Chapter Four Fires in the Distance

Chapter Four

Fires in the Distance

E lizabeth’s friends, and her closest sister Hazel, had come to her chambers as soon as the assembly ended. The thoughtful servants sent up tea and biscuits so they might sit together while their husbands indulged in an evening of cards. Elizabeth supposed Lord Augustine was with the gentlemen. She hoped they weren’t ribbing him too badly after her ridiculous performance.

“I don’t care, really,” she assured her friends. “It was funny, wasn’t it?”

“It was lovely and silly,” said her sister Hazel. “Why, I thought you played well for never seeing the music before. Fremont said the same.”

“Your husband is kind,” said Elizabeth, huddling over a warm cup of tea. “I haven’t played much popular music. I’d have done better with a classical piece.”

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Everyone thought it was jolly fun until Lord Fortenbury started speaking.” Lord Townsend’s wife Jane flicked back a lock of her distinctive orange-red hair. “I found his comments rude in the extreme. How dare he poke fun at your abilities and talent? You did try, Elizabeth.”

“It takes a lot to sight-read an unfamiliar piece,” said her dear friend Rosalind. “I thought you played exceedingly well.”

“Oh, but I didn’t.” Elizabeth forced a laugh, though she felt rather glum.

Rosalind knew her well enough that she wasn’t fooled by her bravado. She pulled her into a sympathetic embrace. “I will not tolerate such comments from him much longer. I’m telling you, your betrothed has my moods in a furor. Soon I shall have to speak my mind.”

“Wescott wanted to take his head off,” said Ophelia. “But he didn’t wish to ruin your gathering.”

“Nor did I,” Rosalind echoed. “But it’s shabby behavior for a fiancé, and Fortenbury ought to know it. Who taught him manners?”

Hazel tsked. “No one, I gather.”

“Is he more fun when the two of you are alone?” asked Jane.

“Does he have better manners?” Rosalind added archly.

“He is very mannerly,” Elizabeth assured them, worrying the handle of her teacup. “Please don’t think badly of him. I believe he was dismayed that some of Mama’s Welsh relatives had taken too much port and so he became a bit…prickly.”

“Prickly like a porcupine,” Hazel muttered, wearing her version of the famous Arlington frown.

“He is rather handsome, don’t you think?” said Elizabeth, to change the subject.

“Handsome does not make a successful marriage,” said Rosalind. “There must be more than attraction, if you’re to remain happy day after day and year after year. Do you think you have enough in common to rub along together?”

“You mustn’t make me defend my choice of husband at this point,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “The wedding’s just around the corner.”

They fell silent, munching and sipping tea. Elizabeth wanted to put her friends’ minds at ease, but to tell the truth, she had begun to wonder if Lord Fortenbury was a satisfactory marriage prospect.

Well, of course he was an excellent prospect, one of the best on the London marriage mart at present, but would he make a good husband?

She told herself that such a thing was impossible to know until they were married and sharing the closeness of couples who lived in the same home. When they lived together, they’d get more comfortable with one another, even develop affection for one another. They would have a wedding night, which her mother had told her would make them feel very close and connected, though the activity she described sounded rather fantastical. Something about joining and kissing and embracing.

Well, she trusted Lord Fortenbury would show her the way. He could be very guiding, very supportive…

“I think in some way he is nervous around my family,” she said, adding more cream to her tea. “He wants to put forth a good impression, so he behaves in a way that some might find…overly proper.”

“Pompous, you mean,” said Ophelia, whose feelings had been hurt by his dismissal of “the stage.” Elizabeth had apologized for her fiancé, but really, he ought to have apologized to her himself. She had the worrying feeling he didn’t even care that he’d offended her brother’s wife, his future sister-in-law.

“Perhaps he’s in nerves from all the wedding preparations,” said Jane, trying to be kind. “He does look at you as though he cares for you.”

