by Eris Adderly
Judith put all the warmth she had into her smile. “Why Sister, that’s no trouble at all. When he approaches me as the dove he believes to be you, I’ll simply tell him we’ve exchanged gowns and point you out to him.”
The way Elinor gaped at this solution was priceless. There was a long moment of staring before she drew her hand back.
“Why?” Suspicion rolled back over her features. “Why would you do this thing for me?”
And now for the last course: dessert.
“Because I, too, have found love.”
The shock could not have been more complete.
“You love someone?” Elinor said. “Who?”
“Someone I can never be with, Sister.” It was Judith’s turn to look at the floor. “Someone Father would never let me have, either.”
“Who?”
“I won’t say his name. A servant.”
“One of our servants?” Elinor squeaked, snatching up the thread of gossip.
“Sister, please,” she said, fending her off. “There is nothing to be done about it. You asked why I will help you now? This is why. One of us, at least, should be with her Love.”
Eyes welling up again, Elinor threw her arms about Judith, all but suffocating her in an embrace.
“I didn’t want to hate you, Sister!” She sobbed into the familiar shoulder. “Please forgive me! I’m sorry!”
“I’m sorry, too.” Judith returned the embrace, staring up at the pattern of the drapes as she received forgiveness she hadn’t earned. “I’m sorry I have to lose you to make it right.”
The Barlow sisters came together again as they knelt on the bedroom carpet, each filled with a very different set of hopes, come the end of Hallowtide.
* * * *
IV
The Dove and the Fox
There she was. The fox. Though not such a clever beast as Rowland Graves, she would find.
He’d been watching Judith make her way around the crowded room all evening, with occasional discreet glances for his angel, as well.
Elinor was lovely in grey and the smiles he caught from under her dove mask whenever their eyes met across the room were enough to reassure him of the worth of what he meant to do.
It was only a matter of time. There would be so many glasses of wine and no more before a lady—loosely as that term might be applied to the harpy who wore the fox mask—would need to excuse herself.
Rowland contributed a false laugh to the conversation he was feigning an interest in, and sipped a bit more from his own glass, waiting. Watching.
Ah. There.
The elder Barlow sister was making her way towards one of the doors that lead to the hallway.
He excused himself.
There were but two directions a person could go, he noted, as he stepped into the corridor himself, and one of them led to the kitchens. She would not be going that way. Rowland turned the other way and stole along.
Near the foot of the stairs there was an alcove, and he ducked into it, making himself still against the wall. His black garb and the darkened hallway would hide him from notice. All he need do was wait: there was only one way back into the masquerade.
Rowland’s heart pounded as he held himself there, eyes on the top step, at the landing. There would be no going back once he did this. Once he set this plan into motion tonight, there would be no choice but to see it through to its sordid, shameful end.
Elinor must never find out. She may say she hates her sister, but she will never forgive you this. She cannot know you’re capable of such a horror.
A figure turned the corner above him and began its descent. As the feminine form drew near, he saw the russet and black silks, the fox mask. She had come to the bottom step, and was looking away from the place he hid.
Now! Do it now!
With a smooth, silent step he was behind her, his right arm coming around her throat. He clamped down on her neck at once from either side with his upper arm and forearm, right hand gripping his left shoulder, squeezing, preventing her from drawing another deceitful breath.
She clawed at him and her heels dug at the carpet, small strangled sounds thrumming against his constricting arm. His left hand however, had flown to the back of her head, fingers sliding into the mountain of curls, forcing her neck to bend forward.
Her noises were muted by the compression on her frantic, flexing throat, and he held her fast. It would only take a moment, and …
Hands dropped away from his arms, the body softened, and then went limp. He would need to be quick now.
Glancing about again to be sure the hall was still empty of prying eyes, he stepped back into the alcove, hauling his temporary rag doll with him. Rowland lowered her to the floor and leaned her against the side of the alcove in a sitting position, though in her current state her head lolled forward.
In a flurry of silent, deft movements he did what was needful. A wadded handkerchief served to stuff into her slack mouth and he secured in place with a soft leather strap as a gag for when she inevitably woke. Strips of a bed sheet he’d cut up that morning bound her wrists and ankles within the tense space of a few breaths.
His parcel secure, Rowland surveyed the hall a final time. Not a soul in sight. He knelt and hoisted the bundle over his shoulder, the dead weight twice as heavy now, and wasted no time hurrying on with his mad scheme.
Now he would go towards the kitchen, his strides speeding him along, but instead of turning left, into a room he knew would be crowded with busy servants, he kept straight on. At the very end of the hallway there was another door. He balanced the limp body of Judith Barlow on his shoulder and fumbled for the latch.
Cool night air washed over his grim face. He stepped outside and closed the door. Hell would be worth it, he kept telling himself, if it meant nothing would stand between him and his angel, at least while he still walked the earth.
* * * *
She was awake. Squirming. Weeping it seemed. It was a sound he was surprised she had the capacity to make. One rather expected curses out of a woman the likes of Judith Barlow. Muffled curses, at least.
