by Unknown
A low moan came from behind him and he turned. It was the witch-woman, Cassie’s mother. Cassie was on her feet and at her side in an instant.
‘Mama?’
‘Take me away . . . They’re coming back.’
‘Not yet, Mama.’
‘Take me back upstairs!’ Her voice rose to a kind of scream and Cassie jumped and turned her head nervously, as if listening out for servants or horses.
‘All right, Mama, I’ll take you.’ She turned to Rosa. ‘Can you manage for a moment, Rosa? My mother is not well, as you see.’
‘Don’t do it,’ the witch-woman cried as Cassie led her from the room. ‘I can see it in your heart – you will regret it for ever. Take the other path – that one will break you.’
Luke stared after her. Was she talking to him or Rosa?
Rosa watched her go too, her tear-stained face turned to the door long after Cassie and her mother had left. Then she turned back to Luke.
‘How did she die?’
‘One of the broken struts of the bridge through the heart,’ he managed, though his throat was sore with grief. ‘It was quick. She knew nothing.’
She pressed her lips together. Her face was very pale, the nutmeg dust freckles standing out against her skin. She closed her eyes, her lashes making dark circles against her cheeks, the tears squeezing out from beneath. Luke fought against the crazed impulse to take her in his arms as he had that night in the stable. But he had no right to comfort her – not just because of who he was, but because of what he’d done.
‘P-perhaps it’s b-better this way,’ she managed at last. ‘My first pony, Willowherb, when she grew old Alexis had her sold to the knacker’s yard, to make meat for dogs. I wouldn’t have wanted that for Cherry.’
‘No,’ he said. His voice was as rough and hoarse as hers, though his tears were unshed. ‘No. She died quick. She died happy.’
Happy? He remembered Cherry’s scream as she felt the boards going out from under her and he shut his own eyes, though nothing could shut out the memory of her skewered body and that terrible, whinnying shriek.
‘She died happy,’ he repeated, his voice hard with anger at himself, at the lies.
‘You’d better see to your horse,’ Rosa said. Luke looked out of the open French doors, to where Bumblebee was nibbling the Virginia creeper that twined around the windows. He must have followed them home. Luke should have been relieved to see him, relieved that at least Bumblebee’s safety wasn’t on his conscience too. But he could feel no relief at all.
‘Yes.’ He rubbed his face. ‘All right. And Brimstone’ll be back by now, I shouldn’t wonder. Mr Greenwood will be wondering where I am.’
‘I wonder how long it will take him to notice his sister’s absence,’ Rosa said bitterly.
‘Miss Greenwood . . .’ he started. He didn’t know what he was about to say. That she deserved better. That she didn’t have to live this life, trapped by her mother’s rapacious ambition and her brother’s greed, despised by both of them. But it was not true. There was no escape for her, any more than for him. They were both trapped, each in their own cage.
‘Yes?’ She looked up at him from the sofa, her small, pale face spattered with mud and blood. Her golden-brown eyes were dull.
‘Nothing.’
He turned to go.
‘Wait.’
She had dragged herself to sitting. He stopped, his chest rising and falling as hers was too, beneath his wet, bloodstained coat.
‘Yes?’ he said, more harshly than he meant.
‘I-I . . .’ she stammered, and then stopped.
‘What?’
He ought to be sacked for speaking to his mistress like that – he would be, if anyone else heard. But she only shook her head angrily.
‘Nothing.’
Then as he turned again to go, ‘No, Luke, wait.’
She grabbed his shirt at his shoulder, pulling him down to her height, and he felt her lips, shockingly soft and warm against his cheek, and the slim strength of her arm around his neck in a fierce, almost angry embrace.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. ‘Thank you. I owe you my life. I will never forget that.’
She let go and he was left gasping, hot with desire and shame.
For witchcraft comes from lust, that carnal desire which in women is insatiable. He heard the words inside his head, as clear as if John Leadingham had spoken them, as he turned and stumbled out of the French doors and across the gravel drive.
