The Lady of Secrets

by Susan Carroll

  Meg always had left her offering of food upon a tree stump and retreated. After the events of yesterday, winning the woman’s trust had become a matter of greater urgency.

  But first Meg had to find her. Surely in a village the size of Pernod, that should not prove too difficult. Meg fortified herself with another lungful of bracing morning air and returned to the shed to wake the sleeping countess.

  THE MORNING WANED SWIFTLY ALONG WITH MEG’S OPTIMISM. By the time she made her third circuit of the village without encountering la Mère Poulet, Meg seethed with a mingling of frustration and anxiety.

  Over Seraphine’s protests, she and Meg had parted company to search in opposite directions. Meg only hoped that Seraphine was having better luck than she was. La Mère Poulet lived as a vagrant, but the poor old soul must have sought refuge from the storm somewhere last night.

  Surely someone in Pernod might have been compassionate enough to give the old woman shelter. But Meg had seen little of kindness in any of the faces she had encountered this morning. No one was inclined to offer her so much as a good morrow, let alone answer her inquiries after la Mère Poulet.

  Meg overheard enough mutterings to guess at the rumors being spread, that Meg had employed some dark magic to induce Bridget Tillet to confess. If she had possessed such power, Meg thought she would have used it to melt some of these stony hearts and to grow herself a new pair of feet, ones less sore and aching.

  She trudged back down the lane, feeling the full effects of her restless night. She had not taken the time to breakfast or even wash her face this morning. Tired, bedraggled, and hungry, she recollected a barrel left to gather rainwater near the inn. At least, she might take a brief pause to refresh herself.

  Meg headed in that direction, shoving up her sleeves in anticipation of a reviving splash of water. Unfortunately someone else had the same idea. Meg drew up in dismay to discover Blackwood there before her.

  The doctor bent and thrust his entire head inside the barrel. He came up dripping, water streaming from his hair and beard. Meg would not have been surprised to see him shake it off like a mongrel dog. But considering the amount of wine he had imbibed last night, it would have been an action most ill-advised.

  Blackwood had enough wit to realize that. Using both hands, he slicked his hair back from his eyes. He straightened as his bloodshot gaze came to rest upon her. Every instinct she possessed urged Meg to beat a swift retreat, but something inside her revolted at allowing herself to be intimidated by this man.

  She didn’t understand what imp took possession of her, perhaps one born of her own frustration and exhaustion or her intense dislike and contempt for Blackwood. In an action far more worthy of Seraphine, Meg stepped closer and announced in a loud bright voice, “Good morrow!”

  She was gratified to see Blackwood wince.

  “There is nothing good about it, so kindly refrain from shouting at me.”

  “Did you have a difficult night, Doctor? You look most unwell. I daresay you are suffering from a surfeit of black humors coursing through your veins. Perhaps it would help if you were bled.”

  He regarded her dourly. “I don’t think anything would help my head except for decapitation. What the devil do these Bretons put in that vile brew you call wine? Even the chunk of amethyst I keep in my purse was of no avail.”

  “Amethyst? Of what use would that be?”

  “You have never heard that an amethyst has the power to ward off the effects of too much drink? What manner of cunning woman are you?”

  “You seriously believe in such nonsense? What manner of doctor are you? Instead of putting the rock in your purse, shove it in your mouth next time.”

  “My mouth?”

  “Yes, then it would serve a twofold purpose. Keep you from drinking and exposing your ignorance. Good day to you, monsieur.”

  Meg turned to make a haughty exit, but Blackwood caught hold of her wrist. His grip was not as painful as the last time, but firm enough to prevent her twisting free.

  “Unhand me at once!”

  Blackwood ignored her, inspecting the bruises on her forearm. “Did … did I do that?”

  “Since I cannot recall wrestling with anyone else last night, you must be to blame. Now let me go before you snap my wrist as well.”

  He frowned, releasing her. Meg rolled down her sleeves, covering the bruises.

