"That's just the trouble, George,” said the vicar, “he already does."
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Chapter Twelve
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A disconsolate aura of dread settled over Cragmoor in the days that followed. Fraught with tension, the climate in the house was as bleak as the weather when summer yielded to fall. Tempers were short and all hands were pressed into service tending Mary, whose terror of what was taking place in her body threatened to reach her father's ears every waking hour.
At the end of September she was once more confined to her bed. The baby's movements within her seemed to frighten her most. More often than not, her wrists had to be strapped to the bed frame again to keep her from clawing her swollen belly in a vain attempt to end the torment that her madness wouldn't let her comprehend. Only at night were the linen manacles loosened, once Amy had dosed her with a tincture brewed from the roots of wild woodbine and chamomile leaves to help her sleep. The dosage was mild, but that coupled with her exhaustion from doing battle with the strangeness inside her was enough to keep her docile until dawn, and all in residence drew an easy breath.
Amy was rarely seen dry-eyed in those days. Not even the birth of the Wythe's little daughter the last week in August cheered her. They named the child Elspeth, and Elliot performed the first baptism on record for St. Michael's parish.
Finding Colin in residence was a rarity then. His absences from the house grew more frequent as the strange Cornish winter approached. He haunted the south moors and his places of refuge on the marshes and in the village, disappearing for hours—sometimes days on end. When he returned, he would shut himself up in the study until he'd consumed enough brandy to effect his own sedation, and on more occasions than he cared to tally, Dr. Howard was called to the stable to mend worn out horseflesh when he made his rounds.
Elliot was the only one who could go near Colin then. The boy never apologized for his outburst, but he never brought the subject up again either, though it stood in silence between them like a living presence. They neither quarreled nor bonded. Elliot's wisdom prevented the one, while Colin's withdrawal prevented the other. Only then did the vicar understand Mary's reference to the mask her brother was so clever at hiding behind. He'd become unreachable.
Sir, John, meanwhile, had improved to the point of being able to reach the hearthside chair from his bed on his own, dragging his paralyzed right leg over the floor with the help of a cane. This was a fete, which George Howard attributed to Elliot's tenacity, and that one ray of light in those dark days seemed to sustain them.
At the end of the month a vicious gale struck the coast driving high-flying combers that raced up the shoreline tossing spray in great clouds of spindrift over the cliff's battered head. Hail pelted down from the ink-black night sky. The racket of that and the howling wind rattling the shutters so terrified Mary that Amy dosed her early for the night. Crooning softly, she stroked the girl's hair until she'd dropped off to sleep, and then loosened the restraints on her red, swollen wrists and left her for Sara to tend until midnight when she would return to relieve the maid until dawn.
Elliot also retired to his chamber early that evening. Physically drained from helping the staff prepare for the storm, he stripped off his collar and shoes, loosened his blouse, and propped himself up in the closet bed as he was to make an entry in his journal. He hadn't written two lines when sleep closed his eyelids, and the quill pen fell from his fingers leaving a splotch of black ink on the page as well as the bedclothes. Outside the wind moaned against the house and hail beat down like thunder, but he didn't hear it, nor did he hear Colin leave his chamber next door.
* * * *
Barefoot, the boy crept silently along the corridor to his sister's chamber. Sara was seated beside the hearth with a pile of mending in her lap. When he entered, she set it aside and got to her feet.
"Where's Amy?” Colin whispered, coming closer.
"She's just gone off for a lie-down,” said Sara. “She's goin’ ta spell me at midnight."
Colin seized her in his arms and covered her lips with a hungry mouth. He removed her mobcap, and her long dark hair spilled down over her shoulders. He followed it with his hand to her breast. The nipple hardened against his moist palm through the thin twill bodice and he moaned, crushing her against his hardness. Grabbing her wrist, he led her toward the door, but she resisted going through it.
"No, sir, I dasen't leave her alone,” she protested.
"What's this now?” Colin snapped. “It's not like we haven't done it before, girl. You'll be back before anyone knows that you've gone."
