A Curse Dark as Gold

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  “You saved the mill,” I said. To my relief, Rosie grinned.

  “Aye, that we did,” she said, and threw her arms around me. I feared she might cry, but she pulled away again. “You should get inside and change,” she said sternly, “before you catch your death. Why don’t you let Randall take you home? We’ll finish up here.”

  I looked around the sodden, ashen millyard, at my drenched and sooty sister. With every flash of lightning, I could see clean through her wet nightdress. I pulled off my wet cloak and bundled her in it.

  “I am home,” I said.

  The rain lasted only as long as it was needed, and stopped once it had done its good deed. Work resumed near dawn—the stamping out of stubborn embers, the knocking down of walls before they could tumble on their own, the raking away of rubble. I allowed someone to find me dry clothes that more or less fit and permitted myself to be tucked under the Millhouse eaves, a mug of coffee steaming in my grip. I don’t think I took a single sip. Pilot showed up at last, none the worse than the rest of us, and settled beside me.

  In the cold clear light of morning, the ghostly voice retreated, and reason returned. The ruined carcass of the woolshed was devastating, but not sinister; a blackened skeleton in a grave of stones, which didn’t so much as whisper to me. I understood—I had done its bidding, its wish was granted: Stirwaters was saved. The woolshed was a casualty, but it was not the mill.

  The fire had one more cruel surprise. About midmorning, I heard a shout from within the ruins, where Harte and Randall and some of the other men worked to smother the last smoldering remnants of the blaze. I ran to see, stumbling over kicked-up debris and slipping on the wet shale, but Eben Fuller grabbed me bodily and held me back.

  “Nay, Mistress—you won’t want to see that.”

  “What—what is it?”

  Eben hesitated. “They’ve found a body.”

  “A body? But who—who could have been in there?” All of mine were accounted for—Rosie, Randall, Harte and Pilot—I’d even seen Uncle Wheeler poke a disdainful head out a Millhouse window at one point. The millhands—weren’t they all here? I looked around, frantic to see who might be missing.

  “It’s Bill Penny, Mistress.”

  I stared at him, horror seeping through me as the rain had done.

  “It looks like he set the fire—there’s a can of turpentine and a pile of rags over by the mill building. It’s a miracle that the mill never caught. Poor old sod must’ve crept into the shed to watch the fire, and passed out. He had his bottle with him.”

  I pushed past him and clambered over the fallen stones. Harte and Randall were gathered round a shape on the floor, which someone had covered with a length of ruined cloth. Harte made to stop me, but Randall shook his head and drew me to him. His nightshirt was wet through to the skin with sweat and rain, his tanned face streaked with black. I pulled away from him before he could wrap an arm around me.

  “I sacked him,” I whispered. “He’s the one who damaged the stock—but I never thought—” My words were lost in a violent shudder.

  “Hush, it’s not your fault.”

  I could not draw my gaze away from the pitiful form in its woollen shroud. One outflung arm was not quite covered, and I thought I could see…I knelt beside the heap and flipped back enough of the cloth to reveal Bill Penny’s clothing. It was ruined now, of course, the color distorted by smoke and water. I glanced at Harte and Randall, to see if they recognized it, but they had not spent months staring at it across the breakfast table. For me, there could be no doubt: Bill Penny had been wearing a coat of robin’s egg blue.

  The master gave me a present if I did it.

  I lingered among the ruins all afternoon, stepping gingerly through the wreckage, trying to salvage anything from the fire. The men had cleared away most of the debris and removed poor Bill Penny to the undertaker’s. Stirwaters would pay for his funeral, such as it would be; he may have committed arson, but we shared some blame for his death.

  “That’s one,” said a grating voice behind me. I spun, gripping tight to a length of plaid flannel that smelt of a campfire.

  Jack Spinner climbed toward me over the heaped-up rubble. His ragged topcoat fluttered in a breeze that was not there, showing his scrawny frame. He looked, more than ever, like a scarecrow.

  “One what?” I said crossly. I was in no mood to cross paths with him today.

