Midsummer Night by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online

approached. “Come along, dearest. We must get you out of that wet thing before you catch your death of cold. And you ought to know Olivia’s not speaking to me.”
    I grinned. “Yes, but you are now my favourite, so it all balances.”
    She rolled her eyes heavenward. “I have always been your favourite. Now, come along. I have an idea.”

    Portia hauled me into the Abbey where maids were busy opening all of the windows to air the place out. The atmosphere was thick with the smell of smoke, but there was little damage beyond the odd overturned chair or jostled bibelot someone had upset in the initial panic. Only Maurice the bear seemed to have sustained damage.
    “Poor old Maurice,” I commented as Portia whisked me past. “Someone’s knocked into him and his seams have split again.”
    Portia rolled her eyes. “Tarquin, no doubt. I have told that boy a thousand times he hasn’t any business playing with the taxidermy, but he will not listen.” No doubt Portia was correct. Our nephew was precocious beyond his years and had a penchant for obsessive interests. The previous winter it had been pirates, but he had since moved on to archaeology—digging up the whole of the kitchen garden in his quest for Saxon gold. His most recent interest was taxidermy, and he was not above hacking his way into every trophy in the Abbey when no one was looking.
    Portia interrupted my musings on Tarquin. “Forget about the bear and hurry up. If this works, you will look an absolute picture,” she promised.
    “Yes, but a picture of what? ” I muttered.
    She did not bother to reply. Once in my room she rang for Porter and there was a good deal of hushed discussion while the sodden remnants of the gown were stripped off and Morag was dispatched to organise a hot bath for me. I was soon whisked off to scrub myself from head to toe, and I luxuriated, soaking myself until my hands were withered. I had a good think in the scented steam, and when I emerged I scribbled a few lines of instructions and dispatched one of the footmen to the village for a project I had been inspired to undertake. By the time I was properly dressed with my hair tidied, it was striking half four and I went in search of tea.
    “There isn’t any,” Portia told me flatly. She had sent the maids off upon a variety of mysterious errands, and we were for the moment alone. She poked at a box of sweetmeats on the dressing table.
    “Those are Grim’s. If you don’t mind sharing some Turkish delight with a raven, help yourself.”
    Portia pulled a face and slammed the box closed. “Did you know there is a dead mouse in there?”
    “No, but he will have his little titbits. Now, what’s this about no tea?”
    “The fire ruined it—and dinner as well. Aquinas is laying in a supply of boiled eggs and bacon from the Home Farm, and he has ordered bread from the village baker, so at least breakfast is managed, but there is no dinner to be had. We will have to eat at the festivities tonight and hope that hare pies are enough to hold us.”
    “Festivities?”
    “Honestly, Julia, I think you would forget your feet if you did not need them to walk. Tonight is Midsummer Eve, have you forgot?”
    A feeling of dread I had been suppressing surged back. “I had. Deliberately.”
    She gave me a repressive look. “It is a special occasion for the village, and you must play your part.”
    “Portia, it is absurd. The dressing of the well ought to go to a young bride, not a widow past thirty!”
    The well, sacred since pagan times, stood on a tor overlooking the village just beyond the church of St. Barnabas. Every Midsummer Eve the well was dressed with flowers as a sort of offering to the water spirits, and the honour always fell to the bride whose wedding date was nearest Midsummer Day—usually a nubile girl with a sturdy village pedigree. Instead, I should have to put on the ceremonial robe and toil up the tor with a basket of flowers while the rest of the villagers and