“You look lovely in your new gown,” Edward said.
“Thank you.”
“I’m glad you and Prudence wore your Christmas dresses for the portrait. It will be one of the most beautiful in the house.”
“I cannot wait to see it,” Alice said, as Edward opened the door to their bedchamber.
***
Stealing the baby had been easy. After uttering a simple spell to keep the kitchen maid asleep, Carmilla lifted the infant from the bed without the mother stirring.
She carried it from the third-floor servants’ quarters in the west wing across the corridor to the east wing, moving easily in darkness that was relieved only by a few wall sconces. The chapel was all blackness, save for the light from candles she’d lit before retrieving the child. In their amber glow, the babe appeared as angelic as a cherub.
Carmilla scoffed at the thought as she lay the infant down on the wooden altar table. It was bare except for a hammer waiting at one side.
On the east wall hung a crucifix. It seemed to mock her, even to chastise her. She’d always loathed religious icons, especially crosses and crucifixes. She walked toward the allegedly holy object and glared up at it. “God of the new, God of the old, there’s naught difference but the names and rituals. And precious little even then.” With that, she spun the crucifix on its nail so the Christ figure hung inverted. She watched it a moment, smiling as she imagined all the righteousness draining out of it, then she removed it, plucked the nail from the wall, and returned to the infant who now began to stir and whimper.
“Shh,” she said, pushing a wad of muslin into the babe’s mouth. Carmilla closed her eyes and focused on her own true gods. “Life for life,” she murmured over and over. “Life for life.”
The babe was exhausting itself behind the gag, trying to cry, its face red as tears streamed from its eyes, but its muffled cries could not possibly be heard beyond the closed doors of the chapel.
With one hand, Carmilla centered the nail over the infant’s navel. With the other, she reached for the hammer.
***
Alice awoke in the darkest part of the night hearing the cries of her lost Celia. Her heart jumped and skipped a beat, as it did whenever she heard the babe.
Beside her, Edward snored. Lord, keep him in slumber. She sat up and slid from the tall bed. Celia continued to cry in a distant part of the house.
The bedroom hearth fire burned low and cast dancing shadows against the wall as she stepped into slippers and pulled a robe over her long white shift. She glanced back at Edward - she dared not tell him again that she heard Celia’s wails. He never believed her for he could not hear them himself and so he feared for her sanity. He slept on, and she lit the candle in her chamberstick and took it with her as she left the room.
Celia’s cries continued; she followed them to the stairwell and up to the third floor, where they became much louder. Celia, my Celia, where are you? Because Edward could not hear the cries, she knew her infant daughter to be dead, but she hoped to at least find her body and lay her to rest. Edward thought her too weak to think this way since she had nearly gone out of her mind with grief in those first few months. But she was not weak; she knew it, even though he did not. She would see her Celia properly buried.
The cries became louder as she trod the hallways, finally turning onto the one that held the old chapel which was only used for wakes in modern times. The crying surrounded her. Ahead, the window on this moonless night was a black rectangle reflecting only the flame of her candle and a ghost of herself as she neared. Outside the chapel she surveyed the heavy door with its simple cross carved into the railing. Celia’s cries hurt her ears.
In there! My baby is in there!
***
Thomas and Bran Lanval were sitting in Thomas’ chamber, mulling over ways to force Carmilla Harlow to reveal herself for the witch she was, when Thomas saw movement beyond the half-closed door. He stood and crossed to it, Bran on his heels.
“Lady Alice,” he whispered to the physician. “She looks as if she’s in a trance.”
Bran nodded and the two of them followed her, twenty paces behind, keeping to the long shadows as best they could, but she never looked back, not even when she climbed the stairs to the third floor. She moved with fearful purpose.
Upstairs, she made several turns then ended up in the hallway leading to the old chapel.
Thomas paused as she stood outside the door and stared at it. Finally, she cried aloud, “I am here, Celia!” opened the door, and entered. Faint golden light poured from the room.