  Blackwood had a naturally ruddy complexion but a deeper stain of red washed his cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—I was just—”

  “Drunk? Men frequently use that to explain away loutish behavior. A poor excuse in my opinion.”

  “Mine too. That is why I never use it.”

  “Then what excuse do you offer?”

  “That I am an ass.”

  “I entirely agree with you, but I am astonished you so freely admit it.”

  “Why not? It is not as though it is a condition I can easily conceal. I would like to blame it on the wine or assure you it doesn’t happen that often. But drunk or sober I must warn you I am an ass most of the time.”

  Meg studied him, trying to decide if he was in jest or earnest. His expression was solemn, but a hint of wry humor touched his lips. She had to bite back an unexpected urge to smile.

  “Thank you for the warning, monsieur. I shall do my best to avoid you.”

  “You should,” he agreed affably. “But not just yet, because I happen to be the ass who has found what you are looking for.”

  “How do you know I have been searching for anything?”

  “My dear woman, you have been rushing up and down the lanes all morning. The entire village knows you have been hunting for that old woman they call la Mère Poulet and are unable to find her.”

  “And you claim that you have been able to do so?”

  “Oh, yes.” Blackwood grimaced, displaying the angry red scratches on the back of his hands. “And I have the battle scars to prove it.”

  MEG FOLLOWED BLACKWOOD DOWN THE BEACH, HER HEART full of misgivings. She had little reason to trust the man. His claim of where he had found la Mère Poulet made little sense.

  This stretch of shore was far too open and exposed, the rocks offering little by way of concealment or shelter. A rough wind blew off the channel and Meg was obliged to constantly brush tangles of hair from her eyes.

  She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, aware of how far they had strayed from the confines of the village. If Blackwood had lured her down here for some sinister purpose of his own, there would be no one to see, no one to hear Meg’s cries but the gulls that wheeled overhead.

  But Blackwood did not appear to care whether she accompanied him or not. When she lagged behind, he did not even look back to make sure she was still there.

  Meg quickened her steps to draw apace with him. If nothing else, his large frame provided a break from the wind. Blackwood had lapsed into silence since leaving the village, which suited Meg.

  It made it easier to study him. She hardly knew what to think of the man. She would have expected him to be still abed at this hour, nursing a throbbing head, or if he was able to rise, then eager to saddle his mount and be off. Blackwood didn’t strike her as the sort of man to bestir himself for his closest friends, let alone take the trouble to search for a half-mad old woman he had never even met. She could only question what the doctor’s motives might be.

  The doctor … that was another thing that unsettled her. Blackwood was unlike any other physician she had ever met, most of them pompous graybeards in their long black robes, more eager to show off their Latin and Greek than display any useful healing skills. Blackwood appeared as arrogant and ignorant as any of the breed, but he lacked the pedantic manner. With his broad shoulders, strapping height, sunburned complexion, and rough beard, he more resembled a mariner or a soldier, the kind of rogue who would loll about in alehouses between battles, drinking away his coin or losing it at dice.

  It was difficult to guess his age. Lines creased his eyes, but those were likely the wag
es of hard living and dissipated habits. His upright bearing and the vitality of his movements suggested a man in his prime, perhaps not much more than thirty.

  Blackwood angled a sidewise glance at her and scowled. “Don’t stare. It’s rude.”

  “I am sorry,” Meg said, although she thought that Blackwood was hardly the one to lecture her on good manners. “But you puzzle me exceedingly. Why did you bother seeking out la Mère Poulet?”

  “I imagine for the same reason that you are. To keep an innocent old crone from ending up with her neck stretched. That is the only reason I staggered upstairs last night to try to deal with that lying little strumpet.”

  “Then you realized that Bridget was faking her illness?”

  “Any fool could tell … well, except the ones that live in this village. I scarcely had to examine the chit before I wanted to wring her skinny neck.”

  “Because you despise liars?”

  Blackwood laughed. “Lord no, I am an accomplished liar myself. I rather admire the art except when it is fueled by malice or intended to cause pain and ruin.”

