Elsa's quest

by Sullivan Clarke

Chapter One

Elsa Klein-Faulkner put down the box of dishes rubbed the small of her aching back as she slowly straightened to survey the kitchen of her new home. Sunlight was streaming pleasantly through the big windows, bathing the unpacked room in a warm glow. She wished her mood were as bright, but she couldn’t get past the notion that this was no way to spend one’s fortieth birthday.

She should be having coffee with Sue and Samantha at the Corner Café and tittering about how they planned to celebrate later that night. Sue and Samantha, having both crossed the forty year threshold the prior year had pronounced it Not So Bad After All and had even gone so far to say they’d never felt sexier or more vital.

“Sexy” and “vital” weren’t words that sprang to mind now. She was thousands of miles away from the city and her friends, a billion miles, it seemed, from anything familiar beyond her yet-unpacked belongings.

Elsa felt a kiss land on her cheek and jumped.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.” Harrison wrapped his arms around her and smiled. “I just couldn’t help myself. You look so fetching, in your dungarees and with that kerchief on your head. Less than two days here and you already look the part of the farm wife.”

Elsa disengaged herself from her husband’s grip, resisting the urge to tell him that if he were trying to make her feel better, comparing her to a farm wife wasn’t helping. It was her birthday, and not only had Harrison apparently forgotten, but he was making things worse by reminding her that she was dressing, well, like a forty-year-old.

“Don’t expect me to adopt this stodgy look forever,” she grumbled and tried to walk away, only to be caught and embraced again by Harrison, who turned Elsa to him.

“Stodgy, is it?” he joked. “Should I add that after less than two days in England you are sounding like a Brit?”

Elsa couldn’t help but grin now. “In vocabulary only,” she said. “But don’t hold your breath that I’ll adopt your ridiculous accent.”

Now it was Harrison who laughed at this reminder of their first meeting. It had been in the college library ten years ago where she was taking a creative writing course and he was working as professor of botany. They’d both been in a hurry to exit the building and had collided.

“You should be more careful,” he had scolded. “And perhaps look where you’re going.”

“Thank you so much for the advice,” Elsa had responded in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “And in case your wondering, that ridiculous fake accent doesn’t make it seem more genteel, especially since we bumped into each other. So instead of assigning fault perhaps you’d rather help me pick up these books.”

Harrison had looked up then and stared into the most beautiful pair of cornflower blue eyes he had ever seen. The woman in front of him was strikingly pretty in an earthy sort of way. Her shoulder-length brownish-blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her skin naturally tanned. The generous sprinkling of faded by still visible freckles gave her an impish look, and it pleased him that she wasn’t one of those women who felt the need to hide such charming imperfections under layers of makeup.

The retort which had sprung to his lips died away and he smiled and began helping pile the books into his and her stacks. “You’re quite right. No one was at fault. My apologies. But for the record, the accent is not fake.”

“Oh.” Elsa’s face flushed red. “Sorry.”

The blush only served to charm the man who was now handing her back her stack of books. Her eyes met his again as he did.

“Harrison Faulkner,” he said. “Professor Harrison Faulkner.”

“Professor?” Elsa smiled a little, intrigued. He looked just a bit older than her, and was tall and then with an unruly shock of hair and boyish grin.

“Of botany,” he said.

“If that’s your real accent you’re far from home,” she said.

“I am,” he said. “I’m originally from Dorset but am teaching over here for this semester. And you?”

Elsa indicated the stack of researched the stack of research books in her arms. “I’m a writer,” she said. “I came back to take a few classes.” She paused. “I already have a degree in English.”

“Ah,” he said. Silence hung between the two of them for a moment.

“Would you like to join me for coffee later?” he asked. “I’m rather new in town yet and I could use the company. And it would give me a chance to make up for being so crass earlier. Unless you’d think it improper.”

“No!” Elsa flushed again at how quickly she’d responded. “It wouldn’t be improper. I mean, I’m not seeing any--. What I mean is …” She reddened again and rolled her eyes at this sudden social clumsiness. “What I mean is yes.”

He smiled. “Excellent. Shall we meet over at the Blue Owl? Around six?”

“The Blue Owl would be fine,” she said. “And six would be fine.”

Right away the chemistry was apparent to both of them and after his visiting professorship was over, Harrison secured a job at the local botanical garden where he could continue to see Elsa. They were married a two years to the day after meeting, and settled into a quiet life.

The only glitch in their relationship was their distinctly different preferences over where they preferred to live. Elsa loved the city with its bookstores, large libraries and corner coffee shops. She loved the intellectual circle she traveled in – a circle which Harrison had glibly dubbed the “snob set.”

