THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

“Everyone in the dale?” She laughed, though the sound was feeble. “Perhaps I simply asked too much, too soon.”

“We shall see.” He turned on his heel and strode for the cart. She hurried to catch up with him.

“Let it be, Hartley.” She touched his arm, and felt all the muscles bunch up under his sleeve.

He was angry, she thought with surprise—angry on her behalf. His protectiveness was as gratifying as it was unfamiliar.

Spencer had never tried to protect or defend her from anything. Lord Bradwell had been, for the most part, an indulgent but negligent father. In the end, he had not protected her either.

“Please,” she said. “Do not be concerned.”

He wheeled about, and she thought he might seize her as he had in the garden. She almost anticipated it.

“Do you wish to come?” he asked.

Mrs. Singleton and Mr. Appleyard were engaged in conversation, while the children tumbled about the lawn. They would scarcely notice their hostess’s absence. And if she did not go, she was half afraid that Hartley would be too severe upon the delinquent guests.

“Very well,” she said.

He nodded and helped her up into the cart. “What of Donal?”

“He is with his governess.”

She braced for an argument, but he merely frowned and took the driver’s seat.

All the way down the drive, through the park and beyond, where the road hugged sloping fells, Eden saw no sign of the people she had invited. Only when they had advanced into the dale and were approaching the first farm did they meet a fellow traveler.

He was a dour and very elderly shepherd Eden had seen once or twice with a small flock of ewes and lambs. Was he taking them up the fell or bringing them back down? The old fellow scarcely looked as though he could still climb.

Hartley drew the cart to a halt. The sheep milled about, bleating, and the old shepherd leaned on his staff. He studied Eden with one good eye. The other was milky white. After a moment, he nodded a wary greeting.

“Yer ladyship.”

“Good day, Mr.—”

“Kirkby.”

A man of few words, as many dalesmen were apt to be in her presence. She smiled. “Did you receive your invitation to come to Hartsmere this afternoon, Mr. Kirkby?”

He blinked slowly. “Aye, yer ladyship.”

“I would be glad if you would come with us now. We have much fine food and drink prepared.”

“Cannot,” he said. “T’sheep, yer ladyship.”

Eden could not deny that he had a perfect excuse. “So I see. And does your flock… prosper, Mr. Kirkby?”

” ‘Tis noo.”

“I am glad to hear it.” She wondered how to phrase the next question without making herself look foolish. “Perhaps you knew my father, Lord Bradwell, and his father.”

“Aye.”

He was not making this easy. “I realize that the times have been difficult in the past, but—”

“What her ladyship asks,” Hartley said, “is why no one from the dale or village attends the party that she has taken such trouble to prepare for all of you.”

Kirkby’s gaze shifted to Hartley, and Eden thought that real interest sparked in his rheumy eye. “Thoo’s an outcomer.”

“Not precisely. Now, tell me. Why has she no guests?”

Eden waited for another monosyllabic answer. Kirkby seemed to be weighing Hartley as much as his question, and he reached a favorable conclusion.

“They’re afeared,” he said. “Yon grand house is t’heart o’ t’curse.”

Eden closed her eyes.

“Explain this curse,” Hartley demanded.

” ‘Tis but a legend,” Kirkby said with a cautious air. “Once t’dale was blessed. T’sheep were healthy and plentiful, t’grass grew sweet. Nae man wanted for aught. They said ‘t’last of the Auld Ones watched o’er us, granting good fortune. It has al’ays been thus, far back as memory.”

“Go on,” Hartley said grimly.

“They say Lord Bradwell angered t’Auld One when he entered the ancient forest, where no men go. They say he brought a curse down upon us.”

“And what happened then, Kirkby?” Eden asked, prepared for the worst.

“T’land suffered. T’next year the winter was colder, t’lambs sickly. T’hay rotted, and scarce a ‘tatie would grow. T’lord went away, but naught changed. T’blessing was gone.”

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