Island of Bones caw-3

by Imogen Robertson

  Stephen was not as bloodthirsty as many boys of his age, no matter how much he liked to re-enact the naval battles of his father on the lawns of Caveley Park. His first question, however, was still about whether human sacrifice had taken place there.

  ‘Maybe, maybe, Master Stephen,’ Casper replied. ‘They say there was a time the cunning-men used to burn maidens here for their gods till one day, such was the love the son of the tribe’s leader had for the girl to be burned, the skies opened up in mercy and the rains put out the fires. So they let her live and no other girls were killed thereafter.’

  Mr Quince smiled. ‘Do you believe that, Mr Grace?’

  Casper shrugged. ‘There are many stories about the stones, and I am sure they have some power in them, though I hope it was not bought with blood. That was an old story, and here’s a fresh one. I know that one time a year or two back, when that Mr Sturgess wished to excavate this place with gunpowder, there was such a storm on the day he came up here! Such lightning and rain to make this year’s weather look like a summer shower, and it seemed to fall right here.’

  ‘The excavations were halted then?’

  ‘They were. And he was told there’d be no more. So I reckon the stones and sky do talk.’

  ‘I have met Mr Sturgess at Silverside,’ Quince said, frowning.

  ‘He came with a passion to know of old things and old ways,’ Casper said. ‘Though perhaps he just likes to dig like a badger. He carved out a cave on his own land and had it lined with seashells.’

  ‘How charming!’ Quince said at the thought, then saw something in Casper’s look that made him blush and drop his eyes.

  ‘Still, he found some stone axe heads for Mr Askew’s museum, before the rain drove him off and his workers’ pay was stopped,’ Casper finished.

  Quince turned to see if Fraulein Hurst was listening. He could not say, since she seemed lost in contemplation of the hills surrounding them.

  Stephen spoke. ‘Are you a cunning-man, sir? Miriam at Silverside Hall says you are.’

  Casper scratched the back of his neck and Mr Quince began to fear he was finding them wearisome. ‘She may call me what she will. There are some who come to me. Hope I have some influence with them when their animals get sick, or they have a pain in their belly.’

  ‘And what do you do? Are there really witches still? Can they change shape? Was Joe a witch once — is that why he can talk?’

  Quince stepped forward to put a warning hand on Stephen’s shoulder, but Casper sank down on his haunches and looked the boy in the eye.

  ‘Joe was always what he is. I found him fallen from the nest when he was but a bit of a thing, and he learned his speech from me. I know something of the calendar and of healing, maybe enough of flowers and roots to be thought cunning. Witches there are. Though I think ’em for the most part like that lightning rod stuck up on Crosthwaite Church. There are people that just suck up the magic in the air whether they will it or not, and it can flash out of them. Some know it though, and learn its ways. Some use it to help and heal, some to curse and trouble — and magic does to them as they do to others. Most people carry a bit of rowan with them, stop it flashing at them and theirs. You have yours now in that cross I gave you. Have you kept it?’ Stephen nodded, and Quince noticed the lad’s fist clenching in his coat-pocket. He wondered what his employer would think of her son learning a philosophy of witchcraft when under his care. ‘There, that’s rowan, so you’ll have nothing to fear.’

  Quince cleared his throat. ‘Stephen, it is said to be impossible to count the stones twice and get the same number. Will you try it?’

  Stephen looked a little surly for a moment, as if he might resist so obvious an attempt to separate him from Casper, but the challenge was an interesting one, so he walked to the edge of the circle and patted one of the blocks, then moved onto the next, allowing his elders to return to a contemplation of the view.

  ‘I think you have no belief in witches then, sir?’ Casper said to the tutor.

  ‘No,’ Quince replied, ‘but if I had lived my life among these hills and alongside these stones, I might.’

  ‘Vicar tries to beat it out of us,’ Casper shrugged, ‘but his God seems like a child to me at times.’

