Cross-legged, Wiremu sat on the end of his parents’ bed, his relaxed manner a stark contrast to Libby’s terror that morning when her mother and stepfather had come to take her home.
Henry wondered how the departure of one tiny person could have left him so riddled with guilt. Libby was not his responsibility — she was not even a relative. But had their positions been reversed, Will Budd would have looked out for Mai and the boys, he was sure of that. He’d wanted to knock the laudanum out of Price’s hand when he’d forced the opiate on the girl. Henry had seen her take fits before, and afterwards she’d been quiet and dazed. There’d been no need to fill her with sleeping draughts. Price had been too quick to do so.
Asleep all morning, Mai was unaware that Libby had returned home. Henry listened to Wiremu chatting to his mother, still not quite able to believe his good fortune that she was over the worst. She was grieving for the baby and not much interested in the goings-on of the household, but she was alive, and for that he would be eternally grateful.
Wiremu had, unusually, run out of chatter. He hadn’t even managed to raise a smile from his mother. She seemed to be listening, but he knew she wasn’t really hearing him. Her eyes were distant, her thoughts elsewhere.
‘It’s only time that will heal her grieving and it’s early days yet,’ Mrs Gilpin had told him at breakfast when he’d confided his fear that his mother would never be happy again. ‘Meanwhile we must all be patient until the day that your mother wakes and once again becomes aware of the birdsong.’
Wiremu didn’t really know what Mrs Gilpin had meant by that, but she seemed sure enough Ma would be happy again and that had cheered him a little. He was also sure that her recovery was connected with his not breaking his promise to God.
‘Libby Budd’s gone home with her mother and Mr Price,’ he told his mother now. ‘She didn’t want to and she had a bad fit because she hates Mr Price. She’s really frightened of him,’ he added, despite having been warned to keep that particular piece of news from his mother.
Henry frowned. ‘Your mother doesn’t need to know about that, son. She has enough to worry about. Best we leave her to rest now.’
Mai’s eyes were suddenly alert. ‘No, Henry, let Wiremu stay a while. I’d like to hear what he has to say.’
Henry raised an eyebrow in a fashion that let Wiremu know he’d be in for a good telling off later but, encouraged by his mother’s interest, Wiremu carried on. ‘She said Mr Price had killed a man and was going to hurt her mother if Libby told on him.’
‘When did she tell you this?’ Henry asked. This was news to him too.
‘The night she ran away from the asylum. I nearly believed her, she was so terrified. But when I thought about it, I knew it was just her not being right in her head that was making her think strange things.’
Henry was inclined to agree with Wiremu’s reasoning. It was foolish to believe the word of a mad person. But was Libby Budd really mad? Certainly she saw things others did not, and something was definitely not as it should be in her head. But that didn’t make her insane. It was likely a very tall tale she’d told Wiremu, but it was clear Libby was frightened of her stepfather. ‘Tell me exactly what Libby said to you,’ he said.
Wiremu chewed the tip of his thumb, frowning as he struggled to recall Libby’s exact words. ‘She just said what I’ve already told you,’ he said, a little impatiently. ‘That Mr Price had killed a man and he would hurt her mother if she told on him.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ Henry’s eyes met Mai’s above Wiremu’s head.
‘I’m not telling lies!’ Wiremu protested. ‘She did say that!’
‘I know you’re not telling lies, son.’ Henry brushed a hand over Wiremu’s hair. ‘But I think Libby’s imagination has run away with her. Come now, best we let your mother rest.’ He rose and kissed Mai’s cheek.
Anne placed the soup tureen on the table but Henry had no appetite for the thick, meaty broth and bread and cheese she had prepared for their midday meal. His mind was on Libby Budd: grubby, half starved and out of her mind with fear when he’d found her in the storeroom. He had a gut feeling there was something other than lunacy causing the child’s terror. What if Price had bullied or beaten Libby? That might have caused her fits to worsen.
Anne’s voice brought him out of his introspection. ‘Henry, is there something wrong with your meal?’
‘Oh … no; I’ve things on my mind,’ he said, taking a spoonful of his broth. Best to put Libby from his mind. He had enough worries of his own without taking on other folks’ burdens.
Arnold watched Sylvia disappear into Libby’s bedroom. She’d been fussing over the brat since they’d arrived home. Not that Libby was much aware of it. She was still dozy from the laudanum he’d given her, and just as well, or else there’d have been a fuss when she realised the pups were gone. They’d got rid of them within days of leaving her at the asylum. But not to other homes, as Sylvia had thought. Oh no, he’d taken the pissing damn things into the bush and shot them.
Now that his plans were in hand, he seethed with impatience to be done with the Budds. Cocoa liberally dosed with laudanum would send them off to sleep. Then he’d set a fire outside Libby’s bedroom. A jar full of kerosene by the fireplace would be as good as a magazine. It’d blow the roof off the cottage once the fire reached it.
