The Demon's Bride by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online Page A

was too young to fight it.” Lady Ida grimaced at Rachel, though she supposed it was meant to be a smile. “I can tweak his chain, though. You’ll see. You’ll see.”
    Rachel had no idea what this was about. What a fool she had been to come to this affair. She was heartily relieved to find that she was to go into dinner on the arm of young Mr. Home-Nowlan. This was completely appropriate to her lowly station and she could be comfortable in his company.
    In time, the ladies left to take tea, but the gentlemen soon joined them in the drawing room, bringing the port with them. Morden didn’t attempt to pester her, but she caught him looking at her with disquieting amusement. She felt horribly like an animal being stalked by a very patient and sure-footed predator.
    The conversation soon touched on the various local Christmastide superstitions, and moved from there to the long memories of country folk.
    Sir George said, “My people are still in a fret about their lost eleven days.”
    “Indeed,” said Reverend Proudfoot with a chuckle. “Only the other day, James Crowbourne’s widow told me that he’d have lived another week and a half if the government hadn’t taken to fooling with matters best left alone. The resentment lingers here, more than in other places. Back in Somerset, I’d hardly heard the matter mentioned in years, but here it has come up again and again. Why only the other day the gardener was pressing me as to when Easter would have been in the old style.”
    “Simple enough question, I’d think,” said Lady Ida.
    Rachel was having difficulty ignoring the earl, especially as he was sitting in her line of sight, wielding his absurdly beautiful fan, and watching her. . . .
    “On the contrary, my dear lady. It is a very complex calculation to do with the phases of the moon. I am not sure that I could do it correctly. I am happy to follow the liturgical calendar sent out by the bishop.”
    “If you want my opinion,” said Sir George, “they’re still fretting about Dym’s Night.”
    Rachel’s attention snapped to the baronet.
    “So you know of Dym’s Night, Sir George?” her father asked, eyes sharp.
    “Course I do,” said Sir George with some affront. “Family’s been in these parts forever. Can trace the line back before the Conquest.”
    “And Dym’s Night goes back that far?”
    “That or farther. Back before . . . well, just before. Everyone knows that.”
    “Can you tell us what you know, Sir George?” Reverend Proudfoot asked, looking around. “If no one else objects to my indulging my curiosity.”
    “Not at all,” said Morden. “I too am very interested in the subject.”
    Sir George looked a little taken aback at being the center of attention, but he was game. “Well, sir, let me see. What I know, eh? Demmed if I know what I know.” He scratched beneath his brown wig. “Well, you all must know of Walpurgis Night.”
    “Yes,” said Morden, “we all know of Walpurgis Night. The question is: Is it the eve of Saint Walburga’s feast day, or the night of the demon Waldborg?”
    Sir George swiveled to face him. “Dym’s Night? When a Walpurgis Night falls on Ascension Day? There’s not been a Dym’s Night in my lifetime, Morden, nor in my father’s, and with the fiddling with the calendar, I’ll go odds no one knows if there’ll ever be a real one again.”
    “A real one?” Morden queried.
    Sir George flushed. “A proper one. I mean, a . . .”
    Rachel interrupted out of kindness. “But you’ve been at a Walpurgis Night, Sir George?”
    “Aye, Miss Proudfoot,” said Sir George, turning to her in relief. Then he glanced at his wife and added hastily, “Before me marriage, of course.”
    “Can you describe it, Sir George?” Rachel asked.
    “Well, if the ladies don’t mind a little raciness.”
    They all assured him they didn’t.
    “There’s Dym’s Bride, you see, and the goings-on are sort of like a wedding. The bride’s a young village girl, and