by Deryn Lake
Gulping a mouthful of ale, Agnes said, ‘Oh surely not. How could that be?’
‘Very easily. He is a good catch and quite handsome. I believe some heartless wretch has set her cap at him and taken him away from poor Debora.’
Very boldly, Agnes said, ‘Who do you suspect, Maud?’
The old woman hesitated, her beady eyes turning to slits. ‘I thought you might know, Agnes. You are in touch with everyone, working at the palace.’
Agnes stood up, wondering if Jenna’s absence was being saved for Maud’s final attack.
‘I have heard nothing, Maud. I am sure you are mistaken.’
‘We shall see.’ She paused. ‘I hear that Jenna has an ague. How very unfortunate. Debora in her sick bed and your sister also. Let us hope they are not suffering from the same complaint.’
The double meaning hung in the air between them.
‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment,’ answered Agnes, briskly. ‘There is a considerable difference between an injured ankle and a chill, you know. Good evening Maud. Thank you for the ale.’
‘Good evening, Agnes. My kind wishes to Jenna and Daniel.’
‘Thank you.’
She hurried through the door and down the track towards Baynden but, as soon as she was out of the cottage’s line of vision, Agnes turned back and cut through the woods towards the village.
*
It was only Agnes calling to warn her that made Jenna realise she had been away —not only from her home but also from her workplace — for an inexcusable day and night. Yet even the thought of Daniel’s belt could no longer frighten her. She had achieved her heart’s desire and won the love of the man she had always longed for, and, in the uniting of their bodies, had achieved a completeness she had not imagined could exist.
As she looked at herself in Benjamin’s mirror, Jenna Casselowe felt that she now had an expression like summer; of mellowness, warmth and burgeoning. She saw that she had become serene and beautiful in the great fulfilment of her love. With enormous gratitude she bent her head as she thought of her aunt and the potion, and all that had been achieved through Alice’s magic.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
‘Do you always speak to your reflection?’ called out Benjamin from behind her.
She turned to look at him with a smile. He had just woken from sleep and seemed boyish and a little vulnerable. Another rush of love swept over Jenna. She crossed to him and, sitting down, bent over to kiss him. Her hand brushed against his and their fingers locked together.
‘That is how I want the future to be,’ said Benjamin, ‘like our hands. Entwined always. Jenna, there is no future without you. I must be your husband.’
‘But what of Debora?’ she asked softly.
‘I will tell her we cannot marry — and thereby earn the contempt of the Westons. But I care nothing. If life is made too unpleasant we can always leave Maighfield and set up home somewhere else. Nothing else matters as long as I have you.’
‘Pennyroyal to bring a man, jessamine to keep him.’ The words danced before Jenna’s eyes again, and she knew what she must do. She could not risk losing the glory of this happiness now. Every week Benjamin must be given a special draught and so be kept within her thrall for ever.
Just for a moment — a moment that she rapidly thrust away — Jenna felt a thrill of resentment, resentment that she could not win Benjamin without resorting to such means, that it was Debora’s beauty that had attracted him when he had still been master of his destiny. But she conquered the feeling. Love had come for her and Benjamin, and that was all that was important.
‘Then, if you think we can survive William Weston’s anger, I will marry you, Benjamin. I can think of nothing I want more.’ He drew her into the bed beside him.
‘You fascinate me,’ he said. ‘You are so mysterious. Sometimes I think some of your great aunt’s power has been passed down to you.’
Jenna flushed angrily. ‘My great aunt had no power. She was the subject of malicious gossip, that is all. She was just a harmless woman who knew something of herbalism.’
Benjamin regarded her closely. ‘You are vehement! Have you something to hide, Jenna?’
He spoke lightheartedly but Jenna’s expression grew dark and for a moment he felt nervous. Then the feeling passed and Benjamin was himself again, his body aware of the long, lean shape next to his, the brush of her breast against his arm, the feel of her legs beside him. Very slowly he bent his head and kissed her.
