by Wolf, Jack
She inquired next about my Cages, and I could tell that she liked mine Answer as little as she had liked my Convict’s Skull; but she said nothing, and I felt no pressing Need to defend my Practice. I bade her instead to lie down upon the Sopha whilst I retrieved my Lancet and bleeding-Bowl from the cup Board next to my specimen Case, where I stored mine Equipment. I was not certain, after so many Minutes, that she would still willingly permit me this Liberty, but she did as I asked. The Thought struck me that she was now in such a vulnerable Position that it would be very easy for me to take another, and for an Instant mine Attention was so diverted that I nigh cut My Self upon mine own Blade. There was no real Question of that, however, and I banished the Image, along with several dozen others, to the Corner of my Mind. Carrying mine Equipment, and a lighted Taper, I approached the Sopha. Kneeling beside Katherine, I carefully positioned her Elbow atop the grooved Depression in the Bowl’s Rim. She gave a low Sigh, and closed her Eyes. I lifted the Taper and searched her inner Arm for an appropriate Vein. This Task proved to be less straightforward than I had anticipated, for the Skin had become quite scarred; it took me some Moments to locate a Place. Then I made one small, quick Cut, and wine-dark Blood streamed out over the pale Epidermis to pool in the white Porcelain below.
As she felt the Touch of my Blade, Katherine opened wide her Eyes, and stared hard at her own Arm with a fearfull Longing. As the Blood flowed across her Skin, she let out a tranquil Whimper, half Pain, half Happiness, and smiled. Her grey Eyes had become Tear-filled. I placed mine Hand upon her Head, and stroaked her gossamer Hair.
I did not bleed her long, for there was no medical Need and I dared not to risk it. After perhaps half a Minute I sealed up the little Wound, and put away my Tools; altho’ at her Request I left the Bowl where she could continue to see it.
Katherine seemed now so quiescent I was almost anxious lest she be unwell. Her Expression, however, had so delightful a Look that I decided that this could not be the Case. She was, I realised, at Peace, brought to a State not unlike to that of someone whose Screams I had stoppt; altho’ I had never witnessed quite such Extasie upon the face of Polly Smith, or any other Woman, for that matter.
I thought then that I must kiss her again, and so I did. Her Lips felt cool and still upon mine own. Then I sate on the Floor beside her until such Time as she felt ready to sit up, and pull down her Sleeve, and shew me Signs of being herself once more.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For the Kiss?”
“Dunce. You know for what.”
“Tell me how it began,” I asked her.
“I was very ill,” she said. “Last Yeare. And the Surgeon seemed to come Daye upon Daye. I nearly died. But after I was well again I found that I still needed to do it.”
I leaned close in beside her, and took both her Hands betwixt mine own. Her Breath was nectar sweet upon my Face. “Now,” I said, “’tis Time for you to stop. I fear greatly you will injure yourself; you have no Way of knowing where properly to cut, or how deep, or of how much Blood to let. Tonight, you attempted the Operation with a dining-Fork.”
Her face fell. “I can’t,” she said.
“You will. There are other Methods of purging the Soule; and I am highly accomplished at most of them.”
“I expect you are,” she said, looking slowly again around my Study. “Bloody Bones, that’s what you are; that’s what you are, Mr Hart: Bloody Bones beneath the Bed, to scare the Children off to Sleep.”
“I am no Raw-Head-and-Bloody-Bones!” I exclaimed.
“That is true; you are no Raw Head; I say you are Bloody Bones; the Fiend who collects the marrow-Bones of the Dead, and prizes them more dearly than the Living.”
“Hold forth your Hand,” I told her.
“Why?”
I seized firm Hold of her slender Wrist, and twisted her Hand so that her open Fingers lay uncurled before me. Then before she had a Chance to pull away I rapped her Palm with mine own Hand, as hard as I could suffer it My Self. Katherine squeaked and tried instinctively to close her Fingers and to free her Hand, but I did not allow this, and I struck her again in the same Manner six or seven Times more. Mine own Palm was by now too sore for me to continue, but she had taken my Point as well as my Chastisement. Her Eyes were wide as much in Shock as in Pain, but I could discern behind her Tears a marvelling Excitement that made mine Heart race.
“I repeat,” I said. “This Blood-letting, by yourself, Madam, shall cease; and likewise those Behaviours that may do Harm to your Person or to your Honour. Do we have—” I swallowed, then continued anyway: “an Understanding?”