  “Victim, one death, one poor soul who relied on Charlotte Miller and met a bad end because of it. How many more do you suppose there will be?”

  “What do you want?”

  He bent and retrieved a blackened object from the ground. He brushed the dust away, and I could see it was the cover to the pattern book we’d been assembling for Porter & Byrd. “The question is, Mistress Miller, what do you want?”

  “I want you to go away,” I said.

  “Happily,” he said. “Snap my fingers, whistle a tune, and all of this disappears. You won’t hear from me again, and the Millers go on their merry way.”

  I snatched the book cover from his hands. “No, thank you. Your skills are not necessary this time. We were insured.” Randall had gone home to get cleaned up, but he was heading for Harrowgate tonight, to file our claim with the firm.

  “Insurance? But, Charlotte Miller, you ought to know you can’t get better insurance than with me. Why, my work is guaranteed.” He chuckled, a dry, throaty sound like the rustling of leaves. I suppressed a shiver, as if brushed by Spinner’s phantom breeze.

  “Your offer is appreciated, sir, but Stirwaters will not be needing your services again. I thank you to remove yourself from my property at once, or I shall send for the authorities.”

  Spinner grinned and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Aye? And who do you imagine has authority over me, Mistress?”

  Now I knew I felt the shiver, and I wrapped my arms around my breast. “Go away,” I repeated, but my voice was not so strong this time.

  Behind me, I heard the crunch of shale, and I turned. Mr. Mordant was hobbling up the yard. “You all right there, missie? That little feller ain’t bothering you, is he?”

  “No, Mr. Mordant, our friend was just leaving.” I turned to shoo Mr. Spinner on his way again.

  He had disappeared.

  Something bothered me about this whole affair, and it was more than just the loss of the woolshed or poor Bill’s death. Standing in the lee of the mill, watching the last lingering steam rise from the ruin of the woolshed, I almost understood everything. The fire, Bill’s blue coat, his urgent explanations about “the master.” I thought I knew who that was, at least.

  A few days later I carried my suspicions across the yard, to the Millhouse.

  I found my uncle having a drink in the parlor, in a curious state of undress: embroidered waistcoat and shirtsleeves, covered over with a satin half-cape, as if he were getting ready to powder his wig. The idea of him wandering about my home with such an informal air was oddly disconcerting to me. I hesitated in the doorway, and had to force myself into the room.

  “My dear Charlotte, what a pleasure to see you!” He turned to me and downed the remainder of his wine. “Come, sit down.”

  I held my ground. “I’d rather not, thank you. Uncle, might I have a word with you?”

  He drew me closer with his hand, a line of concern creasing his powdered face. “Of course, my dear. Is there something bothering you? I daresay you do look a little peaked. Perhaps this weather isn’t the ideal thing for a girl in your condition. Why don’t you have that husband of yours take you into the city, where you can rest and have your child in civilized conditions? You know I’d be more than happy to look after your interests here.”

  “Yes, well, Uncle, that’s rather what I wanted to discuss.”

  Uncle Wheeler’s face brightened under raised eyebrows. “Indeed? Do go on.”

  Trying to summon up the certainty I had felt in the shadow of the mill, I said, “I want to know what happened to the woolshed.”

&nb
sp; He shook his head. “I know—so troubling. What a distressing thing to happen, for everyone.”

  “I mean, I want to know what you know about it, sir.” Behind my back, I twined my fingers together so tightly I could feel my nails biting into my flesh.

  Uncle Wheeler gave a cough. “Really, I—”

  “Bill Penny was wearing your coat. Your blue velvet morning coat.”

  He settled into the chair, a look of sympathy on his face. Shaking his head, he said, “Now, Charlotte, you know I lost that jacket over a hand of cards. If it wound up in a rag-and-bone shop, where that unfortunate fellow picked it up, I’m sure there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Shearing doesn’t have a rag-and-bone shop. He must have gotten it from you.”

  My uncle was watching me, carefully, out of those green eyes. “My dear, are you trying to accuse me of something? Because if you are, you’re going to need more than girlish hysteria to do it with.”

