Chapter 12: Rite of Awakening

 

My mother deserved an explanation of recent changes in my circumstances, so I paid her a visit the following morning. Our lives were still intertwined financially and through our shared past, even if the emotional distance between us often felt insurmountable.

Still, I wasn’t craving another awkward conversation, and I had to be back at Maida Green to prepare for a funeral in the afternoon after my errand to Juno’s house. As a result, I strode to her house in some haste and rapped on the door.

The maid admitted me, and I handed off my coat and hat.

“Good morning, sir. Your mother is in the dining—”

“Thank you.” I brushed past the girl and found my mother sitting over her breakfast.

“Benjamin!” she said. “Good morning. Have you eaten?”

“Hello, Mother.” I sat in the chair opposite her and pulled the rack of toast closer. “Your orange marmalade tempts me despite my earlier breakfast at home. If you don’t mind, I’ll help myself. I only have a few minutes, but I must tell you about…”

She stared at me, her teaspoon poised midair.

“Ah.” I laid down the butter knife and folded my hands in my lap. Without thinking, I’d just spoken to her more in twenty seconds than I had in the preceding month.

“That was positively…voluble,” she said. “What on earth has come over you?”

“N-nothing. I de-decided t-to—” Her conscious regard interrupted the magic. I blew out a breath, considered my half-buttered bread, and summoned my self-possession. “I have decided, going forward, to say what I want to say.”

Part of me knew I still stammered and always would, but I tried not to pay any attention to it. I had more important things to think about.

To my astonishment, Mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I am so glad,” she said, and she put her hand palm-up on the tabletop. I quickly covered it with mine, and she squeezed. “I have always wanted to know what you have to say.”

Her sentiment was at least a fortnight late, and possibly as much as twenty years, but nevertheless, I appreciated her words.

“Thank you.” I pulled my hand away and returned to my toast and my news. “Now, I do have something of import to relay. There are visitors staying at Maida House.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, Mother. Do not ask me to repeat myself.”

“No, I meant—” She flushed. “Tell me you’re not serious. The house must be a death trap by now. Who is it?”

“Mrs. Stephens and…” I could not risk spreading Sarah’s name, even to my mother. “And her young friend.”

“Stephens, Ben, my goodness. No, no. It’s hardly proper, you’ve no staff there, and that woman—”

“Mother.” I waited until she met my gaze. “I’m not requesting your permission. I’m telling you because the house belongs to the Hood family, so you have a right to know the happenings. Although I have often been tight-lipped,” I said with a wry smile, “I am not in the habit of lying to you.”

She frowned. “Maida House doesn’t belong to the entire Hood family. It’s yours alone. Some distant day, I pray it will pass to your son. You must do as you see fit.”

“Thank you. I will. I hope it will be your home again soon.”

“Soon? Are you reacquiring the estate’s acreage?”

I frowned. “Not yet.”

It would be another year or two at least, the way things were going. Some plague or fever rushing through Londoners would send a flood of fees to Maida Green, but I couldn’t hope for such a thing, even if it would help my situation. You profit from the wages of death, Sarah had accused. I did, but I did not pray for it.

Mother’s brow creased. “You’re the one who told me we cannot support the house without the farm. How are you open to visitors?”

“Well.” It was an apt question. “Their need for accommodation was urgent, and they won’t be staying long. I must ask you to keep the knowledge to yourself.”

She gave a delicate huff. “Of that I can assure you. I have no desire to tie Mrs. Stephens’ name to yours. The things I have heard about that woman…Do you think she is nice?”

Nice. I thought of Juno: her words and deeds, her pointed chin and dimpled smile. Until you’re quivering and saying my name.

Then I thought of the infants laid to rest in Maida Green. “No, I would not say she is nice. She is unique.”

Some emotion must have crossed my face, for my mother drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, my darling boy. Be very careful.”

“All right, Mother. Don’t start any baseless worrying on my behalf. You know I’ll be fine.”

“Sometimes your resemblance to him is startling, but you’re so much stronger than he was.”

“Joseph?” I asked with a harsh laugh. “Any action short of death and ruin would prove me stronger than him.”

But Mother shook her head. “No. I do not compare you to your brother. I meant you are stronger than your father.”

I stopped and considered her. Was she mocking me? My father had been a pillar of our community and the steadfast center of our family. It was his death that had started our downfall. To compare me to him seemed ludicrous, but my mother’s smile was wistful, not cruel.

“I must be going,” I said, and she nodded.

“Will you come back on Sunday and walk with me to church?”

I rose and kissed the top of her head. “It would be my pleasure.”

My next destination was Juno’s house to fulfill her errand. Farmer Miller was not visible in his fields as I passed. I noted with some relief that the low-lying corner of the field was dry enough. The proper maintenance of those fields would, with any luck, be my responsibility someday.

The Crassula ovata on Juno’s porch looked happier in its new position in life. Her door swung open soundlessly by way of the key she’d given me. I stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the foyer, trying to understand what was wrong about it. I had only seen it once, and I’d been distracted at the time.

Finally, I understood what was wrong—it wasn’t something I saw, it was the smell. Juno’s house during my previous visit had smelled like sage and soil and sunlight. But the odor on the air then was…rancid? I stepped inside.

