Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  "There's not a footman left on the place. We had a butler here six months ago—old Avery; he was the last ta go. A hardworkin’ soul, he was, and a great help ta me. Well, sir, young miss tormented the poor man ‘til he up and left without givin’ notice. He said that the master could post him his wages at the inn in the village or keep them as he pleased. In either case, he wasn't spendin’ another night under the same roof with Miss Mary. She isn't goin’ ta give it over ‘til there's not one servant left in the house—includin’ me, and that's a fact."

  The vicar paled. “I've only seen two house maids and yourself since I arrived,” he reflected.

  "And aside from Cook and Harris, who keeps ta the stable mostly, that's all you're goin’ ta see,” said Amy.

  "Five servants in residence for a house this size?” He was incredulous.

  Amy nodded. “'Til she scatters us, too. We've got a gardener, Jacob Wythe, and his wife, Abigail, as well, but they live off in the gardener's cottage on the northern rise. So far they've been spared, probably because they're not right under her nose like the rest o’ us. Why is she doin’ it, sir? I can't for the life o’ me figure why. She wants for nothin'. She's had tutorin'—gets waited on hand and foot like a princess, and the master gives her a royal allowance. I don't know what ails the girl."

  "She's seeking attention, Mrs. Croft, it's that simple."

  "Attention?” cried Amy. “Fie! Saint's preserve us, sir, haven't you been listenin'? She has all the attention in the world—and always has had."

  "Yes, but not the kind she needs,” the vicar pointed out. “It's her father's attention she's courting. She probably thought that all this would bring him. It's brought me instead, and she isn't too pleased over that, I'm afraid."

  They had reached the top of the staircase and Amy pulled up short and faced him on the landing. “Don't you trust her, sir,” she breathed. “Take care. Why, if anything was ta happen ta you . . ."

  Elliot smiled. “Nothing's going to happen to me, Mrs. Croft,” he assured her. “I'm well able to take care of myself I promise you."

  "Ummmmm, well, I wouldn't be too sure o’ that if I was you, if you'll pardon a friendly word o’ warnin'—especially since you're comin’ so soon from a sick bed."

  "I've already had a taste of Miss Mary's temper,” he told her. “She put on a fine performance at dinner last night, and I haven't come down with a case of boils yet. But I will be a prime target for gout if Cook intends to feed me like that on a regular basis."

  Amy smiled in spite of herself, but the smile soon faded to a thoughtful frown. “You're right about young miss needin’ her father,” she said, “but ‘tis young Master Colin who needs him most. Beggin’ your pardon, sir, I know my place, but that don't keep me from speakin’ my mind when there's somethin’ that needs ta be said. I'll stand by the master ‘til I drop down dead. He's been good ta me all these years—ta all o’ us, but what he's done ta that poor boy is a sin and a shame, and I'm not sayin’ one thing ta you I haven't said ta the master himself, though I may as well talk ta that newel post there, for all o’ the good it does when it comes ta young master."

  Elliot studied her, watching her expressive eyes mist when she spoke of the boy. “You're fond of Master Colin, aren't you?” he observed. “I saw it in your face when he came up to us in the drive yesterday."

  "He's like my own,” she said. “I raised him, you know. The master would have none o’ him after Mistress Claire died givin’ birth ta the poor little bairn. He's wasted that boy, that's what he's done. One kind word would turn young master ‘round, but he's not goin’ ta have it from his father, and I can only do so much. You mark my words, that young scamp is well on the way to becomin’ a scoundrel, for lack of a father ta raise him up proper.

  "My mother usta’ say that young ones are like saplins', you plant them in the good ground, and when they start ta grow, you set stakes down alongside and tie them fast ta their trunks for support, so's the tree grows straight and tall. Have you seen the trees what grow out on that heath? Well sir, they're all bent and twisted from fightin’ the wind with no stakes in the ground ta support them—just like young Master Colin is goin’ ta be if somethin's not done here pretty quick."

  They were standing beside a heavy arched door on the west side of the second floor corridor in the south wing. Amy's hand gripped the knob as she spoke, but she made no attempt to turn it. Elliot wasn't as confident as she seemed to be that Mary wasn't likely to return. Nevertheless, he mustered a smile.