  His expression darkened. “No, it is injustice that I hate and I have seen too damn much of that. I’d do battle with the devil himself before I’d ever see another innocent harmed.”

  “Bridget behaved very badly, but she is hardly the devil.” Meg cast him a troubled look. “You knew she was faking and yet you were going to take your knife to her.”

  “I only brandished my lancet to alarm her, to get her to admit the truth.”

  “I doubt your crude method would have worked. You came closer to frightening her into hysterics.”

  “So what brilliant means did you employ? The entire village suspects you of mesmerizing or enchanting the girl. I confess that I, too, am curious to know your secret.”

  Meg hesitated, but decided there could be no harm in telling him. As she explained her ruse with the burned lock of hair, Blackwood looked grudgingly impressed.

  “Very clever, milady. I will have to remember your little trick if I am ever confronted with a similar situation.”

  “I doubt that you could pull it off. After all, you are not … what was it you called me last night? A witch with pretensions to supernatural powers.”

  Of all Blackwood’s insults, Meg was surprised that she still remembered that one so well or that it had had the power to sting.

  He came to an abrupt halt. “Did I say that to you? Then I must have been drunker than I realized.”

  The wind ruffled his hair, making him appear wilder and rougher than ever, but something gentled in his face. “Forgive me. I am truly sorry.”

  He meant it. There was none of his usual offhand manner or mockery in his tone. His apology astonished her, left her more confused about the man than ever.

  Meg stared up at him, desperately trying to read Blackwood’s eyes. They were not as dark as they had appeared by the dim light of the candles last night, but rather a deep blue-gray, the same hue as the overcast sky.

  She remembered being alarmed by his gaze, finding it as chillingly empty as her blind mother’s had been, but she was wrong. If anything, there was too much going on behind Blackwood’s eyes, the man more of a cauldron than an abyss; too many simmering emotions, thoughts, and memories for her to gain an accurate read on him.

  Her earnest probing appeared to make Blackwood uncomfortable. He resumed walking, his features settling into his usual indolent expression.

  “Ah, here we are at last,” he said. “Chez la Mère Poulet.”

  He indicated a distant structure that looked at first like nothing more than the wreckage of a boat that had been washed ashore. Perhaps at one time, that was what it had been.

  But as they drew nearer, Meg saw that the broken hull had been cobbled together with other stray boards to form a shelter of sorts. The hut had been constructed far up from the shore’s edge, nestled among some jutting rocks to protect it from the wind. One strong gust would surely have been enough to bring the entire ramshackle thing crashing down. Meg marveled that last night’s storm had not been enough to do so.

  Blackwood clambered upward in a series of long strides. Plucking up the hem of her skirts, Meg proceeded more slowly. Even so, she nearly lost her footing and stumbled.

  Blackwood turned and offered his hand to steady her and Meg accepted after only a brief hesitation. His palm was warm and not calloused, as she would have expected considering the rest of his rough exterior. His hand was surprisingly well formed, strong with long fingers, his nails clean and neatly trimmed.

  He pulled her beside him on the ledge near the hut. On closer inspection, it bore the appearance of a low wooden cave with a flap of canvas nailed over the opening.

  “Hortense,” Blackwood called out. “It is me. I have returned as promised.”

  “Hortense?” Meg asked as she withdrew her hand from his grasp.

  “Hortense Matisse. That is the real name of the woman you all call la Mère Poulet.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I asked her.”

  Which was more than anyone else had ever thought to do, including her, Meg reflected with a twinge of shame.

  The canvas flap stirred, and Hortense peered out, twitching her sharp nose like an inquisitive ferret. The old woman brightened at the sight of Blackwood, her lips parting in a near-toothless grin. The beaming smile vanished when she noticed Meg.

  “Who’s that with you?” Hortense demanded.

  “This is the famous Lady of Faire Isle. She has been looking for you, too.”

  “Why?”

  Meg hunkered down so that she would be at eye level with the old woman. “Because I have long wanted to make your acquaintance, la Mère Poul—I mean Hortense.”

