The Forest Lord (36 page)

"Thank you, my lady!" Jane curtsied and made a swift exit, doubtless to primp for Samuel Topping.

"Mother," Donal said, tugging at her dressing gown, "We are not supposed to lie, are we?"

Eden
whispered a prayer
for her own
many falsehoods. "We must strive always to tell the truth."

"Well, then, I was telling the truth when I said Samuel will not win. Hartley shall."

As always, when anyone spoke his name,
Eden experienced a peculiar fluttering in her stomach that spread throughout her body, leaving her both languid and invigorated.
And very much aroused.

She was not surprised that Hartley planned to enter the contest. How could she blame Donal for assuming that he would win? If anyone knew what a sheep was thinking, Donal did. And so would Hartley. The beasts would very likely find a way to shed their wool and lay it at his feet.

"You may be right," she said, lifting Donal to the floor as she got up to dress, "but it is more gentlemanly to pretend that you are not quite so sure." She gave him the sternest glance of which she was capable. "You must not tell the sheep what to do, Donal. It would not be fair."

He grinned. It was so wonderful to see him grin, which he did more and more often now that
Ireland was but a memory. Now that he had a real mother…

And almost a father.

"I promise," Donal said.

The mischief in his eyes gave another message, but she chose to take him at his word. She rang for her own maid, Nancy, who had proved adequate, if not yet polished in her duties. "Let us fetch one of your toys, and you may play here while I dress. After that we shall go down to breakfast together, and then…" She tickled him lightly under the chin until he giggled. "Then off to the contest!"

Donal hardly fidgeted at all while Nancy saw to Eden's bath, fastened her dress, and fixed her hair, and he was most cooperative when Eden helped him put on his clothes. After breakfast, he consented to walk out with her like a little man rather than rushing ahead to greet Hartley.

Hartley waited for them by the dog cart, which she still used for visits to the village, even though Claudia had insisted upon the purchase of a modest but more fashionable equipage. The landau was one of several luxuries that they could afford because of the dale's new prosperity, which permitted the payment of delinquent rents, added new tenants to fill the vacancies, and lessened need among the farmers.

But the dog cart would always hold a special place in
Eden's heart. Dalziel had responsibility for the landau, but Hartley continued to drive the cart because it enabled them to be together.

As Hartley looked up from Copper's harness, she had to stop just to catch her breath. It was part of the magic that she still felt so, still anticipated his smallest touch after so many weeks.

He smiled. She forgot how to walk.

Donal tugged on her hand. "Mother, we shall be late!"

Eden
took herself in hand and walked at a steady pace until she reached the cart. Donal held up his arms, and Hartley swung him about to deposit him in the rear seat. His gaze met
Eden's with a conspiratorial glimmer.

"Is your ladyship ready?"

"Always."
She offered her hand. He took it, squeezing lightly, and helped her up.

He held the ribbons only as a pretense while Copper pulled them down the lane at a brisk, cheerful pace. Wild-flowers lining the way—eyebright, buttercup, and globe-flower—swayed and nodded in the warm summer breeze, and the smell of ripening hay was everywhere. Soon it would be cut and heaped in great mounds in the fields to be dried. A bee set aside its diligent quest for nectar and buzzed lazily about Donal's head as if confiding its secrets.

Near the village, children searched among the gooseberry bushes for early ripened fruit, eating as much as they gathered. They stopped to wave at the cart as it passed. Farmers and laborers, with families or without, made their ways singly and in groups to Mr. Topping's byre, eager for the match.

Hartley exchanged more than one secret glance with
Eden, and every so often he would point out a rare flower to her and Donal, or make a teasing remark that sent the boy into sudden laughter. That was something that had changed in him; he had learned to laugh, even jest, with genuine pleasure.

"Tell me another story about the Faerie Folk," Donal said.

Eden
realized that he was speaking to Hartley. Unease blossomed in her chest.

"What stories are these?" she asked.

"Hartley tells me about the Faeries, who used to live all over
England," Donal offered helpfully. "Only they don't call themselves Faeries."

"Indeed?" She glanced at Hartley. "It sounds… most entertaining."

Was it her imagination, or did he seem to share her discomfiture?

He shrugged. "They are merely stories I have gathered in my travels," he said, gazing at the road ahead. "This country is rife with them."

"Like the one Kirkby told us—about the Faerie king who dived in the forest and cursed the dale?"

"No." His jaw flexed under tanned skin. "Not like that."

"Tir-na-nog is the place the Faeries go when they leave here," Donal piped in. "It's never cold there, and the trees are always green."

"Are all the Faeries there now, Donal?" she asked with a tense smile. "You have never seen one, have you?"

"No," he answered seriously. "Even when there were lots of them, they were hard to see. Some of them were very small. Some of them were as big as we are, so they could pretend to be real people. They were the ones who left first."

Pretend to be like real people
.
Eden's mind lost its way in a memory, in an image of Cornelius and the antlered man-beast he had become. Once more she thought of her notion that Hartley was somehow related. Who better to tell these tales than one of the Fair Folk himself?

"Why?" she whispered. "Why did they leave?"

"Because of the cold iron and all the mortals who cut down the woods."
Donal sighed, the sound as precociously adult as his words. "And because people didn't want them anymore."

