A Curse Dark as Gold

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  I peered over his hands, searching the names. “But I’ve never heard of any of these people! How can I be in debt to them?”

  “Well, it seems you aren’t. A Mr. Ellison Wheeler is, but apparently your name was given as surety on all the loans.”

  “What?” This from Rosie. “So what! Seize Uncle Wheeler’s assets, auction him off!”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What—?” I gave up, helpless.

  Harte’s easy voice broke in. “What’s the sum, then, of all these charges?”

  We examined the lists together. The charges were enormous—a hundred pounds here, fifty there—one staggering sum of fifteen hundred pounds to none other than Arthur Darling—all adding up to an insurmountable debt of more than twenty-three hundred pounds. Easily the value of Stirwaters, and then some. “I can’t pay these!”

  Mr. Harrier gave his oily smile. “Well, then, you have two options: Submit to the auction, or be thrown in gaol.”

  Rosie gasped. “Debtors’ prison?”

  “Oh, surely not!” Harte said. “In her condition?”

  Mr. Harrier looked me up and down in a way that made me feel stripped bare—down to my “assets.”

  “Well, it would not be ideal,” he said. “But it’s been done before. Still, we can turn to her husband—”

  “My husband!”

  Mr. Harrier reached across me to turn a page. “Though the bulk of these debts were incurred prior to your marriage of—December fifteenth last—by virtue of said marriage, a Mr. Randall Woodstone, of Eamside and Harrowgate, became legally and financially responsible for you, Mrs. Woodstone. Now, if he’d be willing to cover the debts—say, in cash, plus our twenty percent handling fee…” He gave me a pointed look. “If not, there’s a bench in Wardensgate sittin’ cold and drafty, just waiting for an occupant.”

  My head spun. Everything we had been through to save Stirwaters since my father’s death—the lost workers, the battle with Pinchfields, the crazy bargains with Jack Spinner—all the sneaking around and making up wild excuses…And our own Uncle Wheeler had been pulling us under, all along.

  And now not only was Stirwaters in danger, but Randall’s good name would be blackened as well. It was unthinkable. “What can I do?” I said.

  Mr. Harrier gave me that oily smile again. “The auction’s scheduled for tomorrow night. You come up with the money by then, well, you may forget you ever met me. If not…” He plucked the auction notice from Rosie’s hand and tacked it back up on Stirwaters’s doors. He tipped his hat, bowed to us all once again, and sauntered off into the village.

  “The nerve of that man!” Rosie cried. “He can’t—he can’t just do that, can he?”

  “There must be something you can do,” Harte said. “In the meantime, we’ll have to send for Randall, Ma’am.”

  I turned on him. “Certainly not. We’ll do no such thing. Do you think selling Stirwaters will satisfy them? If he comes near Shearing, they’ll haul him off to prison!”

  “But if he has the money—”

  “No, no, no. This is not Randall’s debt, and I’ll not involve him.”

  “But—” Harte scowled, and it was as close to angry as I’d ever seen him. “You’re not planning on submitting to this, then?”

  I could almost smile. “Not on your life.”

  Anger fueling me like a fire, I yanked the notice down once more and marched into the Millhouse, where my uncle sat, calmly busy at some correspondence at the desk. It was stuffy in the parlor, despite the open windows; no breeze shifted the curtains in the heavy air. Uncle Wheeler worked steadily, painstakingly, occasionally lifting the paper to the light, as if to check that he had given each f the proper graceful swoop of tail; every W just the right flourish. I stepped a little farther into the room, and it was only when the bulk of my body cast a shadow over him that he looked up.

  “Charlotte! What—what a pleasant surprise.” Uncle Wheeler swept his papers into a hasty pile, knocking his sleeve against the inkwell. He scrambled to right it. “What—that is, what brings you here, my dear?”

  “What is the meaning of this?” I demanded, thrusting the auction notice toward him.

  For a moment, I could not read the expression on his face. “I did warn you, my dear, that managing a business was no job for a girl.” He was tapping his quill against the inkwell, and a great droplet of ink flicked into the air, coming to land on the white lace of his cravat.