Whose lust?
He thought of himself ripping open Rosa’s clothes, trying not to look, yet looking even as he tried to turn away. Even as he retched at the sight of the whalebone slicing between her ribs, he had looked. He had not been able to help himself.
He did not look back to see if she were still watching him. He could not look back. He grabbed at Bumblebee’s reins, and led him away.
Rosa watched Luke go and then she sank back on the sofa, her head in her hands. She was tired to the bone. Every part of her ached with weariness. Somewhere beneath the exhaustion she knew that her clothes were covered in blood, that her good corset was butchered, that beneath Luke’s jacket her breasts were bare. But she did not know if she had the energy to do anything about it. Now that Luke had gone none of it seemed to matter.
She knew she should feel shame at the thought of him pulling her from the river, pulling apart her clothes. But she didn’t. She would be dead if he hadn’t. So – he had seen her naked. That was the least of it. He had seen Sebastian’s mother, full of madness. And he had watched her heal Rosa’s wound in front of him. An outwith. And he had seen their power.
What had she done?
‘Rosa?’ The voice was soft.
Rosa’s head jerked up. Cassandra was standing in the doorway, her face worried.
‘Rosa, are you quite well?’
Rosa laughed. It sounded bitter in her own ears.
‘Quite well. Quite well unless you count almost drowning beneath my horse. Quite well apart from being cold, wet and bloodstained.’
She shivered, and Cassie came across and took her hand.
‘Your fingers are like ice.’ She touched Rosa’s forehead. ‘Heavens! You have a fever. Let’s get you upstairs and into bed.’
Rosa found she was very tired. Her legs shook as she stood.
‘Yes please,’ she said. Her voice was strange and far away. ‘I would like that very much.’
‘Rosa . . .’ Cassie’s voice was urgent in her ear as she helped Rosa stand. ‘Rosa, you must never, never speak of what my mother did. Do you understand?’
‘I . . .’ Rosa found her head was swimming. This strangeness was too much. ‘Why – why not?’
‘Especially not to Sebastian. You must promise me you will never mention that you have seen her.’
‘I promise.’ Her head was aching and her knees shook as she stood upright. ‘But, Cassie, why?’
But Cassie said nothing, and Rosa found that it took all her strength and concentration to put one foot in front of the other.
It was only later, much later, in her room that she closed her eyes on the pillow, and that strange gaunt face floated in front of her vision again. What was wrong with Cassie’s mother? Was Sebastian so ashamed that he could not bear to have her talked about?
She was too exhausted to think about it for long. Instead she drifted into a troubled sleep, with dreams haunted by pounding hooves, Luke’s sobbing pleas, and a strange wild-haired witch with Sebastian’s eyes.
Luke was walking slowly back from the stables when he heard horses’ hooves. He looked up. Alexis and Sebastian were trotting into the yard. When they saw Luke both changed direction to come across to him. Alexis had his crop in his hand, twitching against his thigh. Sebastian had
a bloody fox foot dangling from his saddlebag. They were both keyed up from the hunt, full of triumph and arrogance and a sense of their own potency. Luke felt suddenly very weary with the knowledge of what was about to happen.
Every part of him hurt. His shoulder ached from where he had wrenched it trying to heave Cherry off Rosa’s body. His back ached from carrying her all that long trek up to the house. Most of all his heart ached, at the knowledge of what he’d done, what he faced back in London . . .
He did not feel fear at the sight of Alexis and Sebastian – he felt only an intense weariness at the unjustness of it all. He could have killed Alexis. He could have killed him in cold blood and felt he’d done the world a service. He could have killed Sebastian – not with joy, but with a grim sense of right. Why couldn’t he have drawn their names? Why Rosa and not them?
He turned away.
‘Hi!’ Alexis’ shout rang across the yard. ‘You. Where d’you think you’re going, eh?’
Luke kept walking.
