by Edith Layton
“But I’m not drunk!” she protested.
“Whatever you are, I’m not interested,” he said, turning as if to go. But he glanced back and saw her staring at him in incomprehension. He clucked his tongue in vexation.
“Are you deaf as well as drunk or mad? Just my luck. As if there weren’t enough sorrow in this world,” he grumbled to himself in exasperation, “and my lot weren’t hard enough this time of year. Now mad strangers… Well, I haven’t the time, even if I had enough pity or patience left to deal with it. Enough. Go on, be gone, be gone now,” he told her, a distinct threat in his voice as he flapped his bony hands at her.
She backed away a step, afraid of physical harm for the first time in her life. But she couldn’t leave yet; it wasn’t in her nature to give up so easily.
“But—Mr. Potts is the vicar here,” she said, her eyes wide and dark with fear. Perhaps it moved him, because he seemed to relent, and spoke to her again, although grudgingly.
“Aye. I’ve been vicar here for twenty years, the more bad luck,” he muttered. “It’s a poor living, in a poor parish, with few worshipers and a mad master, but such is my lot.”
“But my husband, the viscount, appointed the vicar here when he first came into his honors,” she said.
“That much is true. The viscount did, damn his black soul. But if you’ve a mind to indulge in wild fancies, young woman, I’d suggest you imagine a demon lover as a husband instead of Southwood. Even a demon would be better. You may be many things to the viscount—most of them things decent men wouldn’t speak of, I don’t doubt—but wife, you are not. He never married, thank God for that. One of his stripe is enough. He’s the last of his line—the last legitimate one, anyway. Now be gone!” he snapped. “I don’t know why I even troubled to talk to you, with the wind biting so keen, and me with so many desperate errands to do for decent people before I can get back to my meager fire. Leave, and don’t think you can pass the night in a haystack, either. They’re a fierce lot around here. There’s little to go round, as I said. I don’t know what they’d do to you if they thought you were trying to share it with them. No, I don’t want to know what they’d do.”
Then he marched off to his carriage, got in, gave the horse the whip, and drove off. Leaving Maude to stare after him. When she was sure he was gone, she went to the door of the little house and sounded the knocker. She knocked on the doors and tapped on the windows, going round and round the old house, calling. No one answered. There wasn’t even a yip from Mr. Potts’ fussy old pug.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured at last. Then she saw Mr. Clarence looking at her with sympathy. “He was so rude. And where’s Mr. Potts? I’ll go straight home and ask Miles…” She paused and flushed and then raised her chin and said, “But he’s not home just at the moment. So I’ll have to go into town and find out. It’s a way, but I’ll walk.”
She marched out into the road. Mr. Clarence fell into step beside her.
“And another strange thing,” she said, almost to herself. “Why…why, he acted as though he didn’t even see you, Mr. Clarence.”
“He didn’t wish to,” Mr. Clarence said simply.
Maude shot him a puzzled look and was about to speak when she saw a lone figure standing in the old churchyard.
“Oh, good!” she cried in relief. “Look, there’s Daisy. My nursery maid,” she said before she picked up her skirts and ran through the snow toward Daisy. She had to weave to avoid all the mottled old gravestones age had thinned to wafers. They leaned in random drunken patterns in the hilly graveyard. The frost must have made the ground heave, she thought absently, because they usually stood tall as sentinels against the centuries.
“Daisy!” she sang in sudden relief. And then, “Daisy?” she asked in astonishment.
Because Daisy had chosen strange clothes to wear to the churchyard. She had a thin coat trimmed with ratty fur at the sleeves and the breast, and wore it open, despite the cold. She had on a tight, stained red gown more suitable for evening under it. Daisy’s sandy hair was frizzed into clumsy curls, and her young face was covered with badly applied rouge. And she was wearing lipcolor!
Daisy startled and backed away, afraid. “Yes’m?” she asked warily.
“What are you doing here? Who’s with Zoe?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am,” Daisy said nervously.
“You couldn’t say? What’s the meaning of this? Have you lost your mind, Daisy?”
