Dr. Howard arrived shortly after, clad in a dripping souwester and slicker from head to toe. Promising to report once he'd examined Mary and determined the cause of her father's death, he sent Elliot to the study to wait with Colin.
The boy was dressed and groomed, sitting spread-legged in the wing chair beside the hearth with a brandy snifter dangling from limp hands between his knees, when the vicar joined him.
"Howard's come,” Elliot told him, pouring himself a brandy. “He'll be down with word as soon as he's examined her."
Colin nodded without meeting Elliot's eyes, staring instead into the amber pool of liquor he was swirling in circles in his snifter. “Elliot, I know you're angry with me,” he braved, “but you have to believe I didn't mean any of this to happen."
Elliot regarded him sternly. “For a few minutes of carnal pleasure, your father lies dead in the chapel and God alone knows what's to become of your sister, or the child that's coming too soon. I hope it was worth it, Colin, because that's the last. Sara's gone. I've dismissed her. She's halfway to the village by now. There'll be no more of that sort of thing while I'm under this roof. If you must abuse your sexuality, you'll have to do it elsewhere."
Colin's head shot up then and he made a rough gesture toward the scratches on Elliot's face. “You're a fine one to moralize with me,” he snarled accusingly. What in God's name did you do to Mary to cause that?"
The vicar slapped the brandy glass down and raised his hand, aiming to deliver the back of it to the boy's scowling face.
Glowering up at the hand trembling with rage hovering over him, Colin didn't flinch. “Go ahead, Elliot,” he said. “I won't try to stop you."
For a painfully long moment, the vicar stood there staring into the boy's empty eyes before he dropped the hand to his side. “No,” he said, “I shan't strike you. I called George Howard out for doing the same thing to you here in this very room. The brandy addresses me now, not Colin Chapin. You aren't able to accept the guilt over what you've done, so you're trying to put it on me. Your father was a master at that sort of thing, but it won't work in my case any longer. You'd best find another scapegoat. I've enough guilt of my own to deal with. But I will deal with it, Colin. That's where we differ."
He brandished the brandy decanter. “You can't drown guilt in a bottle, it's able to swim, and all brandy will do is preserve it. Not that you deserve an explanation, because you do not, but Mary attacked me in my sleep while you lay next door bedding the servant who was being paid to look after her. Your sister clawed her nails into my face and chest as though she were trying to tear out my heart—little did she know that she'd done that already. The worst of it is Sara. I paid that girl's wages tonight. I must be barking mad. If I were in my right mind, I'd have dragged that little whore out of here—naked as she was, and let the storm have its way with her."
Leaking a furious groan, Colin hurled his snifter into the hearth scattering brandy and glass shards in all directions, and dropped his head into his hands. “Elliot,” he sobbed, “I'm so damn, bloody sorry."
"I told you once, if you recall, that sorry is the most useless word in the English language. Now you know what I meant by it. It was a costly lesson. Please God, it's learned finally."
"I can't ask you to forgive me,” Colin murmured, “I can't even forgive myself. I'd give anything if I could only go back and begin this night again."
The vicar shook his head. “What's done is done,” he said. “If you insist upon fondling regrets you'll drive yourself as mad as your sister."
Colin raised his head about to speak again, when George Howard's imposing figure in the doorway cut him short, and Elliot spun toward the doctor approaching. “Is it born?” he said, his eyes fixed upon Howard's knit brows.
"No, it is not,” the doctor barked. “It will be awhile yet. What in Christ's name happened here tonight, Elliot?"
Colin's moist, pleading eyes flashed toward the vicar, but Elliot dared not meet them then.
"One of the maids left Mary unattended,” he replied. “I've sacked her."
"And?"
"It all happened so fast I honestly don't know. There was scarcely a heartbeat between disasters here, George. Mary must have gone into her father's chamber before she attacked me in mine. I was asleep when it happened. I saw Sir John collapsed on the stairs when I was carrying her back to her chamber and we sent Harris after you."
"Ummm . . .” the doctor ground out, “and where were you, young Chapin, when all this was going on?"