"That was when she wasn't so fretful, sir,” Sara argued. “You know how she's been lately. She's afraid o’ the baby in her. She don't know what's happenin’ ta her, poor thing. The storm might wake her. ‘Tis makin’ enough noise ta raise the dead, and if she wakes here alone with no one ta calm her, she'll be screamin’ the house down, she will."
"If Amy's just dosed her, she'll sleep for hours. Come along and be quiet. No one has dosed the vicar, and I can still see lamplight from under his door."
Leading her along the hallway, Colin took her to his chamber and slid the bolt. Taking the girl in his arms, he opened her bodice and spread it wide, freeing the firm, young breasts from the camisole beneath, and feasted upon them with anxious lips.
Sara groaned, her duty forgotten, as he lifted her onto the three-quarter bed and stripped off his blouse and trousers. She had wriggled out of her undergarments before he climbed in beside her, and he spread her legs, climbed in between them, and offered his impatient arousal.
* * * *
Alone in her chamber Mary stirred and her eyes trembled open in the candle-lit darkness. But it wasn't the storm that woke her, though the wind was deafening then in concert with the drumming hail and the roar of the sea assaulting the shoreline below. It was the pain—sharp, constricting pain inside her swollen body—a pain too strong for the mild dose of wild woodbine and chamomile to dull.
Her hands were unbound and she clutched at her belly, which had become hard and unyielding to the touch. Something wet rushed out of her, soaking the bedclothes and she cried aloud in stark terror, but no one heard her over the thunder of the gale.
Slowly the pain subsided, and she struggled to her feet with the aid of the bedpost and staggered toward the door thrown out of balance by the weight of the child, which had greatly increased since she last stood on her own nearly two months earlier. Using the wall for support, she stepped into the hallway, the drenched batiste gown, struck by the drafts, clinging cold to her legs. Her terrified eyes, darting this way and that, caught sight of a faint glimmer of light coming from beneath her father's chamber sill across the way, and she lumbered toward the brightness and threw the door open wide.
Sir John was propped up in his bed with a book in his lap as she burst into the room startling him. He took her in from head to toe, his eyes drawn to her protruding belly, and his trembling lips worked, but no sound came from them.
Drained of all color, the old man groped for his cane. Lifting his useless leg over the side of the mattress with his good hand, he struggled out of the bed and moved toward her just as another contraction doubled her over. Mary shrieked, clutching fast to the cause of it, digging her nails deeply in as she tore at her body through the nightgown. But it was no use. The more she clawed at herself the worse the pain became, and she staggered back into the hall making a vain effort to escape it while her father limped after her dragging the afflicted leg as he wobbled along the corridor.
Elliot's chamber was the first one Mary came to in the north wing. Light still trickled from under that sill as well, since the vicar had fallen asleep without snuffing out the lamp, and she threw the door open and reeled into the room.
The pain had subsided again between contractions, and she moved on feet that made no sound to the closet bed and stooped over Elliot, sleeping soundly inside. His journal and quill p
en had fallen to the floor, but she seemed not to notice as she trampled them coming nearer. For a moment she stood as though in a trance, her mindless stare fixed on the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing moving his bare chest beneath the open blouse. All at once the baby stirred inside her. Startled by the sudden movement, she raised her hand with her long fingernails hooked like talons and sank them deeply into Elliot's left cheek, raking them down the full length of his throat and breast.
* * * *
Elliot sucked in his breath. Jolted awake by the sharp, sudden pain of the clawing finger that striped him with bleeding wounds from cheekbone to nipple, his frantic eyes struggled to focus, but all they saw was the blur of her dark, tousled mane and white nightgown disappearing through the doorway. Scrambling out of the bed he ran after her. She hadn't gone far. In the throes of another contraction, she leaned screaming against the damp wall alongside the stairs, and he spun her around and scooped her up in his arms.
Unprepared, Mary shrilled at the top of her voice, meanwhile wriggling wildly against his grip as he carried her along the corridor, but he dared not put her down.
"Colin! Sara! Mrs. Croft! Someone help me!” he thundered over the noise of the storm and her aberrant screams, his sleep-dazed eyes narrowed against the pummeling fists that beat at his head and shoulders.
