He clapped his hands and a goblin flashed into their presence.
“Smurch,” Hyarman bade him, “take this aquarium to the bower of the lady Witchita. See her carefully settled and catch some flies, come morning, for her delectation. My dear, I trust you will meditate on past foolish acts. You shall be, I assure you, kept safe and secure.”
If a frog could glare, the captive achieved that now. Hyarmon laughed and waved the goblin and his burden away. Now, he arose from the High Seat and stretched luxuriously, then decided to go up to the laboratory and see what mischief there had entertained Witchita during his involuntary absence.
Herne’s Lady
Lamps on the Brow (1998) James Cahill Publishing
The Honorable Olivia Farrington on this late summer morning considered herself a singularly fortunate female as she admired her favorite view from the window of the drawing-room. Yet she was not observing a formal garden proper to the residence of consequence. Rather her gaze was fast upon an irregular rise of dark trees beyond the fields. Those marked the verge of what had once been part of a jealously guarded Royal hunting perserve, a goodly section of which now helped to make up that unbelievable inheritance which had so satisfactorily descended upon her some month’s previously—as if she were indeed the incomparable heroine of a Marvel Press novel.
There was a dark secretiveness about that wood, but oddly she was not in the least repelled by that feeling. On the contrary she could fancy herself some high-sticker of the Ton able to challenge fate and explore at her will. Though she judged herself to be alone in this unexpressed opinion, since none of the servants had displayed any inclination to even speak of the wood’ their silence having become so apparent as to be granted the description of oddity.
She was aware from a limited perusal of the diaries of that great aunt (to whose unexpected generosity she owed her own being here) that the Lady Lettice had offered the villagers the right to take downed branches and trees for firewood, the harvesting of nuts. But it would seem that some dislike for the wood shadows was so deeply engrained in the country people they never availed themselves of such bounty.
Yet Lady Lettice had not shared in this, rather had sought out wood ways according to descriptions in the diaries (which Olivia looked upon as keys to the perplexities of this new life). She had ridden certain winding paths among the trees and Olivia had already followed her example, for she had determined from the first day of her freedom to no longer surrender to the crochets of others. For too many weary years she had been fagged near to death by family whims, and because she had had no other choice, she swallowed much without complaint.
Having endured the mortification of four seasons without an offer, her brother and his wife had refused to grossly indulge her in any farther attempts in the matrimonial field—not that she in any way wished for that to happen. Her entry into the haunts of the Ton had not given her such satisfaction as to make her long for another strained visit to the marriage mart.
She was an antidote, not even what might be dismissed as a dab of a girl. She could not play that game which seemed to easy for almost every female of her acquaintance. The matter was that she seemed unable to attach the interest of any eligible parté. Nor did that cause her any real wretchedness for she had not set eye on any of the famed catches (or even ones who fell below that level) with whom she would wish to share bed and board for the rest of her life.
Though Olivia knew better than to so express herself aloud, having faced down a number of stormy scolds in which she was informed she was insufferably high in the instep, clicked in the hob (her brother’s elegant expression), one fair to give the whole family an irritation of the nerves. She knew that the plight of the unwed would be the most difficult of situations, still deep inside she felt a lightness of spirit when the fell decision was made that she would not be pushed into the London whirl again.
Being now the hopeless age of six and twenty, and having without a murmur of dissent taken to the cap of accepted spinisterhood, she had been shaken near out of her carefully cultivated calm by being Lady Lettice’s heir—not only to Oakleigh Manor but also to what seemed to Olivia a handsome competence sufficient to give her a most comfortable if secluded life.
Since she was of age there could be no curtailing of her plans by her brother, and for some five delightful months she had been mistress here, in her own house, with servants (elderly to be sure) but so deeply attached to her great aunt that they accepted her without question since it was by the will of their beloved Lady that she was here.
This very morning she was about to indulge herself by making a visit to old Maudie. Maudie had been one of the duties Lady Lettice had laid upon her heir, but Olivia had not discovered it to be an onerous one. The old woman did not share the seemingly universal dislike of the wood, for her very old cottage was in a clearing set well within that shadowed territory, so much a part of the land that its stone walls might have grown as did the trees about.
Maudie had been the Lady Lettice’s maid, until she had signified that she believed herself to be past the time of real service. It was by her request that the forest cottage was put in the best of order and she was installed therein. Though her Lady had made nearly daily visits, and in her own failing last days Maudie had returned to nurse her.
Now it was the established custom that someone from the manor visited Maudie twice a week bearing such supplies as might add to her comfort. Olivia had overheard one stable boy protest such a trip and so decided to take it on for herself. It was an excellent reason to ride exploring and, from her first visit, she had thought the old woman to be an acquaintance worth cultivating.
Maudie might be old but she was still very spry. The cottage was always in spotless order though there might be baskets about her hearth harboring small ailing woods creatures. Since the clearing about the cottage was wide she had room for a garden, growing not only vegetables, but fragrant herbs. Olivia had now on her dressing table a jar of soap which left the skin smooth and smelling of roses, and a bottle of lily scent she thought highly superior to any town bought perfume.
