by Sandra Heath
“Do you swear to make me mistress of Wychavon?” she whispered.
“I swear I will shed Verity as soon as I can,” he breathed, closing his eyes as her parted lips moved sensuously against his.
* * *
A little later, Martha and Sadie arrived at the vicarage to lay the peddler’s body out. They worked silently and efficiently, for they had performed their duties countless times over the years, and the vicar remained with them, it being his custom to read prayers on such occasions.
As his voice droned solemnly around them, Martha became increasingly conscious of something odd in Sadie’s manner. “What’s wrong?” she whispered at last as she watched Sadie fumble with the buttons of the peddler’s coat.
“Nothing,” Sadie whispered back, and then she straightened suddenly to interrupt the vicar’s prayers. “Reverend, do you have an old prayer book to lay in the coffin?”
Martha stared at her, and the vicar was taken aback. “I—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cutler?” he said.
“The peddler was a very God-fearing man and should have such a book buried with him.”
The vicar couldn’t hide his astonishment. “Well, if that is what you think should be done ...”
“I do, Reverend.”
“Very well, I’ll find one.” Putting his own rather beautiful volume aside, he hurried from the room.
Martha immediately caught her sister’s arm. “What are you up to, Sadie Cutler?”
“Nothing.” But Sadie had her fingers crossed behind her back. She had no intention of saying anything to anyone about what she intended to do, for secrecy was the key. Suddenly she glanced past Martha at the window. “Oh, what does he want?”
Martha turned. “What does who want?” she asked blankly, for there wasn’t anyone there.
In a trice Sadie had slipped Judith’s effigy into the peddler’s coat pocket. Then she straightened. “I—I thought the verger was out there trying to attract our attention,” she explained.
Martha looked at her again. “You’re addled this morning, Sadie,” she muttered.
“Maybe so,” Sadie agreed, and then they said nothing more as the vicar returned with a rather battered prayer book.
Shortly after that the pallbearers came to carry the coffin to the lychgate, and as the bell began to toll, a line of villagers filed past to pay their respects before the peddler was taken into the church itself for the brief service.
When it was over, and the coffin was taken out for the interment, Martha paused to look intently at the cross on the altar. “Remember, Lord, that it says in the Bible: ‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live,’ Exodus, chapter twenty-two, verse eighteen. Bear it in mind, I beg you.”
Sadie had joined the mourners at the graveside. It had begun to rain, and while the church bell continued its dismal tolling, she watched until the last spadeful of earth was heaped upon the grave. Everyone else then quickly dispersed, but she remained where she was, with her wet shawl raised over her head, and her shoulders damp with moisture.
The grave’s secret must be left to come into its own now, then, at midnight on Halloween, Judith’s anniversary, its existence would be made known. By then it would be too late for the witch.
Chapter Twenty-six
There was no rain in London, but it was very cloudy, and darkness had closed in as Anna and Oliver called upon Verity. She received them in the candlelit drawing room, where she had been endeavoring to distract herself by doing some embroidery. She was wearing a cheerful primrose gown that was patterned with white stars, but there were shadows under her eyes, and it was plain to both of them that she had been crying again.
Anna’s coral taffeta skirts rustled as she hastened over to take her hands. “We’ve come to make sure you’re all right, Verity. I know you’d probably prefer to be left alone, but you need friends at a time like this.”
Verity managed a smile. “You’re both being so kind to me,” she said, glancing from Anna’s gown to Oliver’s evening clothes. “You’re going out somewhere?”
Anna nodded. “To sample a genuine French dinner at the Clarendon, and you are going to come with us,” she declared, squeezing Verity’s fingers kindly.
Verity shook her head and drew her hands away. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly, I—”
“Yes, you can,” Anna interrupted determinedly. “You must face society, Verity, for the longer you leave it, the harder it will be.”
“Maybe so, but I’m really not up to it.”
“Oh, yes, you are, my lady. A little bit of powder and a dab of rouge, and no one will know you’ve cried at all.”
Oliver came closer. ‘‘Anna’s right, you know, Verity. Find the courage to venture forth now, and you’ll begin to carve your place in London society, which is, after all, what you must do. Be practical, my dear, you cannot return to Wychavon, and this house is your home now.”
“But for how long?” she murmured.
“Nick cannot and will not throw you out, for no matter what his change of heart, he cannot deny that he married you. Right up until that last moment at Almack’s he was proclaiming his love for you all over town, even to the extent of threatening pistols at dawn upon those who made unwelcome wagers upon... Well, we, er, know what upon. So I’m certain you’re secure in this house, and Anna and I think you should begin to make your mark on London. Besides, tonight’s little excursion is only a little diner à trois, not the full glare of Almack’s.”
She hesitated. “I—I’m not sure, Oliver...”
Anna linked her arm briskly. “I am. Come on, I’m sure your maid and I can turn you out more than adequately.”
Verity gave in, but the last thing she really wished to do was go anywhere at all.
Half an hour later, wearing a blue velvet cloak over a pink silk evening gown, with the snakestone at her throat and her hair dressed up à l’Egyptienne, she was seated in the carriage as it drove through the lamplit Mayfair streets to the renowned Clarendon Hotel.
