Chapter 39
The Reverend Lightfoot could not sleep that night. He still felt elated after the triumphant exorcism. The joy he had experienced as he cast out the demons from those wretched children was truly extraordinary. It was as if, for a moment, some mysterious hand had touched his very soul and empowered him. If he had ever wavered—and he was ashamed to say he had—then this miraculous revelation had set him once more on the true path to salvation. He paced up and down the aisle in his church, raising his arms now and again in praise. The Lord had imbued him with the most wonderful gift. Perhaps, he told himself, he should make more use of it.
He was contemplating how he might help other benighted believers. Surely there were many who needed help to overcome their inconsolable fears? Wandering restlessly up and down the aisle once more that evening he stopped in front of a painting in one of the side chapels. It was of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Naked and unashamed they were portrayed with the serpent, coiled ’round an apple tree. Suddenly he was reminded of Susannah Kidd. He recalled her lascivious lips, the curve of her breasts, her lustrous hair. He remembered how he had seen her picking apples in the orchard earlier that day. And that apple pie! How apt. Was she not sent to tempt men? Had not all his own reason deserted him in her presence? His heart had beaten so fast that he thought it would burst and when she touched him it was as if his whole body turned to molten rock. Must she not be possessed by Beelzebub, too, to have such an electrifying effect on him?
Turning to the picture once more, seeing Adam and Eve on the edge, about to fall into the abyss of sin, he made up his mind. This was a sign. Hurrying out of the church, he went to the stable and saddled up his mare. The moon was still veiled by the fog, but his trusty horse knew the roads well and soon he had reached the Kidds’ cottage.
Tethering his mount at the gate, he walked softly down the path. He was in luck. A lamp was burning in the bedroom. Mistress Kidd would be shocked to see him at such a late hour, but he would reassure her that he only meant to purge her of her sins. He would tell her that he knew the devil had a hold over her and that he could help her. She had tasted of the Tree of Knowledge. She had told him as much when she came to see him in a vexed state the other day. If she would only submit to his will, then he could cast out her demons and she would be free to live a good and pure life once more. All her anxieties would be banished, all her sins forgiven. The secret that was troubling her would be a distant memory. And when Judgment Day came, for surely it was imminent, then she would be able to meet her Maker with a clear conscience and a wholesome heart.
His tread was light. He did not want to frighten her. Drawing closer he could see the shutters were only half closed. A few paces more and he would be able to see into the room. His mouth went dry and his heart hammered as he drew level with the window. Now the bed came into view. It was empty. There was a sound; water being poured. She would wash herself before taking to the sheets. He could not see her, but he imagined her passing the cool, damp cloth around her neck and between her breasts.
Footsteps. His heart leapt as she emerged from behind the shutters. She was wearing leather stays over her shift and a petticoat and her golden hair was loose over her shoulders. Reaching for a brush on her table, she began running it through her hair with long, firm strokes. His breath came in short pants, now. There was no doubt about it, the devil possessed her. No ordinary woman could have this much power over a man.
He watched her stand and reach around the back of her waist to the laces of her stays. But wait. What was that? More footsteps. There was someone with her. He craned his neck and suddenly saw a man’s hands, brown and rough, reach for the laces and begin to loosen them. He saw Susannah close her eyes and her lips curl in a delicious smile, as if pleasure was rippling through her body. Now there was a voice, deep and low. The half-closed shutter obscured his view. She let out a short laugh at something, then gave out a sensuous moan as the man began kissing her neck. The vicar’s gaze darted to the rough hands once more. They were sun-tanned hands, hardworking hands that bore many scars on them. It was then he realized: They belonged to the knife-grinder.
The hour was late when Thomas finally arrived back at Boughton Hall. He had stayed much later than he intended at Mr. Peabody’s dispensary, ensuring that everyone who needed physick was able to take some away with them. His throat was gritty with dust from the road and he felt exhausted.
The house was silent as he made his way up the stairs to Lydia’s bedroom. On his return journey from Brandwick his thoughts had turned to her and how easily she had taken on the mantle of motherhood. He recalled the look of love on her face as she stared down at Richard. There was something of the Madonna in her manner; a serenity that surely only came with complete fulfillment. He thought, too, of Sir Montagu and how he had enlisted the law to keep them apart. She had had no choice but to agree to the terms of the wardship. And for his part, how could he have refused to allow Lydia custody of her only son? It would have been morally reprehensible. Not only that, but she would have ended up hating him for forcing her into such a decision. He did not doubt for one second that she still loved him, but now he would have to share her love.
Slowly he opened her bedroom door. The room was warm and silent and completely dark. Normally Lydia did not snuff out her bedside candle until he was safely beside her. He edged his way in, reaching out for familiar furniture to guide his path toward the bed. His eyes grew gradually accustomed to the darkness as he approached it and he felt the covers. They remained smooth and the pillows cold and crisp. The bed was empty.
Standing for a moment in the darkness, he thought. Then he realized. Making his way out of Lydia’s chamber, he walked along the corridor to the nearest guest room. Slowly, and as quietly as possible, he opened the door. And there they were; mother and son in bed together. Both slept peacefully, with Lydia’s arm cradling Richard in its crook.
For a few moments he watched them, listening to their breathing: hers steady and familiar, his shallow and erratic. A pang of sadness shot through him. Had he lost his beloved? Suddenly he felt compelled to kiss her and he walked forward and bowed low, brushing her forehead with his lips. Her eyes opened immediately and she smiled.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too,” she replied, closing her eyes once more.
Moving away from the bed he breathed a sigh of relief. He believed her. Silently he made his way to his own room by the light of a lamp that still burned in the corridor. He resolved to tell Lydia that he understood that she and her newfound son needed time together on their own. He would also tell her that when she felt ready, he wanted to be as a father to Richard, if she would allow it.
Once in his own room he flung off his coat, almost disdainfully, as if wanting to slough off the unsettling feeling left by the evening’s strange events. He noticed the lining was torn at the seam as a consequence of his exertions. He would ask Mistress Kidd to mend it in due course. He walked over to the pitcher and ewer. Splashing his face with tepid water, he felt a stinging sensation and remembered the scratches on his cheek. He recalled the baying crowd by the market cross. Someone had cried out “witch.” Someone—it may even have been Ned Perkins, humble, docile, Ned Perkins—called for the girl to be burned. Young and old alike had put their faith in such a superstitious ritual. The witch trials of Salem may have been held in a far off land, he told himself, but the sentiments and superstitions were as true today in Brandwick as they had been almost one hundred years ago in his homeland.