Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Moira sat in rigid silence next to the footman. She had been brought—nay dragged—along at Barnaby’s request, and Lord Brathwaite, sufficiently intrigued by the possibility of the legend’s authenticity, had called for the carriage to transport them all.
The horses slowed outside the Tullys, Barnaby hopping out so quickly the footman did not even have time to lower the steps for him. He all but skipped up to the front door, knocked smartly, and removed his hat in readiness for the greeting.
Joy opened for him, wiping wet hands on her apron as she had done at their first meeting. The twinkle in her eyes appeared at once.
“Well, this is a surprise! Do you have the day off?” She peered past Barnaby at the carriage in the lane. “Oh, is his lordship visiting our village? It’s about time he met his neighbors.”
“I found the pages!” Barnaby blurted out. “You’ll never believe what they say!”
“Won’t I?”
“It’s incredible! And you can help me awaken my ancestors’ blessing upon the whole village!”
Joy cocked her head at him. “Did you say ancestors?”
“Remember I told you about the wings? Look, I’ll explain everything, but first I have to ask you something very important.”
Joy folded her arms across her chest. “Go on, then. Let’s have it.”
Two weeks ago… Nay, even a week ago, Barnaby would have pulled up short in this moment. The thought of declaring himself to a woman would have stopped him cold. But new confidence coursed through his veins, a wonderful rush of emotion. A desire to marry his life to another’s. Aye, to marry.
“Miss Joy Tully,” he said, “I love you with all my heart. And, apparently…” He paused to consider the vibration at his back. “With my wings too, such as they are.”
Joy’s arms relaxed at her side. Her eyes softened, the playful twinkle now a warm glow.
“And I was wondering,” he continued, spinning the rim of his hat from hand to hand, “whether it could be said you love me too. A true sort of love. The kind that makes a wondrous fae leave her world and join with a mere mortal.”
“I think…” Joy began. “I think you are the most interesting man I have ever met, and my life has been rather dull thus far. I could use a bit more adventure.”
“Oh.” Barnaby’s enthusiasm plummeted. “Is that all?”
“I haven’t finished,” scolded Joy. “I am merely saying that you have more to offer than you think.”
“Oh, good,” said Barnaby, slightly mollified. “I am grateful to hear it.”
“Moreover,” continued Joy, her voice uncharacteristically serious, “I am not the magical creature you make me out to be. I would like you to love me as I am: down-to-earth, a little rascally at times, and unashamedly outspoken.”
“I know you to be all these things,” Barnaby agreed, “but you are also magical to me. The effect you have had on me is nothing short of miraculous. You have opened me up to life like a bud that had never before beheld the sun. I think you underestimate your powers and what they have meant to me.”
“Why, Barnaby!” Joy’s mouth slanted and she dipped her head at him. “You are full of compliments today.”
“Could you get used to them?” Barnaby considered his hat, as if the answers lay in its felt form. Then he spoke the words he feared to say, but must. “Or would you rather they were uttered by another, less awkward sort of fellow?”
He looked up from under his brows, afraid of her answer, yet craving it all the same.
Joy reached out both hands and took hold of his lapels.
“Do you think I would have convinced my father to have you call on me this Sunday if I were not sure of my heart? Would I have kissed you merely because you happened to be the man standing before me? I would say you think very little of me, but I know you would take such a comment to heart. Instead, Barnaby, I should say you think very little of yourself. But I see you. I see your worth. And I would have no other.”
A soft tug on his lapels was all it took for Barnaby to lean forward and welcome the kiss Joy offered him.
The caress of this touch was slower than before.
This kiss was not borne of passion. No, Joy was claiming him, her mouth to his lips, her hips to his.
She was his in word and deed. And he was hers.
Their two worlds blended in that simple action, a moment so small yet infinite in meaning.
“What’s the hold-up, Ash?” Lord Brathwaite called from the carriage.
Joy turned toward the sound, her cheek brushing across Barnaby’s lips. “You never did say why the earl was here,” she murmured.
