Sixpence and Selkies

by Tilly Wallace

  “No. As difficult as that is for you to believe, I did not offer to cure them with my magic wand.” He flung his arms up into the air.

  Wycliff grunted. The apothecary might have tried and been rebuked. Who knew? Dead women couldn’t recount what had happened in their last moments. “What of the potions? Was there anything in them that might have affected their balance?”

  “I am most careful of my ingredients and customers are warned if there are side effects such as dizziness. None of the women took anything that would cause them to lose their footing in the dark. You will have to find another party to blame.” Seager bent to pick up his sacks.

  Not wanting to waste any civilities upon the man, Wycliff nodded and stalked away. Movement on the brow of the hill caught his eye and soon a cart appeared, drawn by a solid horse. Hannah held the reins with Mrs Rossett beside her, Mary and Charlotte in the back. Wycliff wiped a handkerchief over his brow and headed in their direction as Hannah pulled the horse to a halt.

  “It is a pleasant surprise to see you here.” More than that, he had not seen her face or held her form for two days, and he missed her closeness, her faint lavender fragrance, and the twinkle in her eye when she considered mischief. Most of all, he missed the way she murmured his Christian name when they were alone and he kissed his way up her neck.

  “Mrs Rossett has commanded her troops for the last two days. We have worked hard under her direction and, I hope, brought enough to feed everyone,” Hannah said as she clasped his hand.

  In the back of the cart were crammed numerous boxes and baskets with cloths tucked into the tops and a delicious aroma wafting from underneath. His stomach growled and reminded him that he hadn’t had breakfast.

  Wycliff kept possession of Hannah’s hand and raised it to his lips. “You are a marvel,” he murmured against her skin. He would thank her more fully later.

  A becoming flush raced over her cheeks. “Mrs Rossett said the summer shearing was a big gathering of the villagers. I don’t need magic to know that men who are working hard will be hungry.”

  Children swarmed the cart like rats on cheese, no doubt drawn by the odours dancing across the meadow. Eager hands unloaded the boxes and baskets and laid them out on a makeshift table.

  Wycliff let go of Hannah to summon the workmen. They tugged their caps and thanked Hannah as they dove into the spread of meat pies, savoury pastries, and biscuits the women had made.

  Wycliff and Hannah sat on a blanket in the sun, although she put up a parasol to shade her face, and cheerful conversation flowed around them. While he worked hard and barely had time to spend with Hannah during the day, it made the quiet moments in her company all the more valuable. Each day brought a greater sense of satisfaction at what he could achieve. He even proudly displayed a blister on his palm, something that would make the fops in London faint.

  After their meal, he took Hannah’s arm while they strolled along the river in the shade of the weeping willows. He wanted privacy to tell her what he had discerned so far. “I spoke to Seager. He was indeed dispensing cures for the three dead women.”

  “Oh? I found Lisbeth’s and Sarah’s records among his notebooks, but not one for Amy. Did he say what he treated her for?”

  “Apparently Amy suffered headaches. Seager also said that none of the potions he dispensed would cause the women to be dizzy or lose their balance.” The potions might be blameless, but that didn’t absolve the man. Not yet.

  “Then if we continue with the hypothesis that their deaths were not accidental, we must consider what else might have bound the women.” She reached up to snag a leaf to spin between her fingers. “Although, from talking to those left behind, the only thing I can find they all shared was loneliness. Lisbeth was isolated by the community, Sarah’s husband is a shepherd and spent long hours away from home, and Amy was somewhat alone in dealing with her grandfather. Having met him, I am not surprised to learn she endured headaches.”

  “We may have some fiend with a demented sense of how to cure them, or possibly a spurned lover who tried his luck with all three. But I agree, if we pursue this line of thought we are grasping at what links them and why they were targeted.” While he still struggled to believe the deaths anything other than terrible accidents, he approached it with an open mind for Hannah’s sake.

