The Devil’s Due

by Boucher, Rita

  Chapter 6

  Vesey’s eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. Of late, Chloe always preferred to keep the shades drawn. In his estimation, it was an excellent sign that the drug was taking its course, causing a slow but inevitable decline. The doctors, of course, were easily fooled, unwilling to admit that they could neither diagnose nor treat his wife’s supposed ailment. They clucked their tongues, quacked her with a myriad of nostrums and presented their bills. Unfortunately, the price of getting away with murder was proving to be high, but then he could well afford it. It would be said that John Vesey had spared no expense to cure his unfortunate spouse.

  “My darling,” Vesey murmured, forcing himself to take hold of his wife’s bloated fingers and bringing them briefly to his lips.

  “John,” she whispered, blinking as if not quite sure of his presence. “Have you had any word?”

  “Nothing, my love,” Vesey said bowing his head in feigned sadness to hide his anger. “There is not a trace of Katherine or the child.”

  “I vow, I nearly wept when Silence Jersey asked about dear little Anne today . . . or was it yesterday?” Her voice trailed off in confusion.

  How in the devil had Lady Jersey gotten in to see Chloe? He had given strict orders that his wife not be disturbed. It was most unfortunate that the notorious gossip had found out about Katherine’s disappearance. The servant that had let it slip had been dismissed without reference. However, most of society still accepted the story that Lady Steele had retired to the country and thus far, Chloe had supported the Banbury tale, eager to avoid scandal. Nonetheless with Chloe’s deteriorating condition, there was no telling what she might say. If word got out, people might start to wonder, begin to ask questions. . .

  “John, I meant to inquire . . .” His wife flitted to another topic. “About the maid, Becky, the one who was found floating in the Thames. . . “

  This time, Vesey allowed his anger to show. “Who told you?” he exploded. “I vow they will be out on the streets by day’s end.”

  “John!” Chloe exclaimed, putting her fingers over her ears.

  “I am sorry, my love,” Vesey soothed. “It is just that I would protect you from these sordid realities.”

  “And keep me from knowing what is taking place in my own household,” Chloe said, with a trace of her former shrewdness. “‘Twas Lady Jersey who made mention. It would seem that her abigail was the chit’s aunt. She was increasing, poor girl.”

  “The lower orders,” John mumbled, as if that was all the explanation necessary.

  “Poor Anne.” Chloe’s mind wove back to her former topic. “I cannot believe that Katherine would do such a horrible thing. To steal my jewels was a foul deed, but to take the Steele heirlooms as well! They are part of the entail, Anne’s inheritance.”

  “Yes, ‘tis hard to believe that Anne will inherit a barony in her own right,” Vesey declared, his fists clenched.

  “The Steeles are an ancient family,” Chloe said, warming to one of her favorite topics. “It is quite unusual that a title can descend through the female line.”

  As Chloe droned on about Charles I, royal charters, grants and William the Conqueror, Vesey’s thoughts were running in circles. The female line . . . a pity that Marcus had not gotten himself killed sooner, before he married and sired a pretty little obstacle. Once more, Vesey examined all the possibilities. Chloe would die of course, though he dared not increase the dose beyond its present level, and then he would be free to marry again. Katherine. His tongue slipped stealthily over his lips as he thought of his brother-by-marriage’s widow.

  She had refused his attentions before, but would she agree if it was marriage that he offered this time? It had been poor judgement on his part to jump the gun.

  “. . . do about the maid, John”

  Something in his wife’s voice brought his attention back to focus upon her. “Dear?”

  “You are not listening,” Chloe said peevishly. “I was just saying that the maid ought to be replaced.”

  “You are quite right my love. Dear little Anne will require someone to care for her when she is found. I will see to it myself,” John promised. It was one promise that he intended to keep.

  . . .

  It was wet, cold and wet. Anne’s eyes flew open, glowing in the light of the bedside candle. Cur whined softly, his rough tongue licking her fingers with canine urgency. Grabbing the cloth of her nightrail, the dog gave a gentle tug.

  Her mother stirred and sighed, “Duncan,” she whispered.

  The Sad Man’s name.