  "Your mother was a very wise woman, Mrs. Croft,” he said. “It's plain that the stake she drove into the good ground beside you was a sturdy one. I agree about young master's predicament, but that pot will have to simmer awhile. The one we've got hold of here now is about to boil over and scald us if we're not careful. I think we'd best have this done before Miss Mary catches us at it. Can we proceed?"

  Amy threw the door open and stood back with the hem of her apron pressed over her nose and mouth. “Be my guest,” she said, standing aside to let him enter.

  "Kyrie eleison,” he murmured as he crossed the threshold. Not even the sunlight streaming in at the window could cheer the place. The dresser and tables set about the room were plastered thick with candles the color of soot. Although they were unlit, a foul-smelling odor lingered about them. It flared his nostrils and made his eyes smart.

  "'Tis worse when they're burnin',” said Amy through her apron.

  The vicar stopped short beside the pentacle drawn, indeed, in blood at the foot of the four-poster bed, and he blessed himself skirting it widely. Similar drawings decorated the walls, and the vanity, which should have held toiletries and the fine grooming tools suitable for a nineteen-year-old young lady, was heaped instead with worn leather tomes, which he carefully perused, taking great pains not to disturb the order in which they were assembled.

  Once he'd browsed through the last one, Amy stepped forward. “Well?” she said, “do you still think I'm a hysterical ol’ fool?"

  Elliot closed the cover on the book and wiped his hands on his jacket. “I never did, Mrs. Croft,” he said, meeting her eyes. “That foolish, foolish girl. Does she not know what she's playing with here?"

  Amy drained of color and she let her apron fall away from her face. “It is the devil she's courtin', then!” she wailed. “You're a man o’ the cloth—you'd know. Is it . . . can she?"

  The vicar took her arm and steered her toward the door. “Not if I can help it,” he soothed. “Come . . . she mustn't find us here. This way, Mrs. Croft, do not step on that . . . thing."

  "Oh, saints preserve us,” Amy shrilled. “I've stepped on it hundreds o’ times. I'm the only one who'll come anywhere near here ta make up the bed and tidy."

  "Shhhhh. That's all right just avoid it from now on ‘til I can deal with it. There's nothing to fear except that we are discovered. I need time to sort all this out."

  "Oh, Jesus,” Amy moaned.

  "Get hold of yourself, Mrs. Croft,” he charged, shaking her gently. “If she sees that face, she'll know what we've been about just now. I need you to help me find a room downstairs to serve as the chapel. Let us begin with that, shall we?"

  "Ch-chapel?” Amy stuttered.

  The vicar nodded. I'd like it to be a room that gets the morning sun if possible, and it needs to be large enough to seat the staff as well. I intend to hold Sunday worship services, commencing now—Sunday next, and religious instructions Monday through Friday at ten sharp in the morning, for Miss Mary and Master Colin, when he's at home, as well as any of the staff who can be spared and would like to join us. That is what will be as long as I am in residence here."

  Amy's face brightened as she hurried after him down the staircase. “Thanks be ta God!” she cried. “I know just the place, sir. ‘Tis the last sittin’ room on the east down there,” she said, pointing to the south wing corridor as they crossed the Great Hall. “Why, it's even got a little oak sideboard that'll make a fine altar."

  "G
ood,” he called over his shoulder as he strode toward the double doors. “Do whatever has to be done, and tell Master Colin that religious instruction will commence there at ten o'clock sharp. I'll remind Miss Mary myself."

  "You're not goin’ down ta them stones ta fetch her?” she cried.

  "That's exactly what I'm going to do. Just see to the chapel; I'll be back directly."

  The doors slammed shut on her protests, and Elliot crossed the drive and started down the footpath that parted the undergrowth of dead foliage and waist-high clumps of bracken and gorse quivering in the wind. He hadn't taken time to fetch his mantle, but he scarcely felt the cold. He was burning with rage at the events of his first full day at Cragmoor thus far, and it wasn't even half-past eight in the morning.

