To Beguile a Beast
Page 13

Behind her the digging stopped, and she could hear the rug sliding. Sir Alistair grunted. She put her face closer to the pool, watching a water weed waving below. If she were a mermaid, she’d sit on those rocks far below and tend a garden of water weeds. The stream would flow all about her, and she wouldn’t be able to hear a thing from the world above. She’d be safe. Happy.
A fish flashed silver among the rocks and she straightened.
When she turned around, Sir Alistair was smoothing a mound of earth over Lady Grey’s grave. Jamie had a tiny white flower he’d plucked from the meadow, and he laid it on the grave.
Her brother turned to her, holding out another flower. “Do you want one, Abby?”
And she didn’t know why, but her chest suddenly felt as if it would burst from within her. She’d die if that happened.
So she turned and ran back up the hill to the castle, as fast as she could, with the wind against her face until it blew all the thoughts from her mind.
IN THE EARLY years, when she’d still been naive and in love, Helen had sat up many nights waiting in case Lister should deign to visit her. And many nights she’d finally given up her vigil to retire alone and lonely. She was past those nights of waiting now—years past them. So it was particularly aggravating that she found herself that evening at midnight pacing the dim library in her chemise and wrap and waiting for Sir Alistair’s return.
Where was the man?
He hadn’t appeared for supper, and when she’d made the climb to his tower, she’d found it deserted. In the end, after waiting until the roast duck was completely cold, she’d had to eat without him, just her and the children in the now-clean dining room. When she’d questioned the children over the cold duck and congealed sauce, Jamie had told her about burying the dog earlier in the afternoon. Abigail had merely pushed her peas about her plate and then asked to be excused early, saying she had a migraine. Her daughter was too young to have migraines, but Helen had taken pity on the girl and let her retire in peace. That was another concern entirely—Abigail and her secretive, sad little face. Helen wished she knew what she could do to help her daughter.
She’d spent the rest of the evening consulting with Mrs. McCleod about meals and refurbishing the kitchen. Then she’d made Jamie take a bath by the kitchen fire, which had resulted in a puddle that needed mopping up before she’d put him to bed. The entire time she’d done these chores, she’d kept an ear half-cocked, listening for Sir Alistair’s return. All she’d heard for her troubles was Mr. Wiggins stumbling to the stables drunk as a lord. Sometime after that, it’d begun raining.
Where was he? And more to the point, why did she care? Helen halted by the pile of books where his great album of birds and animals and flowers of America still lay. She set her candle on a long table against the wall, bent, and hauled the big tome to the table’s surface. A small cloud of dust stirred and she sneezed. Then she moved the candle close enough to illuminate the pages without dripping wax on them and opened the book.
The frontispiece was an elaborate hand-colored illustration of a classical arch. Through the arch, a lush forest, blue sky, and a pool of clear water could be seen. To one side of the arch stood a beautiful woman in classical drapery, obviously an allegory. She held out her hand, inviting the viewer to enter the arch. On the other side of the arch was a man in sturdy buckskin breeches and coat, on his head a floppy hat. He had a pack over one shoulder and carried a magnifying glass in one hand and a walking stick in the other. Beneath the picture was the caption, THE NEW WORLD WELCOMES HIS MAJESTY’S BOTANIST ALISTAIR MUNROE TO DISCOVER HER WONDERS.
Was the little man supposed to be Sir Alistair? Helen peered closer. If so, it didn’t look a thing like him. The illustration had a cupid’s bow mouth and plump pink cheeks and looked rather like a woman in man’s clothing. She wrinkled her nose and turned the page. Here was the title page, which read in elaborate script A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE FLORA AND FAUNA OF NEW ENGLAND BY ALISTAIR MUNROE. On the next page were the words,
The Dedication
To His Most Serene Majesty
GEORGE
By the Grace of God
KING OF GREAT BRITAIN, &c
If it please him
I dedicate this book and my work.
yr humble servant, &c.
Alistair Munroe
1762
She traced the letters. It must have indeed pleased the king, for she remembered hearing that the author had been knighted soon after the publication of this book. Helen turned several pages more and then stopped, inhaling sharply. When they’d looked at this book yesterday evening, she’d not paid it too much attention. The children’s eager heads had obscured the pages as she stood above. But now . . .
Before her was a full-page illustration of a flower with long curving petals on a bare branch. The blooms were extravagant and multiple, clustered together, and they were exquisitely hand-colored a sort of lavender pink. Beneath the flower was a branch with a flower dissected to show the different parts. Beside that was a branch with leaves opening. On one leaf lay a gaudy black and yellow butterfly, each leg and antenna drawn in meticulous detail. Beneath the engraving were the words, RHODODENDRON CANADENSE.
How could he be so surly, so uncivilized and yet be the artist who’d drawn the original pictures for this book? She shook her head and turned another page. The library was quiet, save for the sound of rain pelting against the windows. The lush illustrations drew her in, and she stood for what might’ve been minutes or hours, mesmerized by the illustrations and words, turning the pages slowly.
Helen didn’t know what broke the spell—certainly not a sound, because the falling rain masked all sounds from without—but she looked up after a while and frowned. The candle had burned down to a sullen nub, and she picked it up carefully before going to the library door. The hall was deserted and dark, the rain drumming against the great front doors. There was no reason at all for what she did next.
