Born of Oak and Silver (The Caradoc Chronicles) (2 page)

All the while Macardle gently patted her hand that was tucked
under his arm and chortled to himself. “My dear, had I been even a year younger, I do not think I’d have had the ability to abstain from pursuing you, married or not. As it is, I am utterly satisfied at the opportunity of passing a portion of this blissfully warm afternoon with such a vivacious and beautiful young woman such as yourself on my arm.”

She humored him, delighting in his candor. Their conversation flowed smoothly as if they had long been friends.

“You said that you had been out of country, where did you happen to go?” Carine asked.

“In other words, you can hear by my most atrocious accent that I am not from here. For that, I am sorry. It is always extremely thick when I get back among my own, and for a time
, it makes my French almost impossible to speak—let alone understand. I’ve been in Ireland, Dublin specifically. I’ve some family, and occasionally some business matters to attend to there,” Macardle told her.

“Oh
, your accent isn’t
that
bad . . . As long as I try not to focus on anything else but your voice,” Carine jibed, “I am able to understand almost every other word that I think you might be saying.”

“Och, lass, ye’ll be woundin’ my prid
e if yer not careful. I happen to take a great sense of accomplishment in my grasp of your blasted language. It only took me twenty-five years to be able to speak it! And even then, it was all thanks to an ornery, hard-headed, and persistent teacher that I ever learned. It was my wife who taught me. She was stubborn, fiery, devilish, and held my soul in her very hands.” His mouth was left with a bit of a smirk, and though they continued to walk, Carine knew that Macardle’s mind was happily adrift in frequently repeated memories.

She allowed him to amble there, focusing instead on her own tho
ughts of her husband. They were once again strangers, sharing a room but neither of them knowing the other well enough to know what exactly the other wanted or needed.

“Anne had my heart that very first moment that I saw her.” Bram resumed. “She had loved her family, and had wanted nothing more than to remain in
Strasbourg. And so, I did my best to expand what business I could to here. However, for all my efforts, it was necessary to occasionally return to Ireland and maintain my partnership in the family enterprise.”

Bram turned to look
into Carine’s considerate face. “Despite the fact that my wife has been dead for these many and long years, I cannot bear to leave this place. For every time that I do, I feel as though I am leaving her as well.”

Carine under
stood his pain all too well, and allowed him to see as much.

He paused, seemingly grateful for the small courtesy. Looking forward, his old hand gestured toward the barn, “Ah, this must be where your husband is. The smell o
f freshly cut wood is a scent I have always found intoxicating. Had I not had a family venture to continue, I suspect I would have gone into carpentry myself.”

With that, Carine nodded appreciatively as Macardle opened the door to Robert’s woodshop.

Bram continued to visit the couple every day thereafter. Carine’s guess that Bram had dexterous and capable hands had been entirely right. It wasn’t but a few moments after meeting Robert that Bram was working beside him, even lending a master’s touch in ways that left Robert astonished at the old man’s ingenuity and artistry.

Weeks later
, after enjoying the constant companionship of one another’s company, Robert slipped off after dinner to find a book he was sure Bram would enjoy. It was here that Bram pulled Carine hastily to his side.

Making one quick glance toward the door that Robert had just disappeared into, Bram just as quickly turned his face toward hers. His green eyes sparked wildly with flecks of gold
that caught in the firelight. Using a tone she’d not yet heard him speak, he told her, “I’ve something for you to take to ensure a strong pregnancy. I’ll bring it to you on the morrow.” 

And
just like that, the old man was instantly to be found once again sitting in the chair that Robert had left him in. His attention was completely focused on the approaching Robert who was in the midst of presenting his latest loved book to his friend.

Carine disappeared into
the couple’s bedroom shortly after the curious confrontation with Bram, leaving the men deeply in discussion and warmed through with brandy. She rubbed her arm softly. It was bruised where he’d brought her to attention. She’d known that Bram was stronger than he appeared, but he was even more so than she’d anticipated.

That night
she dreamed of walking through a meadow on an uncharacteristically warm winter’s day. Tightly, she clasped the hand of her child in her own, as they enjoyed the warmth together.

She awoke late the next morning. T
he lowing of a cow had woken her. Robert lay beside her, still sleeping off his evening nightcap. Quietly she stirred from bed, shutting their bedroom door behind her. Still in her nightclothes, she crouched before the fire and lightly blew on the ashes, hoping that some were still warm enough to catch. They began to glow red with her breath, and kindling soon coaxed them into a flame that turned to a steady fire.

She dusted off her hands and tu
rned to her pile of clothes which she had placed on the table, having every intention of then dressing herself completely. However, the presence of a small melon sized leather pouch on the table diverted her attention entirely. She picked it up, noting its lightweight but nonetheless dense packing.

A note had been folded and placed under the bundle. She held it to the growing firelight to read it. A strange feeling balled in the pit of her stomach as she read
the brief message.

Use these leaves to brew a strong tea.

Drink in the morning, and again in the afternoon.

Do so daily for one month.

Should you need more, ask.

                            -B. Macardle

When had Bram left this? He’d mentioned bringing something by the following day, but she had not expected it to be waiting on her table when she woke. She took a quick look around the room, and felt relieved to find that Bram was not in the room with her.

She placed the pouch and note back on the table, and while hurriedly dressing
, wondered over when they had been left for her.

Robert awoke soon after, a lazy smile gracing his face.