Nor was Maudie’s conversation lacking in interest. For the woman spoke with authority on the ways of the wood, telling stories of animals and men in days past—though for the men she had little good to say. In particular she spoke darkly of the lord of the neighboring manor and once, when she called him by name, Olivia was unpleasantly startled.
She had met Sir Lucas Corbin herself during one of shockingly dull and over squeezed parties her sister-in-law doted so upon. And she had not in the least liked the look of him, even before gossip bore out her distaste. But that such a high sticker would be known here in this most quiet and least social of places was a surprise, until Maudie explained that it was his custom when low in funds to seek out his estate and attempt to squeeze more from his unfortunate tenants. His conduct was infamous enough to have well blackened his name, and Maudie ended her recital of his sins with the warning that he might just try to scrap a meeting with the new owner of Oakleigh since Olivia was now known as an unattached heiress. But if that lay in his mind he was not moving on it.
During her visits with Maudie Olivia began to believe that the old woman was studying her, as if weighing the new manor mistress in some fashion. Oddly enough that did not arouse any discomfort, any more than she felt any unease in the most shadowed part of the wood where she had yet ventured. Rather she had a vague touch of excitement as if something lay ahead.
This morning was one of the days to visit Maudie, and, giving a last look to the wood, she looped up the skirt of her habit and departed the house by the way of the kitchen where she came up with the cook.
“Is the hamper for Maudie ready, Mrs. Ward?”
“Yes, m’lady.”
Olivia uttered a sigh. Lady Lettice’s staff had arbitrarily given her a step up in rank, in spite of her protests, apparently believing that no one of lesser blood than at least an Earl’s daughter could rule here.
 
; Just as she had defied convention by setting up her establishment without some dim female to lend her respectability by companionship, so did she ride the forest paths without the grooms who, she very well knew, were so adverse to such a direction. Apparently those of the household accepted these decisions with equanimity, though Olivia knew that servants were the first to decry any lessening of propriety.
This was a morning to give one an expectation of pleasure. She had already established an excellent relationship with the gray mare, Mist. They passed at an easy canter from the wider road into the over field track which led to the wood. Olivia made sure of the fastening of the basket and enjoyed the freedom of the ride.
She was well under tree cover when she was startled by a cry—certainly one of pain and fear. Reining Mist in a little she listened but did not halt. That sound came again seemingly weaker. Now she urged the mare on. After all this was her own land and any happening here was her concern.
Mist brought her out in one of the many glades, not as large a one as that of the cottage, but open enough so Olivia caught clear sight of distressing action.
A man with one arm locked in the reins of a wild-eyed, foam mouthed horse, was standing over a huddle of what seemed to be rags. Even as Olivia came up he brought down his riding crop in a vicious cut, the lash landing on a round of back from which a dull green shirt had already been slit.
“Devil brat,” his voice was as harsh as his attack. “Gallows fruit—”
“Stop!” Olivia found her voice, and it rose with a note of command she had never had cause to use before.
The next blow he aimed did not fall true. He swung around to stare up at her, the very embodiment of reckless cruelty and ungoverned rage. His hair, for his hat lay behind on the ground dented by a hoof, was as black as the hide of the nervous horse. From under bushy brows, eyes, which seemed as yellow as new minted guineas, raked over her. Then the thin lips of his cruel mouth shaped something which was not a smile.
“Well, and what have we here.” He took a step toward her, and his horse tried to rear. With a lightning swift movement he jerked viciously at the reins, sawing savagely at his mount’s mouth.
Olivia’s chin was up, her eyes very cold. Her own fingers tightened hard enough to give her riding crop a warning twitch.
“Sir, you are trespassing.”
“Sir, you are trespassing,” he mimicked her with a sneer and then suddenly seemed to recall what he might never have known—manners.
“Miss Farrington, I presume. We are neighbors and so you should have a word in this matter.” His boot toe thudded home against the cowering victim. “This imp of Satan’s get is poaching. As such he will answer in due time to the law, but I shall have the lessoning of him first.”
“Sir Lucas, this is my land. Years ago Lady Lettice laid down the rule governing this holding. Villagers are to forage when and where they please with no hindrance.”
He showed his teeth as might a wolf.
“I deal with thieves as I see fit. No miss sets my course.”
She must bluff him somehow Olivia thought quickly. This man, being what he was, might well turn his anger now on her.
“My groom comes, Sir Lucas. And you are on my land without invitation or leave.”
For a moment of dread Olivia wondered if he might be bluffed so. However, in his world ladies did not ride alone, and surely he was not so uncaring yet of all convention that he would brawl with her before a servant.
His face had become very set. Then he turned, swept up his battered hat, and swung into the saddle. Leaning forward a little he spoke with extravagated smoothness of voice as insulting as his slow survey of her person.
“I hear, oh, Lady of the manor,” the sneering tone brought a flush to Olivia’s cheeks, “and obey—for now. But the game is not done—”
What he might have added in the way of a more naked threat was interrupted by a new sound, that of a hunter’s horn.
Sir Lucas’ horse gave such a cry as Olivia had never heard an animal utter before and whirled, fighting the reins and plunging away, bearing its cursing master.
