“Never mind, Henry. All is as it should be. A few days ago I didn’t need my one true love. Now I do, but you are not it. Nor will you ever be.”
I began walking again. Behind me, after a silence, Henry laughed a great laugh. “And pity the man who is,” he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder. “Keturah, you have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, and I don’t know which I like more.”
He led me to the manor and into John Temsland’s chamber.
“Mistress Keturah Reeve,” Henry said by way of introduction. After a bow to me, he left.
I stood just inside the entranceway of the chamber where John Temsland was looking through a window at his father’s lands and people.
“I am sorry, sir, but I do not have your clothes,” I began. It was best to tell him that first, I thought, before I spoke of the more important thing.
He seemed not to hear. He did not move or look at me when he said quietly, “The gossip is that when you leave a birthing, the mother dies.”
I answered nothing.
“When you stay and attend, the mother lives, even if she should have died,” he said.
“Who tells you this?” I asked.
“It is the talk of the whole village, ” John said. “Goody Thompson says she saw you conversing with an invisible being—an angel, say some; Death, says she. Some say that is why the fairies stole you into the wood and why they brought you back alive.”
“Sir...
“John.”
“John, sir, if you are angry with me for the loss of your clothes, I can repay you in time. I will work in the kitchen—”
“You are welcome to the clothes, Keturah, ” he said, “though why you needed them I cannot imagine. All I ask is that you keep our secret about the hart.”
“I will, sir—John.”
“Keturah, I credit you with the grand idea of improving the village—building a road and freeing the mill of rats. Everyone credits you with the idea. And therein lies the problem.”
“Problem?”
“Yesterday, when they thought you had only been stolen by fairies, they found you alarming, shall we say. They fear the fairies and their wild-wood magic, and they were nervous of one who had supposedly communed with them.”
“I have seen no fairies, nor their enchanted halls,” I said.
John turned away from the window and smiled kindly. “I believe you,” he said. “But now this new tale—that is another thing altogether. No one has seen a fairy—’tis like there is no such thing. But all have seen Death’s handiwork, and they all hate him, down to a man. Now they fear you with a fear that begets hatred, Keturah. The air around you, they think, is infected with death. They despise you because you remind them of their own mortality. The sight of you bodes their own end.”
I looked at my feet.
“That leads me to the problem, Keturah. You see, because it was your idea to build the road, they will no longer do it. They—they believe that you are on Death’s errand.”
I looked up at him in alarm. “But it is just the opposite!” I cried.
He studied me a few moments and then gestured to a chair. “Sit, Keturah. You are trembling.”
Gratefully, I sat down. “Sir, I would tell you my story, but you would not believe me.”
“My name is John, and I will believe you, Keturah.” His eyes were full upon me. Every bit of him seemed willing to listen.
“But you don’t know me. How will you believe the tale I am about to tell?”
“I’ve known you for almost your whole life. I’ve listened to you tell stories around the common fire, and watched how even as a young girl you captivated your listeners.”
“But—but you were never there.”
“Ah, but I was. Hiding nearby, in the shadows where no one could see,” he said.
I remembered him as a young lad, always on the edge of village activities. He played football with the boys, but was not allowed to join in the festivities of the winning team afterward. He helped in the fields, but went to the manor after the
I began walking again. Behind me, after a silence, Henry laughed a great laugh. “And pity the man who is,” he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder. “Keturah, you have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, and I don’t know which I like more.”
He led me to the manor and into John Temsland’s chamber.
“Mistress Keturah Reeve,” Henry said by way of introduction. After a bow to me, he left.
I stood just inside the entranceway of the chamber where John Temsland was looking through a window at his father’s lands and people.
“I am sorry, sir, but I do not have your clothes,” I began. It was best to tell him that first, I thought, before I spoke of the more important thing.
He seemed not to hear. He did not move or look at me when he said quietly, “The gossip is that when you leave a birthing, the mother dies.”
I answered nothing.
“When you stay and attend, the mother lives, even if she should have died,” he said.
“Who tells you this?” I asked.
“It is the talk of the whole village, ” John said. “Goody Thompson says she saw you conversing with an invisible being—an angel, say some; Death, says she. Some say that is why the fairies stole you into the wood and why they brought you back alive.”
“Sir...
“John.”
“John, sir, if you are angry with me for the loss of your clothes, I can repay you in time. I will work in the kitchen—”
“You are welcome to the clothes, Keturah, ” he said, “though why you needed them I cannot imagine. All I ask is that you keep our secret about the hart.”
“I will, sir—John.”
“Keturah, I credit you with the grand idea of improving the village—building a road and freeing the mill of rats. Everyone credits you with the idea. And therein lies the problem.”
“Problem?”
“Yesterday, when they thought you had only been stolen by fairies, they found you alarming, shall we say. They fear the fairies and their wild-wood magic, and they were nervous of one who had supposedly communed with them.”
“I have seen no fairies, nor their enchanted halls,” I said.
John turned away from the window and smiled kindly. “I believe you,” he said. “But now this new tale—that is another thing altogether. No one has seen a fairy—’tis like there is no such thing. But all have seen Death’s handiwork, and they all hate him, down to a man. Now they fear you with a fear that begets hatred, Keturah. The air around you, they think, is infected with death. They despise you because you remind them of their own mortality. The sight of you bodes their own end.”
I looked at my feet.
“That leads me to the problem, Keturah. You see, because it was your idea to build the road, they will no longer do it. They—they believe that you are on Death’s errand.”
I looked up at him in alarm. “But it is just the opposite!” I cried.
He studied me a few moments and then gestured to a chair. “Sit, Keturah. You are trembling.”
Gratefully, I sat down. “Sir, I would tell you my story, but you would not believe me.”
“My name is John, and I will believe you, Keturah.” His eyes were full upon me. Every bit of him seemed willing to listen.
“But you don’t know me. How will you believe the tale I am about to tell?”
“I’ve known you for almost your whole life. I’ve listened to you tell stories around the common fire, and watched how even as a young girl you captivated your listeners.”
“But—but you were never there.”
“Ah, but I was. Hiding nearby, in the shadows where no one could see,” he said.
I remembered him as a young lad, always on the edge of village activities. He played football with the boys, but was not allowed to join in the festivities of the winning team afterward. He helped in the fields, but went to the manor after the
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