The Devil's Mistress

by David Barclay

  “Can you make a man not love me?”

  “Can I make a man not love you?” The woman laughed. “Surely, you don’t mean Jacob?”

  For the first time since descending into the cellar, Isabella felt a chill. She was almost certain she hadn’t spoken her servant boy’s name.

  “Not him. My betrothed. He is a strong and decent young man, but—”

  “But you do not love him.”

  “I do not love him,” Isabella finished.

  “Oh, to be young and foolish again. To believe marriage is only for love. Tell me, does your betrothed have a name?” Then the woman raised the knife as if to silence Isabella’s tongue. “Let me venture. I wager your betrothed is the son of your father’s partner, is he not? This Huxley person.”

  “His name is Thomas. How did you know that?”

  The woman held up the knife again. “It must be an arranged marriage. From your father, no doubt. Something to help solidify the partnership. Or perhaps this young man is simply the only one rich enough to provide for you. I remember when Blackfriar was nothing but a sawyers’ camp, and ’twas not so long ago. Not such a preponderance of wealth in so tiny a village.” The woman pointed to Isabella’s hand. “You have the mark of a ring, though you are not wearing it this night.” She laughed again. “Your father could look abroad for a suitor, but if he has been ill, and not wont to travel, then it must be this boy. This Thomas.”

  Isabella stared at the woman, her hands clasped against her breast.

  “You strike me as a dutiful young woman. I would think you would be inclined to do as your father says, no matter your personal feelings. There must be another reason. Surely you can tell me that?”

  Unknowingly, Isabella had backed herself into the wall. The cold, uneven stonework pressed into her like an obscene hand. She looked up and was shocked to discover a new set of tapestries above her, these far different from the rest. There was an image of a wolf pack eviscerating a tall, thin man. The image of a human skull covered in insects. The image of a man lain upon an altar and pierced with a dozen knives.

  “My reasons are my own. I should like to keep them, if you don’t mind.”

  “Very well,” the woman said tiredly, “but you should at least be able to tell me what it is that you want. Come now, child. Can you not speak the words? Can you not tell me that which you desire?”

  “I wish…” Isabella began. “I wish Thomas Huxley loved me no longer. I wish to be free of this arrangement. I wish to be my own woman again. That is all.”

  Almost casually, the woman reached up and cut another thread, discarding it somewhere onto the floor. “Nothing simpler.”

  “Is it something you can do, or not?”

  “It is done, child.”

  Isabella stared at her, wanting to speak but for the awe and fear and hope all tangled together in her throat. Was she to believe this strange creature? To doubt her? Fear her? Then the woman opened her mouth once more, and all the questions in Isabella’s mind quieted.

  “Now,” the Lady said, “you know well this is different from before. For this, I do require a tithe. So let us speak of my payment, child, and then you shall be upon your way.”

  Chapter 4

  By the time Isabella returned to the road, she was covered in mud from ankle to thigh. There was a hidden path which allowed her to circumvent the cliff, but it was no less arduous in the rain. The January cold assaulted her at every step.

  As she approached the puddle at the edge of the trail, there came a loud grunt and the whine of horses. The carriage had been turned in her absence, but its wheels were entrenched in mud. Jacob stood behind it, pushing and shouting.

  “Move it, Lily! Go on, Beth! Move your feet!”

  Isabella did not bother to walk round the puddle this time but ran straight through, hurrying to her servant’s side and adding her hands to the rear of the carriage.

  Jacob looked at her but said nothing, instead gritting his teeth and straining forward. With their combined weight, the carriage began to move. There came a loud pop, and then the wheels were free, turning forward over solid road. Jacob ran and caught the horses, then held the door as Isabella rushed to meet him. There were a million questions in his eyes, and for the first time that evening, Isabella was glad of the storm. She slipped inside without a word.

  The boy climbed up the carriage and took the reins, spurring the horses as never before. Their hooves thundered over the wet road, rattling the carriage as they clamped and clomped back toward civilization. Isabella was afraid one of them might slip and break a leg, but neither did. They ran until the road dipped down toward sea level, and the A-frame of The Huxley-Ashford Mill rose upon the horizon like a pointed fortress.

  Much of Blackfriar lay dark and dormant, but a handful of lights were visible in the courtyard of the Ashford residence, protected beneath the awnings of the outer wall. Isabella’s house was a modest place by the standards of southern wealth: three servants, one manumitted slave, a handful of guardsmen, and one head of house.

  The guardsmen pulled open the iron gates as they approached. The carriage rolled into the inner sanctum, and the horses began to slow. Isabella’s father was waiting when they finally came to a halt.

  John Ashford was every inch the English-born aristocrat, with penetrating gray eyes, a molded nose, and a set of jowl lines which cut so deeply into his face they might have been scars. He was round about the shoulders and had more recently grown round about the belly, a fact which was helped not at all by his strict adherence to the English fashion of yesteryear, which clad him most nights—as he was so presently clad—in a long, square coat which covered him bodily from neck to knees.

  “Elly, where have you been?” He ran into the rain, flinging open the doors of the carriage before the servants could intervene.

  “Here, Father.”

