The Demon's Bride (6 page)

“
Your
ancestor, sir,” she pointed out. “Your blood.”

“I’ve never seduced a maidservant in my life.”

Rachel tried to move away from him. “We must return. . . .”

He captured her hand, and raised it to his mouth. “I’m willing to turn over a new leaf for you.”

“What?”

He had turned her hand and was kissing her palm.“Reform. Try new ways. . . .“He tickled her skin with his tongue.

Despite her better instincts, she was tempted. “You will become a sober, virtuous citizen?”

He captured her other hand and held them both against his heart. “Of course not. I mean that I’m willing to try seducing a maid, a maidenly lady. . . .”

Rachel dragged her hands free. “Never!” she snapped, and fled down the gallery. At the last minute she stopped to compose herself, hand on unsteady chest. She glanced back and found him strolling after her, appearing unmoved by their time together, and unimpressed by her rejection.

He escorted her back into the drawing room with perfect propriety. Rachel avoided the earl by sitting by his elderly relative, Lady Ida.

“He’s a rare rascal,” the raddled old woman said.

“I fear he is, ma’am.”

“Needs a good wife. In my day he’d have been shackled when he was too young to fight it.” Lady Ida grimaced at Rachel, though she supposed it was meant to be a smile. “I can tweak his chain, though. You’ll see. You’ll see.”

Rachel had no idea what this was about. What a fool she had been to come to this affair. She was heartily relieved to find that she was to go into dinner on the arm of young Mr. Home-Nowlan. This was completely appropriate to her lowly station and she could be comfortable in his company.

In time, the ladies left to take tea, but the gentlemen soon joined them in the drawing room, bringing the port with them. Morden didn’t attempt to pester her, but she caught him looking at her with disquieting amusement. She felt horribly like an animal being stalked by a very patient and sure-footed predator.

The conversation soon touched on the various local Christmastide superstitions, and moved from there to the long memories of country folk.

Sir George said, “My people are still in a fret about their lost eleven days.”

“Indeed,” said Reverend Proudfoot with a chuckle. “Only the other day, James Crowbourne’s widow told me that he’d have lived another week and a half if the government hadn’t taken to fooling with matters best left alone. The resentment lingers here, more than in other places. Back in Somerset, I’d hardly heard the matter mentioned in years, but here it has come up again and again. Why only the other day the gardener was pressing me as to when Easter would have been in the old style.”

“Simple enough question, I’d think,” said Lady Ida.

Rachel was having difficulty ignoring the earl, especially as he was sitting in her line of sight, wielding his absurdly beautiful fan, and watching her. . . .

“On the contrary, my dear lady. It is a very complex calculation to do with the phases of the moon. I am not sure that I could do it correctly. I am happy to follow the liturgical calendar sent out by the bishop.”

“If you want my opinion,” said Sir George, “they’re still fretting about Dym’s Night.”

Rachel’s attention snapped to the baronet.

“So you know of Dym’s Night, Sir George?” her father asked, eyes sharp.

“Course I do,” said Sir George with some affront. “Family’s been in these parts forever. Can trace the line back before the Conquest.”

“And Dym’s Night goes back that far?”

“That or farther. Back before . . . well, just before. Everyone knows that.”

“Can you tell us what you know, Sir George?” Reverend Proudfoot asked, looking around. “If no one else objects to my indulging my curiosity.”

“Not at all,” said Morden. “I too am very interested in the subject.”

Sir George looked a little taken aback at being the center of attention, but he was game. “Well, sir, let me see. What I know, eh? Demmed if I know what I know.” He scratched beneath his brown wig. “Well, you all must know of Walpurgis Night.”

“Yes,” said Morden, “we all know of Walpurgis Night. The question is: Is it the eve of Saint Walburga’s feast day, or the night of the demon Waldborg?”

Sir George swiveled to face him. “Dym’s Night? When a Walpurgis Night falls on Ascension Day? There’s not been a Dym’s Night in my lifetime, Morden, nor in my father’s, and with the fiddling with the calendar, I’ll go odds no one knows if there’ll ever be a real one again.”

