A week has passed since I found Beth bleeding on the floor. She is back to work now, and back in our bed. Although quieter than usual, she seems much herself, and we are back to how we were before with each other. I have allowed myself to forgive her, for in my heart I know that it was me who wished it all upon her. But I do not feel any guilt this time. For if it was truly the Devil’s child inside her then Our Beloved would have wished for it to be out of her too.
We never speak of it, but at night, when all is quiet and Beth is breathing steadily next to me, I think of the Devil child I saw in my dream, all slippery with Beth’s blood, and I am filled with a breathtaking terror. I pull the blanket tightly around my shoulders, close my eyes and search desperately for my meadow.
It is not easy to find. There are too many thoughts and feelings blocking my way. All the ordinary nonsense: the pile of mending still to be done, the eggs to be gathered, the last slice of apple pie hidden behind a pitcher in the scullery. And the darker thoughts too; of Mama and Eli and Papa, now rotting in his grave. I have to pick through them all and toss them to one side. But eventually, I stumble into it, my beautiful meadow, hidden in a deep, dusty corner of my mind. It is the same as always. It is wild and green and peaceful and I am free to run in any direction I care to. Except now there is someone to run to. I see him in the distance, waiting for me, his white gown fluttering in the breeze. He is smiling his beautiful, calm smile; the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He reaches out to me and I run like the wind. Only when his arms have folded around me and I am safe in his embrace, do I allow myself to go to sleep.
A strange thing happened today as me and Our Beloved and Agatha were on our way back from Minehead. The light was just fading as we came into Spaxton. I was sitting as usual, on the dickey box next to Agatha, and I was looking forward to a hot drink and the plate of warming supper I knew would be waiting for us on our return. As we passed by the little row of cottages just down from the Lamb Inn, I saw a girl opening the gate to one of the front gardens. She was carrying a jug in her hands and I thought perhaps she had just fetched some ale from the inn. She stopped to close the gate and watched us as we drove by. There was something very familiar about her, so I turned my head to see her all the better. She dropped the jug then. It crashed to the ground and she cried out as it shattered into pieces. Her hand flew to her mouth. But she did not look down at the ruined jug or the spilled contents. She stared straight at me with eyes as round as peeled eggs.
It was Sarah.
I looked away quickly, my heart thrumming hard against my ribs. For a brief moment, I felt a surge of anger towards her. What was she doing here, spying on me? I glanced back and saw an old man had joined her at the gate. Her father. I remembered then, how she had told me that her father lived in Spaxton.
The carriage turned into the gates of the Abode, and the hairs on the back of my neck crisped as I imagined her running after me. Only when the gates were closed and locked again, did I dare to breathe easily. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Agatha said to me as we climbed down from the carriage.
And I thought that perhaps she was right. It was a ghost I had seen. Just a ghost from the past. And it was left outside the gates now. Where it belonged.