‘And where might you be off to?’
The voice comes as a surprise. I left the manor behind some while ago, following Heledd’s directions to her parents’ cottage. I’ve not yet left the main thoroughfare between Grange and Tarn, but will do so just before the church. The last thing I need is company or anyone knowing where I’m going. It is Sunday, after lunch, though I chose not to take my meal with the family this day for it’s too much like work (though I recognise it’s a privilege not to be shunted off to eat in the kitchen with the servants). Everyone’s been at their worship – or making excuses like Leonora and I – had a feed and are now lazing about. The priest will be sleeping off his repast, I hope. I cannot do everything I need to do at night for without sleep I shall fail. And some things require sunlight. If I were sensible I’d have begged Eli for a horse, but it’s best if no one questions me, best if the household simply think I’m taking a walk for my health and quietude. How annoying to find Luned trailing along behind me. I wonder how long she’s been following.
‘To church,’ I say. ‘I felt unwell earlier, but now I shall make my own devotions.’ I shall not. I do not wish to set foot in there. At least, not yet. Small places like this? Far away from the big cathedrals? It’s easier to slip under the eye of the Church at least as far as regular worship is concerned – harvests and the like, work on the land that cannot be delayed, is a fine excuse not to attend. Mind you, these country priests may well be quicker to burn you than in a city if they think you’re not-quite-right.
‘I’m sure.’ She comes alongside, gives me a look. ‘I hear you met my sisters the other day.’
‘They’re very like you,’ I reply, and she can make of that what she will.
‘They said you were a bitch.’
‘They struck me as uniquely qualified to recognise a kindred soul, then.’
She guffaws, surprised. ‘You’re not wrong there.’
‘I take it you don’t get along?’
‘Well, there’s a reason I’m working for the Morwoods and they’re still at the inn.’
‘What reason is that, Luned?’
She pauses. ‘I want more. I want better than the Tarn and a shitty cottage and ten screaming brats before I’m thirty.’
‘Ambition isn’t a bad thing for a young woman if you know what you want.’ My tone is neutral, but in my experience for women ambition needs to be paired with intelligence, talent or great beauty. Luned’s like her sisters, pretty enough but how long that will last is anyone’s guess. Even her housemaid skills are questionable, and she’s sly but I detect no great genius behind any of her actions. If she was at all clever she’d have made friends with me from the first rather than beginning with outright aggression those couple of weeks ago.
‘Oh, I know.’ She laughs loudly and it’s unpleasant. I think of her sneering about the former governess.
We come level with the church and Luned stops, as do I. She’s going to wait, damn her. I smile, tilt my head and turn to the cracked stone path that leads through the low drystone wall. My boots clack and crunch on the worn paving, up to the heavy wooden door with its ugly bands of iron, splinters poking out, some tipped with old-blood brown where heedless fingers have been caught. Carefully I grab the rusty metal handle and push; my hands are shaking a little for fear of finding the place occupied. I don’t hesitate – to do so would be to show my lie – and step into the darkness. I close the door mostly behind me, just leave the merest sliver so I can watch her even as I listen carefully for the sound of someone else in here. Little bitch waits a full five minutes before I see her wandering off down the road towards the Tarn and presumably a visit to her family – such acts do not require one to like one’s relatives.
I sigh, wait for her to be out of sight, then heave the door open. I step into the sun, skip down the steps, throwing glances at the cheerless little cottage that serves as a rectory. I’ll not lie: I scamper. I run. Then head off across the graveyard, over the wall, into the woods, in the direction Heledd advised. Only when I’m under the trees do I start to breathe more easily. Don’t be a fool, I tell myself, he does not know your face. I put those thoughts from my mind, promising to deal with them later.
My sense of direction is good but I’ve always been a child of cities: so much easier to navigate by buildings and streets, by the chipped cobbles at the corner of one avenue or by the statue in the middle of a plaza. Trees and shrubs, stumps and rills are much harder to distinguish if you’re not used to a place, if these things do not act as a map in your mind. Three times I fear I’ve gone entirely astray.
