by A. W. Exley
I swallowed. Confessing this was as hard as telling Seth how much I loved him. "Last night we found where the Turned army had set up camp, and leading them were Elizabeth and Louise."
Emotion flared in Charlotte's eyes. Joy. Hope. And then as quickly, she damped it down and the resignation of old returned to her face. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the door. "Are they dead?"
"Elizabeth is, yes. I'm so sorry." A storm brewed in my stomach. I was glad to rid Elizabeth's evil taint from the world, but it pained me to hurt Charlotte. I knew what it was like to lose your mother.
She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. "And Louise?"
"The War Office is working with Louise and they have retained her services. She is Turned but has retained her intelligence, unlike the others. She will further our knowledge of them." I tried to make it sound less horrible than it really was. Louise wouldn't be coming home for Christmas.
A single tear ran down Charlotte's cheek. "I know you hated them, but they were the only family I ever had."
I reached out and laid my hand over hers. "Whatever I feel is irrelevant. I am so sorry, Charlotte, that events ended like this. I hope one day you can forgive me and we might be friends."
She didn't answer. She simply shut the door and left me staring at the cast iron knocker.
"I'm sorry," I whispered again. Then I headed back to Trusty, waiting at the end of the path. I hoped Charlotte would grieve, move on with her life, and one day admit me as a friend. We might never be true sisters, but I would always stand by her. I took some comfort from knowing she had resistance to the vermin infestation because she survived the original infection. As did Magda.
"No rest for the wicked," I said as I slung my leg over Trusty and kicked the starter. I had too much work to fret about Charlotte. Seth would be back late that afternoon after depositing Louise in her new home. In his absence, I was taking over control of the Somerset defensive.
For the first time, I parked Trusty out front of Serenity House and barrelled straight through the main entrance. My boldness even caught Warrens off guard. The butler paused for a split second, the closest I ever came to surprising him.
"Morning, Warrens," I called out as I mentally ran through my list to decide what task was the most pressing.
He smiled in my direction. "Good morning, Miss Jeffrey. I have started going through our library and am accumulating everything we have about Millicent deMage and the history of Serenity House."
"Thank you, Warrens. I'll be needing coffee today, please. I can't fall asleep on the job." I doubted if even coffee would be strong enough to keep me running. My body longed for bed and a couple of days sleep.
I walked through the double doors to Seth's office and surveyed the base of Somerset operations. Reports from every corner of the region continued to pour in, and they were crafted into paper mountains, balanced on the desk and tables. The steady clatter of typewriter keys came from next door, where we housed the secretarial pool and filing cabinets for more reports and paper.
Lieutenant Bain stood at the topographical map, a clutch of papers in his hand as he surveyed the markers. He looked up and a smile warmed his face. "Good morning, Miss Jeffrey. The new hive has been cleaned out and should be ready for inspection once the smoke clears. It's still rather eye watering down there."
"Oh, brilliant. Perhaps we could head over to investigate tomorrow?" I wanted to know how much coffee the lieutenant drank to look so perky and awake when he probably had far less sleep than me.
"Of course. Where would you like to start this morning?" He laid the papers down and gave me his full attention.
Briefly I wondered about throwing him in Alice's path if things with Frank never resolved themselves. Except he seemed too… nice. Not that Alice didn't deserve nice. It was more that Alice needed a fellow with an edge who would resist her amber eyes. I suspected Bain would melt into a puddle if Alice turned her formidable charms onto him. My friend needed a challenge, not a bath mat to stand on.
I pressed a hand to my forehead and tried to concentrate on one thing at a time. Ideas gambolled like spring lambs in my head. I finally realised that I simply could not tackle every necessary task myself. Delegation didn't come naturally to me, but I was willing to give it a try. "First, can you set one of the office staff to pulling everything they can on Aleister Crowley?"
He frowned as he placed the name. "The Satanist?"
