HEBE LOLLEDon the smaller window seat of her bedchamber which overlooked the moat to the east, elbows on the ledge as she turned the last page ofThe Wicked Rakehell Deceives the Innocent Debutanteby Mrs Lily Longleat.
The rakehell had indeed been wicked and the debutante had indeed been innocent and the hero had indeed been all that was good and honourable and virtuous and…
Boring.
Sighing, she flung the book aside and glanced to the landscape clad in its ebony night cloth. Any lingering clouds had fled at sunset, leaving a clear twilight, but a coolness still pervaded the air, despite this being the month of August.
Lord Ernest had joined them for dinner, which had been a pleasant affair in the smaller dining room – capable of squeezing in a mere thirty – his tales from the castle’s past amusing Hebe and stripping the sadness from Aunt. Murmurs of a bad harvest to come had been less amusing, the sodden spring and now warmer days causing blight upon the crops and ruts upon his lordship’s forehead.
The moon sprayed its beams upon the brimming moat, water lapping the banks from the plentiful rains.
A captivating place with…
Two swans floated into view and Hebe pushed her nose to the leaded glass. She really must sketch them.
Then five, no six, what looked to be fluffy balls drifted after them – their cygnets born early summer.
That magical atmosphere surged upon her once more, pulsing and vibrant, purging her soul of that scene in the maze, ousting, perhaps, the bitterness which had encased her heart for so long.
For the beautiful nature of this place forced emotions to the surface, but instead of the sourness and sadness that might once have arisen, a certain contentment settled within her.
The two swans faced one another and nuzzled, their serpentine necks arching and swaying until their beaks met and a perfect heart was displayed by the lovers, reflecting on the moat in the moon’s alabastrine glow.
Such beauty, innocent yet sensual, wild yet benevolent, caused a sigh.
But then a disturbance to the surface caused a frown and she prayed no predator hunted in these waters. Could foxes swim?
Although…
Foxes did not possess muscled arms that sliced through water with such grace.
Or feet that kicked, causing ripples to scatter.
Or a moon-streaked lean torso that could haul itself onto the bank and sit on the edge with legs dangling.
The swans glided towards Lord Ernest and Hebe held her breath, for everyone knew the elegant creatures could be dangerous when with their young brood, yet they playfully pecked at his feet until he held out an open palm.
The larger swan curved its neck towards him and allowed one single stroke before it bowed and drifted away…
Hebe’s heart galloped wild as an Arabian stallion as Lord Ernest leaned back upon his elbows on the bank, appearing like some raw statue of Apollo, chest muscles flexing and cast to a pearlescent stone, unconcerned by the mortal trappings of day – yet natural and so real.
Surely that water must be cold, yet he stretched in merely soaked breeches, content to sit and watch the swans in silence.
What must it be to feel like that?
Free.
Like the swan upon that moat?
Lithe and gliding with a mate for life at one’s side. Unburdened by the past, no predators in the night, living only for the thrill of drifting within the moonbeams.
With a splash, Lord Ernest dived back in, the nebulous waters carved by arms formed pale in the moon’s luminosity.
A swan groomed its arching wing, feathers drifting free in the favonian wind and coating the moat like soft snow.
Hebe uncoiled her legs and languidly rose from the window seat.
The scene below beckoned for her to stay the night through, to watch and admire, but instead she drew the curtains and smiled to herself, for now she knew full well her disguise for the masquerade.