Alice screamed.
“Get Edward!” Thomas told Bran, then ran for the door.
The scene inside the chapel forced Thomas into shocked paralysis.
Carmilla stood, her mouth against an infant’s belly.
Shrieking, Alice rushed the nanny, pummeled her, and secured the babe.
Thomas raced toward Carmilla and with one heavy swipe of his fist, knocked her over. She landed on her back against the hard floor but was quick to her feet.
As Alice clutched the baby to her bosom, Carmilla came at Thomas, her face a bloodied mask of lunatic fury. She shrieked, raised her arm, and Thomas caught the glint of silver in the candlelight. She brought her hand down in a quick arc and drew the cruel blade of a knife across Thomas’ right cheek. The pain was hot and immediate but he barely registered it.
Instead, Thomas lunged at Carmilla, crumpling her beneath his weight. She struggled, but he managed to pin both her arms with his knees. She tossed her head back and forth, the blood-covered locks of her black hair leaving marks on the floor. Her eyes were wide, savage, not sane.
Breathless, Dr. Lanval burst into the room with Edward, who took the scene in with quick glances, hesitating between Alice and Thomas.
“Go to Alice!” cried Thomas. “Bran! Help me detain the witch!”
Edward, who had taken Alice and Fiona’s infant into his arms, gave Thomas wide, unbelieving eyes. “Witch?”
“Yes, witch!” Thomas nodded at the eerily still and silent baby his sister-in-law held. “There is your proof, Brother.”
Beneath him, Carmilla raged on, her shrieks echoing off the ceiling and walls.
***
“Why did you not tell me there was a witch in my house?” Edward demanded. He and Thomas stood in the basement, not far from the cell where Carmilla Harlow was now imprisoned.
“We only realized it this afternoon when we found the hex bag under Parnell’s bed. We removed it and he began recovering immediately.” Thomas reached up to touch the cut on his cheek. Bran Lanval had taken only three small stitches and coated it with honey. He’d assured him the scar would be quite attractive to the ladies. “We did not know who it might be.”
“You should have told me then!” Edward rounded on his younger brother. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
From the cell came Carmilla’s laughter, musical notes from an out-of-key clavier, beautiful and horrible.
“You know why, Brother! Look at how you behave. You would have gone on a witchhunt and alerted the devil’s harlot! She would have escaped if we’d told you.”
Laughter shrieked behind them.
“Be quiet, Witch!” yelled Edward. “Be quiet or I shall cut your tongue out and make you watch while I feed it to my dogs! I will strangle you with my own hands. I will make your eyes burst from your head and I will crush them under my boot!”
“And you ask why I did not tell you?” Thomas eyed his brother. “You’re just like our father, quick of temper, quick of tongue, quick to judge.”
Laughter careened off the walls again.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!” Edward shouted, then looked back at his brother. “You are right,” he said, forcing calm upon himself. “And I am glad you caught her. I will see to the gallows. Will you inform Mother? She will want to witness the hanging.”
“Indeed, she will,” Thomas said.
***
“I’m so sorry, Fiona
.”
The trembling maid collapsed into Alice’s arms. “No, no, no! My baby! Not my baby!”
Alice stroked Fiona’s hair. “I am so very sorry.”
Despite Dr. Lanval’s best efforts, the baby’s injuries were too severe and the infant had passed away moments before Alice entered Fiona’s chambers.
As a mother herself, one who had also lost a child, Alice felt it only right that she be the one to tell the young maid. She was certain now that Carmilla Harlow - the Witch! - was responsible for the disappearance of her own Celia. Tears stung her eyes as she pushed thoughts of her infant daughter’s death from her mind.
The maid was inconsolable, and maintaining a facade of strength for her was the only thing keeping Alice from losing her own composure. After several long moments of uncontrolled sobbing, Fiona raised her head to look at Alice. “What of the… the Witch?”