  “These aren’t my debts!” I stepped in closer, and he leaned in over his work—but not quickly enough to hide the letter he was writing. I thought I recognized a familiar combination of letters, in an all-too-familiar script. Ignoring propriety, I pulled it out from the others, a hot, sick feeling seeping into my throat.

  “Charlotte, don’t—”

  Dear Sir,

  Please advance Mr. Ellison Wheeler the sum of fifty pounds, with my compliments. The money is secured by deposit at Uplands Mercantile Bank, Harrowgate.

  Yours sincerely,

  his niece,

  Mrs. Randall Woodstone

  Woolhampton Grange, Shearing-on-the-Stowe

  And another:

  Milord,

  Having become aware of some misunderstanding between you and my uncle, Mr. Ellison Wheeler of Shearing & Harrowgate, I am confident this should put to rest any fears regarding his solvency. Please do not hesitate to complete your business—

  I stared at the papers in my hand—my handwriting. “What is this? What are you doing?”

  “Now, Charlotte, just let me have that back.” He reached for the letter, but I pulled it out of his grasp. “Let’s not get carried away, here. This is just a—”

  “I don’t have this kind of money! And you’ve forged my signature! How could you?”

  His expression hardened. “How could I? A man has to live on something, my dear, and it’s not as if you girls were the very font of ready cash, after all. What else was I supposed to do?”

  I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. My head swam from the heat of the room, and the back of my bodice was damp with sweat. “You’ve ruined us,” I said, appalled at how reasonable I sounded. “We’ve lost everything now.”

  He hesitated. “Yes, well. I didn’t expect Darling to go that far. But, look, it’s only—”

  “Darling?” The sick feeling spread to my belly, and then to my hands, until they trembled. I’d been such a fool—how could I ever have believed a word he said to me? “You planned this, with Pinchfields, all along. The meeting in Harrowgate, and the fire, and now this auction—”

  “No! Of course not. Charlotte, look. Try and calm yourself. You’re in no state to be getting so upset.” He rose from the desk and put a hand on my arm. I wrenched away from him. “Now, my dear, just listen a moment. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding.”

  “I’ve misunderstood your forgery? I’ve misunderstood this auction notice? I hardly think so, Uncle. It all seems perfectly clear to me.” I swallowed hard, a bitter taste in my mouth. “What did he offer you?”

  For a moment he looked confused. “Who?”

  “Darling! Arthur Darling. What did Pinchfields offer you to steal my mill from me?”

  Uncle Wheeler gave a sharp, mirthless laugh. “Offer? My dear, understand me: A man like Arthur Darling doesn’t make offers. He makes threats, and as you have seen for yourself, he is not afraid to carry them out.”

  “I don’t—” But suddenly I did understand. Fifteen hundred pounds was a lot of incentive. “So that was it, then? Find a way to deliver Stirwaters, or go back to debtors’ prison?”

  His lip curled. “That’s close enough. I’d say he’s finally run out of patience with us both.”

  I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to quiet my raging thoughts. This was it, then. Pinchfields had won, and the game had been stacked against us all along. I balled up the forged letters, crushing them in my damp fist. Slowly, a terrible thought surfaced, and I beheld the crumpled letters in my hand, the strokes of my own p
enmanship creased and twisted into something unfamiliar. I smoothed a finger down the letters of my name.

  “The letter from my father. You wrote that.”

  Uncle Wheeler gave me a long, steady look, and shrugged almost imperceptibly.

  “He never wanted you to come here,” I said, my voice verging on shrill. “He never asked you to be our guardian!”

  He gave a wan smile, as if to say, “What can you do?”

  “I want you out of this house.” I reached inside the desk and grabbed at the contents, stacking everything into an untidy heap, which I pushed toward him. “Take your lies and your debts and your—your purple ink, and get out of my home.”

  My uncle folded his arms across his chest. “Well, now, I’m sure I’d like that very much—but, ah, this won’t be your house for very much longer, will it?”

