Daniel hadn’t turned up for the meeting of the trustees, which was held in a sumptuous conference room on the second floor of the bank building. All the men were getting on in years, corpulent to varying degrees, and patronizing in manner.
‘Mr Ayres is preparing for the Collins case,’ Albert Sedgewick said and, although he didn’t state it, he went on to make it perfectly clear that the late squire’s widow shouldn’t meddle in Cheverton affairs. ‘I’m quite sure Mr Ayres has his brother’s interests at heart. Besides, everything is approved by the board, which was appointed by your husband, the late squire.’
‘I’d like to see the account books, Mr Sedgewick.’
They all appeared affronted by the suggestion. ‘My dear, Mrs Matheson,’ another of them said, ‘that’s quite impossible at the moment. They’re in Dorchester.’
‘But the bank is here, so why are the books in Dorchester?’
‘They’re being independently audited by an accountant, a common practice applied to trusts. It keeps the trustees honest.’ They gazed at each other with indulgent chuckles, like naughty boys with secrets. ‘Rest assured, the estate properties are being maintained as they should be.’
‘The land isn’t being worked properly. When I spoke to Mr Ayres last week he assured me harvesting had started. It hasn’t. I believe the labourers spend more time in the inn than in the fields. Poor as it is, that corn crop needs harvesting immediately. If nothing else, it will sell for stock feed. I want a competent steward appointed to manage Cheverton. Is that clear?’
‘Mr Ayres has a signed contract. We cannot break it without good reason, and without incurring penalties.’
Siana stood up, for she wanted to get home to her elder son, who’d been unwell that morning. She gazed at them all with as much hauteur as she could muster. ‘Mr Ayres is incompetent. Is that good reason enough? Any penalty the estate had to pay him would be compensated by a decent harvest next year, no doubt. I intend to see those account books, gentlemen. As soon as the audit is finished, have them sent to my house. Otherwise, I’ll appoint a lawyer to act on my son’s behalf.’
They didn’t bother lowering their voices as she left. ‘Matheson’s widow is a fetching little piece,’ one of them said. ‘No breeding, of course, which is why Daniel dropped her in the first place. His father wasn’t so fussy. But they say there’s no fool like an old fool, and she soon had Edward twisted around her finger.’
‘I’d happily twist her around my finger,’ another said coarsely, and they all began to laugh.
Her mind churning with a mixture of anger and disgust, Siana slammed the door so hard the whole building shook.
It began to rain as she made her way up the hill. Still seething and wishing she had the power to loosen the hold these self-indulgent and smug men had on her life, she didn’t register the significance of it until she turned into the carriageway. When the rain became a downpour she realized with dismay that Cheverton’s corn crop was now lost to the estate.
Leaving Keara at the stable in the care of the outside man, she picked up her skirts and made a dash for the house, tumbling through the door pink-faced from exertion and anger.
She was met by Miss Edgar in the hall. ‘Master Ashley’s fever has worsened. Josh has gone to fetch the doctor.’
Everything else left Siana’s head. Throwing off her cloak and hat she ran to the nursery, taking the stairs two at a time. Bright spots of colour splashed her son’s cheeks, his eyes were glassy and bright from the fever. ‘Mamma,’ he whispered and, crawling into her lap, snuggled against her body, his thumb in his mouth.
Tears filled her eyes as she smoothed the damp strands of hair from his forehead. ‘The doctor will make you better,’ she whispered.
It was not Noah Baines who came, but the physician from town. His examination of Ashley was thorough. As soon as he’d finished, Ashley clung to his mother, whimpering, then his eyes closed and he fell asleep.
‘Hmmm,’ the doctor said. ‘Has he been in contact with other children recently?’
‘Only his sisters and brother.’
‘And they’re healthy?’
She nodded.
‘I see.’ He touched the back of Ashley’s arms where small, ruby-coloured patches had appeared. ‘I’m very much afraid he has contracted the scarlet fever. This rash is typical of it. There has been an outbreak of the disease at Croxley Farm. Have you visited there lately?’
‘No . . .’ Her eyes widened with fear. ‘But we recently had a visitor who had.’
‘You must expect the other children in your household to become ill as well, Mrs Matheson, for they’ve been exposed to the infection.’
By nightfall, Ashley’s rash was widespread. By morning, it became obvious that Susannah had caught the disease, too. By the end of the week, Daisy and Goldie were struck down, then Bryn.