  Quince found his mind’s eye filling with ancient fires again. He noticed Casper’s hands, callused working hands, then looked at his own, white and clumsy. The two men watched Stephen on the other side of the circle pause for a moment, then continue in his count. Fraulein Hurst was turned away towards the road, deep in thought. Quince fumbled for his watch and cleared his throat.

  ‘Fascinating. I fear the hour is more advanced than I thought, Mrs Briggs is having her summer party at Silverside this afternoon, so we should return.’

  This seemed to wake Miss Hurst. ‘You are staying at Silverside?’

  ‘We are, madam. Perhaps we shall see you among the guests?’ She shook her head. ‘Or perhaps at the fireworks display in the evening?’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said, and lowered her eyes.

  ‘Will you be coming to see the display, Mr Grace?’

  Stephen was near enough to hear this exchange, and was caught mid-count by the mention of fireworks.

  ‘Oh, I had forgotten the fireworks!’ He then turned back to the stones and put his hand to his head. ‘Oh Lord, I have lost count.’

  Casper was squinting into the haze. ‘No. Joe and I don’t like the bangs and crashes so much. I’ll head down into Borrowdale till they’re done.’

  As the little party passed into Keswick, Casper bowed to them awkwardly then turned to head back out of the town. Then he hesitated and returned to them with a swift step and pulled another of his carvings of the Luck out of his pocket. Taking the Fraulein’s hand, he pressed it into her palm.

  ‘Here you are, ma’am. A little Luck for you.’ Then he began to move away again with his shoulders hunched.

  Quince smiled, tutting a little. ‘Mr Askew will be angry with him for giving away his wares again.’

  A look of sudden realisation crossed Stephen’s face and he trotted up the track after Casper, ignoring the tutor’s exasperated sigh.

  ‘What is it, youngling?’ Casper asked as the boy came panting up to him. He looked fierce, and Stephen was suddenly afraid of him, and backed off a step.

  ‘I only wanted to say you have no need to worry about Mr Askew because I have asked my mama, and I am to buy a cross from the museum for my Aunt Rachel, and for my little sister Anne too, so you gave one away, but sold two, do you see?’

  Casper’s face lightened and he dropped his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. ‘That’s a kindness to me, and one to your aunt, and one to your sister. So there’s one kindness become three. How old is your sister?’

  ‘Three and a half, Mr Casper. So I think it safe to give it to her. She has stopped chewing things so much, though she is not careful with her toys.’

  ‘I had a sister once, used to say the same of me.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  Casper blinked rapidly a few times. ‘She was always walking, and one day she walked away. She wished me luck, and said she was sorry to leave me, but the valley had drawn tight and felt to throttle her. Well, bless her wherever she might be. Sure she says the same to me. So there’s more kindness for the pile.’ He sniffed and settled his bag across his shoulder again. ‘I’ve got to go, youngling. There is smoke in the air, and whispering, and I’ve a mind to be ownsome.’

  Stephen stepped aside and Casper set off up the path again, murmuring under his breath. He turned to see Fraulein Hurst and Mr Quince still bent over the little carving. Sophia was smiling at it.

  ‘Oh, that is kind. I asked my father to buy me one at the museum, but he would not.’

  ‘How much better to have it as a gift, then, from its maker,’ Quince said.

  As Stephen approached Sophia asked him, ‘So do you think Mr Casper is a cunning-man, Master Westerman?’

  Stephen considered. ‘I am not sure what
he is, Miss Hurst. But I think he is very clever.’

  She looked again at the cross in her hand. ‘Yes, I think he is too.’ She drew in her breath and turned to Mr Quince. ‘Sir, I wonder if you could do me a great kindness.’