“Yes, sometimes,” Hazel agreed. “But other times, he looks at you as though you’re a toy or poppet he’s purchasing. I’m sorry to be so frank, little sister, but it’s very off-putting. Fremont noticed it, too. The way he patted your shoulder and said you had no talent…”

“I tell you, my blood boiled,” said Ophelia. Her expression softened as she noticed Elizabeth’s rising distress. “But you know him better than all of us, dear. Perhaps he was only having a bad night.”

“Perhaps he ate too much of the trifle at dinner,” offered Jane.

“I can’t blame him. It was delicious,” said Rosalind, leaning into her friend. “Perhaps he only had a stomachache.”

“There are times…” Elizabeth paused, feeling rather as if she were poised at the edge of a cliff. “There are times I do worry we are not suited. But I’m a flexible person. I understand others, perhaps, more deeply than most, and I believe the two of us can learn to love one another. I do like his sense of justice, his upstanding character. He is a good man who does not drink to excess or carouse, like some of the previous men I was engaged to. He’s rich, handsome, and considered a great success among his peers.”

“He is all those things,” Rosalind agreed. “But he is not very fun.”

“Well, you’re married to Marlow, who’s terribly fun, so of course you imagine Lord Fortenbury lacking,” said Elizabeth, trying not to sound defensive. It was hard when one was being attacked from all sides. “Lord Fortenbury—Gerald—can be funny. He has a dry sense of humor, I would say.”

“As long as he doesn’t turn it on you,” said Jane. “Townsend teases me now and again, but nothing he knows will hurt my feelings. He would not do that.”

“I was not that hurt about the piano comments, truly. I haven’t been practicing enough. Lord Augustine tried to help me, but…”

Thinking about August made her even more muddled. She took a bite of sugar biscuit, letting it dissolve on her tongue.

“I’m not that worried,” she said, as much to convince herself as them. “Anyway, all four of you are happily married, so you’ll be able to give me advice on anything that might go amiss.”

“Of course, we’re happy to do that,” said Rosalind. “Goodness knows that marriage, especially at the beginning, is delicate work.” She fell silent, biting her lip. “But I do wonder… You have your gift, Elizabeth, your special ways of knowing. Do you sense anything about him? You know, any special feelings or…” She lowered her voice. “Warnings?”

Elizabeth put down the biscuit and brushed away stray crumbs. “I’m not supposed to talk about my unusual powers of perception.”

“You’re among friends.”

“Well, I… To tell the truth…” She swallowed hard. “I’ve tried not to look at him too deeply in that way. When I’m close to someone, really close, the perceptions can skew.”

It was the truth. She had not tried to divine feelings or possibilities from any of her fiancés, because it terrified her to do so. What if she found they didn’t like her? That they only wanted the prestige of marrying the Duke of Arlington’s daughter? What if the energy she perceived was unpleasant, cold and hard and distant?

You’ve perceived that Fortenbury is cold and hard and distant. You just don’t want to admit it to yourself.

She supposed he would come around when they were wed, because he was that sort of upstanding man. He believed it was proper to care for one’s wife and be faithful to her. She’d perceived that about him, and he’d told her the same in so many words early in their courtship. The other doubts, the coldness and distance, could be overcome with familiarity.

She had to trust everything would work out.

Because she had to marry him. Another broken match was out of the question. She would be untouchable if the honorable Lord Fortenbury dismissed her after all her other failed engagements. With her advancing age and history, she’d not be viewed as a catch no matter her lofty lineage. She didn’t wish a life of spinsterhood. She wanted to marry like her sisters and her friends, and have love and comfort, and children.

“Papa chose him, you know,” she said. “And he is an excellent judge of character.”

“Of course he is, dearest.” Rosalind squeezed her hand. “It’s only that sometimes I worry you are troubled.”

“I’m not! Well, only in the way any bride would be. Getting married is quite an undertaking.”

“But a happy marriage is a joy,” said Ophelia.

“Yes, try not to be nervous,” said Jane. “You’re such a wonderful, bright, loving person. Any marriage you undertake will surely be happy.”

