Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

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  Chapter Thirteen

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  The Harcourts arrived at the dinner hour. Martha, a plump, round-faced woman of thirty, with owlish eyes and a voice that set the vicar's teeth on edge, and her husband, Clive, a tall, thin, balding man who said little and did less. Not the best of all bargains for the tasks at hand, thought Elliot, but there was no choice but to have them. Martha went straight to the nursery, and Clive disappeared in the direction of the kitchen the moment the question of wages was settled.

  They arrived too late to dig the graves. The sun had already set. Just before dawn the following morning, the vicar accompanied Clive and Jacob Wythe to the site he had blessed for the graveyard, and showed them where to dig. By the time the coffins arrived, all was in readiness for the burial, but no one had seen Colin since he'd fled Mary's chamber the previous morning, and Elliot refused to proceed without him. According to Harris, the boy had ridden off toward the south moor astride Odin just after the child was born, and that was the last anyone had seen of him. When another night and day passed with still no sign of him, the vicar had no choice. A fresh storm was threatening, and on the morning of the third day the coffins were lowered into the ground just ahead of it.

  George Howard and everyone on the estate, with the exception of Martha Harcourt, was present at the funeral services, and they were all forced to endure Amy's bleak augur that it was bad luck for rain to fall in an open grave. No one agreed with that more than Clive Harcourt and Jacob Wythe, who dragged themselves back to the house drenched to the skin after having been left behind to close the graves in she squall.

  Disturbed over Colin's absence, the vicar couldn't concentrate on anything else through the services. Afterward, he returned to the house and went to the study. When he'd buried the bodies, part of himself had gone into the ground along with them. Something in the region of the heart. What was left of it was beating in an alarmingly spastic rhythm. He could hear it echoing in his ears this time without George Howard and his stethoscope. It was incomprehensible to him that Colin had left him there to deal with the situation alone. That, and the ordeal of the funeral needed to be purged with something, and he trickled some cognac into a snifter and sank into the wing chair beside the fire. But the brandy Colin set such store in offered him nothing in the way of solace.

  It was nearly time for tea when he began to doze. Exhaustion dragged his eyelids down. They grew heavy and finally closed, and it wasn't until sometime later when the room had grown dark around him that the tinkle of glass against glass nudged him awake, and his eyes slowly focused on Colin, filling his snifter at the pedestal table beside the liquor cabinet. The boy had changed his wet clothes and combed his damp, wavy hair back neatly. At sight of him, Elliot vaulted out of the chair.

  "Colin,” he cried. “My God, where have you been?"

  "Away from the stink of death,” said the boy, swallowing hard from the snifter.

  "How could you not be here for the funeral? I delayed it as long as I could."

  "You wouldn't have wanted me here I promise you. If I had been, you'd have had to dig another grave for that sonofabitch, Howard. Don't worry, I paid my respects. I've just come from the graveyard."

  The vicar lit the lamp. “You know, you might have given a thought to the rest of us here,” he said. “I've hired a wet nurse for the baby. Her husband's come, too. We need the help out here in any case."

  "It's alive, then?"

  Elliot frowned, remembering. “Yes, no thanks to Mrs. Croft,” he said. “She tried to throw him out the window not five minutes after you left the room."

  "Here, here,” Colin erupted, raising his glass. “I've always admired that woman's good judgment. She's got pluck, bigod!"

  What the vicar had first thought to be sarcasm was indeed something else—something that chilled him to the marrow. “She would have killed him, Colin.” he breathed.

  "Don't pretend that wouldn't have been best for all concerned."

  "Not at the expense of Amy Croft's neck in a hangman's noose."

  Colin sighed. “No, I suppose not,” he conceded. “It is a boy, then? I thought as much, but I wasn't sure. It all happened so fast up there."

  The vicar nodded. “Don't you think it's about time you've seen him? You need to meet his wet nurse in any case, since she is in your employ."

  Colin thought for a moment. His cold eyes were unreadable. “I suppose,” he said at last. “Let's have it over with shall we? But I'd best have another of these first.” He poured more brandy into his glass and swallowed it down. “Where have you got him?"

