took a deep breath. "I require a bailiff. Do you know where your husband went?"
The daleswoman shook her head. "Once he sent a little money, but—" She hugged her children closer.
"We shall locate your husband, Mrs. Singleton, I promise you. Upon his return, his job will be waiting for him. In the meantime…" She smiled at the children as though her heart would break. "There are several unoccupied cottages on the grounds at Hartsmere. I invite you to live there until Mr. Singleton rejoins you."
Mrs. Singleton's face lit with hope, but she quickly resumed the stoicism of habitual poverty. "Thank you, my lady. But my home is here. I'll stay, if you please."
If she felt disappointment,
The daleswoman's lip trembled. "My lady—"
"For the children."
Mrs. Singleton bowed her head. "Your ladyship is very kind."
The two women could not have been more different, but Eden herself was near tears. She exchanged a few last words with Mrs. Singleton, smiled again at the children, and fled the cottage. Hartley followed, closing the door behind him, and became visible again.
saw him, but not before he witnessed her terrific struggle to calm herself. She blinked rapidly, looked for the dog cart, and almost ran toward it. Once there, she caught Donal in her arms and embraced him, pressing her cheek to his.
"I never knew," she whispered. "I did not realize—"
Hartley didn't think. He moved up behind
"They have hardly anything. Their clothes… the food… If only I had known."
Hartley touched the wisps of hair that escaped from under her bonnet. "Aren't there similar tragedies in
"I never saw them. I… didn't want to." She lifted her head, became aware of his arms about her, and broke free. But he sensed that she was little concerned with the scandalous liberties he took.
"There must be many others—in Birkdale, on the farms—like her. They will all need my help." Her face took on a fevered flush, and she paced back and forth as if the racing of her thoughts would not let her be still. "Yes, we must return to Hartsmere at once and make arrangements. Find some spare garments until more can be bought. And surely these children should be in school—I'm sure there was one, once. The curate will know. I shall see him tomorrow and bring the Singletons what I can collect."
A new energy emanated from
And loss.
When he'd first courted Eden Fleming, he had regarded the effort as an unpleasant duty. But even he, like all Fane, had been drawn to her emotion, the incandescent spark of joy within her human soul. The pulse of creation itself beat in her heart as surely as sap ran in the oaks and singing becks carried the land's lifeblood. Even her dislike of the country had not lessened her allure.
Gradually, his purely selfish interest had changed into something more. It had taken him weeks to realize that what he had begun to experience was not merely the need for the child she could give him, or even fascination with her vivid humanity. He felt affection for her, affection that was but a pale copy of love, yet an uncommon thing among his kind. He learned, from her, what it was to feel with the soul. He had even believed that he could bring her to understand his ways and the ways of the land he guarded.
He'd never had the chance. But some part of that affection endured, reborn as his anger had reawakened in the forest. For the first time in his long life, he was beginning to understand the human trait of compassion.
And he was beginning to wonder if he could steal Donal from this woman he had hated, when his hatred was dying a little more with every moment they shared.
"You care about the woman," he said. "You would give her all these things, yet you do not know her."
turned to him, still suffused with the enormity of her scheme. "Does that surprise you, Shaw? I see that it does. You think me a useless member of Society, good for nothing but balls and routs and visits to the mantuamakers." She smiled broadly, and mischief snapped in her eyes. "Shall we make a wager, you and I? If by summer's end I have not brought about a change for the better, in this town and in
all of the
dale, I will… I will grant you ten acres to do with as you wish, and waive the rent for a year."
Hartley almost laughed.
She
would grant
him
land? The Fane had been here a thousand years before her first primitive ancestors. But it was no mean offer, when landlords clung so dearly to the income they received from their tenants.
"A generous proposal, my lady," he said with an ironic bow.
"And if I succeed, which I will…" She tapped her lower lip with a forefinger. "You, Mr. Shaw, will admit that you have been wrong in all your harsh judgments of me—do not deny them—and will most humbly beg my pardon without the least trace of impertinence."
So bright was her mood that he found it impossible not to respond in kind. "Do you care so much for the opinion of a servant?" he asked lightly.
She maintained her smile. "But you are not really a servant, are you, Shaw?"
He grew alert. "And what am I, your ladyship?"
"Perhaps one day you will tell me."
"I am not sure you will believe me."
"Are you the lost heir to some exotic kingdom, then, or a prince in disguise?"
She was treating him as an equal, not a servant. Her disposition was as changeable as spring weather, and he did not trust it any more than he trusted her. But it meant she was, indeed, beginning to trust
him
.
"Alas," he said. "You have found me out."
"You do have a sense of humor after all, Mr. Shaw," she said.
"I often find mankind most amusing—in its many variations."
Her brow arched high. "Mr. Shaw, there are times when I am quite certain that you are no common dalesman. Are you not a part of mankind?"
"Has membership in a society ever prevented astute observation of it?"
She chuckled. "God help anyone who falls under your satirical eye."
"Some sights are more pleasurable than others."
They gazed at each other. Hartley recognized another emotion in his heart that he had almost forgotten could exist.
Happiness.
He was… happy, here, with the mother of his son, and Donal close enough to touch. His happiness expanded outward, warming the ground under his feet, reaching up to pierce the sky. A shaft of sunlight struck through the clouds to gild the stray locks of
turned her face into the light.
"How beautiful.
The sun is coming out."
A simple statement, yet she filled it with gratitude and real joy, as if someone had given her a priceless jewel. Hartley closed his eyes and set the winds to blowing. Clouds scudded and raced across the sky, clearing a field of blue above the dale. A robin whistled tentatively from a nearby oak.
Donal walked to Hartley's side and took his hand. "You made it better," he said.
's brilliant smile faded. "Donal has a formidable imagination. It should be encouraged in the right ways, by the proper teachers." She reached for Donal. "It's time to go home, Donal. You must be hungry."
Donal glanced back at Hartley but went to his mother willingly enough. His solemn face showed so little of what he was thinking, yet Hartley knew he was torn. Torn between two worlds, one of which he did not even know existed.
If Eden so much as suspected Donal's true nature—if her mind would let her believe—would she run from Hartsmere and never return?
Go with her, my son. The time will come when you no longer need her. No more than do I.
They drove back to Hartsmere in silence, Donal crowded onto
"The fox, mother," he said. "He's my friend."
Tod, of course.
Hartley wondered when boy and hob had met.
"I see it, Donal,"
Hartley did not return her look.
"Never?"
"Not that I can remember. He hunted on all his other estates—" She broke off.
"Once men hunted out of necessity," he said grimly, "like any other beast, to survive. Now they do it for pleasure. Is that not so?"
She shifted in her seat but didn't answer. Hartley drove the cart through the park and up to the doors of Hartsmere. He helped
Copper received better thanks: a good brushing and a measure of oats. The iron of harness and bridle and carriage bit Hartley's flesh, but he ignored the pain and temporary injury. The day's accomplishments had been considerable, despite the somber note on which it had ended.
When he was finished with the horses, Hartley took on his true form and sought the forest. He slipped in among the vast trees, touching the trunks as he passed and greeting each by its secret name. Healing flowed into his wounded hands. These were his real friends, as mortals could never be. They renewed his spirit and reminded him that the earth held more than the petty handiwork of men.
Tod ran across his path as Hartley reached the domain of Grandfather Oak. The hob changed from fox to boy in the blink of an eye and bowed before him.
"You are pleased, my lord?" he said.
Hartley sat down on the empty shell of a fallen wych elm.
"With what?
That you made yourself known to my son?"
Tod laughed. "Tod did not tell who he is. But the boy knows.
As he knows you."
"He does not know that I am his father."