Katherine stared at me as if I had said something she could not intirely apprehend. “What do you mean?” she stammered.
I looked closely into her Eyes, wondering at the Question; and it occurred to me that I My Self was not compleatly certain of my Meaning. “I mean,” I said slowly, “that you will come to me, and ask me for mine Assistance.”
Katherine sat quite upright upon the Sopha, and examined my Face. “Do you say this in good Faith?” she demanded at last. “Or do you try to test me, or to trick me?”
“I am not that Sort of Monster,” I said.
“Then I will try,” she said. “But we must correspond, or I shall run mad.”
“Your Mother would mislike our doing that,” I said.
“My Mama,” said Katherine savagely, “hath paid not one Whit of Attention to aught I have said or done since I was eight Yeares old. She will not care that I receive any Letter.”
“Then I shall write,” I said. “But you must not expect my Letters to be frequent, or long. I shall be at Mr Fielding’s House, in London, and have much Study to do.”
“Study!” she exclaimed, rolling her Eyes. “I know better anyway than to expect much from a Man’s Letter. Do not worry, Bloody Bones. I shall be content with the little I shall get.”
“Brat,” I said. “Then I shall write setting you Lessons; that Temper of yours must be curbed. You will come to dread my Correspondence.”
“Never! But an you do, ’twill anyway disguise us from Sophy, who would not think twice of opening my Mail. And I shall write—but you shall see; I shall surprize you.”
Leaning forwards, I kissed her gently upon the golden Crown of her Head.
Jacob to Rachel.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the early Morning of the third Daye after Jane’s Wedding, I was awakened by a strange Sound stealing into my Chamber thro’ the opened Window: the loud, shrill Note of an hunting-Horn. I sate at once bolt upright in my Bed, as if it had been an Alarum, and listened hard lest the Blast be repeated; but I heard nothing but the Twittering of the morning Birds and the Chatter of a Magpie from beyond the high Hedge. I must have been dreaming. It was not the hunting Season, and unlikely too, I thought, that the Fanfare should have been blown by some Wag in Jest. I laid My Self down again, altho’ mine Heart was racing with the wild Speed of a pursued Deer.
I could not easily fall back to Sleep, and so I rose, dresst, and betook My Self to my Study to read awhile before breakfast Time. The Sound of the Horn had caused me to ponder once more on Nathaniel.
Over Breakfast, I received into mine Hand a pressing Invitation from my Sister to call upon Withy Grange that very Afternoon. She seemed concerned that if I did not come, I should return to London without seeing her again, or visiting her brave and beauteous new Estate; and that I would not be in Berkshire again before Christmas. Feeling that Jane was in all Probability quite right in this Estimation, I quit my Studies for the nonce, and headed out to the Stables. It had been Months since I had ridden my Chestnut, and I was anxious to see whether he had been improved or spoiled in mine Absence. If spoiled, I thought, I should have stern Words with the head Groom, for he was not a Horse with which I would have been willing to part. He was an handsome Animal, and elegant in his Paces. He went, however, like a Swallow. I was doubly glad of this, for altho’ it did mine Heart joy to wander betwixt the Colou
rs of the Meadows and thro’ the lively Woods, I could not help but be mindful of Viviane, and of the fact that the Valley of the Horse was her Domain. I did not believe that it were safe for me to be without mine own Lands for too long. After about three Miles, the Road grew stony, so I chose to abandon it and traced instead the winding Ribband of the River, which would take me at a Gallop all the Way to Withy Grange.
The House appeared all of a sudden as I rounded a Bend, atop a long grassy Slope that led down towards the Water. I perceived at once the open Prospect about which Jane had spoken with Enthusiasm; a full half-Mile of unbroken Green extending in a steady Declivity to the very Edge of the River, which here, she said, ran thick with Trout. Only one Obstacle stood between the River and the Grange: a tangled Stand of Willows and other Trees, extending an hundred Feet or more hard by the rushy Bank; the last Survivors, perhaps, of those old Withies that had given the Place its Name. Jane had told me much of Barnaby’s planned Improvements, which being in the modern Stile, required the Laying of bland Lawns where once there had been complex formal Gardens, and the Substitution by its tame Reflection of wild, unfettered Nature. I supposed that these must be the Willows he intended to uproot, so that the View from the drawing Room should not be interrupted.
