Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

The day Louisa met Will eleven years ago had been a summer's day, with a light mist hovering over the meadows like an embroidered veil.

She'd run away from Meryfell Hall, weeping. Her father had just announced that he was to remarry a Miss Sarah Ballard, a pretty girl of eighteen who had more feathers in her head than sense, but who otherwise possessed a kind and sweet disposition. Louisa was devastated. Her mother had died of consumption only two months before. She'd been close to her mother, who'd taught her to love nature, good books, and a good laugh. "You have to laugh at least once a day," she'd told her, "because the world is serious enough as it is." The day her mother died, Louisa was certain she'd never laugh again.

Meryfell Hall and the surrounding estate belonged to a friend of her father, Lord Simon Milford, a red-faced, boisterous man. Sarah, her future stepmother, was his cousin. Her father and Lord Milford were good friends who enjoyed various sports together, including hunting and horse racing. To Louisa's chagrin, it had become almost a tradition for them to spend the late summer months at Meryfell Hall. She just couldn't get on with Lord Milford's children, George and Celeste. George, two years her senior, was devilishly handsome, but his angelic blond locks hid a malevolent disposition. Louisa feared his tantrums and was grateful when he ignored her, but when he didn't, he pulled her hair, tripped her deliberately, and once even decapitated her doll with a homemade guillotine. George was never punished for what he'd done. He was a terrible boy, and she'd tried to avoid him as much as possible.

She barely remembered his sister Celeste, other than that she was three years younger, cried easily, and was altogether too juvenile to be Louisa's companion.

Louisa felt isolated during those summer months. Her governess had resigned, and they hadn't found a replacement. So, she escaped and wandered alone through woods and fields and learned to keep her own company. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care.

It was that summer when she turned thirteen, shortly after her mother's death and her father's remarriage, that her life took a decisive turn.

That day, she'd run away sobbing to a nearby lake, when she'd sat on the shore, staring out at the milky green water, wishing she were far, far away.

Her attention was drawn to a small fishing boat manned by a lone boy. Louisa watched him dispassionately for a while. He made frantic movements, and the boat rocked, and before she knew what was happening, he lost his balance. There was a big splash—and the boat was empty.

He was flailing about in the water.

Surely the boy could swim, she thought. But then his head went under, and he was gone.

Louisa jumped to her feet, and without thinking, plunged into the water and swam to the boat. She was a strong swimmer, having been taught how to swim by the stableboy, after she'd pestered him to do so for three whole days.

She swam to the boat with sure strokes, dived under the surface, grabbed the boy's arm, and managed to pull him safely to shore. He lay there pale and lifeless. Just when she thought he was dead, he twitched and coughed up water.

"I thought you'd drowned," she gasped.

The boy sat up, spluttering. He was plumpish and short, with dark, shoulder-length hair plastered to his pale round face, full lips and wide eyes framed by long, dark lashes. He was the prettiest boy she'd ever seen. One could easily mistake him for a girl, Louisa thought. He wore a rough linen shirt, a vest, and a pair of breeches. He'd lost a shoe.

"You really should learn to swim." Louisa's body shivered from the icy water.

"I would if I could, but I hate the water," he said through chattering teeth.

"Then you really shouldn't be out there fishing alone." She rubbed her hands over her arms to warm them. "This lake belongs to Lord Milford. If he catches you poaching, you'll be severely punished. They transport poachers to the colonies." She'd overheard the servants gossiping about a poor farmer who'd been caught hunting on Lord Milford's land. He was transported within a week.

"I wasn't fishing." Rivulets of water ran from his hair down his face. He wiped his eyes. "And I would never poach. I might be poor, but I don't steal. Never. Word of honour."

"Then what were you doing in that boat?"

"I was trying to get to Glubbdubdrib." He pointed to the small island in the middle of the lake.

"What's Glubbdubdrib?"

"A magical island." He leaned forward to whisper. "It's full of sorcerers and magicians."

"That's a bag of moonshine," Louisa scoffed.

"It isn't! Can't you feel the magic there?"

Both children stared at the island in the middle of the lake. It was verdant, densely covered with alder, willow, and birch trees. Mist hung between the trees, giving it a mysterious aura.

Louisa tilted her head to one side. "How do you know it's a magical island?"

"I'm certain it's Glubbdubdrib. According to Lemuel Gulliver, its inhabitants are capable of using magic."

"Gulliver! I haven't read it. My governess wouldn't let me. She says it's too agitating for the female mind."

He snorted. "Now that's a bag of moonshine for sure!"

Louisa agreed with him, for she firmly believed the female mind was no different from the male mind. "Why are you so certain it's Glubbdubdrib?"

"Why are you so certain it's not?" he countered. "Have you ever been there yourself?"

She had no answer to that. "One would have to investigate," she grudgingly asserted.

"Exactly what I think. What do you think I've been doing? How's that for a lark?" He grinned, and a dimple appeared in his right cheek. His hazel eyes lit up and tiny flecks of gold danced in their depths.

"What is your name?"

"I'm Will."

"Louisa." She looked down at the boy, being a full head taller. She'd had a growth spurt and was lanky, long-limbed, and tall for her age. Her governess had complained that she was growing too much too fast, and that the maids couldn't keep up with lengthening the hems of her gowns.

The boy studied her. "I know who you are. You're the young lady who comes every summer to stay with the swells up at the grand house. They call you a proud hothouse flower because you're so beautiful." He tilted his head sideways. "But they have you all wrong."

"You don't think I'm beautiful?" Louisa asked, more intrigued than put off.

"I daresay you're a prime article all right. But I don't think you're a proud hothouse flower. You're more like that birch tree over there." He pointed at a tall, elegant, silvery tree standing in the distance. "Tall and graceful."