When I’m sure I’m lost in the cool shadows I stumble upon the stream Heledd said would be there, and the small rock bridge that stretches across it. The water is cold and fresh when I drink. I sit beside it for a while in a patch of sun, and take the ham and cheese sandwich Mrs Charlton made from my satchel. I feel the knots in my neck and shoulders untying themselves, and I lift my face like a flower. There’s only the sound of the rill racing by, some few birds too stubborn to fly away for the cold months, and in the undergrowth the stealthy scratching and grunts of unseen creatures.
A fox barks close by and I can see a red snout poking from beneath a frond of foliage. I sit very still and the vixen eventually comes to sniff at the fingers in my lap (smelling of sandwich, no doubt), then pushes at me for a scratch. The fur is warm and soft; she makes squeaks as I pat her ears, run my nails along her spine, then the brush of her magnificent tail. Sharp little white teeth show in a grin as she stretches back and forth under my ministrations. I give her the last slice of ham from my sandwich and she seems happy to sit on my green skirts for the duration.
Then there is a thud in the thicket.
The vixen stiffens, and is so swiftly gone that all I see is a blur of fire.
In theory, I shouldn’t be far from my destination: cross the brook, walk to the fallen yew with branches like wings, then I should see the garden gate. I listen carefully but there’s no other sound. I do notice that the birds have gone quiet. I remember my arrival at Morwood, being stalked. Whatever’s out there hasn’t attacked me thus far, so perhaps that is not its goal. I feel a little less concerned but perhaps it is a false security. Nevertheless, I rise and smooth my skirts as if I’ve not a care in the world, then set off across the stream, stepping delicately over the narrow bridge so I don’t overbalance.
I reach the fallen yew in no time at all, and yes, its branches do look like skeletal wings, sticking up in the air. And there is a small garden gate, covered in greying ivy, and beyond it a cottage that seems to grow from the ground itself, an A-framed thing of split larch planks turned silver by the elements, windows of glass blown thick and green and imperfect, a small porch with a wooden swing moving in the slight breeze; and trees, trees so close to the house and each other that they seem to form part of the structure. They do form the back wall as far as I can tell, part of the sides as well. In the forest and of it.
A crash behind me, a growl, and I fling myself forward like an arrow, hurdling tussocks and logs in my skirts, bashing through the garden gate so hard I fear its hinges break. I hammer on the door, throwing looks over my shoulder as I begin to shout, ‘Open up!’
I look away again, back into the green of the woods, see nothing, then the door is gone, pulled open and I’m tumbling forward into someone’s arms.
‘What’s the noise for?’ A gruff voice, loud in my ear, and I wrench away from the man, then turn to push the door closed. So much like my first day all those days ago. Is it a joke? Am I imagining things? Am I going mad? Madness… I often think it’s never far from my mind; after all, that’s the way my mother went, in the end.
‘Who’s there?’ Another voice, this one weaker, a woman’s, comes from another room. I’m standing in a small space, half kitchen, half parlour; tidy but timeworn. Somewhere beyond the poky doorway will be a bedroom or two, perhaps a lean-to bathroom; part of the walls are growing green wood. I do my best not to screw up my nose: the place smells stale, shut up for too long, and there’s the taint of vomit too. An old shaggy dog, red-furred, lies by the hearth, eyeing me but not getting up.
‘You’re shaking, lass, have you got a fever?’ I finally get a good look at the man before me: short, with the same silver hair as his daughter; grey skin hangs on him as if he once filled it better. ‘What are you afraid of? You’re pale as a cloud.’
‘Heledd,’ I gasp, then gather myself, take a breath, choosing not to answer the question. ‘Heledd sent me, Mr Lewis.’
‘Who is it?’ the woman calls once again.
‘Still don’t know,’ he says.
‘Asher Todd is my name. I’m the governess at Morwood Grange. I met Heledd and she said you’d been ill. I might be able to help.’
He raises his bushy silver brows in disbelief. ‘Master Luther’s sent medicine, but we might as well be drinking our own piss for all the good it’s done. Still and all, can’t see what good a governess would do.’
