‘Wait!’ He ran forward, pushing at the door. She shook her head crossly.
‘Sorry, we’re closin’.’
‘Please.’ He smiled, doing his best to hide his impatience. ‘Please, I’m so sorry. I only just got off work.’
‘What d’ye want?’
‘Just to send a letter, miss. I’ll be quick.’ He smiled again, trying to win her round. ‘I got a job today; I wanted to send half my first wages to my sister.’
She bit her lip and then rolled her eyes, a smile cracking through her irritated mask of politeness – and he knew he’d won.
‘Come away in then, but be quick about it. I’ll no have half the street followin’ yer in to do their business after. It’s this one thing and then I’m closin’, like it or no.’
He followed her in. She was pretty – maybe twenty or twenty-five, her hair in a pompadour on top of her head.
‘Ye’ll be wanting paper and envelopes, I suppose.’
‘If you can spare it. And . . .’ Dare he risk his luck? ‘And sealing wax, if I can ask for one more favour.’
‘Get away wi’ ye! You’ll be wanting tea and scones next,’ she grumbled. But she found him notepaper and an envelope and a stick of sealing wax with some matches. Luke took up the borrowed pen – and then stopped. What to say?
The girl stood, tapping her foot as he bit his lip, and he knew it didn’t matter, he just had to write something.
Dear Minna, he wrote.
I was very sorry to go without saying goodbye. I hope you now that I would not have done so by choice.
I am putting a half-sovriegn
No, wait, that didn’t look right. He crossed ‘sovriegn’ out and tried again . . .
soveriegn under the seal. It is all the monie I have. PLEASE do not let your dad get sight of it. Spend it on food for yourself & the kids.
If you need me
He stopped. He could not think of a way to put his address in that could not be traced. In the end he just sighed, crossed it out and wrote:
I will try to send more when I can.
Yours ever
Luke
PS Tell no one that you heard from me. Not even William.
He folded the letter, addressed it, and put the half-sovereign under the flap. Then he lit the end of the sealing wax, watching it drop down to cover the coin, turning it into an indistinguishable lump instead of a thievable piece of gold. He had no seal or ring, so he let the girl at the counter stamp it with the post-office seal and affix the stamp.
‘Thank you.’ He pushed his money across the counter and she smiled at him.
‘You’re welcome. I like to see a man who takes care o’ his sister. London, eh? You’re a long way fra home. Got a sweetheart up here, have ye?’
‘I . . .’ He stopped. The words gave him a sudden, unaccountable pain in his heart. Yes. No. ‘There’s a girl,’ he said at last, picking his words.
‘Oh aye.’ She gave a sigh as she dropped the letter into the post-bag and tied the top. ‘There aywis is.’
‘Rosa.’
The voice came through her dream and she moaned softly, pushing her face into the pillow, not wanting to wake from the warm drowsiness and contentment. ‘Rosa. Wake up. I’ve got supper.’
‘Luke?’ She raised her head from the pillow, blinking and confused. He was sitting on the end of the bed, his face soft and golden in the candlelight. ‘What time is it?’
‘I don’t know, but not much gone six. It’s been dark since four though.’
‘Urgh.’ She sat up, raking her hair off her face. ‘I’ve been asleep. I feel . . . I hate sleeping in the daytime. Have you been into the village?’
‘Yes, it’s more of a town really. I got bread and ham and beer.’ He put them on the table. ‘That’s all our money gone but the smith’s promised me at least two weeks’ work. He says even if his lad’s up and about before that, he’ll have too much to do catching up.’
‘All our money? I thought we had half a sovereign left?’
‘We did.’ He bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry. I – I sent it to Minna.’
‘You what?’
‘Don’t worry – I didn’t give our address or tell her anything. But . . .’
But she knew. He’d been so worried. Minna had suffered as much as any of them from Sebastian’s cruelty. She could be dying of phossy jaw right now, for all they knew.
‘I could scry,’ Rosa said softly. ‘You know I’d do it in a heartbeat.’
