her lips.
“‘Oh, when I saw my love out the church go,
“‘With the bridesmen and bridesmaids they made a fine show,
“‘Then I followed after with my heart full of woe,
“‘For I was the man should have had her.’“
She heard Edward humming the plaintive tune as he struggled to change silk thread to silver, with the aid of every silver sixpence and threepenny bit in his pocket.
Hour after hour they worked together. By now they knew each other’s methods and abilities; they could guess in advance what Martha needed to prepare to ensure that Edward’s magic was not overstretched.
This advantage was offset by such problems as an asymmetrical overdress looped up with a garland of alternating knots of pearls and bouquets of flowers. Though they simplified the ornaments, it was still dreadfully complicated.
Dawn crept through the mullioned windows, and still they laboured.
Martha’s arms were heavy, her hands cramping, her fingertips sore. She did not complain. Edward’s pale, tight face and cautious movements told her his shoulder and leg hurt, yet he never paused to rest. Courage and kindness—for her sake, for her family’s sake, he defied pain as resolutely as he defied the duke’s orders.
Recalling his sensitivity when she enquired about his mother’s healing powers, she said nothing. Had he not been a man and she a maid, had he not been a lord and she a villager, she’d have offered to rub his shoulder and his leg. Though magic could not ease his suffering, sweet herb unguents might, and hot fomentations, or cold compresses.
Once she was duchess, his superior in rank and his cousin by marriage, she would see that he had the care he needed, she vowed.
“Don’t fall asleep now, Martha,” he said with an effortful smile. “We are nearly finished. The very last thing I need is a rosebud to copy for this corsage.”
“I cannot make a rosebud with sackcloth. Is there a strip of crimson silk?”
“Here.” The green scrap Edward passed her changed colour as it changed hands.
Snip, snip, a deft twist, a few stitches, and a rosebud blossomed. “I was not going to sleep, just thinking about what I shall do when I am a duchess.”
With a disheartened expression, he said wryly, “I hope you will not be disappointed. Remember, the duke will still be your master, even when you are his wife.”
Fixing his gaze on the silk flower, he muttered, gestured. Two rosebuds appeared, then four, eight...
“We only need three,” Martha protested, and then gasped as a rich, summery fragrance reached her.
The deep red roses heaped on the table were real!
She picked up three or four, avoiding the thorns, and raised them to breathe in their sweetness. Over their velvety heads, her eyes sought Edward’s face.
He avoided her gaze. “I’m sorry, I lost control for a moment. I shall get rid of them.”
“I wish I could keep just one,” she said wistfully.
“A rose in January is bound to arouse Reggie’s suspicion. I cannot begin to imagine what he might think.”
The flowers in Martha’s hands turned to sackcloth. On the table lay three silk rosebuds, pathetically artificial after the real thing.
As Martha gathered them in a posy and sewed them to the shoulder of the last gown, Edward’s warnings resounded in her head. The duke would still be her master, even when she was his wife, and the duke’s suspicion was to be feared.
She stabbed her needle into the pincushion and turned to Edward. “I dread to think what his Grace will do if I give you his heir to bring up,” she said in a quavery voice.
“You promised.”
Frightened now, remembering the duke’s threats against her family, she pleaded with him. “Do not hold me to my promise. Please, Edward...my lord. I shall find another way to reward you for your help, when I am duchess.”
His face twisted and he said sadly, “Very well. If you can find out my faerie name within three days, I
“‘Oh, when I saw my love out the church go,
“‘With the bridesmen and bridesmaids they made a fine show,
“‘Then I followed after with my heart full of woe,
“‘For I was the man should have had her.’“
She heard Edward humming the plaintive tune as he struggled to change silk thread to silver, with the aid of every silver sixpence and threepenny bit in his pocket.
Hour after hour they worked together. By now they knew each other’s methods and abilities; they could guess in advance what Martha needed to prepare to ensure that Edward’s magic was not overstretched.
This advantage was offset by such problems as an asymmetrical overdress looped up with a garland of alternating knots of pearls and bouquets of flowers. Though they simplified the ornaments, it was still dreadfully complicated.
Dawn crept through the mullioned windows, and still they laboured.
Martha’s arms were heavy, her hands cramping, her fingertips sore. She did not complain. Edward’s pale, tight face and cautious movements told her his shoulder and leg hurt, yet he never paused to rest. Courage and kindness—for her sake, for her family’s sake, he defied pain as resolutely as he defied the duke’s orders.
Recalling his sensitivity when she enquired about his mother’s healing powers, she said nothing. Had he not been a man and she a maid, had he not been a lord and she a villager, she’d have offered to rub his shoulder and his leg. Though magic could not ease his suffering, sweet herb unguents might, and hot fomentations, or cold compresses.
Once she was duchess, his superior in rank and his cousin by marriage, she would see that he had the care he needed, she vowed.
“Don’t fall asleep now, Martha,” he said with an effortful smile. “We are nearly finished. The very last thing I need is a rosebud to copy for this corsage.”
“I cannot make a rosebud with sackcloth. Is there a strip of crimson silk?”
“Here.” The green scrap Edward passed her changed colour as it changed hands.
Snip, snip, a deft twist, a few stitches, and a rosebud blossomed. “I was not going to sleep, just thinking about what I shall do when I am a duchess.”
With a disheartened expression, he said wryly, “I hope you will not be disappointed. Remember, the duke will still be your master, even when you are his wife.”
Fixing his gaze on the silk flower, he muttered, gestured. Two rosebuds appeared, then four, eight...
“We only need three,” Martha protested, and then gasped as a rich, summery fragrance reached her.
The deep red roses heaped on the table were real!
She picked up three or four, avoiding the thorns, and raised them to breathe in their sweetness. Over their velvety heads, her eyes sought Edward’s face.
He avoided her gaze. “I’m sorry, I lost control for a moment. I shall get rid of them.”
“I wish I could keep just one,” she said wistfully.
“A rose in January is bound to arouse Reggie’s suspicion. I cannot begin to imagine what he might think.”
The flowers in Martha’s hands turned to sackcloth. On the table lay three silk rosebuds, pathetically artificial after the real thing.
As Martha gathered them in a posy and sewed them to the shoulder of the last gown, Edward’s warnings resounded in her head. The duke would still be her master, even when she was his wife, and the duke’s suspicion was to be feared.
She stabbed her needle into the pincushion and turned to Edward. “I dread to think what his Grace will do if I give you his heir to bring up,” she said in a quavery voice.
“You promised.”
Frightened now, remembering the duke’s threats against her family, she pleaded with him. “Do not hold me to my promise. Please, Edward...my lord. I shall find another way to reward you for your help, when I am duchess.”
His face twisted and he said sadly, “Very well. If you can find out my faerie name within three days, I
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