Rebecca's Ghost

by Marianne Petit

  Elizabeth turned her back to them. Her heart wrung with sadness. Mary didn’t trust her. Her throat constricted. Did she believe… did Philip--in the lies that followed her? Could they possibly believe Nora’s words that she was to blame circumstances beyond her control?

  “I must go make tea.” Elizabeth stepped toward the door.

  Philip stopped before her. A look of empathy lined his features. “The child sleeps. Perhaps the fever will break.”

  They did not trust her medicine. Elizabeth cast her gaze down. A sob bubbled up in her chest. She could never hurt William. She forced her tears away. “I don’t think ‘tis a risk you can afford to take.”

  “That he rests is a good sign,” Philip insisted.

  “Yes. And ‘twill do him more good if I make up a batch of herbal tea.”

  He shook his head. Sadness clouded his eyes. “Nay. We will wait on the Doctor.”

  The finality of his tone and his lack of trust, cut deeply.

  Beneath her lids, tears threatened. “Fine.” She moved from his side. “But with your permission I would like to stay by his side.”

  He gestured she sit.

  Stiffly she swept past Mary, to the other side of the bed, and sat gingerly beside the sleeping child.

  She could feel Rebecca’s cold presence standing beside her.

  Philip pulled over a chair and sat opposite her.

  Mary stood clasping the large silver cross that hung around her neck.

  And in the stillness that settled upon the room, a silent prayer, Elizabeth was sure, was said by all.

  ***

  The hours ticked by. Dawn’s soft light crept along the windowsill.

  Charred dying embers glowed in the darkened hearth.

  Throughout the night William had tossed and turned. Woke. Moaned. Fought, and in exhaustion fell asleep again.

  Through bleary eyes, Elizabeth watched the slow but steady rise and fall of his chest, then she sighed, a breath of relief, thankful he’d been asleep for well over an hour.

  Her muscles ached from strain and exhaustion.

  She straightened in her chair and rubbed her lower back with her fingers. Pain jabbed her heart as she recalled sitting by her mother's side so many times while she was sick. She‘d felt helpless then and so helpless now.

  William couldn’t die. Tears clouded her vision. He just couldn’t. Her shoulders sank as despair overwhelmed her. In the months time she’d spent with him she’d come to think of him as family, as the child she would never have.

  A wisp of black hair fell across his damp brow. She leaned forward and gently brushed the lock aside.

  There was a brief moment, after Philip had started to make love to her, when she’d thought her dream of a family life would come true and instead of being William’s teacher she would become his mother. But Philip had made it perfectly clear she wasn’t in his family plans.

  She glanced across the bed where he sat hunched forward, his hands cradling his face.

  Her heart, wrenched. Her anger diminished as she realized the fear coursing through her, could only be magnified tenfold on his shoulders, and no arguments, thrown accusations, mistrust, or broken dreams for the moment, mattered.

  The mattress dipped as she leaned over and mopped William’s brow.

  Philip snapped his head up.

  Her gaze met his. Concern and pain marred his brow.

  “Bloody hell!” He jerked to his feet.

  Mary broke from her sleep. “What--”

  “Where is that Doctor? He should have been here hours ago.” He paced like a caged animal.

  Elizabeth rose, and wrung her fingers together.

  Mary straightened her apron and waddled toward the door. “I’ll go see if Tyler’s heard anythin’.”

  “I tried to keep him out Sir.”

  Elizabeth jerked his gaze from Philip, to Tyler then to the doctor, who shuffled his hunched body through the open door.

  “Why keep him out?” Philip hurried over. “We are in great need of his services.”

  He clasped the doctor’s aged, withered hand.

  Deep hollow circles framed the doctor’s tired baggy eyes. ‘Twas evident he’d gotten very little, if no sleep.

  “Nay, Sir.” Tyler insisted. “Not the doctor; him.” Tyler stepped back.

  A soldier immaculately dressed in a brown turnback jacket and green waistcoat, stomped through the door.

  “Elizabeth Rose Morgan?” The young man’s voice boomed.

