by S K Rizzolo
“Leave her.”
He wanted nothing so much as to depart this place and had risen to his feet when Dora suddenly looked at him again, smiling through her tears. “Oh, she is far more worthy than I to be espoused to Our Lord. And she brought news. At long last there is to be a child!”
Part IV
Throughout the morning, Rebecca had managed to ignore the nagging ache in her back as she and the Mistress knelt together, raising hearts and voices to God. Rebecca studied her companion with satisfaction. Lady Wallace-Crag’s sallow cheeks were flushed, her eyes glowing, for it was clear the power of prayer had allowed richer, more nourishing blood to flow through her pallid veins.
Reaching out to Rebecca, she said, “Thank you, my dear. You have done me good as usual.” She bowed her head over their clasped hands, then looked up, saying with a forced smile, “I must tell you my monthly courses arrived this morning. The Lord has not seen fit to answer me.”
“He will in His own time, madam. It is not for us to question.”
“Yes…well, you are right, of course, but it is hard all the same to endure my maid’s pity and Roger’s questioning looks. Do you think if we—”
At the sound of a knock on the door, she broke off in annoyance and rose stiffly. “I told them we were not to be disturbed.”
Rebecca stood too, swaying a little on her feet. She felt the baby give an odd little kick. “No matter, ma’am. I must return to my chamber and pursue my meditations.”
And rest, she thought. These days she had no real duties, other than acting as spiritual advisor to the Mistress and certain of the maidservants who crept up to her new attic room to consult her in secret. Rebecca found that she relished the role and had grown almost to love Sir Roger’s wife, though she was vaguely troubled by the implacability of the shadows that surrounded this rich yet unhappy woman. Rebecca did her best to banish them, but they were strong and full of impending doom, like death with no hope for resurrection.
Rebecca was more at ease about Julia, who had a bright-faced new nursemaid. While she missed the child, she did not mind doing without the constant demands on her own time and energies. Lord Ashe continued to be a frequent visitor, but the Master must have dropped a word in his ear, as Rebecca had been told that he kept his distance from the nursery. Once, when she had encountered Ashe in the corridor, he sent her a black look that promised retaliation if the chance ever presented itself. Secure in the Mistress’ favor, she had told herself not to regard him.
Entering the room, the secretary Owen Finch gave a respectful bow. “The Master asks that you have a word with Mrs. Dobson about the dinner, ma’am. Lord Ashe will be staying, as will Sir Roger’s man-of-business from London.”
“Thank you, Mr. Finch.” Sighing, the Mistress turned to Rebecca. “Return to me this afternoon after dinner, if that will suit.”
Rebecca inclined her head. “Of course, madam.” As the Mistress went out of the room, Rebecca stooped to snuff the candles burning on the low table that served as their altar. Picking up her Bible, she turned to go, but Finch blocked the doorway.
“I’ve a message for you as well. You are to pack your things. A carriage will arrive for you after nightfall. There is naught to fear. The Master has made arrangements for your care.”
“I’ll not be sent away like a thief in the night.”
“You must go willingly,” Finch went on, his voice pleading. “Surely you see the necessity. My lady would be humiliated if she knew the truth, and you could be hurt if you are not careful.”
“I’m sure I do not know what you mean, sir. If you will excuse me.” She moved toward him, intending to brush past and make her escape, but he did not budge.
“That is not all. If you refused to see reason, Sir Roger bid me say he would speak to you in private. There are too many listening ears here. He would like to take you up in his carriage for a short drive, say about six o’clock? Meet him in front of the gatehouse.”
She gave a scornful laugh. “I am to venture abroad in my condition? I think not, sir. Let him come to me here at Cayhill if he so desires.”
“Six o’clock,” repeated Finch.
***
At the appointed hour, Rebecca waited, wrapped in a cloak against the chill. The ache in her back had intensified, and her eyes burned with fatigue. She had not been able to sleep, nor had she eaten any of the dinner sent up on a tray.