  “I saw you. With the man from Pinchfields.”

  “Who?”

  “Their wool buyer. I saw you meeting with him. At the pub, in Harrowgate. After—when we went to the city.” Coming out of my mouth, it didn’t sound like such damning evidence after all.

  He stared at me a moment, eyes narrowed, and then laughed, a louder, heartier sound than his usual delicate twitter. “Oh, my word, Charlotte—how your imagination has run away with you! That good fellow and I are members of the same club. As is your husband, if I do remember aright. Are you going to accuse him of something next?”

  I felt my resolve wavering, and took a deep breath to fortify myself. “Are you also not in debt to Arthur Darling?”

  “Oh, dear. You’ve gotten all turned around. No wonder you’re so upset. Surely you understand that society circles are not that large? A man like Darling and I were bound to cross paths, and when we both enjoy a game of chance…well. And the debt?” He waved his hand, as if brushing away a speck of lint. “A pittance. Don’t trouble yourself over it.”

  He had an explanation for everything. Just like he always did. But I was bone weary of secrets and mysteries, and the line that marked what I would believe was wavering. I met his concerned gaze and willed him to tell me something true—something that went deeper than the powdered mask.

  “Now, my dear, if you haven’t any other random accusations to plague me with, why don’t you run along? I’m sure you must have some little task to occupy you, and as you can see, I myself have pressing matters to attend to.” He rose, arranging the fall of his cape as he turned away from me. I stared at him, infuriated. How dare he simply dismiss me, from my own home!

  “We’re not finished here, Uncle. The fire—”

  Uncle Wheeler clucked his tongue. “Oh, Charlotte, I wouldn’t look too closely at that fire, if I were you. Especially not with Randall involved.”

  I flinched as if he’d slapped me. “What about him?”

  “But it’s just such an odd coincidence, isn’t it? Taking out that sizable insurance policy on his wife’s property, shortly before that same property was burned to the ground by one of her employees? I wonder, what is the penalty for insurance fraud these days?”

  “What are you saying? You know Randall had nothing to do with the fire.”

  “Do I? My dear, truly. It’s so hard to know who to trust these days. But wouldn’t it be a pity if anything were to happen to disrupt your pretty marriage? No, let’s not tamper with an arrangement that has been working beautifully for months. You run home to that dear little husband of yours, and I will try very hard to forget we ever had this conversation.”

  I was trembling. He was right. I had nothing. No evidence, no proof, no credibility. And too much to lose. I could say nothing, make no move. I was trapped.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Randall returned from Harrowgate with the news that the insurance settlement would more than cover the amount still owed to Uplands Mercantile. Stirwaters put a claim in for both the value of the cloth and the damage to the woolshed, but we saw very little of the money by the time our debts were paid off. The success of finally ridding ourselves of Father’s mortgage was somehow not the joyous relief I had once anticipated.

  Porter & Byrd were not well pleased to learn their entire order had perished by fire, of course, but I was able to pacify them by offering positively scandalous rates on replacement stock, and by some miracle they put their faith in me again. We resumed work on the new order immediately, the bales of cloth stored now in the great hollow rooms at the Grange. Rosie had suggested the Millhouse, but I pled space concerns, unable to tell the real reason I could not have the cloth under that roof.

  I told no one of my conversation with Uncle Wheeler. I didn’t dare. The days drew closer to the birth of our child, and when I should have been sewing lace to Christening bonnets and pressing sprigs of lavender between the tiny nightgowns sent by Randall’s sisters, all I could do was fret and worry.

  Randall couldn’t understand me. “Won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?” he asked one night as we got ready for bed. He crept behind me and circled my shoulder with his arm. I bit back tears and pulled away.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “The—the baby’s wakeful.” I choked on the words.

  “Darling, please. I can help you, whatever it is.”

  The words were gentle, but I felt them with a sense of panic. How could he help? With effort, I summoned up that serene smile from so many months ago. “Truly, there’s nothing.”