"Yes. There was a rumour that he started the pandemic, and his supporters have been heard to claim they are immune to the bite or scratch of a Turned. I want to know the origins of those rumours as well as what he is supposed to be up to. Ask your contacts at the War Office what files they have on him, too. He must be on their watch list with his outlandish claims." The idea of evil intent being behind so many deaths made my skin crawl. I preferred a scientific explanation that I could see and understand, but there were too many coincidences not to research every possible avenue. The War Office would outwardly mock the idea of the Satanist being involved, but I would lay money on some secret memos exploring whether it was at all possible.
Bain pulled a pad from his jacket pocket and started writing up a list. "What else?"
"Last night Jake demonstrated that the vermin didn't pay him any attention, and Elizabeth didn't want Charlotte because of her ‘taint’. I think those who survived the original pandemic are unpalatable to the Turned. We need to make a list of who survived, and then find out which of them have subsequently had any interactions with the Turned."
Bain made rapid notes in his neat hand. "What if we find original influenza survivors who were subsequently Turned?"
Well, that would be annoying. "Then we cross that off our list as a potential avenue to protect people. But we won't know until we track what happened to the survivors and interview them."
Warrens appeared with a silver tray holding a delicious smelling brew. Having fought a jabberwocky, I decided to continue my brave streak and tackle another monster. "Could you put that in the library, please?" I asked the butler. "I am going to make a start on the history of the house." Fortified by coffee, I was going to crack open Millicent's diaries and confront the woman who gave me the shivers. The time had come to either find solid evidence against Millicent or discard her involvement as a flight of fancy.
Warrens retreated with the tray. I waited until the doors closed before adding to Bain's list. "Lieutenant, there is one other task that I would like you to undertake personally, if it's not too much trouble."
"Of course." His expression was so open and friendly, no wonder he put people at ease. Apart from his holstered sidearm, there was nothing threatening about the lieutenant, and he exuded an air that welcomed a confidence.
Just the skill I needed for a rather delicate mission. I needed someone to coax forth information from our shattered clergyman. "Reverend Mason used to keep lists of the villagers who survived their battle with the original infection. Could you see if he still has them?"
The pencil scratched over paper. Then I voiced my last request.
"There is another, even more delicate subject I want you to ask him about. He used to have a keen interest in witches and their local history. If he is up to it, see if he can dig anything up on the rumours about Millicent deMage."
The pencil paused and Lieutenant Bain raised an eyebrow. "Witches? Of course." He finished his notes and tucked the little book back into his jacket pocket.
Charlotte might prefer the lieutenant's presence at the manse over mine. My news about her family did not go over well, and I didn't want to antagonise her further by monopolising Mr Mason's time. I considered it a peace offering, to send her the quiet and affable Bain.
3
Charlotte
Burning water
* * *
On my first day at the manse, I learned it is possible to burn water, or at least the pot containing it. Ella, Alice, and Magda undertook the cooking and housework. Mother said aristocrats didn't dirty their han
ds with manual labour, and so we sat in the parlour, staring at the wallpaper. If mother was particularly mad at Ella, she sent me below stairs to issue demands. While I had observed some of the workings of the kitchen, I had no practical experience.
From what I saw, I thought I understood the mechanics of cooking, but actually making a meal was akin to some arcane magical rite. A boiled egg involved a pot, water, and an egg. But how much water? How long did the egg have to remain immersed? Did it matter if I had a chicken egg or a larger duck egg? And how did you extract a boiling hot egg from the pot without dropping both on the floor? The exact process was a mystery, as though such knowledge passed from woman to child in hushed whispers those upstairs weren't supposed to overhear.
In his confused state, Mr Mason was oblivious to my painful lack of experience as a house keeper. That gave me time to either learn to swim or sink. Fortunately I had two sources of help as I struggled through daily tasks. Firstly, Mrs Mason had left behind her Victorian edition of the Ladies' Almanac, an invaluable source of information for a young lady about running a household. Each morning I pored over the worn pages, trying to figure out what to prepare for supper and what cleaning tasks I should instruct the staff (now consisting solely of me) to do.