"Don't be cheeky." She raised her chin haughtily. "And you're like a drowned rat. "

His sudden chuckle was bubbly, cheerful, and infectious. It made her want to laugh too. "I suppose that's true."

"Can I come with you next time?" The words were out before she'd had time to think about them. "To the island."

The boy was wringing out the water out of his trousers. "Sure. As soon as I've fixed the boat. It seems to be leaking." He stared at the boat out on the water. "Once I get it back." He scratched the back of his head and watched the lonely boat drifting on the lake. "I wonder how I'll get it back?"

"Easy. Swim out and get it back."

He looked at her with big eyes. "Would you—could you do that?"

Louisa could. And she did. She swam out again, grabbed the rope that hung from the boat, and hauled it back.

Will watched her in awe. Then he helped her pull the boat ashore.

She wrung out the water in her dress clinging to her legs. She'd have to sneak into the house through the kitchen and secretly ask a maid to find her a dry dress. Hopefully, no one would see her, least of all George.

Will glanced at the sun. "Thunder an' turf! I'd better return. There'll be the devil to pay if Reverend Graham doesn't find me at home when he returns. I'm supposed to be translating Cicero this afternoon, but I've decided it's more exciting to go on an adventure. There's nothing more boring than having to learn Greek and Latin. I don't see the point of it if I'm going to be a baker. I want to bake bread, not translate texts from dead languages." He kicked a stone into the water.

"Why does Reverend Graham want you to learn Latin if you're going to be a baker?"

"He's my godfather." He took off his shoe and poured out the water. "My father was a gentleman, and Reverend Graham doesn't want me to learn a trade, ‘cos that's not what proper gentlemen do'. He wants me to go to Oxford to study theology. But I'd rather be a baker. I want to start an apprenticeship with Mr Brooks in the bakery. I figure it's better for my belly." He patted his stomach. "I'm always so hungry, you see."

"What happened to your parents?"

"They're both dead." A stark expression crossed his face. "My mother died when I was born. My father followed her three years ago." He stared at his shoes. "He had a terrible fever that couldn't be cured. Then Reverend Graham took me in. He's good to me if you overlook the fact that he makes me learn the classics." He pulled a face.

Louisa's heart went out to him. "My mother died, too. Two months ago. And Papa wants to marry again." Her eyes burned and she blinked quickly. "Soon."

The look he gave her was sympathetic. "Figures. That would explain this blue-devilled look hanging about you. You have the saddest eyes a person could have."

She swallowed bravely. "Do you know the feeling of being under a bell jar? That's how it is for me."

Will nodded. "You're inside the bell jar and everyone else is outside. You keep knocking on the glass, but no one sees or hears you. "

"Yes."

The tears spilled over. Louisa sniffed and wiped her cheeks with her hands, for she had no handkerchief.

He looked away, pretending to be preoccupied with his shoe, giving her time to gain control of her emotions. Then she felt his warm hand slip into hers. Somehow that comforted her, and she no longer felt like she was the only person in the bell jar. Will was there with her.

"Thank you for fetching my boat and saving my life, Louisa Highworth." He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her wet cheek.

Louisa blushed crimson. "What did you do that for?"

Now Will flushed. "I wanted to. It was the right thing to do. Next time I will save your life, Louisa Highworth. I promise."

Will was wrong. The next time, Louisa would save his life—again.

Lost in thought, she followed the forest leading to the lake. Everything was so familiar, yet it had been so long since she'd been here.

She reached the shore of the lake and marvelled at its unchanged beauty. The small island before her looked exactly as it had when she was younger, perhaps even more untamed, its undergrowth thicker, looking wilder and more enchanting than it had back then.

Will had taken her to Glubbdubdrib in the days after they'd met. He'd rowed her across and taken her hand as they explored the island together. She knew there was nothing much there, just trees and bushes. But to them, it had been a place of magic.

Louisa gazed at the small island, lost in memory. Then, settling by the water's edge, she sat down and pulled the shoes and stockings from her feet. With a swift motion, she pulled the dress over her head, leaving her in nothing but a simple cotton shift.

For a moment, she stood as still as a Greek statue, listening to the birds and the buzzing of the insects in the undergrowth. Then she took a step forward, plunged into the cold water and swam with strong, determined strokes towards the island of Glubbdubdrib.

There was nothing on the island, really, just a dense vegetation of trees, shrubs, bushes, rocks, and moss. In the centre of the island, they'd built a circle of stones for a fire. Sometimes, Will brought fresh bread dough from the bakery in a clay bowl, which they wound around long sticks and baked over the fire. It was the best bread she had ever eaten, crispy and smoky on the outside and soft on the inside. It was a mouthful of goodness, of fire and nature, of magic. Nothing she had ever eaten in the most expensive ton suppers had ever tasted so divine. She loved it because Will had made it. She loved it because they had baked it together over the fire on their very own island.

Louisa stepped gingerly over the roots, pushing aside the branches of the bushes and trees, and found the stone circle now overgrown with moss.

This was where they'd eaten their bread, reading from Gulliver's Travels , telling themselves versions of even more fantastic stories. Over there, on that stone, Will had hunched over a piece of wood as he carved his figures.

A tight, sad smile played on her lips as she remembered all the memories that rushed back at her, memories she hadn't thought about in all these years. Memories she'd been willing to forget because she could never have them back.

Why was she torturing herself like this? Why had she come here? She returned to the shore, took off her wet shift and slipped into her dry dress. She squeezed the water out of the shift before laying it out on the grass to dry. At least she'd had a bath, Louisa thought, soapless though it was. And her shift, now freshly rinsed, was somewhat cleaner. She had still not found a solution to the problem of washing laundry. She wondered if Mary from the bakery would lend her some soap.

Her stomach rumbled.

She was hungry.