Telling herself she now belonged to God, she had nearly disregarded the Master’s summons. And yet she was conscious of a treacherous gladness at the prospect of seeing him alone. She knew he should have been her champion, not his wife. He had failed her, but for all that the heart does not so easily withdraw its tenderness.
From here, at the head of the drive lined by massive oaks, she could not see the house. The gatehouse keeper, an old man, deaf and somnolent, was likely dozing by his fire, and the whispering of the trees filled her ears. Then she heard the rumble of wheels on gravel.
The coach jerked to a halt, the horses’ breath steaming gently in the luminous early evening air. As if embarrassed, the driver kept his face turned away. With a prickle of unease, Rebecca studied him. He was the wrong shape to be John Coachman, and the carriage itself, mud-bespattered and shabby, looked strangely wrong too. Before she could pursue this thought, a figure leaped out of the trees at her back to seize her.
“Come, girl,” a man’s voice snarled. “You’re to take a journey.” Plucking her up as if she were a feather-weight, the man threw open the door of the coach and tossed her inside. “That’s for your cursed impudence,” he said as the door slammed shut. Rebecca lay against the floorboards, stunned.
The carriage moved off, and slowly, painfully, Rebecca struggled to lift herself. She had felt something shift within her, had felt the hot liquid gushing out between her legs, soaking into her skirt. She moaned as a terrible, wracking pain convulsed her frame.
And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars. And she being with child cried, travailing in birth, and pained to be delivered…
For a time the jolting over the deeply rutted track so beset her that she could do no more than brace her hands against the seat and chant an incoherent prayer. The pains came faster, harder, the evil swirling around her, a miasma that made it difficult to think or breathe. Demons howled in her ears, poked her, prodded her, laughing maniacally as she sobbed her fear. Rebecca sank into a stupor, only rousing when a short time later she heard a loud crack and the carriage wrenched to the left.
When her most recent spasm had passed, Rebecca held her breath, listening. The demons were silent now, but she heard the man curse. Crawling to the lower of the two windows, she peered out to see that they had stopped in the middle of the narrow track, the coach leaning drunkenly to one side. A wheel had broken, she judged. Perhaps God had answered her, after all, for the coachman would be occupied with his predicament, and she might have a chance of slipping away through the trees.
Rebecca opened the door to peer through the gap. Craning her neck, she glimpsed two dusty booted feet near the horses’ heads, and again, she heard the coachman, murmuring reassurance to the beasts that whickered and tossed their manes. She did not wait. Gingerly, she thrust the door wide and lowered her body through the opening, her feet finding the ground below. Heart in mouth, she fled across the track and into the forest, rewarded by no pursuit in her wake.
But a few yards farther, the pains came upon her again, and she fell to her knees in the undergrowth, scoring face and hands on a thorny shrub so that a trickle of blood traced a pattern down her cheek. The solid world faded. She was afloat in a sea of pain, the demons back to torment her with their taunts and jabs and hideous cries. And they were not alone; their master had joined them. She sensed his presence, vast and black, lurking just beyond her range of vision. He wanted her child, she realized with a shiver of pure terror.
And there appeared anot
her wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven, and did cast them to the earth: and the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born…
Heedless of the thorns, Rebecca grasped the shrub and hauled herself upright. Panting heavily, one hand clutching her stomach, she ran, frantically slapping away the branches that reached out to hinder her progress. The demons howled in anguish and gave chase.
Stumbling out of the wood, she found herself on an open plain. Just ahead she beheld several yew trees, black against the darkening sky, with a smaller copse of hazel in their shadow. She moved toward the hazel shrubs that gleamed whitish red, beckoning her. At this season, the nuts were ripe for the picking and eating straight from the tree. Rebecca’s hand shot out. It was the work of a moment to grab a handful, which she slid into her apron pocket. For protection, she told herself, recalling the hazelnut necklace she had helped Miss Julia fashion for her mother.