Fortunately, Maryse and Pansy had already survived a mild dose in their infancy.
The disease hardly affected Bryn. It left his appetite unaffected, and he still demanded to be fed on time. The girls began to recover quickly, but not so Ashley. Despite Siana’s efforts to cool him down, his temperature soared and he drifted in and out of delirium. Following the normal pattern of the disease, the skin peeled from his tortured body. But unlike the girls, Ashley developed weeping sores.
The doctor shook his head. ‘I think the boy has a secondary infection, for he should be showing signs of recovery by now. Keep the sores free of pus and apply this salve. It will soothe them.’
Siana took her son to her own room, leaving him only when necessary. She had an armchair brought in so she could sleep next to him. She was there to comfort him when he woke, crying out and sweating and twisting in his sheets. But nothing she did would lower his fever, and he would begin to convulse. His suffering pierced her to the heart.
None of Josh’s entreaties could drag her away from his side, so he stopped trying.
She remained there for two weeks, during which time Ashley seemed to grow weaker minute by minute.
‘My beloved son, my beautiful gift from Edward,’ she whispered in his ear, her heart a mixture of despair and dread. ‘I love you so much.’
Even though they were still recovering from the fever, Siana was aware that the usual exuberance of the girls was muted. The maids talked in hushed whispers and she wanted to cry out in protest, ‘He’s not dead yet, and I refuse to let him die.’
But there was an awful inevitability about it. Siana could feel Ashley’s life being gradually withdrawn from her. Her heart railed against it as she ignored her intuition, for she couldn’t bear the thought of life without him. Only the vain hope that he would survive sustained her through those dark days.
Something woke her that night. She sat up to see the moon send an incandescent slant of light across the room. Eyes open, Ashley was gazing at her. He gave her a faint smile, whispering, ‘Mamma.’
Hope leaped like a tiger in her breast. For a heartbeat they gazed at each other, then his face contorted and he began to convulse. Fear shot through her. She gathered up his jerking body, holding him close to her as she entreated, ‘My beloved boy, don’t leave me.’ But she knew her prayers were in vain, for the gods had given her that one precious moment of recognition as a gift.
The convulsion stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving Ashley lying limp and heavy in her arms. There was no rise and fall of his chest, not even a sigh of breath. The house was hushed, as if everyone in it had stopped breathing at the same time. Even the clock seemed to have stopped its tick.
An anguished and silent scream was trapped within her throat, swollen with unshed tears. Siana kissed her son’s pale face. She felt as if her heart had died along with him. She wanted to die, too. There were scissors in her sewing basket. Laying her son on her bed, she crept along the corridor and down the stairs to fetch them, carrying them back.
Her finger touched against the pulse in her wrist. The scissor blades gleamed in the moonlight. All she had to do was open the veins and the life would drain from her, not cruelly like Ashley’s had but gently, so she’d go to sleep and die with him cradled in her arms.
She took the body of her beloved son in her arms and laying back against the pillows, placed the point of the scissors against her vein, closed her eyes and exerted a gentle pressure.
In the other room, Bryn gave a loud, demanding cry.
‘Damn him!’ she cried. Her breasts, which were aching from their bounty, flooded her bodice at the mere thought of being relieved, as if they too had heard Bryn cry out. He wasn’t even her child, she thought rebelliously. Why hadn’t he died instead of Ashley?
She squashed the traitorous thought. Yes, he was her child. She’d made him so, and she couldn’t change her mind now. So she couldn’t die yet, however much she hurt. There were others relying on her. She burst into loud, tormented sobs.
There was a touch on her arm. Goldie was there, trying to comfort her. The girl’s arms stole around her neck in a hug as she placed a sweet, loving kiss against her cheek. ‘Don’t cry, Mamma. God took Ashley’s soul away on the moonbeam to be an angel.’ The girl traced a finger over Ashley’s soft cheek. ‘I’ll wake Rosie up. She can help me look after Ashley, and you can feed baby Bryn. We’ll wash him, and I’ll find some nice clothes for him to wear. Then I’ll say a prayer for him.’
‘You’re far too young for such a sad task,’ Siana sobbed.
But Goldie wasn’t. She coaxed Ashley from Siana’s arms, laid him in his bed and lit a candle from the night light. ‘Go, Mamma, before Bryn wakes everyone else.’