‘I will never speak of it again,’ he said, ‘yet know that as long as your magic lasts I will be yours. Only death can separate us now — Jenna, my sweet enchantress.’
Twenty-five
The dream was absolutely terrifying because it was so real. It was a sharp, fine morning and Jenna was walking from the door of the cottage to pick the herbs and flowers that grew in the shallows of the little lake. Each one of her senses seemed heightened: the light of the midday sun on the water throwing a million glancing, dancing reflections, so bright that a host of fairies appeared to leap upon the pond’s unruffled surface; the sound of the spinning wheel from within echoing the rhythmic heartbeat of life; the feel of Rutterkin’s fur as Jenna bent to stroke it, soft and sensual. The smell of the day, too, was as clear and clean as crystal, bearing in its depths the first seductive scent of blossom.
As Jenna stooped to gather the water-plants, she saw two people also breathing in that fine air, one skimming stones upon the pond, the other sitting beneath a tree and looking straight at her. The smaller of the two was misted, vague, yet Jenna had the strong impression it was Agnes, despite the fact she could still hear the clack of her sister’s spindle from within the cottage. But the tall one was a stranger and somehow frightening. She saw long hair and hawkish features and beautiful, brilliant eyes; she saw savagery and kindness and unpredictability. She saw tragedy and sweetness — and she saw herself.
In her dream Jenna thought that this must be death. That her soul had taken fleshly covering to meet her face to face, and that this gaunt, young man was here to take her out of life. She felt then that she had always been expecting him, that all her days she had been preparing for something as odd as this.
‘You’ve come then,’ she said, and the effort was so great that she sat down on the stone step and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again the man had gone, and the funny little Agnes figure as well. But the frightening thing was that she was outside the cottage and was holding flowers in her hand. Where had reality ended and illusion begun? Afraid and trembling, Jenna went indoors.
It was Sunday and the Casselowes, clean and in their best clothes, had already walked to Maighfield’s church and heard divine service. Jenna had found it difficult to concentrate sitting in its shadowy interior, seeing Benjamin there and exchanging with him the kind of smile that only lovers know. For everything was still secret, Benjamin having yet to ask Daniel’s permission for Jenna’s hand in marriage, thwarted by the extraordinary events taking place at Cokyngs Mill. Three times he had gone to see Debora and three times she had refused to receive him. Three times he had wanted to tell her that he had made an unforgiveable mistake, that a marriage between them was no longer possible, and three times William Weston and his wife, apologetic and embarrassed, had told him their daughter was too unwell to see him, that he must call again another day.
‘I swear she knows,’ he had told Jenna. ‘I believe she already knows.’
And now, idly watching Agnes breaking God’s holy law and spinning on the Sabbath, Jenna wondered if he was right. For everyone was gossiping about Debora Weston’s malady and what could possibly have caused a beautiful young girl to go to bed and refuse to get up again. No twisted ankle could account for such strange behaviour, nor for the fact that Debora also refused to address a soul, not even Goody Weston. Some went so far as to rumour that Master Thomas May had interfered with the girl, but the young man seemed just as usual and
even the most eager gossip found it difficult to believe he could have a guilty conscience while maintaining such an innocent air. The whole affair was a mystery.
Realising they were alone, Agnes looked up from her spinning and whispered, ‘When is Benjamin coming to call on Father?’
Jenna whispered back, ‘As soon as he has ended his betrothal to Debora. But that is so difficult because of her illness.’
Agnes snorted. ‘She’s not ill. I don’t believe it.’ She looked up suddenly as a thought struck her. ‘Jenna, you haven’t ...?’
‘No, I have not,’ answered Jenna firmly. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘Then what can be the cause?’
‘I believe that it is Master Robert Morley whom I summoned to Maighfield for that purpose.’
Agnes’s eyes widened. ‘You think she is pining for him?’
‘Either that or hiding from him.’
‘Hiding! Whatever could he have done to make her do that?’
