And the fourth engagement—well, the young man turned out not to exist. Jane’s mother (for Jane’s father had died between the third and fourth engagements) had received a miniature painting of a handsome fellow, not realizing it had been a sample work—an advertisement for the artist’s skills. And while Jane’s mother was typically intelligent, she’d been desperate to marry Jane off to someone by now, and had misunderstood the note accompanying the miniature. “I present to you an opportunity fit for someone of Lady Jane’s rank” had meant the skill of the artist, not the imaginary—though incredibly handsome—fellow in the painting. Her mother had announced the acceptance of the proposal before the artist could write back to inquire about travel for Jane’s portrait and a reminder that his fee was non-refundable.
In a fit of anger and embarrassment, Lady Frances told a revised story in which she was the victim of a vicious prank—and so soon after her own husband’s tragic death. This time it was the artist who fell into immediate destitution.
It seemed that agreeing to marry Lady Jane was a very risky business.
If her track record with fiancés was anything to go by, Gifford Dudley’s days—and the days of his family’s prosperity—were numbered.
She almost felt sorry for him.
Jane picked up the second book, the one about E?ians, and traced the word with her forefinger. What she wouldn’t give to have an animal form. Something no one would dare to bother or force weddings upon, like a bear. But if being an E?ian was hereditary, as many people insisted, then the trait had skipped her. (No one was supposed to know, but Jane had once overheard her parents arguing about her mother’s E?ian magic.) And if the gift was bestowed on the worthy (another popular hypothesis, though less scientific), all her efforts to be so deserving had fallen woefully short.
In the distance, a castle jutted into the sky at the top of a steep hill. A bustling village huddled at the base, the villagers stopping to gawk as the carriage passed through the town gates and began the slow climb up. Jane admired the castle’s towering keep (built in the eleventh century, if she knew her architectural history, which of course she did) with its beautiful white stone and narrow, slitted windows. It looked like a very defendable place, she thought, almost ominously so. Like the owners expected an attack at any moment.
The carriage had to pass through three more gates and over a moat before they reached the central courtyard, where the driver stopped outside the elegant castle apartments. These were a new, more modern addition, clearly, with peaked roofs and many windows. The whole place seemed like the look-don’t-touch kind of home. Perfectly manicured. Never enjoyed.
Jane scanned the dozens of windows for movement, but all was quiet, save the horses loitering in the wide field on the far side of the castle.
So these were the prize horses Lord Dudley bragged about so much.
She hopped out of the carriage and walked toward a closed gate to look at them.
All the horses were fine creatures with sleek coats and spindle-thin legs. But the best among them was a beautiful stallion on the other side of the field. His muscles rippled as he thundered across the grass, his head high and ears alert. He thrashed his head so his mane streamed back in the wind, the sun gleaming off his chestnut coat. He was simply magnificent. While, true, her experience with horses was generally limited to the gentle and well-mannered geldings appropriate for a lady, Jane thought she had never seen a horse more worthy of the constant bragging.
How amazing it would be, she imagined then, to live as a horse. The ability to run like that, to fly across the ground on those strong, powerful legs. No one nagging her, pinching her, commenting on what a small, insignificant person she was.
What she wouldn’t give for the ability to change into a horse and escape not just this engagement, but everything that was wrong with her life.
“My lady,” came a man’s voice from behind her. “May I help you with something?”
Jane turned and craned her neck, first noting that the gentleman who stopped beside her was a well-dressed fellow. Then she finished looking up.
There it was.
The nose.
Truly, it was a great, arching eagle nose that would enter a room five whole seconds before the rest of him did. (It may help the reader to recall the long-nosed plague doctor mask that would appear in the next several decades. It is said the design of those beaked masks was actually inspired by the Dudley nose, though never within a Dudley heir’s hearing.)
God’s teeth! What if this was Gifford?
“I’m here to visit Lord Gifford Dudley,” she said hesitantly, catching herself as she addressed the nose. But it was right over her. It was hard to avoid. She took a measured step backward in hopes she’d be able to meet his eyes.
“Ah.” The man smiled knowingly. “You’re here to visit my brother.”
Whew. This nose—rather, this man—wasn’t Gifford, but Stan Dudley, the older brother who sometimes accompanied his father to court. (Not that Jane paid much attention at court; she had so many books to read.) But what if Gifford’s nose was worse?
She clutched her books to her stomach and considered prayer. Would praying for a decent-size nose be considered sacrilege?
“Yes. I’d like to see Gifford now.”
“I’m afraid he’s unavailable. He’s, uh, busy with the horses.” Stan glanced at the pasture, but if Gifford was out there, Jane couldn’t see him. The only creatures were the horses, who’d moved to a new spot of grass.
“He won’t receive me?”
“Not right now.”