  My arms trembling, I dumped the papers on the desk. I met his gaze, until he flicked his eyes away. “I see,” I said quietly. “And what do you suppose will become of you now, Uncle?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I fled the Millhouse then, as close to tears as I’d been since Father died. I didn’t want to believe it. Father’s letter—it had been in his hand, his blotchy, inky script; his grief-stricken voice rising up from so many years ago. Motherless babes now. I can’t believe she’s gone—and the boy. How could that be false?

  How could I have been taken in?

  Rosie and Harte were still huddled in the millyard, and they watched me anxiously as I lurched toward Stirwaters.

  “Charlotte—” My sister reached for my arm, but I shook her off. “Where are you going?”

  “Where do you think?”

  Up in the office, I searched like a mad thing. Where was it? I flipped through the atlas and could not find the page. The gears in the spinning room rattled and shook as if some phantom wind tore through them. At last I remembered—that page had come loose after our first encounter, and I’d tucked it away. But it was not in the drawer where I was sure I had left it, so I pulled the contents of the desk out willy-nilly, strewing papers and pen nibs everywhere. Finally, one of the drawers stuck, so I knelt and reached back inside. There! I found it jammed behind the drawer.

  I twisted it free, and yanked my hand back with a hiss when I caught my skin on a sharp corner. I stuck my bleeding knuckle into my mouth and gently withdrew the paper with my other hand. Smoothing out the creases, I read aloud the words of Father’s spell to summon aid.

  Nothing happened. I read it again.

  “Bluh—” It came out as a croak. I swallowed, my mouth dry, and started over. “Blood and bone, I summon thee. Hearth and home, I summon thee. Earth and sky, I summon thee.” Something rustled in the corner of the office. I glanced up, but there was nothing. “From far and nigh, come now to me. Blood to bone, I summon thee…”

  Over and over I read the spell, with the same result each time. I found a lump of chalk in the desk and scrawled a hasty circle round myself on the floor. I cast aside the glass from a lamp, to serve as a candle. I emptied a packet of mandrake root from the dyeshed into the circle. Blood to bone, I summon thee…

  I spent all night in Stirwaters—pacing, waiting. I sat in the office for as long as I could be still. I climbed the stairs to the attic twenty times or more. I came outside and circled the building. I went anywhere I thought he might be. I stood by the wall with the hex sign for an hour, then knelt there, then sat, then lay down on my side with my head on my elbow, and at last fell asleep. I awoke sometime before dawn, horribly stiff. And alone.

  Someone had been there—some time in the night someone had covered me with a length of plaid blanket cloth, tucked some folds beneath my head. Was it Harte or Rosie? I knew not, but it was a measure of our desperation that whoever it was had not awakened me, but left me to my vigil.

  By half past seven in the morning, the guards had arrived: Two burly men with the look of tavern-brawlers set themselves up at Stirwaters’s yardside doors. Another walked the yard, and one much gentler gaoler arrived to confine Rosie and me to the Millhouse. Rachel and Harte were not permitted to enter; they waved sadly from the very edge of the Baker property. We saw no sign of Uncle Wheeler. The millhands crowded round the fence and millrace, their anxious murmurs turning to shouts both angry and supportive. One of the guards produced a musket, and Rosie grabbed my arm and gasped, but the crowd dispersed at last.

  And he did not come.

  Around noon, Harte finally talked his way through, with Jack Townley at his side. Townley doffed his hat—which I had not once in all the years of our acquaintance seen him do—and gave me a kind nod.

  “We’ve—some of the lads and me, and some of the women as well, too—we’ve put together what we could.” He held out a feed sack, hanging heavy from his meaty fist. “My Ruthie had some extra tucked away, and old Fuller sold that knife what Drover’s been after him to sell, and…Anyways, Stirwaters is our home, too, Mistress.” He thrust the bag at me, pouring its contents at my feet. “We’ve got together near a hundred pound there, believe it or not.”

  I felt lost somewhere between laughter and tears, and he was very red in the face. Rosie came to our rescue.