“No, ma’am,” Daisy said anxiously as she backed off. “I never meant to be in the way, I swear I didn’t. I waited till they was all gone, ’specially him, Old Potts. He’d skin me if he found me here. But it’s Christmas,” she said, pleadingly. “I just had to come to say Merry Christmas to Mum.”
“Well, why don’t you go home and do that? Daisy, are you alright? Who did you leave Zoe with?”
“Me? I’m fine,” Daisy said with a little more confidence, stopping to stare at Maude. “It’s you maybe you should be worried about. And I told you, I don’t know no Zoe.”
“Don’t know…? Are you feverish, Daisy?” Maude demanded.
“No, I ain’t. And I tell you, ma’am, I don’t know you neither. Nor do you know me. Because if you did you wouldn’t be telling me to go home and say hello to my Mum, ’cause she’s buried right here, and all the world knows it, and the only home I got is that room in the back of The Fox and Glove, and everyone knows that, too.”
“Back of the inn?” Maude asked in confusion. “What would you be doing there? You’ve left us to work for the Apples? But you’re too young, surely.”
“Too young? You are dicked in the nob, ma’am, and no mistake. Fourteen ain’t too young for what I do,” Daisy said wearily. “Some gents like them even younger.”
“What are you saying? Daisy, your mama would be appalled by how you’re behaving. As am I. I can’t understand it.”
Daisy’s face grew cold, and she suddenly looked much older than she was. “Easy enough to understand,” she said angrily. “Ma got cast out of The Hall when she got with me. She worked like a slave at the inn—only just doing the floors and housework, mind, ’cause there’s few gents who want a wench who’s about to drop a babe. Just like there’s none who’ll keep a housemaid on if she carries a babe without a name. She worked herself to death, and that’s an actual fact. They brought me up there and had me working on my knees, too, and on my back, but not at scrubbing floors,” she said bitterly, “when I turned ten. They start them even younger in London. I guess I got that to be grateful for this Christmas. That—and the fact that whatever I am, I know what I am. Not like you. Here’s something for the season. Buy yourself some hot soup, and keep your mouth closed. They’ll have you in Bedlam for sure if they hear you. Goodbye, and Happy Christmas to you, poor lady.”
Daisy dropped a coin in Maude’s hand and then fled down the snowy hill, back toward the village.
Maude stood watching her in shock.
“I must go back and tell them poor Daisy’s in a taking,” she muttered at last. “I suppose someone’s watching Zoe, but I must go back to The Hall at once and tell them about poor Daisy. Do you think she’s run mad?” Maude asked fearfully.
“I think you should read that first,” Mr. Clarence said quietly, pointing to the stone Daisy had left one ragged artificial flower on.
Lucy Standish
1803-1826
May God Forgive Her
“But Lucy is alive and well, and her name is ‘Martin’ now!” Maude said in confusion.
“No. She’s not. She’s buried here. And she never married,” Mr. Clarence said quietly, “because no one gave her a chance to live long enough for Joe Martin to come home and take on his obligations. It was a shame and a scandal for an unwed girl to be in her condition. No respectable household would employ her.”
“Nonsense!” Maude declared. “I kept her on. And he came back two years later, filled with repentance, with a proposal of marriage.”
“No,” Mr. Cla
rence said gently, “you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because you were never born.”
Her eyes grew wide and she stared at him. She wanted to run, but she wasn’t afraid of him so much as of what he said.
“Your wish,” he reminded her gently. “The well always obliges the pure of heart.”
“How did you know…? No,” she said, backing away from him step by step. She stumbled on a stone, then caught herself, holding on to a crooked tombstone with one hand as the other flew to cover her mouth as she stared at him.
“I know because I came to see to it,” he explained. “You weren’t happy,” he said with a sad smile. “Not really. Not so happy as you deserved to be. So I was sent to see to making this a truly happy Christmas for you. I was charged to do as you wished. And so I have.”