“A
real
one?” Morden queried.

Sir George flushed. “A proper one. I mean, a . . .”

Rachel interrupted out of kindness. “But you’ve been at a Walpurgis Night, Sir George?”

“Aye, Miss Proudfoot,” said Sir George, turning to her in relief. Then he glanced at his wife and added hastily, “Before me marriage, of course.”

“Can you describe it, Sir George?” Rachel asked.

“Well, if the ladies don’t mind a little raciness.”

They all assured him they didn’t.

“There’s Dym’s Bride, you see, and the goings-on are sort of like a wedding. The bride’s a young village girl, and they vie for it. She gets a pretty dress and flowers in her hair, and the tradition is that she’ll marry well within the year. Then she and everyone go up to Dymons Hill where a fire’s been lit and there’s dancing, drinking, songs, and such. . . . “He trailed off uncomfortably. “When the sun rises, it’s over and everyone goes home.”

“Come, Pritchard,” said Morden, “that’s not much of a tale. What of Dym’s Bride? What becomes of her?”

“Becomes of her? Why, nothing, Morden, except that she gets to keep the dress, and ends up well-wed. It’s my suspicion that they choose a girl already planning her marriage.”

“She does nothing special? Nothing special is done
to
her?”

It was clear to Rachel that the earl was angling for embarrassing details. When he winked at her, she realized she’d been frowning at him, as if she had the right or responsibility to chide him.

Sir George, oblivious to undercurrents, frowned back ten years or so. “Nothing special as I recall, Morden, no. The Bride dances with all the men who want to . . . Oh, yes, she leads some special songs, then . . .” He straightened and looked at Rachel’s father. “Now I think on it, this might be of interest to you, vicar. You like these curiosities. She has this knife, you see, and she plunges it into the earth.”

They all waited, but after a moment it became clear that was the extent of it.

“Into the earth,” said Morden. “But Dymons Hill is solid rock. There’s mighty little earth up there.”

“Aye,” said Sir George. “That’s what I thought the first time I saw it. I was sure the blade would snap, and it’s a fine one that they use. Old-looking.”

“A crevice, then,” Morden said.

“That must be it, aye. Seemed to me some older women showed her where to stick it. . . . But there’s more.”

“Yes?”

Rachel realized that impatient voice was hers.

“The Bride cuts herself. Just a little cut on the hand. One of the years I was there the girl made a silly fuss over it, and had to be helped. You could see the people didn’t think much of her for that.”

There was another silence. Rachel glanced around wondering if anyone else desperately wanted to wring information out of Sir George like a washerwoman wringing water from a cloth. Her father clearly did.

“What happened after she cut herself, Sir George?” he asked.

“After? She stuck the knife in the ground. Didn’t I make that clear? She cuts herself, smears the blood on the blade, then sticks it in the ground.”

“And then what?”

Sir George frowned. “Everyone goes back to drinking and dancing. It’s a grand affair.”

And that appeared to be all Sir George had to add, despite having been at the event on a number of occasions. He clearly didn’t realize the year just beginning was a year that would include a Dym’s Night.

But then would it? What was the effect of the changed calendar on such matters? No wonder the local people still fretted about the government’s interference in days and dates.

When it was time to leave, the earl usurped the footman’s place, and wrapped Rachel’s woolen cloak around her shoulders as if it were velvet lined with fur. “I’ll give you a pretty gown and flowers in your hair,” he murmured.

Rachel clutched the cloak at her neck, unable just yet to manage the clasp.

“I’d make a good demon, don’t you think? Would you lie on the ground for me and smear my blade with your blood?”

She wrenched herself out of his lax hands and glared at him. “You are a demon, my lord.”

His eyes twinkled. “A compliment at last!”

“I don’t consider it one.” She swung to face the mirror and managed to clasp her cloak.

He appeared behind her, beautiful, irreverent, and devilish. “Will you marry me, Rachel?”

She met his eyes in the glass. “I give you fair warning, Lord Morden. If I do marry you, it will be to reform you. I’ll drive the demons out entirely.”