  He opened his arms to embrace her, then saw the state of her attire. “What has happened?”

  “We were caught in the storm. I had to help Jacob free the carriage.”

  “Caught in the storm? Who let you out in the storm?” He cast his head about as if searching for a target. His eyes settled on the boy, who had come down from the coach box to unhitch the horses. “You, there. What is the meaning of this?”

  “He had no say in this,” Isabella interjected. “He was only doing as I asked.”

  “As you asked? You are not to leave without an escort. You don’t know the dangers of the wood after dark. What if you were set upon by a band of savages? Do you think this boy could defend you?”

  “Please, Father. Let us get out of the rain, first.”

  He pointed to his head of house, a long, wiry man in a stained linen shirt, with a leather whip at his side. “Tie him to the post, Mister Sands. I will have him flogged for this.”

  “You will not,” Isabella shouted. “You cannot punish him for doing as I asked.”

  “He should know—”

  “He should know that we do not whip our servants for obeying a direct command.”

  In all things physical, Isabella resembled her late mother more than the great John Ashford, but in matters of temperament, they were as two stones cut from the same mountain. Once she’d fastened upon a point, she would not be moved.

  “Mm,” he grumbled. “Oh, very well. But no supper for him, and put him on the east roof repairs on the morrow. Since he has spent the evening bandying about the countryside, I am sure he will not mind a day of hard labor at altitude.”

  Isabella met her father’s eye and saw he would not be moved. Jacob would not be physically punished, but he would have a hard time of it for a few days. It wouldn’t be the first time a servant was to take the brunt of her misdeeds, and yet, the boy had risked himself so gladly. What had she done to deserve such cruel adulation?

  Her father took her by the arm. “Come with me. Let us get you cleaned up.”

  “Hold a moment.”

  “I will
not wait.”

  “Yes, you shall, Father! I will be in momentarily.”

  Then, once more seeing her inexorability, he grumbled something about the cold and headed into the house alone.

  She turned to Jacob and opened her mouth, but no words came out. He seemed not to notice, going about the task of unhitching the horses as if nothing had transpired. There was so much she wanted to say. Gratitude for all he had done. An apology for the harm it brought him. A promise not to put him in the same predicament again.

  Still, no words came.

  Jacob finished with the halters and began walking Lily and Beth across the grounds.

  Isabella had to run to catch up. At last, she said, “Are you not cold?”

  He stopped long enough to remove the driver’s cap from his head. Without it, he once more looked a boy of sixteen instead of the grizzled old man he had been upon the road. “You belong in there, my lady. As for me, I belong out here. ’Tis the way it has always been, and always will be. Happy to have been of service, I am.” He looked at her, then said, “Worry not about my time tomorrow. ’Twill be a clear day on the rooftop, and I’m sure my leg will not be a burden.” He led the horses into the stable and closed the doors behind him, confining her to the courtyard.

  “Wait,” she said, but he would not. Well, perhaps the Lady of the Hill had been wrong after all.

  She marched across the courtyard in a huff, not bothering to acknowledge several of her father’s men who waved her good evening as she opened the front door and then slammed it behind her.

  Chapter 5

  Miss Delia was waiting with a fresh change of clothes inside. Delia always seemed to know what Isabella needed before Isabella did. Truth be told, she seemed to know everything about everything. That wisdom, however, had come with an awful price.

  Delia was a free woman, but like so many born to slavery, the bonds which held her to the estate were stronger than any physical chains. She had worked for decades in different families and secreted enough money to purchase her own freedom, in accordance with the law. That freedom, however, had come too late. By the time she had saved enough and John had softened enough to allow it, she had outlived the rest of her natural family. She was too old to travel north on her own. John Ashford paid her and housed her in exchange for her continued service, but it was a lonely existence. This oft troubled Isabella, though many nights, she was plainly glad of Delia’s company. Glad she had a confidant in whom she could trust.

  Isabella peeled off her boots. “Why are the hearts of men so complicated?”

  “Not so complicated,” Delia said, slipping a dress around Isabella’s shoulders. “Got their strong parts and their weak parts in the same place. You just got to know when to pinch, and when to pull.”

  Isabella had no idea what that meant but nodded anyway.

  Delia produced a familiar golden band and slipped it on the girl’s finger. “Don’t want to lose this. No, indeed.”

  Isabella sighed. “As if I needed reminding.”

  “Don’t get any foolhardy ideas. You’re going to marry that boy like your daddy says, you understand?”

  “I understand, Delia.”

  Isabella put the ring on and went in search of her father. She found him in the study a small, stuffy room filled with old books. Upon the walls hung a great many portraits, and John stood at the fireplace contemplating his most recent acquisition. It was a portrait of John himself on a chair.

  “Look at this drivel,” he said when she walked in. “I paid good coin for this.”

  Isabella shut the door behind her. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Marianne was by earlier today. She claims to have seen this exact pose at a house in Williamsburg. Can you imagine? That artist has been using the same template across the whole damned state. Probably using the same furniture. Look at that chair. We own nothing of the sort.”

  “You shouldn’t curse, Papa.”

