by Nunn, Kayte
Fiona nodded, putting down her mug and shifting in her seat. ‘Kind of.’
‘And what’s a major deliverance?’
‘Above my pay grade, my dear. Essentially, demonic possession.’
‘Exorcism?’
A chill ran through Thea as Claire uttered the word.
‘We prefer deliverance ministry,’ said Fiona in a matter-of-fact tone.
Thea was astounded that such things even existed, but decided that at this point she would give anything a go. ‘It will have to be when the girls are at school. Actually, when there’s no one there. There’s another woman, the housekeeper, but I don’t think she’ll be too amenable to such a thing.’
‘Of course. Be assured of my discretion.’
They decided on a time the following week when the house was likely to be unoccupied, and on the Dame’s day off. ‘It’ll take at least a couple of hours,’ said Fiona. ‘It’s a large building and I will need access to every room. I will have a couple of helpers with me as well; they’ve all done this kind of thing before.’
‘And what if it doesn’t work?’ Thea asked.
‘Then I can refer you to a psychologist.’
‘It’s not in my head,’ Thea insisted. ‘I’m not making this up.’
‘I believe you, my dear,’ Fiona reassured her. ‘I’m here to help.’
As they were making arrangements, Thea caught sight of a clock on the wall. ‘Oh Christ – whoops, sorry. We have to get back. I’m supposed to be teaching the Upper Fifths in twenty minutes.’
They left in a flurry of thank-yous and goodbyes, but as the door was about to close on them a glint of something caught Thea’s eye and she glanced down. The silver embroidery on Fiona’s slippers. She hadn’t been able to make out the design earlier, but now it was starkly clear. Arrows. The same as on the keys, the Dame’s brooch, Moira’s tattoo, and the stone at the lookout. The network of women. Thea didn’t know whether to be reassured or concerned that Fiona seemed to be one of them.
THIRTY
May 1769, Oxleigh
‘Have you seen her? Alice, I mean?’ Rowan asked Prudence when she returned to the house.
She had come from the butcher’s, waiting outside until Tommy emerged with his handcart, about to make his deliveries. ‘I fear that you have been avoiding me,’ she had said bluntly.
He stopped, pulled his cart over to the side of the road.
‘I swear I have not,’ he said. ‘The other boy has been taken ill and I have been doing his work as well as my own. I’ve not finished until long after dark these past weeks.’
‘Tommy.’
She could scarce bear to see the hurt enter his eyes at her distant tone.
‘Rowan, what is it? I believed we were friends. Rowan?’ he asked again when she did not reply. ‘I cannot imagine that I have done anything to upset you but if I have, then do tell me and I can make my apologies.’
He was so sincere that she had almost believed him.
She kicked at a clump of tansy with the toe of her boot. ‘You
… and Alice,’ she said, unable to contain herself any longer.
‘Me and Alice?’ he asked, a bewildered expression on his face. ‘We have but a passing acquaintance. Has something happened to her?’
‘Surely she has told you herself.’ Rowan glared in his direction but her fierceness seemed to bounce off him and he continued to appear puzzled.
‘No. I have not spoken with her. Not recently, that is.’
‘She is with child,’ she whispered, mindful of passers-by.
Now he seemed genuinely shocked. ‘I still do not understand why that should be any business of mine.’
‘Oh come now, are you certain of that?’
Realisation and then anger flashed across his face. ‘I do not know who has been spreading such rumours but if I find out I will give them the drubbing they deserve.’ He was indignant. ‘I cannot credit that you believe such twattle. I thought better of you, Rowan Caswell. Who told you this?’ he added, insistent. ‘Who?’
His expression was as clear and cold as a pail of well water. She should never have doubted him. She shook her head. ‘I appear to have been mistaken, my apologies. I must go.’ She stepped past him and fled towards the house, not hearing him call after her.
‘Alice? Is she about?’ Rowan demanded of Prudence again. The lady’s maid had recovered from the illness that had kept her abed, though she now conducted herself with an even sourer expression than the one she had when Rowan had first arrived at the merchant’s house.