Just as the pains took her again, the demons were at her shoulder. Their hot breath scorched her ear, and their cruel claws dug into the tender skin at the back of her neck. They meant to hold her until he arrived. With a cry of determination, Rebecca ripped herself free. She knew she must keep moving or she would be lost, but the pain was pulling her in two. She managed a few steps and thought she could not go on. Then, looking up, she saw the old ruined church and realized for the first time where she was.
People called this an accursed place, and yet what choice had she? It was shelter of a sort, despite its bare, roofless walls, and perhaps something of God’s power lingered in the very stones. Rebecca kept her eyes fixed on the crumbling tower as she pushed herself the last few paces. Once inside, she found a corner, spread her cloak, and lay down, giving herself to the agony of birth.
Outside, the demons roared their disapproval, but Rebecca scarcely heard them. She knew they would rouse their courage and come inside to torment her soon enough. She hoped the babe might come first.
After that, everything became confused. It seemed she battled the demons, at first one by one, then in hordes. Their master watched from a distance, amused, biding his time. Somehow she beat the demons off, growing weaker and weaker. The pains wracked her, split her open like over-ripe fruit. Sure she was going to die, she summoned her will one last time to push. The demons faded. Rebecca thought she heard music, angels singing, and then the faint, mewling wail of an infant. Gasping, she subsided onto her hard couch.
And she brought forth a man child, who was to rule all nations with a rod of iron: and her child was caught up unto God, and to his throne…
Much later, she awoke to a familiar face bending over her. “The Lord save us from all evil,” said Jack Willard, the gamekeeper’s son. As his hands moved down her body to tug down her skirt over her nakedness, his features contorted in a grimace of disgust.
Pushing him aside, Rebecca sat up and gazed around wildly. “Where is my child?”
Chapter XI
“You must come along and dance with Penelope,” said Julia the next morning to Edward Buckler, whom they encountered in the hall as they were on the point of setting out for Melbourne House.
“I wouldn’t think of it.” Buckler avoided Penelope’s gaze, retaining a grip on his hat, of which the butler had been attempting to relieve him. “I wanted a word with Mrs. Wolfe, that’s all. I shall take myself off and hope to find you in another day.”
“That won’t do, sir,” Julia returned smilingly. “We have need of your escort. You will find, Mr. Buckler, that no one in that house will look askance at an unexpected guest. I should be very much surprised, in fact, if your presence is even remarked upon.”
After a few more protests, he was driven to bow his compliance, though Penelope saw his unease and wanted to throttle Julia. Edward Buckler was of good family, she knew, but would not aspire to such heights as Melbourne House, despite Julia’s blithe assurance that Lady Caro’s husband had himself been called to the Bar before turning to politics upon the death of his elder brother. Still, Penelope doubted Buckler would be acquainted with a soul there.
Julia kept up a flow of conversation during the short drive to Whitehall, and soon enough they were deposited in front of the massive pile of rusticated stone that was the London mansion of the aristocratic Lamb family.
As they proceeded through the portico and into a large rotunda to mount the steps ascending to the drawing rooms above, Penelope felt her palms moisten despite the comfort of her new gown. Hearing the music, voices, and laughter, she wished, fervently, that she had braved Julia’s displeasure and remained at home.
But this proved to be an informal gathering, their hostess a laughing young woman, golden-haired and slight as a boy, who flitted from one end of the three interconnected rooms to the other, bantering daringly with her guests. Julia managed to detain her long enough to effect an introduction.
“A pleasure, Mrs. Wolfe,” Lady Caro drawled. Seeing that her hostess’ large, dark eyes had already wandered, Penelope curtseyed again and stepped back.
They were in the salon set aside for dancing, where some two dozen couples whirled about the space that had been cleared by furniture pushed against the walls. Penelope followed Lady Caro’s restless gaze to a young man who leaned against the wall, observing the dancing.
“Who is that?” asked Buckler in a low tone.
