Chapter 6

Chapter Six

A s the couples parted, the pressure in Kit’s head lifted. He hadn’t realised how twitchy he’d been feeling. Adelaide yawned audibly. Seeing him watching her, she put a hand over her mouth.

‘Excuse me! I feel very tired all of a sudden, as if I’m just waking up. I seem to be tired all the time at the moment.’

‘I feel odd, too. I wonder if we’re in for a storm?’ Kit brushed the hair back from his forehead, feeling clamminess. ‘Addie, I don’t want to be one of those husbands who treats his wife like a child or a chattel, but I really don’t think getting involved with Mr Wilde and Miss Dove is wise. We don’t know them from Adam, and I have no idea what their credentials are. I don’t even know where they’re living here, never mind where they’re from.’

Adelaide’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m sure he told me. I got the impression he’s a minor nobleman of some sort. He mentioned the gentry at one point. He’s very respectable where they come from, but now in exile.’

‘Did he happen to mention where that is?’ Kit asked. ‘I still haven’t managed to pin them down to a country.’

‘I’m sure he did but I can’t remember that, either. I really am very sluggish today.’

Kit glanced back over his shoulder. Mr Wilde and Miss Dove were on the bridge. Miss Dove caught his eye and waggled her fingers towards him, giving him a pert smile. Mr Wilde was staring up at the house, his hands spread wide on the parapet of the bridge as if he was a duke surveying his realm. He did look quite majestic, much to Kit’s annoyance. He’d risk Adelaide growing bored of a penniless refugee, but a member of the gentry might be a different matter entirely.

‘He’s very handsome, isn’t he,’ Kit observed.

‘Very.’ Adelaide sounded quite dreamy. She blinked twice. ‘Of course, looks don’t matter to me in the slightest.’

She reached a hand up as if she was about to touch Kit’s cheek but then closed her fingers and drew back.

‘You are handsome, too.’ She took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly, possibly even fondly.

Kit swallowed. He hadn’t been a bad-looking chap before the explosion. Still wasn’t, from some angles.

‘If you stand on my right-hand side in the wedding photos so that I can turn my left to the camera I might be able to fool everyone into believing that.’

Adelaide looked him in the eye. ‘Christopher Arton-Price, I don’t care in the slightest about your scars! You should look at the world face-on. You’re far from being the only soldier who has come back from the front with proof of his time there on his face. You should be proud of what that signifies. What you gave for your country.’

Adelaide sounded more impassioned than he had heard her for quite some time and it warmed Kit’s heart to hear it.

‘I suppose so.’

‘And you are a war hero, my darling,’ Adelaide continued, in the sort of soothing voice that one might use with a child. Her words were meant kindly, but there was an air of condescension about them. His brain was unaffected and he didn’t need to be spoken to like that. It was in stark contrast to Miss Dove’s abrupt assessment, and he found that, oddly, he preferred that response.

‘You have a medal. Why on earth would I not be proud to be married to you?’

Kit smiled and tried not to clench his jaw at the description. He wondered if Adelaide would have been so eager to marry him had he not returned with the Military Cross and she couldn’t call him a hero. But he was being unjust, and it was his own bitterness that was whispering these treacherous messages to his brain. He would trade all the glory and medals in Britain for a face he could look at in the mirror without wincing, and above all, to undo the circumstances under which he’d been awarded them.

* * *

The sack race was more eventful than expected. The child widely believed to be the favourite appeared very sluggish from the off, and though he rallied slightly, he then lay down six feet from the finishing line, curled into a ball and appeared to go to sleep. His mother shouted encouragement from behind the ropes while his father just shouted. When it became clear that the child was intent on having his nap, the father stepped over the rope, walked to his child and picked him up, sack and all.

The winner and runner-up skipped over to Kit to claim their prizes of an ounce of sherbet pips each. He handed them out with the required congratulations, trying not to mind when the winner – a small girl with long pigtails – stared openly at his face in horror.

