Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  "What was wrong with them?” Elliot wondered.

  "Too thin,” said Colin, around a swallow from his wine glass. “Cook's as wide as she is tall. Never hire a skinny cook; it's not a good reference for the trade. That's the one thing Father has taught me."

  Elliot laughed in spite of himself. “I'll remember that when the vicarage is built,” he said. “Seems like good advice to me. Seriously, though, I could have done very nicely without dinner this evening. I would have been just as content to sleep through."

  "You needn't suffer this, you know,” Colin returned. “I could have a tray sent up to your room."

  "But that wouldn't solve anything, would it? I'm not here to hide in my chamber, am I? It's best over and done with."

  Colin was about to disagree, but Mary's appearance in the archway cut him short. “Well, it's too late to debate the issue now,” he murmured. “Brace yourself."

  Elliot rose from his chair at sight of her, but it was a moment before Colin got out of his. When he did, there was a cold expression in the eyes he trained on his sister that spoke more of threat than of warning. This was a facet of Colin's persona Elliot hadn't witnessed before. It chilled him to the bone and stalled his engaging smile.

  Mary made no immediate move to enter. Her scrutinizing blue eyes were trained on the vicar taking him in from head to toe, and as icy as her stare was, he couldn't look away from that face.

  The likeness in the magistrate's watchcase didn't do her justice. She was lovely in a gabardine frock that matched her eyes, with a tiered skirt spread by a crinoline, and a form-fitting bodice with an oval neckline edged in ecru lace that accented her slender, shapely figure beneath. Her long, dark hair fell loose about her shoulders from a center part in a mass of natural curls, held only by two mother-of-pearl combs at the temples.

  It was a painfully long moment before she folded her arms and strolled toward her chair, still observing the vicar. Colin's eyes shifted in his direction as well. Elliot knew his expression was easily read. He couldn't help it; he was captivated.

  Mary seemed not to notice. “So the watchdog has arrived,” she said. “It looks harmless enough, but must we endure it at table?"

  "Vicar Marshall, my sister, Mary,” said Colin through his teeth, “who has the manners of an alley cat. You may as well have done,” he said to his sister. “I've already warned him that you plan to play the bitch. You're making a fool of yourself."

  "Good evening, Collie,” she said with flourish. “I see that you are in your usual churlish humor.” She skirted her chair, spreading her flounces, and tapped him smartly on the shoulder. “You'd best not let Father catch you in that chair, little brother,” she scorned, “unless you fancy a hiding."

  "Sit,” Colin snapped, “so the vicar can sit; he's exhausted."

  Mary took her seat dramatically. “Oh, well now, God forbid we should exhaust the vicar. If a mere coach ride from London has done him in, he won't last long out here. Cornwall calls for a sturdier sort than he looks."

  "He's sturdy enough to up-end you, sister dear, and he will if needs must, isn't that so, Elliot?"

  "Elliot, is it?” Mary gushed. “Ohhhh, Father isn't going to like that either, Collie. Just wait ‘til he gets here day after tomorrow. And as to this person up-ending me, as you so colorfully put it, I'd like to see him try. If he lays one finger on me, I'll have the constable on him as quick as a fly on the jam jar."

  "Will you, indeed? Well, we'll just see what Father has to say about that, day after tomorrow,” Colin snarled, moving back to let Sara serve the leek and barley soup.

  "Let her be, Colin,” Elliot said low-voiced. “No one is going to harm you, Miss Mary,” he assured her. “Your brother was wrong to suggest it. I want you to think of me simply as a houseguest—a guardian—someone to look out for your best interests, as it were, in your father's absence."

  "Just as I said—a watchdog,” Mary intoned.

  "I come to you in friendship, offering nothing more than goodwill and counsel. You may accept all or nothing, but I would prefer that we get on, if not cordially, at least civilly. It will make this a lot more pleasant for all of us. It isn't a permanent arrangement. I'll only be staying at Cragmoor until the church and vicarage are built. Meanwhile—"

  "But that could take years,” Mary cried, interrupting him.

  "Meanwhile,” Elliot resumed with raised voice, “I will commence your religious instruction—yours and your brother's, as your father wishes."