Seeing the Stand now, I felt a sudden Anger at what appeared a brutal Act upon Barnaby’s Part. Verily, there is no Need, I thought, to ruin an whole Grove of Willows, that mayhap stood there before the House was built, purely for Barnaby to have a fashionably unobstructed View. It is senseless; moreover, ’tis petty; and that bodes ill for Jane.
I reined in mine Horse, and stood still for a Moment by the quiet Water. About mine Ears wavered the noiseless Wings of Butterflies, and the low Murmuring of Bees. From his hidden Nest within the Reeds, a Warbler burst his Breast in tumbling Song. I drew in a long, slow, deep Breath, drinking in the summer Aire as if it were sweet Wine, and closed mine Eyes. The golden morning Sunne was honey warm upon my Face.
The Warbler by the Stream was almost friendly; tho’ how he would sing to me when he had got Intelligence of who I was, I did not like to guess. I dug mine Heels into my Chestnut’s Flanks and cantered toward the willow Trees. I remembered how I had seen Katherine in the Churchyard, the Sunnelight dappling her pale Features thro’ the flickering Leaves.
The Wood was more extensive than I had first thought, and as I approached it I saw that it was comprised of several hundred Trees. Near the Water, as I had expected, the Willows were most numerous, reaching out over the Stream with white Fingers, but away from the River grew Hawthorns in a tight Covert. I cantered along the Edge of the Woodland for some Distance before turning my Chestnut to begin the long Ascent toward the Grange. It was then, to mine Astonishment, that I saw Katherine Montague.
She was running down the Slope, in my Direction, very fast. The pale Calico of her Skirts billowed about her like a wind tosst Cloud, and her white linen Cap had all but slippt from her Head. I stoppt mine Horse and without any second Thought jumped down upon the Sward. “Is it you?” I called, uncertain whether my Senses were playing upon me the cruellest Trick.
“Yes!” she cried, tho’ she was breathless with Running. “Yes!”
I looped the Horse’s Reins over mine Arm and hurried up the Slope to meet her. I half expected, or half hoped, that she would throw herself into mine Arms, for which I should have had to punish her, but when we were about five Yards apart, she drew to a polite Halt. Her Ribcage heaved with the Effort of her Exertion; her Eyes sparkled with its vivid Satisfaction. Her Hair, now loosened from its Constraints, shook in wild golden Ringlets about her delicate Neck. Yet again I cursed the long View from Withy Grange, which meant that we were even now most likely overlooked; had it not been so I should have carried her off then and there beneath the Willows.
“I saw you coming from the House,” she gasped. “I ran—all the Way.”
“You looked as if you were flying,” I said.
“I felt as if I were! I thought I should fall, but something held me up. I am under Instruction never to run lest some Bone come out of place, but I do not care!”
I positioned my Chestnut between My Self and the House, and held out mine Hand to Katherine. “Come here,” I said. “I must satisfy My Self that you really exist. Whatever are you doing here?”
Katherine steppt up beside me and I took her small Hands in mine. She was warm and solid, living and real, and she smelled lightly of Sweat and fresh mown Grasses.
“Jane—Mrs Barnaby—sent Sophy an Invitation, and I guessed—I hoped—so I made her bring me too.”
“Stand still until you have caught your Breath,” I said. “So, ’tis a Mixture of Luck and Design. I shall not ask what vile Means you employed upon Miss Ravenscroft, as they have brought you to me; whom I expected least, and am happiest to see.”
“Oh,” she answered lightly, “I did nothing unkind or even unseemly. I told Sophy that I wished to thank Mrs Barnaby for allowing me to attend her Wedding, and Aunt Ravenscroft thought this shewed such Promise that she told Sophy she must agree.”
“Is your Aunt here too, then?”
“No, no; ’tis only me and Sophy.”
“Sophy and My Self,” I said.
“I think not!” Katherine said. “I am certain Mrs B. is match-making; but she will make nothing there, if I have aught to do about the Business.”
“Nor I,” I said. I kissed her Hands and then, reluctantly, released her. “My Sister will be watching, from the House.”
We turned back towards the long Ascent, and resumed our long, slow Climb out of the Valley.
As we walked, I remembered Nathaniel again. I stoppt, not wanting my Words to be overheard by anyone upon the front Lawn of the House, altho’ it was unlikely that my Voice should carry so far. “Will you tell me,” I said, “what hath happened to Nathaniel? I am sure that something is very wrong, but no one will speak of him.”