There came a second horn call. Mist reared as the rag bundle came to life, and, before Olivia could call out or move, the fugitive vanished into the underbrush.
She could not pursue there. It must have been one of the village children who had so dared the forest. But at least he was free now and she was certain Sir Lucas would not return to hunt him down.
Still out of temper from this encounter Olivia lingered in the glade waiting for the horn blower to join her. Those last notes had not sounded too far away. It had been particularly vexatious to have had this meeting with her shunned neighbor. Sir Lucas was not a magistrate, thanks be to fortune, and his powers were limited, but it might be well to report this confrontation to Squire Hambly who was looked upon as the guardian of affairs hereabouts. Surely the rules set by Lady Lettice for her own property would be honored.
However, no one came to join her. So, deep in somewhat distressed thought, she rode on to Maudie’s.
Her relation of what had passed was listened to with every sign of concern. So much so that Olivia had to keep reassuring herself that surely there would be no further trouble.
When she spoke of the horn Maudie gave a little gasp and nodded vigorously. Then to Olivia’s surprise, she spoke as one who had had some pressing question well answered.
“So it has been decided, you are free of the wood, m’lady. Just as my dear lady wished it so. As for that dark soured one, he had better make his peace while he yet can.”
“What do you mean, Maudie? Who sounded that horn—in what manner have I been made free of the wood.”
Now Maudie shook her head as emphatically as she had earlier nodded it. “‘Tis not for my saying, m’lady. There will come a time when you do understand.”
And there was a certain stubborn tilt to her chin Olivia had seen before. She sighed, knowing that Maudie was not to be moved any farther.
“I shall certainly speak to the squire—he must have power enough to make sure Sir Lucas stays without my wards.”
“Do so if it eases your mind, m’lady. Squire Hambly, he is of the old blood and knows the land—” Again she spoke in riddles beyond Olivia’s solving.
When she returned to the manor she sent a message to the squire, only to learn that he had gone to London on some urgent affair and could not be reached for a time. Though she made a searching endeavor to discover the beaten child that, too, failed, for no villager nor farm family would own to such mistreatment of their own. They seemed as tight jawed as Maudie the minute she mentioned the wood, until their monosyllabic answers defeated her.
Her next two visits to Maudie she made prudently, taking with her George Lankin, the coachman, a tall, hearty man with a wide stretch of brawny shoulder and fists like to send such a one as Sir Lucas a-sprawl in a hurry But Olivia noted that he rode warily, his gaze swinging from side to side, and his tramping up and down before the cottage transferred in part his uneasiness to her so that she was constrained to cut short her visit.
They entered the harvest season when the whole community outside the wood were busy a-field. For the first time the verge of the wood attracted the boldest of the children, especially when Olivia joined their company. Together they plundered the berry heavy bushes and emboldened by this sudden setting aside of their usual aloofness, Olivia organized forays to go a-nutting, taking the opportunity to load on a patient old mare wood to ease the winters of several families about whom she had become concerned.
She lost her fine lady pallor to a faint overcast of ivory brown. Which, she decided, became her much better than all the powders and creams her sister-in-law had once urged upon her. Though she still dressed in fashion within the manor, she went a-roving in sturdy homespun like any dairy maid.
The squire finally returned, but it had been so peaceful much of her apprehension had faded. He was a man of middle years, a firm rooted country man at heart, and she
liked his manner. He listened to Olivia’s story of her meeting with Sir Lucas and looked grave.
“The man’s crack brained to be sure. We’re rid of him for a space—he’s gone to town. But, Miss Farrington, take care. Get some lady of quality in to live with you, see you are guarded both at home and away. He is a danger. And—” he had paused then and regarded her carefully as if seeking some hint as to what he should say. “The wood,” he finally continued, “it has an odd name hereabouts. Very old some of the stories—some say it was Herne’s own chosen refuge.”
“Herne?” she questioned though he appeared to believe she already knew that name.
“Herne, the hunter. A very old legend of the guardian of the woods and all that lived within. Country talk, Miss Farrington, but they believe—oh, the belief lasts. And it is well not to challenge their beliefs sometimes.”
She murmured something which might be taken as assent. The Herne story might well explain the attitude of the servants and the villagers, but it did not bother her, though she made a mental note to learn more if she could. However, she had no intention of hunting up some drab but worthy female to give her countenance. Lady Lettice had managed without—unless circumstances actually forced her she would do likewise.
Twice during visits to Maudie she again heard the horn. There was that about its notes which increased her longing to meet the one who formed them. Oddly enough she found it impossible to mention this to Maudie. When she had asked the old woman about the story of Herne Maudie had replied firmly:
“Naught can be hurried, m’lady. An oak grows to its own speed and there can be no pushing of it, root or branch. Wait—listen—and learn—”
What did come on her waiting was near disaster. Maudie, Olivia thought with concern, was beginning to show signs of aging. Twice she had discovered the old woman laid upon her bed, something Maudie scorned to do in daytime. She saw that strengthening wine, a good share of each baking day’s produce, and small comforts were carried to the wood.