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“Thank you,” she whispered into his waistcoat. “I don’t know … how I can ever repay you.”
Once again her rookery accent had vanished, but Donal was too startled to give much thought to the transformation. He patted her back awkwardly.
“You owe me nothing,” he said. “But I do think you have had enough stimulation for one day. If you and Sir Reginald would care to rest, I’ll fetch your luggage and see what I can find in the kitchen.”
She pulled back and studied his face. “You won’t leave me?”
“If I leave the farm, it will only be for a short time, and Benjamin will be here.”
“I want you to show me the animals. Your friends.”
“After you’ve rested.”
Her lower lip jutted with incipient rebellion, but she thought better of it. With a final sniff she returned to the bed and drew back the coverlet. She crawled under the sheets, holding very still as if she feared her mere presence might sully such luxury. Sir Reginald tucked his body against her, one long, fringed ear draped across her chest.
“Sleep,” Donal said, backing out the door. “I’ll wake you in time for dinner.”
But her eyes were already closed, and she didn’t stir again. Donal shut the door and walked silently back down the hall. He met Benjamin in the kitchen, checked the contents of the larder, and asked the old man to prepare a simple but hearty meal. Then he left the house and began his rounds.
The old gelding and the pony in the stable greeted him with whinnies of welcome, telling him of the new litter of kittens born in the loose box. The proud mother cat put in an appearance and allowed Donal to examine the babies. He cradled each tiny, blind body in his hand and felt the new seeds of consciousness beginning to awake.
His next stop was the byre, where the elder cows chewed their cud and gossiped in their bovine way about their youngest sister and her knobby-kneed calf. A quintet of canines followed Donal to the home pasture and maintained a polite distance as he called upon the other horses and cattle, checking hooves and eyes and ears and assessing the gloss of sunwarmed coats. He climbed alone up the fell, standing quietly while the sheep gathered about him and nuzzled his coat and trousers.
Nothing had changed in his absence. All was as it should be, the animals absorbed in the continual “present” of their lives, altering little from one hour, one day, one year to the next. They trusted in the natural order of the universe. And like Nature herself, moor and fell and beck would persevere for a thousand generations, their metamorphoses measured not in decades, but eons.
No, Donal’s world had not changed. Only he was different. With every step that he walked across the rolling pastures or scaled the low stone walls, he felt it grow—the strange, undeniable sense that the unnamed thing his life had always lacked lay beyond this spare, immutable landscape, somewhere in the sweeping veldt of Africa, the high desert of Mongolia or the jungles of Brazil.
And what of Tir-na-Nog?he asked himself. What if that is what you truly seek? Endless beauty and freedom from responsibility in a land humanity can never taint with its madness …
A land that had banished his father for daring to be “human.” A country Donal had rejected in favor of the challenges of a mortal existence, the chance to do good where it was most needed. To return to the Land of the Young was to surrender his humanity.
And would that be so terrible a price?
Donal descended the fell as twilight settled over the dale and the farm buildings. The scent of cooking drifted up to him on the breeze. Soon the comfortable routine he and Benjamin shared, sitting at the kitchen table in their customary silence, would be broken. Ivy would be there. And tomorrow he must go to the local farmers and learn which family was best suited to caring for a bright but troubled child….
The fox darted under his feet, nearly tripping him into a tumble down the fell. He righted himself quickly, his mild oath turning to laughter as the fox began to chase its own bushy tail, leaping and gamboling like a red-furred court jester.
“Tod!” Donal said, easing himself onto the grass. “Are you trying to do me in?”
The fox came to a sudden stop, cocked its clever pointed head, and jumped straight up into the air. It landed on two small feet and grinned at Donal from a face neither child nor man, nut-brown eyes dancing with merriment.
“My lord is home!” Tod said, dancing nimbly just above the ground, his tattered clothing fluttering about him. Even at full stretch, he reached no higher than Donal’s waist. Like all his kind, lesser Fane of wood and wildland, he was shaped to hide in the forgotten places men tended to ignore. And no human saw him unless he wished it.
Donal returned Tod’s grin to hide his sadness. “You would think I’d been gone a year,” he teased. “You couldn’t have missed me so very much, busy as you were at Hartsmere.”
Tod flung himself onto his back and gazed up at the twilit sky. “Tod always misses my lord,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “The mortal world is dreary and dull without him.”
Donal passed his hand through his hair and sighed. “What news of my parents?”