Thus, Siana was parted from her beloved child to give succour to another, the demanding little cuckoo in her nest. Although her heart was set to break, she knew she had to be strong now, for she had no choice.
The rain, torrential for days, eased to a relentless drizzle that morning. Siana was adamant. Ashley would be buried in his rightful place, in the Forbes plot with his father.
The children had been left at home. They were still in quarantine, though their recovery from the fever was assured. Maryse and Pansy offered their support by asking to accompany her. Their faces were tense and pale from the enormity of this second recent tragedy in their lives. Siana wondered if any of them would ever laugh again.
But she had to be strong, for the children looked to her for support, and she couldn’t fail them.
Josh was driving them in a plain, black carriage. They followed after the hearse, pulled by four dark horses which walked at a pace seemly for the solemn occasion, the plumes on their heads bobbing.
The road was slick with mud, deep in parts. The horses’ plumed heads nodded with each step, water slanted off their broad backs.
Ashley’s small coffin was clearly visible through the glass sides. Siana couldn’t take her eyes off it. It was draped in a black silk cloth with a fringed edge, a cross embroidered on top in gold silk.
Sir Ashley Forbes, Bt. Her little squire. He’d never been aware of his importance. He’d just been loved and loving, like any mother’s son.
They were passing the little squire’s estate now. The corn was beaten down to a pulp by the rain, the gardens were unkempt, the haystacks mouldering. Water flooded across the road from the stream. Daniel had allowed the debris to build up. The cellars would be flooded.
Just as they were passing the gates the Forbes carriage came out, driven by the stable boy to join the cortège. The painted coat of arms was scratched. Siana caught a glimpse of Daniel gazing from the carriage window. He had no right to ride in his father’s carriage as if he was lord of the manor. He had no right to come to the funeral when he’d brought into her house the disease which had killed her son.
Siana hadn’t invited anyone to the funeral, not even the trustees of Ashley’s estate, who clearly disdained her. Still, there they were. But she had no need of them now, and intended to dismiss them as soon as she could. Then she would give Daniel notice to quit, too.
There were estate workers there as well, caps in hand, pinch-faced and grey-looking from constant hardship. They should be in the fields, preparing them for the next season. It was hard to believe she’d been the same as them once, before Edward had allowed her to escape such poverty.
The earth was relentless as it followed its own seasons of birthing and dying. It accepted her son into its sodden depths without remorse, pulling him into its crumbling womb and closing over him before he’d hardly lived.
The Reverend White’s voice droned on. Siana stood on one side of the grave, arm in arm with her stepdaughters, taking comfort from them. If they hadn’t been with her she didn’t think she could have borne this.
On the other side stood Daniel Ayres, fleshy-faced and arrogant. He was surrounded by the trustees, dressed all in black and hunched into their collars like a collection of sodden crows. Daniel’s dark eyes were upon her, defiant and relentless. When had he become her enemy?
She turned her face up to the sky’s drifting tears, felt their coldness against her skin. I’m sorry, Edward, she thought. Here is our little squire, now committed to your care. Had you lived to see him, you would have delighted in his existence.
Her face felt as if it had been carved from stone. What would she do now? Sell the estate, perhaps, for Edward Forbes, having no legitimate heir but Ashley, had covered this eventuality in his last will and testament. She shivered. It was almost as if he’d known it would come about. The estate had now become hers to do as she liked with. It was a poor exchange.
When the reverend finished, she accepted his condolences and turned to follow after Josh and the girls. Daniel stepped into her path. ‘Wait, Mrs Matheson.’
‘What is it, Mr Ayres?’
‘I thought you should know. I intend to challenge my father’s will.’
Blood rushed to her ears and her reaction was too swift to be stopped. Her palm cracked across his cheek. ‘You’re an insult to your mother. I’ve lost my beloved son and not only do you make a mockery of his funeral, but you inform me of your intent to pick the meat from his bones before he’s cold in his grave.’
Nerves twitched in a grotesque dance across his cheeks as people turned at her raised voice.
He moved closer. ‘Not only will I have the estate, I’ll have you as well, Siana, whether you like it or not.’
Siana pushed him away from her. ‘Over my dead body.’ Overhearing, Maryse gave a distressed cry and Pansy gasped.
