by S K Rizzolo
For a minute or two she heard nothing more and, reassured, was about to press on. But the rustling resumed, closer now, and this time a low, sobbing breath came to her ears. It was a desolate sound, full of urgency. She froze, the skin on her arms prickling with horror, palms braced against the rough bark of a tree. Whoever, whatever it was would be on her in a moment.
Penelope did not wait. Taking to her heels, she fled through the forest. Low branches tore at her clothing and slashed at her face. Several times, she tripped on roots, nearly falling headlong, the noise of her own progress covering any sounds of pursuit. Finally, she emerged from the undergrowth to see a path before her and waited a tense minute or two before she stepped out. Moving as silently as possible, she set off again.
She knew at once this wasn’t the track she and Julia had used. The other had been wide and straight, obviously a main route; this one, smaller, wound sinuously, at times almost swallowed by overgrown scrub. Still, it must lead somewhere, she thought.
Whereas before the trees had all appeared much alike, now for the first time Penelope began to notice their variety. It was as if each one imprinted itself vividly on her mind’s eye, almost against her will. There were beeches and majestically tall oaks, formidable with their naked branches; thick, curtaining evergreens; and other trees she didn’t know the names of, some ancient and twisted, others tall and straight like young princes. All of them, or so she fancied, seemed to feel her there, though they were neither welcoming, nor overtly hostile. Rather they reserved judgment, watching to see what she would do, whispering amongst themselves.
It began to rain, a light patter that trickled down to dampen her hat. She lowered her head, shutting out everything but the squish of her boots on the mossy ground. Then some instinct made her look up. At eye level not three feet away, a leafy face hung among the branches.
The figure sported a dark, leaf-studded beard, dotted by scarlet berries. Above, like the spread wings of a bird, a fretwork of green needles fanned out over brown cheeks. Her gaze traveled up. Two eyes met hers. They weren’t cruel or unkind, yet she shivered. Drawing herself up, she addressed him.
“Would you kindly direct me to Cayhill Abbey, sir?”
The man who stepped out from behind the tree was perhaps sixty. Rather stooped, he was not much more than Penelope’s own height. Now that he had moved away from the obscuring greenery, she could see his skin, cracked and weathered like old wood, from which his dark eyes gleamed, shiny and mysterious like a snake’s.
“Lost, missus?”
She agreed.
“Come then,” he said.
***
“So you met old Jack Willard?” said Sir Roger. “That was fortunate, Mrs. Wolfe. You couldn’t hope for a better guide in these parts.”
They had gathered in the Rose Saloon, a chamber of paneled walls, rose-colored hangings, and Oriental lacquer furnishings. A graceful, if slightly dusty harp reposed in one corner. Penelope had told Sir Roger and Owen Finch of Julia’s spiteful trick, the motive of which still eluded her, and of her own conviction that someone had been stalking her in the forest. Jack Willard had merely shrugged laconically when she’d mentioned the matter to him.
“Perhaps a poacher, my dear,” was Sir Roger’s verdict, “though the fellow would have to be fairly brazen to come out in daylight. He wouldn’t have intended you any mischief.”
“What did you make of Jack, ma’am?” inquired Finch. “I’ve not set eyes on him in years.”
Feeling the effects of her unaccustomed exercise, Penelope attempted, discreetly, to shift her weight to a more comfortable position on her rather hard chair. “He barely spoke to me the entire way home. A most unusual person, though I was glad of his presence.”
“No harm in Jack,” agreed Sir Roger. “His father was park-keeper and warrener at Cayhill.”
“Mr. Willard is employed on the estate?”
“In a manner of speaking only. I’m afraid he and Ashe don’t see eye to eye in regard to modern modes of hunting and game preservation. Jack favors the old ways. He lives in a cottage in the wood and keeps to himself.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Penelope slowly. “One senses he’s gentle, yet there’s something hidden and…and alone about him. It was a little frightening somehow. And to burst out with that warning right at the end.”
Finch spoke. “What warning, Mrs. Wolfe?”