  Mary burst into a chorus of harsh, caustic laughter. “Religious instructions?” she chided. “You mean Noah and the ark, and the like? I don't need you for that. I had it all in picture books when I was in the nursery."

  "No, that's not quite what I had in mind,” Elliot replied. “You will be learning the Gospels, and how their teachings affect us and the Anglican Church today."

  Mary tossed her curly mane haughtily. “I do not subscribe to your religion,” she said.

  "How can you know that if you don't know what my religion entails?"

  "I have my own beliefs."

  "Which are?"

  "None of your business. This soup is cold. Have Sara take it away."

  "It wouldn't be cold if you'd hold that acid tongue and eat it,” Colin growled.

  "I dislike leeks in any case,” Mary snapped. “Cook knows I dislike leeks. I think she puts them in on purpose."

  "I'm not going to ring for Sara to come and collect one soup plate,” Colin gritted, “not when she's busy helping Cook ready the rest of the meal. You can wait until we've finished with ours. If you don't like leeks, you should have refused the plate when she set it down."

  "And who has made you master of Cragmoor, Collie?"

  "You, evidently,” he sallied. “Why should I ring because you don't like your soup? You know where the bell pull is—ring it yourself."

  "I should have known you'd take Sara's part,” said Mary. “We both know why, don't we? We wouldn't want to wear her out, now would we?” She leaked a mischievous giggle. “The poor vicar has no idea what we're talking about. Look at him. I think we should make him privy to your little . . . situation, don't you? It's rude to keep him in the dark."

  "Mary, don't you dare!"

  "Don't you ever threaten me,” she cried, shifting cold eyes toward the vicar. “You see, Vicar Marshall, Collie here has taken a fancy to Sara...in the carnal sense, if you know what I mean. Now, why don't you address that in your religious instructions?"

  Elliot folded his napkin and got up from the table. “That will do—the both of you,” he said. “I had hoped to enjoy a pleasant meal tonight, but that is clearly not to be."

  "Oh, are you leaving already?” Mary crooned.

  "No, I am not,” Elliot assured her. Moving past the carver's chair, he crossed the room and gave the bell pull a firm yank. “That should settle the issue of the soup,” he said, “and the issue of who is in charge here in your father's absence, as well, miss. I am not about to allow the foul temper of one spoiled young lady to evict me from the table with a fine ham dinner in the offing. Now then, since my own soup has grown cold, and I'm sure your brother's has also, Sara may take all the plates, but I promise you it will not be so with the rest of this meal. If we cannot have polite conversation at this table, we shall have no conversation at all. That will be the way of it at this sitting and all others so long as I reside in this house, and whoever chooses to break that rule shall be obliged to leave the dining hall."

  He strolled back to his chair then, but by the time he'd reached it, Colin had gotten out of his. “Change places with me,” said the boy. “It is you who should be sitting here."

  Sara floated in and Elliot signaled her to remove the soup plates. Meanwhile, another, older serving maid, fair-haired and plump, who answered to the name of Elsie, had begun to serve the ham.

  Elliot shook his head and sank back down in his own chair. “No, Colin,” he said, “you stay where you are. You are the man of this house in your father's
absence. That is your rightful place when you are in residence. When you or your father are not, I shall sit at the head of the table in your behalf to preserve order."

  He glanced at Mary, who had sunken back in her chair and sat pouting with her arms folded tightly beneath her bosom. “As to the issue of religious education,” he went on, “the sessions will commence tomorrow morning at ten sharp, after I've chosen a suitable room for the chapel. Mrs. Croft will direct you."

  "Waste your time as you please,” Mary snapped, squirming in her chair.

  "No, as your father pleases,” Elliot corrected her.

  "Don't think that I won't have a word with Father about this."

  "Please do, Miss Mary,” Elliot shot back. “That should put an end to the matter, and then perhaps we can begin again."

  Mary sprang from her chair and tossed her napkin down, all but upsetting her wine goblet. “Never!” she shrilled. And turning on her heels she ran from the room.

  Elliot breathed a deep, labored sigh and his posture collapsed as he sat staring into his dinner plate.