  The uneven grade was quite narrow—barely wide enough to accommodate a horse and small cart. Even walking in the center of it as he was, the wild patches of bracken and thorn reached out like grasping fingers to clutch at the legs of his trousers. It was, indeed, a desolate, cheerless place, primeval and wild, with nothing to break the monotony except for an occasional deformed tree rising from the heath, blackened by winter and bent by the wind.

  He hadn't noticed the trees that Amy had spoken of on his journey from London. He had been too preoccupied with his thoughts in the chaise to take note of the Cornish countryside. Seeing their misshapen silhouettes now and recalling her comparison between such as they were and Colin, riddled him through with such a soul-shattering chill that he nearly lost his footing.

  Shielding his eyes from the sun and the wind, he scanned the scraggly landscape to the north for some sign of the stones. They were nowhere in sight, but a bend in the path brought his eyes back to it, and they focused on Mary approaching at a leisurely pace where the land leveled off in the valley.

  She almost seemed to float in a cloud of indigo merino. It spilled from underneath a hooded cloak of steel-gray wool that swept the black heather and bracken on both sides of the path as the wind spread it wide. She was beautiful, with her pale face and dark, glossy hair struck by the rising sun, but her eyes were like ice as she sauntered up to him.

  "So the watchdog is off the leash,” she said. “Spying on me, are you, Vicar Marshall? I should have expected it, shouldn't I? Well . . . maybe I did."

  "Actually, no,” said the vicar, as steadily as his racing pulse would allow. “I . . . I've come to remind you that religious instructions begin promptly at ten in the chapel."

  "Ahhh, yes, the celebrated chapel,” she said, “and where, pray, is it to be?"

  "Mrs. Croft will direct you,” he replied, “but you haven't much time if you want to have breakfast beforehand."

  Mary made no reply. Her curious expression was unreadable then. She moved uncomfortably closer. The scent of violets drifted from her alabaster skin and he was defeated. Rage and desire overwhelmed him. Helpless, he stood rooted to the spot as she reached up and stroked his face with cool, delicate hands.

  "You want me, don't you?” she purred seductively, pressing her body against him. “I can see it in your eyes. They change from amber to black whenever you look at me. You aren't clever at hiding your feelings behind a mask the way Collie does. I saw that last night at dinner.” Her hand traveled to the nape of his neck sending shivers down his spine as her fingers burrowed into his soft chestnut hair. “Kiss me,” she whispered, “there's no one to see."

  The fingers tightened, pulling his head down dangerously close to those moist, pouting lips, but her eyes were mocking and cold. The deadly look in them sobered him, and he pulled back sharply and held her at arm's length.

  "Here,” he cried, “what do you think you're doing? Behave yourself, miss."

  Mary burst into riotous laughter. “Just as I thought,” she triumphed. “You're a cowardly, impotent fool. You should see your face. Why, you're trembling."

  She burst into laughter again, but he shook her none too gently cutting it short. “My trembling, miss, is the product of outrage,” he said, “and but for the restraint that has caused it, you would now be receiving the thrashing you so justly deserve. Do not dare tempt me to prove myself, little terrorist. I came here offering nothing but friendship, and I am met with aggression for no reason whatsoever. Hardly the behavior I would expect from a proper young lady of breeding. You condemned me before I ever set foot out of your good father's carriage. That is hardly fair, since despite all I've been told, I have made no such judgment of you."

  "Let go of me,” she demanded, awarding his shins a volley of strikes with the toe of her shoe.

  He ignored the assault. “As to the question of my being a man, I am evidently not the kind you're accustomed to. Had you played your little scene just now with another sort of man, you'd have gotten a good deal more than you'd bargained for. Now then, may we have a truce? If not, all's fair—and do not let this collar mislead you; it will spare you nothing."

  Mary wrenched free and stepped back from him, soothing her arms through her cloak where his grip had numbed them. “I warned you never to touch me,” she snapped.

  Elliot popped a triumphant laugh. “Oh?” he said. “If my memory serves me correctly, it was you who touched me. Never do it again. I, on the other hand, was merely preventing you from making a fool of yourself, and I shall do so in future if needs must. Now that we understand one another, shall we have that truce or not? Do make up your mind. I've no more time to waste upon you."

  "No truce,” she shrilled, “never!"