“He told me I should stay out of the wood. When I said I’d meant to visit the ruined church, he said I must not, that it was ‘needful’ I keep away.”
Sir Roger snorted. “I do trust the local people aren’t going to raise a dust when I begin my survey.”
Finch said, “They say that place has been accursed ever since the Black Death wiped out an entire village there in the fourteenth century. The disease took all the children first, or so the story goes. Then their elders began dropping by the score.” His voice dropped. “Until no one was left.”
His employer smiled, but his reply sounded impatient. “My dear fellow, you ought to know by now that tales of that nature do but add a fillip to an antiquary’s interest. If anything—”
The door opened, and Ashe came into the room, accompanied by Julia. Breeches creased and dirt stained, Lord Ashe held his hands and arms stiffly, almost clenched. His black eyes, glittering and unfathomable, swept around the room and lighted on Penelope’s face.
“Mrs. Wolfe. Thank God, you’re safe home.” Reaching back, Ashe hauled Julia to his side.
“What do you know of the matter, Ashe?” demanded Sir Roger.
He didn’t answer, merely giving Julia a little push. She looked equally disheveled and miserable. The jaunty habit was quite ruined, the lace at her wrists torn and filthy. Her hair had escaped many of its pins to fall in untidy wisps about her shoulders. But it was her mute, white face that riveted Penelope. She looked like a terrified animal, or a tiny child, cringing as a hand lifted to strike her down.
“I’ve come to apologize, Mrs. Wolfe,” she said in a low, dazed tone. “’Twas a foolish thing to do.”
“Why did you? What has happened to my horse?”
Finch had risen to lead Julia to a chair. Flashing the secretary a grateful look, she accepted the glass of cordial he put in her hand, yet her eyes followed Ashe as he draped himself across the sofa opposite, paying no attention to the clumps of mud dropping from his boots.
“The horse made its way back to the stable,” he said curtly. “And is perfectly sound. You yourself suffered no mischance, Mrs. Wolfe?”
Penelope hesitated. “No, my lord.”
“It was foolish of me,” Julia stammered. “A joke. I thought to give you a start.”
“It doesn’t matter.” There was a great deal Penelope didn’t understand here, such as where Julia had encountered Ashe, and why this undercurrent of thick emotion swirled about the room.
Sir Roger, as was his wont when losing interest, had retreated to private speculations. Finch and Ashe both observed Julia narrowly, the one she thought with pity, the other with a kind of predatory alertness that Penelope found most unsettling.
“Never mind, my dear,” said Sir Roger vaguely. “I’m sure all’s forgiven now.”
“Of course, ma’am,” put in Penelope, hoping to reassure her. “Perhaps we might attempt our excursion another day? I am still eager to see the church.”
It was Ashe who replied. “I think not, Mrs. Wolfe. My wife had best remain at home until she learns not to give the world a disgust of her.”
This was a piece of ugliness, and Penelope rushed in to gloss it over, smooth it away. “No, no. As a matter of fact, I rather enjoyed my adventure.”
Julia looked up from contemplation of her glass, a queer light coming into her eyes. “Do you mean it, Penelope? Shall we go upstairs then? There is much I would wish to say to you before it is time to dress for dinner.”
“Yes, let us go,” replied Penelope, making sure Julia saw that her agreement was ungrudging.
&nbs
p; Ashe frowned, but before he could speak, the door opened, and Maggie entered. One glance at her white face was enough to make Penelope catch her breath, her heart squeezing with a terrible fear.
Chapter XXI
There had been very little warning except that Sarah had seemed subdued and a little tired during the afternoon. Maggie said that the child hadn’t wanted to play at spillikins, or take her doll for a stroll in the cloisters. At luncheon she had managed only a few bites of soup. By late afternoon, she blazed with fever.
Penelope began with determined cheerfulness. While little Frank stood by, she and Maggie sponged the tiny, hot body over and over, all the time watching the door for the arrival of the doctor Sir Roger had summoned. For several hours Sarah had done nothing but thrash in her bed and moan that she ached everywhere. When they’d tried to give her water, she cried out that her throat ached and she couldn’t swallow. Eyeing the untouched tray sent up for her dinner with revulsion, Penelope understood.