  II.4

  Mrs Briggs’s garden party was always an event. But this year’s in particular provided much conversation for the gentry of Cumberland in the months that followed. It was the lost Lord Keswick, Mr Gabriel Crowther, who attracted most attention during the party itself, though Mrs Westerman was also narrowly observed by each matron and frankly admired by many of the younger men. Mrs Briggs was as pleasant as ever, the Vizegrafin considered to be rather high-handed, and Felix, until the unfortunate events of the latter part of the afternoon unfolded, was said to have set the hearts of many a young woman beating at an unnatural pace.

  Mrs Briggs was acknowledged an excellent hostess by her friends and neighbours, and it was agreed she had surpassed herself this afternoon. Shades had been set out at convenient intervals all about the lawns so as to provide some shelter from the heat. Ices were served on the upper parts of the lawn, and by the lake her guests could watch the gentlemen who were so inclined shoot arrows across the width of the grass, then compete for a silver arrow that had been commissioned in London for the occasion.

  Harriet allowed herself to be handed about by her hostess for as long as she could bear it, and paused to watch the archery competition. There were a surprising number of competitors and she was impressed by the quality of the shooting. The prize was taken by a lawyer’s son visiting relatives in Ambleside. He was delighted, but several gentlemen had cause to be sorry at his success. The betting had heavily favoured Felix after the practise sessions, but when the competition was opened he seemed to have been cursed, since his shots were barely competent. He was heard to complain, and the gentlemen were embarrassed at having put any faith in him.

  Harriet continued to shake hands, but after the fifth time she had heard herself referred to as ‘original’, she pleaded exhaustion in the heat and retreated to the most shaded part of the lawn, from where she hoped to see Crowther being pursued by the curious for a change, and watch him swat them away like biting flies.

  As soon as she seated herself, however, she found she was not to be alone after all. There was a stir in the shadows and a woman appeared, of early middle age and dressed neatly in grey with a bonnet that cast a further shadow over her face, so that her features were almost invisible to Harriet’s heated eyes.

  ‘Mrs Westerman!’ The lady offered her hand. ‘I am Katherine Scales. My father is the vicar of Crosthwaite. I am delighted to meet you.’

  Harriet took the hand offered and gathered her strength for the proper niceties.

  ‘Now please, Mrs Westerman, I saw the expression on your face as you sat down. You are worn out with meeting people, I am sure. Do make yourself comfortable and we shall watch the party together. Or rather I shall chatter, and you need do no more than pretend to listen.’ Harriet thanked her. ‘I would be a monster to say anything else, but I am glad to meet you, Mrs Westerman! It is like becoming acquainted with a character from a novel. My father loves to hear me read in the evenings, and sometimes encourages me to read from the newspapers as well as from Mr Clarke’s Sermons, so we have heard all about your cleverness and bravery.’

  Such speeches normally made Harriet nervous, but it was all spoken with such comfortable warmth she could not help thinking the lady sincere.

  ‘They write a great deal of nonsense,’ she replied politely, ‘but if they have managed to create a good opinion of me, I shall hold my tongue.’ Her eyes were now adapting themselves to the relative gloom, and she saw she had been correct in thinking Miss Scales was some years over forty. In her figure and features there was much to admire, but the skin on her face and hands was badly marked with the pitted scars of smallpox, and one of her eye-sockets was apparently empty, judging by the way the lid fell over it. She reminded Harriet of a statue of some ancient god found among the rubble of its former temple. The disease had chipped away at her and left her face a ruined memory of itself.

  ‘Now let me take advantage of meeting a stranger to say all sorts of cutting things about my neighbours, Mrs Westerman.’ Miss Scales folded her hands in her lap. ‘As the daughter of a clergyman I have to be terribly understanding about everybody most of the time, so it would be a great release to me.’

  Miss Scales was an amusing guide to Mrs Briggs’s neighbours, but even having claimed the freedom to say what she wished, she said little that was not generous in spirit and humour. Miss Scales had apparently not been driven into solitude by her disfigurement. It became clear while she chattered and Harriet rested that she kept house for her father, went among his parishioners every day, seemed quite happy in the company she found and was confident of her usefulness.