  "Up in the south wing turret room—your old nursery on the third floor."

  Colin laughed. “Good show,” he said. “I couldn't have chosen a better dungeon myself. Well, let's go up and see who my new nephew favors, shall we?"

  Martha had just finished feeding the child when they entered the nursery. The vicar conducted a strained introduction, and the wet nurse came close, cradling the baby in her arms.

  "My Harold, what died comin’ inta this world, he was fair, you know, like my husband, not dark like this little tyke here,” she said, “but he's beautiful just the same, this little one is, and I'll care for him just like he was my own, sir—I swear it."

  "Yes, well, I'm sure that you will,” Colin said awkwardly, staring down into the dark thing's penetrating eyes.

  "Would you like ta hold him, sir?” said Martha, offering him toward the boy.

  "Christ, no!” Colin blurted, wiping moist hands on his thighs. “I . . . I've just come in from the storm,” he recovered. “It wouldn't do to give him a chill, then, would it?"

  Martha snatched the child back to her breast. “No, sir,” she said. “He'll be goin’ ta sleep now anyway."

  She started to lower the child into the cradle but turned back, her round eyes bulging beneath a frown. “There is one thing, sir,” she said, “'tis this cradle. ‘Tis awful hard and narrow for the little one, and if I pad it fuller ta give him a softer lie-down he won't fit inta it nohow. Can we find somethin’ nicer for him ta sleep in, sir?"

  Colin arched his brow and expanded his posture. “That, madam, was my cradle.” he said, looking down his nose at her. “It served me well enough and, bigod, it will serve him, also."

  "Y-yes, sir,” she murmured.

  "I think I've seen enough here, Elliot,” said the boy, backing away.

  But the vicar's eyes were still fixed on the child and he scarcely heard.

  Impatient, Colin tugged on his jacket. “Come on, Elliot, we'll come back another time."

  "Oh, you can come up anytime,” said Martha, “or I can bring him ta you as you please, sir."

  "He is not to leave this room, madam,” Colin snapped. “You will tend him here in these apartments. I will not have him carried about the house . . . eh, the halls are drafty."

  "Yes, sir,” said Martha, “whatever you say, sir."

  "Good. Do not bother me with details. He is in your charge—totally. Carry on, then."

  Outside in the hall the boy hurried Elliot away. “Christ! Did you see the look in its eyes?” he said, steering the vicar toward the staircase. “No wonder poor Amy was set to fling it out on the cliff."

  "It's almost as though he's aware of what's going on around him. But that can't be, can it, Colin?"

  "You're asking me? I should imagine that would be your department. Christ, Elliot, what put that into her? I was hoping to see something I could recognize—something that might lead me to whoever it was that's done this. That's the only reason I went into that room just now. It could have been the Gypsies, I suppose. They haven't come back since. Christ, I just don't know."

  "Mrs. Croft will have no part of him. George suggested keeping Martha on as nanny when he's older. I think he's right, Colin. You know how superstitious Mrs. Croft is. I don't want anything like what happened the day he was born repeated."

  "Well, bigod, I do belie
ve I've finally found something upon which old Howard and I agree,” Colin ground out through a chuckle.

  "What will you call him?"

  "Call him?"

  "He has to have a name, Colin. When I baptize him—"

  "You will not baptize that unholy affront to God,” the boy thundered, spinning around on the stairs. “I will not allow it!"

  "Colin, he has to be baptized."

  "I am certainly no theologian, but to baptize that up there would be sacrilege."

  "Colin, do not think to revenge yourself upon that child. Like it or not, he is your flesh and blood. You cannot deny him the rite of baptism—that would be sacrilege."

  "I have never been,” snarled Colin, thumping his breast with a clenched fist, “and that up there will not have anything that I have been denied—ever."

  Stunned, the vicar swayed as though he'd been struck. “You've never been baptized?” he breathed. “Oh, Colin, you must let me at once, I—"

  "Ohhhh, no,” the boy interrupted him, “no, Elliot. You're not going to baptize me—not now—not ever. I don't believe there is a God. Baptizing me would be more of a sacrilege than baptizing the bastard."