"He was in bed,” said the vicar. “I called out for help and he came running to my aid. It was Colin who sent Harris ‘round for you."
"He can speak for himself,” said the doctor. “Chapin?"
"He told you what happened,” Colin snapped. “Have you examined my father?"
"'Twas another stroke that killed him, near as I can tell. I'm sorry."
"And Mary,” said the vicar, “is she . . .?"
"The child is coming early,” said Howard. “I'm not liking that, and there are complications."
Elliot didn't wait to be told to take a swallow from his glass this time, and the doctor's brow raised as he watched him. “The baby's breech,” he went on, “and I'm not surprised considering the way it got in there. Her womb is tipped and the muscles are weak. I told you when it happened that her internal injuries were shockingly severe. That's probably why it's come ahead of schedule. But it's early yet. The child could still right itself on its own. If it does we could be out of the woods. If it doesn't I'm going to have to try and turn it . . . and we may lose her. It's best that you know."
Colin lowered his head in his hands and Elliot swallowed dry. “I'd like to go up and anoint her, George,” he said.
The doctor hesitated. “I'd rather you didn't go up there just now,” he said. “It's all Elsie and Mrs. Croft can do to hold her down—despite the restraints. I'll send one of them after you in plenty of time if you're needed."
"Isn't there anything else that we can do?” the vicar pleaded.
"Pray,” said the doctor. “She's in God's hands now—just pray that she doesn't slip through His fingers.
* * * *
But Elliot didn't know what to pray for. Should he appeal to God for Mary's life, or for a merciful death? The wind howled mournfully through the night rattling the terrace doors as he wrestled with that, and the hail gave way to sluicing rain. It was the longest night they would share, made longer by futility, for either way there would be heartache. And then there was the child. With so much come upon the Chapin household, neither Colin nor the vicar had given serious thought to the child. But now, through that wailing November night while they waited suffering Mary's heart stopping screams funneling down the staircase above the racket of the storm, the vicar realized the scope of what they were facing. Whether Mary lived or died, the child would have to be cared for by someone else. He didn't have to wonder how Colin would receive it, considering the boy's passionate views on terminating the pregnancy, and he didn't dare probe his own feelings about it either, not then—not while Mary's pitiful screams delivering it into the world had all but driven him mad.
Just before daybreak the wind died to a mournful murmur and the rain gave way to a dreary morning mist. It crept over the brow of the cliff like a thief, stealing the glow of first light, and the dawn, traditionally reputed to banish the gloom of darkness, could shed no comforting light upon that day.
Neither Colin nor the vicar had slept, and when Amy appeared in the study doorway they both jumped to their feet.
"Is it over?” the vicar begged.
Amy shook her head. “Not yet,” she said, “but Dr. Howard sent me ta fetch you—and young master, too."
The vicar picked up his prayer book, stole, and unction, which he had kept close at hand, and hurried after her to Mary's chamber with Colin at his heels. The room smelled foul, of blood and stale urine. The shutters had been unlatched and the draperies were drawn back to let in more of the cheerless light.
Mary lay unconscious as the doctor handed the mewing child he had just taken from her to Amy.
"It's a boy,” he said, nodding toward Mary. “You'd best anoint her quickly, Elliot. I couldn't spare Mrs. Croft or Elsie to come for you sooner. I'm sorry."
Desolate, the vicar pressed the unction to the girl's forehead as he murmured the prayers for the dying so recent in his memory, and gathered her against him.
At the foot of the bed, Colin stood spine-rigid, staring through tears at the blood-soaked sheets and his dying sister cradled in Elliot's arms.
"I wanted you to see this, young Chapin,” said Howard, “in hopes of fostering a more responsible use of your manhood."
The boy heaved. All color fled from his face. Gagging, he covered his mouth and streaked from the room.
"George, that was cruel,” the vicar admonished.
"That was necessary,” the doctor corrected him. “Pleasure costs. The way he's going he'll pay dearly one day. It cost that poor girl lying there plenty. She's paid with her life for some man's wanton pleasure. I had to turn the child to take it. He's healthy enough for an early-comer.” He turned to the maid. “Open the window and let in some air, girl, before we all expire,” he charged.