Kit found Adelaide standing with Oliver, his wife Helen and their baby.

‘I do hope the boy isn’t sick,’ Adelaide murmured, watching the mother hurrying along anxiously after her husband, while the boy lay limply over his father’s shoulder, still in the sack.

‘It’s rather odd of a child that age,’ Kit said.

‘Probably just eaten too many iced buns and was overcome with fatigue,’ Helen said. She was a cheery woman with a practical nature; an ideal vet’s wife, who took everything in her stride when her husband was called out to birth a lamb at three in the morning. She jiggled her baby over one arm while the infant stared with solemn eyes at Kit.

‘There’s that nasty Spanish Flu, though,’ Adelaide said, furrowing her brow. ‘We were relatively lucky here during the worst of it. I know it’s supposed to be all done with but what if the government is wrong?’

‘Then we’ll find out soon,’ Oliver said quietly.

Contemplative silence descended over the group. Helen drew her baby tighter to her chest and stepped closer to her husband. The influenza had ravaged the country and barely a village had escaped losing some members.

‘Do you know the family?’ Kit asked.

Oliver squinted into the sun, looking at the departing family. ‘He’s a labourer on Dad’s farm. Not the nicest fellow from what I’ve heard. More often in The Nag’s Head than his house.’

‘If the child is still ailing, his parents can consult a doctor,’ Helen said. ‘There’s a new one in Helmsley who is cheaper than Doctor Fulford. Odd fellow.’

Curiosity piqued; Kit was about to ask why when he caught sight of Merelda limping across the lawn with a determined expression on her face. Enid could barely keep up.

‘Oh lord, I think I’m in for another scolding.’ Kit sighed. ‘Tell Merelda I’ve gone to the tea tent. I’m going off to try my hand at the archery.’

He slipped off towards the butts that had been erected next to the stables. Kit’s father was overseeing the competition and greeted his son with a raised brow.

‘Coming to have a shot?’

Kit strapped on the wrist protector and took the yew-wood bow and three blunt-tipped arrows. It hadn’t occurred to him how his vision problems would affect his aim until he lifted the bow. He’d become quite proficient as a child, going through a Robin Hood obsession, but that had been a long time ago.

His hand trembled as he fitted the nock onto the string. He closed his left eye, assessing the target. The paper sheet, pinned against a hay bale, shivered before coming into focus and the circle at the centre appeared to glow. If anything, the effect made aiming much easier than he had anticipated, because the colours shone brighter than the surroundings and his first arrow struck the centre. He gave a little cry of triumph and grinned at his father. The next arrow went slightly wide but hit the red, just on the boundary to the gold.

He was drawing the string back for the final time when he became aware of a movement at the corner of his vision. Silas Wilde stood alone in front of the ancient oak tree. His eyes slid to the target, then back to Kit and he raised one brow questioningly. Kit gritted his teeth and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly through his lips as he drew the string back, only uncurling his fingers from beneath the fletch as his lungs fully emptied.

The arrow flew true and landed in the inner circle beside his first.

‘Not a bad effort, at all,’ Charles said as Kit handed the bow back. ‘I’ll add your scores to the list. Could you bring me a slice of fruit cake and a cup of tea? It’s getting quite warm now.’

Kit agreed, both with the request and the assessment of the weather. It was growing warmer and as clouds gathered overhead the atmosphere was starting to feel oppressively humid. He walked away in the opposite direction to the oak tree but wasn’t surprised when Wilde caught up with him.

‘Impressive. You have an excellent eye and a steady hand. What would I need to offer you to join my crusade?’

Kit carried on walking. ‘Mr Wilde, I don’t know what crusade you mean, but neither I nor Adelaide are going to come on a vague expedition to somewhere we have never heard of. I’m not going to get involved in another battle as long as I live.’

‘And yet you pick up a weapon,’ Wilde said softly.