He’d be outside — down in the privy, he’d tell people — heard the explosion, but by the time he’d raced back to the cottage it had been well ablaze. He’d tried to force his way inside but the flames had beaten him back. He’d break down at that, squeeze out a tear or two, but then he’d pull himself together: the brave, bereaved husband who’d loved his stepchildren like his own. He’d have to burn himself a bit — he winced at that — but the results would be worth the pain.
Henry’s mind was not on his work. He stared at the bottle of Lea and Perrins Worcestershire Sauce in his hand, unable to recall why he’d picked it up. Libby was the cause of his vagueness. When he’d found her in the storeroom, she’d put him in mind of a wild cat he’d once cornered in the shop. It had hissed and bitten and scratched just as she had, and it hadn’t been in any way mad, just terrified.
‘Henry, if you’re not planning on doing anything with that sauce, would you be so good as to put it back on the shelf and let me past before I collapse on the spot?’
‘Oh, sorry, I was in a world of my own,’ said Henry, looking up to see a red-faced and breathless Jimmy struggling to drag a sack of sugar over the shop floor.
‘I would rather you come back to this one and help me cart this over to the weighing table before I give myself a hernia,’ said Jimmy.
Henry plucked the seventy pound bag of sugar from Jimmy, heaved it onto his back and toted it over to the table. ‘I can’t see why you have a problem with shifting these, Jimmy.’ He grinned, knowing the other man envied him his strength.
‘You cheeky beggar,’ Jimmy retorted, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his brow. ‘Mind you,’ he continued, harking back to Henry’s earlier comment, ‘can’t say I blame you having your mind on other things. It’s been a worrying time with Mai being so ill.’
Henry acknowledged Jimmy’s remark with a brief nod. Odd how people never mentioned the baby had died if they could possibly avoid it. The platitudes rolled off their tongues — ‘Sorry for your troubles’, ‘There’ll be others’, ‘It was not meant to be’, and not forgetting ‘We are never given more than we can bear’.
Henry would have argued with that one, but then he understood people’s reticence. Over the years he’d felt damned awkward himself when friends and customers had suffered a death in the family. A mumbled inanity appeared to lack any real feeling or sympathy for their sorrow, yet it was often the best a person could offer.
He envied Jimmy, seemingly without a care in the world, busily filling paper bags with sugar, restocking the shelves. He was a different man since he’d caught up with Claire in Greymouth. Seeing her carrying another man’s child had shocked him to the core, he’d confided to Henry. He’d known then that the woman he’d loved and pined for had never existed. Coming to terms with that had brought him peace of mind. Whereas Henry’s mind was full of muddles and puddles with Mai, the baby, and now Libby Budd.
Will Budd had doted on his daughter; she’d been a joy to him. If the man could see the state she was in, he’d be sorely grieved. He’d been a good friend to Henry — one of the few who’d stood by him and Mai all those years ago in Stafford when so many of the townsfolk had boycotted Bramwell’s Store because of vicious gossip-mongering and racial bigotry.
In all honesty, he felt Libby’s tale about Price killing a man had no substance to it. Even so, something must be troubling her badly to cause these harrowing hallucinations. Perhaps he owed it to Will Budd to visit the girl, though he failed to see how he might be of help. Even if matters were not all they should be between Libby and her stepfather, to interfere might very well bring the man down harder on Libby. But perhaps a visit now and then, provided he kept his opinions to himself, was better than standing back and doing nothing at all?
Mai was awake when he looked in on her. ‘You’re spending too much time worrying about me,’ she said, sitting up and plumping her pillow.
‘I could never spend too much time with you,’ he said with raw honesty. The mere thought of not having her in his life caused a physical ache in his heart.
Mai touched a hand to his cheek. ‘We were so very nearly parted, Henry. I thank God for every day we’re together now.’ She gave him a shrewd glance. ‘But you’re worried, I can tell. There’s no need. I’m feeling much better. I’ll soon be out in the shop bullying you all again.’
Henry laughed. ‘I look forward to that, though I must confess to having more than a care also about Libby Budd. She’s gone down so badly since Will’s death. I owe it to Will to do something, though what exactly I can do is taxing my brain. I had thought to visit them this afternoon, but I hesitate to leave you.’
‘I’ve thought of little else too,’ Mai admitted, her eyes clouding. ‘If you feel so strongly then you must go to Sylvia. See for yourself how Libby is faring now she’s home again.
‘Take Wiremu with you; he’s fretting about the girl.’
‘You’re not well enough to be left on your own,’ said Henry.
‘I won’t be on my own. Jimmy and Anne and Don will be here. Anyway, I feel so well I thought I might get up this afternoon. I promise I’ll return to my bed the minute I feel weary,’ she added at his quick frown. ‘Ask Anne to make up a box of fudge and barley-sugar twists for you to take to Libby.’
Still unsure, Henry examined Mai. Her eyes were bright and clear, yet an air of fragility still lingered. He shook his head. ‘I think I’d be better employed staying here with you.’
‘Henry, I shan’t rest until I know all’s well with Libby and Sylvia, and nor will you.’
‘Very likely,’ Henry agreed. ‘All the same …’
Mai pointed to the door. ‘Go!’