The other great gift came from an unexpected quarter: the nosy local women. They all knew I was lacking when it came to household skills, and they turned up at the back door, pressing casseroles and pies into my hands. They then beckoned me closer, checked over their shoulders, and whispered reheating and serving instructions. Without them we would have starved. Or we would have subsisted on under-cooked eggs.
Over the years we had lived in this community, my mother had been consistently scathing and unkind about the other women. Farmers and workers were beneath her, and she encouraged Louise and me to also look down on our neighbours. At the time it bothered me. I didn't see how doing nothing all day made us superior. But I did as told and held my tongue, even when a tiny part of me longed to be involved and to learn a useful skill.
Now, with mother and Louise gone, I was both humbled and grateful for the women who overlooked years of disdain and helped me through those first few early weeks. Perhaps I would finally be able to contribute to our small community instead of casting judgement upon it.
Mr Mason was blind to all that went on under his roof. He spent an inordinate amount of time in his study, staring at the walls. I would remove one cold cup of tea and replace it with a hot one. It didn't matter that I made it too weak or too strong at first, because he rarely touched it. As days turned into weeks, I managed to make the tea a consistent colour, and I mastered boiled eggs and toast.
So many nights ended with me sobbing my heart out in bed. My hands turned red from trying to scrub the dirt of manual labour out from under my nails each evening. Frustration at another ruined, inedible meal built in me until I slammed my fists against the kitchen table. I didn't know how to run a household, but day by day I learned. I marvelled at each success and quietly fed my failures to the pigs. Then I silently blessed the neighbour who came to my rescue with a meal to place on the table at dinner time.
This was all Ella's fault. I wanted to hate her. She tore me from my comfortable existence and condemned me to hours of drudgery. But a door opened a crack and a sliver of hope beckoned, even though I’d lost my family. Mother had dictated my every waking moment and found constant disappointment in everything I did. I struggled to fill the vacuum they left, unused to finding my own direction. I was a compass that couldn't locate north and the needle simply spun. Useless.
The other women in the village offered the first tendrils of friendship, and I wondered if I were brave enough to accept them. A tiny part of me feared their kindness was a cruel trick, and that they all laughed at me behind my back. It's what mother and Louise would do, lure you in with false smiles and then shred you to pieces.
I rose each morning, dressed as I pleased, and went about my chores. Over the course of those days, a strange thing happened. Or more correctly didn't happen. No one laughed, called me frumpy, or tore my favourite dress on purpose. No one condemned my love of poetry, or stole my books and shoved them down the privy. No one made me hold Ella's hands while her back was bloodied with the switch.
If mother wasn't here to tell me who I was, who was I? Did I become no one, without someone to put me in my place? The hollow in my chest hurt some days as I struggled to learn how to rely on myself. Even drawing air into my lungs caused me pain, and I doubted I even breathed properly without mother to rap my knuckles and remind me to act like quality, Charlotte, not swine.
I wiped away the tears with the corner of my apron. With my vision cleared, I drew a deep breath and focused on the day’s task. I was attempting an apple pie all on my own. The pastry turned out a bit too crumbly, but it seemed to be holding shape. I had gathered the fallen apples from the orchard and peeled, cored, and sliced them myself.
A rap on the front door made my heart beat faster. Who could it be? The village women all popped in at the kitchen door.
Yesterday Ella stood on the doorstep and told me mother was dead and Louise was working with the War Office. I thanked her politely and then shut the door in her face. Only back in the kitchen did I let myself cry. Each day gifted me distance from mother's memory. I began to see what a truly horrible person she was, but she was still my mother. I knew no other and despite her failings as a human being, I needed to mourn the only maternal figure I had known before I could move forward with my life.