He blew her a kiss. “What amusing battles we’re going to have, my sweet savior.” He captured her hands and placed his fan in it. “A gift for the season.”

Rachel broke free and hurried out after her father, clutching the fan. She should have thrown it in his face, but with the Earl of Morden, she never did anything she should.

It was terrifying.

Rachel spent a restless night struggling with her feelings for Lord Morden. He was a rake, with no shred of decency. In rank, he was far beyond her touch. He couldn’t be serious about his talk of marriage—but his mere presence set her heart pounding, and his touch turned her body to fire. . . .

What should she do when next they met and he pressed her again to marry him?

She was terrified that she might say yes.

When she came downstairs the next morning she was in a state of nervous anticipation, wondering when that proposal might happen.

Mrs. Hatcher was crossing the hall. She slid Rachel a look and said, “I hear the earl’s gone back to Lunnon, Miss Proudfoot. Never stays long, do he?”

Rachel went into the parlor and deliberately smashed a very ugly pottery vase. Then she stared aghast at what she’d done.

Her father came from his study, pen still in hand. “Are you all right?” He looked at the broken pottery. “Ah well, it was a distressing piece of work.”

“I smashed it,” said Rachel.

“So I gather.”

“Deliberately.”

Reverend Proudfoot twinkled. “I know. Your mother was much given to such things in her younger days. Threw a milk jug at me once. Would have done for me had it hit, I think.”

“Mother? I can’t imagine that.”

“Emotions tend to settle once people wed. Though not entirely, thank goodness.”

Rachel could feel the heat rise in her cheeks at her father’s perception. “He’s gone back to London.”

“Ah.”

“I
can’t
marry a man like that.”

“You certainly can’t marry a man who is in London.”

“I can’t marry a man who spends most of his time in London! He’s a rake and a reprobate. He drinks, he gambles, he fights duels. I’m sure he . . . You know what I mean.”

“Consorts with loose women,” said the vicar calmly. “Undoubtedly.”

Rachel knelt and began to pick up the shards of pottery, fighting tears. “I don’t even know why he pesters me so. We’re worlds apart.” She got to her feet and looked sadly at the broken fragments.

Her father smiled at her. “Rachel, my dear, you will do as you think best, and I have great faith that you will do what is best. But I confess I would not be displeased to see you wed to Lord Morden. Of course, in worldly terms it would be a great thing, but we won’t consider that. I think, however, that he is a man of many excellent qualities. Those qualities may be drowned in excess, but they could be nurtured. I believe you can nurture them if you will, and be very happy in the result.”

“He teases me to death!”

The vicar nodded happily. “As I said, I think you could be very happy with the result.”

Rachel was left in even more confusion than before. Her father’s approval of the match must count with her, but how was she to settle her mind when her suitor was not here suing?

Or was it suiting?

How was she to know him better, and be able to make this fateful decision, when he was in London, and she was in Suffolk? Surely any suitor whose intentions were honorable would stay close to the object of his attentions!

She threw herself once more into her research, though she and her father seemed to have drained the well of available information about Dym’s Night in general, and Meggie Brewstock’s death in particular. The death in February of old Len Brewstock from a winter chill seemed to close the final door.

Two days after his burial, Rachel went to stand by the old man’s grave pondering the way people’s knowledge died with them. He had known things—she was sure of it—but now they were irretrievably gone.

There were a number of new graves, for winter took its toll. A raw mound covered Thomas Caldwell, crushed when his chimney collapsed from too much heat. Two small graves marked the Grigham children who had died of the croup. In the crypt lay the remains of Lady Ida Brandish who’d been carried off by pneumonia. Her great-nephew had returned to see to her burial, but had not sought out Rachel at all.

Rachel looked around the gravestones of people great and small, young and old, and thought about the finality of death. It could come at any time, stealing secrets.

And leaving so many things unexperienced.

Like marriage, and children, and the fullness of the passion to which a certain wretched man had awoken her senses.

It was inconceivable to damn a person in a churchyard, but Rachel was wickedly tempted.