“She’ll be more the thing now,” said Maggie without much conviction after they’d just completed one of the sponging baths.
Penelope nodded briefly, thinking that Maggie didn’t look so good herself, her freckled cheeks pale, her eyes dark pools of fear. Penelope’s eye fell on Frank, hovering near the door kicking his toe at the carpet, and the brittle shell of composure with which she’d armed herself exploded into fragments. They had tried to send him away with the servant who had taken charge of the baby. He wouldn’t go. Perhaps he feared that if he left his playmate, she might not be there when he returned.
Penelope pulled herself up with an effort. Stop, she thought fiercely, such morbid rot. But more and more as the hours crept by and Sarah did not improve, she found that her mind played these cruel tricks. That was hardly bearable, but when she looked at Sarah, tasting the child’s bewilderment at why no one “made it better,” Penelope knew what it was to doubt her own sanity.
As the bath’s brief respite of coolness ebbed away, they had to work hard to still Sarah’s restless lunges that continually yanked the coverings loose. The bitter complaints had finally ceased, as if the child had now turned inward. Penelope alternately stroked and sponged with one hand, the other remaining anchored across her daughter’s middle.
After a time, Maggie straightened. “Where’s that doctor?” she said wearily. “He ought to be here.” She looked at her son. “Frank, go see if he’s coming. Ask a footman if there’s one lurking about.”
“Maggie, go with Frank and put him to bed. What if he were to take the contagion? It isn’t safe for him to be here.”
“I reckon as we’ll have a time keeping him away, mum.” Still, Maggie followed the boy out.
When they were gone, Penelope glanced around the bedchamber with its cheerful crimson drapes and elegant furnishings. At least Sarah would have a pleasant room in which to make her recovery. Mrs. Dobson had already proved helpful, commanding a large fire to be built in the grate and sending up various concoctions and remedies from the kitchen. And Sir Roger had conveyed messages and reassurance through Owen Finch, who’d also expressed himself at her service. Her eyes traveled to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly ten o’clock, she saw.
Some twenty minutes later, she jumped to her feet as the door opened, but it was only Maggie again. “Frank’s asleep, poor lamb. How’s Miss Sarah? Any change?”
“No.” Penelope had given up the sponging for the moment as it only seemed to fret the child further.
Maggie approached the bed. “A shame that her dad ain’t here to comfort her. A sick child wants both its parents.”
Penelope flinched as if she’d been struck. Funny how the thought of Jeremy had been with her all this interminable evening. Maggie was right. He had the duty, the right, to share this burden, not the nursing itself, of course, but rather the decisions that might have to be made. Sarah hadn’t asked for Jeremy in some weeks, had given up asking. But, young as she was, she’d remember and be glad to know her own father was near.
Looking up, Penelope saw that Maggie was gazing at her with pity and a kind of wry comprehension, for she, too, had a wandering husband.
Steps and voices sounded in the corridor outside. “There’s the doctor now,” Maggie said, not troubling to disguise her relief.
***
Maggie went to open the door, but it was only Sir Roger come to see how Sarah did.
“I’ll only disturb you for a moment, ma’am,” he called softly. “The doctor sent to say he was a trifle delayed but will be along. I thought you could do with a glass of wine to keep up your strength.”
She approached him and, seeing the worried expression on his face, felt her throat tighten. “Thank you, sir.”
“How is the little girl?”
“Much the same, though I believe she has slipped into a light sleep. I will come out to you if you don’t mind.”
She allowed him to usher her to a seat in the window embrasure and to hand her the heavy silver goblet that he had himself carried up the stairs on a small tray. A quick glance through the window told her that no light lingered in the sky, nor were there any stars visible, and the glass itself felt cold against her back, a deep, empty cold that seemed to emanate from the house itself. She shivered and, taking a long, warming sip of the wine, forced herself to smile.
