Late in the afternoon I see off the last of the villagers: mostly a collection of children with incipient colds, two men with gout, two more with indigestion and three women with arthritis. Another woman, swollen with child, is short of breath, her skin is a pale yellow, her hands and feet are cold and she complains of dizziness. I tell her she’s anaemic – common in pregnant women – and to eat more red meat.
‘At least tell me you’re charging them.’
The voice makes a sweat break out immediately; I’d not expected to hear it for some days yet. I wipe my forehead with a sleeve before turning away from the shelves I’ve been reorganising, making notes of what needs restocking. ‘Good evening, Mr Morwood. No, I do not charge them.’
‘What?’ He’s standing in the doorway, hanging there as if waiting for an invitation to enter.
‘These people have had no access to a doctor for many years. I believe it’s the duty of a household such as this to ensure they remain in good health – the village is part of the Grange; they are your people, sir, they support this estate. Such a small cost to you to help them, one that will pay you back many times – they will remember the kindness and be loyal.’
‘You’ve returned early,’ I say, stating the obvious, hoping to distract him.
‘Indeed. The idea of another four days in a carriage was less than appealing, so I bought a new stallion – he’s magnificent – and made haste on my own. The Reivers and our grand conveyance will make their way at a more leisurely speed.’ His words are neutral, the content quite ordinary, it’s the tone that is all anger. Suppressed but not hidden.
‘One might have thought you’d take some days to enjoy a rest before coming home,’ I say, glancing down at the blue bottles in my hands.
‘I’m sure you and my mother hoped so. While the cat’s away…’ He crosses the threshold and walks around the room that suddenly seems too small. ‘And I’m sure my mother has been planning and plotting.’ He gives a tight grin, gestures to the surgery. ‘Stirring her cauldron.’
‘Mr Morwood, any issues you have with your mother would be best discussed with her.’
‘Ah but here’s the thing: she does seem to deliberate everything with you, little Miss Asher Todd, before she puts anything into effect.’ He pauses to stare out the window that looks over the stream; he’s tall enough to see from the high-set things. ‘So I thought perhaps I would ask you first, and perhaps you might do me the singular courtesy of telling me what I’m walking into.’
‘Mrs Morwood doesn’t consult me about her decisions, sir.’
‘No, but she bloody well gets you to help with putting them in motion!’ He shouts so loudly I can almost hear an echo. I can see Heloise’s temper in him, better controlled at the moment at least. ‘Now, a little bird’ – at first, I assume Sarai, then I replace that with Burdon – ‘tells me you went into the Tarn today. Knocked on Zaria Taverell’s door. Now, what would my mother need with a solicitor?’
‘Mr Morwood.’ I look him straight in the eye. I shouldn’t want to provoke him as much as I do, but all I can think of is my mother and what was done to her, how her own brother did not defend her, but thought only to take her place as the heir to Morwood. I think of everything that followed on from there and bled into my life even before I was born. ‘I am not privy to your mother’s affairs. You will need to ask her yourself.’
‘Ah, but she likes you, Asher! Her dearest Asher who returned her sight – and blithely fucked my life. She’s pleased with you, so very pleased she’s set you up here, in the space that was meant for me. Shall I call you “doctor”?’ He glares around at everything he cast aside. That he did not earn. That has sat neglected all these years.
‘You know a woman cannot earn such a title, Mr Morwood, I do not claim it.’ Briefly turning my back on him, I close the glass doors on the cabinet behind me, then go to my desk, two small bottles still in my grip: something for Luned to heal her faster, something to help me sleep.
As if my thought of her transmits to him he says, ‘Burdon tells me Luned has been ill.’ He stares at the stone table as if it might give up secrets.
‘A passing unwellness,’ I say. ‘A stomach upset.’
He crosses the room in long strides, slaps the bottles out of my hand; they smash on the floor and I burn where he hit me. He yells, ‘Do not lie to me!’ and goes to grab me by my chin as he has before, but I’m ready for him, snatching up the scalpel from the desk where I’ve left it since Leonora used it on Archie. Still unable to put it away. Or unwilling. Unwilling to be surprised here ever again, unwilling to be vulnerable. To be strangled yet again. I have it up and at the tender flesh of his neck, the blade resting cool against the warm soft skin, the blue pulse beneath.
‘If you raise a hand to me once more, Mr Morwood, I will slit your throat, or perhaps from gullet to groin,’ I say coldly. ‘And I do not imagine your mother would object overly much.’
He’s frozen. I do not tremble, and imagine drawing the blade across, down. I could drag him out to the well and he and Archie could rest together. There’s been no sign of Archie’s ghost – either the lavender keeps him beneath, or I suspect he’s found his Meliora. I could kill Luther now, but that would be such a waste after so much trouble. I thought I had a few more days to prepare, but no matter: everything I require is here. I just need a little longer to set up. Luther will keep.
‘As I was saying, Mr Morwood, Luned has had an upset stomach. Something that has been going around the Tarn and which she doubtless picked up on a visit to her family there. She is mending but I would advise you keep your distance from her lest she remain contagious.’