She set the candle on a table and wrenched at the doors. For a moment, they stubbornly held, and then they gave, groaning reluctantly. The rain immediately blew in, soaking her nearly from head to toe. Helen gasped at the cold shock and peered into the darkness of the drive.
Nothing moved.
What a silly fool she was! She’d gotten soaked for nothing. Helen began to push the doors closed again when she saw it: a long shadow emerging from the trees beside the drive. A man on horseback. She felt overwhelming relief, and then the sight drove her mad.
She half stumbled down the step, her hair immediately flattened to her skull by the rain, and screamed all her hours of worry at him. “What are you doing? Do you think I scrub and dust and plan a meal all day long just so you can cavalierly miss it? Don’t you know that the children waited for you? Jamie was disappointed at your absence. And the duck was cold—quite, quite cold. I don’t know if I shall be able to apologize to Mrs. McCleod enough, and she the only cook for miles!”
He was leaning a bit over the horse, his hat gone, and the shoulders of his old hacking coat were shining with wet. He must be entirely soaked through. He turned a deathly white face at her, and a corner of his mouth curved mockingly. “Your welcome home is most gracious, Mrs. Halifax.”
She caught the horse’s bridle and stood blinking in the rain. “We made a deal, you and I. I would sit with you at your dining table and you—you!—would appear at the evening meal. How dare you make a pact with me and then break it? How dare you take me for granted?”
His eyes closed for a moment, and she saw the lines of weariness incised into his face. “I must apologize yet again, Mrs. Halifax.”
She scowled. He looked ill. How long had he been riding in this downpour? “But where have you been? What was so important that you must go gallivanting off in this storm?”
“A whim,” he sighed, his eyes closing. “A whim merely.”
And he fell from the horse.
Helen screamed. Fortunately, the horse was well trained and didn’t start and trample him. He’d fallen to his back, and as she bent over his still form, something stirred under his coat. A small black nose and then a whimpering little head poked from the wet folds of material.
Sir Alistair sheltered a puppy under his coat.
Chapter Six
Every day Truth Teller guarded the monstrous thing at the center of the yew knot garden. It was monotonous work. The creature sulked in a corner of its cage, the swallows endlessly fluttered, and the statues merely stared dumbly.
In the evening, before the sun set, the beautiful young man would come and relieve Truth Teller, and he always asked the same question: “Have you seen aught to frighten you today?”
And every evening Truth Teller replied, “No.…”
—from TRUTH TELLER
“Mr. Wiggins!” Helen screamed into the blowing rain. “Mr. Wiggins, come help me!”
“Hush,” Sir Alistair moaned, having apparently recovered from his faint. “If Wiggins isn’t fast asleep, he’s dead drunk. Or both.”
She scowled at him. He was lying in a puddle, the puppy huddled against his chest, both man and beast shivering with cold. “I need help to get you inside.”
“No”—he heaved himself to a sitting position—“you don’t.”
She took his arm and pulled hard, trying to help him up. “Stubborn man.”
“Stubborn woman,” he muttered back. “Don’t hurt the pup. I paid a shilling for him.”
“And nearly died bringing the beast home,” she panted.
He lurched to his feet, and she wrapped her arms about his chilly chest to steady him. The position put her head under his arm, her cheek against his side. He laid a heavy arm over her shoulders. “You are a lunatic.”
“Is this any way for a housekeeper to talk to her master?” His teeth were chattering, but he balanced the puppy in the crook of his other arm.
“You may dismiss me in the morning,” she snapped as she helped him awkwardly up the step. For all his sarcasm, he leaned heavily on her, and she could feel the ragged heave of his chest against her cheek. He was a big, stubborn man, but he must’ve been riding in the rain for hours.
“You forget, Mrs. Halifax, that I’ve tried and failed to dismiss you since the night you arrived at my door. Watch it.” He’d fallen against the doorframe, pulling her off balance.
“If you’d just follow my lead,” she gasped.
“What a very bossy woman you are,” he mused as he staggered through the doorway. “I can’t think how I managed without you.”
“Neither can I.” She propped him against the wall and shoved the door shut. The pup whimpered. “It’ll serve you right if you catch an ague.”
“Oh, how dulcet is the feminine tone,” he murmured. “So soft, so gentle, even enough to rouse the protective urge in any man.”
She snorted and led him toward the stairs. They were leaving a trail of water that would have to be cleaned on the morrow. Despite his sardonic words, he was pale and shivering violently, and she truly was afraid he’d catch a deathly chill. She’d seen strong men laid low by fever before, when helping her father on his rounds. They’d be laughing and alive one week and dead within days.
“Watch the step,” she said. He was tall enough, heavy enough, that if he started to fall, she wasn’t altogether sure she could keep him from tumbling down the stairs.
He merely grunted, and that worried her more—did he no longer have the strength to argue with her? Her mind leapt ahead as she helped him slowly up the stairs. She’d have to get hot water, perhaps make tea. Mrs. McCleod had left a kettle near the banked kitchen fire last night—perhaps she had again tonight. She’d get him to his room and then run down for the kettle.
But he was shuddering in waves by the time they made the hallway outside his room. The puppy was in danger of being flung from his arm.