‘Or she to him,’ answered Jenna with a slow smile.
*
The little room which served Debora Weston as a bedchamber was scarcely more than a cupboard, a room at the top of the house partitioned off from the sleeping quarters of her five large and hearty brothers. Yet it gave her privacy of a sort, and it was here that she had chosen to withdraw from the world, after that night when the other wretched side of herself had succumbed to Robert Morley.
She turned her face into her pillow and began to cry for what must have been the millionth time. Her life had been ruined. For though Debora might refuse to eat and grow even thinner and see the flesh drop from her bones, there was one place destined to grow larger. There had been no flux from the girl’s body since the evil of three weeks ago and she now knew, quite certainly, that she carried Robert Morley’s child.
Innocent though she was, Debora realised that there were ways out of the situation. She could tumble into Benjamin’s bed and then name him as the father; she could claim that she had been molested by a stranger on the way home; or she could ask Jenna Casselowe for one of her aunt’s aborting potions. But Debora knew that she would do none of these things. She knew that she would never allow Benjamin to be saddled with another man’s bastard; that no one would believe a story of rape; that she could no more ask Jenna Casselowe a favour than fly through the air.
The only solution would be to go to Glynde and beg Master Robert for his help. But the memory of their night together was too degrading and terrible. She could never look him in the eye after such an experience, remembering how he had made free with her body, running his lips over it and making it his own.
Shuddering, Debora tensed as if her very rigidity might shoot the child straight from her. And she was locked like this, in a minor catalepsy, when her door flung suddenly open and her mother said crossly, ‘Benjamin is downstairs to see you, my girl. And I insist — as does your father — that you come at once.’
Debora did not answer, turning her face away, but to her horror a stinging slap on her cheek brought her, gasping, to a sitting position.
‘I’ve had enough of you,’ said William Weston. ‘Either you behave yourself or I’ll put you from this house. You are no more ill than I am, and you’ll lose your chance of a husband if you’re not very careful. You will see Benjamin now or suffer the consequences.’
And before she could object her mother was bundling her into her clothes like a helpless child, and her father was propelling her downstairs by the simple method of pushing her sharply at every step.
For the first time in three weeks, Debora found herself in the lower room, and there stood Benjamin, rather pink in the face, and turning his hat in his hands with every sign of discomfort.
‘There you are,’ said Goodman Weston, with alarming heartiness. ‘There is your betrothed, dressed and ready to receive you.’
Benjamin looked agonised. ‘Sir, with your permission ... in view of the circumstances ... Please Sir, may I speak with Debora alone?’
William and his wife exchanged a glance and then he nodded.
‘This has been a difficult time for you, I know. We shall stay outside for ten minutes. Debora, you are to talk to Benjamin, do you hear me?’
She did not respond, her face merely growing paler and her pretty eyes, almost unrecognisable with weeping, lowering their glance to the floor.
There was a fraught silence for a moment, and then Benjamin said, ‘Debora, what ails you? Why are you so disturbed? What has happened?’
She did not answer, wondering, if, after her self-imposed silence, any sound would come out. But eventually she whispered, ‘Nothing.’
‘And that means everything. Debora, you must tell me what is wrong.’
The look she turned on him frightened him. He had not realised the girl to have so much ferocity.
‘I have nothing to say, Benjamin. Except that I will not marry you; can never marry you; no longer have any wish to do so.’
The relief was so stunning that Benjamin stood open-mouthed, hardly believing that he had been released from his obligation so easily, yet knowing that he should ask why, that if he was any sort of a man he could not let the anguished creature who stood before him suffer so much. Yet he was afraid that if he asked too many questions she might change her mind.
Eventually, rather warily, he said, ‘Nobody has hurt you, have they Debora? Have I, or has anyone else, done anything to bring about this change?’
The bitterness in her tone surprised him as she replied, ‘There is no one to blame but myself. It is just that I have seen too much too clearly and know that we can never make a match.’
‘And no outside agency has influenced you in this?’
