When Margery looked ready to continue the fight, Lenora held up a hand. “It’s all right, Margery.”
“Oh, dearest, are you certain?”
She forced a smile and nodded. “Of course. Iwantto go to the pools. We had so many lovely times there; it will be good to return.”
Which was a blatant lie. She hadn’t fooled Margery, if the dubious look she gave her was any indication, but her friend was too sweet natured to force the issue.
Blessedly the meal was quickly over. Lenora could no longer maintain an air of calm contentedness. Sheknewthat she needed to visit the pools and face the memories of Hillram that were wrapped up in them. That was what she had come to the Isle for, after all, to face her guilt over his death. But thus far she’d done an abysmal job of it.
She pressed a fist into her midsection as she climbed the stairs to change. But ah, God, how she wished she never had to remember.
***
Of all the things Peter never expected to feel in his lifetime, jealousy over a dead man had to top that list.
He kept to the rear of their small party as they trudged through the copse of trees leading to the famed Elven Pools. Their footsteps were overloud on the well-worn dirt path, the sound echoing off the thick foliage. A crow called from the depths of the trees, the harsh cry echoed by its brethren overhead, an apt companion to their morose group.
In front of him, Miss Hartley stumbled on the path. He tensed, ready to drop his bundle of art supplies and jump to her aid. She quickly righted herself, however, and continued on after Quincy and Mrs. Kitteridge. Her steps, he noted, were slower than normal, her typical quickness made sluggish by her recent upset.
He would never, for the rest of his days, forget the look of shock that had etched itself into her face when her dead fiancé had been mentioned. He had at once wanted to comfort her and berate Mrs. Kitteridge and Lady Tesh for bringing it up at all.
There had been a time when Peter had resented Hillram. The boy had never been forced to come crawling for even the smallest scrap. While Peter had sat huddled in his cramped attic room, wiping sweat from his mother’s clammy brow, Hillram had lived a life of ease and comfort.
Now, however, Peter was to have everything the duke’s son had been destined from birth to receive. Yet even in death, the man was besting him. For in all the years that had passed, Peter had never felt as envious of Hillram as he did now, knowing he was the recipient of Miss Hartley’s thoughts and tears and heart.
He breathed in deeply, the heavy saltiness of the ocean mingling with heady pine and rich earth. It made no sense that he should despise a man simply for being loved by Miss Hartley, for he certainly had no intention of loving her himself. He would leave the Isle free of entanglements, would never marry and carry on the Ashford name, would let the title die with him. He had never wished to marry, and so there would be no sacrifice in it. There was little he wanted less than the necessary closeness of such a relationship, or to bring a child into a union that would no doubt sour before the first year was through.
A strange ache started up in his chest. He frowned, fighting the urge to rub at the spot. That could not be regret he was feeling at the thought of leaving. He was determined in his plans, and would be happy to turn his back on the place when the time came.
Yet when a stray shaft of sunlight caught in Miss Hartley’s golden hair, drawing his eyes and making his heart skip a beat, he rather thought it would not be as easy as he’d hoped. Mrs. Kitteridge spoke then, the only one who seemed inclined to do so. Or perhaps she was merely following Lady Tesh’s orders to spoon-feed him every morsel of family history she could manage in some misguided attempt to make him feel a connection to the Isle.
“The Norsemen believed in the existence of elves, thus the name of the pools.” She sounded like a governess addressing her charges, though her voice warbled with strain. “It’s thought there were two types of elves. The darker ones were earth dwellers, quite possibly akin to trolls. The lighter ones resided in some elf world, though its name eludes me…”
Her voice trailed off, as if swallowed up by the very shadows that embraced them.
“Álfheimr.”
Miss Hartley’s soft voice drifted into the heavy atmosphere, the strange word rolling off her tongue, sending a shiver up his spine.
Mrs. Kitteridge looked back over her shoulder at her friend. “What was that, dearest?”
“Álfheimr,” Miss Hartley said again, stronger this time. “That’s the name of the elf world in Old Norse. Actually the name literally means ‘elf home’ or ‘elf world,’ as it derives from the Old Norse word for elves, ‘alfar.’”
Just then the tree line opened up, a small valley spreading out before them of low, craggy rocks and lush vegetation. A wide river cut through it.
They stepped from the shadows of the trees, and it was as if the dark spirits that had held them in thrall through the morning fell away. Mrs. Kitteridge and Quincy walked a bit faster, heading for the river, their cheerful voices carrying on the air. Peter followed, yet kept his attention on Miss Hartley. The sun—or perhaps it had been the retelling of the old Norse history—had appeared to affect her as well. She stood a bit straighter, walked a bit quicker. So focused was he on Miss Hartley he didn’t immediately notice that the rest of their party had stopped at the riverbed. The path ended there, taking up again on the far bank. And in between lay the river, fast moving and clear as glass. Large boulders had been placed across the width, their tops worn flat by centuries of use, though the faint gouges still remained of some long-dead craftsman’s chisel.
“I do hope you gentlemen are not fond of your boots,” Mrs. Kitteridge said as Peter and Miss Hartley joined them, “for this is where we cross. But take care, for the stones can be slippery, and your boots will be the least of your worries should you lose your footing.”
Quincy grinned and leapt onto the first of the boulders before turning to assist Mrs. Kitteridge. That lady chuckled, accepting his hand as she picked her way across with more care. Soon they were safe on the far bank and heading up the gentle rise on the other side.
Miss Hartley contemplated the water as it gurgled merrily along. Peter briefly wondered if she was remembering crossing these very stones with her sweetheart, before he brutally squashed that thought.
“I’ll be happy to assist you across,” he said, in truth anything but. For he certainly had no wish to grasp that slender, graceful hand in his rough one, to feel that now familiar electrical jolt at the contact.
His suggestion seemed to jerk her back to herself. “Thank you, but no. I’ve made this trek a thousand times.” She took her skirts in one hand, lifting the hem halfway up her calves before stepping with certainty onto the first rock.
Peter just stopped himself from staring at the slender bit of stocking-clad leg, the delicate ankle, the small feet encased in sturdy little half boots. To distract himself as he followed, placing his foot firmly on the smooth top of the boulder before heaving himself fully onto it, he said, “You seem to know a good deal of Norse mythology.”
