Free Carola Dunn by The Magic of Love

rust-red fur sprouted on the baby’s head, the Reverend Stewart made a heroic effort to overcome his sneezes. Gabbling the words of the baptismal service, he sloshed the contents of the chalice over the infant and marked a cross on his forehead. The faeries fell silent.
     Though Edward James Frederick was undeniably human, he was no longer a bonny babe, but quite the plainest child Martha had ever seen. Tears rose to her eyes as she realized that the dreadful contortions his poor little body had suffered had marked him for life.
     Lord Tarnholm caught his wife as she slumped.
     Queen Mab laughed again, mocking. “Edward James Frederick? He needs a faerie name, too,” she observed.
     “Stumblebumpkin,” suggested Stickleback sycophantically.
     “Fumblepipkin,” cried Foxglove.
     “Tumblewiltshin,” croaked Toadstool.
     “Piglet.” Peppercorn blew her nose on a cobweb and cast a malevolent glance at Lady Tarnholm.
     “He shall be Rumplestiltskin,” the queen decreed. “I wish you joy of him, Daphne dear.”
     As she led her followers out, the drawing room faded. Martha found herself again on the bank of the lake.
     “And I have had joy of him,” said Lady Tarnholm sadly, “along with the pain. Robin Goodfellow warned me just in time to prevent the worst. Edward was the sweetest child, always affectionate and considerate, always patient despite his difficulties, and he has not changed as a man. I could not ask for a better son.”
     Martha nodded agreement, but she said with a puzzled frown, “I have the oddest feeling, ma’am, that I once read a tale about all that has happened in the past week. Only in the story, the duke was a king, and the miller’s daughter had to spin straw to gold.”
     “I daresay, dear,” said the nixie. “These stories get badly garbled before anyone writes them down. What Lewis Carroll made of that pig and duchess business! Or is it the other way round? And Shakespeare—you mentioned Shakespeare—put in a bit at the end, where Oberon casts a protective spell:
     “‘And the blots of Nature’s hand
     “‘Shall not in their issue stand;
     “‘Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,
     “‘Nor mark prodigious, such as are
     “‘Despised in nativity,
     “‘Shall upon their children be.’
     “Only, of course, he was too late for Edward. Oberon was, that is. Or perhaps Shakespeare?”
     “But Shakespeare was hundreds of years ago! And how could I have read the story of the miller’s daughter when it only just happened?”
     Lady Tarnholm groaned. “Don’t ask. Time has me going round in circles. Why, when you arrived today—was it today?—I quite thought you had already...But I mustn’t say,” she added hastily. “It’s against all the rules. You will come and visit me again, won’t you?”
     “Oh yes, my lady, if I may. Thank you so very much for your help.”
     “Not at all, my dear. I am sure everything will turn out for the best.” Lady Tarnholm waved graciously, then performed a complicated twist and, with a shocking display of legs, she dived into the depths of the lake.
     Martha made her way back through the bushes. In the birch wood she found a rabbit path leading in the direction of the baron’s house. His mama had given her the answer to his riddle. Now she was free to marry the duke without dreading his anger over her promise.
    * * * *
     Lord Tarnholm’s manor was not at all like a palace, more like a larger version of the Stewarts’ comfortable vicarage, a solid, friendly-looking house of warm red brick. Martha walked around to the servants’ entrance, dreaming of the day when, as Duchess of Diss, she would roll up to the front door in her own comfortable carriage with the ducal crest on the door.
     The housekeeper, Mrs. Wellcome, was Pa’s sister’s husband’s cousin. “It’s nice to see you, Martha,” she said. “I don’t get down to the village often these days, mostly just christenings and funerals and weddings.