She looked at Hartley. "Did you ever hear of one of these Faeries who… looked like a man, but had antlers growing from his forehead?"

"I see such creatures every day. Don't you?" He laughed. "You refer to the old legends of horned gods. Those tales are also common here, and all throughout
Britain. The priests took the old gods and shaped them into your devil. But they were never evil, only different."

Different.
"Are any of them… still here?"

"Oh, yes," Donal said. "Sometimes boys and girls had a Faerie mother and a mortal father. Most of them went away, but some stayed."

Though the sun was warm,
Eden gathered her shawl more snugly about her shoulders.
"What of… mortal mothers and Faerie fathers?"

"Yes.
They
could do magic, too. They must be sad to stay here and hide instead of going to Tir-na-nog."

God help me
. "Hide… their magic?"

He nodded somberly,
then
brightened. "But sometimes you can go there if you know the way."

"And do you know the way?" she asked, staring at Hartley.

He glanced at her with a wry smile. "Every night the Faeries come to me and whisper their secrets. But I have no desire to leave you, lovely Lady Eden." He slapped the ribbons lightly on Copper's back and turned down the rutted path to the Toppings' farm. And
Eden, knowing the topic was closed, worked to fix a smile on her face and play lady bountiful to the people who expected her to reign graciously over the competition and the feast afterward.

In such a pragmatic undertaking as a sheep-shearing, Faeries had no place. The farmers placed her and Donal on chairs beneath a crude arch woven with flowers just at the entrance to the byre, beside the other officiator, Mr. Appleyard. The curate greeted them with a bow and a smile, while Hartley slipped away to join the contestants.
Eden recited the little speech she had prepared, and then Mr. Appleyard read a blessing over the sheep and the parishioners.

That was the last peace and quiet for some time. Soon the byre was filled with the bleating of sheep, the snipping of shears, and the laughter and shouts of the dalesmen, urging on their favorites. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat and wool. Shorn sheep were let loose into a pen, where bewildered lambs cried for their denuded mothers.

Great tankards of beer, brought in from the alehouse in the neighboring dale, were consumed by thirsty contestants and observers alike.
Eden had arranged for quantities of food to be delivered in time for the feast. As always, it gave her great satisfaction to see the people taking such pleasure in her small gifts.

But her greatest joy lay in watching Hartley. Her chill feelings of foreboding could not survive the melee in the byre, or Hartley's warm glances. As Donal had predicted, he soon outmatched even the most experienced clippers as if he had been born to it. Hardly a sheep offered so much as a token struggle.

Yet, when the hours-long contest neared its end, Hartley leaned back and slowed to a crawl, yawning as he worked. Others caught up with him and finally surpassed him. In the end, it was a young man—Jane's young man—who took the coveted first prize of six shillings and a new pair of shears. Jane shrieked and ran to embrace him, which no one minded at all given the general merriment and chaos.

After that, everyone settled in for the feast. They spread blankets on the meadow and laid out the food with much animated conversation. While Donal went to see the shorn sheep,
Eden took her place at the top of the head table, as hostess, seated with the winner and a few other leading dalesmen. Hartley sat two seats away. They did not look at each other too often. Gossip need not be encouraged.

The talk was casual and idle, mainly of sheep and the haying.
Eden excused herself after an interval and threaded her way among the blankets to visit the people she had come to know. The reunited Singletons sat close together with their children about them. Mr. Singleton bolted up and offered
Eden a jerky bow.

Mrs. Singleton joined him, her babe in her arms. "Your ladyship," she said, "we cannot thank you enough for all you have done. Now that John is bailiff again…"

It was not the first time
Eden had met the wandering husband and father, though she had left his reemployment to Mr. Rumbold. Singleton flushed, with good reason.

Yet
Eden glanced at Mrs. Singleton's face, saw the joy in it, and knew his return was far better than his absence. Throughout the world, women needed their men to prosper and be happy.

Yes, even
she
.

"You are content with your work?" she asked Mr. Singleton.

"Aye, my lady.
As my wife says… we're grateful. I don't know how we can make up for it."

"I ask only that you take good care of your family, and come to me or Mr. Rumbold if there is trouble of any kind." She smiled at Mrs. Singleton. "Your children are well? Adam appears to thrive."

Hearing the beginning of woman's chatter, John retreated, and the children tumbled after him.
Eden relaxed.

"That he is, your ladyship," Mrs. Singleton said, beaming at the little boy. "It meant the world to us that you were there for Adam's christening."

Eden
could never become used to such open gratitude from the proud, self-sufficient dalesmen. "I am glad that you have found happiness, Mrs. Singleton."

"As you have."
The woman's words were so soft that
Eden barely heard them.

"I beg your pardon?"

Mrs. Singleton
smiled,
an expression any other woman would recognize. "Hartley Shaw is a fine man. It was a kind thing he did for Samuel, letting him win. No one in the dale believes he was born to a farmer's life. That is why people are glad."

She spoke with great forwardness, but
Eden heard sincere support and friendship. Mrs. Singleton as much as said that the dalesmen of Hartsmere approved of the "secret" affair, when they might have despised her for taking a lover who compromised her class and thus her standing as their lady.

They sensed, as she did, that Hartley was no ordinary countryman.

"Thank you,"
Eden said, deciding to be equally frank. "What you say gladdens my heart. But others beyond the dale may not feel as you do."