The LeMoine Man

“Have you heard about the LeMoine Man?” Castella said in low tones, watching Lark eagerly for signs of recognition. Lark, absently trailing her fingers over the hanging ribbons, merely sighed. 

“I’ve heard every little bit of gossip from here to Gaidlyn’s Castle thanks to you, Stell. Don’t you ever tire of it?” she replied.

“Well, you certainly haven’t heard this,” said Castella, “Or you wouldn’t take it so wearily. This is no small snippet of gossip, it’s something bigger.” She paused, then cleared her throat dramatically when Lark paid no notice. “There’s a stranger in old Bernella’s inn.”

“Is that all?” said Lark, selecting a blue silk ribbon that matched her eyes and holding it up against her light brown hair. Lark had very good fortune, or so people said. Her father had red hair, but she had inherited her mother’s coloring. She had often been told she was a beauty, at least, until her lovely younger sister, Birdy, began to grow up. 

Lark and Birdy. Their mother was not a creative woman.

“Of course that’s not all,” snapped Castella, who felt that by now Lark ought to trust the quality of her gossip. “He’s not just any old stranger, he’s some kind of magician.”

“How do you know?” inquired Lark, moving on to lace. 

“Well, Gerda Bollingston was sweeping there for a pence, and she saw the stranger arrive,” Castella began, pleased that Lark seemed to be showing some interest. “He was quite pale and dreadfully handsome, she said, and he had a long mustache that looked like a skinny black snake wriggling across his face. I wonder who would want a mustache that looked like a snake? But then Old Maid Bernie--”

“I do wish you wouldn’t call her that, Stella,” interrupted Lark, pulling Castella out of the way of a busy-looking woman bustling through the shop. Castella shrugged.

“I only say it because it’s true,” she replied, “And what else shall I call her? Bernella is too friendly, and Miss Bernella is too young, and Mrs. just wouldn’t be true.”

“Then call her Lady Bernella.” Lark resumed her shopping, this time looking through buttons of all shapes and sizes.

Castella burst out laughing. “Lady Bernella? That’s even less true than Mrs! She might as well say Princess Bernie for all the good it’ll do her when that inn falls apart around her ears! Who ever heard of a woman business owner, anyway?”

“Stella, please.” Lark looked serious. “The woman’s doing the best she can. Don’t take poverty so lightly simply because you’ll always have my family to look after you.”

Castella’s smile faded and she looked sour. “If only father could accept it. His blasted pride will be the death of us all.”

“Castella! ” Lark gasped, shocked.

“I only say it because it’s true,” Castella shrugged once again.

“Blasted is such a nasty word,” Lark said, lowering her voice. “People will think you’re uncouth!”

“I don’t care if they do,” replied Castella, with her nose in the air. “I hate being refined. It’s no fun whatsoever.”

“If you really are so careless about your own reputation, then you shouldn’t criticize others. Now go on already, you haven’t yet told me about Miss Bernella.”

“Well,” said Castella, regaining her enthusiasm for a good story, “You know the old woman’s got a bad leg, but the LeMoine Man bent and kissed her hand, just like a gentleman, though he dressed like a rogue, or so says Gerda. He kissed her hand, and suddenly she looked as young as Mara Laree, and ever since, she’s been as fit and spry as no one’s seen her before!”

“And you heard all this from Gerda Bollingston?” said Lark, somewhat skeptical.

“Mostly, yes,” admitted Castella, “But I’ve seen her too. Gerda’s right, Old Maid-- er, Miss Bernella-- is practically a child again.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, she still looks the same, you know, wrinkled and all, but her leg is good as new, and she’s got a spring in her step that’s sort of shocking. You know, old people aren’t really supposed to be energetic like that, and I quite forget sometimes that there’s no law against it. There really ought to be. Plus, she’s got this fire in her eyes, like curiosity has her again.”

"Why do they call him the LeMoine Man?” asked Lark.