I pause, consider, but don’t express my surprise. Connell told me when I casually asked that the little building with the millwheel off the side of the big house is his father’s private space, but when I’ve wandered past and casually peered in the high windows, all I can see is a layer of dust over every surface, cobwebs on windows and in corners. There’s a covered well behind it that appears not to have been drawn from in a long time. I wonder what Luther has been giving them. I wonder why they’ve gone to him rather than a physician.
‘I have some knowledge of healing, Mr Lewis. If I might speak with your wife? And there are other children here?’ He stares at me, so I touch his hand. ‘And you’ve been ill too? I can see it, sir, please confide in me.’ I grin. ‘I promise not to make it worse − and I’ll not make you drink your own piss, I swear.’
He laughs unwilling, nods, says, ‘Come through,’ and leads me into the next room.
It’s a cramped bedroom with a double bed containing a woman whose locks were once bright gold, but are now greyer than her face says they should be. Beside her lies a girl, perhaps sixteen, silver-tressed. In an armchair, covered in a blanket yet shivering, is a boy with mouse-brown hair. Heledd’s family.
‘This is Asher; our Heledd sent her. Thinks she can help.’
‘Hello, Mrs Lewis.’ She just blinks at me. At a glance I can see she’s suffering the most, as mothers generally do. ‘I’ll start with you if I may. Mr Lewis, perhaps you and your son would give us some privacy?’
He looks as if he might say no, but then gives in. ‘Come along, Ifan, help me with the tea.’
I doubt the boy will be much use as he heaves himself from the chair and stumbles behind his father. But I notice the battered tin buckets by the bed, two, a miasma of stink rising from them. ‘I know you’re exhausted but please take those, empty and wash them,’ I say severely.
‘Our Heledd’s been doing that,’ Mr Lewis says defensively.
‘But she’s not here now,’ I point out. He nods, irritated, and grabs one, gestures for the boy to bring the other, then they’re gone.
Right. First things first: I push the row of windows wide, feel cool air rush in. I approach the bed. ‘Keep these open during the day; you’ll feel better if you’re able to breathe freely. Now, can you sit up, Mrs Lewis?’
She struggles and I slip an arm behind her to help. The neck of her nightgown is loose − like her husband, she appears to have lost weight − and I can see red dots of a rash across her shoulders, up her neck into her hair, down her back. But… they don’t look like something that’s springing from the inside, from an illness. There’s no festering or eruption. I don’t touch them, but I look closely. I’ve seen something like this when skin’s been subjected to a powder designed to cause irritation. There’s no sign of pus or infection, the skin is not broken, merely reddened. I look at the girl.
‘Do you have this rash too?’
She nods, hooking a finger to tug at the neckline of her gown: red spots speckle her chest, up her neck.
‘Mrs Lewis, your husband says Mr Morwood visits?’
‘Once. When we first became ill, then he sent that maid to deliver a bottle of medicine. For all the good it does.’
Luther dropping in out of the goodness of his heart? ‘Mrs Lewis—’
‘—Eirlys—’
‘Eirlys, did he also send powders for bathing?’
She shakes her head, turning with difficulty and digging beneath her pillows. ‘But these were brought, to go under the pillows.’
In her hand a small calico sachet, unbleached linen, tied with a red ribbon. Some of the apothecaries in Whitebarrow trade in such things, some of the witches too; such items can be used for any number of purposes. I take it from her by the ribbon and sniff at it cautiously. There’s lavender to cover everything else but I can detect baby’s breath, nettle, ragweed, and something else I can’t quite identify.
‘I see. And how do you feel? Are you experiencing vomiting or diarrhoea?’
‘We’re all puking like there’s no tomorrow. Can barely keep down dry bread. Not enough goes through us to shit.’ She looks exhausted by this speech. I glance at the girl again and she nods.
‘Has he sent more potions?’