He picked his way along the dark streets, preferring the shadows. The new moon was still a week away, but clouds obscured the luminous semi-circle this night. The bundle lashed behind his saddle gave the occasional jerk as it struggled against a fate it had brought on itself.
Rowland had first thrown a sack over her head, as soon as he’d made it from the Barlow house to his waiting horse. He didn’t want to look at her. He’d then tucked a blanket around her bound form. He didn’t want anyone else who might happen by looking, either.
It hadn’t helped that she’d chosen the moment he was securing her bulk over the dappled rump of the mare to awaken and begin thrashing about. He was thankful the cloth and leather gag kept most of her frantic noises down to a fairly inconspicuous level. As his horse plodded on, threats of the scalpel ensured more satisfactory levels of quiet.
Hallowtide was an odd night in Bristol, and perhaps most places in England. It was decades since any Catholic wanted to admit their faith, at least not while standing in the shadow of the Church of England. Days like tomorrow and the next, All Saints’ and All Souls’, for those who confessed their sins and offered secret prayers to Mother Mary, did not see much public observance at all.
People, however, were creatures of habit, and did not like to give up old traditions. The streets, especially the narrow ones Rowland kept to, were deserted on this night. Be it custom or superstition, a man did not wander outside on Hallowtide after dark, lest he encounter a lost spirit. Yes, there were those superstitious folk—more of the population than would care to admit—who still believed the souls of the dead could walk the earth at this time of year.
It was nonsense, of course, but he was glad to take advantage of the empty streets and the cover of dark. If people were afraid, and it worked in his favour, so be it.
“You know, Mrs Barlow,” he said in a low voice to the prone bundle behind hi
m, “I would have even called your efforts clever, and been secretly impressed with them, had they not been taken out against me. Very neat, that business with Doctor Ellery. I looked a right fool in front of the Fellows.”
The bundle let out a dull grunt of frustration. Rowland chuckled to himself. Their destination was almost upon them.
“Yes, I don’t think I’ve ever truly known hatred until our recent crossing of paths.” His voice was casual, almost matter-of-fact, but his grip on the reins made his knuckles ache. “Have you seen your sister cry because one of her own kin has betrayed her? I have. No one should be allowed to cause that amount of pain to such a sweet little dove.”
Further dampened squealing and restrained bucking. The bindings were true, though, and struggle though she might, Judith Barlow would not be evading the preventative measures he intended for this night. Measures that would bar her from further interference in his and Elinor’s happiness. For ever.
“Perhaps you’ve never known love,” he mused, approaching the walls of the cemetery. “Perhaps that’s why it was so easy to play at ripping it away from someone else. I know love, Judith. I love your sister. And neither you, nor any other force on this earth is going to stand in the way of it.”
His words finished with a snarl as he brought the mare to a halt and dismounted. Desperate sobbing from the viper tied over the back of his horse.
“You’ll earn no pity from me, woman,” he said as he led the mare along on foot now, making his way towards his goal.
He nearly didn’t see it at first, with the clouded night sky giving him almost no light, but a set of lines too straight, a shape too bright in the darkness, led him to what he sought. Rowland dropped the reins and the horse stayed as she ought.
Kneeling, he shoved the lid aside with as little noise as it was possible for him to make. The spade was within as promised, and the hastily built wooden coffin lay beside the agreed-upon ready hollow in the earth. A purse in the hands of a sexton, it seemed, would go a long way. When said hands had a fondness for lifting drink to lips, it went even further.
Quick now, Rowland. Do this thing and return to your angel.
The coffin had been heavy enough without the weight of a body in it, and so he’d chosen to lower it first and then go about filling it. It was no small task to manoeuvre the box down into the hole without making a horrible racket, and he found himself sweating despite the cool night air when he’d managed it. He shed his coat once he’d hoisted himself back out. It was time to fetch the fox.
There would be no telling what sort of mad pleas she was offering as he loosened the ties that bound her to the horse, but she was surely letting loose a string of them from behind the gag. He slid the body onto the damp earth and watched with something leagues beyond disdain as it wriggled about. With a grip under her arms, he pulled her towards the grave. The sack he left in place over her head; he still did not want to look at her. Perhaps if he couldn’t see the face of a live person, the deed might be done with more ease.
His words, however, as he hauled her after him into the waiting cavity, appeared to come from a different place. A place long divorced from hesitation or humanity.
“Do you know where you are, Judith Barlow?” he whispered to her as he wrestled her bucking form into place between the six wooden walls. “Do you know what the inside of a coffin feels like?”
The thrashing and muffled screams at these words were like nothing he’d ever seen as he fitted the lid in place, and Rowland had seen quite the variety of people in pain. The intervening layer of wood further muted the noises, and they were now accompanied by a storm of dull thuds and thumps from frantic knees and shoulders within.
Don’t think about it, Graves. Just have an end to it.
A second ascent from the earth brought him back to the spade, and the mindless work of filling the hollow began. His thoughts moved in to devil him as he shifted the dirt.