As he passed the staircase he caught sight of Sir John's gray shape lying slumped halfway down, and he called out again, “Merciful God! Colin! I need help here!"
From behind, the boy burst from his chamber bare-chested, hastily tugging his trousers up over the erection straining against his drawers.
The vicar glanced back at him. “Hurry. See to your father there on the stairs. Stay with him, Colin. Don't leave him until I get there."
Set in motion the boy raced down the stairs two at a stride, and fell down on his knees beside his father, cradled him close.
"Mrs. Croft! Sara!” Elliot shouted. Having reached Mary's half open door, he kicked it wide and burst into the empty room, expecting to find Sara napping. Finding her missing instead set his blood boiling with rage. “Kyrie eleison!” he murmured under his breath, as he laid the hysterical girl in her bed and fastened the linen restraints.
Spinning on his heels he ran back to the staircase and Colin, with Mary's shrieks ringing in his ears, and reached toward the magistrate. “Give him to me,” he commanded through teeth clenched in pain and indignation.
"What's happened to you?” Colin stared at the stripes on his face and chest. “Did Mary do that? What's going on?"
"Never mind me,” the vicar snapped. “Get up out of there, Colin! Fetch Elsie and Mrs. Croft at once, and send Harris for Howard. Your sister's in labor!"
Stunned, Colin staggered to his feet and stood frozen for a moment, his face drained paste-white.
"Don't just stand there, young man—move! Your father is dying here."
Groaning, the boy raced down the stairs, stumbling over the old man's cane in his path, and disappeared into the shadows of the servants’ wing.
Elliot looked to the magistrate. “Please, Sir John,” he pleaded, “please sir, it's Elliot. The doctor is coming. Can you hear me?"
Gingerly, he felt for broken bones and unfastened the top button on the old man's nightshirt to give him more air. Sir John's eyelids fluttered. There was no color in him. His parched lips parted, but he couldn't speak, and Elliot lifted his face toward heaven as he held him close.
"Dear Jesus—help me here!” he sobbed, but the magistrate's vacant teal eyes slipped back beneath their drooping lids again.
Seconds later, Amy and Elsie came running toward him pulling their shawls over their nightclothes. He addressed Elsie first.
"Quickly, girl, go to Miss Mary,” he charged. “The child is coming."
"But ‘tis too soon!” Amy shrilled, as the maid waddled past them. “She's not due ‘til the end o’ next month."
"It's coming nonetheless,” said the vicar.
"Where's Sara?” called Elsie from the top of the landing.
"Never mind Sara, just go,” Elliot thundered. Dismissing her, he turned back to Amy. “I need you to stay with the master while I fetch my unction, Mrs. Croft,” he said. “I want to anoint him."
"Saint's preserve us, sir—what's happened ta you? You're bleedin',” she whined, sinking down on the step beside Sir John.
The vicar sprang to his feet. “Not now,” he said. “Don't leave him. I'll return directly."
Bolting back up the stairs, Elliot turned into the north wing, but he didn't go through his open door. A rustling noise coming from Colin's chamber distracted him, and he threw that door open instead to find Sara half naked in the boy's rumpled bed.
"Just as I thought,” he said. “Cover yourself. Like as not you've done murder tonight, little tart!"
The puling girl clutched the sheet to her breast and cowered beneath it, clearly too embarrassed to speak, but anger moved the vicar's tongue. “Get out of that bed, you shameless whore—and out of this house! You have half an hour to collect your things. Mrs. Croft will give you your wages. You are dismissed."
"But ‘tis stormin', sir,” the girl sobbed. “I can't get ta the village in this."
The vicar set his up-tilted chin and narrowed deadly eyes on her. “You should have thought of that before you left young miss alone,” he said. “You can wait in the stable until Harris returns and have him drive you, or walk—please yourself, but out you will go, miss—storm or no storm, or so help me God I will throw you out bodily. I should do that right now—just as you are, but I have no time to waste upon you. People are dying here! Who do you suppose is responsible for that? I should have the constable evict you. Do not tax my leniency. You are getting off cheap. Now get up out of there and don't let me set eyes upon you again."