Surely Ella wouldn't come back two days in a row? I wiped my hands free of flour and apple juice on my apron and walked down the hall to pull open the front door.
A soldier stood on the doorstep. Not just a soldier but a lieutenant in smart khaki with a cap on his head. A brown leather bandolier ran over his shoulder and attached to his belt. A pistol hung at his hip, another reminder we were at war.
"Can I help you?" I wiped my hands again to ensure they were clean.
He took the cap off on seeing me and tucked it under his arm. Short brown hair stopped at the tips of his ears, and warm brown eyes regarded me. He wasn't overly tall, which I appreciated since I was on the short side myself. It was nice not to have to crane my neck to talk to a man. Nor was he overly handsome in that way which made plain girls like myself uncomfortable. Yet in his uniform he presented such a dashing picture I allowed myself the tiniest sigh of delight.
"Pardon me, Miss Jeffrey, but would it be possible to see Reverend Mason? I have a request for him, from the duke, that may assist our efforts in the war." His other hand held a small journal.
Mr Mason rarely took visitors. In many ways living here was like sharing a house with a ghost. He walked on silent feet and rarely talked, except to whisper to the walls. I often thought he was more lost than I. Perhaps a visitor might bring his mind back from whatever dark corner it occupied, however briefly. "Of course. Might I say who is calling?"
"My apologies, Miss Jeffrey. I am Lieutenant Bain." The officer smiled and my lips pulled into a smile in response. He knew who I was, but then given Ella worked at the big house, I supposed she must have told him I had a position here as housekeeper.
"Please come in, Lieutenant. This way," I stepped back into the hall and he followed.
Down the dark corridor we walked to the reverend's private sanctum. I rapped with my knuckles on the oak door, but there was no reply from within. There never was, my knock a mere courtesy to let him know I was about to enter.
"Lieutenant Bain to see you, Reverend, on a most important mission," I said as I pushed the door open.
Today he stood at the window. Tall and narrow, it looked out on the back garden and the orchard beyond. Sparrows darted and flitted around the ball of lard coated in seed that I had hung from the tree. I was proud of myself for making that. Frivolous and completely useless, mother would have said. But I delighted in drinking my tea out there while the birds chirped.
Our community's shepherd turned. On
ce a big man, the flesh had fallen from his bones. A wild look lurked in his blue gaze, and his rough jaw and uncut hair signalled the state of his mind. He was a man trapped in his own mind, wrestling with his loss of faith. Just as God abandoned him, he abandoned his flock. Mr Mason frowned, as though he should know the lieutenant but struggled to recall his face.
"Could I trouble you for some tea, please, Miss Jeffrey?" The lieutenant's warm smile made it no bother at all.
"Of course. I may be able to find some shortbread as well." Shortbread was one of my small successes. I found immense satisfaction in seeing the regimented cream squares stacked in a tin with not a single one burned or even brown. Each was pricked with a fork, and I took pains to line up the tines so the three dots were in the centre.
"Oh, marvellous. My favourite." He gave me a wink.
The breath stopped entering my lungs and heat flushed over my skin. He winked at me! Rather than say something stupid, I rushed from the room. Mother always called me stupid and vacuous and said it was better for me to remain silent. Odd, though, that Louise was always encouraged to spout her silly nonsense.
I filled the kettle and set it to boil then I took the tin of shortbread and laid a few pieces on a pretty yellow plate. As I set out tea, I mused on the difference in how mother treated us. There was never any doubt in our family of mother's favouritism. Louise was always mother's pet while I scrambled for the tiniest crumb of affection from her. But why?
What had I done as a child that marked me as wrong, or that turned my mother against me? Was Louise prettier, smarter, and simply more deserving than me? Even now, I missed her barbs and put downs, her constant harsh words that would spear through me and tear me down. They hurt, but they filled the void inside me. Perhaps I was a fool and could hope for no better. Yet one warm smile from a soldier had me thinking I might build more of my life. I just had to be brave enough to try.