Jim Butcher - Songs of Love & Death

When she awoke to her sunlit bedchamber, Martha felt as if the misty greenwood still surrounded her, but by the time they left to walk to the Crown Inn, she was sensible again.

She could wish Aunt Clarissa so. That lady was in alt at Loxsleigh’s high station and had spent the morning making inquiries of her friends, which also allowed her to spread the word about her interesting new acquaintance. “He is the heir,” she’d told Martha and her mother. “And the family is famously rich!”

As soon as they were seated at the inn, she said, “I understand your home at Five Oaks is most unusual, sir. Famous for its antiquity.”

“It is, ma’am.”

“A part of it dates back to the thirteenth century!”

“A small part,” he said as soup was served. “Only the old great hall and some rooms above it.”

“Five hundred years old!” Aunt Clarissa declared.

“Is it not rather uncomfortable?” asked Martha’s practical mother.

He turned his smile on her. “Which is why it’s hardly used, ma’am.”

“Are there five oaks?” Martha challenged.

“Of course, Miss Darby.”

“Trees die, even oaks. There cannot always be five.”

Her sharpness did not cut him. “There can if one counts saplings. But yes, there have always been five mature oaks.” Before she could debate that point, he added, “Or so legend says. There are certainly five now. Perhaps you would care to visit and see for yourself?”

He addressed it nicely to both Martha and her mother, but she knew it was intended for herself. So that was it. He wanted her in his home, under his power…

Before she could forestall it, her mother had agreed, and then she made it worse.

“I hope we’ll be able to return your hospitality soon, sir, and serve you a dinner when next you visit York. Perhaps we can show you some entertainments. We will soon be out of mourning. Dear Martha missed so much of her youth while helping me nurse Mr. Darby that I look forward to her enjoying parties and assemblies.”

“I’m past the age for such frivolities, Mother.”

“Why say that, dear? I declare I am not. I intend to dance when asked, and enjoy many entertainments.”

“And so you should, ma’am,” Loxsleigh said. “I will certainly ask you to dance.”

He addressed her mother, but Martha felt the message was to her. She found her hand tight on her knife and fork as if she’d need to fight him off.

Talk turned safely to musical evenings and assemblies, but then both Martha’s mother and aunt shared stories from their youth that implied more liveliness than Martha had imagined. Her mother had flirted with a number of suitors, and even slipped aside from a dance for a kiss? And not with the future Canon Darby, either. In their recollections, the older ladies became more youthful, brighter-eyed, rosier-cheeked, while Martha remained herself, dull and lacking memories to share.

Did everyone dance and flirt their way into their twenties except her?

She became aware of hunger, and not for soup.

She hungered for touches and dances and teasing and flirtation. All the things the older ladies remembered with such pleasure. All the things she’d missed and feared never to experience, especially in Dean Stallingford’s embraces.

Good heavens. She’d never let her imagination go so far, and now the idea revolted her.

She caught Loxsleigh looking at her and immediately envisioned embraces that would not revolt her. How was he doing this to her?

She seized her wineglass and drank. He also raised his glass, but sipped, his eyes remaining on her, bright as fire. Heat rose through her body. She began to sweat.

This wasn’t a play, and it wasn’t harmless. She would not go to Five Oaks. She would return directly to York and marry Dean Stallingford and be safe.

The meal seemed to take an age, and when they rose to take their leave Martha gave thanks that the torment was over. However, Loxsleigh insisted on escorting them back home and walked beside her as they left the inn. She could feel his presence, perhaps even a vibration. She welcomed fresh air and the hubbub of ordinary life—people in the street, vendors calling their wares, a line of chairmen offering transport.

“I feel quite fatigued,” said Aunt Clarissa. “I do believe I’ll take a chair.”

Loxsleigh summoned a sedan and paid the men. “Mistress Darby? Would you, too, care to be carried home?”

“I confess the idea appeals, sir. Don’t feel obliged to join us in laziness, dear,” she said to Martha. “I know you enjoy a walk and Mr. Loxsleigh will ensure your safety.”

If Martha’s senses were any guide, Mr. Loxsleigh planned the exact opposite, but she took a sudden resolve. Even if she refused to visit his home, he could follow her to York. The only way to put a stop to this was to directly dismiss him.

“Yes,” she said. “I should like to walk. It’s a lovely afternoon.

AS SOON AS the older ladies were carried away she turned to him. “And now, Mr. Loxsleigh, we will talk plainly, if you please.”

He extended his arm. “I will be delighted, Miss Darby.”

Martha didn’t want to touch him, but propriety compelled. She curled her hand around his arm and they set off down the street. Even through gloves and sleeve, she felt that vibration again and it rippled into her. She twitched and glanced around. Had she heard that song again? The one from her dream…

“Plain talk, Miss Darby?” he prompted.

“I wish to know, plainly, sir, why you are pursuing my mother and myself. We can hardly be amusing to you after court.”

“Court is a constantly repeating play. Its charms soon wear thin.”

She gave him a look. “So we are a new play, a novelty?”

“As I am for you, I’m sure.”

“I’m certainly not accustomed to such elevated company.” She was launched on an argument about their different stations, but he said, “I assume you meet the archbishop now and then.”

“That is hardly the same.”

“But extremely elevated. Where does the Archbishop of York come in the order of precedence? Closely after royalty, I believe, and far, far above the heir to a viscountcy.”

Jaw tense, Martha said, “I have very little to do with the archbishop.”

“But would not reject his company as unsuitable. Come, Miss Darby, why are you so prickly? What have I done to offend?”

She glared at him. “Do you pretend that you encountered us in Newark by accident?”

“It is on the North Road, which we both must take. But I confess that I wanted to meet you again.”

“Why?”

Martha suddenly realized that they’d taken a shortcut through the churchyard. It was the route her party had walked to the inn, enjoying the tranquillity. Now the leafy quiet seemed dangerous.

She released his arm and stepped away. “Why?” she demanded again. “What interest do you have in us?”

“In you . Your mother is delightful, but you are the lodestone.”

“Lodestone?” But that was best ignored. “I insist you leave us be, sir. There is no connection, and can never be.”

“There was a handkerchief,” he said whimsically. “My dear Miss Darby, my intentions are completely honorable.”

“Honorable?” She was becoming an echo, but he’d opened the way to an attack. “That sounds as if you intend to propose marriage.”

She waited with relish for him to show panic, but instead he smiled. “I believe I do. But first I must kiss you.”

“ What? You wretch, to make fun of me. And to suggest something so wicked!”

“A kiss is wicked? Then the whole world is destined for hell. Including you. With such tempting lips, you must have been kissed many times.”