‘Perhaps that could be arranged, too,’ he said, his eyes boring into hers, a pulse beating furiously in his jaw. Siana’s throat dried as, for the first time, she felt physically endangered by him. But her eyes never left his, and, eventually he shifted his gaze away.
Moving between them, Josh growled, ‘Get out of her way, Ayres. I’ll knock your bleddy head from your shoulders, else.’
There was no doubt that he meant it, for his fists were clenched and his body was tightly coiled with fury. She had never seen her easy-going brother so incensed and placed a warning hand on his arm, for Daniel probably carried a weapon.
Her adversary stood aside, his tension reaching out to capture her as she moved past him. What had happened to the fine young man she’d once known, her first love? Only she hadn’t loved him enough, for she’d wed his father instead, a man who had flattered and dazzled her.
But her heart had belonged to Francis since the moment they’d met, and only to him. Where was he now, the man she loved? He couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t! It would be too cruel. But as each day was born without word, her convictions were being sorely tested.
The next day, Siana consulted with Josh’s partner, Giles Dennings. He expressed his willingness to look over the estate books if she could get hold of them, but he also recommended that she consult with a lawyer. ‘Sir Oswald Slessor is about the best around here.’
But when she saw him, Oswald Slessor gave an indulgent chuckle. ‘My dear lady, I wouldn’t dream of prosecuting a fellow magistrate. Mr Ayres has the sympathy of most of his colleagues, so the verdict is bound to go in his favour.’ He reached across his desk and patted her hand. ‘Edward lifted you from the gutter and educated you, my dear. Be grateful for your house in Poole and your allowance. Why don’t you come to an agreement with Daniel over this, for he’s indicated that he’s agreeable to you keeping those assets.’
This man seemed to know a lot of her business. She gave him a tight little smile. ‘It seems I must find someone less biased towards his own gender and profession to represent me, then. As for your assumption that I come from the gutter, I’ll require an apology for that remark. A man with any breeding at all wouldn’t have made it.’
Actually, it was a perfectly accurate statement. Her first husband had rescued herself and Daisy from a ditch after a mule had shied and tipped them out of the cart it had been attached to.
‘My sincere apologies,’ Slessor said, his face reddening with embarrassment at being reprimanded. ‘It was merely a figure of speech.’
He sounded contrite, so she nodded. ‘If Edward had wanted Daniel Ayres to have Cheverton Estate, he would have left it to him in his will. I certainly wouldn’t have contested it, if those had been his wishes. I intend to take this matter to the House of Lords, if necessary.’
Slessor shrugged and rose to his feet. ‘I doubt if you’ll find anyone in the profession willing to risk their living over this.’
All the same, after she’d gone, Slessor’s conscience pricked him. Despite what he’d told Siana, it was not an open and shut case. Daniel’s erratic behaviour of late was worrying a few people. He was reckless at cards, spent freely, and paid very little attention to his marriage vows. In fact, Daniel’s extramarital preferences were slightly suspect, too, for they involved very young girls thrown by circumstance into prostitution.
Mrs Matheson had lost both husband and child recently, and the self-indulgent Daniel Ayres was turning out to be less of a gentleman than Oswald had first thought. He frowned and, removing a cigar from the humidor, slowly inhaled along its length before clipping the end from it. He would see how Daniel handled the Collins’s case on the morrow, and, if need be, he would recommend someone from out of town to advocate on Siana Matheson’s behalf.
Isabelle Collins had already decided on her strategy. Ben had told her that Daniel Ayres was to be the presiding magistrate. This was a man with an axe to grind on his own behalf. She would play dirty and use it, causing as much mayhem in the process as possible. She couldn’t rely on her lawyer. The man had turned out to be a fool, for he’d advised her to plead guilty.
The court was crowded and, as she was taken to the dock, some of the onlookers hissed, booed and called out insults.
Daniel Ayres looked self-conscious when he came in. His eyes bulged a bit, so in his stupid wig, he resembled one of those flat-faced spaniel dogs with flapping ears.
Ben was sitting at the front with her aunt, Caroline. He was smart in a new suit and waistcoat. His hair was parted in the middle and he’d grown a moustache.
Aunt Caroline was as plump as a partridge. In a dark blue gown and matching bonnet, she looked quite handsome, though. How old was she, Isabelle wondered. Twelve years older than herself, perhaps. Young enough to marry and give birth if anyone wanted her.