Alice struggled to answer. “They’re hanging her at first light.” She glanced out the window. “Soon now.”
“I want to see my baby.”
“Come,” Alice said, putting her arm around Fiona’s waist. “Dr. Lanval is expecting you.”
Gray Morning
Morning dawned, gray and foggy, and the sun would be hidden for another hour behind the hills circling the moors. Carmilla Harlow, gagged, her hands bound behind her, stumbled along, as Thomas pushed her from the basement and out a back door.
Fifty feet from the house, the old gallows stood. Edward, hands on hips, supervised as his men tested the new rope. Thomas had played on the old structure as a child; so had Edward. It hadn’t been used in more than a century, but in its day, it had hanged several witches, and murderers as well. Their father had planned to tear it down when the boys were small, but Johanna stopped him; she said it was a reminder of the past as well as a work of art. Their mother was, indeed, an unusual woman.
Outside, Thomas handed the Witch over to two men helping Thomas. They held her still.
“Mother is coming to witness,” Thomas told his brother.
“So are Lanval and Alice.”
“And the mother of the babe? Will she see justice done?”
Edward shook his head. “Alice says she has not the heart for it. She wishes to remain in her room.”
Alice and their mother came out of Ravencrest, gray ghostly figures moving through a small patch of fog. A servant followed Lady Johanna, carrying her chair and easel. Art, for their mother, encompassed all phases of life and of death. Bran Lanval arrived a moment later. “Join them, Thomas,” Edward said. “I would hang the Witch myself. We are sure she is behind our Celia’s disappearance.”
Edward had his men march the Witch up to the gallows, then climbed the broad wooden steps himself.
As Thomas joined the others, Bran Lanval nodded a solemn greeting. Johanna was already seated before her easel, a pad and charcoal ready. And Alice, sweet, sweet Alice, looked sorrowful but determined as she watched them lift the Witch onto a wooden box and tighten the noose around her neck.
Edward pulled the gag from Carmilla Harlow’s mouth. “Have you any final words?”
***
Alice Manning was awake. This would make it impossible for Carmilla to overtake her body. She formed a new plan.
“Well?”
Carmilla looked at Edward Manning.
“Have you any final words, Witch? Speak now!”
She raised her chin, glanced from Edward, whose face burned red with hatred, to Alice, who, like a coward, hid her face in Dr. Lanval’s shoulder, to Johanna, who sat, ready to begin sketching, and finally, to Thomas, who watched with blazing eyes. The children were not present. Her plan, slightly altered, might still work.
“Yes,” said Carmilla. “I have final words.” She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer to her gods.
“Speak it, then, Witch. Do not waste any more of our time!”
Edward’s words had little effect on her. Carmilla opened her eyes and let her gaze settle on Thomas. “You, Thomas Manning,” she said, “will be mine.”
Sounds of shock murmured through the small crowd of family and servants, and Thomas appeared stunned.
Carmilla laughed loud, long, and with much heart.
“Enough from you, Witch!”
***
Thomas wasn’t sure he’d heard the woman right, but even still, her words rushed through his blood like ice, chilling him to the deepest recesses of his soul.
As the Witch laughed, Edward kicked the box out from under her.
Carmilla Harlow’s laughter came to an abrupt stop. Her body jerked. Like a fly caught in a spider’s web, the more she struggled, the tighter her trap became. Within a few moments, the Witch was still, and the only sound was the intermittent creaking of the wooden gallows as the body swung to and fro in the fog.
Johanna brought her charcoal to the page and began her work.
Christmas
December 25, 1788
The sun rose above the hills, a dim disk, but beautiful with promised hope. Church bells chimed in St. Albans. It was Christmas morning.
Alice entered Ravencrest and on her way upstairs stopped to ask a maidservant to ready a hot bath; she needed to wash away the memories of the night. Perhaps they would even attend Christmas services, as they normally did. The thought pleased her.