Prudence sat in front of a bowl of apples, peeling the skin from them in long strips and chewing the end of one. ‘I believe she is attending to the mistress,’ she replied calmly. ‘What is it you require so urgently of her?’
‘I lent her my mittens,’ said Rowan. ‘And it is fair freezing outside without them. ’Tis a bitter wind that is blowing.’ She shivered to make the lie more believable.
Prudence raised an eyebrow but returned to the apple in her hand. ‘Well, you are inside now. Come and warm yourself by the fire if you’re cold. But mind you don’t stay too long, for the table needs setting for the mistress’s dinner. You can ask Alice about the mittens this afternoon.’
‘Yes,’ replied Rowan, placing a cloth on the range before resting her hands on it. ‘I will not have need of them before then.’
Prudence clucked. ‘I hope that is all it is about. Do not think that I haven’t noticed that the two of you are barely civil with each other. When he returns, the master will not tolerate an uneasy household.’
That is if he was ever there to see it, thought Rowan in annoyance, for they had not heard from him for nearly a fortnight, though he had been expected to return from this latest journey within a week.
Rowan had to wait to confront Alice until much later that day, eventually coming upon her in the mistress’s bedchamber as Alice was readying it for the night. ‘I saw Tommy today,’ Rowan said, watching her reaction carefully. ‘He claims to have no knowledge of your situation. Tell me, how can that be?’ Rowan only just managed to keep her temper in check.
‘He is lying,’ said Alice quickly, but Rowan heard the tiniest hesitation in her voice.
Rowan said nothing, waiting to hear more.
‘He has forsaken me, will have nothing more to do with me. Curse him to the heavens.’
Alice sat down abruptly on the bed that she had been airing and Rowan noticed a tear glint on her eyelash and then track its way along the plane of her cheek. Rowan’s earlier anger left her. ‘I am expected to believe you? Come now, I am not that much of a simpleton. But I know you are no common doxy.’ Rowan sat down next to Alice, who did not move away at her nearness. ‘Who is it really? The master?’ she hazarded.
‘I pray you might show me a little kindness,’ said Alice, her hands twisting rapidly in her lap. ‘Though I likely do not deserve it. Can I trust you to tell no one?’
Rowan took her hand, squeezed it gently. ‘You know you can.’
‘You were correct in your first guess,’ she said choking back a sob. ‘’Tis his. He insisted that Mistress Hollander was no use to him, that he wished we could be together, that he desired me above all others. But all that has changed now that she is with child. He has what he wants – a legitimate heir.’
‘Oh Alice,’ said Rowan, as the implication of her words sank in.
‘He cannot find out the truth of my condition, for he will cast me out, of that I have no doubt. And I have nowhere to go.’ She sobbed harder now. ‘I can’t go to St Peter and Paul.’
Rowan shuddered at the thought of the town’s workhouse – named after two of the apostles, but as far from saintly as one could possibly imagine – on the edges of the town. She’d been in Oxleigh long enough to hear tales of the beatings and near-starvation conditions within its thick stone walls. Alice would not last the year there, she was sure of it, such was the rate of sickness and disease.
‘You know what it is to want to make
something of yourself. Would you deny me that chance?’ Alice begged.
‘I am not the one who got into this position,’ Rowan said, although even as she said it, she felt some sympathy for the girl. If Patrick Hollander had wanted Alice, there would have been little the maid could have done to stop him, willing or not. She thought hard. ‘I doubt that we could conceal the nature of your condition for long. And you certainly could not go away to have the baby.’
‘You are able to make a draught to bring about a baby; are you yet able to brew one to help loosen one not yet fully formed?’ Alice asked, taking great hitching gulps of air.
Rowan sucked in a breath. It was the one request she most feared, for it would trouble her conscience greatly to be responsible for snuffing out a life before it had scarce begun. She remembered her mother being called upon for just such a medicine, the narrowing of her eyes and the set of her shoulders as she prepared it. ‘I thought you were suspicious of such sorcery?’ Rowan replied, not giving her an answer one way or the other. ‘You have been the first to accuse me in times past.’