“That’s what I believe.” Elizabeth seized on her friend’s words. “I believe any marriage can be happy if the participants wish it to be so. All of you seem supremely happy. You ought to give me your best advice now that I’m mere days from the altar. What’s most important to know?”

“Be honest in all things,” said Jane. “And accept each other as you are.”

“Laugh with your husband each day,” said Rosalind. “Especially when things get tense. Have fun together as much as possible.”

“And stand up to your husband if he’s being a stubborn arse,” offered Ophelia. “Don’t tolerate bad behavior.”

“Yes, that’s important,” Jane agreed. “Along those lines, you must also reward your husband when he’s being a fine and honorable man. Offer incentives for good behavior…”

“Reward him how?” asked Elizabeth. “What incentives do gentlemen enjoy receiving from their wives?”

Her friends started to giggle, glancing at one another.

“That’s something to discover once you’re married,” said Hazel. “For it rather depends on the husband to let you know what he likes. But you’ll work it out quickly, sister, for you’re the very crack at reading people.”

Elizabeth was normally good at reading people, but her fiancé presented a challenge. She put down her plate of sweets, having lost all appetite. She hoped someday she would be as happy as her married friends, but if not, perhaps she could utilize these rewards and incentives they talked about to soften her husband’s feelings toward her. She would discover what he liked and give him that, and happiness would follow.

She pushed down misgivings and doubts. The wedding was too close to change anything now.

*

August made a poor showing at the card table, losing a great pile of money to his friends. That wasn’t a worry, for he had more money than he knew what to do with. His reputation as a skilled card player, however… That had gone the way of his reputation as a teacher. Downward, and fast.

He shrugged off the disappointments of the evening and made his way across Lisburne’s neatly manicured gardens to the chapel. With space at a premium in the manor, he and his valet had been assigned to an ancient, unused friar’s residence in the chapel’s east wing. It did well enough for him. Why, it meant he’d have to walk mere steps to the wedding he’d traveled so far to attend.

When he entered the room, he saw his man had unpacked his luggage and turned down the counterpane. The room wasn’t large but was pleasantly warm from a skillfully built fire. He did not require his valet to attend him when he kept late nights, so the man had already retired to his adjoining room, his deep snores assuring August that his accommodations were also comfortable.

“The best lodgings in the house,” he said quietly to the fire’s glow. “Or out of the house, as it were. Secluded, peaceful, and if I should wish to say a prayer for my soul…”

His bed was small but comfortable, and the linens fresh. A stack of blankets sat atop the chest of drawers, should the thick down counterpane not be enough to ward off the Welsh winter’s chill. As soon as his head hit the pillow he fell into a dreamless sleep.

He awakened to thin morning light filtering through the high-set window. It was warm beneath the covers, and his cock was hard. Had he dreamed of erotic things? He palmed his length, wishing he could remember them.

The cozy bed and quiet peace of his parson’s chamber fueled his masturbatory impulses. He averted his gaze from the large crucifix mounted on the opposite wall and stroked himself, fantasizing about naughty, pleading women bent over his lap. He envisioned scarlet arses and billowy breasts until his cock grew exquisitely sensitized. Then his fantasies turned to a phantom woman, one he’d never met, one that might not exist, a perfectly yielding, enticing siren who would take his outsized cock without complaint, letting him thrust hard in her mouth, her pussy, her arsehole—

He stroked harder, faster, groaning as he reached satisfaction. It wasn’t as good as the real thing, but it was all he had for now, especially since he’d dismissed his mistress. His mind flitted, momentarily, to his responsibility to marry, but he shut down that line of thought as quickly as it came to him, for which virginal, blushing debutante in London’s high society would be willing to fulfill his unconventional desires?

He roused himself long enough to clean up the mess he’d made, then crawled back into bed. What time was it? How long might a wedding guest politely laze about?

His valet knocked on his door a half hour later, shaved him, and set out attire for a day in the country. After a late, convivial breakfast, a great party of guests took to Cairwyn’s woods to collect pine boughs and holly to decorate the manor’s chapel for the upcoming wedding.