“I must speak to your father, Joy,” came the husky response. Make this…” Barnaby slid his arm about her waist. “Official.” He indicated with his head toward the carriage. “But first I need you for a special task. Only you can help me awaken Fenwick’s Blessing of Forevers.”
“Fenwick’s what?”
“Blessing of Forevers. That’s what Lyra called it in the lost pages. Only a descendant can awaken its power. But they must know true love. And that is who you are to me, Joy. We must return to the place where the blessing was uttered and drink of the waters.”
“And then what happens?”
Barnaby placed his hands upon her shoulders. “Love, my darling. Love like ours. Love such as Alwin and Lyra knew. An endless bounty of happy-ever-afters.”
“Really? Anyone can find their true love?
“Yes!”
“And our love is the key that awakens this miracle?”
“That, and one of us being a descendant of Alwin and Lyra.”
“How certain are you that you are of their lineage?”
“I have the signs. And so does Moira.”
“Moira?”
“Come on, I’ll explain as we walk.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the grounds of the inn. I have a map of sorts. There should be some kind of spring.”
“There is no spring near the inn,” replied Joy. “But Mr. Brewster has a well. It was very likely established where the spring once was.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go,” said Barnaby, taking hold of Joy’s hand and leading her towards the carriage where the servant girl and the earl, manuscript in hand, now descended to join them.
It was a strange cluster of folk that stepped across the uneven cobbles behind the Queen’s Barque.
Barnaby—with Joy on his arm—led the way.
Lord Brathwaite followed rather dubiously.
Moira lagged behind, no doubt hoping to keep as much distance between herself and the madness that she believed they were about to bring forth into the world.
A slightly better-maintained path led through what was possibly a garden, though it resembled more undergrowth than cultivation. A small clearing revealed the well in question. Beyond it, the meadow spread far and wide, clumps of heather scattered across its display.
“So, what happens now?” asked Lord Brathwaite as they gathered around the circular, bricked wall of the well.
“If you will allow me,” said Barnaby, indicating the book the earl was holding.
Lord Brathwaite handed it to Barnaby who placed the manuscript, its loose pages tucked in at the back, reverently upon the edge of the low wall. Stepping back, he waited, not sure at all what followed next.
Joy nudged him. “Say something.”
Barnaby searched his thoughts for what might suit the situation. “Um, hullo,” he said to the well and the meadow beyond, feeling rather silly as he did so. “We’re here. Can my ancestors, Lyra and Alwin, hear me? We’re ready to awaken your blessing.”
“He’s calling up the spirits!” gibbered Moira, hanging as far back as she could without evoking her master’s ire.
The light upon the paving stones began to shimmer. The meadow melted into a distant mirage. Moira squeaked with fright, but Barnaby and Joy were transfixed.
Two figures approached from the blurry past, slipped soundlessly through the hedge that marked the inn’s boundaries, and walked by trees that no longer existed, their ancient echo rooted once more within the nineteenth century earth.
Alwin was tall and ruggedly handsome, his eyes and shoulder-length hair dark-brown like Barnaby’s, his beard almost black and just as long as his mane.
His tunic, bound by a leather belt and iron buckle, reached his thighs.
He stared at the small gathering with an intensity that would make a woman swoon and would brook no argument from a man.
All in all, Alwin seemed built for leadership rather than the sedentary life of a scribe.
Certainly, Moira gazed upon him in silent admiration, her fear quite vanished.
Lyra, too, matched the images in the book to perfection. Her lithe body wore her long, silver hair like a cape, falling down her back to her waist. Her eyes were mists of blue and green with small specks of brown as though freckled. She smiled at Moira, a look that could melt the stoutest heart.
“Welcome, daughter of my children,” she said, her voice a song upon the ear. “Did you bring your true love to meet us?”
Moira just stared, her mouth open.
Barnaby fought to produce any sensible sound from his throat. But it was Joy who said firmly, “No, that would be us.”
“Who are you talking to?” asked Lord Brathwaite.
