The mood was sombre, but also angry – the futile anger that comes from impotence. The whole village was out, lamps and torches lit as if Frankenstein's monster had been discovered and hunted down to the windmill. Everything was searched, from the lowliest pigsty to the upper rafters in the barns. There was no sign.
For the latter part of her pregnancy, Elizabeth’s sister Mary had accompanied her. She willingly walked across the three valleys just to be there for her second childbirth, the first having ended in the sad death of the baby and the departure of her man to receive the King's shilling. The biblically named siblings filled the hours merrily chatting about their two respective communities – the necessary and unnecessary gossip and tittle-tattle that made village life interesting, and yet all-encompassing. Their father's wind was worse and mother was more devoted to church and rosary. News of their brothers, in Iberia fighting Boney, came by word from others in the 52nd Foot who wrote on their behalf. Names, such as Coa and Almeida were mentioned, but although they sounded very strange, no one in the family had the faintest idea where they were: the very vaguest notion they had was that across the seas encompassed anywhere from the American colonies to Bengal.
Her husband William’s unexpected arrival was a great shock – not least because of his poorly condition. Powder blasts had formed great red and white blotchy marks upon his neck and face, but once the stories had been told and retold and the wounds eventually healed then he began to settle back into the daily routines of farm life. She also grew to love him again and enjoyed having him back, perhaps more so than before. She even girlishly sought out his company as he set to work, walking with him to the fields, ditches and copses where 'improvements' were underway.
An itch, however, had formed – one that could not be reached: inured to her talk, he talked with greater frequency of re-enlisting. She couldn't sleep for the worry. She reasoned they needed another baby.
And then it happened. Elizabeth idly sat by the stream, the cool water soothing her hands and feet from a long day following the corn harvesting. The evening's light almost gone, she softly sang a song she had long ago learned,
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green...Those be rubies, fairy favours
In those freckles live their savours
A fairy. A wee, wee man inches high peered through the thick leaves on the bank right beside her. Eyes sharp like a mouse and form free flowing with sinewy limbs, his attention was fixed upon her comely body.
She was startled, and jumped up from her spot, but soon stooped back down again. He was still there – her eyes were not deceiving her.
He bowed long and low, as overly theatrical as an outrageous pantomime figure. "A genuine pleasure to meet you, Ma'am."
She stood with her mouth open, water dripping from her hands onto the long grass.
"Eldon, at your service."
Instinctively she replied, "Elizabeth." She noticed that the only sound made was hers, yet she clearly heard his words.
"Please, do not get up on my account. I am simply awestruck and spellbound by your wondrous beauty, by the fairness of your faithful face and the softness of your voice. Those words you sang, have you learned the charm they hold?"
Still unsure of herself, she hesitated a smile in recognition of the compliments and unsure of the question.
"And would you know how to charm the fairies indeed?" He moved, slowly at first, towards her, passing under the larger leaves of comfrey.
"I'm sure I don't." she replied in an honest tone.
"It is already done! Look – I am yours in eye, deed and thought. Command, and it will be. Allow me one favour only, and your words will be my master. Or should that be, mistress?" He laughed, an infectious cascade that filled her ears like the wind that rushes into a blazing kitchen fire.
This was the stuff of grandmother myth, of childish fancy and silly bedtime words, but she was attracted to his little stature, as a lost jewel glimpsed in a stream.
"What favour do you speak of?" Her words slipped out before she could weigh them.
"Ah, it's nothing, but everything – a simple trifle, yet a great thing indeed."
What had he said? Was he talking in riddles?
"Say away." These were not her words. In later times she would claim bewitchment.
"You sang of fairy favours. In those freckles we do indeed savour. What do you say?"
Her furrow frowned. "I don't understand."
"And need you this – to understand? Just agree, and your heart's desire becomes the thing."
"I do."
He clapped his hands. "The deal, oh how I do love the deal. A ruby to the eye. And now, for your wish, fulsome Elizabeth."
"How did you know my name?"
"Oh, there is more that I know, and keep. Your desire? Attend!" He stood with his hands on his hips.
She felt compelled to answer him. "I… I want a son. I want my man to stay and be safe, and to be rich and..."
He raised his palms. "Stop! Of them all, which will you retain?"
She rapidly considered the implications of William, her one and only man, going back to fight the heathen French. She reasoned that if he stayed, then they could have more children and with his work around the farm their riches would slowly improve. But he would only stay if she showed more than the promise of a son and heir. "I want him at home with me. Give me a son!"
He clapped his hands. "As you said, so it is." He abruptly turned, disappearing like fine mist between the reed stems.
She rushed homewards as the barn owls began their night shrieking from the church and the vixen’s baby-like cries spilled across the valley. Running up to the front door, she was suddenly aware that her story would be laughable, folly, and may even be scurrilous if retold by others. And so, as her hand touched the latch she had decided to keep her story, her words, and her bargain to herself.
Fully a year on, her sister gone and her man ready to return to the much-improved Peninsula Campaign, her bonny baby Rosalie had been taken as her back was turned and the September moon streamed through the open cottage window. The honest village folk, their suspicions aroused, had quizzed her for words and deeds until her confession. Their hostility raged as their anger burned: any sign of fairydom –a ring of mushrooms, a talisman of dead crows turning in the breeze by the field’s edge, footprints in the dust– instantly brought a gawping and accusative audience. She was forever tainted with the knowledge of her association with the little people and became infused with evil luck. They searched for days with fierce torch flames and ruthless movements, but apart from terrified rats and nests of mice there was no trace.
In truth, behind her words, her sadness and her tears, she kept one last detail to herself. That on the day of her baby’s disappearance, upon her baby Rosalie's fair cheek, she had first seen a small, brown freckle and, as if without intention, the words of the little man Eldon were repeated on her very own lips, we do indeed savour.
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