‘No,’ she grunts, then looks afraid. ‘Not that we’re thankless; don’t tell Mr Morwood we are! We’re grateful for everything. And I know he was at one of the universities, was studying to be a doctor…’
Indeed? Something to investigate further, although perhaps not here. ‘I’ll not say anything, never fear. Exhale for me, a long breath.’
It’s foul when it comes and I recognise it from some of the cases I saw in the slums of Whitebarrow, filthy beds where the inconvenient were left to die after someone had slipped poison in the food or drink. ‘You were ill before Mr Morwood sent the medicine?’
She nods. I help her lie back against the pillows then go around the other side of the bed and examine the girl more closely; her symptoms are identical. ‘I think, Eirlys, that perhaps you are allergic to the treatment. No fault of Mr Morwood’s,’ I assure her. ‘But don’t take any more medicine and if you have any other of these sachets, burn them.’ I slip the one she gave me into a small leather pouch from my satchel, then secrete it away. She stares. ‘I have seen such illness before and sometimes perfectly good remedies don’t help simply because of a patient’s own bodily humours.’ I smile. ‘Will you trust me? Give me a week and if you are not on the mend by then we shall speak with Mr Morwood together. But I would like to try to help you first − better I beg forgiveness than ask permission.’
She nods slowly. I can’t help but feel she doesn’t entirely trust Luther Morwood.
Her husband and son are out in the front garden by a small well, finishing the business of cleaning the buckets. I scan the woods for any sign of what drove me in here so abruptly, see nothing, and so give them a cursory check, but there’s nothing new from what I’ve seen inside. I tell Heledd’s father what I told his wife and he looks disinclined to argue.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve any of the medicine from Mr Morwood left?’ I ask.
He shakes his head, but rummages around in his pocket, draws forth a small blue bottle. ‘Came in this though. Thought you might like to look at it.’
I take the vial, hold it up to the light, take the lid off and sniff at it, but there’s nothing there. No trace.
‘We washed it out, sorry.’
‘No matter.’ I put it into the leather pouch with the sachet. ‘And this is where you draw your water from?’
He gives me the same look one gives an idiot.
‘But you’re close enough to the stream to get it from there, yes?’
‘Why would we?’
‘Because, Mr Lewis, I think your water supply might be tainted. A dead animal perhaps, or something seeping from the ground into the liquid. Don’t use the well for a while.’ I nod at the lad. ‘Bring me some water from the stream – not in those buckets.’ He goes inside, reappears with a large bowl, shambles out the gate. I drop the wooden pail attached to the well, hear it splash, then pull it up by the rope. I take one of the small clear bottles from my satchel and gingerly fill it. Holding it up to the light, I can see no obvious reason for their illness. I wrap it in a kerchief to pad it, then stuff it into the bag.
‘Now,’ I say, glancing around the little garden. ‘Borage?’ I spot it quickly and pick a good handful and take it inside. The boy soon returns with the bowl, liquid spilling as he walks slowly. ‘In the kettle, lad, on the hob quick as you can.’
I make a tisane while they watch, and give them instructions as I crush the leaves, then cut them finely to steep them in the newly boiled water; I add a dash of vinegar. ‘Each of you should take two glasses of this before bed. In the morning, make a fresh batch – you’ve seen how much I’ve used – and drink it throughout the day, and do so for the next seven days. I will return to see how you fare.’
Thomas Lewis sips at the mug I pour for him, makes a face.
‘You’ll get used to it, and I think you’ll find you prefer it to vomiting. If you’ve stale bread, toast it well – burn it a little; the char will help calm your stomach and digestion.’ I raise a finger. ‘And remember, do not use the well water.’
He takes my hand and says, ‘Thank you, Miss Todd.’
‘Asher.’
‘Thomas.’
‘I will see you soon, Thomas. If things get dire, do send for me.’ Although who of this lot would be well enough to drag themselves to the manor? Still, I don’t imagine they’ll get worse once they stop drinking the well water, once they burn those little sachets. I pat the old dog as I walk past; he gives a sigh.
Back outside I take a deep breath. I tap the pocket of my skirt, feel the reassuring length of the long knife. Then I step out into the darkening afternoon.