  "Oh, Colin . . ."

  "Elliot, if you value our friendship you won't bring this up again."

  It was useless to argue with the boy in this sort of humor, and the vicar shook his head in defeat. “Very well, let's leave that for now,” he said, “but you still need to give him a name. George needs it for the birth record."

  Colin shrugged. “Call him anything you like so long as it's not a family name,” he said, continuing down the stairs, “Cuthbert, Roger, Malcolm—please yourself. He'll answer to ‘bastard’ when he answers to me—that's his bloody name, bigod, so far as I'm concerned."

  "I am not going to name that baby, Colin. Don't you dare think to ask it. Now choose."

  Colin glowered. “All right—Malcolm then,” he spat. “There was a sniveling little sod at Eton named Malcolm—even the underclassmen despised him. Yes, that will do nicely. Satisfied?"

  "With that,” said the vicar. “Now I want you to tell me where you've been."

  "That is none of your business."

  "Oh, yes it is. As long as I live under this roof and I'm forced to add your responsibilities to my own, you will answer to me."

  "Is that so?” snapped Colin, spinning to face him again. His cold teal eyes were deadly. “Well, I can fix that in short order. Since my responsibilities are too much of a burden for you, I can lighten your load. You'll have your church in record speed now, Elliot—it I have to build it myself. If we are to remain friends, it's best that we put some distance between us."

  "Colin, please don't do this. I don't know you like this. I know you're hurting...please don't shut me out."

  "I'm not shutting you out, Elliot, I'm shutting myself in—alone. And now if you will excuse me, I'm going to begin by getting very, very drunk."

  All at once a new thought occurred to the vicar, one that stalled his mind and seized his heart like an icy fist. “My God, Colin—wait!” he cried. “If you were never baptized, what of Mary? Was she . . .?"

  Colin's expression answered him. The boy's set jaw and arched brow spoke louder than the ‘no’ his lips would have uttered, and Elliot's thumping heart sank.

  Standing frozen on the step, he watched Colin sprint down the stairs and stalk off across the Great Hall. There was finality in the sound of the study door slamming shut after him that made the blood in the vicar's veins run cold. On the one hand, they had been riven apart, while on the other they had been bound together unequivocally by circumstance, and as he dragged himself wearily back to his chamber, Elliot knew with sinking heart, that neither of them would ever be the same again.

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  Chapter Fourteen

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  Colin was as good as his word. Since the labor disputes had stalemated, he hired a crew of potential parishioners from the village to raise the church and vicarage. Rina Banks was summoned from Ramsey House, and before what remained of the rhododendron bloomed along the northern ridge, Elliot had taken up residence in St. Michael's vicarage at Cragmoor Cross.

  Colin supervised the construction himself. He inspected the church once it was completed, scrutinizing everything from the tall, square bell tower, to the arched, stained glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross that marched down the length of the building on either side. He examined the baptistry, the elaborately carved pulpit and altar, and the magnificent rendering of St. Michael, also crafted in stained glass, in the domed apse of the sanctuary. Once he was satisfied that it met the specifications of his father's plan in every detail, he strode outside, presented Elliot with the key, and didn't enter it again.

  As George Howard had predicted, the church soon filled with grateful parishioners on Sunday mornings, and Elliot began his ministry trying to bury the dead and take care of the living as the doctor had advised. But that was difficult for him to do, while he could see the grim reminder of his failures from his bedroom window overlooking the graveyard. As far as he was concerned, the final chapter in the book of Chapin would remain unfinished until he'd reached Colin, and he would have traded every attentive face in the congregation for just one glimpse of the boy sitting there. God, however, didn't affect the trade, and though he searched the sea of faces looking toward him every Sunday, Colin's wasn't among them.

  Determined to preserve their friendship, Elliot visited Cragmoor often. He also wanted to monitor Malcolm's progress, since Colin openly despised the child. But it wasn't for Malcolm's sake that he kept a close eye on the boy as he grew, his feelings in that regard were a soul-rending mix of repugnance and guilt, far too acute for him to justify with God. The memory of how close Amy Croft had come to meeting the hangman wouldn't leave him, and he lived in deathly fear that Colin in a drunken rage, or Amy in a fit of superstitious hysteria might do something that would cost one of them their life.