Isabelle felt sick and was growing more tired by the day. She’d lost weight since she’d been in prison, mainly because she couldn’t swallow the awful food. Her gown hung on her like a sack. The child she carried inside her was painful. It occurred to her that it might be dead, for this was nothing like her other pregnancies. She would have found some way of getting rid of it if she’d been at home.
Ben looked suitably nervous and overawed by the occasion. She sighed, wondering why she’d fallen in love with such a fool. Because he’d genuinely admired her and filled a need in her, she supposed. She’d enjoyed him too, but she’d wanted none of that lately, either. He wasn’t one to have his need denied, though . . .
Isabelle’s eyes narrowed slightly when he exchanged a smile with Caroline. How simpering she was when she was around Ben. Ben needed someone to think for him, not to rely on him, and he needed . . .
She jumped when a gavel thumped. ‘Isabelle Collins, you are on trial for the murder of Hannah Skinner. What is your plea? Guilty or not guilty.’
Before her lawyer could speak, she said loudly, ‘Not guilty, your honour. It was an accident. Hannah Skinner sprang at me with a knife. I was trying to escape her clutches and—’
‘Sit down and be quiet,’ her lawyer hissed.
She flicked him a glance. ‘You be quiet.’
The gavel banged down again. ‘You will restrict your comments to answering the questions when they are put to you.’
‘Yes, your honour.’ She drew in a deep breath, irritably shaking off her lawyer’s hand. ‘I wish to make a statement to the court.’
‘Which is?’
‘I object to my case being heard before your honour, on the grounds that your mother is the notorious whore, Elizabeth Skinner, who was transported for the crime she falsely accused me of committing. I believe you will unfairly penalize me for that.’
Daniel Ayres’s mouth fell open as the courtroom erupted into an uproar. He didn’t know quite what to do, so banged his gavel several times on the bench. Eventually, calm was restored.
‘If you carry on with these accusations, you will be charged with contempt of court.’
‘I’ll plead guilty to that charge, for I hold nothing but contempt for the likes of you. I demand another magistrate.’
‘Your demand is denied.’ Daniel Ayres turned to the prosecution, mopping the sweat from his brow. ‘Do you have any witnesses?’
Her lawyer stood, gathered his papers together and stalked from the court.
She must tell Ben not to pay his bill, thought Isabelle.
Sam Saynuthin took the oath by spitting on his palm and slapping it on the bible when the official read it out.
‘What have you to say?’ Daniel asked him.
‘He ain’t got nothing to say, for the poor little bugger be dumb,’ Ben said out loud, and the onlookers began to laugh again.
Sitting at the back of the court, Oswald Slessor grinned at that, even though the spectators were walking all over Daniel. The young man was having a baptism of fire. It would test his mettle a bit, but that was all to the good if he could get it under control. Oswald hadn’t enjoyed a case so well in a long time. But if it got too much out of hand he would intervene.
Daniel thumped his gavel for silence again. Forgetting he was wearing a wig he ran a shaking hand through his hair. The hairpiece was dislodged and flew across the desk to thump onto the floor like an overweight seagull.
‘Shut up, else I’ll have you all arrested,’ he roared, taking the wig from a court official and jamming it back on his head. He glared round at everyone until the ensuing hubbub died down, and gathered his dignity together as best he could. ‘Let us proceed.’
But nothing proceeded as he’d imagined it would. Suddenly the door to the courtroom was pushed open and Rudd Ponsonby stood there, a constable at his shoulder.
‘I’ve brought the law to arrest you, Daniel Ayres. It was you who attacked and killed my young un, and her only just turned fourteen. I found that brooch in the cottage, the one I made her give back to you, and she had a shillin’ in her pocket.’
‘A shilling she exchanged for her services. The girl was a slut and deserved all she got.’
The spectators booed and hissed at that.
‘No, sir, she was not. You took her innocence, killed her, and tried to make it look like an accident. You be a wicked man and my Abbie is sufferin’ real cruel. To hell with you, Daniel Ayres. I’m not going to let you get away with it, however high you think you’ve risen in the district.’
Daniel’s face suddenly blanched. Clutching his head with both hands he rocked back and forth. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her, it was an accident, I swear.’