  “Yes,” Her heart raced. A lock of hair twilled nervously around her finger.

  “You are hereby charged with murder.”

  Elizabeth stared at the man who stood at attention before her. Numb, it felt as though a musket ball had blown a hole in her stomach and now exploded in her brain.

  ‘Twas the danger foretold by her grand-mamma

  In slow motion she watched, horrified, as the soldier came closer and tied a rope around her wrists.

  In her befuddled mind, she saw the angry scowl upon Philip’s face.

  “Is that really necessary?” His gaze rested on her wrists.

  “Just fulfilling my orders Sir.” The soldier’s voice seemed miles away.

  Her feet felt rooted to the floor as he led her toward the door. Bewilderment and fear pierced through the cobwebs of her hazy mind. Who? How? Philip? She glanced at him.

  He shook his head as if he knew her thoughts. “Nay,‘twasn’t me.”

  Her gaze beheld Mary’s. She too shook her head, then made the sign of the cross before her.

  A look of mute appeal spread across Tyler’s face as he backed into the hall, allowing her to step through the door frame.

  “Wait.” Philip shouted. He rushed into the hall. “‘Tis absurd. There is no need to haul the mistress away to the gaol. I will see she remains under my protection until this matter is settled.”

  “I’ve my orders, sir.” He tightly gripped the rope bound to her wrists. “I am instructed to bring the lady in.”

  “But--”

  “My apologies, sir.” He hooked the thumb of his free hand under the thick white belt that crossed his chest and threw back his shoulders.

  “Then give us, but a moment alone,” Philip insisted. “ And for God sake man, untie those ropes!”

  The soldier nodded and released the rope.

  Philip ushered her back into the chambers. “I…”

  He wrung his hands together. “I cannot leave my son.”

  Though she understood his words, a small part of her soul wept in selfishness.

  “You must stay by his side. I fear the worst is yet to come.” Her words sounded strangled in the back of her throat.

  “I will send you my lawyer, my friend, John Blair. None is fairer than he.”

  She nodded.

  “Time is up.” The soldier’s tall frame filled the doorway.

  “The tea… I must write down the ingredients.” She glanced around in search of paper.

  Tyler stepped into the room and cleared his throat. “Madam.” He held a pen and pieces of parchment to her. “I thought you might have the need to inform anyone close to you of your--” Again he cleared his throat. His eyes beheld hers in discomfort. “Your situation.”

  She smiled weakly. “Thank you. There is no one.”

  A cold feeling, like a closed fist, settled over her heart. She brought the ink to the page. “You will need one pound of the bark of--”

  “Elizabeth I --”

  “Yellow birch, half pound sweet flag, half pound of tag alder bark and…” She glanced up at Philip. “You should find the ingredients in marked glasses in the dark cool corner of the cupboard.

  Two cups of bay berry flowers --”

  “Not much longer miss,” the soldier interrupted.

  Furiously she scribbled across the parchment. “Two ounces thorough wort, two ounces tanzy, dry; put to these four quarts of water and boil, slow. Stir and boil down to one half, then let it cool. Add two quarts of sweet wine and bot
tle.” She held the paper out to him. “Take it. Please.”

  His fist clenched at his side, he stared down at the parchment, then raised a narrowing glance at her. The mistrust she saw clouding his eyes pained her greatly.

  She rattled the paper toward him.

  Hesitantly, he reached for the recipe.

  Relief dulled the pain stabbing her heart.

  “Give it to him every two hours till the shakes come on, then no more. If he is not well within three days, or if --if anyone else should…” her gaze dropped, “fall ill,” pray tell, not him. She swallowed dryly then quickly put the pen to another paper. “A vomit of equal part of thoroughwort and lobelia, is necessary once in about three days.” She turned.

  He placed his hand on her arm. “Elizabeth.” His voice was warm, filled with compassion. “I am sorry.”