  He answered with a crisp nod. “So be it, then—all's fair; you have decided."

  "And . . . just what does that mean exactly . . . ‘all's fair'?"

  "You'll soon find out if you meddle with me again. Now then, if you don't want a physical demonstration here and now, you'd best do as you're told and get back to the house at once. I'm quite out of patience, I warn you."

  Mary stood for a long moment seething with anger. Her eyes had misted with tears, and her pretty mouth had puckered into a hard, lipless line. “I despise you,” she snarled. And before he could answer, she'd bolted and run up the grade toward Cragmoor.

  Elliot looked after her until she'd disappeared around the bend in the path. Once she was out of sight his posture deflated and he drew an easy breath, albeit an unsettling one; it was filled with the perfume of violets. Her scent was all over him—not even the flaying Cornish wind could remove it.

  Time was growing short. He should follow her back to the house, but he was determined to have a look at the ring, and he continued on until he caught sight of it set back a short distance from the path in a little clearing that even the briars rejected. A twisted tree bent nearly to the ground stood as sentinel. Its tortured branches, wrenched around by the wind, pointed north-northwest, like gnarled, arthritic fingers warning trespassers away.

  Following the natural path Mary's feet had made over time through the undergrowth, he picked his way toward the ancient ritual site, his amber eyes narrowed in the wind. The tree's bare branches cast eerie shadows back across the ring that seemed like human fingers. It was a small circle of stones. Only half were crowned with lintels. Inside, a flat granite slab with small stone supports stood in the center surrounded by scrub and woodbine creepers. It was this crude altar that caught his attention. Something white lay on top of it held down by a rock.

  Stepping inside the circle he drew nearer and gasped. A pentacle similar to the one he'd seen on Mary's bedchamber floor had been drawn in what appeared to be blood on the altar as well. It was faded by the weather and had evidently been there for some time, but there was no doubt in his mind that both pentacles had been painted by the same hand; that, however, wasn't what made his heart skip its rhythm. There in the center of the crudely drawn symbol lay a handkerchief, which he recognized as one of his own bearing the embroidered initials ‘E. M’ in one corner. It, too, had been spattered with blood—fresh blood, and he snatched it out from under the rock that had kept the wind from carrying it away and examined it closely. “
Kyrie eleison!” he murmured aloud.

  Cramming the desecration into his jacket pocket, he picked his way back to the path and angry strides took him up the rise to the house. As he burst through the doors and stalked through the Great Hall, Colin had just stepped off the staircase.

  "Elliot! My God, what's happened?” the boy wondered, stopped in his tracks. “I've been looking everywhere for you. When you didn't come down to breakfast, I—"

  "Not now, Colin,” Elliot said, striding past him. “Go up and fetch your sister to the chapel. Do it however you must. Carry her—drag her by the hair if you have to. I don't care how you accomplish it, just deliver her there, and keep her there. We shan't wait until ten; I shall join you both directly."

  Clearly stunned, the boy called after him as he disappeared in the shadows of the servants’ wing corridor, but Elliot didn't answer. Amy and Cook were alone in the kitchen when he barged in, and both spun around with a start.

  "Saints preserve us, sir, what is it?” Amy cried at sight of him.

  Elliot hadn't been formally introduced to Cook as yet, but this was no time for introductions. A polite nod sufficed, which the woman acknowledged with an awkward curtsy due to her size and the situation. But Elliot scarcely noticed, addressing Amy.

  "Mrs. Croft, I need a silver bowl and a clean bucket filled with water at once,” he commanded.

  "Y-yes, sir,” said Amy.

  She lifted a finely embossed silver tureen down from the cupboard, while Cook lumbered off toward the scullery. By the time Amy had pumped the water into the tureen, Cook had returned with the bucket. Once they'd filled it as well, the vicar blessed the water in both vessels.

  "Have you a strong scouring powder—something with a bleaching agent in it?” he said.

  Amy nodded. “There's pumice . . . and lye soap."

  "Good enough. I'm taking the bowl to bless the chapel. I want you and the maids to take that bucket up to Miss Mary's chamber and scrub the vile pentacle and demonic artwork off the floor and walls."