Songs of Love and Death

“Mother, for heaven’s sake. What interest could such a man have in a woman like me?”

Her mother sighed. “I suppose that’s true. But his company will make an agreeable evening.”

Martha considered claiming a headache as escape, but for some reason she couldn’t say the words. She went to her room to tidy herself, and slowly her good sense returned. It was ridiculous to imagine Mr. Loxsleigh was pursuing her, but she would be chaperoned by her mother and aunt.

She would enjoy the novelty, she decided, tying a fresh cap beneath her chin. She’d met no man like him before, and likely wouldn’t in the future. If he did attempt a seduction, that would be the most novel experience of all. She was not the tiniest bit vulnerable to his sort of tinsel charm, but watching his attempt could be diverting.

LOXSLEIGH DID NOT attempt to seduce her, and indeed how could he when both her mother and aunt fluttered around him like adoring moths to the flame?

He entertained them with the wonders and follies of the court. He pretended interest in Anne Darby’s impressions of London, and even in Aunt Clarissa’s chatter about Newark. His sympathetic manner soon drew out the story of Canon Darby’s long illness, and of Aunt Clarissa’s old tragedy. He mentioned his own mother’s death three years ago with tender feeling.

Where was the artificial peacock? This might be a different man.

All the same, beneath easy manners, he was intense. A strange word, but the only one Martha could find. And his intensity was centered on her. When their eyes met, she felt its power. That must be a skill of practiced seducers, and on a weaker woman it might work, for it created the illusion that she was special, that she was important to him.

When he invited them all to dine at his inn the next afternoon, Martha agreed with as much pleasure as the rest. It appeared he might plan an attempt on her virtue. Perhaps dry spinsters from the provinces were a new dish for such as he, and she looked forward to seeing what other skills he would bring into play. Would he attempt to get her alone? He’d fail, but it would be like watching a play, and the performance of this leading actor should be a wonder to behold.

However, the price for her amusement was more embarrassing dreams, and others even odder. Where did the woodland scenes come from? She’d spent her life in a city, but in the night she visited dense woodlands and glades woven through with a hauntingly beautiful song, where strange creatures danced, loved, and quarreled.

Quarreled over her.

An exquisite lady in iridescent draperies and a lord in dark velvet prowled and snarled. Over her…

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.”

3

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