‘I said stop!’ Alexis bellowed furiously and, to his shock and fury, Luke felt his feet drag on the ground, as if invisible weights had suddenly attached themselves to his boots. He gritted his teeth and pulled against the heaviness – but before he could free himself he heard Sebastian’s low, angry, ‘For God’s sake, Greenwood.’
The pull loosed abruptly, but he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him flee. Not now. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to face them.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Alexis snarled as Brimstone came level with Luke. He flicked out with his whip, catching Luke painfully across the ear. ‘First you disappear from the hunt and then saunter back here like I’ve nothing better to do than wait on your convenience. Where the hell were you?’ Luke bit his lip, and Alexis shouted out, ‘Answer me, damn you!’ The crop flicked again and Luke felt a sting on his cheek. When he put his hand up there was blood.
‘Saving your sister’s life,’ he ground out, hating them both with every ounce of flesh and blood and bone in his body.
‘What?’ It was Sebastian, not Alexis, who slid off his horse to stand level with Luke. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me. And you heard me on the ridge, didn’t you? Calling?’
Sebastian went very still, as still as stone.
‘That’s right,’ Luke said. ‘I was calling for help. The bridge gave way. Cherry fell. She’s dead, impaled on one of the bridge posts. Rosa was underneath when she fell.’
‘My God.’ There was no trace of emotion in Sebastian’s face, his eyes were as dead and cold as ever they had been. But his face had gone white, with two spots of colour high on the cheekbones. A splatter of mud stood out black against his pale skin. ‘Is this true?’
‘What d’you mean, saved her life?’ Alexis blustered. ‘Stood by while she scrambled out, I’ll warrant. And she’s Miss Greenwood to you, you lying—’
‘Shut up,’ Luke snarled. He didn’t care if he was sacked. His mission was over. Everything was over. ‘Speak to her yourself if you don’t believe me.’
Then he walked away, trying to keep his breathing even and his fury inside. He half expected to hear hooves behind him and turn to meet Alexis’ crop, or his fist. He half wanted to. It would have been a relief to draw back his fist and let fly – there would have been a grim satisfaction in hearing the smack of bone against bone.
But there was no sound. Only the crunch of gravel beneath his own feet until he reached the side door and was able to slip inside, out of sight. He walked slowly up the back stairs to his little room. Thank God it was empty. He lay face down on the thin horsehair mattress and the tears came at last.
Rosa opened her eyes. There was a tapping coming from somewhere. For a moment she was disoriented – quite unable to work out where she was. The room was warm and dim, full of looming shadows. Thick velvet drapes shut out the day and the only light was from the flicker of a log fire. There were goosefeather pillows beneath her cheek and a satin eiderdown across the bed.
Then she remembered. She was at Southing. Sebastian’s house. Cherry was dead. And Luke had seen things no outwith should ever have witnessed.
She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of Luke as she had left him, white and exhausted and shocked by all that had happened.
Then the tap came again.
‘Come in,’ she called.
The door opened and a small, pale face peered round.
‘Cassie!’ Rosa jumped out of bed and ran across the room. ‘Thank you – oh, thank you. I never had the chance to say. Is your mother—’
‘I haven’t much time.’ Cassie spoke quickly and quietly. ‘I’m supposed to be practising the piano with my governess. It’s about your groom . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s an outwith.’ She said it flatly, not a question but a statement.
Rosa nodded, forgetting Cassandra couldn’t see and then said hastily, ‘I mean, yes. Yes he is.’
‘And he saw Mama.’
‘Yes.’
‘Rosa – I wouldn’t ask this if it were someone else – but Mama, she . . . she’s not well.’ She stopped, twisting a handkerchief in her small white fingers. ‘No one must know what she did. No one must ever know – least of all Sebastian. We need to make Luke forget.’
Rosa said nothing. She bit her lip, thinking of Alexis and Becky, thinking of the power they held over the outwiths who shared their lives.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Cassie asked.