  A whisper from long ago snaked through his mind. Hannah had stirred up the old story of two men who had drowned one summer fifty years ago. He waved a hand across his face to brush aside the tale. How many people had drowned in the village over the last fifty years? Probably fifty, since the ocean claimed roughly one a year. Sometimes a fisherman’s boat was caught out in a storm and overturned, or a child was snared in an undercurrent while swimming alone. Or someone walking the cliffs stumbled and fell.

  They had seen too many unnatural murders in London over the preceding months, and were jumping at shadows.

  Hannah let out a sigh and turned to face him. She twisted her fingers in the linen of his shirt. “There is another option. I may have to concede that my husband is right, and I am seeing murder where there is none.”

  “I have a suspicion that such a concession may be a rare occurrence. I might start a diary when we return to Mireworth, to record such events.” He tried to school his features into a stern expression, but the sparkle in her eyes undid him. So he kissed her instead.

  18

  Later that week, Hannah spent the morning scrubbing yet more panes in the conservatory before deciding she needed an afternoon off. Given she held the title of lady of the house, she worked harder than a new scullery maid. She removed her apron, and washed off the grime that had run from the brush down her fingers and arms.

  “I’m going for a walk to find Lisbeth’s cottage.” For some reason, she had put off finding the isolated cottage. Perhaps she was even worried that Lisbeth’s spectre might still cling to the stones and whisper of carefree days spent with Wycliff. Hannah fetched her warmest pelisse and a bonnet. Sheba began running in circles at the signs of an imminent walk.

  “You take care out there, milady—it’s exposed to every gust of wind and the paths are narrow. I’ll send Frank to fetch you if the weather turns.” Mrs Rossett wore a worried look as Hannah prepared to leave.

  “I promise to be careful. The dance is not far away now, and I don’t want to miss it.” Hannah waved to the housekeeper and set off.

  Sheba barked and shot away through the grass. Hannah called the spaniel, to ensure they both walked in the right direction. Today she had a purpose more investigative than emotional—to find the remote spot where Lisbeth, Wycliff’s childhood companion, had once lived.

  By the time Hannah laboured up another hill, she was starting to question her determination to walk. Her breath came short in her lungs and her calves protested the constant exercise. While she was no riding enthusiast, a horse might have been a better mode of transport.

  Then she reached the brow of the hill and found her exertions almost over. The promontory ran out before her like a finger pointing at the horizon, as the land mass narrowed and thrust itself into the water. Waves crashed on either side and there, near the end, perched a sturdy little cottage with a most determined tree growing next to it.

  “Oh, I say.” Hannah stood for a moment and soaked in the view that possessed a wild and lonely beauty. “Come on, Sheba.” Hannah began her descent and trod a worn path that created a spine down the point to the cottage.

  The land flattened out as she approached, revealing that the cottage didn’t perch quite so precariously on the edge as it appeared from above. One side of the point had a gentle roll down to the water and even a crescent of sand. The other side fell away sharply, with rocks far below. Was this where Wycliff had caught his friend about to hurl herself into the ocean? In her mind’s eye, Hannah saw Wycliff galloping down the hill on his horse to pull Lisbeth back from the brink.

  Tears burned behind Hannah’s eyes, as she imagined the dead woman driven by an utter sense of hopele
ssness. Did the vast ocean before her echo her loneliness, or had a voice on the wind promised to end it?

  Hannah stepped back from the edge and the pull of another woman’s memories. Instead, she contemplated the tree deformed by the action of the wind—its very existence a sign of life determined to survive despite adversity. She couldn’t discern the species of tree, other than hardy. A trace of salt spray had dried to the bark and the few needles it sprouted were narrow and a deep green. Branches spread over the roof of the cottage as though it offered additional protection against the elements. Perhaps to repay the shelter and companionship the cottage provided to the tree.

  The cottage where Lisbeth Wolfe once lived remained untenanted, its grey stone walls weathered by the action of wind and salt. Hannah peered in the windows, indulging her curiosity to the fullest since there was no one to witness her pressing her nose to the glass. On impulse, she banged on the door latch and surprise surged within her when the ancient piece of timber creaked open.