Wailing, the girl sprang out of the bed clutching her underthings to her naked body and fled sobbing out of the room and down the stairs past Amy and Sir John with scarcely a glance toward either, to disappear in the shadows of the servants’ wing.
Satisfied, Elliot ran to his chamber and took his prayer book from the shelf in the closet bed. He plucked his stole and leather case containing his silver pot of unction from the wardrobe and ran into the hall again. Then brushing the back of the stole with his lips, he flung it around his neck in transit and sprang back down the staircase.
Sir John was still as he'd left him, though Amy knelt at his side crooning and pleading with him softly. She jumped to her feet as the vicar approached, her horror-struck eyes brimming with tears.
"God Almighty, sir, what on earth's happenin’ here?” she moaned. “Is he goin’ ta die? He's scarcely breathin'."
"I've no time to tell you,” said Elliot, taking her place on the step beside the magistrate. “Go up and help Elsie. I'll come and fetch you with Sara's wages once I've seen to the master. You're to give her her due once she's outside those doors—not a second before, is that clear, Mrs. Croft?"
"Y-yes, sir,” Amy stammered through a gasp, as she scrambled past him up the stairs.
Supporting Sir John in his arm, the vicar murmured the prayers for the dying from the open book that he'd placed on the old man's breast. He worked the silver pot free of its leather case, pressed his thumb into the holy salve inside, and administered the anointing, making the sign of the cross on the old man's furrowed brow with the unction.
The rest he prayed in silence, as Colin approached from the Great Hall below, and it wasn't until he'd closed the prayer book that he realized the boy was standing there, his soaked trousers clinging to his legs, water dripping from his shoulders, and from the sandy hair plastered wet to his forehead.
"He's dead,” Colin groaned.
"No,” said the vicar, “but he's dying. I'm hardly a doctor, but I've ministered enough to the sick to recognize a death rattle when I hear one. I think he's had another stroke. Have you sent Harris after George Howard?"
Colin nodded, sinking to his knees beside his father. “Please, Ell
iot . . .?” he begged, reaching out, and the vicar got to his feet stiffly and exchanged places with the boy.
Colin gathered the old man close and he stirred in his arms. His eyes trembled open and fixed upon the boy's, so like his own, for only a moment before breath leaked out of him and his head fell to the side, his absent stare fixed and vacant.
Elliot reached with his thumb and forefinger and closed the magistrate's eyes. “He's gone, Colin,” he murmured. “Help me carry him to the chapel."
"No,” cried the boy, jealously clutching the old man's body against him, “I'll take him!"
Lifting his father, Colin carried him down the south wing hallway and laid him gently on the settle inside the chapel door. The vicar watched the boy smooth out the old man's nightshirt and brush back his thick gray hair. “I'll leave you alone with him for a bit,” he said. “There's something I must do."
Colin's eyes, brimming with angry tears, flashed toward him. “By all means,” he said, “leave us alone. He's got plenty of time for me now, hasn't he, Elliot? Goddamn him!"
The vicar ignored him. “You'd best get out of those wet things and make yourself presentable as soon as you can,” he said. “This damnable night isn't over yet, Colin."
The boy's expression softened then, as he took in the set of his pulsating jaw and eyes glazed with rage. “Elliot . . .” he said, clearly searching for words.
But none came.
"Not now,” the vicar pronounced. And without waiting for the boy to find his voice, he disappeared.
* * * *
By the time Elliot had collected Sara's wages from the study safe and taken them to Amy, Harris had come back from the village bringing news that the doctor was on his way. Weary of body and spirit, the vicar dragged himself up the crimson-carpeted staircase, pausing briefly where the magistrate had fallen, and went to his chamber.
Most of the blood had dried on the deep scratches Mary had gouged in his flesh, though inflammation had begun to spread in angry red patches on the swollen skin around them. He took a clean blouse and neck cloth from the wardrobe and put them on. The starched collar chafed, being tight against the sores, but he scarcely noticed. He was too numb to feel pain.
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