  Though his words warmed her heart, a blazing fire of fear roared in her ears.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The wagon rolled down the main street and dipped into a rut in the dirt road throwing Elizabeth off balance. Her arm hit the splintered rail. She grabbed the side to keep from falling off the crude wooden bench. Jostled about, she clung to the railing with her rope bound hands to keep herself steady.

  Beyond the wagon’s ledge, the town danced around her, and she felt like she was in the center of a spinning uncorked glass bottle.

  Traveling past the blacksmiths the clink of metal, as mallet hit anvil, seemed sharper to her ears. The thrum of drums and sharp toot of fifes screamed.

  She stared toward the guardhouse and powder magazine, where weapons and ammunition were stored; where soldiers marched across the lawn to the music’s beat; soldiers as immaculately dressed as the two young men who now carted her toward the courthouse.

  Her vision distorted, yet at the same time seemingly magnified, she watched a peddler spread out his wares on temporary counters at the road’s edge. His clocks and showy jewelry sparkled under the sun’s rays.

  She snapped her glance away and stared out at the people who stared back at her. Some pointed at the jailer’s wagon, surprised a woman sat within its confines.

  They all came for the show—and she was the entertainment.

  The bitter taste of vomit welled in her throat.

  Her eyes watered from the dust being kicked up from the wagons’ wheels.

  A bell rang. Her shoulders jerked. Could it be midday already? Tucked away in a dark cell, she’d lost all track of time. She threw back her head, stared at the sun high in the sky and blinked. That she’d spent a full day in the gaol seemed like a dream. A dream that in the day’s bright light should have disappeared, yet here she sat on her way to trial for a murder she didn’t commit.

  Murder. The word hit her stomach with a violent lurch. Nay, this wasn’t happening, not to her.

  She jerked her hands to her abdomen, closed her eyes and hugged her middle. Her knees began to shake. Beads of perspiration slid down between her breasts.

  The wagon came to an abrupt stop.

  The brick facade of the courthouse loomed before her eyes.

  Fear, stark black fear consumed her.

  One of the soldiers from the front of the wagon came to the back and unhinged the wooden rail.

  “Mistress.” His face a study of desolation, he held his hand out to her.

  Stiffly, awkwardly, she stood.

  Unstable, her feet refused to move.

  Dazed, her mind whirled.

  Her heart slammed into her breast.

  “I regret Mistress they are waiting.”

  Her gaze lifted from the compassionate eyes of the young soldier, to the broad stone steps of the courthouse.

  People from all stations of life filed through the wide double doors into its huge chambers. Was Philip among the crowd? As she stepped down from the wagon, she inspected the villagers.

  Her pulse raced.

  Perhaps he was inside. A few yards from the prisoner’s dock, a whipping post and pillory stood waiting for its next occupant.

  She shivered.

  Would she be locked into the crude wooden structure with her head and arms protruding from its slots? Or was she bound for the whipping post?

  The acrid taste of vomit welled in her throat.

  Or was death to be her fate?

  Like a wooden puppet she staggered up the courtroom steps.

  Trudging past rows and rows of crowded benches, she wanted to search through the faces of those around her for a glimpse of Philip, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze from the gated pen that stood like a hangman’s scaffolding before her. The soldier’s grip firm, he led her up the aisle.

  She tripped over the hem of her gown. He caught her. She straightened, managed a weak smile of thanks then continued walking.

  “Mistress.”

  She turned to face him.

  He unbound her hands and motioned she step up to the pulpit.

  Though she trembled violently, she squared her shoulders and took that last faulting step.

  The gate beside her thudded shut.

  The soldier snapped his body around and marched down the aisle. The sound of his booted heels clicking against the stone floor, echoed off the polished wooden walls and high ceiling.

  And as she watched the one sympathetic face who seemed to understand her plight— as she watched him disappear, through the front, and close the door behind him an emptiness engulfed her, for it felt as though he’d hammered the last nail into her coffin.

  Sealed away from the outside world, in the wooden tomb of polished rails, white washed archways and wrought iron chandeliers, voices rose in a blended roar of chatter.

  Elizabeth stared out into a sea of faces, some recognizable, some unknown.