He was clearly mad, Maude thought. He didn’t look dangerous, but he was not in his right mind. She gave him one long last disbelieving look and then began to run. It wasn’t easy because the snow was so thick, but she stumbled on. She ran toward the village because it was closer than The Hall. She didn’t hear him pursuing, but her breath was coming so hard and the snow was so soft underfoot, she wouldn’t hear if he were. She could only hope he wasn’t violent and wouldn’t follow…and that she would stop wondering about how he knew.
She stopped when she came to the main street of the village and stood there alone, hand on her heart and head down, dragging in breath until her heart slowed. But then she glanced up and lost her breath again.
The gingerbread town was gone, replaced by a row of shabby, sagging shops. Even Jessup’s proud emporium had no wide front window, and no gilt-lettered sign. Half of the shops were boarded up, the others deserted, their windows open, black and gaping, like empty sockets, blind to the empty street in front of them. Which was for the best.
The snow in the street was filthied by soot. Looking up, Maude saw that the clouds themselves seemed muddy and brown, heavy with something other than the promise of snow. The air bore the smells of sulphur and brimstone, not woodsmoke and pine. She wondered if she had died and gone to some version of hell.
Maude began to walk, slowly, woodenly. She went down the street, peering into empty windows, shaking her head, murmuring to herself.
“Something I can do for you?” the man standing in front of the inn said.
Her head came up. Again, she saw someone who looked very much like someone she knew. He stood in front of what looked like the inn, but this inn badly needed a coat of whitewash, and its timbers were broken and dented. And this fat fellow with a greasy waistcoat straining across his belly couldn’t be jolly Mr. Apple. She knew Alfred Apple and had known his father before him, both born innkeepers. They were happy, laughing fellows, as quick to quip as they were to sympathize. This man resembled them, but he was staring at her insolently, openly, appraising her like a leg of mutton he was thinking of purchasing for his dinner.
“What’s happened here?” she asked dazedly. “Where is everyone?”
“Back of my place, having fun,” he said, taking a toothpick from his mouth to speak. “Like you could be, if you were of a mind to. I’ve been expecting you. Daisy told me you were wandering about, looking for a meal. I can offer better. Employment.”
“Employment?” she asked in confusion, suspecting a jest.
“Aye,” he said.
“At the inn? But why?” she asked when he nodded, curiosity getting the better of her confusion. “The Apples never needed to hire strangers, neither James nor his son ever did.”
“The Apples, is it?” he said, gazing at her narrowly. “You knew old Jim Apple, then?”
“Of course,” she said in wonder. “You must be joking; he was famous here.”
“Aye. So he was,” he said in a softer voice, “and with good reason. He was an innkeeper, a fine one and proud of it. As I dreamed of being. But I’ve not got that pleasure, and for all I’ve missed him sore these past years, I’m that glad he’s not around to see it, too. But needs must as the devil drives,” he said briskly, “and he drives a hard bargain around here. And a man has to eat to keep body and soul together—aye, well, at least to keep body together,” he added with bitter humor.
“So, down to business,” he said, eyeing her. “Like I said, I’ve an offer of employment for you. In short, I’ve got two girls: Daisy and Sal. But our Sal is getting old. Clients complaining she lays there like a log these days. A chap wants some bounce to his pleasure. You’d clean up well, I think. Well? I pay by the customer: you get a quarter of the fee, but I give you room and board. The food’s plenty and good, too, there’s that unchanged at least. Times being what they are, you won’t get a better offer. It’s easy work. None of the lads hereabouts go in for much fancy. Straight in and out, and a half hour at most, even for the randiest of them. What do you say?”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. His wife, she noted with numb horror, stood right behind him, nodding, waiting for her answer. Or at least the grossly fat woman somewhat resembled buxom, merry Mrs. Apple.
But then she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man leaving the inn. At last she saw someone she clearly knew and trusted absolutely. It was the blacksmith, John Phelps. She recognized his honest face immediately, although he looked tired and older than he had just yesterday.
“John!” she cried. “John Phelps, please, what’s happening here? Is this some kind of elaborate joke? What happened to the shops, the street, the inn?”
“What is always happening here,” he answered sadly. “Who are you?”