  “That would be Madame Matisse to you, mistress sauce box.”

  “I do beg your pardon. I did not mean to offend you. I have come to extend you an invitation to visit my island.”

  “That vile place? No, thank you.”

  “I fear you must have heard too many alarming stories from the villagers about how Faire Isle is the haven of witches.”

  “Witches, bah! I am not afraid of witches. I enjoy pretending to be one myself from time to time.” The old woman laughed before puckering into a frown. “It is the other tales of your island I don’t like, the fact that the place is full of women.”

  “Faire Isle is mostly the home of many women, the wives and daughters of captains and sailors who are long absent at sea.”

  “I don’t much like the company of women.” Hortense leered up at Blackwood. “I prefer men.”

  “We do have some men. There is a small harbor on Faire Isle where trading vessels dock from the mainland. There is an inn called the Passing Stranger where seamen and merchants gather.”

  “Would he be there?” Hortense interrupted, pointing at Blackwood.

  “Well, no—”

  “Then I am not interested.”

  The old woman ducked into her cave, the canvas falling back into place. Meg looked up at Blackwood. His expression was grave, but she could tell he was trying not to laugh. She had a strong suspicion that the doctor had anticipated her difficulty with Hortense, but had kept silent, relishing the prospect.

  She straightened up, saying tartly, “You might have warned me how she was going to react.”

  His eyes widened in feigned innocence. “How the devil was I supposed to know?”

  “The two of you appear to have become fast friends. She seems quite smitten with you.”

  “I frequently have that effect on women, especially the nearsighted ones.”

  Meg glared at him and then expelled a frustrated sigh. She wracked her brain for another way to approach the old woman, a more persuasive argument, but she could not come up with anything. She was tired, she was hungry. She just wanted to go home. But she had to try again.

  She moved toward the hut, reaching out to twitch the canvas flap out of the way to peek inside. But Blackwood stopped her.


  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Hortense doesn’t care for uninvited guests, but Marcela is even worse.”

  “Marcela? Who is Marcela?”

  “Hortense’s chicken.” Blackwood displayed the back of his scratched hand. “Marcela hates visitors or perhaps just me. I cannot blame her after the way I mauled her about, trying to mend her broken wing.”

  “You tried to heal an injured chicken?”

  “I admit I am far more accustomed to ripping the wings off of a capon, especially after it has been broiled to a nice golden brown and accompanied by a generous helping of roasted turnips.

  “I made an effort to help Marcela, but with little success. Have you ever tried to put a splint on a chicken?”

  “No, I—” Meg began, when she was struck by the ridiculousness of this entire situation. An image filled her mind of Blackwood struggling with a squawking hen, pecking and scratching at him, its feathers puffed up with fury. Meg couldn’t help it. She laughed.

  Blackwood tipped his head to one side to peer down at her. “Ah, so you do know how to laugh. I was beginning to wonder. You are such a serious little thing.”

  Meg tried to resume her gravity, but her lips quivered. Blackwood crooked his fingers beneath her chin. He tipped her head up, inspecting her countenance.

  “You ought to laugh more often. It improves your face. You look almost pretty.”

  It was the sort of compliment she would have expected from Blackwood, blunt almost to the point of being offensive. Yet Meg preferred it to the kind of flattery she’d had from other men who had told her she was beautiful, which she knew she wasn’t. At least Blackwood’s words, the warmth of approval in his eyes, seemed genuine enough to bring a faint blush to her cheeks.

  Annoyed with herself, Meg pushed his hand away. Between the hostile chicken, the eccentric old woman, and Blackwood, who seemed a bit mad himself, this was beginning to feel like being caught up in a dream stranger than the one she had had last night.

  A dream that was destined to wax stranger still, Meg thought as she noticed the two figures traveling in tandem down the beach, heading rapidly in their direction. The pairing of Sir Patrick Graham and Seraphine struck Meg as being as incongruous as herself and Blackwood.