  Harriet was still listening to Miss Scales when her son approached and silently climbed into her lap. He was bored, she supposed, or had been eating too many ices. Mr Quince had been shooting arrows with the other men, and she had no doubt that, unsupervised, Stephen would have charmed more rich food than was good for him out of the servants. After a few moments Harriet realised he was staring at the scars on Miss Scales’s hands and hoped the lady did not mark it. Having finished her description of last year’s regatta, however, Miss Scales turned to the boy at her side.

  ‘You are looking at my hands, Mr Stephen. And so you might, for they are funny-looking things, are they not?’

  Stephen nodded. ‘Why are they like that, ma’am?’

  ‘I had small-pox when I was a young girl.’ She pointed to her dead eye. ‘It cost me this too, you see. But I am thankful. I lived, and whatever other sin I commit, at least I shall never be vain. Think of all those ladies who must suffer so when they lose their looks with age. I shall never be any uglier than I am now, even if I live to be ninety! But I lost far more than what you see. My mother and sister were taken to God by the illness, and I miss them still every day.’

  Stephen looked up at her with his clear brown eyes. ‘I think you look kind. And you must be very strong, ma’am, to have lived.’

  Harriet saw a flush touch Miss Scales’s face and was proud of her child.

  ‘I like you almost as much as I do your mother. She has let me clear out my lungs for the last ten minutes and had the courtesy to look amused the whole time. I was saved, my boy.’

  ‘You are not sad then, ma’am?’

  ‘No, bless you. Well, perhaps a little when I see a lady as pretty as your mama, but I have the love of my father and my friends, and of God Himself so I am thankful for every day.’

  ‘Did Mr Casper come and see you when you were sick? He visits sick people, does he not?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Casper was very young himself at that time. It was his father, Ruben Grace, who was the cunning-man in those days, though Ruben did service as a steward in this house for many years too, and owned the Black Pig Inn in Portinscale in later times.’ She frowned and lifted her hand to her face. ‘I think I do remember them coming to see me though, Casper and Ruben. Must have been a hard way for the lad to learn his father’s trade. They visited every house where the sickness was, bless them for their kindness, and there were many that year, but I was so ill I hardly know what I saw and what I dreamed.’

  Harriet shifted to face them. ‘He brought his son with him? I cannot imagine taking Stephen into a house where the sickness was.’

  Miss Scales smiled sadly. ‘They were stuck close together, Mrs Westerman. Ruben had lost his wife some years before and clung to the boy, though he had sent his daughter to live with her aunt. Now what was her name? She was thought of as a troublemaker in the village, though I’m sure she was just injured by the way her father cast her off, and the aunt was never a kind woman. .’ She lifted her hand to the sky, then gave it a sudden flourish. ‘Jocasta! That was it — married a man called Bligh over in Kendal, then we all lost sight of her.’

  Harriet smiled wi
dely. ‘Jocasta Bligh! We know her! She lives in London now. I had every intention of making enquiries after her family, but the matter slipped my mind until now. So she is the sister of the famous Casper Grace.’

  Miss Scales tilted her head to Harriet. ‘You know her? How remarkable! How came you to be acquainted?’

  Harriet’s face clouded. ‘It was in eighty-one.’ She then continued after a moment of silence, ‘As it happens, I hope to hear from her shortly — and Stephen, would you not like to give your new friend news of his sister?’

  ‘I am sure he would like that. I can tell him of her patchwork skirts and her dog, and Sam.’ Stephen scratched his leg, and when Harriet put her hand over his, he looked a little guilty.

  ‘Why was she thought of as a troublemaker, Miss Scales?’ Harriet asked. ‘She seemed a good enough woman to me.’

  Miss Scales tried to recall. ‘She had some trouble in our little school, I think. Ruben was a reading man, had to be, to rise to the position of steward to Silverside, but Jocasta never got the way of it, and was beaten for it. How does she manage now?’