  ‘Twas a part of her vision come true, she thought, remembering the vision she’d had while at William’s bedside. ‘Twas the danger she’d felt.

  Another tremor washed over her.

  Trance-like she glanced up to the balcony where men hung over the rail and stared down at her.

  Like noisy hens in a chicken coop, men and women talked amongst themselves.

  Smoke rose from lit pipes and glowing cheroots.

  Philip, perhaps he…

  Elizabeth searched the crowd.

  Her eyes misted.

  Nay, ‘twas selfish to expect him here when, she knew with William’s sickness, ‘twas impossible for him to leave.

  William, I shall think on William and say a prayer…

  A row of seven men dressed in various colored waistcoats and breeches, shuffled into the room.

  A prayer for me as well…

  These men of authority held her fate in their hands.

  The sunlight shining in through the two round leaded windows on either side of her did little to warm the chill running down her spine.

  ***

  Philip raked his fingers through his hair.

  His legs stiff, his heart as heavy as his overtired eyes, he stood in the center of the room and stared at his son.

  For the moment, William rested comfortably.

  Mary, he noticed, lay sprawled in a blanketed chair. Her buzz-like snore cut through the silence.

  The doctor had left hours ago with instructions that William be given two spoonfuls of medicine every four hours. The sickness, he’d said, though he wasn’t sure what the ailment was due to the high fever and convulsions, could be contagious and possibly deadly.

  Philip began to pace.

  Visions of Rebecca lying on her deathbed filled his mind. His heart lurched in pain.

  Now his son, lie as ghostly pale as she had, and the helplessness he’d felt that day, now ate his gut with a stronger, fiercer intensity.

  A chill enveloped him. He glanced to the roaring fire, then at William’s bed.

  Tears clouded his vision. He swallowed, and pounded the lump jammed in his throat. He couldn’t lose his son, damn it. He just couldn’t. He lowered his clenched hand. His nails cut into his palm.

&
nbsp; “Please. I beseech of you…” He closed his eyes and dropped his head back. His chin titled toward the ceiling, he prayed to a God he hoped would hear him—this time. “I know you haven’t heard from me in a while.” A sob welled in his chest.

  Since Rebecca’s death, his trust in the Lord had diminished. And with every passing day, with no signs of his son being like every other child, any belief in the Lord had disappeared along with any hopes he’d harbored.

  “Forgive me.” His hands clenched together in prayer, he squeezed his fists tighter till his knuckles hurt from the pressure.”Do not take my son from me. He is all the family I have.”

  Philip’s chin sunk into his chest and a dull, empty ache gnawed at his soul.

  His eyes brimming with tears, he glanced once again to his son’s sleeping angelic form.

  “I swear… if ‘tis not too late,” he placed his hand gently on William’s arm. “I will be the father you never had.”

  His footsteps heavy, he turned away and lumbered toward the table where the doctor had left his instructions. Alongside the paper lie Elizabeth’s herbal tea recipe.

  Frustrated, that the doctor’s remedy seemed to have no effect, exhausted, Philip’s fragmented thoughts cluttered his mind making it difficult to think.

  He stared down at Elizabeth’s hand written ingredients.

  When he had taken the parchment from her, her eyes had lit with a gratefulness that eased a bit of the guilt that had lingered in the back of his mind. He knew she had thanked him in silence for believing in her… He hadn’t.

  He had taken her parchment in the confusion of the moment.

  Damn Skent’s report. Lies, all of it! Elizabeth couldn’t hurt a soul, never-the-less his son.

  He snatched the Elizabeth’s parchment in a tight fisted hold.

  “Mary,” he bellowed with a quick turn toward her now awaking form. “Mix me up a batch of tea.”

  If he could only take back the things he had accused her of.

  “Huh?” His son’s nursemaid nearly toppled from her chair as she came to. Struggling, from her slouched position, she stood and stared at him, bewildered. “I am sorry your Lordship, I--” She rubbed her eyes, glanced toward William, then patted down her wrinkled white apron.