  Poor Mamma, too tired for even a bedtime story, yawning out the words to Anne’s favorite poem about the tiger. Lucky thing that Mamma knew it by heart, because her eyes were half-closed when she turned the pages. It was all his fault. Since the Sad Man came, Mamma was always working. She said it was because they had to get ready for winter, but Anne knew that Mamma just didn’t want to be where the Sad Man was. When the Sad Man was out fishing, Mamma was in the garden. When the Sad Man was fixing the goat pen, Mamma went out hunting. Mamma didn’t seem to mind the Smiling Man, neither did Daisy, though she was forever telling him that he was a nuisance and underfoot. That meant Daisy liked the Smiling Man. Wasn’t she always calling Anne a nuisance and telling her that she was in the way?

  Daisy turned on the truckle bed. Mamma had wanted her to share the big bed when she had moved into the room with them when the Sad Man and the Smiling Man had come, but Daisy said that wasn’t her place. Anne had been glad that it wasn’t Daisy’s place since Daisy snored really loud. Even from near the fireplace, Anne could hear the harsh, rasping in and out sound.

  Cur whined softly, pulling once more at Anne’s gown. Stealthily, the girl slipped out of bed, her bare feet quiet on the stone floor. She took the candlestick in her hand, glad that it hadn’t burnt itself down to a nub yet. It couldn’t be too late, that meant, since her Mamma had lit a new one just before bed. Anne hated the dark, feared it, but with the glow of the light and Cur to guide her, she stepped into the corridor. She was about to turn back when Cur pulled at her once more and looked at her, telling her he needed her help. She remembered the stories about her Grandpapa leading his troops. She would be brave like her the Colonel.

  There was no sound in the shadowed hall, save the rhythmic clicking of Cur’s paws, until they were midway down the stair. Then it came, a slow moan, echoing upward, rising, and then dying into silence. A sudden draft snuffed the flame. Anne clutched at the animal’s furry coat tugging him back, but the dog would not halt. Instead, he seemed determined to pull her onward, down toward the bowels of the kitchen to confront whatever-it-was. Given the choice of facing the darkness solo sans candle or a ghost in Cur’s company, Anne chose the latter.

  The dog led her to the door of the cramped room behind the kitchen that was once Daisy’s place before the Sad Man and the Smiling Man had come. There was little light from the window in the chamber, but she could see the hulking shadow of the Sad Man tangled in the sheets. There was no sign of the Smiling Man, save a disarranged mound of blankets on the floor. He was gone! Had the ghost got him? Perhaps that was what Cur wanted, for her to wake the Sad Man so that they could find him.

  It began as a whimper, then rose in pitch until the aching sound of loneliness and loss filled the small room. Anne moved closer and watched the Sad Man’s sleeping face contort in a nightmare of agony. The sliver of moonlight touched his cheek and made it glisten. The Sad Man was crying in his sleep. Anne suddenly understood. Poor Sad Man, with no Mamma to chase the bad dreams away.

  . . .

  Kate blinked, instantly awake, her insides knotted as a clenched fist. Daisy’s snore echoed across the room, strong and reassuring. It was the dream, Kate told herself. That idiotic dream had woken her yet again. Once more, she had been in Duncan’s arms; he had been holding her, his mouth hard upon hers with an all-consuming hunger. Although she had been able to partially avoid him by day, Kate could not evade him at night.

&nb
sp; Shameful though it felt, she did not want to. Two kisses were the sum of her experience, yet over the past weeks, imagination had woven those brief moments into a tapestry of emotion, the feel of his hand, the texture of his tongue, the taste of his lips, the deep rumble of his voice and every shade of grey from laughter to desire in that single mocking eye. Far better to dream of him than to face that reality had transformed her into a fool.

  As the drowsiness dissipated, Kate became aware that something was wrong, missing from the usual night sounds. The gentle rhythm of Anne’s breathing, she couldn’t hear it. Frantically, she pulled away the cover beside her. Anne was not there. “Anne?” she whispered.

  The chamber pot in the corner was unoccupied. Daisy murmured softly, turning on her side and her sawing ceased momentarily. Kate drew a deep breath as she tried to arrange her thoughts. The candle by the bedside had been taken. Surely the child would not have ventured outside alone? Not with her fear of the dark.

  At first, Kate thought it might be the wind she heard, but the distant melancholy sound was not coming from the window. It came through the open door.