‘I know. I am so very sorry for that. You must believe me,’ Alice pleaded with her.
‘There’s plenty of women found themselves in trouble,’ her mother had said. ‘But I cannot say such a thing pleases me, and there is a danger if it has gone too long.’
Rowan tried to remember how long exactly that was. ‘When did you last have your courses?’ she asked Alice.
‘Early this new year.’
What would her mother have done, if presented with this? Not for the first time, Rowan wished she were there to dispense advice. It was one thing to be asked to help with the creating of life, but another entirely to assist in the ending of it.
‘Can you do it?’ Alice asked, her expression a mix of fear and hope. ‘Is there still time?’
Not quite believing she was doing so, Rowan nodded slowly. It was for the best for both Alice and Caroline, for were Caroline to discover her husband’s perfidy it might destroy her, would likely destroy the entire household. ‘We must be quick, for every day that passes, the baby grows stronger within you. It is not without considerable risk. Are you certain that this is what you want?’
Alice slumped on the bed. ‘What choice do I have?’
‘As you wish. I will search for the ingredients, though I may need to obtain some from the apothecary. Have you the money to pay?’
Alice nodded, sniffing. ‘I have a little saved. How much will you charge?’
Rowan looked at her in sympathy. ‘I will make no charge. But the apothecary will.’
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was meek, small, no hint of the sneer it so often contained. She was about to say something else, but Rowan cut her off. ‘Let us hope that it is not too late,’ she said. ‘For if it is there will be trouble for us both.’
The next morning there was still no sign nor word of her master’s return. Rowan was relieved to have only light duties while he was away, for she was able to hurry through her morning tasks and then make her way to the apothecary’s shop. First, however, she went to the churchyard, for the vital ingredient growing there. She would need to dry it and grind it to a powder, but would only require a tiny amount for the draught to do its work. Indeed, if she used too much it could cause death and not only in that which was unwanted.
Rowan saw the tree as soon as she entered the iron gate. Tall, dense and evergreen, with thick needle-like leaves and crimson berries. The leaves were poisonous, but the berries were her desire. She was on the point of reaching up to gather a handful when she saw a movement from behind a tombstone. She hesitated, for she did not wish to be caught in the act. Were someone to see her gathering yew berries it would be enough to start a wildfire of rumour that could perhaps even see her driven from the town.
The clergyman appeared. ‘Do you require assistance?’ he asked. Then, looking at her closely, ‘I don’t believe we have made each other’s acquaintance.’
‘Rowan Caswell, sir,’ she said, giving him a deferential bob. ‘I am the maid-of-all-work at Hollander’s. The silk merchant.’
‘I do indeed know Mr Hollander, though I wish perhaps he were more regular in his attendance at church,’ he replied.
‘Well, he travels often, sir.’
‘So I understand. Now what might your business be here today?’
Rowan cast around for an explanation. She had no wish to reveal her purpose to a minister – he would surely bring the full wrath of the Lord down upon her if he had the slightest suspicion. ‘A shortcut,’ she said, thinking even as she did so that it sounded a poor excuse. ‘To the watermill.’
He frowned at her and she held her breath. Would he believe her tale?
‘I suppose there is no harm in that,’ he said, still regarding her suspiciously.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ Rowan said, gathering her skirts and continuing onwards. She was forced to walk past the tree, didn’t dare to glance back to see if he was watching her progress.
She made her way to the river path and ambled slowly along. After sufficient minutes had elapsed for it to be acceptable for her to return, as if indeed she had been to the watermill, she turned around and once again entered the church gate. This time she looked about carefully and, finding no sign of anyone, reached up and snatched some of the berries, hiding them in the pocket that hung from her waist.