Circumspectly, Luther Morwood steps away. He says not a word, merely turns and exits. I do not sag or fall, my knees are not weak, my hand does not shake. And I know for certain that I cannot delay. I lay out the tools and candles, the herbs and towels.
The only things lacking are what lies hidden beneath the floorboards of my room and Luther Morwood.
‘Luned,’ I call as I try to turn the doorknob, balancing a bowl of soup in the other hand. ‘Are you awake?’
From inside there’s a grumble, the sound of footsteps, something heavy being pushed across the floor, then a key turning. The door opens slowly, and there she is, swaying.
I hold up her dinner.
‘No bread?’
I fish a spoon and two slices of bread from a pocket and wave them about; she steps aside and lets me in, closing and locking the door after me. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Would have been better without the master of the house standing in the corridor, banging around and swearing at me.’ She half-staggers back to bed. When she’s settled, I put the bowl in her hands, and the spoon, stack the bread on the bedside table. I tidy the room, straightening the bedclothes, pulling out a clean nightgown from those Tib’s washed.
‘Well, I’d keep the door barricaded for a while. Burdon’s told him you were ill.’
‘Nosy old shit.’
‘I don’t know that he told him anything else – he doesn’t know anything else – but your master’s of a suspicious frame of mind.’ I flop into the chair as she eats. Her colour is much better, her movements slow and careful but not overly painful. She is mending and she should consider herself lucky as it’s no small miracle. ‘I saw your sister Mira today.’
She grunts.
‘She expressed great concern for your illness.’
She snorts. ‘Can’t have been one of my sisters. You must have been talking to someone else.’
‘Not a happy family?’
‘Happy enough until I grew old enough to have my own opinions. Until I wouldn’t marry Sy Claffin with his fat gut and two dead wives gone before me. Until I wouldn’t work in the inn.’
‘So you got a position here and thought you’d fuck your way to the top.’
She chokes on a chunk of bread.
‘Luned, you don’t think you love him, do you?’
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
‘But I heard you talking to Jessamine.’
‘That’s not it.’ She shakes her head.
‘Then why stay here when you can go anywhere in the world?’
‘That costs money and I don’t want to go through the world begging and scraping and fucking for my next meal.’
‘So, what? You somehow marry Luther? When he’s already got a wife? And there are children.’
‘Don’t be stupid. He said when the old lady’s gone, Jessamine won’t last long. Then he’d give me money. There’d be money to spare and I’d get my share.’
‘So you don’t want to marry him?’
She sounds a little desperate when she says, ‘Gods, no. Don’t want to marry anyone, but it’s the only way to get money, isn’t it? You’ve got to protect what little chance you’ve got in the world.’
Heloise certainly seemed to think so.
* * *
It’s well after midnight when I’m finally ready.
I stand in front of the mirror in my room, take a deep breath, then pull the mourning ring from my finger. The approximation of Meliora’s face is gone, and there is my own, near enough to Heloise’s that we might have been twins. Near enough that I think it’s one of the reasons she loved me – because it was like looking at herself – and later one of the reasons she hated me – because she no longer looked that way.
So strange to see this face after all these months.
So strange, this face.
I could leave tonight. Leave them all to their plots and plans. But Heloise’s ghost will follow me. If I don’t fulfil my promise to her soon, before Leonora changes her will, who knows what will be demanded of me next? And Luther hates me; he’ll move against me soon, the moment he thinks I’m not paying attention.
The dress I pull from my trunk is green silk, like the one in Heloise’s portrait. I let my red hair loose. I shiver but don’t put on any shoes, easier to move quietly. My feet are cold on the stairs as I go up to the second floor, to my mother’s room: she’s still by the window, doesn’t turn around when I whisper Goodbye. Along the hallway next, to the suite Jessamine and Luther shared until recently. The shape in the bed snores. I light one of the lanterns so he can see me.
I call his name and he stirs. I call again and again, until he sits up, confused and fuddled with sleep. I call one last time. Luther. He sees me finally.
My uncle’s face goes pale, eyes become pits, his lips tremble. Before he can gather himself, I’m out the door, seemingly unhurried, but when beyond his sight I sprint along the corridor, and down the stairs, down, down, down until I reach the bottom. I hear his stumbling footsteps, see his tousled head peek over the banisters, to see me looking up, a bright spot beneath a lantern. When he pulls back to begin his descent, I’m off again, to the front door, which I leave open, and run down to the frost-covered lawn. It’s sharp beneath my bare feet and I think I feel small cuts. I wait for him to stumble out, make sure he sees me before I glide around the corner, then bolt towards the surgery, where a single lantern is lit. I stand on the steps until he sees me, then drift inside.
I hide behind the door, listening for his heavy tread, the breaking of frost as he comes; tall though I am, strong though I am, I really don’t want to have to physically fight him. He almost falls over the threshold and while he’s off-balance, I hit him on the back of the head with the blackjack I’ve kept in my trunk for just such a moment. One word escapes his mouth as he goes down: Heloise.