Read Online Carola Dunn by The Magic of Love - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: The Magic of Love
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beastly names like Peasepudding and Beetle.”
“Shakespeare had it nearly right! Queen Titania confined you to the estate?” Martha asked, enthralled, her vital errand half forgotten.
“She doesn’t approve of marriage between faerie and mortal, dear. Though carrying-on is all right, and she does plenty of it, let me tell you. However, she made a law against proper church weddings. She didn’t hear about James and me until too late to stop us, but that made her madder than a hornet, so at my poor dear Edward’s christening...”
The woodland lake faded before Martha’s eyes.
She found herself drifting through french doors, open to a flower-filled garden, into an elegant drawing room. Facing her, Lady Tarnholm reclined on a green brocade chaise longue. She was now demurely clad in blue cloud muslin like the reflection of a summer sky in the surface of her lake, but otherwise she was unchanged.
She winked at Martha.
Behind her, holding her hand, stood a tall, well-built young man, with an attractive, amiable face, his hair tied back in a queue in the fashion of the last century. Martha recognized him as the late James, Baron Tarnholm.
His sister, the Duchess of Diss, young and pretty but with a familiar tentative air, perched on the edge of a chair. On her lap she held a bonny baby swathed in a long lace christening gown and cap. Her husband, but for his powdered hair the very image of his son Reginald, the present duke, stood beside her, looking bored. Two or three older people Martha did not know sat in a group.
Over this gathering presided a youthful Swithin Stewart, Vicar of Willow Cross, in his clerical bands. As Martha watched, he picked up a silver chalice of holy water and took a step towards where the baby lay gurgling placidly in his godmother’s arms.
A small, lithe mannikin dressed all in Lincoln green with a red cap darted in through the french doors, crying out, “Daphne, ‘ware the queen! ‘Ware Mab!”
Lady Tarnholm sprang to her feet and ran towards her child. Half way there she stopped, rooted to the Wilton carpet, as a swarm of slender sprites rushed into the room in a smoky swirl of gossamer draperies.
Their leader, tall and beautiful, crowned with a garland of rare orchids, laughed a silvery laugh with a spiteful undertone. “Aha, the baby in the duchess’s arms. This is a task for you, Peppercorn.”
One of her followers moved forward, her grin revealing pointed teeth. She began to recite an incantation, and as she spoke, Martha saw to her horror the baby’s little face melting and changing.
“‘I speak severely to my boy,
“‘I beat him when he sneezes;
“‘For he can thoroughly enjoy
“‘The pepper when he...’
Aa...aaa...atchooo.”
Lady Tarnholm was vigorously shaking a tiny, lace-edged handkerchief at her, shouting “Off with her head! Off with her head!”
Except for Martha, who was not really there, all the humans in the room started to sneeze helplessly, including the baby. His nose had turned into a pig’s snout, his tiny hands into pointed trotters.
“Stickleback!” shouted the queen.
Peppercorn retreated, still sneezing, but the rest of the faerie court were unaffected by Lady Tarnholm’s counter-spell. Another came forward, hands slowly waving like a fish’s fins. The baby’s eyes grew fishy and silvery scales covered his piggy ears.
Perhaps Queen Mab had forgotten that her rebellious subject was a water sprite. Lady Tarnholm had considerable power over aquatic creatures, and as she fought back with words and gestures, her son’s features distorted again, changing back towards humanity.
“Toadstool!” Mab shrieked.
Again a water creature: In the battle, the baby’s skin shifted between pink and muddy greenish-brown, warts erupted and vanished, eyes protruded and subsided. But Toadstool had no real connection with toads. Lady Tarnholm was winning.
“Foxglove!” The queen’s last follower.
As
“Shakespeare had it nearly right! Queen Titania confined you to the estate?” Martha asked, enthralled, her vital errand half forgotten.
“She doesn’t approve of marriage between faerie and mortal, dear. Though carrying-on is all right, and she does plenty of it, let me tell you. However, she made a law against proper church weddings. She didn’t hear about James and me until too late to stop us, but that made her madder than a hornet, so at my poor dear Edward’s christening...”
The woodland lake faded before Martha’s eyes.
She found herself drifting through french doors, open to a flower-filled garden, into an elegant drawing room. Facing her, Lady Tarnholm reclined on a green brocade chaise longue. She was now demurely clad in blue cloud muslin like the reflection of a summer sky in the surface of her lake, but otherwise she was unchanged.
She winked at Martha.
Behind her, holding her hand, stood a tall, well-built young man, with an attractive, amiable face, his hair tied back in a queue in the fashion of the last century. Martha recognized him as the late James, Baron Tarnholm.
His sister, the Duchess of Diss, young and pretty but with a familiar tentative air, perched on the edge of a chair. On her lap she held a bonny baby swathed in a long lace christening gown and cap. Her husband, but for his powdered hair the very image of his son Reginald, the present duke, stood beside her, looking bored. Two or three older people Martha did not know sat in a group.
Over this gathering presided a youthful Swithin Stewart, Vicar of Willow Cross, in his clerical bands. As Martha watched, he picked up a silver chalice of holy water and took a step towards where the baby lay gurgling placidly in his godmother’s arms.
A small, lithe mannikin dressed all in Lincoln green with a red cap darted in through the french doors, crying out, “Daphne, ‘ware the queen! ‘Ware Mab!”
Lady Tarnholm sprang to her feet and ran towards her child. Half way there she stopped, rooted to the Wilton carpet, as a swarm of slender sprites rushed into the room in a smoky swirl of gossamer draperies.
Their leader, tall and beautiful, crowned with a garland of rare orchids, laughed a silvery laugh with a spiteful undertone. “Aha, the baby in the duchess’s arms. This is a task for you, Peppercorn.”
One of her followers moved forward, her grin revealing pointed teeth. She began to recite an incantation, and as she spoke, Martha saw to her horror the baby’s little face melting and changing.
“‘I speak severely to my boy,
“‘I beat him when he sneezes;
“‘For he can thoroughly enjoy
“‘The pepper when he...’
Aa...aaa...atchooo.”
Lady Tarnholm was vigorously shaking a tiny, lace-edged handkerchief at her, shouting “Off with her head! Off with her head!”
Except for Martha, who was not really there, all the humans in the room started to sneeze helplessly, including the baby. His nose had turned into a pig’s snout, his tiny hands into pointed trotters.
“Stickleback!” shouted the queen.
Peppercorn retreated, still sneezing, but the rest of the faerie court were unaffected by Lady Tarnholm’s counter-spell. Another came forward, hands slowly waving like a fish’s fins. The baby’s eyes grew fishy and silvery scales covered his piggy ears.
Perhaps Queen Mab had forgotten that her rebellious subject was a water sprite. Lady Tarnholm had considerable power over aquatic creatures, and as she fought back with words and gestures, her son’s features distorted again, changing back towards humanity.
“Toadstool!” Mab shrieked.
Again a water creature: In the battle, the baby’s skin shifted between pink and muddy greenish-brown, warts erupted and vanished, eyes protruded and subsided. But Toadstool had no real connection with toads. Lady Tarnholm was winning.
“Foxglove!” The queen’s last follower.
As
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