Hardy old Lord Lisburne led the group, guiding them proudly into his thick woodlands. They did as much socializing as searching for greenery, as if they hadn’t all just attended an assembly the night before. While stoic servants wheeled wagons full of rough-cut branches, Townsend and Wescott made much of finding some mistletoe to dangle over their wives’ heads. Marlow, the wild spirit, declared he needed no mistletoe and kissed Rosalind passionately beside a picturesque snowdrift. Townsend shook his head, pretending to be scandalized.

“Don’t grimace, Townsey,” August chided. “You must be happy for your sister, blissfully married to one of your best friends.”

“Can’t be happy for her,” he replied, laughing. “The poor thing ended up with him , while Felicity married a prince.”

“Is it ‘ending up with someone’ when you pursue them to another continent?” asked Wescott, throwing a handful of snow at Townsend.

August watched the ensuing snowball fight, thinking about Felicity and her prince. Carlo had won her fair and square, paying no mind to August’s youthful adoration. You must get over it , he told himself. Just move on. Look around you at the whole wide, beautiful, wintry world and stop pining for what can never be.

He walked back toward the larger group, toward Elizabeth, who glowed in the midday sun. Her ebony hair was in braids, and her green eyes sparkled like the frosted holly and fir branches they gathered. She turned those eyes on him as he approached, studying him in her perceptive way before softening her expression into a smile.

“Are your friends making trouble again?” she asked.

He spread his arms. “Always.”

Now that his boyhood chums were all contentedly married, he felt out on his own even when they were together having fun. He hid his sudden sense of loneliness, of isolation, cloaking his expression by habit, because Elizabeth could read faces so well.

“I wanted to apologize again for last night,” she said, as he fell into step beside her. Their feet crunched through patches of ice and snow.

“Apologize for what?”

“For making such a poor show of playing the piano. I hope you did not feel foolish.”

He’d felt deep embarrassment but would never say so. “You’re the bride-to-be,” he said instead. “You may be as bad a pianist as you wish, and everyone must tell you it was lovely. I hope everyone did.”

“Everyone but Fortenbury,” she said in a muted tone. “I fear there shall be no more lessons once I’m wed.”

“Did you want more lessons?”

She looked over at him, the memory of their private hours writ upon her features like notes on a sheet of music. Notes he dared not play.

“I enjoyed our lessons immensely,” she said, holding his gaze. “Though I did not so much learn to play as learn…other things about you.”

“And I about you,” he replied. “I’ve known you since you were little more than an infant, and still, you surprised me a lot.”

A charming blush rose in her cheeks, like the blush he’d left on her backside too many times to be proper. “It was surprising. And…fun.”

With those soft words, she touched his arm and was gone, catching up to where Lord Fruityberries and his family awaited her, all of them wearing that half-frown that seemed a permanent part of their faces. The Fruityberries’ frown. Would Elizabeth develop it once she was married to him? God, he hoped not.

“Stop, all of ye,” called Lord Lisburne, spreading his arms wide as they entered a clearing. “There’s a wee cliff here you don’t want to walk off, but you might enjoy the view.”

The guests gathered at the edge of this “wee cliff,” in reality a frighteningly steep drop. The Duchess of Arlington, who’d grown up in these woods, went to join Elizabeth, and the dark-haired mother and daughter looked out together over the valley. There was nothing to see but wilderness, winter-stripped trees and brush, but it was a gorgeous view all the same. A wind swept up from below, causing everyone to move closer together, exclaiming against the cold.

“Look at the fires over there,” said Elizabeth, pulling her cloak closer around her. “What a cold day to gather outside.”

“What fires? Where?” asked her mother.

“There. A cluster of them.” She pointed a mittened hand at a corner of the woodlands below. August squinted through the bare trees.

“I don’t see any fires,” said the duke, as the guests stepped closer, scanning the scenery.

“Right there, Papa. There are four or five of them, great bonfires ranged in a circle.” She put a hand to her forehead, as if to block the glare.

“Perhaps the sun’s in your eyes,” said Lord Fortenbury.