She left them on the hearth in front of the kitchen fire overnight and judged that they would be sufficiently dried by the next morning. She explained their existence to Prudence as ingredients for a tincture for seven-year itch, and although the cook raised her eyebrows she did not say anything. After that, the draught would not take long to make. Rowan hoped she remembered her mother’s instructions, the exact amount of each ingredient and how long to leave it before using. How and when it should be taken. What the effects would be.
She had some difficulty persuading the apothecary to supply her with the two remaining herbs she needed.
‘Did you not come to me several months ago with a request? Pennyroyal and dittany, I believe it was?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘And now you desire dried rue and more pennyroyal?’ The sharpness of his glance told her that he had worked out what she was preparing. ‘I fail to understand why you visit me again, clearly seeking an entirely different outcome from that of your first visit. Has your mistress bid you come again?’
Rowan shook her head. ‘It … it is not for her.’
He sighed heavily. ‘Very well,’ he said, reaching for a ladder that rested at the back of the shop. ‘But if it becomes known that I supplied ingredients in such a compound …’ he threatened. ‘If anything should go awry …’
‘Not a soul will know,’ she promised as she passed him a number of thin coins. ‘I swear on my life.’
‘And should that happen, I have never seen you before, nor will I again. This is not a kind of business I wish to involve myself in. But here,’ he handed her a small volume bound in scarlet leather. ‘Pow’rful Plants. This will instruct you further.’
Rowan had not the courage to tell him that she could read very little. She would have only her memory of her mother’s instructions on how to make this particular draught to rely on. She prayed it would be sufficient.
The next day, when she was satisfied that the herbs were ready, Rowan mixed the tincture with a small cupful of brandy that she had siphoned from the decanter that sat atop the master’s escritoire. She gave it to Alice, with instructions to take a spoonful, morning and night, for a week. ‘Let us hope it loosens your … problem. Do not be surprised if there is more blood than usual in your courses. You may have need of extra rags. And be sure to keep this hidden.’
The maid’s face was pale. ‘What if it does not work?’ she asked.
‘Then I am afraid that I cannot help you.’
THIRTY-ONE
May 1769, Oxleigh
Rowan was sweeping the passageway at the front of the house when the delivery ar
rived. She saw Jeremiah sever the string binding the parcel with a sharp pair of fabric shears and begin to unwrap the paper. As she swept through the shop floor, she drew closer to the bench, taking sidelong glances as often as she dared, curious to see what design this new fabric might portray, for proximity to the business of her employer had only served to increase her fascination with silks, taffetys and the like and the fine gowns that were made from such luxurious fabrics. Too often, she wondered what it might feel like to dress in such finery. At night she lulled herself to sleep with the imagining of it, how people might stop and stare at a fair-haired young woman in a glittering gown, that the young woman was her. She knew that it was a silly maid’s fancy, but her dreams were filled with the lustre and rustle of silk.
Jeremiah pulled the fabric from the paper and rolled it onto the bench where it shimmered as if it were a living thing. Rowan stilled in her sweeping and blinked several times, at first not crediting her own eyes.
It was of the most sumptuous pale silk, woven through with silver, and Rowan found herself entranced by its dangerous beauty. But it was not the colour or the sheen of the fabric that caused Rowan to lose the breath from her lungs. It was the pattern itself, or rather the combination of herbs and flowers that twisted and curled across its snowy expanse, for they were the deep purple blooms of belladonna and monkshood, and the frothy white flowers of hemlock, intertwined with pink foxglove bells as luminous as if they had been plucked from the verge that morning. She was filled with a deep foreboding, yet she could not look away. ‘Witches’ weeds,’ she whispered to herself. She was on the point of reaching out towards it when a voice interrupted her.
‘What is this?’
She started, for Caroline had appeared in the doorway and Rowan had expected her mistress to be occupied with breakfast.
‘I came to enquire if there was more milk for the porridge. What is this fabric, Jeremiah?’ she asked, coming closer and pinching a fold of it between her fingers. ‘I must know at once.’ It seemed Caroline was as drawn to it as Rowan was.