Read Online The Penwyth Bride (The Witch's Daughter Book 1) by Ani Bolton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ani Bolton
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’ee?”
“If you could call it riding,” I replied with a slight smile.
“Come here. I’ve something to show ’ee.”
My legs were trembling I was so tired, but even so I could not bring myself to command this lowly servant to show me the way to the house. I followed him behind the yew hedge and down a worn brick path.
He stopped at the end of an ancient stone wall covered in suffocating vine where an iron gate peeped through the green tangles. He pushed the gate open and stepped back, motioning me to look.
A ruined garden lay before me.
Blasted stumps of trees and weed-snarled paths spread in a tangled mass of dead leaves and sticklike canes. Withered blooms struggled against nightshade and ivy creeping in sinister purpose. And the scent of mourning choked the air.
The gardener spat again.
“No one up at the house comes out this way. Master and mistress ain’t much for gardens, ’cept to grow vegetables, and corn. They’ve forgotten it . . . along with many other things.”
“It was once very beautiful, wasn’t it?”
“Aye. It were.”
A powerful longing surged in me. I wanted to drop to my knees right then and there and begin to clear away the tangles from the tender shoots poking defiantly through the debris.
“I thought as much,” the old man said, nodding approvingly as I gazed about. “You come each day and set the place to right. It’s been waiting for ye.”
I hardly heard him. In my mind I could see cream-white lovage and sky blue Folk’s glove rimming a bed of orache in its extravagant flaming orange, and from somewhere secret something told me that I would be able to coax samphire to grow wildly in this soil.
“Don’t worry about Mr. Roger now, miss. He’ll not bother wi’ee for long.”
“Why should he bother with me at all?”
The old man continued as if he hadn’t heard my nettled reply, which he hadn’t.
“Eh, he’ll not bother with anyone much longer. There’s been a womb quickened where there should not be, and someone meddling where he should not.” Old eyes, slightly daft, focused blearily on me. “But your womb never will hold a child, will it, mistress?”
“What?”
“Nay, for ‘ee’s been Marked.”
My mouth felt stiff, and I could form no reply.
“You take the garden. Take it and make life grow in Cornish dirt. It be the only hope left to ye.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A great to-do was raised when I finally straggled inside the Hermitage.
“Good God!” Lady Penwyth cried when she spied me limping into the kitchen where she was supervising the sorting of feathers from a heap of freshly-plucked geese. “ What has happened to you ?”
“I got lost,” I said weakly.
Three kitchen maids, their faces splattered with blood from cleaning the birds, stared at me with enormous eyes.
Lady Penwyth’s brows snapped together. “And where is my daughter?”
“She . . . that is . . . I’m most dreadfully tired. May I go up?”
Exclamations were made over my sodden hair, muddy ankles, and pale face. I was quickly ushered upstairs, where I was informed Jenny would be sent up immediately to attend me.
“I will not ask you yet how you got into this state, Miss Eames, but be assured I will have the tale from you when you’ve recovered. Oh dear, and you’ve lost your pretty bonnet.”
Two white lines ran the corners of Lady Penwyth’s mouth. “This will not do at all,” she hissed.
With that she bustled out of my chamber, calling for Jenny.
Carefully I removed my slippers and set them to one side, loath to let mud crumble on the carpet. I longed to sit and ease my foot--the cramps were beginning to shiver up my leg-- but I did not want to ruin the needlepoint cushion. The only comfort sustaining me was the knowledge that Susannah’s mother was not fooled by my weak assurances; but it was a cold comfort. I had wanted friendship, but her actions clearly warned me off seeking it from Susannah Penwyth.
At last a tap came at the door. I opened it to
“If you could call it riding,” I replied with a slight smile.
“Come here. I’ve something to show ’ee.”
My legs were trembling I was so tired, but even so I could not bring myself to command this lowly servant to show me the way to the house. I followed him behind the yew hedge and down a worn brick path.
He stopped at the end of an ancient stone wall covered in suffocating vine where an iron gate peeped through the green tangles. He pushed the gate open and stepped back, motioning me to look.
A ruined garden lay before me.
Blasted stumps of trees and weed-snarled paths spread in a tangled mass of dead leaves and sticklike canes. Withered blooms struggled against nightshade and ivy creeping in sinister purpose. And the scent of mourning choked the air.
The gardener spat again.
“No one up at the house comes out this way. Master and mistress ain’t much for gardens, ’cept to grow vegetables, and corn. They’ve forgotten it . . . along with many other things.”
“It was once very beautiful, wasn’t it?”
“Aye. It were.”
A powerful longing surged in me. I wanted to drop to my knees right then and there and begin to clear away the tangles from the tender shoots poking defiantly through the debris.
“I thought as much,” the old man said, nodding approvingly as I gazed about. “You come each day and set the place to right. It’s been waiting for ye.”
I hardly heard him. In my mind I could see cream-white lovage and sky blue Folk’s glove rimming a bed of orache in its extravagant flaming orange, and from somewhere secret something told me that I would be able to coax samphire to grow wildly in this soil.
“Don’t worry about Mr. Roger now, miss. He’ll not bother wi’ee for long.”
“Why should he bother with me at all?”
The old man continued as if he hadn’t heard my nettled reply, which he hadn’t.
“Eh, he’ll not bother with anyone much longer. There’s been a womb quickened where there should not be, and someone meddling where he should not.” Old eyes, slightly daft, focused blearily on me. “But your womb never will hold a child, will it, mistress?”
“What?”
“Nay, for ‘ee’s been Marked.”
My mouth felt stiff, and I could form no reply.
“You take the garden. Take it and make life grow in Cornish dirt. It be the only hope left to ye.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A great to-do was raised when I finally straggled inside the Hermitage.
“Good God!” Lady Penwyth cried when she spied me limping into the kitchen where she was supervising the sorting of feathers from a heap of freshly-plucked geese. “ What has happened to you ?”
“I got lost,” I said weakly.
Three kitchen maids, their faces splattered with blood from cleaning the birds, stared at me with enormous eyes.
Lady Penwyth’s brows snapped together. “And where is my daughter?”
“She . . . that is . . . I’m most dreadfully tired. May I go up?”
Exclamations were made over my sodden hair, muddy ankles, and pale face. I was quickly ushered upstairs, where I was informed Jenny would be sent up immediately to attend me.
“I will not ask you yet how you got into this state, Miss Eames, but be assured I will have the tale from you when you’ve recovered. Oh dear, and you’ve lost your pretty bonnet.”
Two white lines ran the corners of Lady Penwyth’s mouth. “This will not do at all,” she hissed.
With that she bustled out of my chamber, calling for Jenny.
Carefully I removed my slippers and set them to one side, loath to let mud crumble on the carpet. I longed to sit and ease my foot--the cramps were beginning to shiver up my leg-- but I did not want to ruin the needlepoint cushion. The only comfort sustaining me was the knowledge that Susannah’s mother was not fooled by my weak assurances; but it was a cold comfort. I had wanted friendship, but her actions clearly warned me off seeking it from Susannah Penwyth.
At last a tap came at the door. I opened it to
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