‘I know.’ He was setting out bread and ham. They had no plates – just squares of waxed paper, but they’d do. ‘I know. But I don’t want you to.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
But she didn’t, not really.
‘I wouldn’t change anything . . .’ She tried again, but he was shaking his head before she’d even finished.
‘Don’t you understand? Looking would change things. I don’t want you to.’
‘You still think it’s devil’s work?’
‘No. I – I don’t know.’ His face was troubled and he took her hand in his. ‘No, I know it’s not. I know it’s part of you – and I don’t think any part of you was made by the devil. But I just . . . Look, I’m a man, Rosa. I wouldn’t want a woman doing my dirty work for me.’
‘You were happy enough for my magic to get you out of that burning factory,’ she said, trying not to sound bitter; but to her surprise he smiled – a reluctant, wry smile that twisted half his mouth, but it was a smile.
‘I was. I’m a hypocrite maybe, but not a fool.’
She had to laugh at that, and they both took a bite of their bread and ham, and she realized how hungry she was without even knowing it. They shared the beer, and then Rosa said, ‘What now? To bed? It seems odd when I’ve only just woken, but there’s only a stub of candle left.’
‘Not yet,’ Luke said. He ran his hand over the deep, soft beard shadowing his jaw. ‘I’m going to shave.’
‘No!’ she began to laugh. ‘What, now?’
‘Why not? I don’t know how old the apprentice was, but he left his razor in the basin. And there’s soap out by the pump.’
‘You’ll freeze! You’ll cut yourself to ribbons with shivering.’
‘I’m not that mad. I’ll heat a kettle on what’s left of the forge fire and bring a basin up here.’
She waited while he went out to the yard, and heard the clank, clank of the pump handle, and then the roar of the bellows as he kindled the remains of the forge fire into life. Then at last she heard his footsteps on the stairs outside and his boot kicked open the door. He was carrying a china basin full of steaming water, walking slow and steady with the concentration of trying not to spill it.
‘I used to watch my papa shave,’ Rosa said as he set it down gently on the little table and took up the soap and the cut-throat razor.
‘Well, I’ve just realized there’s one thing missing,’ Luke said.
‘What’s that – a towel?’
‘No, I’m not that fancy. A mirror.’
‘I’ll help,’ she said, before she could think better of it.
‘You know how to use a cut-throat razor?’ Luke looked at her doubtfully.
‘I think so. I watched Papa do it often enough. You can start off; I’ll just do the bits you can’t see.’
‘All right. And I tell you what, if you cut my throat, I will let you use a healing spell. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ she said with a smile. He pulled his shirt over his head and began to rub his face with soap. Rosa swallowed. It was not the first time she had seen him half dressed. Over the last few weeks she’d caught glimpses of him dressing and undressing, washing in the river, sometimes pissing, when there wasn’t a tree around. But it was the first time he had sat in front of her completely shirtless, his muscles and bones all dips and shadows in the small intimate circle of the candlelight. His arms and throat were tanned dark gold, but the skin on his shoulders and chest was white – as white as her own –
apart from the dark-red scar of the hammer branded on his shoulder blade.
She half felt she should look away, but he seemed unconcerned, and so she did not, but watched as he rubbed the soap across his jaw and then began to scrape carefully with the sharp edge of the razor, scraping away the rough growth of beard that shadowed his cheeks. Every now and then he stopped to wipe the razor on a rag and then he carried on, methodically working his way across his jaw.
At last he’d done almost all and he turned to her.
‘I can’t do the last bits without a mirror to see where I’ve missed. Are you sure you can do it?’
‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘Come here. Put your head in my lap so I can see your face in the candlelight.’
He came to sit on the floor by the edge of the bed, in the dip between her legs where her skirts and petticoats made a soft dint against the mattress edge. He laid his head back against her and looked up with an expression so calm and trusting – and the sight of him lying there, his throat bare to the knife, almost choked her.
