A hundred years ago she might have been accused of witchcraft. Others had, with much less cause. But in Hecate’s case, the charges would have deserved merit. She was indeed possessed of skills and abilities that marked her as unique.
Fortunately, her family accepted these talents, listened to her, and regarded her astheirs. She was a Ridlington, and thus a member of the family, to be loved and cherished. Woe betide those who wished her harm.
She had proved herself invaluable more than a few times, and only last year had persuaded Edmund to make some risky investments. It had been a month or so before the battle at Waterloo, and he’d looked at her, somewhat nervously, before nodding. She had added some of her own savings as well.
The gamble had paid off handsomely. Edmund now had a substantial fund to use for the upkeep of Ridlington Chase, and Hecate had an account of her own that provided a comfortable income. Some would go toward fixing up the house, but in the main, she was now a woman of independent means.
Even that knowledge couldn’t stop Richard from worrying. But he restrained himself to a sigh. “We must be on our way, Hecate. I’d like to get back to Branscombe as early as we can, without risking the horses, and it’ll be getting cold once the sun disappears.”
“Of course,” she smiled. “Thank you, my dears. I am so happy this place found me while you were here.”
Cressida took a minute to work out that complex statement and then decided to keep things simple. “Us too.” She absently placed her hand against her body where a tiny flutter had made itself known.
“They’re fine,” said Hecate, walking over to give her sister-in-law a hug.
“Why you keep sayingthey, I’m not sure,” frowned Richard, a worried look on his face. “Onebaby, Hecate. One at a time.”
“Yes, Richard. Of course, Richard.” She laughed. “Cressy will know soon enough.”
The party separated with expressions of affection; the Ridlingtons rejoining the carriage and heading home toward Branscombe Magna.
Dal and Hecate remained in the doorway, watching the vehicle roll away. “So this is where we shall now reside then, Miss Hecate?” Dal looked around.
“Yes, Dal. Yes, this will be home for us.”
“It’s not as well appointed as the cottage outside Chillendale.” He sounded cautious.
“No, it isn’t. But that was a special moment. And you remember how much work it took to sustain the image of a lady’s residence.”
He nodded. “I understand. Although I shall miss it. Of all the locations in which we have stayed, that one was the nicest, I believe.”
“Then we shall use that as our model for this one. But now it will be real.”
They exchanged glances, and Dal nodded. He understood what she meant, for he had seen the full range of her abilities.
Hecate could twist reality into a different shape and style although it took an enormous amount of her energy.
He silently offered a prayer of thanks that she wouldn’t have to be doingthatanymore.
She turned into the house. “We need a name, Dal. A name for our new home.”
He blinked. “Um…Why?”
She smiled. “It’s expected of a lady to have a name for her estate, no matter how tiny. What about…” She put her finger to her chin and thought, her eyes roaming around the dark and musty interior. “Doireann Vale?”
“A strange word.Doran…” he commented, trying to get his tongue around it and pronounce it correctly. “’Tis not English?”
“It’s from a book I read once,” replied Hecate. “All about fairies and their legends. Doireann was the daughter of an Irish fairy King. I used to pretend that I was her, and that he’d given me to the Ridlingtons to keep me safe from his enemies.” She shrugged. “The innocence of childhood, Dal. Nothing more. And Vale for the position we hold, tucked between two hills, overlooking the coastline.”
Dal took a deep breath as a sudden strong gust blew around them, the salty tang of the sea snapping against their skin. “I believe the gods have listened, Miss Hecate. They have sent their approval on the wind.” He looked down at her. “Doireann Vale it is.”
He went inside, but she remained on the doorstep, looking out over the distant headlands to the sea. The waves showed white today, a mark of the turbulence disturbing the waters. As she watched, her vision blurred a little and she saw ships, several ships, making for land.
It wasn’t here, not this coastline, but another; green hills showing through drifts of fog, and spray from the crashing waves.
She heard voices, men’s voices, sailors calling to each other as they clambered up slender ropes to adjust the sails.
Somewhere, on one of these ships, was someone important.