The parlor looked normal. The kitchen smelled fine, although unwashed dishes and an overturned chair showed evidence of a hurried departure. A few drops of blood led toward the back door. Juno said she had stumbled.

The stench was stronger in the hallway, so I returned there.

Upon sliding open the door to the conservatory, a wave of rot rolled over me. But it wasn’t the green, moldy smell of decomposing plant matter. Quickly I walked along the aisle to the glass doors, flipped the bolt, and flung the doors wide open.

The rush of cool air was a relief. The awful smell began to dissipate. As I turned back to the room, a dark shape caught my eye.

On the floor of the other aisle lay a small creature in a pool of blood. “Good Lord,” I muttered. Given the smell, the thing had been dead for some time. Stepping carefully, I crouched beside the congealed pool. It was a black cat, its underbelly slit open. Entrails spilled out. I avoided looking at the poor creature’s face, and I held my cuff up to my nose. For a man whose work dealt in death, I found the maimed feline unsettling. Juno had been away from home for less than a day—when had the cat been killed? Was animal sacrifice another facet of her ceremonies? The idea made me shudder. As someone who paid attention to details, it seemed unlike Juno to abandon a dead cat on the floor. But all the doors had been locked.

The corner of the conservatory held a rack of gardening implements, and I fetched a pail and a trowel. The carcass I then collected and carried outdoors, where I buried it under a stately Quercus robur. The cat’s grave was even smaller than an infant’s. I spent another ten minutes wiping up the floorboards. I would have to inform Juno of my finding and judge her reaction. If it was a remnant of her dark rites…No. It couldn’t be. The dead cat was a warning—or a threat. It could have been Greeley, but Sarah believed him harmless, and he knew very well Juno was not at home. It was his presence that had chased her away. What if someone else had drawn a connection between Juno and the infant deaths? I needed to gather information from the other families. I had to know.

Finally, I was able to turn to my original errand, which sent me to the writing desk in the parlor. It faced the large front window. It was easy to imagine Juno sitting there. Opening her desk drawers was an intrusion, even with her permission.

I kept my eyes off her jumbled stack of papers and pulled out a square box. It was made of thin wood panels with a clasp on the front, and its weight was slight. I tucked it under my arm, then relocked the front door on my way out.

* * *

I worked at Maida Green with Everett in the afternoon. He did not ask about my morning, and I didn’t mention the dead cat. He would only worry. Together we opened a grave in preparation for an arrival from London—an elderly man, thankfully. We were knee-deep in the earth when he spoke.

“Did you ask Juno how long she intends to stay in your house?”

I tossed another shovelful of dirt. The protesting muscles at the base of my spine reminded me that I’d already dug a grave that morning, albeit very small.

“Not yet.”

“You said you would.”

“And I will.”

“Tonight?”

I stabbed my shovel into the soil and leaned on it, then looked hard at Everett. “Do you have some objection to Juno and Sarah’s presence?”

He continued working without pause. “No.”

“Then what is it?” I waited. Everett said nothing. “Just tell me.”

“My mother is nervous, that’s all,” he said in a rush. “She thinks somebody was in our kitchen, although nothing was stolen. I told her she’s jumping at shadows. And I don’t know why, but she doesn’t like Sarah Greeley.”

“You told her about Juno and Sarah?”

“Yes, although now I wish I hadn’t. It just made her anxious. Lucy is trailing me around the house. They both say that no one is bothering them, but I’m not sure they’re telling me the truth. What if another infant dies tonight? What if the villagers need someone to blame? Suddenly the brown-skinned Toth family have suspicious faces.”

“Your mother’s history in this village extends for decades. I cannot imagine anyone would look askance at her.”

“I can, Ben. They’re friendly until they’re not. You don’t know what it’s like.” He attacked the soil again and again with his spade. “I want to know why those babies died, so we have some facts to dispel fears. I thought you might have better luck at it even before I knew your family history. Now I’m sure it must be you. If you’re Benjamin Hood of Maida House, people will talk to you. Only if, of course, you go and talk to them.”

He was right about that. He just didn’t know I’d already been to the Pfeiffers’. “You think Juno is distracting me from what I promised you, but I have started looking into it. However, I’ve found nothing of substance yet.”

Everett’s mouth twitched in droll humor. “So, you’re sure she isn’t a distraction?”

I laughed. “She is prettier than you.”

“Scarcely.”

“Scarcely,” I conceded. “But the woman does have some power over me. I confess my thoughts often wander toward her without my conscious permission.”

“There is but a fine line between love and witchcraft.”

I turned to my shovel as an excuse to hide my face, for he’d hit very close to my fear. I resolved to put a proper space between Juno and me and to deal with her more firmly. She couldn’t sway my actions if I didn’t allow it. I would root out the truth to prevent unfounded suspicions from pointing to Everett’s family—and to understand what sort of woman Juno Stephens was.

“Does all this hand-wringing mean that you’re not returning to Maida House tonight?” I asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Everett said. “Does it mean you’ve forgotten how to operate that shovel you’re using as an armrest?”

I huffed, rotated my wrists until they popped, and applied myself to my work. “This place will be all your responsibility one day if you’ll agree. I’m just making sure you’re up to the job.”

“You know I am, Ben. I’m just hoping you’re able to do the job that you promised me.”

“You know I am,” I echoed, then silently prayed it was true.