Heartbroken, Elliot sat on the edge of the bed rocking and soothing Mary. Laying a hand on his shoulder, Howard spoke softly. “She's gone, Elliot,” he said. “It's best.” Prying the vicar's arms loose, he covered the corpse with one of the bloodied sheets and led him away.
Elsie sat crying in the chair beside Mary's bed, and Amy stood staring down at the child in her arms. All at once, she began to tremble.
"Saints preserve us,” she breathed, and before anyone could prevent her, she'd run to the open window with the child raised over her head.
Moving with the agility of a man half his age and two stone lighter, Howard put himself in Amy's path with split-second accuracy. Through misty eyes the vicar saw no more than a blur as the doctor snatched the baby and delivered a blow with the back of his free hand that sent the housekeeper sprawling on the hardwood floor at his feet.
Horrified, Elliot ran to Amy.
"'Tis evil!” she shrieked. “'Tis a sin against God ta let it live. Look at it, sir. Look! Look at the eyes on it and tell me it hasn't come straight outa’ hell!"
Howard thrust the child toward Elsie, pushed Elliot out of the way, and yanked Amy to her feet. “Get hold of yourself, Mrs. Croft!” he thundered, planting her firmly in the bedside chair. “You've just tried to do murder here. If I hadn't gotten to you when I did we'd be having the constable—and should have him in any case. It's my duty to report this."
"Please, George,” the vicar pleaded.
"Stay out of this, Elliot."
"'Tis evil I tell you,” Amy wailed. “'Tis some evil black demon she's called up from hell with her devilments, and it's goin’ ta kill us all!"
The doctor spun toward Elsie standing mute with the baby. “Bring the child here, girl,” he said.
"Nooooo!” Amy screeched, trapped in the chair, “don't you dare bring it near me. It's got devil's eyes! They looked right inta my soul!"
"Nonsense. It's a baby, Mrs. Croft,” said the doctor, “no demon, I assure you. Look at him! He has his mother's coloring."
"And whose eyes has he got, then?” Amy flashed.
"His Gypsy father's, more than likely, and that they are brown and not blue hardly warrants pitching him out of a second story window. Have you taken leave of your senses, madam?"
"They're black as two coals. Are you blind, then?"
"Your eyes would be dilated, too, if you'd just struggled breech for more than twelve hours trying to come into this world. Now get up out of there and go straight to your room. I will have a word in private with you there directly. Amy Croft, I'm warning you, nothing had better happen to this child out here or, bigod, I'll see you jailed."
"You don't have ta worry,” cried Amy. “I'm not goin’ anywhere near it. If you want that creature there tended you'll have ta get somebody else. I'll have none o’ it, and the vicar can sack me for that if he likes."
"Out,” brayed the doctor, “before I do something we'll both regret!"
Pivoting on her tiny feet, Amy ran from the room, her hysterical sobs living after her.
Howard breathed a weary sigh. “Christ on His throne, the woman's demented!” he roared.
"George, please,” murmured Elliot, “she's exhausted."
"You saw that, Elliot. Don't you dare try to defend her. There is no defense for attempting to murder a newborn babe. The woman damn near killed that child.” He turned to Elsie. “Find something to serve as a cradle,” he said, “and set up some sort of nursery. You've plenty of rooms to choose from. Have Wythe's wife come up and feed him. She can spare a little milk ‘til I can get a wet nurse out here from the village."
"There's a cradle what usta’ belong ta young master up in his old nursery on the third floor, sir,’ said Elsie. “We could keep him there, and the suite o’ rooms next to it would serve real fine for the wet nurse when she comes."
"See to it, then,” growled the doctor, though his eyes were trained on Elliot as he studied the child in Elsie's arms.
The girl moved past him then, and Howard took hold of the vicar's elbow and steered him toward the chair. “All right, off with that collar and blouse,” he ordered.
"George, please don't report this to the constable,” Elliot pleaded. “I'll speak with Mrs. Croft. You have my word that nothing like this will happen again."