  She paused on the threshold, unsure what to do. Violating a dead woman’s home seemed a step too far, nor could she bring herself to rifle through the belongings that might remain inside. Instead, she ensured her boot tips stayed firmly on the outside edge of the door frame and craned her neck. The cottage comprised one well-sized room. An enormous fireplace dominated one end, the hearth large enough to swing a pot from the hook embedded in the blackened stones. A cast iron plate sat to one side that could be swung over the embers to become a cooking surface.

  Cupboards were built into the wall on either side of the fireplace. A bench ran under a window overlooking the sea. The wall opposite the fireplace held a bed, the mattress stripped of its bedding. In the middle of the room sat a square table with four wooden chairs. A worn but comfortable-looking armchair occupied a spot close to the fire. A small footstool huddled close, ready for the owner to rest their feet after a long day.

  From the outside, Hannah thought the cottage would be a bleak and lonely thing, but when she cast the interior with a golden hue and imagined a blazing fire in the hearth, instead she saw it as a quiet retreat. The sort of place a woman could be alone with her thoughts while sheltering from the storms outside.

  Mrs Rossett said Lisbeth had a gift for predicting the weather, and the cottage was certainly bombarded by everything nature could hurl at it. You didn’t need an aftermage gift to watch a storm heading for the shore, but it was the unseen change of weather that would catch the fishermen of the village unawares.

  High-pitched barking caught Hannah’s attention. She yanked the door shut and hurried to find her little dog. The noise came from the inland side of the cottage, where the tortured tree spread its boughs. Sheba’s tail wagged, a bright chestnut splash against the drab grey of the stone and the gnarled bark of the tree.

  “What have you found, girl?” Hannah knelt next to the dog.

  The spaniel’s upper body had disappeared into a hole and she scrabbled with her front paws. A rabbit, perhaps? A metallic clunk caught Hannah’s attention and she used both hands to haul the eager dog from the burrow. Dirt coated the spaniel’s nose and face, but she sat on the grass as asked and tilted her head to watch.

  Hannah stuck a hand in the hole thinking she would find a scared rabbit, but her fingertips scraped cool metal. Grabbing the object, she freed it from its earthly prison. The dog had uncovered a small metal tin buried at the base of the tree. It was roughly square and no longer than her palm, and the sides were dented and the metal laced with red ribbons of rust.

  With the tin on her lap, she contemplated what to do. She assumed it had been placed in the hole by the resident of the cottage, otherwise it was a dashed odd hiding place for anyone else to use. To confirm her idea required her to open the box and peer inside. That seemed at odds with her decision not to violate Lisbeth’s memory by searching the cottage.

  But surely it was fate that made Sheba dig here? A small voice in her head gave a dissenting opinion.

  “Well, I walked all this way to see if I could learn something about Lisbeth Wolfe, and this might be the clue I seek.” Decision made, Hannah prised the lid open against protesting hinges. Within sat a bundle of letters, tied with a faded red ribbon, the name Lisbeth written on the uppermost one in a neat and restrained hand.

  “Whose letters were you hiding?” Hannah murmured as she picked up the bundle.

  “Lady Wycliff! Is that you? Is everything all right?” a familiar voice hailed her.

  With her back to him, Hannah shoved the collection of letters into the interior pocket of her pelisse. Then she closed the lid of the tin.

  She turned to find Mr Hartley, a coat buttoned up to his neck and a short top hat wedged firmly on his head to prevent the wind snatching it away. He held a gnarled walking stick in one hand and had a battered leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

  “Mr Hartley. What a surprise to see you here. I am quite well, thank you. Sheba disappeared down a hole—I thought in pursuit of a rabbit, but she dug out this tin.” Relief tinged with guilt washed through her that she no longer had the dead woman’s private letters clutched in her hands.

  “I often take a constitutional out this way. There is something beautiful about this spot, as though from here I can more easily commune with our Creator.” He knelt next to her and stared at the tin. “May I?” he asked with a hand extended.

  “Of course,” Hannah murmured and passed the box to him.

  The reverend held it by his head and shook it. “Sounds empty.” He flipped the top open with his thumb and stared within before turning it upside down.