  . . .

  “No,” The Sad Man cried. “Leave him alone . . . he’s only a boy. Il est un enfant.”

  Anne cocked her head, watching the Sad Man, wondering what would do next. He was sitting bolt upright, his eye open, but she knew that he didn’t see her.

  He was seeing the boy.

  He was telling a story.

  “Do not dare touch him. Stay behind me, Colin, lad.”

  A story about a boy named Colin.

  . . .

  Kate heard Duncan’s voice from the stair. “Non . . . non . . . aren’t you man enough to find yourself a woman? He’s only a child for heaven’s sake.”

  “Anne?” Kate held her candle high, startled at the sight of her daughter in the room. “Lord MacLean?”

  But there was no reply, just a cold forbidding stare, a look that held both terror and threat.

  The girl ran to bury her face in the soft flannel of her mother’s gown.

  “You bastards! You buggering bastards! If you want him, you will have to come take him,” Duncan roared, his arms thrown wide as if to bar a path. The room was hot, but not warm enough to account for the heavy sheen of sweat on his chest and forehead. “Stay behind me Colin; they will have to get past me, laddie.”

  A nightmare; he was in the throes of a horrific dream. Kate moved forward, ready to pull him from the grip of his imagination’s conjuring.

  “No, ma’am, don’t be wakin’ ‘im now, not that way.” Fred came from behind Kate and put a restraining hand on her arm.

  “He’s in pain,” Kate said, her eyes upon that agony-contorted face. “You must wake him.” She led Anne outside the room to the stair and sat her down with Cur and the candle before returning to the bedside.

  “Aye, I will, but not just yet, else I’ll ‘ave a fist in the face, and it’ll be me with a black eye and ‘I’m sorry, Fred’ till it fades,” Fred said, putting himself between her and his master. “The Major won’t know you, or me. Best thing to stay clear of ‘im, and take the little miss away. ‘ee don’t see any of us; ‘tis Frenchies ‘ee sees. Most times, I wake ‘im when ‘ee starts to tossin’ and moanin’, before the dream gets this far. But devil take it, I couldn’t get any shuteye and got to longin’ for a pipe and went walkin’ and smokin’. I’ll take care of ‘im now. You take the little one and go before things get real ugly.”

  Duncan was panting, his breath coming in great heaves, his eye dark with terrors that Kate could only imagine. “Who was Colin?” she asked Fred in low tones.

  The Cockney shook his head. “A drummer boy what was taken with us. Couldn’t ‘ave been more than a dozen years in ‘is dish. Colin was the company pet.” The small man sighed before he continued in an undertone. “Blue eyes an’ lashes long as your own, ma’am, I swear. Pretty as a lass, poor lad.”

  Though his words were garbled by haste and his Cockney accent, there was no misreading the unspoken message in Fred’s eyes. Kate felt the blood draining from her face as she recalled Lord MacLean’s words.

  “The Major put himself twixt the boy and the Frenchies. Goes without sayin’ ‘ee couldn’t do nothin’ against men with cudgels and bayonets. But the Major tried, the only one of us what did, I’m blamed to say. Bloodied ‘em though, ‘ee did,” Fred said with pride, “knocked two of them Frenchies cold before ‘is eye got put out.”

  “Non passent.” Duncan’s eye narrowed as the enemies in his mind advanced.

  “Lucifer’s own luck, the Major lived through it. A Welsh doctor was taken with us in La Purgatoor. Saved ‘im.”

  “And Colin?”

  “Never saw ‘im again,” Fred recalled, his eyes glistening. He glanced significantly at the glow of the candle from the kitchen stair. “Best to get the wee lass gone. She might get scared with what’s yet to come.”

  Kate nodded and carried Anne upstairs, the dog following. So far it seemed that the child was more fascinated than frightened. Thankfully, Anne did not seem to understand the drama that was being reenacted before her. She lifted her child and hugged her close as they reached the landing. “Let us go to Daisy, love,” she said softly. “Lord MacLean is having a bad dream.”

  At the top of the stairs, the girl looked back over her shoulder as if reluctant to leave. Kate set her down and knelt beside her. “Do you want me to go back and see if I may help?” Kate asked.

  To Kate’s surprise, Anne nodded a slow unspoken assent.