“I’m—oh, please, John, not you too. You. know me. I’ve lived here forever. You used to let me sit in your shop and watch you at the forge when I was a little girl, remember? You made me a horseshoe-nail puzzle once, for my birthday.”
“Oh, you knew this place when you were a girl? Can’t say I remember you,” he said, peering down at her. “Well, but then, my eyes aren’t what they used to be. As to this sorry town, well miss, folks started leaving when the old squire died. Before your time, I expect. When that fool George sold off the manse, they put up the mill there. Mill means good business, they said. The future’s in manufactories, not farming, they said. Some future. They pay cheap and work you long hours, and you never see the sun again except when it’s rising and you’re going to work, or setting when you’re done. And just smell it. Works on coal and cooks up glue. I used to shoe horses. Now I help to melt them down.
“Some folks left right then,” he said sadly, “the smart ones, I guess. The rest stayed for the work. After the war, work was hard to get, you know. But the mill’s not doing well these days. Too many others in the land. There’s not much left here now. A man has to take his pleasure where he can,” he muttered shamefacedly, looking down and rubbing his chin. Then he looked up again, his eyes narrowed. “What did you say your name was?”
“Maude. Please, John, look closely. You saw me just yesterday. I’m Maudie Atkins, the squire’s daughter, Lady Southwood now, you know. But…but you said the squire died…”
“Crazy.” Alfred muttered, “just like Daisy said.”
“Squire? Sure. Years ago,” John said, eyeing her, his concern clear to see on his brood, honest face. “Everybody knows that. Him and his wife. Right after their two boys died. Boys died of a contagion. But squire and his wife died of broken hearts, folks said. Then that fool George came in and took over and didn’t know his bottom from his hindleg and lost the lot. For us as well as himself. Lost us a town. Lost himself an estate and a life. Now he’s a sot, they say. Drinking himself to death in London on the last of the money he made. They say it’s a race to see which goes first.”
“No, no,” Maude said, her voice shaking with incredulous nervous laughter. “George married an heiress. And my father is still alive. He’s up at The Hall, even now. With Miles, my husband, please, you know that.”
“Crazy as a bedbug, doubt if Bedlam would even take her,” Mrs. Apple said. “We can’t use her, pretty as she is. Can’t use that kind of trouble. Be off wi
th you,” she told Maude.
“True,” Alfred said on a sigh. “A pity, but it’s true. You heard the missus,” he told Maude. “We’ve enough trouble on our plate as it is. Best get on, go on now, clear out!”
“No,” Maude protested, her thoughts reeling. “This has gone too far. No more. Wait! I see. Is Miles behind this? Or my father? Is it some part of the Christmas pantomime or something? Some holiday jest? Well, if it is, it’s not funny anymore. Now stop it.”
“A nutter,” Alfred said. “I think we’d better call the sheriff.”
“I’m not mad!” Maude said. “You know that, and you have to stop now!”
“Walking about town, muttering to herself, pretending to be someone that never was,” John said sadly.
“Thinks she’s the viscountess,” Mrs. Apple said, her heavy jowls shaking as she shook her head. “There’s true madness.”
“Poor lady,” Daisy said, coming out of the inn, fastening up her gown. She peered over John’s shoulder at Maude. “Maybe you should lock her up for her own good.”
Maude backed away, as terrified as she was appalled. Surely she was dreaming. But she could feel the cold snow beneath her feet and smell the rank air, and if they tied her up she was afraid she wouldn’t wake and find herself in her own bed. They watched her. When John took a tentative step forward, she suddenly knew what to do. She picked up the hem of her skirt and ran. Back toward The Hall. Miles. In all of this, there was one constant, as there had been her whole life: Miles. Wherever he had gone, he would be back. Whatever he wanted now, at least he would tell her the truth. Whatever terrible thing had happened, in her mind or in the world, he would protect her.
She didn’t stop running until she reached the holy well, and only then did she look back. No one had followed her. She stopped to catch her breath and rested there, trying to reason things out. But there was no rhyme or reason to anything that had happened. It seemed as real as she was. That wasn’t saying much. But the bleak afternoon light was growing dimmer, and so she picked up her courage and started back to The Hall again.