He leaned in close, the dream so real, she could feel his breath on her face. Was he going to kiss her? Had she somehow turned into Eurydice? Seldom did her soporific medicine give her so glorious a dream.
He eased away without touching her, and said, “I could almost believe myself bewitched. Or enchanted—I know not. I care not. I swear on my life, I will do what I can to ease your suffering.”
Her heart was full. This glimpse of happiness was no more than a cruel torment. She would awaken in the morning, and all would be as it was before—her room empty of all her things but her precious book of Greek and Roman myths, her blurry mirror, and her comb.
And her memory of the night Orpheus came to earth to visit her. If only there were some way to keep that memory alive. Because some oracular inner sense told her he was going to be incredibly important to her.
Chapter Four
Isobel was in the walled garden, enjoying the July sunshine and transplanting a batch of colewort seedlings from the potting shed. Her eyes were inexplicably sore today—had something happened yesterday to make them so? Perhaps the demon nightmares had brutalized her sleep again, as they so often did. But all was well now if only she could keep her thoughts on what she was doing.
A man was coming towards her, down the gravel path from the house. It wasn’t Hubert, and it wasn’t Flinders—she knew that because neither of them had the poise or physique of this man. Then something struck a chord in her memory.
“It’s Orpheus!” Delighted, she struggled to get up, but her skirts were a muddle, and the strength had left her limbs. Puzzled, she gazed at him as the man smiled and hunkered down beside her.
“God give you good day, Mistress Marston. What are you about?”
She peeped into her basket. “Planting coleworts, it seems.” Only, her fingers were all a-tremble. How could she separate out the tender seedlings without damaging them? It must be Orpheus’ influence.
She shaded her eyes. There was something she was meant to be telling him. Wasn’t there? “They’re poisoning me, you know.”
“What, the coleworts?” He looked amazed.
“Nay, foolish fellow, coleworts aren’t poisonous.”
Ah. That wasn’t the way to talk to a demi-god—he looked taken aback. She flushed.
“What I mean is—it’s good to see you so well-recovered. With your body intact, I mean.” By the rood, she was making a midden of this!
The man appeared to ponder her words for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you. Pray, let me assure you that I am not Orpheus, and I have not been ripped limb from limb by a group of crazed Bacchantes. I’m William Cavendish, your brother’s friend. Just ‘Will’, if that’s easier for you to remember.”
He paused, his aspect softening. “Do you remember what I told you last night? About Edward?”
She shook her head to clear it, with little success. “Edward was dark.” How did she know that? “You are fair. Are all Greeks fair?”
No. That was not what she meant to say at all. Turning away in frustration, she jabbed at the ground with a sharpened stake, making holes for the seedlings. She heard the rustle of the man’s movement, felt his shadow pass over her as he rose and walked away. Her hand stilled, and she watched him.
He had a limp, much in evidence as he patrolled the garden, giving the gardener a passing nod and looking around with apparent appreciation at the well-tended brick paths and herb beds. He paused by a raised bed which was displaying a magnificent range of purple, pink and crimson poppies. She knew if the new gardener didn’t cut the seed heads, the whole garden would be full of poppies, with no room for anything else. Which would be a pity, as you couldn’t eat poppies—she remembered that. She also knew she disliked the poppies, though she couldn’t recall why.
Will, Orpheus—whoever he was—stooped to examine the dried seed heads that remained from the previous autumn, tracing a finger over the even series of scratches which had bled a dark brown resin. He straightened abruptly and beckoned the gardener across.
What was the gardener’s name? She used to know it. Why did he look so different now, as if he were a stranger?
“What do these scrapes mean?” Orpheus asked.
The gardener wiped a sleeve across his forehead. “Avice—Goodwife Quill, I mean, uses the poppy juice for her potions. I don’t know how, sir. I believe her husband—God rest his soul—was an apothecary. Poppy juice is good against pain and promotes sleep. I guess she takes it herself—the other servants say she snores like a hog, but she never wakes herself up, so it works. Oh, forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”
Isobel bit her lip. She shouldn’t be listening to someone else’s conversation, but she couldn’t help herself. It lightened her heart when Orpheus… no, Will, laughed lightly and shook his head.
“’Tis no concern of mine,” he said. “I barely know Goodwife Quill. Did you plant the poppies?”
“Nay, sir. I only came last month. The last gardener was a good one, by all accounts—I’m surprised they let him go.”
Isobel saw their visitor stiffen. “Wherefore did they let him go?”
“I know not. He didn’t please Master Pike, mayhap. I was glad enough of the work, as my wife has been brought to childbed again. Another mouth to feed.”
Another mouth to feed. She was meant to be planting coleworts for everyone to eat, wasn’t she, not eavesdropping. Hurriedly, she stuffed some plants into the holes she’d made.
Yet, if one couldn’t help overhearing, that was no sin, was it? She kept her head bent over her task, ears straining.
“I came with news of the young master’s death. Did you know Edward Marston?”
“Not I. ’Twas afore my time. I sorrow to hear it—the young lady won’t take it well. If she takes it at all.”
“Are there any old retainers I could talk to about Master Edward? He was a good friend, and I should like to have someone join me in mourning him.”
There was that name again. Edward. It meant something she couldn’t quite grasp. She gave up all pretense of gardening and stared at the two men.
The gardener frowned down at his mud-clogged boots. “I can’t think as how there is. So far as I know—and they don’t all talk to me, of course—but I think everyone’s been hired recently by Master Pike. On the young mistress’ behalf, as she can’t manage it all herself.”
“Hmm. Thank you. I’ll disturb you no longer. Ah.” Orpheus had caught her staring, and she ducked her head, but he walked across and held out his hand to help her up.
It was an honor to touch his hand. She felt the spark of his divinity and wondered how Leda, and Europa, and all those others, had avoided being charred to ash when they were chosen by the all-mighty Zeus.
She was escorted to the furthest corner of the garden, where the man put his head close to hers.
“Orpheus.” She touched his cheek.
“Nay.” He pressed her hand down but retained it in his own. “Will, remember? Will Cavendish. Your brother’s friend.”
“I have a brother?”
“Once, you did, aye. But that can wait. It strikes me that anyone who knew Edward—or yourself, before your illness—has been removed from the house. Your cousin, Master Pike, has a free hand here, with the aid of Goodwife Quill and that walking megalith, Flinders. I fear you may need protection from your own relation. But how is it to be accomplished? I have no right to intervene, no right at all.”