  “I will set the candlestick by the bed,” Kate said, “and Cur may stay with you, just this once. Now hop right into bed and I shall be joining you in a trice.” She watched Anne scramble up, Cur hopping on top to the covers to join her.

  Although she hated to pull Daisy from her well-deserved rest, she shook her awake.

  “I’ll explain later,” Kate promised. “Stay with Anne.”

  “Cowards! You won’t take him!” Duncan’s shout echoed from below.

  Anne pointed to the door.

  . . .

  “Thought I gave you and the girl marchin’ orders,” Fred said, as Kate reentered the small chamber.

  “Anne is upstairs with Daisy; I came back to help,” Kate told him. “I have some experience dealing with nightmares.”

  Slowly, carefully, she edged toward the man in the bed.

  “I don’t know, milady,” Fred began. “Seems this might not be a good idea.”

  “Colin, I thought I told you to get behind me!” Duncan’s hand snaked out and he pulled her to him, partially shielding her with his own body.

  “You are safe, Major,” she whispered softly. “Safe here in your own bed. This is only a dream, a bad dream.”

  “Stay back, lad!” Lord MacLean’s voice grew in volume, screaming strings of oaths and imprecations in English, French and Gaelic, as the phantom attackers grew closer.

  Fred moved forward, as if to snatch her away, but that only caused MacLean to grasp her tighter. Kate could feel his heart racing, his breath catching, like a spent runner’s. She had to pull him from the depths. Gently, carefully, she put his lips to his forehead.

  He stilled.

  “I am here, Duncan,” she murmured. “I am with you in your dream. You are safe in my arms.”

  From the recesses of her memory, Kate recalled the sound of her mother’s voice. Although she knew the melody to the Scottish lullaby, the only lyrics she knew were in English. Softly, Kate began to sing. “Go to sleep my baby,” she began.

  As she wove the tune, the rictus of terror eased. He began to relax in her arms. She eased into the bed beside him, laying her cheek against his bare chest. Over and over again, she repeated the lullaby until the drumbeat of his heart began to slow. His eyes drifted shut. His death grip on her wrist began to ease, but she did not try to move away until his breaths settled into a slow, natural rhythm. He moaned softly as she rose and reluctantly slipped away.

  “A bloody miracle,” Fred
said in quiet wonder, “that’s what you are. I ain’t never seen the like.”

  “Unfortunately, as I mentioned, I have more than a passing acquaintance with nightmares.” She whispered. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “If he wakes, it might be shamin’ ‘im to see you ‘ere when ‘ee comes to ‘imself. You see that he ain’t wearin’ no nightshirt. Naked ‘neath those bed clothes, the Major is, bare as Adam was when ‘ee first opened eyes in Eden.”

  She flushed. “Come get me if there’s need then.”

  “Aye, I surely will, milady,” Fred agreed.

  Quietly making her way back up the stairs, she faltered as she unraveled the Cockney’s earlier words. “La Purgatoor” It could be none other than the fabled French prison, La Purgatoire. Some officers had used it as a goad to their troops, the one threat that would make even the most cowardly of men fight like berserkers rather than be taken. Like Hell, it was a place from which no one had ever returned, yet no soldier doubted its existence. And Duncan MacLean had survived it, escaped it.

  A new candle was burning when she returned to the bedroom and Daisy was sitting beside Anne. Tears glistened on child’s cheeks. “Hush love. He will be fine,” Kate whispered to the trembling girl, brushing back tangled curls. “‘Tis but a dream, and dreams do not have the power to hurt us. Remember Anne; remember how you would wake in the middle of the night? Your bad dreams went away, and Lord MacLean’s will too, in time. Now, hush, and do not be afraid. He is a good man, a very good and brave man and he has his Fred to help him.”

  How much had she comprehended? Kate wondered as Anne stared back at her solemnly. But the simple reassurance seemed to be enough. Kate held her close until the tears stopped flowing and Anne was sucking her thumb, her lids drooping as she drifted into slumber.

  Daisy rose and Cur jumped back up in the bed, placing himself protectively beside the child. “Off with you, you mangy mongrel,” Daisy grumbled, moving to shoo him from the mattress. “Lie with dogs, rise with fleas,”