Werewolf fairytales

Do she need to worry?

*Margaret*

My youngest, Alastair, runs past me, his shriek coming in a long stream like shrill birdsong.

“Behave yourself, Master Alastair,” Nanny McGillycuddy shouts. “He’s losing his nappy again. Where is that dratted girl? I swear she spends the better part of her time day-dreaming. Lyddie!” she bellows, waving across the lawn to where a young nursemaid lounges in the shade of a willow.

Satisfied that the girl is rising, albeit reluctantly, to her feet, Nanny turns back to me. “What will you tell people about this muddle?” Since the death of my mother, my old nanny has become my only real confidante.

“I don’t want to tell anyone anything.”

“You’ll have to. And you’ll have to deal with him as well.” Nanny puts down her teacup and surges to her feet. “Drat that child; Alastair is in the lake again.” She turns back to me. “Whatever happened on your wedding night, you’ll have to put it out of your mind, child. If he seeks you out, that is. He’s your husband, more’s the pity.”

I hesitate, the truth trembling on my tongue. But I bite it back, and besides, Nanny is already trundling toward the lake.

Fenrir had been so horrified when... when that had happened. I had been bracing for the searing pain my mother had described, ready to get it over with and count myself a properly married she-wolf.

Then, when there had been nothing whatsoever to get over...

I have never blamed him for jumping out the window. At first, I thought he would return in the morning. But he hadn’t. It wasn’t until the end of the week that I’d finally confessed the truth to my family: my husband had deserted me.

It was beyond humiliating, especially when they’d concluded that he must have boarded a ship and left England altogether. My father hadn’t made things any better. “I paid for that churlish blue blood fair and square,” he had said between clenched teeth. “Paid up front for the privilege of making my daughter into a Luna in time.”

“I am still his mate whether beta Fenrir is at my side or not,” I hasten to say.

My mother had taken a much more cheerful attitude. “She’s better off without that young sprig,” she had said. “He’s too young by half, and I told you so at the time. He’ll be off to see a bit of the world and then find his way back home again. You’ll see.”

As for the wedding night fiasco, my mother was of the opinion that I was lucky, and that was that.

The problem is that Fenrir never did make his way home again.

For a long time… years! I fretted about the possibility, especially after a man named Mr. Pettigrew paid me a visit, announced that he was my husband’s agent, and deposited a large sum of money in a household account for me.

Then, after the fire in which I lost both my parents and one of my sisters... well, after that I stopped thinking about Fenrir altogether. It was hard enough just to get through the day.

When the mourning period is finally over, the children came along.

My husband had been just about my height, I think, with no sign that he would grow much taller. We had snuffed all but two candles on my wedding night, but even so I realized that he was nervy, and then horrified when his tool wouldn’t do its business.

Over the years since, I’ve heard quite a few stories of men in the same situation. In fact, just last week Mrs. Crimp told me of the baker. His mate had driven all the way to Pensford in order to ask the apothecary a private question, but she’d had the bad luck to be overheard by Mrs. Crimp’s oldest granddaughter.

I just shrug. I don’t care about that, especially now I have children of my own. I would welcome an incapable husband. At least he wouldn’t be bothering me when I am tired or out of sorts.

Mrs. Crimp said the problem is near to an epidemic. And if that is the case, well then, Fenrir probably feels better by now, knowing that his friends are in the same boat.

But it is one thing to be thinking all these thoughts over the years, and it is quite another one to imagine my husband walking through the front door.

I have forged such a comfortable life, with friends like Amelia, whom he would probably look down on. No one in my close circle is from the High packs.

What if beta Fenrir wants to rub shoulders with Bath’s polite society? Or worse, pay a visit to London for the mating season? The very idea gives me a feeling of profound disquiet.

Yet surely I am worrying in vain. How could a nobleman-turned-pirate possibly reenter polite society?

Just as it has throughout the sleepless night, my mind bounces back and forth between terrifying possibilities.

Nanny has plucked Alastair from the lake and is wringing out his little nankeen coat. It is so peaceful at Arbor House. Beyond the river I can see men mowing grass and, in the far distance, a faint haze that suggests it might rain later on.

A man of violence has no place here. Fenrir would likely recognize that in one glance.

I am worrying about nothing.