“This will do me good. It was kind of you to bring it.”
Perching next to her on the seat, he patted her hand. “Your woman is there. You will be summoned if the child needs you, and I shall sit with you for a few minutes until you drink this down. Have some more, ma’am.”
Obediently, she sipped the wine. “You will think me very foolish to make so much of what will no doubt prove to be a trifling ailment.”
“Not at all. I quite see she is everything to you. You are more fortunate than you know, Mrs. Wolfe.”
“Yes, I realize that. It’s just the thought of…well, Mrs. Dobson told me of your wife’s many bereavements. You know what it is to face the loss of a child, sir. Your lady must have been a brave woman. I know I could not have endured it.”
He was gazing at her oddly. “She was determined to give me an heir.”
There was a short silence, then Penelope said, “People often speak as if the heavens keep a kind of scorecard, as if when one somehow offends, the gods must and will strike back. Tit for tat. But your wife had not offended. She had done nothing to earn such a death.”
“Perhaps it was not she who deserved it. She may have been the instrument of someone else’s fate. But you have articulated the essential philosophy well. This even-handed justice commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice to our own lips…”
Suddenly, the wine tasted sour in Penelope’s mouth, and she set down her goblet on the window ledge. It was fantastical, of course, yet the idea of Sarah suffering for the faults of others did present a horrible logic. When had Jeremy provided a stable home for her as a father should? And what of Penelope’s own stubborn refusal to bow her head and honor her marriage vows, however much of a mistake it had been to make them in the first place?
“You mean, don’t you, that fate had decreed you should not have a son?”
“Yes, I suppose that is what I meant. And there’s the true reason I never attempted a second marriage, Mrs. Wolfe, for, against all reason, I was convinced the outcome would remain the same. Still, if Julia will only give me a grandson, the slate will be wiped clean.”
The certainty flashed into Penelope’s mind with such luminous truth that she could no longer doubt. “Mr. Chase of Bow Street is sure the woman apprehended in your garden was the prophetess Rebecca Barnwell. I believe she is not unknown to you.”
“Rebecca was once a servant in this house, and even then a most unusual young woman.”
Penelope nodded, unsurprised. “Mrs. Dobson has told me something of her history. It may be that Rebecca witnessed Dick Ransom’s murder or perhaps was driven to commit the crime herself.” She felt the heat rising in her cheeks.
“Do you know of any reason why she should bear you or anyone in this household ill will?”
It seemed at first he would not answer her, but at length, he said, “She was called Rebecca Barton then. I was a rash and impetuous youth. From the start of my marriage, it seemed my wife had been breeding and consequently always ill. Rebecca and I became…friendly.”
“She had a baby, didn’t she? A son?”
“The old story, ma’am. But in this case she was driven to destroy the infant in a moment of anguish. The poor thing spent some time in the madhouse and eventually was released, cured. For all that, she has made something of her life, so perhaps it was for the best.”
Appalled, Penelope said, “I suppose Ransom knew your secret, and that is the reason for his death? But surely—”
“You are most astute, Mrs. Wolfe.” Getting to his feet, he gazed down at her, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Whatever the truth of the matter, none of this could have come about had I not wronged an innocent maid. The gods are indeed just.”
***
It was called the English Malady. Some in the medical establishment still believed the affliction stemmed from an imbalance of the four humors. An excess of black choler, black in Greek being “melan,” thus melancholer. Melancholia. That the English were particularly prone to the disorder was borne out by the startling number of suicides reported yearly in London. Above all, the weather was blamed, the curse of fog, rain, and a bleak chill that besieged the city much of the year. Added to these were the manmade scourges of smoke from fire and industry, the Thames’ stench, the crowds, and the noise.
Here it was quiet but for the birds that trilled outside Buckler’s window in the bright May morning. He lay sweating in bed in the room where he had spent his childhood before being dispatched first to school, then to university, and finally to London and the career chosen for him. Maybe he should have taken orders instead and flaunted his melancholy in an epic tussle with the devil, not that a good Church of England man would countenance such enthusiasm.