"My sister has left many beautiful dresses behind her," Delilah said, all sweetness. "I shall bid my maid show them to you."
Cordelia was certain that Delilah's maid would not show her anything that was too lovely.
"Or if you wish," the lord said, "I have bolts of wonderful cloth, yards of laces. Only say what you wish, and a seamstress shall labor all this night and all tomorrow, to make a gown that will delight you."
"Indeed she shall," Delilah said. "My own seamstress, if you wish it, my dear."
Cordelia had a brief vision of the kind of dress Delilah's seamstress would make for her, and smiled sweetly. "How good of you, Lady Delilah! It will not be necessary, though. However, my lord .. ." She turned back to Lord Julian. "I would see your cloths and your laces. It may be that I myself can craft a dress to my taste."
"Yourself?" The Lady Delilah tittered behind her hand. "Why, I had thought you a lady high-born, Cordelia surely not one who plies needle and thread in her own right!"
"Why, my dear, do you not embroider?" Cordelia asked, all innocence.
Delilah stared at her, paling. "Aye, most assuredly, and most excellently!"
"Why, then, so do I," Cordelia said, "and my mother was quick to teach me the crafting of a gown—for, she said, I must know how 'tis done, if I wish to make sure my seamstress does it well." She turned back to Lord Julian. "Yes, my lord, I shall see your cloths."
CHAPTER 12
The cloth, at least, was every bit as beautiful as Sir Julian had promised. She chose an emerald green lawn, almost as fine as silk, for the gown itself, then selected yard after yard of intricate lace to adorn it. She was tempted to take some long strips of embroidery they showed her, but decided that she would not be able to compete with Delilah in ornamentation; indeed, she remembered her mother's dictum, that when a woman resorts to an abundance of decorations, it is because she does not believe in her own beauty. Unfortunately, Cordelia did not.
Still, she would never admit that. The lace would have to do—the lace, and the wonderful cloth that showed her hair and eyes to such advantage.
Petticoats and kirtles the maid was glad to bring her, presumably from the sister's store. Cordelia did not even stop to think of the wonderful coincidence that they should be almost exactly the same size.
Then she sat down with pen and paper to make a rough sketch by candlelight—but the more she sketched, the more excited she became, till finally, she heard a clock somewhere tolling midnight, and told herself sternly that she must desist; she would have to have a good night's sleep, or she would be incapable of doing anything tomorrow, certainly not be able to be as charming as she must be at the ball.
And so to bed.
At last, Cordelia was able to lie down to sleep, dressed in a nightgown that she had found laid out on her bed. She nestled into the softness of the featherbed, luxuriating in it after a night on pine boughs. She burrowed deeper, letting her mind roam free, letting images arise and fade of their own accord—but the images were not of lovely gowns, or even nightmares of the extravagant dresses Delilah might wear to the ball tomorrow night, but of Alain ... and then Forrest ... then Alain again, then Forrest, then the two of them side by side, then Forrest alone, looming over her, his eyes bright, his lips moist ... She was only a little afraid of the feelings that the picture of him aroused, almost unafraid at all, considering that he was not really there. There was something about his gaze, his stare, and (be honest!) his body, his muscular build, that raised those tingling, tickling feelings inside her, and she admitted to herself at last that it was a longing she felt, that perhaps she was beginning to be able to understand the desire that seemed to drive Geoffrey.
But there was something that repelled her about Forrest, too—the very recklessness that made him appealing was also threatening, in its way. She found herself wishing that she could marry Alain for security and friendship, but still have Forrest for romance ... romance, and the pleasures of his attentions ...
She sat bolt upright in bed, staring into the darkness, realizing what she had been wishing for, blushing furiously in the privacy of night. Then, completely ashamed of herself, she burst into tears and buried her face in her pillow.
The campfire was a spot of cheer in a very dark night. It was chill indeed, very odd for August. Rod and Gwen shared his cloak, staring at the flames.
"I don't like this," Rod said. "The three of them could be at the mercy of whoever owns that manor house. How long has it been here, anyway?"
"By appearances, a hundred years, at least," Gwen answered.
"By appearances," Rod agreed. "But people can build things to look old."
"Indeed." Gwen was thinking of some of the wonders of modern technology she had seen in her brief sojourn off-planet.
A squat shadow detached itself from the darkness under the trees and came toward them.
Rod looked up. "Any news, Brom?"
The dwarf sat down on a rock by the fire, holding his hands out toward the flames. "I have sent elves to keep watch throughout the house. If anything untoward occurs, we will know of it within minutes."
"How long do the local elves say the house has been here?"
"Only these last two years—nay, some months less. A crew of strangers came to build it. They cleared the land here in the center of the forest, where none might see them. The tools with which they cut down the forest were magical, say the elves, and the job was done in a day."
Rod pricked up his ears; he knew the sound of high technology. "Anything about beams of fire?"
"Summat of the sort. They builded the whole of the house in a month, again with sorcerous machines, and gave it the appearance of age, though it was new."
Rod nodded. "Do they have any idea who lives there?"
"A lady and her retainers," Brom answered. "A most beautiful lady, slender, not very tall." He shrugged. "That is all they can say. Her face doth seem to change from time to time, as does the color of her hair. She doth bear herself as one well born, but they do sense a maliciousness about her."
"Anything definitely bad to say about her?"
"Not from without—and they have had no wish to enter inside that house. Not that it houseth fearsome deeds, mind you, nor doth it repel them in any wise—'tis that it hath no interest for them. They have other fish to fry."
"No interest?" Rod stared. "Elves, with no curiosity?" Gwen frowned. "That doth sound little like any elf I've ever known. Indeed, a brownie's natural curiosity would send him prying into every corner. Or are these elves only, and no brownies among them?"
"What difference?" Rod said. "Elves are just as curious as brownies. Not so inclined to go indoors, I'll admit, but still..."
"There do be brownies among them, and they too have no interest in the house," Brom verified.
"It doth smack of enchantment," Gwen said, "of witchpower, and mighty, too."
"Even so," Brom agreed. "It doth bespeak one who hath laid spells of disinterest on all who come nigh."
"Is there danger to Cordelia, or to Geoffrey?" Gwen asked.
"Or even to Alain?" Rod finished.
"There is no sign of danger yet, to any one of them," Brom said. "There is hazard only in that they are amidst strangers who are themselves unknown in their desires or goals. But there is no present danger in evidence. Be sure that if there is, the elves will warn them—and, if need be, protect them with their own magics."
"But if there are witches in that house," said Gwen, "elfin magics may not suffice."