“They are well, but yearn for my lord’s company.” His mobile mouth twisted in a scowl. “The Black Widow was there.”
The “Black Widow” was Tod’s nickname for the woman with whom Donal had shared an intense and harrowing affair. She was indeed a widow … or had been, when Donal broke off the relationship.
“My brothers?” Donal asked, eager to change the subject.
“Both prosper. They, too, would call you back.” He hopped up, balancing on one bare foot. “Shall we return, my lord?”
Donal gazed down at the grass between his feet. “Not now, Tod. Perhaps not for some time.”
Tod leaned forward to peer into Donal’s face. “What troubles my lord?” he asked. “Did the Iron City do you ill?”
Donal shook his head. He acknowledged to himself that he was unprepared to admit the truth: that his trip to London, and his time with the animals in the Zoological Gardens, had finally convinced him that he had no place in a world ruled by humankind.
“I saw much cruelty in the city,” he said. “I did not return alone.”
“Tod met the new dogs,” Tod said eagerly. “They praise my lord with every breath.”
“Not only dogs, Tod. There is a girl … a child from the worst part of London. She’s come to stay in Yorkshire.”
Tod went very still. “A female?”
“A young girl. She’s seen much sorrow in her life, and I wish to give her a brighter future.”
Tod was silent for a long while, frowning up at the emerging stars. “She stays here?” he said at last.
“Only until I can find a suitable home for her.” He gave Tod a coaxing smile. “You’ll like her, Tod. She has spirit.”
The hob hunched his shoulders, his face hidden beneath his thick shock of auburn hair. “As my lord says.”
Donal got to his feet and held out his hand. “Walk with me,” he said. “Tell me all my mother’s gossip from Hartsmere.”
TOD PERCHED on the windowsill and watched the girl sleep. She did not look so terrible now, her small form smothered in blankets and her face relaxed against the pillow. But appearance could so easily deceive. No one knew that better than Tod himself.
Since Donal’s childhood he had been the boy’s closest friend and companion. Together they had wandered the ancient woods of Hartsmere, running with the red deer and conversing with the badgers in their setts. The Fane gifts Donal had inherited from his father had made him an expert healer … and kept him forever apart from those of his mother’s human blood.
But Tod had made certain he was never alone. Wherever Donal went, he followed … except when his master ventured into one of the cities of Iron, which few Fane could tolerate. Only once before had anything or anyone come between them, when the Black Widow caught Donal in her web.
Now there was another.
Tod closed his eyes, almost longing for the tears no true Fane could shed. For the first time in the many years he and Donal had lived at Stenwater Farm, Tod had been banished from the house during the evening meal. “Ivy wouldn’t know what to make of you,” Donal had said. “Perhaps you’ll meet her later, when she’s accustomed to her new life.”
But Tod had taken no comfort in his master’s promise. He had listened to their laughter as they sat at the table, sharing bread and cheese in the warmth of the kitchen. Ivy had gazed at Donal with such a look of gratitude and admiration in her eyes that made Tod’s skin prickle and his hair stand on end. Donal had smiled at her as if she had earned the right to his affection. And Tod had known then that if he were not very, very careful, she would take his place in this small, sheltered world he had learned to call “home.”
Tod glared at the girl, wondering what arcane powers she might possess. He was certain she did not know what she was, and neither did Donal. Perhaps it was his mortal blood that made him blind. Perhaps it was instinct that had drawn him to rescue her, though the gods knew how she had come to be living in the streets of the Iron City.
Whatever the nature of her past, the danger now was very real. Tod was no High Fane to place a curse upon her. All he could do was watch, and wait. And if she did not go to live with some local human family, he would find a way to drive her from Donal’s life.
THE LETTER ARRIVED at Edgecott the evening after Cordelia’s return. Half-dressed for dinner, she dismissed Biddle and sat down at her dressing table. With deliberate care she slit the envelope and removed the neatly folded paper.
When she had finished reading, Cordelia remained at the table and gazed unseeing in the mirror, oblivious to the passage of time until Biddle discreetly tapped on the door to remind her of the impending meal. She let the maid button her into her dress and work her hair into some semblance of order, but even Biddle noticed that her mind was elsewhere.
She and Theodora ate alone, as usual, while Sir Geoffrey dined in his rooms. After Theodora had retired, Cordelia changed into an old dress she reserved for work outdoors and walked across the drive, past the kennels and stables and over the hill to the menagerie.