Albemarle Street possessed few private residences these days, being almost entirely devoted to hotels, of which the Clarendon was by far the most superior. It was kept by the renowned French chef, Jacquiers, and its frontage stood in adjacent New Bond Street, but all carriages came to the rear.
There were a considerable number of private vehicles drawn up at the pavement as Oliver assisted his two ladies to alight, and Verity had to summon all her waning courage as he offered her an arm. They went into the fashionable premises, where to her dismay the hum of voices indicated a crowded evening in progress.
The following two hours were a torture she would have preferred not to endure. She could feel eyes upon her from all directions, and knew she was practically the sole topic of conversation. There didn’t seem to have been a single corner of London into which her sorry story hadn’t crept, nor a single soul who didn’t find her of most riveting interest, but she did her best to rise above it all, and by the end of the meal she knew she had succeeded in drawing some admiration for her courage.
Driving back to Grosvenor Square, however, her brave facade began to crumble away, and there were tears on her cheeks as Anna and Oliver accompanied her into the house. They wanted to stay with her, but although she thanked them very much, she insisted that they go home. All she wanted to do was curl up into a ball in the dark, and give in to the misery that echoed through her hollow heart.
But as she stood at the foot of the staircase watching Charles close the door behind them, her glance fell upon the console table where all the recently delivered post lay on a silver platter. In his haste to depart, Nicholas had omitted to leave instructions for the sending on of any mail, and as a consequence the platter was now quite full. She had paid little attention to its contents, but one letter now caught her eye, for she recognized her uncle’s handwriting.
She went closer. Although it was addressed to Nicholas, she couldn’t help picking it up and hiding it in her reticule before the butler noticed what she had done. It wasn’t her hab
it to read other people’s mail, but in this instance she was filled with the sudden hope that her uncle might have relented. Gathering her skirts, she fled up to her room.
It was some time before Lizzy finished attending her, and she was alone in bed to open the letter. Her face fell as she saw the angry scrawl.
Windsor House
Sir,
Your flagrant disregard for my feelings and wishes is no more or less than I would expect of a man of such base character. You, sir, are a disgrace to your illustrious name, and it grieves me to the very core that my foolish niece has so fallen under your wicked influence as to marry you. Her action is something I cannot and will not forgive, for she turned her back upon me in favor of a man who can only be described as a dissolute blackguard, totally bereft of honor.
Verity stared at the letter in dismay, for there wasn’t anything in the least conciliatory about such heated words. She knew she shouldn’t read on, but just couldn’t help herself.
I do not profess to know what your motives are in making Verily your bride, for it cannot be pursuit of her fortune, which in no way compares with your own. Nor can it be for love, since you are incapable of such an honest sentiment.
Verity blinked back tears, but still she couldn’t put the letter aside.
My lord, it may amuse you to trifle with my unfortunate kinswoman, but at least I suppose she has the comfort of your ring upon her finger, which is more than can be said for the last hapless recipient of your vile attentions. I have to inform you that several months ago poor Amabel Sichester was brought to bed of your daughter in Geneva, although no doubt the news is of little concern to you.
Verity’s heart seemed to have stopped within her, and she suddenly felt so cold it might have been midwinter. Nicholas and Amabel Sichester? A daughter? She could hardly hold the paper because her fingers were without sensation. Past phrases and glances began to be clearer, but most of all she understood why her uncle had suddenly begun to loathe Nicholas so deeply. Lady Sichester had clearly confided in her trusted old friend before protecting Amabel’s reputation by taking her to Geneva for the lying-in.
Almost blinded by tears, she made herself read on, for if anyone had the right to know everything, it was Nicholas Montacute’s bride.
I am sickened to the heart that any so-called gentleman could conduct himself as despicably as you have, sir. To seduce the innocent, and then desert them to face the consequence of the union is perhaps the lowest level to which any Englishman of rank can sink.
I wish now that I had had a little less regard for the proprieties, and had informed Verity of the truth about you. If she had known that I despised you because you sired an illegitimate child and deserted its helpless mother, maybe she would not have been taken in by your blandishments.
Amabel Sichester is the lady who should be your bride, my lord Montacute, and you should have had the decency and regard for your own flesh and blood to grant your daughter the dignity of legitimacy. Your failure on both counts damns you in the eyes of the world. May you rot in Hell.
Joshua Windsor
Verity’s shaking fingers closed over the letter, crumpling the paper into a ball before she flung it wretchedly across the room. Then she hid her face in her hands. What a fool she had been. Nicholas’s true character had been there before her all the time, first in the mill, then in her bedroom at the castle, and on every occasion after that. But why had he married her, not Amabel, who had breeding, expectations, and beauty? Unless, of course...
She lowered her hands in fresh dismay. What if the marriage ceremony had been a pretense? What if the priest hadn’t been a priest at all? Had she been the victim of a cruel hoax? Was Nicholas merely biding his time to expose her as a green chit who was gullible enough to think he had made an honest woman of her?