Katherine ceased walking, and her Features momentarily fell into Shaddowe. She droppt her Gaze to the daiseyed Green beneath her Feet, and then, turning her Back upon the Grange, she looked up and stared out over the Valley. “Nathaniel—” Again that Hesitation on his Name. “Hath run away,” she said.
“What? Impossible!”
“Not impossible. His Father is telling he hath gone into the Army.”
“Nathaniel would never do that,” I said. “What, gone? Intirely gone? He hath sent no Word?”
“None.”
“Egad!” I cried. “When was this? Why would nobody tell me?”
“I don’t know. My Uncle says that he disappeared, last Yeare, in May.”
“But I was with him on May Morning! I—” My Voice failed me. Suddenly, Nathaniel’s extraordinary Manner and Actions at the Bull, and at our Parting, made compleat Sense. He had planned to leave that Night; and he had not run away to join the Army, but his beloved Gypsies. “Oh, Lord,” I said, slowly. “Now I conceive it. He wanted me to go with him, but I—” Again, I stoppt. Suppose I had lain down with Viviane, as both she and Nathaniel had desired; would I have followed them, Over the Hills and Far Away, as the Song hath it? I might. Truly, I might.
“What Attempt do they make to find him?” I asked.
Katherine did not appear to know. “My Uncle is so angry,” she said, “that I think they make none. He wanted Nathaniel to go into the Church.”
“Aye, so he did.” I began to laugh, altho’ I felt like weeping. “Canst imagine it? Nat, in Churchman’s Weeds?”
Katherine produced a feeble Simulacrum of a Smile, but her Eyes were hollow.
“’Tis anyway certain,” I said, taking her Arm thro’ mine own in an Effort at Comfort, and bending yet again toward Withy Grange, “that Nat will return sometime when we do not expect him. Have no Fears for your Cousin, Katherine; I know him exceeding well, and he doth not readily fall into Trouble.”
“No,” she said. “That is true. He was always the one to bring Trouble upon others.”
Thus linked, we continued cl
imbing the Valley. Altho’ I had sought to pacify Katherine, mine Head was now full, and mine Heart also, with fearfull Thoughts and Sentiments generated by this new Intelligence. Plainly, I had been the last Person to have seen Nathaniel Ravenscroft. Excepting possibly the stable-Boy—and Viviane.
A Thought broke in upon me, horrible in its Array: Perhaps Nathaniel is dead. Perhaps the Gypsies murdered him. Perhaps, even as I was racing back along the Road towards the Bull, Viviane’s Brothers were slitting Nathaniel’s white Throat in some green Meadow hard by.
I pushed the Thought away, for altho’ it frightened me greatly, I could perceive that it was neither wholly rational nor likely. Whatever Revenge Viviane sought against me, she would never have taken it out upon Nathaniel. Never once in his Life had he suffered any Punishment for his own Misdemeanours, let alone mine. The Course of things had altogether run the other Way.
No, no, I thought. Nathaniel and Viviane are together, wherever they are. They were perhaps—I caught my Breath—even in London last Christmas-tide.
Was it Nathaniel who sent me my Bat? By Owl, or Cat, or Hare, he said. Is not a Bat a wild Creature, too?
Katherine Montague, at my Side, caught unexpectedly a tight Hold of mine Hand, and her thin Fingers twined about mine own. “Mr Hart?”
I feared lest I had spoke aloud. I paused mid-Step, and looked down into her clear grey Eyes. Slowly, my dreadful Apprehensions drained away, like falling flood-Waters.
She was an Human Child, I thought.
“What is it?” I said.
“I do not truly believe your Sister is Match-making. I said it as a Joke. You would frighten Sophy to Death, and a long Way beyond it.”
We proceeded up-Hill for a few Yards intimately connected; then we parted, as we were almost come upon the House.
Withy Grange was a tall, upright Building that seemed to me upon mine Approach to be more of a Means of Support for its high Gables and steeply pitched Roofs than a House to shelter Human Beings. The Walls were of white Stone interspaced with blackleaded Windows, and dark Woodwork that weaved across the Front of the Place in a Lattice. I judged it to be no more than two Centuries in Age, and therefore definitely younger than the willow Wood. I began to ask My Self whether Jane could be prevailed upon to disagree with Barnaby about his unobstructed View, and to fight for the Willows. It was a Pity she had such a gentle Nature.