During the war Kit had fired bayonet rifles and pistols. Had taken lives. This was the first time he had picked a weapon up since being demobbed. He knew at a visceral level that if it had been a gun, he wouldn’t have touched it. Wouldn’t even have ventured into that area of the grounds. The bow was different. No one fought with medieval weapons any longer.

Kit swung round, stepping into Wilde’s way. ‘Will you please leave me and my fiancée alone before I have you thrown out of the grounds.’

A slow smile spread across Wilde’s handsome face and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Damn him, he looked amused rather than concerned by Kit’s outburst.

‘I shall take my leave, Mr Arton-Price. Perhaps our paths will cross again. Perhaps they won’t. The Fates will decide that, not I. Allow me to wish you well in your future marriage.’

He walked off. Kit curled his hands into fists, fighting the urge to go knock the man to the ground. Instead, he turned away and went round the perimeter of the house to the entrance to the Long Hall.

A little later, armed with a large slice of date and walnut cake and a cup of tea, Kit made his way back to the archery butts, taking the long way around the back of the house.

Miss Dove was sitting on the lawn close to the entrance to the deer park, throwing cake crumbs to pigeons. They flocked around her, looking almost tame. He glanced around to see if Silas Wilde was there, too, but he wasn’t. Possibly Wilde had heeded Kit’s warning.

A particularly daring pigeon jumped onto her outspread skirt and chirruped. She cooed at it and it squawked. The birds scattered as he drew close, taking to the sky in a cloud of greys and greens. Miss Dove looked up as he approached, eyes watching him steadily and never wavering.

‘A dove among the pigeons. You looked like you were conversing,’ Kit said.

‘Maybe we were,’ she answered, brushing her skirt down.

She looked so serious that Kit laughed kindly. ‘You should meet my great-aunt. She’d love to think that was true.’

‘But you know better? You have the soul of a sceptic.’ Miss Dove sighed. ‘What if such things were possible?’

‘Then the world would be turned upside down,’ Kit said with a shudder.

‘Shall I read your fortune in the tea leaves?’ Miss Dove asked, flicking her hand towards the tray in Kit’s hands.

‘It’s my father’s cup and I don’t believe in that sort of rot, any more than I believe in talking birds,’ Kit said.

She snorted. ‘You don’t have to believe for it to be true. Look with the eyes you’ve been given.’

‘What does that even mean?’ Kit asked. ‘And what was all the business with the walnuts the other night?’

‘It could have been an egg, I suppose,’ she said, throwing the remains of the cake into the air. ‘All the worlds and all the possibilities can be contained within a shell. You never know what you’ll get until you choose to break it open.’

‘You have an annoying habit of talking in riddles,’ Kit said.

‘They’re only riddles to those who won’t untangle them. Sometimes they’re all one can speak. You have to listen to what they’re not saying as much as what they are.’

A gust of wind, sharp and cold blew around Kit’s legs. After the muggy, dense air that had been descending since noon, it came as a relief.

‘Miss Dove, I came over here to say how sorry I am that I can’t help you. It’s not that I don’t want to, but circumstances are such that?—’

She held up a hand to stop him. ‘Circumstances are such that you lack the wherewithal and the resolve. It’s a shame for you, and a greater shame for me.’

She looked over Kit’s shoulder towards the house, then stood.

‘The rain is coming.’

As she spoke a clap of thunder ricocheted off the walls of the buildings, and without further warning the clouds burst and heavy rain fell. People hurried across the lawns for refuge, crying out in surprised laughter or annoyance at being unexpectedly drenched. Kit pushed himself to his feet and hunched over. He tugged his collar up, fruitlessly attempting to keep the back of his neck dry, but compared to the greatcoat he’d worn in the trenches, the light tweed might have been a sheet of tissue paper.

Miss Dove appeared unaffected by the rain, though her frock was flimsy. The lemon-yellow fabric clung to her frame, giving life to the contours of her narrow torso and slender hips. Water trailed down her face and neck. Kit tried not to stare at a rivulet that had taken a route in the shallow valley between her breasts.

