Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Well, that was very interesting,” said Miss Tully, as they began the long walk home, her hand noticeably absent from his arm.
Barnaby had no words.
“Tis a pity Magda did not tell us more about the blessing. If Alwin and Lyra really met near where the Queen’s Barque stands today, Mr. Brewster would be delighted.”
Barnaby fought for the right thing to say. It certainly had nothing to do with Mr. Brewster, or even the legend for that matter. In the end, he opted for plain speech.
“Miss Tully, I am mortified at Magda’s suggestion that I… That we… I would never…”
“Follow me to the ends of the earth?” Miss Tully cocked her teasing smile at him. “How disappointing. I rather liked the idea. I’ve never had anyone show such fondness for me. It sounds rather lovely, actually.”
Barnaby halted his steps. He turned to face his companion, though he could not bring himself to look her in the eyes.
“Miss Tully…”
“Yes, Barn Baby?
Barnaby could sense the grin expanding across her mouth without lifting his gaze. She was clearly enjoying every minute of his discomfort. He could not possibly tell her it was no joke.
“Oh, come, Mr. Ash. Surely you are not taking Old Magda’s words to heart? Who knows what she sees through her confused thinking? I shall not hold it against you.”
“And if it is true?”
Barnaby had set the words free.
The relief was immense.
Miss Tully would assist him no further now, of course. Perhaps it was for the best. The unspoken feelings had been too hard to carry. Better she abandon his mission than torture him with her inviting presence.
She had grown strangely quiet.
Barnaby allowed himself to lift his head.
Her skin was blotched in that way young ladies’ did when they were fighting imminent tears.
“Miss Tully?”
She turned away quickly.
Barnaby stepped around her to see her grab a handkerchief from the neckline of her dress. She dabbed her eyes. “Oh, look away, Mr. Ash. I am making a fool of myself.”
“No more than I.” His voice was husky with emotion. “I am not a playful man, Miss Tully, and I would never make a game of something so important. Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but you fill my heart to capacity. Indeed, it is quite extraordinary. I have never known anything like it.”
The handkerchief paused in mid-dab. Wet eyes rested upon him. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
Her lips wobbled into a happy pout. “Oh. I had no idea.”
“It had been my intention for it to remain that way.”
“But why? Did you not want to know if I returned your affection?”
“I could not imagine that you would.”
Miss Tully stepped closer and slipped her fingers around Barnaby’s forearm. “You are a very silly man.”
Barnaby pondered the lovely hand, his eyes lifting slowly to meet hers. Honest affection lay shallow in them. “I suppose I am,” he said, his long fingers folding over hers to claim them. “Do you suppose I could be your silly man?”
With a swift release of his arm, she cupped her hands around his cheeks and drew herself up onto her toes. The softness of her lips pressed against Barnaby’s mouth, and he gasped, drawing in the heat of her breath. He folded his arms around her, her body complying with his unspoken request.
It was magical.
As if on cue, the weight at his back shifted, expanded. Unfolded.
Barnaby stiffened.
“What is it?” Miss Tully leaned back to search his face.
“Nothing. Forgive me. You have had quite the effect on me.”
“Barnaby… I may call you Barnaby now, mayn’t I?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” His eyes avoided her forthright gaze.
“Well, Barnaby, I might not be a woman of experience, but I am certain a man does not stop mid-kiss unless something is wrong.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Are you having an itch?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“An itch. That’s what you called it. In the cottage. You asked if a visitor could feel the blessing and asked if it started with an itch.”
“You have an excellent memory, Miss Tully.”
“Joy.”
“Joy.”
“Well, do you?”
“Do I what? Oh, the itch! Not anymore.”
“What made you think it was in any way connected to the blessing in the legend?”
Barnaby hesitated. It had been a nice kiss. Lovely. More than lovely. Barnaby could easily kiss her—Joy—like that every day for the rest of his life. He supposed he should be grateful to have ever had such a kiss at all.
He did not want to lie to her. That was not a good foundation upon which to build love. And he knew he loved her. Oh, yes!
But if he told her the truth, she would think him mad. No more kisses. No more hand at his elbow. No more…
“Well, are you going to tell me or not?”
He heaved out a long sigh. It had been good while it lasted. Even if it had only been for a day.
“I don’t expect you to believe me…” he began.
“Why not?”
“Because it won’t sound possible.”
Joy shrugged. “You wouldn’t lie to me.”
“No. I would not.”
“Even if it meant losing me because I might think you’re mad.”
Barnaby’s eyes widened. Could she read his mind?
“Yes,” he answered.
“You are an honorable man, Barnaby.”
“I’d like to think so.”
“Then tell me the truth. I will believe you.”
Barnaby met her gaze. He wanted to trust that this was true. There was only one way to know.
“The book is magical,” he said at last.
“I thought it might be.”
“And it… I’m sorry, what?”
“Well, the writing—by Alwin’s human hand—was faded. And yet the pictures—which you said Lyra was supposed to have conjured—were vibrant and sort of otherworldly, you know. It struck me as odd straight away. But I thought it would sound ridiculous to say it out loud.”
Barnaby stared at this wonderful woman he loved. “You’re brilliant,” he said, thinking how lucky he was to have found her.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“I had a reaction of sorts. Not a clever deduction like you. The book had to be very obvious with me, it seems.”