‘I’ll do—’ Her throat was dry, and she swallowed again. ‘I’ll do your lips first. Don’t speak.’
She held his head with her left hand, feeling the rough silk of his hair between her fingers and the slow, soft beat of a vein in his temple where her fingertips rested. In her right hand she held the razor. She found her heart was beating fast.
‘Hush now,’ she said huskily. She began to shave him, very gently and cautiously at first, and then with more confidence as she got the feel of the razor against his skin and the knack of holding it at the right angle, so it shaved close as a whisper and did not nick.
‘Now your throat.’
He lifted his chin.
‘Mind my Adam’s apple.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
She put her left hand on the other side of his throat to steady herself and she could feel his pulse beneath her palm, stronger than before, faster too. Was it possible he was not as unaffected as he seemed?
‘You know,’ he spoke carefully, softly, between scrapes of the blade, ‘you could probably take that bandage off now.’
She looked down at her left hand. She’d almost forgotten it was there. It was so dirty she felt ashamed she had not changed it, but it had been impossible on their flight through England, never staying more than a day in any place.
‘You’re right, I should.’
There was silence again while she finished his throat and then neatened the two short sideburns by his ears. He lifted his head gingerly and then turned to face her.
‘Will I do?’
She smiled. He was soapy and gritty with shaved stubble, but his face was smooth again.
‘You’ll do.’
‘I’ll go down to the pump and wash it off. And while I do, you can take that off.’
‘Take it . . . off?’ For a minute she found her voice faltering and then she realized what he meant. The bandage. ‘All right. You can fill up the ewer while you’re down there, and I’ll wash it in clean water when you come back.’
After he’d gone out she began to pick at the tightly tied bandage. It was hard at first to get a purchase and at last, in frustration, she slipped the razor under the topmost fold and snicked it loose. It unravelled and she shut her eyes, almost afraid of what would be under there.
When she looked, it was very strange. It was her finger – small and white and a little wrinkled and sweaty from so many days under bandages. But it was not her finger. Just a short stump that ended just before the knuckle. The skin had healed, though the stitches remained. They would have to be removed. Before she could think better of it, she picked up the razor, pulled at the knotted end and nicked the thread. It hurt coming out – but not unbearably. Just a stinging pull.
And then there it was. Her new finger. The mark of Sebastian’s pursuit, of her desperation to get away. He had put his mark on her, as surely as the Malleus had branded Luke.
As if she had summoned him with her thoughts, he spoke from the doorway.
‘Is it all right?’
‘It . . .’ She found her voice shook a little. ‘It looks strange. I don’t think people will . . . I think they’ll be afraid, perhaps. Disgusted.’
‘Let me see.’
He came close, crouched at her feet and took her hand in his, cradling it gently between his larger ones. She turned her face away, not wanting to see his expression, but when he spoke his voice was warm and steady.
‘I’m not afraid. And I’m not disgusted. Rosa . . .’
He stopped and she found her heart was beating fast. They were quite still in the circle of candlelight, her hand caught in his. She could have reached out and touched the bare skin of his shoulder with her other. But she did not. She only sat, waiting, her heart beating hard and painful in her chest.
‘Yes?’
‘What I said earlier—’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she broke in.
‘It does – it does matter!’ He let her hand drop and got to his feet as if he could not bear to be still, as if his feelings were too much for him to contain. He paced the small room. ‘Rose, I can’t talk like other fellows. I can’t say what I mean, I don’t know how, but you mustn’t think . . .’
He stopped and put his hands over his face, so that she couldn’t see his expression in the shadows beyond the candle, but she knew from his voice that whatever it was, he was close to tears. At last he let them drop and she saw his face, shadowed and full of a kind of desperation.
‘I gave up everything for you,’ he said. ‘The Malleus, William, revenge for my parents – I gave it all up. I said it wasn’t love between us, but that was only because, love – it’s . . . Oh God, Rose, how can I make you understand? Love’s too small a word. It’s not enough for what you are to me.’