‘Yes,’ Rosa said reluctantly. ‘Yes, I understand. But, Cassie – what’s wrong with her? Why mustn’t Sebastian know?’
‘She’s mad. She’s always been mad, since I was born. Since before, perhaps. They say she’s dangerous – that she must be confined for her own safety. Father would be terribly angry if he knew that she had come down. Believe me, Rosa, you do not want to encounter my father’s anger.’
Rosa bit her lip. She had seen Sebastian’s fury. She could imagine his father’s.
‘But it’s not just Mama,’ Cassie pressed on. ‘It’s all of us. He knows. He has to un-know.’
‘Yes,’ Rosa whispered. It was not fair. Luke had saved her life and this was his reward – for her to reach inside his head and steal her memories. She had never wiped a memory before, but she had watched Alexis do it to Becky often enough. A cup of wine, steeped with rosemary for remembrance. The victim drank the wine, while you told them what you wanted them to forget, then whispered the incantation and burnt the herbs, burning away the memories.
‘If Sebastian finds out what Luke saw – well, Luke’s life wouldn’t be worth a farthing. I have the wine,’ she pulled a bottle out from a pocket in her skirts, ‘but without sight I can’t find him in the stables – and I doubt he would drink wine from a strange witch anyway.’
‘No,’ Rosa said. She gave a sigh as heavy as her heart. ‘It must be me. I can see that.’
‘And it must be tonight,’ Cassie said. ‘Are you strong enough?’
She didn’t know.
It was dark when Rosa let herself out into the yard. She had waited until the house party was having dinner, the time when all guests and most of the servants would be safely occupied. A maid had bought her up a tray of suitably invalid food – creamed chicken, white bread, beef tea. It had taken only a moment to choke it down, put a locking spell on the door and creep out into the night with her oldest cloak covering her nightgown and her tell-tale hair.
Now, as she tiptoed across the moonlit stable yard, she wondered what she would do if Luke were not in the stables, if he had gone up to his room already, or into dinner. How would she find him in this huge, rambling warren of a house?
But when she opened the door to the stables he was there, wearily sweeping out Cherry’s empty stall by the light of a storm-lant
ern hanging from the wall.
The sight brought tears rushing to the back of her throat and eyes, but she blinked them away angrily. She could not grieve for Cherry – not yet. When this was over, when she was back in London and could think again, perhaps. But not now.
‘Luke,’ she whispered.
He looked up and, for an instant, his expression was bewildered. Then he saw her looking round the stable door and his face became hard. He glanced left and right and hurried across.
‘What are you doing here?’ His voice was low and angry.
‘I – I came to thank you.’ It was true. It was not the whole truth. ‘Can you talk?’
‘No.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Miss Greenwood.’
‘Please. I only want a moment. Come outside.’
He bit his lip and then gave a curt nod.
‘Only for a moment.’
He took her wrist and they hurried out into the yard and round the corner of the stable block, where a row of disused pigsties sheltered them from view and cast a thick black shadow in the moonlight. They huddled against the wall at the back of the stables and Luke said, ‘What? What is it? You know it’d be more than my place is worth if I were found here.’
‘Your place?’ Rosa found herself snapping. ‘My reputation, you mean. You’re not the only one risking disgrace here.’ Then she bit her lip. This was not how she had meant it to be. She had planned the conversation in her room – her whispered thanks, his manly protestations, the drink, the whispered words of the spell. Instead – acrimony and anger. She clenched the damp rosemary twigs in her left hand, the bottle in the other.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I . . . You saved my life. I couldn’t just let you . . .’
‘You couldn’t let me be?’ he said. His face in the moonlight was hard as stone. Why was he so angry?
‘I couldn’t let you walk away. What you did . . .’ She swallowed. Why was this going so wrong? He stood silent, his arms crossed across his body, refusing to help her.
‘I bought you this, to say thank you,’ she said at last. She held out the bottle.