The Eye of the Beholder by Elizabeth Darcy Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Darcy
take a breath of the chill late autumn air. Night was falling and the forest was thick with nocturnal sounds as I stood in front of the cottage and looked out toward the village proper. My sisters most likely would not return until well into the night, which meant another lonely dinner for me.
I was too tired to go to much effort, so I contented myself with some bread and cheese and a mug of tea, dining while staring into the sitting room fire. When I was finished, I went up to my room and settled myself into the beautiful chair that Papa had carved for me. A small work table, also of Papa's making, sat at my right elbow; my inkpot and some sheets of parchment laid upon it. I was soon lost in a world of my own creation, the only sound the slight sputtering of my candle and the scratching of my quill across the parchment as I wrote. I was often happiest when occupied thus, and the worlds and characters I created called to me almost as if they were real. Rowena and Thomasina returned, but I did not heed their presence and they ignored me as well.
My eyes grew dry and gritty, and I reluctantly laid my parchment by, carefully closing the lid of my ink pot and placing my quill in its stand. I wanted to continue writing, but I was weary from the day's toils and decided that it was time for me to go to sleep. Just as I rose from my chair and moved toward my wardrobe for my night shift, I heard the door open again, and my sisters cried out. I ran to the trapdoor and poked my head through it, my heart rising into my mouth as I caught sight of my father.
"Papa!" I gasped, scrambling down the ladder. Rowena and Thomasina had risen from their chairs, but were frozen in place, stricken expressions on their faces.
"My little Mirabelle," Papa said, in a voice that belonged to a very old man.
Never before had he looked so haggard, not even after Mother's death. His face was pinched and colorless, his clothes caked with dust and mud, and he swayed slightly on his feet.
"Are you ill?" I asked, alarmed. I hurried over to him and wrapped my arm around his waist, allowing him to lean against me.
"It is not illness that troubles me," he said, cryptically. He rested his arm heavily on my shoulders and my knees buckled somewhat under the weight.
"Come, Papa, sit. You must rest."
"Yes, yes I shall." His voice was strangely detached.
"Where are the horse and wagon?"
"In the yard."
I was reluctant to leave him, but I knew that my sisters could not be trusted to take care of the horse. "Get Papa some ale and some bread and cheese," I ordered. "I shall take care of the horse."
As quickly as I was able, I hurried out of the cottage, releasing the horse from his tether and leading him into the stable. I groomed him hurriedly and saw to it that he had oats and water before returning to the wagon. It would simply have to be left in the yard for the time being, and I seized the two parcels that laid within, carrying them back to the cottage. I felt a brief bit of happiness when I saw that not a single piece of Papa's handiwork remained in the wagon, but it was immediately dispelled when I once more saw his face.
He would not speak for some time, though I tried to coax him as gently as I was able. At last, I pulled a stool over to his chair and sat at his knee, peering at his face and waiting anxiously for him to speak. My sisters had provided him with ale and food, but he touched nothing. Instead, he sat in his chair and stared vacantly into the fire.
When two hours had passed, a look of resignation crossed his features and he sighed so loudly that my sisters both started. Eagerly, I looked up into his face.
"My daughters, I have the unpleasant duty of telling you a tale I would sooner forget, were it possible," he said. He shuddered and passed a hand over his eyes. "And yet it must be told, for I cannot ignore what has come to pass, lest I place us all in grave danger."
"Grave danger?" I asked. A chill descend upon me and I shivered.
Papa
I was too tired to go to much effort, so I contented myself with some bread and cheese and a mug of tea, dining while staring into the sitting room fire. When I was finished, I went up to my room and settled myself into the beautiful chair that Papa had carved for me. A small work table, also of Papa's making, sat at my right elbow; my inkpot and some sheets of parchment laid upon it. I was soon lost in a world of my own creation, the only sound the slight sputtering of my candle and the scratching of my quill across the parchment as I wrote. I was often happiest when occupied thus, and the worlds and characters I created called to me almost as if they were real. Rowena and Thomasina returned, but I did not heed their presence and they ignored me as well.
My eyes grew dry and gritty, and I reluctantly laid my parchment by, carefully closing the lid of my ink pot and placing my quill in its stand. I wanted to continue writing, but I was weary from the day's toils and decided that it was time for me to go to sleep. Just as I rose from my chair and moved toward my wardrobe for my night shift, I heard the door open again, and my sisters cried out. I ran to the trapdoor and poked my head through it, my heart rising into my mouth as I caught sight of my father.
"Papa!" I gasped, scrambling down the ladder. Rowena and Thomasina had risen from their chairs, but were frozen in place, stricken expressions on their faces.
"My little Mirabelle," Papa said, in a voice that belonged to a very old man.
Never before had he looked so haggard, not even after Mother's death. His face was pinched and colorless, his clothes caked with dust and mud, and he swayed slightly on his feet.
"Are you ill?" I asked, alarmed. I hurried over to him and wrapped my arm around his waist, allowing him to lean against me.
"It is not illness that troubles me," he said, cryptically. He rested his arm heavily on my shoulders and my knees buckled somewhat under the weight.
"Come, Papa, sit. You must rest."
"Yes, yes I shall." His voice was strangely detached.
"Where are the horse and wagon?"
"In the yard."
I was reluctant to leave him, but I knew that my sisters could not be trusted to take care of the horse. "Get Papa some ale and some bread and cheese," I ordered. "I shall take care of the horse."
As quickly as I was able, I hurried out of the cottage, releasing the horse from his tether and leading him into the stable. I groomed him hurriedly and saw to it that he had oats and water before returning to the wagon. It would simply have to be left in the yard for the time being, and I seized the two parcels that laid within, carrying them back to the cottage. I felt a brief bit of happiness when I saw that not a single piece of Papa's handiwork remained in the wagon, but it was immediately dispelled when I once more saw his face.
He would not speak for some time, though I tried to coax him as gently as I was able. At last, I pulled a stool over to his chair and sat at his knee, peering at his face and waiting anxiously for him to speak. My sisters had provided him with ale and food, but he touched nothing. Instead, he sat in his chair and stared vacantly into the fire.
When two hours had passed, a look of resignation crossed his features and he sighed so loudly that my sisters both started. Eagerly, I looked up into his face.
"My daughters, I have the unpleasant duty of telling you a tale I would sooner forget, were it possible," he said. He shuddered and passed a hand over his eyes. "And yet it must be told, for I cannot ignore what has come to pass, lest I place us all in grave danger."
"Grave danger?" I asked. A chill descend upon me and I shivered.
Papa