He preferred the country, and often told Elsa that the only reason she looked down her nose at rural life was because she had never gotten a chance to experience it. They were both glad for his job at the sprawling botanical garden, which gave Harrison the chance to be outdoors and play in the dirt, even if a glance at the surrounding skyscrapers reminded him that it was just a model of the real thing.

When new director was hired, Harrison found himself clashing with her. He began dreading each new workday, and Elsa felt guilty for being so happy in her career when her husband was so miserable with his. So when the shocking news that an uncle had willed him a farm in Dorset in hopes he would restore it as a working, historical landmark, Elsa knew she could not deny him the opportunity.

They figured the proceeds from the sale of their townhouse, which was located in a newly regentrified area of town, would provide them enough of a cushion to live frugally. As a writer, she could work anywhere, so the move wouldn’t affect her earning ability.

Harrrison had kissed her deeply when she agreed to go. He knew it was hard for her, but as they stood together in the kitchen on the morning of her fortieth birthday, Elsa wondered if she’d really made the right decision. She had thought the knowledge that this was all making her husband happy would make things easier on her, that she would become infected somehow with the joy she had seen in him when they’d rounded the top of the hill over looking the farm and seen the quaint-looking house and fields dotted with puffy white sheep.

But instead she felt miserable and betrayed, even though she realized it was petty to be mad at Harrison for forgetting her birthday. They had been so busy she’d nearly forgotten it herself.

Harrison was milling around the kitchen now, talking about how the big walk-in pantry would be perfect for drying herbs from the garden he planned to put in.

“We could host workshops here,” he said hopefully. “Workshops on growing herbs and making cheese. Or even making wine, once we learn. Perhaps you could write a couple of books on technique.”

Elsa, whose back was to her husband, rolled her eyes. Cheesemaking? She didn’t even like to cook. And even if she did, her area of literary interest was history, not cuisine.

She started to remind Harrison that she was a serious writer, not a hausfreuher, but before she could a clanging sound resonated from the front of the house.

“What in the --?” she asked.

“It’s the door knocker, love,” Harrison said. “Remember, this house is so old there were never any doorbells.”

“Hmm.” Elsa resumed unpacking as Harrison left the room. A few moments later she heard her name being called. Whoever had stopped by was apparently someone he wanted her to meet.

“Great,” she said sarcastically as she turned to catch a reflection of herself in the oval mirror. Elsa frowned at the images staring back at her, and tucked a few strands of brunette hair under the kerchief.

“Elsa! Would you come here, please?”

There was an uncharacteristic air of impatience to Harrison’s voice now that irritated her even more. Elsa put the feeling aside as she made her way through the kitchen and down the hall to the foyer, where she found her husband standing with a plump woman wearing a flowered dress and battered Wellingtons. Her face was deeply lined, but her eyes were so cheerily useful that the looked out of place in the weathered face.

“Ah, there you are.” Harrison put his hand on Elsa’s shoulder as he addressed their visitor. “Elsa, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Dibley. Her family has lived on the neighboring farm since any of us can remember.”

Elsa smiled and reached out to embrace the older woman’s hand, which was as rough and calloused as a man’s. Her handshake was a strong as a man’s too.

“Call me Eleanor,” she said jovially. “And Harry here is too right. We’ve been on this land longer than the faeries, I sometimes think.”

Elsa grinned when she heard Eleanor refer to her husband as “Harry.” He’d always found the name irritating, even if it had enjoyed a resurgent popularity with the birth of the youngest Prince of England.

“Watched your husband grow up, I did,” Eleanor was now saying. “Was always a curious lad, this one. Forever in the fields with his sketchbook. I used to look at him and tell my Merle – god rest his soul – that Harry here would become a scientist some day. And now he is.”

“I remember once when he was collecting cowslips to press in his book that one of our rams chased him clear up a chestnut tree. His folk were so used to having out and gone all day that he was up there until dinner before anyone got worried. We found him still up there, still trying to scare that ram away. The ground was covered with chestnuts he’d thrown at the thing.”

She laughed, clutching her ample belly as she did so and Elsa found herself laughing along with her. Harrison had told her plenty of stories of his childhood, but not this one.

“I never realized sheep could be so frightening,” Elsa said.

“Rams can be,” Eleanor said. “People underestimate them. Often the things we fail to notice can give us the biggest frights. It pays to keep your eyes open. Especially in a place like this, right Harry?”

“Like this? What do you mean?”