“Well, you know the myths about LeMoine, don’t you?” Castella said.

“Yes, I believe I’ve heard,” Lark said airily, heading for the shop counter. 

“Really,” said Castella doubtfully, “So you know about the Fairies of LeMoine and their--”

“--Gifts of Silver, yes, I told you I know the myth.”

“Well, as he was coming up the road, he took out a flask of water and poured it into a silver dipper before drinking it. Only after that did he kiss Miss Bernella’s hand and make her young again.”

“Why did he pour the water into a dipper? Why couldn’t he just drink from the flask?” asked Lark, paying for her ribbons and lace.

“Because he’s a magician!” said Castella. “He’s been blessed by the Fairies of LeMoine, and his silver dipper makes his kiss magical!”

“Hold on a second,” Jordan interrupts. “You mean to say that he’s got some magic healing power that he operates by kissing people?”

“Well, it appears that way,” says Claire. Jordan shakes his head, restraining a chuckle.

“Oh, you can laugh,” says Claire, to which Jordan replies with an outburst of hooting. “But we’ll see who’s laughing when you see Terri Halter. She’s had arthritis for years, but I haven’t heard her complaining one bit since she kissed him.”

“That’s not magic,” Jordan snorts.

“So what about his dipper?” says Claire.

“Dipper?” Jordan says. “Like the bird?”

“No, dipper as in a ladle.” says Claire. “He drinks from it.”

“What, is he an Olden Day enthusiast or something?” Jordan chuckles again.

“Maybe it’s a family heirloom,” replies Claire. She is sitting on Jordan’s desk in his office. Jordan is in his chair, and both are drinking coffee. “It seems like it must be,” continues Claire. “It’s quite pretty, you know. All silver and engraved. You can tell he treasures it.”

“Hmm,” says Jordan. “By the by, you still haven’t told me this mystery man’s name.”

“Well,” Claire blushes a little, “That’s because I don’t know it.”

“You didn’t ask his name?” Jordan laughs.

“No one introduced us, and I can’t say I wasn’t a little distracted at the time.” Claire is blushing harder now.

“Distracted?” says Jordan. “Distracted by what?”

“Oh, nothing important.” Claire’s scarlet face says otherwise.

“Tell me,” says Jordan, though he already has an idea of what it might be.

“Well…” Claire fidgets. “If you must know… He’s quite handsome.”

“Really?” Jordan is unfazed. “How so?”

“Well, he’s pale, and dark-haired, with these glittering black eyes,” Claire says dreamily. Jordan is watching her amusedly. “And his mustache,” she goes on, “it’s darker than anything, and thin and curled up at the ends like some romantic character from long ago.” She kicks her legs, which are nowhere near the ground when she sits on Jordan’s desk. Staring into space with a slight smile and dangling her legs, she looks like a little girl, and Jordan twirls his wedding ring around on his finger. 

“Well, I need to get back to work, but thanks for the coffee.” Jordan says. Claire slides off of the desk and pecks him on the cheek.

“One more thing,” says Jordan as Claire opens the door. She stops and looks back at her husband, smiling. “Have you been feeling sick at all recently?” asks Jordan.

“No,” replies Claire, “I feel fine.”

“Good,” teases Jordan, “Because I won’t have you kissing some stranger.”

“Goodbye, Jordan,” laughs Claire, and the door closes.

“Lark, Lark!” Castella burst into the drawing room, eyes aglow. Lark, who was playing with her little white kitten, looked up surprisedly. 

“Whatever is it, Stell?” she asked as Castella raced over and plopped down next to her. 

“The LeMoine man, that’s what!” said Castella. 

“What has he done this time?” Lark, who for once was interested in Castella’s gossip, put her frisky kitten down on the floor and scooted closer to her friend. The light from between the curtains of the huge window illuminated Castella’s excited face. 

“It’s not what he’s done, it’s what he’s going to do. He’s coming to Mrs. Reammen’s party!” Castella said.