  Everyone in the house avoided Malcolm with the exception of Martha Harcourt, who considered him a God-given replacement for the son she'd lost in childbirth. That nurtured Malcolm as he grew, watching the reactions of the others around him with an uncanny awareness that seemed far beyond his years. His strange dark eyes missed nothing, and he soon became aware of Colin's hatred. That was where he fixed his attention, and he'd mastered the art of goading his uncle long before he left the nursery.

  Fascinated with the sea and the wild Cornish storms, the child would sit for hours beside the panoramic nursery windows set in the turret wall, his dark stare fixed on the high-rolling combers cresting toward shore, his ears delighting in the angry voices of wind and water in discordant concert.

  By the time he was four, he'd become accustomed to the grounds from long outings with Martha. It was during one of those treks that he discovered the ring and it soon became his favorite place to play, second only to the great jutting brow of the cliff.

  Once he was no longer confined, Amy became subjected to the dark child's scrutiny as well. He seemed to delight in her fear of him, putting himself in her path as often as he could. It was almost as if he knew what she had done. She complained continually to the vicar, since Colin was away more than not in those days, and he counseled her to ignore the boy, but Amy was too transparent to effect that sort of strategy, and in his uncle's absence, she became Malcolm's chief target.

  One late summer day in eighteen sixty-eight when the vicar paid his usual call, he found Colin at home in rare good spirits. Giles Sayre, his tenant in London, had contracted to purchase Ramsey House, and Colin was preparing to go there in order to finalize the sale. It was early in the week and he persuaded the vicar to accompany him, promising to have him home in plenty of time for Sunday services. Elliot hadn't been to London in nearly five years, and he hadn't had a holiday since he'd come to the coast. Delighted at the opportunity of spending some quality time with Colin while he was sober and in an amiabl
e humor, Elliot accepted and Clive Harcourt drove them in the chaise.

  Giles Sayre was a warm, good-natured man of means. His shipbuilding firm in Plymouth had been successful, and he'd maintained control despite an accident years earlier that had left him with a pronounced limp and dependence upon a cane. His three daughters were delightful. In their teens, Virginia and Grace were vivacious and charming. Both were fair, like their father had been before the gray had silvered his hair, and their eyes were a clear, sparkling blue. Emily, the eldest and more mature of the trio, was equally lovely, with soft violet eyes and hair the color of summer wheat. She was nearing her twenty-fourth birthday and was more delicate than her robust sisters, with less color in her cheeks, though they flushed admirably in the vicar's presence. Despite her slow recovery from a late spring chill, it was she who took it upon herself to see to their guests’ every need, shooing the others away when their hovering threatened to interfere with the business arrangements taking place.

  Giles doted on his daughters and they adored him, seeing to his comfort en masse. When he mentioned wanted to have Emily's portrait painted for her birthday, Elliot was quick to recommend the prominent artist, Ira Stanley, whom he knew from his first post at Holy Martyrs. He jotted down Stanley's address for Giles and promised to contact the artist personally to vouch for the lovely subject himself.

  Away from Malcolm's shadow, Colin relaxed. Once the formalities of the agreement were prepared for the solicitors, they enjoyed a fine dinner at the Sayres’ table, and Emily, who was an accomplished pianist, treated them to several flawlessly rendered selections from Bach.

  But the day spent at Ramsey House, so filled with bittersweet memories for the vicar, passed all too quickly, and once they'd embarked on the long journey back to Cragmoor, Colin's mood began to darken. The vicar didn't probe him. As young as he was there was no disputing that Colin was a man, and Elliot was wise enough to keep his distance by then. Besides, it didn't take much effort to discern the cause of Colin's changed disposition. The respite was over. He was on his way back to Cragmoor—and to Malcolm. But Elliot was anxious to hold onto the Colin he feared he'd left behind at Ramsey House as long as he possibly could, and he attempted to draw him into a conversation he hoped would recapture that image.