Midsummer Night by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online Page A

family sported on the green, eating pies and quaffing buckets of beer and ale.
    “Thirty is not so very elderly,” Portia reminded me. “And it is an honour that must not be refused. Remember, the Abbey was not exactly on splendid terms with the village last winter. This is a perfect opportunity for us to demonstrate precisely how much the locals and their customs mean to us.”
    “Feathers,” I muttered. But Portia was not wrong. There had been plenty of grumblings the previous winter when a murder and a reputed haunting had taken place at the Abbey. The local folk had gone in fear for their own lives, and for the first time in living memory, relations between the estate and the village had cooled considerably. But Father and Aunt Hermia, the only two members of the clan who lived at the Abbey regularly, had taken great pains to repair the damage, and it was the least I could do to support them.
    The rest of the family left early for the village, no doubt starving and in hopes of securing some of the refreshments. Portia walked with me, handing me over to the village woman in charge of the affair. The blacksmith’s wife was Mrs. Netley, a thin-lipped woman whose knowledge of local history was surpassed by none. She was the church organist as well, and in the interests of not offending her the day before she was to play at my wedding, I decided to adopt an attitude of abject biddability. I stood perfectly still as she draped me in a white robe that smelt so appallingly of mothballs my eyes began to water. Then she placed an enormous crown of flowers on my head, tugging it so low I could scarcely see between the petals, and shoved a basket full of flowers into my arms. “There you are, your ladyship,” she said approvingly. “You look like a proper nymph, you do. All you need do is lift the garland out and wind it ’round the coping on the well.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Netley,” I said with suitable meekness. She towed me out of the smithy and onto the village green. The country folk from miles around had come for the festivities, and the Abbey inhabitants were there as well, as much from a desire to have a hot meal as anything else. The publican and his wife always prepared special hare pies for the occasion, the receipt an old and guarded one. It specified the pies be made from March hares—that is hares snared on March land—and Father always obliged by setting his gamekeeper to collect enough to fill the hundreds of pies the gathering would require. I smelt them, baked to puffed, golden perfection, and my mouth watered. But Mrs. Netley tapped my wrist when I reached for one.
    “After the well has been dressed, my lady,” she said firmly.
    In hungry defiance, I tucked one into my pocket for later, and picked up my basket. The publican had thrown open his cellars rather earlier than expected, and the beer and ale flowed freely. I saw Brisbane, his own pint foaming gently as he lifted it in salute to me. I pulled a face at him and set off, dragging the hem of the robe in the dirt. I struggled up the torchlit path as it wound its way upwards, ever upwards, coiling around the tor as it reached to the well. It reminded me of the labyrinths of old, the sort cloisters used to pave for contemplation. Around and around the tor I toiled, the robe dragging behind me, the basket weighing heavily on my arms.
    But as I walked, a most peculiar thing began to happen. I found myself moving more slowly, and the basket no longer seemed so weighty. The heady perfume of the flowers—dog roses and lilies of the valley and honeysuckle—filled my senses and I did not care for the squabbles of my siblings or the pettiness of my relations. I did not care for wrecked wedding breakfasts or ruined gowns or burnt kitchens. We were safe, all of us, and on the morrow I would marry the only man I had ever loved. I felt wrapped in peace that evening, and I blessed the blacksmith’s wife for insisting upon my acting the part of the bride.
    I