The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

Nick twitched his cuffs into place and with that gesture the marquess finally boiled up, hot and angry, in him. The marquess knew exactly how to feel about this situation, and exactly what to say. Nick let him blow: “Robert Owen is a visionary. But who are you, Clare? What experience do you have? None. You intend to sign your land—my land—away to a pack of rascals fresh from the carnage of war. The same men who laid waste to Badajoz are to lay their bloody hands on my acres?”

Clare’s expression retreated as he talked, and when she spoke her voice was devoid of feeling. “No, Nick, not anymore. You are returned and the land is safely entailed. Unto the seventh generation, et cetera.”

“And I am the eighth marquess, sister.” Nick sneered, whether at Clare or at himself, he was not sure. “The eighth benighted marquess! With quite enough iniquity to curse another seven generations. So your little dream must wait three centuries more.”

She said nothing to that. Her face was now as calm as an open palm—it was the same empty look she used to turn upon their mother when the dowager marchioness was in temper. But the marquess was at full throttle now, and Nick couldn’t check him: “Who is this radical new steward, Clare, who wants to throw Blackdown to the dogs? For it is he who has put these ideas into your head, isn’t it?”

Clare answered flatly, but Nick, who knew her so well, could hear the anger crackling around the edges of her words: “I believe you know him. He served with you in the Peninsula. His name is Jem Jemison.”

Well, shit. Nick collapsed back, raking his fingers through his hair, and the marquess fizzled away as if he’d never taken over the conversation.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Julia crept out at dawn and saddled her mare, whom she had not seen for a week. Marigold whickered when Julia entered the stall, nibbled Julia’s fingers with her lips as she put on the bridle, and flirted sideways as Julia stood on the mounting block. Then she danced a gavotte all the way down the drive, tossing her head and whinnying. “Will you be quiet?” Julia glanced back at the house, but there was no enraged Eamon leaning from an upstairs window in his dressing gown. She reached down and patted Marigold’s neck, and the horse whinnied again. “I’m glad to see you too, you idiot. Now be quiet.”

Marigold settled and soon Julia guided her along a path that cut into the woods to the right of the drive. The early morning was clear and cool, shot through with birdsong. The forest knew nothing of dead grandfathers and dreadful, mad cousins. It seemed timeless. Timeless! Julia’s heart rose to her throat. Her powers still felt unreal.

Julia looked up into the oak trees above her and listened to the whispering of their new leaves. Oak trees carried magic. Everyone around here knew that, though not many people would admit to believing it. On Midsummer’s Eve the men from the village came to Castle Dar and demanded a great oak log of the earl, which he was obliged to give. Then they went to Falcott House and demanded an oak log of the marquess. That night, in the village, a bonfire would be lit to honor the turning of the season. It was just a bonfire, everyone said, just an evening’s revelry. But the logs had to be ancient oak and nothing else; it had always been that way. That was magic, or at least the traces of it.

But Julia was convinced that, Talisman or no, her ability to manipulate time was not magical. What she could do, what Grandfather had been able to do, this twisting of the threads of time—it didn’t feel otherworldly or even very strange. It felt like making music—a talent, a gift, one that had to be honed to reach its full beauty. She was untrained, because Grandfather hadn’t known she had the talent. He had thought she was a talisman, an instrument through which his own power was magnified. He thought she needed to be protected so that others couldn’t use her. If he’d known that she also had the ability to manipulate time, he would have taught her how to do it, how to develop her skill. He would have trained her to protect herself.

Unless . . . Julia allowed the doubt that had been knocking at the door of her heart ever since she had frozen Eamon at the dinner table to enter. Unless Grandfather had known, and had simply kept his knowledge to himself. If that were true, it would mean he had deceived her, day in, day out.

Julia forcibly ejected the doubt. She just couldn’t believe it of him. He had loved her.

Marigold emerged from the woods into the sunlight. Horse and rider stood gazing over the fields to Falcott House, an elegant Palladian structure glowing in the morning sun, the River Culm sparkling along below its magnificent gardens. Falcott House, where she had spent so many happy hours with Bella, her childhood friend. But Bella was gone to London, and Julia couldn’t ride down to that empty house and demand sanctuary.

Julia looked around, and a shiver of memory passed through her. This spot, right here at the edge of the woods—this was the place where she had seen Bella’s brother, crying. Nicholas Falcott, the young marquess.

It had been ten years ago, on the day that the seventh marquess had died. Word had come in the afternoon that John Falcott had fallen and broken his neck. Grandfather had ridden over immediately to offer his help and his condolences. He told Julia to stay at home. “No place for a child!”

But she had sneaked out—of course she had. Bella was a child, too, and Bella was at Falcott House, suffering. She would need her friend. Julia could almost feel Bella calling to her. So she had