‘You need to get inside somewhere before you’re completely drenched and catch a cold,’ he said.

‘Thank you for your concern, but he’ll be here before long and I’ll be inside soon enough. I’ll wait in the open.’

He was presumably Mr Wilde. Kit felt a stab of dislike, coupled with frustration that she was prepared to stand in the rain. Aside from a group of young children who were delightedly jumping in puddles, they were the only two people who hadn’t found shelter.

‘Come into the house,’ he said. ‘Mr Wilde can find you there.’

‘Do you mean that?’ Her eyes gleamed. She bit her bottom lip and gestured to the tray. ‘Your cake is ruined.’

Kit looked down at the tray. Sure enough, the plate was swimming in water and the cake had become mush, with a few stray pieces of walnut floating amid the sludge. Any tea leaves worth reading were now swimming in the saucer where the cup had overflowed.

‘It doesn’t matter. My father can get some more cake. I think the fete is probably over, judging by the state of the weather.’

Miss Dove nodded, looking serious. ‘Yes. Everything that needed to be done has been done.’

She put both hands on his chest and gently but firmly pushed him backwards.

‘Go now, Kit Arton-Price. Find shelter and don’t waste any more time getting wet. Keep dry and keep well.’

He shivered at the contrast of her warm hands on his cold shirt. His heart thudded, the swelling of desire taking him by surprise.

‘Do the same yourself,’ he said. He stepped backwards three paces then turned and walked away as if he was leaving the presence of royalty, only wondering as he reached the door to the Second Tower why he’d done so.

Kit took a long bath to warm through, changed into dry clothes then strolled across the Long Hall to find the rest of the family in the North Wing. A fire had been lit in his parents’ sitting room and the remaining cakes and sausage rolls were piled high on plates. Sarah, Charles, Charlotte and Alfred were playing Bridge. Adelaide, Ellen and Sybil stood by the window staring out at the gale that twisted and bowed the trees. The three women regarded Kit as he approached, momentarily conjuring an old painting he’d seen of the Furies. Wisely keeping his observations to himself, he kissed them each in turn, catching a heady, almost cloyingly sweet scent as his lips brushed Adelaide’s cheek. She was holding a small bouquet of lilacs, surrounded by leaves and grasses.

‘They’re pretty,’ he said, though it wasn’t exactly the daintiest arrangement.

Adelaide looked down and touched one of the many petalled, light purple flowers.

‘Yes, they smell lovely but make me quite tired.’

Ellen had decreed there would be no formal dinner and that cold cuts and salads would suffice while everyone ate on laps. The mood was jovial, as the fete was judged a success by everyone.

Kit excused himself not long afterwards and went to bed, where he read until the words began to vibrate on the page and his eyes began to complain, leaving him no choice but to surrender to their demands. He discovered he was unable to sleep, and it was probably for that reason that he heard the distant, melancholy howling of a lone dog just as the clock struck one.

* * *

They stood on the grass, damp underfoot and smelling of sweet growth.

Three of them.

‘Everything that can be done has been done. It’s time to return home.’

Silas had changed out of his suit and was now dressed in more familiar clothes: a long cloak, immaculately tailored calfskin breeches, a cream, high-collared shirt and a green brocade waistcoat. His hair was back to its usual shoulder-skimming length, caught at the nape with a velvet ribbon beneath a tricorn hat.

Valentine wondered what Adelaide thought of the change from respectable gentleman to something so clearly other .

Adelaide stood beside Silas, her right hand in his left. Their wrists were linked by a plaited thread of gold, silver, and blood-red silks. In her left hand she held the small bouquet of lilacs that she had accepted from him, and which had sealed her fate. Did she truly understand where she had agreed to go? Briefly, Valentine felt a pang of frustration that they had to resort to trickery and half-truths.

‘Are you ready, my dear?’ Silas asked. It took Valentine a moment to realise that he was talking to Adelaide and not her.