“What sort of reaction? You mean the itchiness? That’s a strange clue to suggest a book is magical.”
“It was more than that,” said Barnaby. “There was the language, too. I didn’t understand the writing at first. The words sort of changed themselves.” He scratched the back of his head. “Look I know how ridiculous this sounds. But I couldn’t read it at first, and then, moments later, I could.”
“So, you don’t actually know Old English or Norse or whatever it was?”
“No, but I couldn’t exactly tell people why I was able to read it when they couldn’t. I had to let them assume I already had that knowledge.”
Joy patted her chin with the tip of a forefinger. “I wonder why the manuscript revealed itself to you. No one else appears to have been affected in this way.”
“You believe me then? You don’t think I am imagining things?””
“These would be some very excessive fantasies, Barnaby. You’ll forgive me, but your many talents do not, I think, extend to a lively imagination.”
“You would be correct to assume that,” Barnaby said, not in the least bit offended.
“But you did say the itching is gone now, didn’t you? And yet you can still read the pages. I wonder if the book cast some sort of charm on you.”
“About that,” said Barnaby, rather self-conscious at discussing his physiology. “The sensation didn’t end so much as it was replaced by a new one. A heaviness, as if a weight dangled from my back.”
“How odd.”
“And then, just now, when we, er, kissed…”
“Yes?”
“The weight, it sort of opened.”
“Opened?”
“Like…” This is so embarrassing… “Like, er, well, wings unfolding.”
“Wings. Like a fae.”
It wasn’t a question.
Barnaby had not considered the particular sort of wings involved, only that it had been a distinctly wing-like unfolding. They hung there now, invisible and very real.
“They’re still there?” asked Joy, peering around Barnaby to see what could not be seen.
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
“Indeed.”
Joy ran her hand down Barnaby’s back. She shook her head. Nothing. The wings—if that’s what they were—had not revealed themselves to her.
“It seems that the more we investigate, the more mysterious it all is,” she mused aloud.
Barnaby waved an arm in frustration. “I am convinced those missing pages hold the answers.”
“I wonder,” said Joy. “Could you borrow the manuscript again?”
“I don’t think so. Lord Brathwaite was very clear that I should leave the matter alone.”
“What a pity. I thought we might use it as a compass of sorts. Maybe when it is close to the place where the lovers met and which Lyra blessed, the pages would shimmer, or your wings would grow larger, or something.”
Barnaby let out a deep sigh. “I commend your enthusiasm, but I’m afraid the book is off-limits for the time being. Unless his lordship can be convinced otherwise.”
“I might hold sway with the villagers,” said Joy, “but the earl is very much a stranger among us. He will not listen to me.”
“And I am his employee. I must heed his instructions.”
“Does this mean our adventure must come to an end?” Joy’s habitual cheerfulness had fallen away.
“Only as far as the legend is concerned.” Barnaby lifted her chin with a gentle knuckle. “But another adventure has just begun. Do you think your father would allow me to call on you next Sunday?”
Joy’s smile bounced back at once. “I will make sure that he does. Although, a little motivation wouldn’t go amiss.” Her eyes rested coyly upon his mouth.
“It would be my pleasure, fair lady,” answered Barnaby, his voice deep, his lips already parting as he lowered them to meet hers.
Her feminine form pressed up against him unapologetically. Barnaby reached his fingers into her hair, cradling her head, tipping it back just enough for him to reach the tender skin of her neck; his desire—so carefully contained before—burning hot through his veins.
The wings stood taut, elated like the rest of him, every inch of his body surging with delight at his nearness to Joy. The crescendo of sense and sensation increased until Barnaby forced himself to break free, desperate to control his desire while he still could.
They stood back to catch their breath, panting softly, their passion ebbing like a tide.
“I’m starting to understand the need for a chaperone,” said Joy, her fingers playing with Barnaby’s cravat as if to loosen it.
He folded his hands about her fingers and kissed them, slowly, deliberately. Then, with a shuddering breath, he tucked her hand around his elbow.
“Time to be heading back.”
“Is our time together to end so soon? Next Sunday is a whole week away,” complained Joy. “How shall I manage?”
“I shall write to you every day.”
“I’m only just down the road from you, and paper is very dear,” she protested weakly.
“You are worth every penny.”
Joy squeezed his arm and snuggled closer to him so that their steps were as one as they walked.
In this manner they made their way back to the bottom of the drive to Hill House, parting like two tortured souls who might never see each other again. Joy sighed and Barnaby kissed her brow, not daring to do more lest the parting became impossible.
“Until Sunday,” she said, taking a reluctant step away from him.
“Until Sunday,” he replied as her arm slipped through his fingers, leaving his hand strangely empty.
Tucking it into his coat, where it nestled upon his heart, Barnaby turned to go.
The drive seemed much longer than before, the house quiet, his room cold and comfortless.
Six long days without his beloved. And not even a mystery to solve as a distraction.
Love, Barnaby decided, was a lot harder than he had been led to believe.
He drew his hand from his coat. The memory of Joy lay upon his skin. A smile crept from his heart to his mouth, turning up the corners at his cheeks. Love was hard, perhaps, but oh, so worth it!