Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The stable hand was very surprised to find his master’s hired scholar among the horses next morning, his hair indecorously stuck with straw, his clothing rumpled and stale.
“Rough night, Mr. Ash?” asked the lad.
“Took a walk to clear my head and got myself locked out,” mumbled Barnaby before fleeing with very little dignity intact.
He plucked the straw from his hair, using his fingers to comb the twisted strands into place. Having tugged at his cuffs to straighten his coat, Barnaby sauntered as casually as possible through the glass doors of the conservatory where he surprised a maid who was dusting.
“Er, lovely morning for a walk,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she answered briefly, barely interrupting her task to do so.
Back in his room, Barnaby made a swift change into fresh clothes, splashing his face with water. A shave would have to wait. He was eager to know the contents of the papers he had found.
He read them with growing amazement. He must go and see Joy in person. She was more important to the legend than they could ever have guessed.
But first, he must speak to Lord Brathwaite. And Moira must be present, too.
Impatient to share his findings, Barnaby approached the butler.
“Will his lordship be able to meet with me this morning? I have news of the missing pages.”
“The earl has not yet come downstairs. I believe he is having breakfast in her ladyship’s room.”
“Oh. She is not unwell, I hope.”
The butler sniffed. “It is good of you to ask, Mr. Ash, but her ladyship’s wellbeing is only our business when his lordship makes it so. I believe married folk may dine together without there being any suspicion of illness.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Quite. Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No. Thank you. Although it might be mentioned to his lordship that I have found the pages of the manuscript and know who took them and why.”
“I shall certainly pass the message along. Meanwhile, sir, can I arrange a shave for you?”
Barnaby ran his palm across his rough chin. “I shall see to it myself.”
“Very good, sir.”
Barnaby managed to remove the overnight growth from his face without cutting himself, although he fidgeted internally no end. Then there was nothing to do other than wait. An hour passed. Then another. Barnaby thought he would wear the rug clean through with his relentless pacing.
When Lord Brathwaite finally sent for him, all Barnaby’s excitement had morphed into nervous tension, so that he fought not to tap his fingers against his thigh as he stood in his employer’s study.
“What’s this I hear you have solved the mystery of the theft, Mr. Ash?” the earl asked from the seat behind his desk.
“I will happily explain everything, your lordship, if you will but send for the servant girl by the name of Moira.”
“Moira, you say? Is she the guilty party?”
“Yes and no, milord. If you will let me explain, you will see she meant no harm.”
“Hmm. I do not usually conduct my interviews in this fashion, but I shall allow it this once. You’d better not be wasting my time, Mr. Ash.”
“No milord. And thank you.”
The earl rang his bell. A footman appeared post-haste.
“Fetch the girl Moira, will you? And accompany her here. I don’t want her running off because she’s afraid of what I might say.”
The footman nodded, disappeared, and returned after what seemed like a small eternity with the terrified maid servant. Barnaby imagined it must have taken some persuading to bring her before their master.
The earl waved the footman away before beckoning Moira closer.
“Mr. Ash here tells me you are the culprit who tore out and stole those pages from my manuscript.”
Poor Moira looked as if the ground had just opened up beneath her. Her bowed head jerked up, eyes wide and staring, her hands folding about each other, seemingly seeking comfort.
“Tell his lordship why you did it, Moira,” said Barnaby. “It wasn’t really theft, was it? You love this family. You wanted to protect them, didn’t you?”
The girl’s mouth fell open. “How did you know?”
“Tell us how you found the book.”
Nervous eyes flicked back and forth. She licked her dry lips. “Well, I was helping to unpack the books from the crates in the library…”
“Go on.”
Moira’s fingers interlocked, her knuckles white with the pressure.
“There was this big parcel. I thought I should take the book out like we’d done with the crates.
So, I unwrapped it. It looked really old.
I was curious and… I…” Her gaze dropped to floor once more.
“I opened it. The writing was beautiful. And the pictures were… almost alive.” She breathed these words, not with awe, but horror. A shudder shook her small silhouette.
“Your skin felt strange,” Barnaby said softly.
Moira’s eyes flew to Barnaby. How could he know?
“And then you felt a weight at your back.”
“Yes! But that was only once I started reading the story.”
Lord Brathwaite leaning forward across his desk. “You could read the text?”