‘Of course.’ Adelaide’s voice was dreamlike, slow and slight. It was only to be expected. The moonlight shone through her hair and in her flowing nightdress and rose-pink satin dressing gown she looked as delicate as dandelion seeds about to blow away.

It was almost midnight.

‘Are you sure Kit won’t be coming?’ Adelaide asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’

Silas sounded genuinely regretful, though Valentine had been with him as he had crowed triumphantly about his success at parting the lovers and his intention to make Adelaide love him in her fiancé’s absence.

‘Miss Dove will remain here for a while longer. She will watch over your beloved and, if possible, persuade Mr Arton-Price to follow us.’

‘I will as best as I can,’ Valentine assured Adelaide. She motioned to Silas with her hand.

‘Wait here my dear,’ Silas instructed Adelaide. He let go of her hand and walked away, the thread binding them together, stretched to its full yard span.

‘You don’t mind me staying?’ Valentine asked.

Silas stroked her cheek.

‘I’ll admit you were right about Mr Arton-Price, there is something in his nature that is of steel, and his prowess with a bow was unexpected. Bring him if you can.’

‘How long may I stay?’ Valentine asked.

‘No more than a week. By that time, either you will have persuaded him, or he will have completely lost heart. After that time is up, I cannot guarantee a way back will be open for you.’

Silas looked thoughtful at this point, as if the concept of Valentine being stranded in the human realm was an interesting concept rather than a dreadful sentence. Fear tightened like iron in her chest. If she lost her means to return, or the gateway failed to open, she would be forced to remain here, alone and friendless, until Silas returned. If he returned.

‘I cannot honestly say which I expect. He’s a strange one. But I want to try.’ Valentine’s innards twinged with apprehension. Kit should have opened to her easily. He’d been very close when they had stood on the bridge, speaking of dreams. What darkness held him, that made the light surrounding him dim?

‘If he does come, it won’t be peacefully,’ Silas warned. ‘He is brimming with anger beneath the self-pity.’

Cold wings fluttered over her, causing a shiver to run the length of her spine. Silas took her face between his hands, tilting it back tenderly.

‘Don’t fear, little one. I wish you luck. We cannot fail in this, and then our land will be free. You want to be free, don’t you?’

He took her hand, held it tight, then moved his hand further up until it covered the bangle on her wrist. She fixed her eyes on it. Over here, the power it held was not so strong, but there was still enough for it to pulsate with light from within. It gave her the determination she needed to see everything through.

‘My fealty is yours and I will serve as best as I can,’ she said boldly.

‘I know you will.’ Silas sniffed the air. ‘Five minutes until midnight. Adelaide, my dear, are you ready to travel to my land?’

‘Of course I am.’ She smiled with the listlessness of the barely awake. Her eyes drifted to Valentine. ‘Look after Kit for me, please.’

Valentine’s jaw tightened. A request under the circumstances was practically a command and could not be refused.

‘Of course,’ she answered, as if she had any choice in the matter.

From the village came the sound of church bells pealing midnight. Silas waved his arm in the air, drawing a complicated sigil, and the bells were joined by another timbre of resonance from far away.

Hand in hand, Silas and Adelaide walked towards the river and waded in. Valentine had wondered which doorway he would use and was surprised to see he had chosen the bridge. The water came to their waists. As they reached the stone arch that was now the threshold, Silas threw his head back and howled in triumph. The Wild Lord at full strength.

He extended a hand and blew a handful of lilac petals at the bridge, and the stones began to pulsate with silver light. They stepped under the bridge and did not emerge from the other side.

Valentine’s legs wobbled, a moment of foreboding incapacitating her. She almost ran after them in fear but stood firm. She was alone, but with no one to command her and almost no restraints placed upon her for the first time since her youth.

The horizon gleamed like diamonds. She ran towards it on light feet and then spread her arms wide. Her laughter became a cooing as she changed form and took to the sky, ascending higher towards the stars until she was only a silhouette against the night.

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