‘Like mine was an accident, you murdering bastard,’ Isabelle screamed out, seizing the opportunity. ‘You ain’t fit to judge me.’
‘But I am.’ The trial had become a farce. Oswald Slessor strode to the bench, signalled to the court officials, then turned to Isabelle. ‘Close your mouth, woman, or you’ll be gagged.’ Within seconds, Daniel was hustled from the bench to a back room.
‘The court is adjourned,’ Oswald said calmly to the clerk. ‘Set another date for the trial. I’ll hear it myself.’ He gazed at Rudd Ponsonby and the constable. ‘You two, wait there until I’m ready for you.’
Isabelle was dispatched back to the cells. The court was cleared of unnecessary spectators. Rudd Ponsonby was questioned, the evidence inspected. Not that Oswald needed to. Daniel Ayres had damned himself with his own words.
‘It seems there are grounds for an arrest,’ Slessor told the constable, and slowly shook his head. ‘A mockery has been made of this court today, gentlemen. Rest assured, justice will be done.’
Daniel didn’t wait to be arrested. Felling the court official with a heavy book, he fled outside and, mounting his father’s great black horse, took off out of town.
As soon as he left Dorchester, he forgot the debacle he’d left behind. His headache was replaced by a sense of elation. People gazed as he went by, high on his horse, the squire of Cheverton Estate. Everything was his, the fields, hedges, trees and flowers, every stick, stone, man, woman and child – even Siana. When she came to him he’d keep her safe, a sweet bird, caged in her room. His brow wrinkled. But he’d have to dispose of Esmé first. And he had to get to Siana before they did. Putting the horse to hedges at a frenzied gallop in his urgency, he drove it forward, relentlessly kicking its sides when it began to flag.
The horse made a gallant effort, but the last hedge was too much for him. A vessel in his great heart burst just as he’d cleared it. Daniel rolled clear as the beast thudded to the ground, convulsing in its death throes. Eventually the spasms stopped, the gelding’s eyes lost their brightness.
‘Damned animal!’ Daniel screamed as the gelding rolled towards him and he was forced to scramble out of the way.
Esmé didn’t know how long she’d been in the cellar. Two weeks, she thought. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten. It was daytime, for she could see a chink of light coming through the keyhole.
At least it had stopped raining. She gazed at the patch of dark water on the floor and shuddered. The flood water had reached her chest at its height, for the table had floated during the night and she’d rolled off into its murky depths.
Damp and cold, disgustingly filthy, her hair hung in matted lengths. Worse, she’d soiled herself several times and was so weak she could move only with great effort. Her throat was so sore she couldn’t speak, either. Not that she had anyone to talk to.
The last time she’d set eyes on Florrie, the maid had turned up wearing Esmé’s favourite gown and her jewels. Flaunting herself, she’d taunted, ‘I’m the mistress of the manor now, but we be going to London town in a day or two so I’ve brought you some food.’
The girl had given her some bread and cheese to eat, but the rats had smelt it. They’d come from everywhere, swarming all over her, fighting with each other to get at it.
The only thing keeping Esmé alive was the brandy. It warmed her body, helped her sleep and allowed her to escape into pleasant fantasy from time to time. She had to survive this and escape, for Daniel would need her to look after him when they came back.
She intended to lock him in the same barred room he’d kept her in, and hire a couple of strong manservants to care for him. It would be easy to keep him happy, by pandering to his belief that he was the squire. If she could become Siana Matheson, she would do that too, for she loved her husband and would do almost anything to win his regard back – even that!
He was obviously insane. The London doctor had warned her his condition would deteriorate. ‘Besides the headaches, your husband will harbour strange ideas and behave erratically,’ he’d said. It had seemed kinder not to tell Daniel of the suspected tumours in his brain, for she’d been assured the medication would keep his headaches under control.
She took another sip of the brandy. There had been no noise outside for a couple of days now. There had been a flurry of activity back then. She’d tried to shout, but she’d only managed a painful croak. Nobody had heard her. Most of the servants had left, or had been dismissed. No footsteps echoed overhead, as if the place had been abandoned. Perhaps Florrie had left too. Funny, how she didn’t feel hungry now. She ached all over, though.
Eventually, night arrived. The blackness became blacker, the cold, colder. The brandy did its work and she fell into a stupor, curled up on the table.
For the next four nights, she dreamed of Siana Matheson.