Penelope studied him. His skin was of marble pallor, hands beringed, hair a mass of dark reddish curls that tumbled over his forehead. His lips revealed a disdain he often sought to hide, it seemed, by raising a hand to cover his mouth. He was strikingly handsome, but a little petulant.
“I fancy that is Lord Byron.”
“The poet? He looks as if he has the indigestion,” said Buckler indifferently. “Mrs. Wolfe, I’m sure you are wondering why I called. It’s about that woman, the one apprehended in Sir Roger’s garden. I may have word of her.”
She turned to face him, realizing in that instant that she hadn’t truly looked at him today. He too was handsome in his morning dress of buff trousers, blue coat, and top boots, a man, she suddenly realized, not a boy. He was studying her, eyes bright and amused.
“Tell me at once. Have you informed Mr. Chase?”
“I did send a message to Bow Street but have received no reply.”
Before she could answer, Julia swept up, her arm tucked in that of her latest cavalier, some gentleman Penelope did not recognize, not that it mattered for they were all essentially alike.
“You do mean to dance with Penelope, sir?”
Buckler grinned. “Of course, ma’am, if she will so favor me.” He bowed to Penelope, adding in an undertone, “That is if that poet fellow will cease his glowering in our direction.”
“He does not appear to approve of the pastime,” Penelope agreed, observing the way the poet’s eyes followed their hostess as Lady Caro slid into the arms of her partner. The poet was said to be lame and presumably could not dance himself, so perhaps that accounted for his frowning looks. Penelope would not regard him.
Suddenly lighthearted, she placed her hand in Buckler’s, allowing herself to be led to the floor. She did not know the steps of the waltz, but, watching the others, had seen that it was nothing so very difficult, after all. The blood sang with the tempo of it; the body moved almost of its own volition. After a moment or two of awkwardness, she and Buckler were gliding smoothly, Penelope feeling the warmth of his arm at her waist, his hand clasping hers.
She sensed no real danger, was merely enjoying herself thoroughly, until she looked up. There was no trace of the earlier amusement in his eyes but instead a kind of raw intensity that made her begin to tremble.
For a moment Penelope couldn’t speak as they stared at one another. Through a tight throat, she said, “What of the woman, sir? You were about to explain when we were interrupted.”
His grip
tightened. “Later, Mrs. Wolfe. I need to mind my steps.”
As Buckler led Penelope from the floor, she saw that Lord Byron, looking faintly bored but willing to play his part, was now engaged in conversation with Julia. In contrast, Julia’s face was alight with mischief, and, as she leaned over to address the poet, her plump breasts strained against the diaphanous material of her gown. She seemed to have forgotten her earlier escort, who, Penelope imagined, would have been relegated to a corner to watch.
As Buckler and Penelope passed, she broke off in mid-sentence, calling out, “I see you enjoyed your dance together.”
Buckler bowed. “Thank you, yes.” He would have continued on without intruding further, but Julia motioned them over in a friendly fashion.
“Mr. Buckler is a barrister, sir, and a friend of my companion, Mrs. Wolfe.” Gracefully, she completed the introductions.
Curtseying, Penelope slanted a glance at the poet. Up close, he seemed less the sulky little boy. She thought there was obvious intelligence in his eyes as well as a kind of wry self-mockery. “I have enjoyed reading your poem,” she said, “and I can well understand the appeal of your hero for those who have no intention of attempting new experiences. All the benefits without the risks.”
Byron’s eyebrows rose. “I take it you do not class yourself in that category, ma’am.”
***
“Steady. Give me your left foot,” said Sir Roger from below. He grasped Penelope’s ankle and guided it to the rung of the makeshift wooden ladder.
“I’ve got it now. Thank you.” Embarrassed, she maintained her grip on the flimsy ladder while her other foot dangled rather unpleasantly over the ten-foot hole in the pavement and hoped that she wasn’t giving him an immodest view. After a moment, her foot found purchase, and the rest of the journey down was easily accomplished.