  “Townley, you’re a bloody fool. This won’t buy back the machines, let alone the whole mill.” She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “But you’re a good man. And I’ll lay out any man who says otherwise.” Still furiously red, Townley took his leave, waving to us as he crossed the yard.

  Rosie and Harte knelt to collect the coins. “We’ll find a way to get this back to everyone,” Harte said. “After—whenever.”

  Afternoon descended, and he did not come.

  Had I truly managed to cast him off, with the burning of the woolshed? Had he taken me at my word, and I could not now count on him swooping to our rescue? Oh, blasted Miller pride! I had played my very last card, and I had lost.

  As the evening wore down, I fell back to the Millhouse steps and watched in a sort of numb trance. The brokers—Harrier and Price—had thrown open the mill doors, and I heard the crunch of wagonwheels on the roadway as a gaily painted chaise rolled into the yard. The door sprang open, and Arthur Darling climbed out, huffing and grunting. The Pinchfields overseer plopped to the ground like a blot of black ink, and strutted round the yard as though his inheritance had just come due, the wool buyer close at his heels. I tucked myself tighter behind the tangle of ivy so they would not see me, as Darling’s covetous gaze crawled up the Millhouse walls.

  I watched and waited, expecting other carriages to come, other bidders—but when Darling reached the mill, Mr. Harrier shook his hand firmly, and said in a voice that carried across the yard, “Good. If you gentlemen are ready, let’s get this started.”

  I stared into the fading light, sick with understanding. There were to be no other bidders; this was a private auction, arranged for the benefit of one buyer only. I fished the rumpled atlas page from my pocket, my heart like a stone in my breast. I mouthed the lines, heard their haunting rhythm echo in my mind. Why hadn’t it worked?

  “You realize, of course, that particular spell requires actual blood from the one you’re conjuring.”

  He was just there—as always, standing a mere arm’s reach away from me. Spinner tipped that horrible old hat to me and consulted his pocket watch. My watch.

  “You came, didn’t you?”

  With a flick of his hand, the page flew from my grip and fluttered to the shale.

  “I am here because you have need of my unique services, Mistress Miller, not for a scrap of doggerel by some overblown scholar who fancied himself a cunning man!”

  I twined my stinging fingers together. “What do you want?”

  A twisted smile crossed his lined face. “You summoned me, remember?”

  “As payment! To save my mill—again.” I had to force the words over my lips.

  The smile grew in earnest. “Ah. You won’t want to pay what I’m asking this time.”

  “Try me.�
�

  He stepped closer, close enough I should feel the heat from his breath on my flesh, but there was nothing. “What would you pay me?”

  I held my place, much as I wanted to fall back a step. “Anything.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  I could see the lines in his face—the thin red veins in his eyes, the pores from which his whiskers sprang. He smelt of—of earth, of rotting leaves and mushrooms. “Anything. Anything you want.”

  He eased off a little, but the dead-earth smell still lingered. “I suggest you give that some thought, there, Mistress Miller.”

  “Thought!” I cried. “They’re ready to auction Stirwaters off at this moment. How much time do you think I have?”

  “Ah, I just meant—before you go pledging your heart’s treasures to someone like me, you decide if it’s what you really want.”

  “I have no choice.” My voice was smaller than I liked.

  Spinner eyed me gravely. “There’s always a choice.”

  My gaze travelled across the darkening millyard, to where the men gathered in Stirwaters. Among the auctioneers and the men from Pinchfields I caught a glimpse of shadowed lilac and felt something hot creep into my throat.

  “Let my uncle win? Is that the choice?”

  “That’s one choice, aye.”

  I swallowed hard. “Never.”

  Something crossed Spinner’s craggy face—a smile, perhaps. “You Millers and your pride. It will ever be your downfall.”

  “I do not pay you to counsel me.”

  “Ha. Perhaps you should. You could learn well from what I know. You’re fixing to spend an unimaginable sum—”

  I waved him to silence. I did not think I could sustain this conversation much longer. “Just go and do—whatever you do. The terms are these: You will use whatever means necessary to prevent the sale of Stirwaters to Arth—to anyone in that room, and I will pay you a fee to be determined at your discretion later.”