“Oh no, it’s not the sun,” said Lord Lisburne. “I warrant the lass is seeing the Old People. They dwell thick in these parts.”

“Oh, Papa,” said the duchess. “There are no Old People, no faeries in the woods. That’s just a story people tell. A myth.”

“It’s no myth, Gwen, and ye know it. Your grandma could see the Old People in her day. They show themselves to those with the vision. Some called her mad, but that woman saw their celebrations and dancing certain times of year like clockwork.”

“Old People dancing in the woods?” Fortenbury sniffed. “Nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, my good man,” said Lisburne, puffing out his chest. “You’re not from these parts. You don’t know. It’s the solstice they’re celebrating.” He nodded. “The Old Ones are real enough.”

“It sounds like the devil’s work. Do you truly see fires, Elizabeth?”

She turned from the view, looking down. “Perhaps not. I don’t know. I thought… But it may have been something else.”

August regarded her, then looked back out at the valley. She’d seen something ancient, something ageless and unexplained, and all of them knew it. Fortenbury knew it and didn’t like it. He turned back to Lord Lisburne.

“Are you a man of God, to put such ideas in people’s minds? Your own granddaughter’s mind? Wales is a Christian nation.”

“The People were here before Christianity, before civilization,” he said, sticking out his lower lip. “I’ll tell you this, Fortenbury—you’ll do well not to speak ill of them where they can hear you.”

“I pray to the Lord. I’ll not guard my tongue against devilry. The Lord God defends me.”

“Does he now, you pompous a—”

“Papa!” The duchess interrupted before he could finish his comment.

August stared at the spectacle of Elizabeth’s wizened grandpa scolding Lord Fruityberries, then looked back at Elizabeth, who seemed suddenly pale and peaked.

“I wish you wouldn’t argue,” she said, placing herself between them. “I misspoke. Now that I look again, there’s nothing there at all. Just the sun reflecting off the snow.”

Elizabeth was only making peace. Hiding her gifts, as she must within society’s strictures. August glanced back where she’d been looking, wishing he could see the fires, which had to be a sort of magic. Elizabeth had magic inside her that none of the rest of them possessed.

Fortenbury was not impressed. He scrutinized his dark-haired fiancée, looking down his nose with his arms crossed upon his chest. “It’s devilry, Elizabeth. I think you ought to pray for your soul,” he said to her, not loud enough for everyone to hear. But August heard. The Duke of Arlington heard, for his face went hard. “There is a part of you that needs prayer and forgiveness,” the man continued. “You don’t have to live this way.”

“What way?” she asked.

Fortenbury shook his head at her, his lips tight.

An awkward silence permeated the gathering. Many of the guests still looked out at the valley, searching for fires. Lord Lisburne grumbled, glaring at Fortenbury. Lord Marlow suggested to his wife that she looked cold, that they ought to go back, and the duke agreed that everyone ought to return to the manor for some luncheon and tea. The servants went ahead with their great wagons of greenery as Lisburne guided them back, but the day’s celebratory feel was gone.

August hated that. He hated Fortenbury for ruining everyone’s fun, for ruining Elizabeth’s bright day. He wanted to go to her and tell her how fascinating it was that she’d seen fires. He wanted to tell her she did not need to pray for her soul, that she ought to commune with Old People if she was able to, if the faeries of the forest found her worthy. He wanted to tell her that she was sweet and kind and that Fortenbury was the devilish one, no matter how rich and eligible he was.

But it wasn’t his place to do so. Still, it broke his heart to see her walking back with a feigned smile on her face. Fortenbury and his frowning family gave her the cold shoulder. Her parents walked with her instead, and her brother and Ophelia, and her sister Hazel, who looked ready to spit nails.

When they reached the manor’s courtyard, the Duke of Arlington separated himself from the group and approached Fortenbury with the sort of expression August had only seen him wear a few times before. It was called the Arlington glower, and it eclipsed the Arlington frown in potency.

“I should like to have a word with you in the library, Fortenbury,” he said. “At once.”