  Nothing but a curse that kills children. Nothing but a baby brother, dead at a week, and his mother with him. Nothing but an uncle I had harbored for a year and yet did not know at all. Nothing but a marriage built on secrets. Nothing but a haunted mill that had threatened my husband with terrifying visions.

  Nothing but a wife going mad with the strain of it all.

  Randall sighed, rose, squeezed my shoulder. “Have you seen Mrs. Tom?

  I started. “What?”

  “For some tea, or a tonic. To calm your nerves. Charlotte, anyone would be under a strain at a time like this—and you’ve had some extra worries on top of everything.”

  Hadn’t I just. Still, I lifted my hand to his and stroked his wrist. “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Maybe I will.”

  But I didn’t.

  Impatient, perhaps, for the child to be born, over the next weeks I was more “broodsome” than ever, as Randall put it—some word he’d picked up in the village. But in truth, I seemed to feel something else looming—some further crisis preparing to rear its head, and I wished to be ready for it.

  It was a steamy day in August when the pending storm broke at last. I was in a sulky mood, feeling ponderous and ungainly under the increasingly awkward weight of the baby. I had quarrelled with Randall the day before, over something trivial, and he had departed for Harrowgate in an untalkative mood. I could not decide whether or not to miss him. Under an ever-widening prohibition of labor at the mill—we’d been plagued with low water, and production had come to a stop until some rain replenished the millpond—I had heard the word curse mumbled more than once that week, and I could not bring myself to silence those murmurs.

  Deep in contemplation, I heard Harte or Rosie’s hammer in the distance. Rosie poked her head in the office. “What’s that pounding?”

  “Well, if it’s not you, it must be Harte.”

  “No, Ma’am,” Harte said, sliding in beside Rosie. I could not help noting, yet again, how well matched they were. “Perhaps it’s your ghost.”

  “You’re not funny,” I said wearily, prying myself free from the chair. “But if it is, I’ll wring its wispy neck if it doesn’t stop that. Well, I’m up. I may as well go home.” We made our way down the stairs and outside. When Harte pulled the great doors closed, we saw the source of the hammering.

  A notice had been tacked up on one door. Rosie yanked it down and read it aloud.

  By orders of the Firm of Harrier & Price, debt brokers by Royal Appointment: Thi
s property, Stirwaters Woollen Mill, located approximately three-quarter miles inside the eastern borders of the village of Shearing-upon-Stowe, in the Gold Valley, and consisting of one large mill building, one residence, and two smaller outbuildings, is hereby Seized pending auction of its land, premises, buildings, and assets, to pay the debts incurred by one Charlotte Constance Woodstone, née Miller, of the same.

  “What?” My voice was shrill. “Auction?”

  “Is this some sort of prank?” Harte asked, steadying Rosie’s wrist to study the notice. But, no—we could clearly see the royal seal and a coat of arms for the brokerage; if a prank, it was an elaborate one.

  “I don’t understand,” Rosie said. “What debts are they talking about? And what do they mean, ‘seized’?”

  “Just what it says there, miss,” said a new voice. We turned as a group to see the man with the hammer, crossing back over the yard. He tipped his hat to us. “This Woodstone woman has defaulted on her debts, and her creditors are calling them in. Our firm’s been agented to recover said debts, and we’re authorized by his Majesty’s law to seize any and all assets necessary in the recovery thereof.” He thrust his hand forward. “Stephen Harrier, at your service.”

  No one moved. He was an oddly dressed fellow, with dark, oiled hair and an overbright green frock coat. He looked—seedy, like somebody you’d meet in a dark alley in Harrowgate. Or a gambling den. “And you are?” he prompted, his face breaking into a wide smile.

  “I am that Woodstone woman,” I said, just to see that smile fade. “What is the meaning of this? I demand to know who brought these charges against me!”

  “Ah.” He withdrew a sheaf of papers from his coat and flipped through them. “Well, to begin with—one Burke’s and Taylor, haberdashers, of Harrowgate. Philip Prentiss, Perukier, Harrowgate. Stark—”