The animals were often at their most active at dawn and dusk—restless, perhaps, with memories of hunting and being hunted. Othello, the black leopard, paced from one end of his large cage to the other, his meal of fresh mutton untouched. The two Barbary macaques pressed their faces to the bars and barked at Cordelia before scrambling up into the leafless trees that had been erected for their exercise and amusement. The Asian sun bear, Arjuna, lifted his head and snuffled as he awakened from his day’s sleep, but showed no inclination to rise. The North American wolves lay on their boulders and twitched their ears, golden eyes far too dull for such magnificent creatures.
Cordelia sat on the bench facing the pens and rested her chin in her hands. She had done everything Lord Pettigrew recommended when she had set up the menagerie upon her final return to England. The cages were generous and consisted of both interior and exterior shelters, and Cordelia had added tree trunks, branches and boulders collected from the surrounding countryside to lend interest to the enclosures. Each animal had a proper diet carefully prepared by a specially trained groundskeeper. The cages were kept scrupulously clean. The fearful conditions under which the beasts had once lived were a thing of the past.
I want only what is best for you, she thought as the twilight deepened in the woods at the crest of the hill. Why can you not understand?
The animals could not answer. She knew she was mad to hope otherwise. And yet there was a man who talked to such creatures as if they were people, a man who could quiet a rampaging elephant and believed that it spoke to him….
Cordelia rose and walked slowly back to the house. She was absolutely convinced of her own sanity, and perhaps that was part of the problem. She seldom found occasion to ask for help in any of her affairs. Perhaps, for the sake of those dependent upon her, she would have to set aside her pride and seek the assistant of one afflicted with just the very madness she required.
CHAPTER FIVE
STENWATER FARM, A MILE on poorly graded roads beyond the village of Langthorpe, was almost exactly what Cordelia had expected. It had something of the slightly rough and yet unpredictably charming qualities of its owner, and the moment the carriage pulled up in the yard, a round dozen dogs of mixed parentage charged around the farmhouse corner.
Before the horses had a chance to shy or bolt at the unexpected assault, the dogs stopped and sat in a ragged line like schoolboys who had just remembered their manners. The coachman descended from his perch and let down the step, and as Cordelia climbed out she saw the horses twist their necks about to stare at the farmhouse door.
Theodora stepped out after her, pausing to take in the scene. “Are you quite sure that Dr. Fleming will welcome such an unexpected visit?” she asked.
“I do not know if he will welcome it,” Cordelia said, “considering his failure to respond to my letters. However, he is a doctor of veterinary medicine, and as such I assume he is available for consultation.” She followed Theodora’s gaze. “I assure you, the dogs are not vicious.”
“They certainly do not appear to be. I wonder if Dr. Fleming sends such a welcoming committee to greet every guest?”
“I rather doubt he has many guests.” Taking Theodora’s arm, Cordelia started up the flower-lined path. The dogs melted out of her way as she approached, a few wagging their tails while the others looked on solemnly and fell in behind her.
“I feel as if I am being examined like a ewe at market,” Theodora whispered.
“Doubtless Dr. Fleming intends such an effect,” Cordelia said. She strode up the flagstone steps to the porch, smoothed her skirts, and knocked on the door.
It went unanswered for several minutes, though Cordelia was quite sure that she heard noises within the house. Finally the door swung open and an old man, slightly stooped but still of vigorous appearance, peered at the women with raised brows.
“Good morning,” Cordelia said crisply. “I am Mrs. Hardcastle, and this is Miss Shipp. We have come to see Dr. Fleming on a matter of some urgency.”
The old man blinked and let his gaze drift from Cordelia’s feet to the top of her bonnet. “T’ doctor is oot o’ t’ ‘oose at t’ moment,” he said.
Cordelia quickly translated the man’s thick dialect and nodded. “Can you tell me when he will return?”
“‘E’s with t’ coos in t’ byre yonder.”
“I see.” Cordelia suppressed a sigh and smiled patiently. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell him that he has visitors who wish to consult with him in his professional capacity?”
The old man grunted. “Weel, noo. ‘Appen Ah can fetch ‘im. If thoo’ll bide ‘ere …” He closed the door, leaving Cordelia staring at peeling blue paint.
“What did he say?” Theodora asked. “I didn’t understand a word.”