“Oh, sir!” she wailed. “It was wicked strange. I have only ever been able to read my own name, and some words I might need for my work, like laundry lists. But this book… the writing… it sort of changed as I looked at it. And then, all of a sudden, I could understand it. All of it.”
“Are you saying you could read centuries’ old text as if by magic?” The disdain in the earl’s voice was unmistakable.
“There is some terrible spell upon that book!” cried the poor girl. “And it wants its evil to enter the world! I couldn’t let that happen.” Hot, frightened tears now pooled in her eyes. “So, I tore out the last pages. The ones that say how to bring the magic alive forever.”
“And you buried them,” said Barnaby, “in the churchyard by a crucifix, where you thought they could do no harm. But you dropped one somewhere in the garden and Master Lucas found it.”
“Oh, sir!” Moira was inconsolable. “The poor boy! If those spirits have hurt him, I will never forgive myself!”
Lord Brathwaite looked helplessly at Barnaby. “Is she mad, do you think? All this talk of magic and spirits. Could she be in the grip of some fever of the brain?”
“No, milord,” Barnaby answered. “She is just a simple sort of soul.” He smiled kindly at her. “The strangeness of it all would have been impossible to explain. Moira did what she thought was best. Except, she has completely misunderstood what she has read.”
“And you know this because?”
Barnaby took a deep breath and straightened his spine.
“The truth of the matter is going to be hard for a man of science to believe. But I hope my honesty will speak for itself. You see, my experience was identical to Moira’s, save the panic, of course.
I was able to cast a more critical mind over it all. ”
“You had the… the crawling skin and the… What was it again?’
“The weight at my back, your lordship. And the ability to read what I could not before.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am skilled in several classical languages and well-versed in older folios. However, I could not make out the contents of this manuscript. Until the words rearranged themselves. And then I could.”
“Mr. Ash.” The earl tapped a testy finger on the surface of his desk. “This is the talk of a man who has quite lost his mental equilibrium. If you want me to believe such codswallop, explain to me why I did not also undergo these experiences.”
“That is simple enough,” said Barnaby, producing the pages from his pocket, causing Moira to shriek and take several steps away from him. “It’s all in here. The magic could only be felt by Alwin and Lyra’s descendants.”
“Magic?” scoffed the earl. “You are actually going to call it that with a straight face?”
“Yes, milord. And I will do more besides. I can show you that it’s true.”
“Please, sir,” whimpered Moira. “Don’t listen to him. He is going to bring trouble to this house, to this whole village. We should not be interfering with such forces. Who knows what darkness will…”
“Moira, child,” said Barnaby with a voice that was both soft and firm. “I understand that you are afraid. But I will explain why you have no need to be.”
“Go on then,” Lord Brathwaite commanded.
“It’s all in these last pages,” explained Barnaby.
“Alwin left these words for his descendants to find. Anyone from their fae-human line would be able to read the text, no matter where or when they were born. And they would feel the memory of the wings of their ancestral mother. They gave these gifts so that we might know that we are of their blood, for only a descendant could trigger the blessing Lyra left.” He turned to Moira.
“It is a blessing, you know. A show of gratitude for the love that was found here in Fenwick.”
“I’m no fairy changeling!” Moira cried. “These are lies! My parents are good people, farm folk, hardworking. They go to church every… well, at least once a month.”
“Moira.” Barnaby tried again. “The fae blood was introduced nearly nine hundred years ago. And Lyra gave up her world to be with Alwin. This has nothing to do with dark elements and everything to do with love.”
“What is this supposed blessing?” the earl wanted to know, apparently intrigued in spite of himself.
“Lyra wanted to share the wonder of the love that she had found here with Alwin, milord. If one of their descendants found love also, and returned to this village, they could awaken the blessing that she had placed upon the water, so that anyone who drank of it and desired true love would find it here in Fenwick.”
The earl sat back roughly. “Oh really, Mr. Ash! What stuff and nonsense!”
“I agree it sounds fantastical,” replied Barnaby. “But I can prove it to you. Will you accompany me to the place indicated in this drawing? We shall see, with our own eyes, the legend come alive.”
“And how do you propose to make that happen, Mr. Ash?”
“Because, your lordship,” said Barnaby, beaming from ear to ear, “I have found my true love.