  "Well, you can't say I didn't warn you,” Colin said, breaking the awkward silence.

  "This is not how I wanted it to be,” Elliot regretted. “I had hoped to win her friendship as well."

  Colin lifted his brow and sighed himself. “You're quite taken with her, aren't you?” he realized.

  Elliot avoided the boy's eyes. “What do you mean?” he said.

  "I saw the way you looked at her when she came into the room."

  "Am I all that transparent?” Elliot groaned. “She's a very handsome young woman, Colin. The likeness your father carries in his watchcase doesn't even come close to capturing her beauty."

  "'Handsome is as handsome does', so says Amy. I'm sorry that she cut you to shreds like that just now, but you won the battle nicely. When you got out of that chair I thought you were about to retreat."

  "I couldn't do that, Colin. If I had given in to her that easily, I would have lost control and I never would have been able to gain it back. She feels threatened now that I've come. Evidently she's been able to intimidate Mrs. Croft. She has to be made aware she shan't do the same to me. I only pray I haven't done more harm than good in making the point."

  Colin clouded again suddenly, and he set his fork down. “Elliot . . . what she told you about me earlier—"

  "Not now, Colin,” said the vicar. “There'll be plenty of time to talk about that once I've gotten to the bottom of this situation with your sister. Eat your dinner before it grows cold. We'd best have this day behind us. I have a good deal to sort out before your father arrives. I only hope I've enough time to do it."

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  Chapter Six

  * * * *

  Elliot didn't wait for Amy Croft to approach him for an audience. Shortly after daybreak he sought her out in the servants’ quarters to hear her account in regard to Mary.

  Cook and the maids had just risen and Amy quickly dispatched them to their chores with instructions that she not be disturbed, and showed the vicar into the servants’ hall, where she'd already set out a steaming pot of tea. Sitting ramrod-rigid on the edge of a straight-back chair at the table with her hands folded neatly in her lap, the housekeeper wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter.

  "First off, I want ta tell you how glad I am you've come, sir,” she said. “I can't handle young miss on my own no more, and that's a fact. She's goin’ ta put me in my grave, she is—I know it."

  "Nothing of the kind,” Elliot soothed. “I'll help you in any way I can here, but I need to know what I'm dealing with. Sir John made me privy to your last two letters, so I do have a general idea of the problem. What I need from you now is truth. Don't enhance it. Tell me only the facts of which you are absolutely certain."

  Amy nodded. “Well, sir, she's in league with the devil, that's what she is, and she's goin’ ta bring the wrath o’ God down on this house and every soul in it."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "She has devil signs painted all over her chamber—on the floor—on the walls. I think they're all painted in blood.” She almost whispered the last as though she feared saying it aloud would make it so.

  Elliot frowned. “Blood?"

  "Yes, sir, that's what I said. Harris, the stabler, he shot a roe deer awhile back and hung it out behind the stable. I seen young miss collect the blood in a basin myself. Afterward, the devil signs appeared on her floor."

  "Let me have this again,” Elliot cut in. “You saw Miss Mary collecting deer's blood in a basin and you made no attempt to stop her?"

  "Fie,” Amy cried. “You dasen't go near her when she's up ta her devilments. You dasen't interfere."

  "What do these . . . signs she's painted look like, Mrs. Croft?"

  "'Tis a queer sort o’ star with funny writin’ all around it—at least I think ‘tis writin'; symbols and lines, like the old Celtic runes you see on the stones hereabout."

  "A pentacle?"

  "Sir?"

  "Never mind. What else?"

  "Well, sir, there's them foul-smellin’ candles she burns up there. When she's at it, the stink would drive you clear outa’ the south wing for wantin’ ta retch, and then there's the books and parchments she got from them Gypsies down in the bogs. There's an ol’ woman in the camp what folks say is a witch! The master had the lot run off a couple o’ times, but it does no good. They only come right back again. The old crone, she makes charms and simples out o’ herbs, and tells fortunes. Folks go out to her for doctorin'. Fie, I can't imagine why anybody would go near that filthy caravan for treatment when we've got such a fine man as Dr. Howard in the village. Ask him about the Gypsy witch in the marshes. He'll give you an earful, he will."