“He said he would fetch the doctor.” She shook her head. “Like master, like man. One can hardly expect courtesy from Dr. Fleming’s servants.”
“Perhaps it is simply the way of the people here.”
“Perhaps.” Grateful that she had worn sturdy boots, Cordelia lifted her skirts and set off across the somewhat muddy expanse of trampled earth between the farmhouse and the outbuildings scattered in a rough semicircle sheltered by rocky hills. A hay meadow stretched out to the east where the little valley was widest, and there were several fenced pastures between the byre and what appeared to be a stable. Drystone walls marched up the hills, undulating with the curves of the landscape.
She saw no other farmhands or laborers on her way to the byre, but of animals there were plenty. Chickens and geese wandered at will, snapping up grain and other tasty morsels spread out for them, and a pair of pigs had made a wallow where the mud was several feet deep. Horses in the pasture trotted up to the fence and poked inquisitive heads over the railing. A cat and five kittens paraded toward the meadow, tails twitching. Cows lowed and sheep bleated. Cordelia doubted that she would be surprised to find an elephant among the farm’s residents.
The servant’s gravelly voice floated from the byre, followed by the familiar, educated accent Cordelia had heard twice before. Lord Pettigrew had been somewhat vague when he had written of Dr. Fleming’s background; Cordelia suspected that he knew more than he was willing to tell, but he would surely not have dealings with a man whose past was less than respectable.
The social position of Dr. Fleming’s family was irrelevant to Cordelia’s purpose so long as he could provide the services she required. She turned to make certain that Theodora was behind her and picked her way to the byre’s doors.
“… did you tell her I was in, Benjamin?” Fleming was saying. “I’ve already received three letters from the woman, each one more demanding than the last. I haven’t time to cater to some fine lady’s pampered pets. The very fact that she has come all this way proves that she won’t be dissuaded unless she can be convinced—”
“Convinced of what, Dr. Fleming?” Cordelia said, stepping over the threshold. “That some gentlemen are so averse to human company that they will do anything to avoid it?”
Fleming shot to his feet from his place beside a spindly, spotted calf, and the flare of his green eyes stole the breath from Cordelia’s throat. He opened his mouth to speak, stared at Cordelia’s face, and seemed to forget what he was about to say.
“Ah told ‘er ta bide at t’ ‘oose,” Benjamin said mournfully, sending Cordelia a reproachful look.
His words seemed to shake Fleming from his paralysis. “I have no doubt,” he said. “Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said with a stiff bow, glancing past Cordelia to Theodora. “Miss Shipp. I trust you have not been waiting long.”
Cordelia matched his dry tone. “No longer than expected,” she said. “Have we interrupted you in your work?”
He looked down at the calf pressed against his leg and idly scratched it between the eyes. “Nothing that cannot wait.” He turned to Benjamin. “Put the poultice on his leg as I showed you, and I’ll see to him later.”
“Aye, Doctor.” Benjamin gave Cordelia a final, appraising look and knelt beside the calf. Fleming brushed off the sleeves of his coat—which, like his waistcoat, trousers and boots, was liberally splashed with mud—and started toward the door. Cordelia noted that he wore no cravat, and his shirt was open at the neck, revealing a dusting of reddish brown hair.
His face was as she remembered it, handsome and bronzed by a life spent outdoors. His brown hair was windblown and still in need of cutting. But he could barely restrain a scowl, and Cordelia felt that his slight attempts at courtesy were more for Theodora’s sake than her own.
“I apologize for my appearance,” he said, sounding not at all apologetic, “but I didn’t expect guests. I fear I lack adequate facilities to entertain ladies.”
“We are not here to be entertained,” Cordelia said.
He stopped, gestured the women ahead of him, and followed them out of the byre. “Have you come far this morning, Mrs. Hardcastle?”
“From York,” she said. “And previously by train from Gloucestershire.”
“A long journey.”
“Since I did not receive a reply to my letters,” Cordelia said, sidestepping a puddle, “I feared they had gone astray. One can never be sure of delivery in the countryside.”
Fleming cleared his throat and offered his arm to Theodora when she hesitated at a muddy patch. “I have been … much distracted since my return from London,” he said. “I am not a practiced correspondent.”
“Then you have read the letters.”
He released Theodora at the foot of the flagstone steps and faced Cordelia, his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes.” He glanced away. “Have you breakfasted this morning?”
“We have. Dr. Fleming …”
“Would you care to come in for tea?”