  “That is a relief. At least Sheba has not disturbed a pirate’s buried treasure.” Hannah brushed the remains of dirt from her pelisse and skirts.

  “Nor was it something of great value that belonged to Miss Wolfe.” Mr Hartley stared at Hannah. On closer inspection, his sage green eyes contained grey flecks, like moss that clings to a tree’s bark.

  He has a soulful gaze, filled with kindness. She needed to watch her words in case she blurted out too much. The letters weighed down one side of her pelisse, but she held her tongue. Instead, she sought another topic. “I found myself most curious about this cottage. It seems such a desolate spot to make one’s home, don’t you think?”

  Mr Hartley slid the tin back into its hiding place, and then offered a hand to Hannah to help her rise. She accepted his gentle touch.

  The reverend kept hold of Hannah’s hand. “Miss Wolfe chose it quite deliberately, I am told. She had a slight gift for predicting the weather and wanted to be closer to the ocean to sense the storms and winds that rolled off her.”

  “That is what our housekeeper told me. Did you know Miss Wolfe at all?” Hannah cast one last look at Lisbeth’s refuge against all that the world hurled at her.

  “She came to services on a regular basis and possessed a lovely singing voice. She is much missed during the hymns,” he said as they strolled along the spine of the promontory.

  “I understand she lost her life out here.” Hannah plucked at a strand in her mind.

  “Yes. A terrible tragedy. No one knows what happened. While I do not like to indulge in village gossip, some whisper that she was much enamoured of a gentleman and that when he rejected her, it was too much for her heart to bear. And so, she threw herself from these cliffs.” Mr Hartley used his walking stick to brush aside a piece of wood on the path.

  Had someone broken her heart, or had a spurned lover lashed out in anger? So many possible scenarios could have played out with only the silent cottage and tree as witnesses.

  “I am most curious, Mr Hartley. Do you have any clue as to the identity of this callous lover?” Hannah waited for his response, certain the name of Mr Seager would be spoken next. The man’s rude demeanour might have its root in guilt at being the cause of Lisbeth’s death.

  Mr Hartley stopped and faced Hannah. “Yes, but I do not wish to cause you distress, Lady Wycliff.”

  Tendrils of doubt wriggled into her
mind. “I am hardier than I appear, Mr Hartley. Having made such a comment, you are now compelled to tell me, or I shall imagine far worse.”

  He cast his gaze downward and spoke in a low tone. “I believe that his lordship had been close to Lisbeth for some years. She had a wild kind of beauty that some men find irresistible. Keeping such an isolated cottage allowed them to maintain their privacy when he was at Mireworth and away from the prying eyes of the village. I do not know what transpired between the two of them, but to this day, I blame myself that I did not do enough to ease her suffering.”

  Wycliff. A chill wind swirled through Hannah’s soul. Had Lisbeth declared her love for him, only to be rejected? How horrible, to love someone who did not return such affection.

  Worry creased the reverend’s brow. “I’m sorry if I have upset you by repeating such a rumour, Lady Wycliff. I only wanted to give you a full account of what might have happened here. Besides, such is the way with nobles, is it not? They rouse women to admire them, only for the lord’s ardour to cool and their paramours to be abandoned. Lords are not like us more common men, who give our hearts only once.”

  He would give his heart only once. The words made a sigh heave in her chest. Hannah placed what she hoped was a kind smile on her lips. “I am not concerned, Mr Hartley. I am aware that his lordship and Miss Wolfe were childhood friends.” Had childhood friends become young lovers? Despite being married to Wycliff, Hannah had no inkling as to the state of his heart.

  Her husband certainly roused Hannah’s admiration, but at times she wondered if Wycliff loved the estate and his sheep more than she, or any other woman, for that matter. She rubbed her chest but it did nothing to ease the ache there. How she longed for Lizzie’s advice. Yet again, and in a somewhat louder tone, the sensible part of her mind argued that the easiest course of action was to confront Wycliff and demand to know outright the depth of any emotion he felt toward her. But the quiet and reserved part of her that preferred to hide in a library shuddered at the very idea.