“They’re beautiful,” breathed Moira, not taking her eyes from the two figures who glowed with the magic that bound them to this place.
“Can you not see them, milord?” asked Joy. “They’re right here, in front of us.”
“He cannot see us, daughter of Fenwick,” said Alwin. “Only our blood and those bound to them with the bonds of true love can do so.”
His speech was gentle and soft, so opposite to his imposing presence that Barnaby at last relaxed enough to formulate intelligent sound. “I am Barnaby Ash,” he said. “It is a privilege to meet you.”
Lyra turned her radiant smile to Alwin. “After all these years, your solemn speech remains in them, Beloved.”
Barnaby blushed. He could feel the heat in his cheeks. “We have come to complete the gift you would give to the villagers and any who visit here.”
Alwin nodded. “You have read our story then.”
Barnaby gestured at Moira. “We both have.”
As he spoke, the weight at the backs of Moira and Barnaby took visible form. A pair of gossamer wings, identical to Lyra’s, silvery and faint like a vision, hung from their shoulders almost to the ground.
“You speak true,” said Lyra. “You are, indeed, our descendants. And this…” She turned to Joy. “Is your beloved.” Lyra considered Joy and Barnaby with some care. “Yes.” She touched Alwin’s arm. “It is there. Without a doubt. You can see it too?”
“Indeed,” answered Alwin. “It is unmistakable.”
“It has come full circle, at last,” Lyra said with a contented sigh. “Here, in this tiny corner of the universe, a love fit to shift the earth on its axis.”
“What is happening?” the earl demanded.
“Shh,” said Moira, without thinking, her eyes transfixed on the scene.
“I beg your…” Lord Brathwaite began, swelling with indignation.
Lyra reached out a slender arm and touched a finger to his lips. The earl’s speech halted. He lifted his hand to his mouth as if savoring a taste.
“Come,” said Lyra to Barnaby. “Drink of the waters of Fenwick so that the blessing upon it may be complete. Then all those who follow, partaking of its soothing sustenance, and wishing for a love that is true and strong, will receive the Blessing of Forevers.”
“The Blessing of Forevers,” murmured Moira.
She walked up to the well, turning its handle, slow and steady, her eyes ever upon the fae and her eternal human groom.
Up, up, came the wooden bucket, water sloshing gently in its belly.
When the rope had wound to its shortest length, Moira unhooked the bucket and offered its contents to Barnaby.
“You were right,” she said. “I did not understand. But now I do. Take this. And you too, miss, and let there be love, true and sweet, for all those who would claim it.”
Barnaby drank deeply, for the water was cool upon this summer’s day. Joy only sipped a little, but it was enough.
Alwin and Lyra took each other’s hands. “Our time here is done,” said the fae. “We shall not meet again. But our memory will echo for countless generations to come, here in Fenwick, healing the hearts of lonely souls who partake of our blessing.”
With that, the couple faded from sight.
The heaviness at his back that Barnaby had grown used to, lifted from him. He could see Moira’s wings fading, their silvery light waning. She turned sadly as they disappeared completely. “Oh,” she said. “That is a pity. I shall miss them.”
Lord Brathwaite stirred. “Is it done? You drank the water. What happens now?”
“We go about our lives,” replied Barnaby, staring wistfully into the distance. “The blessing will work its magic when needed.”
“Speaking of which,” said Joy, tucking her arm into his in the habit Barnaby had come to love. “You were going to have a little talk with my father.”
“Hang on!” The earl protested. “That can’t be all. Nothing really happened.”
“I’m afraid, your lordship,” said Barnaby, “you were denied much of the experience. But I assure you, it was so much more than ‘nothing’.”
“Honestly, Mr. Ash, I don’t know what to make of it all. This is most unscientific.”
“On that we agree,” Barnaby replied. “And yet, I think you had a small taste of its magic?”
His lordship brought his fingertips to his lips once more. Then his hand fell to his side and he huffed. “Well, at least I still have the manuscript. Perhaps more can be gleaned from it.”
They turned as one toward the well.
The book was gone.