The forest lord, p.9
THE FOREST LORD, page 9
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.
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 Eden could give.
Eden'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. Eden almost refused, but at the last she sat, stiff and uneasy in her privilege.
"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." Eden swallowed. "Mrs. Singleton, I only just arrived two days ago from London. I will be living at Hartsmere, and I intend to do whatever I can to—" She glanced around the room, at a loss for words.
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, Eden clamped her lips shut. "What became of your husband?"
"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—"
Eden sprang to her feet. "Discharged?"
"Aye." Mrs. Singleton did not look surprised at Eden's ignorance. Her eyes were very old and very wise, mirroring a thousand days of pain. "Mr. Brown said there was no reason to keep him on when so many tenants had left, that he'd collect all the rents himself."
Eden 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, Eden didn't let it show. "I understand. Then perhaps you will allow me to bring a few blankets for the children, and some clothing, and meat and bread."
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.
Eden 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 Eden and held her as she held Donal, warm and secure in his much larger arms. She was so shaken that she failed to object.
"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 London?"
"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 Eden. It had nothing to do with the things that had once made up her world, yet it brought such passion to her eyes that Hartley felt a surge of envy. 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."
Eden 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 Eden's hair.
Eden 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.
Eden'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 Eden's lap. Despite the somber mood, the sun remained bright and warm enough to begin melting the snow on roof and pasture. Almost at the gate to Hartsmere's park, Donal sat up very straight and pointed to a coppice of hazel.
"The fox, mother," he said. "He's my friend."
Tod, of course. Hartley wondered when boy and hob had met.
"I see it, Donal," Eden said. "There must be many foxes about." She glanced at Hartley. "My father—Lord Bradwell—used to hunt a great deal, but never on this land."
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?"