  "Now we can't go about branding every woman who dabbles in herbs as a witch, Mrs. Croft, or we'd have to condemn half of England. This is eighteen sixty-three, not the Inquisition. Why, you yourself keep a fine crop of herbs out on the north rise. I was admiring them when I arrived yesterday, and Sir John has boasted of your skills with them on more than one occasion."

  Amy bristled with indignation. “I don't peddle potions and magical doodads, sir,” she intoned, “and I don't tell fortunes, neither. The tinctures and draughts and ointments I make outa’ what grows in my garden have spared Dr. Howard more'n one trip out here when young miss and young master was growin’ up. There's no need ta be wearin’ the poor man out over bellyaches, scrapes, and the dysentery. That's the way of it here on the coast."

  "Exactly my point,” said the vicar. “She may be no more than a harmless old woman who enjoys her herbs just as you do."

  "Then what was she doin’ with them books what she give ta young miss?"

  "I don't know,” the vicar conceded. “I can't make a judgment on that until I've had a look at the volumes in question. Is there a way we can manage that without Miss Mary knowing?"

  Amy got to her feet. “I'll take you up there right now,” she offered. “You can have a look at the whole lot—books, candles, evil artwork, and all."

  "We can't do that while she's in the house."

  "She's not in the house,” Amy told him. “She was up and dressed and off ta them stones at first light; I seen her go out myself. She'll be there half the day, more'n likely. Come with me."

  The vicar followed her out into the corridor. “Stones, you say?” he mused. “Sir John mentioned a pagan ring nearby. Is that where she is?"

  Amy gave a crisp nod. “She practically lives there—winter and summer and all o’ what's in between, except when it's pourin’ down with rain. When she can't get ta that heathen place she's miserable, and she makes sure the rest o’ the house is just as miserable as she."

  "Where is the ring, Mrs. Croft?"

  "There's a footpath through the heather off to the east,” she said. “You can see it from your chamber window. It goes down inta the valley and comes out near Cragmoor Cross. The stones stand a little off th
e path to the north about halfway between the house and the Cross. ‘Tis a dreary, cheerless patch o’ heath, all grown over with nettles and briars and woodbine—no place for a girl o’ eighteen years ta be passin’ her time. But you dasen't try ta prevent her goin’ or she'll strike at you like a puff adder, she will."

  "What does she do out there?"

  "God alone knows,” said Amy. “I've never been able to get close enough ta find out without her catchin’ me spyin'. She's up ta no good, though, I can tell you that."

  "Do folk hereabout still practice the old religion, Mrs. Croft?"

  "Not that I know of. Why?"

  "I was wondering if others gather at the ring—hold pagan ceremonies and the like?"

  "I've never seen anybody out at that heathen place except young miss, sir. Them stones are on the master's land. Nobody trespasses out there. ‘Tis too close ta the house."

  "I don't understand this,” the vicar mused, thinking out loud. “Followers of the old religion are not devil worshippers. They have no truck with black magic. They worship earth deities and spirits in nature. They are pagan by our standards certainly, but not demonic. There is no link between the two."

  "I don't know nothin’ about ‘links',” said Amy. “I only know what I seen with my own two eyes. You asked for the plain truth and that's what I'm tellin'. Young miss was a handful from the start, she was. Now she's impossible ta deal with. She torments and threatens us here from dawn ‘til dark, and things happen, sir—things happen."

  "What kind of . . . things?"

  "Harris went up against her a fortnight ago for wearin’ out one o’ the horses, and he come down with a case o’ the boils overnight after young miss cursed him over it. She got inta a scrape with Cook, too, and a coal fairly leaped outa’ the stove and burned Cook's arm—I seen it myself.

  "Young miss is always after me. Just last week I found a dead tern in my bed. She put some o’ her foul-smellin’ weeds in my shoes after I followed her out ta them stones the last time, and my bunions swelled up so's I could barely walk. Why, I could go on all o’ the day and night with tales o’ the goin's on and not have it all told.