“Really? Who did you hear that from?”

“Myself, Lark, I saw it all!”

“You’ve seen the LeMoine man?” Lark’s brown eyes opened wide in wonder.

“Just today!” Castella said eagerly. “He was quite as handsome as Gerda said. More, actually! But she was wrong about his clothing. He dressed like a gentleman, if a little shabby. Certainly not a rogue. Anyway, he was speaking with some people, when Mrs. Reammen marched up to him, handed him an invitation, and said, ‘You shall be all the interest in the county, good sir, and I insist you be at my party!’ You know how direct she is, remember how she spoke to Mr. McGepps? But the LeMoine man didn’t mind it at all, on the contrary, he seemed rather pleased. He promised to be there.”

“Oh, just luck I’ll be there!” cried Lark, as happily as her namesake. Castella frowned. 

“I thought only your parents were invited?” she said.

“I suppose so,” said Lark unconcernedly, “But they’d have to have a nanny for me, and they certainly won’t mind if I can come along, as long as I find a quiet spot and keep to myself.”

“Keep to yourself?” said Castella. “Ha!” Then, she frowned thoughtfully.

“Are your parents invited?” Lark asked, correctly guessing what her friend was frowning about.

“No,” said Castella, “But what can we do about that? I suppose I could sneak out, but it just seems wrong to sneak out to an adult’s party.”

Castella kept up talking, jabbering on about different ideas and why they wouldn’t work. Lark sat quietly and thought, her friend’s voice fading into the background.

“I’ve got it,” she interrupted. “It’s simple. I’ll have you over at my house on the day of the party, then when my parents want to go, we’ll beg them to take us along. Oh, they’ll give in. We just have to promise to stick together and keep out of the way.”

“Oooh!” Castella gave a little bounce and clapped her hands. “I just can’t wait!”

“Me neither,” grinned Lark.

“How did I never know you were related to the Laudharts?” Claire exclaims. Jordan shrugs. They’re walking, one of Jordan’s preferred pastimes. It’s a chilly autumn day, and as they cross the bridge, Claire slows down to enjoy the explosive colors around the riverbank.

“We’re not very close, just second cousins,” Jordan says.

“Second cousins are close!” says Claire.

“Not if you didn’t grow up with them,” replies Jordan.

“I grew up best friends with my second cousins,” says Claire.

“That’s because your family has about as many people as whiskers on a fish,” teases Jordan. 

“Just because we don’t all reproduce like rabbits,” Claire retorts.

“Anyway, Elda Laudhart offered us her spare tickets to the play, and guess who else she offered them to?” Jordan says.

“I have no idea,” says Claire.

“Just guess,” says Jordan.

“Jordan, there are seven billion people on this planet. Just tell me who it is.”

“Fine. It’s the mystery man,” Jordan says.

“The man with the silver dipper?”

“The very same.”

Castella stood and began to hum and dance around the room.

"Oh, imagine dancing with the LeMoine man!" she cried.

"I haven't even seen him yet," said Lark.

"Imagine marrying someone as handsome and magical as him!" said Castella, not listening.

"Stella," said Lark severely, "You're teasing me. You know quite well I'm simply dying to lay eyes on him."

"Eyes aren't the only thing I'd like to lay on him," said Castella, giggling mischievously. Lark gave her a look, and she sat down on the bed, looking apologetic.

"I'm sorry, Lark, I really am," she said. "I just can't wait for the party! What are we going to wear?"

"I thought maybe my grey and lilac gown with white gloves," said Lark. Castella pouted.

"That again?" she whined, "We talked about this, Birdgirl. People will see you wearing the same gown again and again, and the next you know, they'll fall asleep when you walk in the room!"

"It's my favorite dress," Lark sniffed. "What would you suggest?"

"Oooh, I'm so glad you asked!" said Castella, jumping up and rushing to Lark's closet.