“Good morning,
ma belle
. Did you sleep well?”

Carine smiled warmly and nodded, accepting his kiss upon her cheek.

“I haven’t felt the desire to not get out of bed so strongly since I was a rangy youth,” he said, turning Carine away from the stove and kissing her again. “I’ll be out at the shop, I’ve got some great ideas for a few armoires that I need to commit to paper before I forget. Would you mind bringing breakfast out to the barn for me?”

“Of course,” Carine managed to babble.

“Thank you,
mignon
. And, if it’s not too much trouble, would you bring an extra plate for Bram? I never know just when he’ll show up in the morning, I only know that he will.”

“
Yes, that is no trouble at all. I’ll bring out the plates and some coffee. As for now, go, you’re distracting me from cooking these eggs.”

Robert smiled back. He feigned a swagger as he crossed the room to the
door. He stood in the doorway, looking back to give Carine an appreciative nod before he closed the door behind him and walked out to his barn.

Carine gave an amused snort.
He hadn’t been this way in months. Instantly, she thought of Bram’s pouch, and wondered if perchance the old man had given Robert something as well. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had.

After taking both plates to the barn and feeling a huge sense of relief that Bram was not yet there for her to face, she stopped at the well before returning to the house. She was entirely settled on her decision. She put the kettle on to boil, and filled the tea steeper carefully with the dried leaves from Bram’s pouch. They looked like any other tea leaves and had no unique aroma.
But regardless of the tea’s lack of uniqueness, she was willing to try anything that might help them. Anxiously, she watched her teacup as the first cup of Bram’s mysterious tea brew.

It was surprisingly pleasant.

She enjoyed her second cup that afternoon just as much she had the first.

That night had been filled wi
th the lovemaking of two people who’d been desperate for the touch of the other. Their routine continued this way for a month.

The day after she ran out of tea leaves, she noted that she
was a week late on her courses. There was no doubt that she was once again pregnant.

Nine months later
, and two weeks earlier than was expected, I, Daine Caradoc Dalton, was born.

My childhood was much like any other’s during that time.
However, my mother coddled me incessantly and could only be made to part with me when either my father demanded or Bram requested it—which was frequently. My parents suspected that my presence eased Bram’s yearning for his own grandchildren, and suffered no qualms about my accompanying him wherever and whenever he sought my company.

Initially, he would take me on
short walks around my parents’ property. But as I was able to walk on my own, he’d allow me to lead as we wandered aimlessly to fleeting strikes of fancy. The one exception to my carefree exploration was that he would never allow me to visit what we generally referred to as my mother’s stream. If ever I ventured too close, Bram made sure that something absolutely extraordinary could be found immediately elsewhere.

When I asked why
we couldn’t go to the river, he was always quick to respond that it was too dangerous and was better left alone. I learned quickly that Bram was immovable once resolved upon something. And so it was that I learned to content myself with the walks he preferred to take in the countryside, learning key plants and animals native to our countryside, which he would point out as we went.

As I grew
older, we began to venture farther away from home. It was then that Bram began instructing me in increasing detail. He’d tell me of why plants in a certain area might be dying, why animals were traveling the way they were, how to use a green forked stick to do some ‘water witchin’’, and even how to feel if it was going to rain. But, I couldn’t content myself with only learning forever.

One day
, when I was just about five, I’d had enough of learning, and wanted to do something I’d been dreaming of for about as long as I could remember.

“Bram
, how come we can’t go fishin’?” I asked indignantly, my own dark, wavy hair, which was so much like my father’s, flouncing to the side as I cocked my head at him. My hazel eyes implored him for mercy, as I regarded him with the same haughty, uplifted eyebrow my own mother used.

Bram looked up at me from the plant cuttings he was collecting, his green eyes filled with genuine curiosity as
he quoted me with upturned white bushy brows, “Fishin’?”

I knew that he was correcting me for
improper grammar, but I was undeterred and retained my challenging attitude even while he kindly asked, “Why do you want to go ‘fishin’’ so badly, Daine?” His face was etched by the lines of a loving grandparent.

“Well, Bram
,” I replied authoritatively. If he was going to correct me on the proper way to say what I wanted to do, I was going to tell him exactly why it needed to be done my way. “It’s what boys are supposed to do!” I told him exasperatedly.

“Papa’s always working, and since you don’
t really have to work, you can take me. So, like I already asked you, how come we can’t go fishin’?”

Bram couldn’t help but chuckle at me as I stood looking down at him with my arms crossed over my chest, my hip cocked, and my eyes clearly
stating that my logic absolutely necessitated that we go immediately.

“Dai
ne, you are absolutely right. It is what boys do during the summer. But I have another idea for you—a
better
idea. What would you think about going to school? Most of the other boys that you know will not have the opportunity to go. It would make you . . .
special
.” He allowed the word to hang between us, letting the idea of being privileged above other children lure me in.

I silently toyed with the idea in my mind, getting a feel for it bef
ore I replied undeterred, “Hmmm . . . I don’t know, Bram. It’s summer now, and I
really
want to go fishin’. William Thiery goes with his brother every day, he says. He says they get lots of fish, and then they eat them. I love fish, Bram. I’ve just
got
to catch some too! I want to catch the biggest fish ever! And,” I schemed, whispering conspiratorially, “maybe, we could keep him in one of Mama’s bowls on the table!”