And then there was her musical voice right by his ear. And the constant hum of his arm under the feminine pressure of her ungloved hand.
The sheer willpower it took not to kiss her caused him to speak very little. He had never felt this way around a woman before. It was thoroughly unnerving. No! Don’t think about it! Look at the ground. Note the shape of the pebbles. Argh! Why must she turn her head toward me when she speaks? Her breath is so warm…
And so, Barnaby suffered in almost complete silence while Miss Tully chattered away cheerfully and did terrible things to his self-control.
His relief when they reached their destination was immense. Finally, people would be present whom he could place between himself and Miss Tully.
“Now remember,” she said, separating from him at last to knock on the door of the rather primitive cottage, “Old Magda suffers from senility. She might be able to recall the whole history of Fenwick or be unable to remember her own name. We will not know what windows of her mind will be shuttered today. She might be confused and will need our patience. Please be kind to her. Although,” she added, her gaze both direct and soft, “I believe you would have been without my asking.”
Barnaby had no chance to answer before the door swung open, a man filling its frame with his burly shape. Despite his brutish size, his face lit up with childlike glee at the sight of Miss Tully.
“Ma!” he called back over his shoulder, “here’s a visitor come for you.” He took Miss Tully’s hand in both his own. “Bless you, Miss Joy. She could use the company. Her leg has been bothering her something awful, and she’s been unable to potter about as she usually does.”
“How is she, Brennan? Will she know me?”
The gentle giant shook his head. “Hard to say. Comes and goes. You know how it is.”
“I understand,” answered Miss Tully, her sparkle quite gone for the first time. “Brennan, this is Mr. Barnaby Ash. He is researching a fascinating legend about Fenwick. I told him Magda might be able to help. But he knows we can make no promises. Would you mind if he talks to her, asks her some questions?”
Brennan shrugged. “His presence will make no difference to my mother. Sometimes we are as much strangers to her as Mr. Ash here.” He reached out a massive hand to take Barnaby’s and shook it without crushing it, for which Barnaby was exceedingly grateful. “Brennan Eiger at your service, sir. Please, do come in.”
The entrance was dimly lit. The windows were small and the rooms equally compact. Their host led them through to a large space which turned out to be the kitchen. A thick pine table stood center stage, the stone floor keeping the room cool in the late May sun and no doubt absorbing and maintaining a deep heat in the winter. A cauldron hung from a stand over a small fire, something that smelled delicious bubbling inside.
A woman of indeterminate old age—seemingly made up entirely of wrinkles—sat beside the cooking pot, stirring hypnotically. At their approach, she looked up and smiled, the lines in her face gathering and shuffling back toward her ears.
“Miss Joy! Have you come for lunch? Is the service finished already? Where are Jenny and the children?”
“They’re not back yet, Ma,” said Mr. Eiger. “That new vicar likes to talk the hind legs off a mule. But Miss Joy has brought a new friend to meet you. He wants to know more about Fenwick. And you’ve got all those stories in yer head.”
“Ah,” said the old woman wistfully, “not always. They go walking about on their own sometimes.”
“I’m Barnaby Ash,” said Barnaby, pulling up a chair from the table so that he could sit opposite Old Magda. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“My,” said Magda to Miss Tully, “Where did you find this gentleman? And one who’s interested in our little corner of the world, no less.”
“Please do not be impressed by my attire,” Barnaby answered. “I grew up in a home not unlike this one. My father was a tenant farmer. In fact, when my little sister began to speak, she called me Barn Baby.”
Barnaby ignored the grin that he knew was forming upon Miss Tully’s lovely mouth. He wanted to set Old Magda at ease, and this little snippet from his past would hopefully do the trick.
“I suppose,” he continued, “these were words my little sister understood. They were familiar in our world. She obviously did not picture me turning to a life of books. I have my parents to thank that I did. They were determined I should be properly educated. But I have not forgotten whose son I am. And I would love to know more about your childhood, ma’am. If you’d be willing to share your stories with me.”
Old Magda glowed at his words. “Did you hear that Bren? He called me ‘ma’am.’ What a polite boy.”
Barnaby had not been referred to as a boy for several very full decades, but it felt right coming from a woman who could well be approaching a century in age.
“Did your parents speak to you about the local myths?” he prodded gently.
The wrinkles fell back into place as Magda’s smile collapsed. “My parents worked hard. They had no time for stories.”
“Didn’t you mention your grandmother would tell you all manner of tales to help you sleep?” Miss Tully reminded her.
Magda’s jaw softened. “Oh, yes. She made most of them up. Had a wonderful imagination, she did.” She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. “And there were many stories from the Old Times. My parents would not have approved. But then, they never knew.”
“Did any of these … imaginings take place in Fenwick?” Barnaby tried not to sound too hopeful, but he leaned forward as if to enter the secret circle.
“Let me think on that…” Old Magda stared into the fire, the spoon moving rhythmically through the aromatic contents of the cauldron.
Silence fell upon the room.