"Jordan, are you alright?" Claire sets the curling iron aside and brushes her half-curled hair out of her face. Jordan has suddenly sucked in his breath and leaned heavily on the bathroom counter.

"I'm-- fine," puffs Jordan, who is anything but fine. "Probably just the heat--" He makes his way out of the bathroom and down the hall, supporting himself on the wall. Claire, poking her head out into the hallway, sees him throw open a window. Not sure what she can do, she continues curling her hair.

Meanwhile, a light-headed Jordan sits down near the open window and wrestles off his suit coat. He breathes deeply. He starts to feel hot all over, then cold, then hot again.

Claire finishes with her hair and comes to sit next to him.

"What is it?" she asks, rubbing his back. He shakes his head. He tries to explain to her, but she cries, "Dear, your eyes are all red! Are you sick?"

"I'm not sure," he tries to say, but his stomach chooses that moment to cramp, hard, and his faint groan answers her question.

Claire helps him back down the hall, this time to the bedroom, where he lies down on top of the covers.

"I'll call the Laudharts," says Claire, "We can't possibly go to the play now."

"Wait," says Jordan, "You go. I'll stay here and rest."

"You might need me," says Claire, wringing her hands.

"I'll be fine," Jordan smiles weakly, "Promise."

Claire isn't so certain. But she goes to the play with Elda Laudhart and the man with the silver dipper. She notices vaguely that he has brought the dipper along with him, but her anxious mind keeps going back to Jordan. She leaves her phone on during the play, and in the middle of the second act, she gets a phone call. The man with the silver dipper notices her distress as she leaves the theatre to take her call, and he meets her in the doorway as she is coming back in to get her things.

"Is something the matter, Mrs?" he says. His voice is rough, but pleasant, and tinted with an accent that Claire doesn't recognize.

"My husband," she says, "He's come down with something serious. Oh, I never should have left him alone!"

"You're husband is not well?" the man looks almost as concerned as Claire. "In this case, will you give him something from me? I believe it will help."

"Yes, of course," says Claire.

With that, the man swoops in and kisses her on the mouth. Claire's eyes bulge out of her head as she stands, confused, in the back of the theatre, being kissed by a near stranger.

"Where is he?" whispered Lark. She and her best friend huddled together in the corner of the room as the adults talked, laughed, and drank. Castella searched the room frantically.

"He's not here!" she said in dismay.

"Maybe someone knows why," said Lark.

"We can't just ask them," said Castella.

"So we won't," said Lark, and Castella began to get her meaning.

"Then we eavesdrop?"

"Meet you back here in ten minutes."

"I can't believe it. In fact, I don't!" Elda Laudhart says on the phone. "That he would go kissing married women... I just can't believe it! He's lucky he got out of town before I could get my hands on him!"

Claire is silent. She sees again in her mind an image that she will come to doubt over the next few years: Jordan, his eyes fluttering open, color returning to his face, the red around his eyes fading, his smile returning, and all that after only a kiss. She knows it's unbelievable, so she lets Elda rant on about the man with the silver dipper, but in her mind, she sends well wishes to the man who healed her husband.

"Did you hear anything?" Lark asked.

"You won't believe it," said Castella, "But he's gone and left town!"

"I do believe it," said Lark, "Everyone's talking about him. They call him a scoundrel and other nasty things."

"Because he's kissed Charlene and Miss Victoria and Mrs. Leonne," nodded Castella.

"But each of them were sick some way, except Mrs. Leonne," Lark protested.

"And her husband was sick," added Castella, "Each and every one got better straightaway after the LeMoine man! They didn't complain when he healed little Tommy MacKeirn with a kiss on the head!"

"It's so unfair," said Lark. "Now they've gone and run him out of town just for helping people, and I didn't even get to see him."

"I'm sorry," said Castella, patting Lark's arm, "I'm sure we can find something else to do, besides spy on him."

"I know," Lark grumbled, "But I so wanted to see the LeMoine man."