Perhaps he was a coward, for achieving his aims this way. The eventual weight of the earth, denying air to desperate lungs inside an enclosed space would do his horrific work for him, and he would not have to wring the life out with his bare hands. Either way, the body would be hid and the deed done.
The grave was still far from filled before he could no longer hear the feral noises coming from within the box. The silence bought him a measure of relief, and he tried to think of Elinor and Amsterdam as he put his back into the remainder of the work.
You and I, Love. You and I. Once I have you in my arms again, this terrible night will be a dream, I swear it. There’s only good for us now. Only good.
The ground had flattened out sometime during his litany of silent promises to Elinor. Rowland laid the spade aside, mopping at his brow.
It was done.
He’d done the one thing he couldn’t take back. The crime that would buy him peace with his angel.
He need only return to the masquerade and collect his little dove, and they could set out for their new life. If it wouldn’t make so much noise, he would have set the mare to a run.
I’m coming, Elinor.
* * * *
Guests were stifling yawns and casting their eyes about in that distracted way that said they were looking for excuses to make their goodbyes and leave the masquerade. It appeared Rowland had returned with little time to spare. Clear streets would be better for his and Elinor’s leave-taking.
He found her across the room, engaged in what appeared to be polite conversation with a tall man wearing a mask made to look like a lion, or some other great cat, and a coat of gold brocade. The man gave his angel a small bow and wandered off, however, while Rowland made his way around the edge of the room towards her.
She stood alone when he brought himself near, though he kept his eyes elsewhere as though the raven and the dove were paying each other no attention whatsoever. When he found himself close enough, he spoke to her under his breath, gaze on a platter of sweet meats.
“The carriage is outside in the place I spoke of. We can’t be seen leaving at the same time. Go first, and I will follow shortly. Wait for me inside the carriage.”
His quiet instructions delivered, he meandered off, taking an ostensible interest in a laughing group of men on the far side of the room. Rowland knew she’d heard him by the way she’d sidled closer when he began to speak. No need to risk both of them speaking and doubling the possibility of discovery. Out of the corner of his eye, he now saw the grey and white shape of her gown floating towards one of the doors.
Perfect.
It was all he could do to hold back the urge to stride out on her heels and hustle her into the carriage himself. He wanted to be away from this house, now. Abraham Barlow was soon to become far less fond of Doctor Ellery’s protégé, and he meant to be well away from Bristol by that time.
A full quarter of an hour he mingled with the other guests, answering dreadfully dull questions with false attentiveness, all the while gnawing at the inside of his cheek and clenching his gut tight with compressed urgency. When at last it seemed as though a reasonable amount of time had passed between her exit and his, he managed to make his excuses and show the room his back.
The night air was a welcome balm to his nearly fevered flesh as he made his way towards the waiting carriage. It was a chore to hold himself in check and not run.
His coachman made to come down from the seat to open the door when he saw Rowland approach, but with a brisk nod and a gesture, he stayed where he was and set the team of four into motion as soon as the man in the raven mask had stepped inside and closed the door.
With the curtains on the carriage windows drawn closed, there was precious little light inside the confines of the coach, but the pale mass opposite him could only be his dove. He slid into place beside her on the bench, relief cleansing away his tension and fear.
There was no reason to be discreet any longer. He gathered her up with greedy arms, drawing her onto his lap. A tiny sound of surprise broke on her lips, but he shush
ed her.
“Shh, Angel. It’s just us now. Let us be silent, and not alert the driver.”
The whispered suggestion seemed enough, as she settled into place at his words, resting her back against his chest in the still, dark space.
For a time, he did no more than clasp her to him, his arms a tight circle around her waist, woefully inconsiderate of how her stays must be already digging in. Rowland wasn’t sure, though, if it was the sigh that undid him, or her laying her head back on his shoulder to bare some of her throat. It was no matter; his angel needed to do but the smallest thing to stir his blood.
Loosening the hold of his arms a bit, he lowered his face to her neck. A delicious heat purred like silk across his lips, as it always did. He set his mouth to her, gentle at first, but soon with a greater hunger. Her fingers covered one of his hands at her waist.
Heaven. I’ve bought a brief stay in Heaven this night by condemning my soul into Hell.
Her scent filled him up with each breath, a different perfume tonight, it seemed. Of course his angel would want something special for their first night of freedom together. A nip at her ear brought a restrained moan, and as he nuzzled the side of his face against hers he felt that she still wore her dove mask, as he did his raven. Something about this made him painfully hard, and he shifted his hips to bind himself less.
Soft caresses fell behind, abandoned for fervour in short order. One of his hands had wandered up to her breast, and he stroked a thumb over the rise of flesh above her neckline before dipping his hand beneath the edge of her gown. She hissed at this bold venture and he gathered up the warm globe in his palm, pulling its hardened tip between his fingers.
Her hand had found its way to the back of his neck and, to the further destruction of his self-control, her backside was rolling against the crook of his lap in a most wanton fashion.