Before going to choose fresh clothing, she approached the servants’ wing to check on poor Fiona Connor and tell her that the witch was dead.
She opened the heavy carved door - a twin to the one at the other end of the hall - let herself into the east wing and immediately heard Fiona’s clear gentle voice. I have loved thee so long, delighting in thy company ...
Tears sprung to Alice’s eyes as she took the stairs to the third floor. She comforts herself with song, just as she did her babe. Fiona continued singing, louder now, as Alice approached the maid’s room. Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of joy …
Alice knocked on the door. “Fiona?”
The singing stopped.
“May I come in?”
The maid did not respond.
“Fiona?” She rapped on the door again.
Still, there was silence and Alice felt suddenly anxious. She turned the latch and entered the room.
And gasped at the sight before her.
Arms out, eyes glazed, mouth agape, the maid was a still colorless figure half fallen from the bed.
“Fiona!” Alice rushed to the girl, knowing the truth before she was within a foot of her. She was dead - had been for a while. From the corpse’s mouth, a gray-white froth had bubbled and dried on her chin. Her lifeless eyes were half-open but unseeing.
On the night table next to the bed was the emptied bottle of laudanum Dr. Lanval had prescribed for Parnell’s pain.
“No!” Alice’s cries were shrill. “No! No! No!”
***
Carmilla Harlow, now in Prudence Manning’s small body, stood at the window staring at the scene below. Johanna - now her grandmother - sat at her easel, sketching the gallows and the body hanging from the noose. No doubt it was not yet cut down at the grandmother’s behest. Such a hateful, ugly old hag. I will see to it you pay.
Hearing Thomas’ and Parnell’s voices in the hall, she ran to open her door and join them. Parnell, eyes bright with good humor, smiled down from Thomas’ arms.
“Why did you change out of your nightdress?” he asked.
“What?” Prudence said. “I just got dressed.”
“You were in my room before Uncle Thomas arrived. You had your red Christmas dress on!”
“You were dreaming.”
“No, I wasn’t. You were sad and you stared at me and I asked you what was wrong, but you wouldn’t answer. Then you left. What was wrong, Prudence?”
She looked up at him. “Nothing. I was just having some fun.”
Carmilla, now Prudence, turned her gaze to Thomas and gave him a huge smile before running to him, wrapping her arms around his legs, and nestling her face into
his breeches. She inhaled the masculine scent of him. “I love you so much, Uncle Thomas!”
***
Johanna Manning put the finishing touches on her charcoal sketch of the hanging witch. Later today, she would begin the actual painting. “Good riddance. I always knew there was something wrong with you,” she muttered as she studied the lines of the drawing, envisioning the colors and textures the oils would create. An unnaturally cold chill enveloped her. She turned and looked up at Ravencrest. Little Prudence, in her sparkling red Christmas dress, stood at a window, gazing down at her from the third floor.
Johanna waved.
Prudence did not wave back.
Ravencrest Manor: Present Day
The lines were flawless, the texture smooth and professional. Grant Phister traced his finger along the painting. His eyes traveled to the artist’s signature in the bottom corner. It read Johanna Manning, 1788.
Amazing, he thought. Beautiful. But for all its beauty, it was grim and depressing. He didn’t blame Belinda a bit for not wanting it in her office. Undoubtedly, Cordelia Heller had hung it there.
Grant placed the painting in its new location in Cordelia’s parlor. My, won’t she be surprised. Smiling to himself, he straightened it and stepped back to inspect it. If anyone would enjoy such a grim painting, it would be Cordelia. He chuckled under his breath.
Thinking again of Belinda, Grant checked his watch. Ravencrest was a large place, to be sure, but he hadn’t seen Miss Moorland since this morning. That troubled him. Hopefully, she hadn’t wandered off into any of the manor’s more labyrinthine corridors and gotten lost.
The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) Page 15