The doctor breathed an exasperated sigh through flared nostrils. “Never mind about that now,” he said, examining the angry red scratches gouged over the vicar's face and chest. “The poor mad creature's done a proper job. Brace yourself. I've got to clean these wounds with antiseptic, and this one on your chest here is deep."
The vicar scarcely felt the sting or the pressure of the stethoscope. As he stared toward Mary's still body beneath the blood-soaked sheet, his mind refused to focus on anything else.
"I'm not happy with that heartbeat,” said the doctor, “though I have to admit I did expect worse."
Elliot loosed a cryptic laugh. “I would be happy with it if it would cease beating altogether,” he said, fastening his blouse again, “but that's not to be is it, George?"
The doctor's tired eyes stared at him sadly. “I'm sorry, Elliot,” he murmured, “I did everything I could to save her."
The vicar looked down at the wrinkled collar in his hands. “So did I,” he said. “God won't hear me, George. He's extracted His punishment for the bribe. This collar here is useless. I've failed Sir John, I've failed Mary, and most grievous of all, I've failed God. I'm not worthy to wear this, and you have no idea how close I came in the night to pitching it off that cliff out there."
"Now you listen here to me, Elliot Marshall,” said the doctor, “the cause here was lost long before you ever came to Cragmoor. That miserable old fool lying dead in the chapel is the only one at fault here. He waited too long to seek help for that girl. That's on his soul, not yours. The only one able to put things to rights here is God Himself. Mary is with Him now. She's at peace—you've seen to that. Believe me, it's for the best. She was hopelessly mad, Elliot. You haven't been punished, you've been spared. What you have to do now is thank Him for that and get on with the business of doing what He has called you here to do. We need you, my friend. The whole village is waiting for that church to rise in the valley. The Chapins are not your sole purpose here. It's time to bury the dead and look after the living."
"What's to become of the child?"
"That's up to young Chapin, not you."
"God help us!"
"Indeed,” said the doctor. “He's master of Cragmoor now. He's strutting around in a man's body. Now he's going to have to act like one or the world's going to pull him up short.
"I'll have a wet nurse out here before the day is out. One of my patients, Martha Harcourt, just delivered a stillborn son. You'll have to take her husband
, Clive, too. You'll never make a butler of him, or a footman either, come to that, but at least he can lend a hand with the house chores. I've been trying to find more help for you out here since this nightmare began. Christ knows you can use it. Pity it's managed after the fact, but it's still needed. When the boy is older, Martha can stay on as his nanny. That will keep Mrs. Croft clear of the situation. That's all I can do. The rest is in young Chapin's hands."
"God bless you, George, if it wasn't for you—"
The doctor waved him off and cut him short. “I want you to go up and lie down, Elliot,” he said. “You haven't slept and you need your rest. The hardest part is still to come. You have to bury them, and I don't want to bury you alongside them. I'm going to go down and put the fear of God into Amy Croft. Then I'll send her back to clean this up and prepare Mary for the undertaker. I'll send him out here this afternoon. You'll want to have it over with quickly. When the Harcourts arrive, have Clive and Jacob Wythe dig the graves—don't you dare lift a spade to that task."
"If you don't mind, George, I'll stay here with Mary until Mrs. Croft returns. I don't want to leave her . . . alone."
The doctor shook a weary head. “You'd best have one of these, then.” Taking a powder sachet from his satchel, he poured some water into a glass from the pitcher on the dresser, prepared the draught, and offered it. “Drink,” he charged. “All of it, Elliot. You're courting a full-fledged heart seizure. I don't know how much plainer I can make it."
Elliot drained the glass and handed it back, grimacing at the bitter dregs. “Evidently my heart is a good deal stronger than you give it credit for,” he said. “After what it's had to deal with since all this began last night, that it's beating at all is a miracle—or a curse, however you will."
"Then it's earned a rest,” said Howard, “see that it gets it. We do have a bargain if you recall? Well, judging from what I'm hearing in that chest, if you don't settle down I won't be obliged to keep it much longer."
Rape of the Soul Page 17