Eleanor shot Harrison a glance, her expression hard to miss. “You didn’t tell her?” it said.

“Nothing, dear,” the older woman composed herself and reached on the coat rack for her dingy duster. “You know how we old people are. We ramble. And I should really be going.”

She turned to leave but glanced back at Elsa as she did so. “If you need any help with anything you will feel free to call on me, right?”

“Yes, sure,” Elsa said, but her eyes were still on her husband. Why had their neighbor said what she’d said? Why had she given him that look?”

Elsa could see the rain falling outside when her husband opened the door. Just a moment ago it had been sunny. Now the sky was slate gray. Harrison had warned her that the weather could change suddenly in the English countryside and that the days were often more gray that bright. But still, on her birthday?

“So what was she talking about?” Elsa asked as Harrison shut the door and turned back to her.

“What do you mean?”

“Eleanor,” Elsa said in a snappier tone than she intended. She hated when Harrison played dumb. “She said it pays to keep your eyes open in a place like this. What did she mean?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Just old superstitious nonsense,” he said. “There’s a lot of myth associated with this place. Some people say this land is haunted.”

“Haunted?”

“It’s just superstition, Elsa.”

“Really? If it’s just superstition then why did she give you that look?”

“What look?”

Elsa felt herself getting angry. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, Harrison. I’ve had plenty of experience reading people as a…”

“Yes, yes, as a writer. I know, Elsa. I know.”

“Don’t mock me, Harrison,” Elsa replied. “I saw what I saw. Now what did it mean?”

“I’m not mocking you, Elsa,” he insisted. “She’s old and just naturally assumes that everyone who has ever lived here believes the same thing she does, which is that there are faeries in the grove and earthbound spirits in these old houses. It’s cotswoddle. And so are your questions.”

Elsa felt tears spring to her eyes.

“You know what, Harrison?” she said. “Sometimes you can really be a pompous ass.”

“Elsa!”

He was calling after her now as she turned and stomped out of the foyer and up the stairs. Elsa ignored him as she went. She suddenly wanted to be alone so she could sit and feel sorry for herself.

Their bedroom was no more livable than the kitchen. Boxes were stacked everywhere around the antique four-poster bed and she nearly tripped over on as she entered.

“Elsa!” Harrison burst through the door behind her. “What has gotten into you?”

She couldn’t stifle her ironic laugh. “Nothing,” she said. “I mean, why should I possibly be upset when I’m moved thousands of miles away from every thing I’ve every known for a man who has suddenly decided my questions don’t deserve a straight answer.”

Elsa turned away and wiped her eyes.

“Is that what you think?” he asked. “Because if it is, you’re overreacting. I respect you, as both a writer and my partner. You know that.”

His voice was gentle as he reached for her. “I love you, Elsa. Please don’t think I don’t appreciate the sacrifices you made to move here.”

Elsa sighed. Fighting with Harrison was always a challenge because he always made it so hard for her to stay angry with him.

“Do you really?” she asked, then felt guilty for the question. Of course he did. Harrison was nothing if not principled; he had never lied to her. At least, not that that she knew of.

“Of course,” he reiterated.

Elsa cast her eyes downward before raising them to meet her husband’s. “I guess you think I’m being difficult, huh?” she said.

He smiled. “Well, if you are I could always just strap you.” He pointed to the bed, where a thick leather shaving strap lay on the coverlet. “Did you find that old relic when you were cleaning in here earlier?”

Elsa shook her head, confounded. “No,” she said. “I didn’t put that there. I’ve never seen it?”

“Really?” Harrison walked over and picked the strap up. “That’s odd.”

“Maybe you got it out of the clutter in the shed and put it there without thinking,” she offered, but her husband shook her head.

“No, no, that crate’s still in the hallway. I’m as baffled as you now. I have no idea where this came from.” He looked at her and grinned. “But I do know that it would come in handy for giving a good birthday spanking.”

Elsa wound her arms around her husband’s neck. “You did remember!”

“Well of course I did.” He leaned down and kissed her, his lips parting hers to caress her tongue with his. “I always remember the really important things. I was going to surprise you with a traditional English dinner at the best pub in town.”

“With lots of ale to get me drunk, I suppose,” she said suggestively. “So you can take advantage of me later.”

“I don’t know if I could live with myself,” Harrison replied. “Knowing I’d taken advantage of such a beautiful young woman.”

“You’d get over it,” she said, and raised her hands to unbutton his shirt. Harrison walked her backward to the bed, pushing her until they were both laying down. Elsa heard the strap fall to the floor, and in a few moments had forgotten the mystery of how it had gotten into the room.