‘Luke . . .’ She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She could only stare at his face, stricken, full of everything he wanted to say and could not. ‘Luke . . .’ she tried again.
And then, with a sigh, the candle flared up and went out, the wick collapsing into a puddle of melted wax where it glowed red for a moment and then died.
In the silence that followed Rosa could hear nothing but the beating of her heart and Luke’s ragged breathing. Then she stood and groped her way across the room, her hands outstretched. Somewhere in the darkness her blind fingers met warm skin and muscle, and she gasped, and felt his arms come around her, and his lips seeking hers, clumsily, kissing at her cheek and her jaw, and then finally finding her mouth and kissing, kissing as if he would never stop.
Together they found the bed, tumbling backwards into it, with their limbs locked and their lips finding and seeking and missing and finding again in the darkness. His fingers were at her bodice, and she was pulling at the laces of her corset, wriggling off her stockings, and he was yanking at his belt and his britches and kicking free of his boots.
And then at last there was nothing between them but the darkness and their own skin, and his hands on her waist and her breasts, and her hands on him, feeling the smoothness of muscle and the hardness of bone and the soft, rough prickle of his hair beneath her palms and lips.
‘We should not do this,’ he whispered with a kind of agony in his voice. ‘It’s a mortal sin. We could . . . You might . . . Oh, God, Rose – I’ve wanted you so . . .’
She could find no words to argue with him, tell him that this was no sin; that what Sebastian had wanted, love without consent – that was sin. But this . . . But his hands on her skin seemed to have robbed her of all her words, save one: ‘Yes . . .’
And then nothing – even that last word was taken, and there was silence in the small room, silence except for their catching breaths and the wind that moaned in the chimney.
Rosa came down the stairs outside the forge and stood for a moment in the little windswept yard. She hugged her arms around herself, feeling the strangeness and the difference in her body. Everything was the same – and yet utterly changed i
n some indefinable way.
There were small icicles hanging from the eaves above the forge, and she thought that perhaps she was like the water in those icicles, melting from snow into something quite different and new.
Through the window of the forge she could see Luke bent over the hearth, hammering something in the heat of the fire. His movements were quick and sure, their purpose a mystery to her, but she could see the skill in the way he heated and twisted the metal, checking it each time, and the sureness of the blows of his hammer. The sound rang through the yard and the snowflakes scudded and gusted across the cobbles. From the stable she heard Brimstone, contentedly blowing down his nose as he chewed his hay.
‘He’s a good lad, your man.’
Rosa jumped and turned to find the smith standing behind her, his arms crossed.
‘I’m James McCready, blacksmith. Ye must be Luke’s wife, Rosa.’
‘Yes.’ She felt a great stupid blush rise from her breast up her throat, setting her cheeks ablaze. They had given the lie often enough – why was it only now that the intimacy of the word made her flush scarlet?
‘Been married long?’
‘N-not long.’ Her hand went to her throat, searching for the locket, and then dropped. It was a long time since she’d done that, she realized with a pang. She was learning to remember that it was not there. Instead she put her hand to her pocket, feeling the soft, frayed shape of the portrait beneath her fingers.
‘Come fra’ Gretna, aye?’ He smiled, misunderstanding her blush ‘Don’ worry yersel, pet. You’re no the first lassie to ha a Border handfastin and ye’ll no be the last.’ But then, seeing her confusion, he kindly changed the topic. ‘Aye, an like I said, he’s a good lad, your man. A sight too good fr’an apprentice, if truth be told, but I’ll tek his help and thank him for it.’
He patted her shoulder and then strode forward to throw open the door of the forge.
‘How’re ye doin’, lad? Tek a break, make yer wife a cup o’ tea now.’
Luke looked up from his hammering. He was frowning, wiping the sweat out of his eyes, and then he saw Rosa and a huge smile spread across his face, so that the deep dimple came and went and came again in his cheek.
Witch Hunt Page 16