She tried to think clearly. The wedding certificate—fake or not—identified the priest as being appointed to the Grosvenor Chapel, South Audley Street, in the parish of St. George’s, Hanover Square. She would have to go there first thing in the morning to see if he really existed. Oh, please, please don’t let there be the ultimate humiliation and disgrace of a false wedding!
* * *
It was three in the morning before it stopped raining and Judith was able to go to the grove. This time her dark arts were directed at Verity, who had to be brought back to Wychavon to be done to death. To this end something belonging to Verity had to be enchanted, just as the seal had been before, and the witch was using the length of yellow embroidery silk she had tripped over so fatefully on May Eve, but although she danced around the circle, Hecate did not come. The candles didn’t burn, the invisible hounds didn’t bay, and the water continued to flow through the millrace.
Judith shivered angrily as she at last stood still in the damp night air. She knew what was wrong. The magic wouldn’t work because Verity was too well protected by the snakestone and couldn’t be reached at all. Something else would have to be done to bring her back to Wychavon.
The witch considered for a moment, and then she began to smile, for although the snakestone shielded Verity, it didn’t shield her uncle too. What had been done to Davey Cutler could be done to Joshua Windsor, and if he lay close to death, in spite of the differences between them, his niece was bound to hurry north to be with him. Once she was here ... Judith’s smile deepened, for the snakestone couldn’t protect anyone from murder by mortal means.
The witch began to gather her things, but then something caught her attention in the dying undergrowth at the edge of the grove. It was a soft golden light, steady and beautiful, and Judith’s lips parted incredulously. Was it...? Could it possibly be ...? She hurried across the wet grass and dashed the autumn leaves aside to stare down at the gleaming gold filigree fronds of druid’s moss, the rarest and most magical plant of all. She had only seen it once before, and that had been during her life as Meg.
It only appeared after rain, when, night or dry, it unfolded for a few hours in the damp. Once gathered, it granted its finder a single opportunity to put someone into a trance during which he or she could be instructed to do anything the finder wished. The victim wouldn’t recall the instructions afterward, but would carry them out anyway.
Judith’s eyes shone, for now she knew how to finally dispose of the new Lady Montacute. Once Verity had returned to Wychavon, the druid’s moss could be used to make none other than Nicholas Montacute lure her to her death. And that death would take place here in the grove, as had the admiral’s, and as, in due course, Nicholas’s would too.
Judith’s fingertips shook as she touched the moss. The temptation to snatch it up now was almost too much, but she restrained herself. Druid’s moss had to be gathered ritually, with a silver blade and a white cloth, or it was of no use at all. So with a smile the witch left the golden fronds where they were and hurried back to collect her things and hide them in the mill. Then she returned to the village.
* * *
An hour or so later, Joshua’s sleep became suddenly restless. He had been in a deep slumber, but now he tossed and turned as nightmares began to beset him. He felt as if a great weight were pressing down on his chest, suffocating him and making his heart feel as if it would burst.
With a cry he awoke, struggling for air. He was drenched in perspiration, and as a wave of nausea swept over him, he had no time to do anything but lean over the side of the bed to retch. Several minutes passed before he was able to lie back on the pillows again. His body now felt cold and clammy, and his head was still spinning unpleasantly.
The night breeze crept in through the open windows, rustling through the trees outside and making the curtains billow like ghosts. Dread images hovered before him, and terror began to rise. He cried out in fear and reached for the handbell beside the bed
Martha hurried in response and found him leaning over the bed again, his whole body heaving with fresh nausea. “Oh, sir, whatever is it?” she cried, hastening to him.
“Send for Dr. Rogers,” he whispered.
“And be quick!”
* * *
It was dawn before the doctor drove swiftly along the Ludlow road toward Wychavon. He passed the track to the grove, where Judith was gathering the druid’s moss with a silver dagger and white cloth. The witch heard the tilbury rattle along the road, and glanced up smilingly, but then returned her attention to the moss, all the time whispering the incantation that would make it serve her.
At Windsor House the doctor could do no more than prescribe laudanum and promise to return later. He suspected the shellfish Joshua had eaten for his supper, but could not be certain. As he drove away again, Sadie crept from the bushes to attract Martha’s attention.
“What is it, Sadie?” the wisewoman asked quietly.
“If Mr. Windsor is ill, you may count upon it that it’s the witch’s work,” Sadie replied, glancing uneasily around for fear that Judith might be near.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I saw her during the night. She stood in front of this house with her arms spread out. She didn’t move for a long time, then walked back to the manor house.”
Martha looked away. The evil eye. But why would Judith overlook Joshua?
* * *
Completely ignorant of anything that had happened in Wychavon, at midmorning Verity walked nervously to the chapel in South Audley Street, where to her relief she learned that her marriage to Nicholas was valid. So she really was Lady Montacute, she thought as she left the chapel again afterward, but instead of returning to Grosvenor Square, she went to Park Lane to confront Anna and Oliver. Given what she had now learned about her husband’s recent past, she couldn’t believe they had known nothing about his affair with Amabel Sichester.