Rev. Taylor stepped forward, waving at Barnaby to join him. “Mr. Tully, we have a learned visitor here. He is staying up at Hill House and has made a most fascinating discovery. Show him, Mr. Ash.”
Barnaby looked around at the expectant faces. “I’d rather not open the manuscript in the garden, if you don’t mind. It’s very old and valuable.”
“Well, you’d best come in then,” said Miss Tully, throwing the door open wider for Barnaby to enter.
The crowd pushed forward to follow.
“Oy, not you lot,” cried Mr. Tully. “Just the reverend and this Mr. Ash fellow. Me parlor ’as just been swept. Come on in, Reverend, and wipe yer feet.”
Grumbles of protest emerged from the bystanders, but Mr. Tully was not moved. He simply ushered his unwanted guests inside and shut the door—perhaps a little more firmly than necessary.
“What’s this about a manuscript?” he said, turning to face Barnaby and glaring uncharitably at the parcel in his hands. “I’m not a scholar meself. I can keep the records well enough for the church, but I don’t know as why you’d be showing me the fancy stuff.”
Barnaby unwrapped and laid the book open upon the low table.
A gasp from Miss Tully caused him to look up. Her eyes—blue and bright—were rivetted upon the page. She leaned closer, tucking a few dark-blonde strands of hair behind her ear. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“You can read it?” asked Barnaby, his heart hitching into his throat.
“Oh no,” she replied, straightening again. “But the pictures are...” She searched for the right expression. “Almost other-worldly. The colors…” Her words trailed off as she gazed once more upon the page.
“Is it one of them old bibles wot the monks used to copy in olden times?” inquired Mr. Tully, seemingly curious in spite of himself.
“No,” answered Barnaby, turning the page with great care. “You see.” He gestured at the illustration of the dancing fae. "It speaks of fairies. Fairies that were sighted here, in Fenwick.”
Tully wiped the back of his hand across his nose and sniffed. “Can’t be holding with that sort of nonsense. I’m a God-fearing man, I am. Why do you bring this into my home, Reverend?” He looked up at the clergyman, his eyes narrowed. “You’re not one of them types who muddles up Scripture with the Old Ways, are ye?”
“Certainly not!” The young vicar’s habitual smile melted clean away. “I merely hope to help Mr. Ash here solve something of a mystery.”
“A mystery?” Miss Tully’s eyes shone up at Barnaby. “What sort of mystery?”
“The manuscript is incomplete,” he explained. “The last several pages have been torn out.”
“Oh!” The young woman’s lovely, full mouth made a perfect ‘o.’ “Who would do such a thing?”
Barnaby shook his head. “I don’t know. But it does mean the legend is incomplete. And I thought, what with it having originated right here in Fenwick on Sea, someone might be familiar with it. The good reverend had the idea to ask you, Mr. Tully, if you knew anyone among the villagers who might carry such knowledge. As church warden, you are acquainted with everyone, I assume.”
“Hmph,” came the only reply.
“Father,” Miss Tully said, reaching her hand up to his shoulder, “I have a few thoughts as to who would be best to ask. Why don’t I take this burden from you? You already do so much. And I enjoy a good bit of natter with the neighbors so much more than you do. Besides, it would be easier for Mr. Ash if I introduced him to whomever he wishes to interview. They’re unlikely to want to be questioned by a stranger.” She turned her friendly, open face to the vicar. “As for the reverend, he is no doubt far too busy. And, of course, he is little more than a stranger himself at the moment.”
“Oh, er, well,” Rev. Taylor sputtered, “I had thought I might tag along, so to speak. Get to know people as we go.”
“You are very dedicated, I am sure, vicar,” she countered, “but we don’t want folk talking to you about their spiritual needs while poor Mr. Ash is trying to solve his mystery, do we?” She lifted her twinkling eyes to Barnaby, and winked!
The effect upon Barnaby’s person was most disconcerting. A tremor ran through him, as if a light quake had shifted the ground. Women did not tend to move him in this way. His mother, his sisters: they were a part of him, as much as his hand or elbow. Yet he did not think of them any more than one ponders one’s heartbeat, even though he valued them as much as his own life.
As for ladies of society… These were generally a frilly sort of enigma best avoided. Beyond these, everyone else of the female persuasion moved like shadows in his periphery. To be quite honest, Barnaby seldom partook of gentlemen’s company either, unless they loved to talk about books, or history farther back in time than a mere century ago.
Under the circumstances, it was rare for him to engage with spinsters—and Miss Tully was clearly old enough to qualify as one. He guessed her to be at least thirty years of age, although her blonde hair hid very well any clues as to how far past thirty she might be. Spinsters tended not to move in the same circles as he. Or, if they did, they were sweet, grey-haired ladies who lived with their brothers and organized a pot of tea for him while he worked at whatever task for which their siblings had employed him.
Miss Joy Tully, however, did not slot into a predictable category. She was alert, curious, even a little playful. He could not picture her sitting and sewing all day. The way she had leaned in to gaze upon the manuscript… It had suited her. He could imagine her tilting her head quizzically and asking to know more. And Barnaby… Well, he rather liked the idea of spending hours with her, telling her everything she wanted to know.
He became aware that he was staring. The room had gone silent, all eyes upon him as if he were expected to say something.
“Er,” he said, feeling more than a little foolish. “I do not wish to be a bother…”
“Tch! Don’t be silly,” Miss Tully scolded him. “You are nothing of the sort. I’ll just get my bonnet, and we’ll be off. And while we walk,” she called over her shoulder as she left the room, “you can tell me all about this unfinished tale.”