‘No, nothing outside,’ she answered, strangely accenting the word. ‘Only those secret things that dwell within.’
‘She’s mad, of course,’ he thought. ‘Debora Weston has gone mad.’
Aloud Benjamin said, ‘Then the understanding between us is over?’
‘Yes it is. I am sorry, Benjamin, but I really do not think I am the kind of woman who would make you a good wife.’
‘Then I’ll take my leave,’ he said. ‘Shall I inform your father? Would it be easier for you?’
For a moment she looked like her old sweet self. ‘Indeed it would. He is angry enough with me as it is. Can you say that we decided jointly. Don’t blame it all on me.’
Benjamin knew that he should try and wring the truth from her. But he hesitated for fear of the consequences.
‘I’ll do my best. Farewell.’
She cried then, instantly and copiously, and Benjamin was left with the alternative of taking her in his arms to comfort her or leaving discreetly. Ever afterwards he blamed himself for a coward, but he took the easier course.
Outside the cottage William Weston, his face a stormcloud, tried an encouraging smile. ‘Well, well, Benjamin,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Is everything resolved? Did my little girl speak to you?’
Benjamin fingered his hat. ‘Goodman Weston, I am sorry but it has been mutually agreed by Debora and myself that a marriage between us is no longer possible. Our betrothal is at an end.’
William went purple. ‘But why? What is amiss? What is this mysterious ailment of my daughter’s that seems to bring madness in its train?’
Benjamin shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I do not think it is her illness, Goodman. I think it is merely that she no longer loves me.’
‘What! We’ll see about that. Benjamin, hold fast. I may yet turn events in your favour.’
Benjamin lost colour but stood his ground. ‘Sir, I do not want that. Debora and I have agreed. We no longer wish to marry.’
‘Then you had best be gone, Mist. If you cannot take the swings in a maiden’s fancy you will never make a husband. Good-day to you.’
Benjamin felt himself to be less than the dust. He should have stayed and told William Weston the truth — that he had fallen in love with another woman and was intent on marri
age to Jenna Casselowe. But yet again he chose discretion.
‘Good-day, Goodman Weston. Try to forgive me.’
But Debora’s father was no longer listening; he was staring at the door of his cottage as if he was about to kick it down. Then he strode inside and Benjamin heard him shout, ‘Debora, what have you done? I want an explanation from you, my girl, and I want it now!’
The carpenter lingered for a moment to see if there was any cry from the hapless creature but all was quiet and, wanting only to put the whole incident behind him and return to Jenna, Benjamin hurried the nag on towards the cottage at Baynden.
*
Just as the carpenter left Cokyngs Mill, Richard Maynard whistled to his dogs and set off for a walk towards the River Rother, wishing that he was not so tired; that the Dark Lady would lie quiet; that his life would alter direction.
Recently, it had seemed every twist and turn of fate had been against him. His sighting of Jenna Casselowe, naked and beautiful, making her way back from some Satanic ritual — for nothing would convince him otherwise — had disturbed him. The glimpse of that firm, bare flesh had started a torment in him that he could not dispel, however hard he tried. He had become horribly aware of his celibacy, of his fixation with a ghost, of his need for the companionship of a woman who was flesh and blood. Night after night he had tossed sleepless in his bed, running his hands over his own body, calling out in despair.
As if she had known his anguish, the Dark Lady had manifested herself more and more. Richard had heard her sobbing, had seen her glide sorrowfully past, had sensed her cold rushing presence almost every day. He had felt he could go on no longer, yet could think of no means of escape. He was the tenant of Baynden; his livelihood lay amongst its fields and pastures; he was tied to the place.
Now, even without realising it, the yeoman found his feet turning towards the part of his property that he both feared and dreaded: the wood which, in this month of high spring, rippled wave upon wave of vivid blue. Its beauty was extraordinary, even he had to admit; drawing him there against his will, leading him to sit down for a moment beside the dew-pond over which the willows bent so caressingly.