  “Mm,” he grunted, poking at the canvas with his walking cane. He had been using the cane more and more these past few weeks. “Back in London, I would have tracked him down and strung him up by the toes.”

  “But we’re not.”

  “Indeed, we are not.” He sat down at the table and began to rub his temples. “What the bloody hell were you doing on your own this evening? You know you’re not supposed to take the carriage.”

  Isabella shifted. She never liked lying to her father. “I’ve been cooped up here with the weather. I only wanted to see the countryside.”

  “Bah! Thick forests, dangerous animals, and natives who would just as like to slit your throat as not. You know what happened to the Collins boy? And the man who sits captive in the town circle?”

  She nodded.

  Anthony Collins was a boy of three who had wandered into the forest some weeks before, and was never seen again. A young Indian man was arrested in connection with the crime and now sat awaiting sentence. Blackfriar had never been large enough to require a watch before, but after the disappearance, her father had organized volunteer patrols along the perimeter. The one who made the arrest was none other than her very own Thomas, who found several articles of the boy’s clothing on the wandering native.

  She bit her lip. “I shan’t do it again. I’ve seen all I care to see of the forest, anyhow.”

  “Shan’t do what again?” For a moment, her father looked genuinely confused. Then he shook his head and continued rubbing his temples. “Oh, the forest. You know how dangerous it is.”

  It pained Isabella to watch. She could feel the weight of the Lady’s vial concealed against her breast. “Have you eaten, Father? Would you like me to make you some supper?”

  “No, no. That won’t be necessary.”

  “You must eat.”

  “I haven’t been able to keep much food down today. Too dizzy.” He flashed a hard smile. “Surely I will feel better in the morning.”

  “Aye.” Her fingers trailed away from the vial. She hadn’t asked the woman what to do if her father refused to eat. Then something occurred to her. “What did Madam Huxley want? Were you discussing the trial?” She was afraid of pushing him too hard, but her curiosity got the better of her.

  “No, no. That won’t begin until the magistrate arrives. We were discussing, er…business matters.”

  “Father?” Isabella raised an eyebrow. Though she disliked lying to her father, she disliked the truth being kept from her even more.

  “Oh, bother. There was another accident at the mill. A young man lost his hand.”

  Isabella gasped. “Will he live?”

  “He will, thank God. Well, he will if fever does not set in. Doctor Moberrey was able to bind the wrist and stem the blood loss. We’ve had too many accidents with the new machinery. We were slower a decade ago, but my conscience troubled me less. This water wheel contraption is a strange thing. Marianne wants only the best, of course.”

  Only the most profitable, mayhap. “What will you do?”

  “I’d like to bring another millwright to oversee operations. Marianne is opposed. She believes it will be too expensive. And why am I telling you this? You care not for the trifles of business.”

  Isabella crossed the room and took his hand. “I like to hear you speak. It is good to keep the mind active.”

  “Bah.” He pulled away. “This is why we must have the ceremony sooner rather than later. Thomas will run this town one day, and you must run him.”

  “Because you say?”

  “Because you don’t understand the law, Elly. When I’m gone—”

  “You’re not going anywhere for a good, long while. Here, I’m going to bring you something.”

  She departed at once to the cellar, a low-ceiling room lined with shelves of English goods. Amongst them, several boxes of her father’s favorite tea, straight from across the Atlantic. She took a tin upstairs and prepared a cup, using water from the kettle over the kitchen fireplace. Once it had steeped,
she withdrew the vial from her robes and tipped two drops into the top.

  “There.” If her father would not eat, he would at least get the medicine this way. She was certain it would work so long as it was imbibed.

  When she returned to the study, he was in much the same position, and in much the same mood.

  “Drink this,” Isabella said.

  “Brandy?” he said hopefully.

  “Tea. Drink it.”

  He did, scowling as it went down, and muttering something about Delia’s faltering skill at the stove. Isabella was pleased nonetheless.

  “Enough of business. Thomas expects you for the New Year’s dinner tomorrow, and I expect you to go.”

  “Father, I—”

  “You will go as I command,” he said, tipping his chin down. “Marianne dropped off your invitation while she was here.” He produced a letter bound with the seal of the Huxley house. Why they still insisted on such formalities, Isabella didn’t know. “I’m sure he will be most glad of your company.”

  “As you say, Father.”

  He stared at her as if daring her to defy him. When he was satisfied, he took his cane in hand and began the process of climbing back to his feet. “Good girl. Now come and help an old man to bed.”

  Chapter 6

  My Dearest Isabella,

  I am vexed once more at having missed the pleasure of your company. It seems every occasion I visit your father’s estate, you are out on one adventure or another. With our nuptials imminent next week, I am sure you are feeling ill at ease at the thought of losing the freedom you enjoy beneath your father’s roof.

  Rest assured, my little love bucket, we have an entire stable of horses. You are free to ride at your leisure, and I shall offer no restraints. My men-at-arms will accompany you wherever you go to keep you safe. Of course, whenever you are close, I will hug you tightly!

  My mother is arranging dinner for us tomorrow at midday, and I will expect you in your full glory at half past eleven. If you are not here, I shall be very disappointed! I am looking forward to seeing you most imminently, honey-sop.