Witch Finder

by Unknown

  He looked up at the window for a moment and then swept off his hat to make a low, oddly ironic bow towards Rosa’s silhouette in the frame. Then he straightened, set his hat on his head, and climbed the steps towards the front door. Rosa stood in the window, her cheeks burning. Sebastian. And she knew what he’d thought – the meaning of that ostentatiously elaborate bow. He had seen her watching and thought she was watching for him. Her hand was steady as she pulled the curtain shut. Thank God no one could hear the thudding of her heart.

  ‘Mrs Greenwood.’ Sebastian bent low over Mama’s soft white hand, and Mama blushed and dimpled.

  He’d already greeted Alexis at the door, her brother muttering something under his breath that set Sebastian’s mouth twitching and made Alexis himself give a smothered guffaw.

  Rosa stood with her back to them both, staring out of the window, feeling her spine grow stiff and straight with tension.

  Then she heard a sound behind her and Sebastian’s shadow fell across her shoulder on to the window pane.

  ‘Miss Greenwood,’ he said, and then, very low, very amused, ‘or, if I might – Rosa?’

  His voice sent a shiver through her. It was deeper than she remembered, but she would have known it anywhere. Even as a boy it had been low and slightly hoarse, like the voice of an older man coming from a boy’s lips. Now it was soft yet rough, like velvet. Rosa swallowed. Then she turned and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Mr Knyvet.’

  ‘I hope I find you well?’ His gaze was direct, unflinching. There was something uncomfortable in it. It was Rosa who looked away first.

  ‘Quite well, thank you.’ She let her gaze drop to her folded hands, playing the demure younger sister. But she watched him from the corner of her eye, taking in his beautifully cut evening dress, the candlelight glinting off his dark-blond hair, still damp with tiny beads of fog. He seemed to have grown taller in the years since they had met, and there was a lithe whip-cord strength about him, as if he might shake off his evening jacket and put up his fists and fight, just as he and Alexis used to do when they were boys. There was a familiar crook in his nose from where Alexis had hit him once, a lucky right-hander that had broken the bone. And Alexis still bore the cluster of scars above his eye where Sebastian had hit him back and carried on punching.

  ‘It seems so long since we last met,’ he was saying. ‘Where can you have been cloistered?’

  Rosa felt her cheeks flush as she remembered Alexis’ remark: like a novice nun. Had he told Sebastian all that had passed between them earlier? Was that what they’d been laughing about? She felt her cheeks flame.

  ‘I’ve been in the country with Mama.’ Too tedious to be in London in mourning, that had been Mama’s verdict. What was the point of London when one couldn’t attend balls and parties? Mama had called it ‘purgatory’. For Rosa it had felt more like heaven. For a moment she closed her eyes, thinking of Matchenham: the long shadows across the hay meadows where she galloped in the summer evenings when Mama was laid up with the headache; the cool echoing rooms; the vast ballroom which once held balls and levees, where now only mice danced across the scuffed parquet floor.

  Then she realized Sebastian was speaking and opened them again.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘At Matchenham, I was asking. Were you at Matchenham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dear old Matchenham.’ His pale-blue eyes were the colour of a sun-bleached sky. ‘How does it do?’

  ‘Quite well.’ Quite well if you ignored the creaking mortgages, and the holes in the stable roofs, and the dry rot in the library. How long could they keep it up, this pretence that they had the same money as when Papa was alive?

  ‘And what brings you up to town?’

  Because Matchenham is let! Because there are strangers in my home, their horses stabled in Cherry’s stall, their children in my bed.

  She kept her face and voice even.

  ‘Mama thought I should see her dressmaker. I’ll be coming out in the spring.’

  ‘Next season? Can it really be? Not that I should be surprised, when you’re standing before me like this, with your hair twined so seductively above your neck – only it’s hard to reconcile you with the little girl I remember, who used to tuck up her skirts to play mud pies with us on the lake shore.’

  ‘I’ve grown up since then.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sebastian’s gaze swept her up, and down. ‘Yes, I can see you certainly have.’

  ‘Well, gentlemen.’ Mama stood with a rustle of silk and looked at her little gold fob-watch and then at Rosa. ‘We will leave you to your port. Rosa?’

  Rosa stood, thankful to be away from the table, from Alexis’ hard stare and Sebastian’s disquieting presence on the other side of the candelabra. The candle flames kindled in his cool blue eyes and his gaze followed her as she followed Mama into the drawing room next door. James had laid out coffee and petits fours and Rosa looked wistfully at the tray, wishing, not for the first time, that she could loosen her stays just a little. Eighteen inches was painfully tight, and she’d managed only a few bites at dinner. She would be hungry tonight unless she could persuade Cook to part with a few slices of bread and butter to take to bed.

  ‘What—’ she began.

  ‘Shh!’ Mama hissed. She closed the door firmly and then put a glass to the wall that divided the room, in the alcove next to the chimney breast. She looked around to check that no servants were likely to come in and whispered a spell. Without warning, Alexis’ clear, hard voice suddenly filled the room.

  ‘. . . d’you think of Rosamund then? I’ll warrant she’s changed since you last saw her?’

  ‘She certainly has.’ Sebastian’s murmur, followed by the hiss and suck as he pulled on his cigar.

  ‘Quite the beauty, eh? Though she doesn’t look as if she knows quite what to do with it, half the time. How do our London ladies compare to the Indian damsels then? From what I heard you had your fair share of caps thrown at your head over there. Is it true what they say about women in a hot climate?’

  ‘What do they say?’ There was a laugh in Sebastian’s voice.

  ‘Why –’ Rosa heard Alexis’ chair creak expansively, and knew that he was tilting himself backwards from the table, his arms locked behind his head and the buttons on his waistcoat straining. ‘Why, that corset laces are loose and morals looser.’

  ‘I can’t speak for their morals, but I probably loosed my fair share of laces,’ Sebastian said. Rosa shuddered and felt hot fury flood her cheeks. Her heart was hammering and she looked at Mama, but her mother’s face showed no anger, only intense concentration as she strained to keep the spell working.

  ‘If looks could cut, I fear Rosa’s stays would have been on the floor,’ Alexis drawled. Sebastian said nothing, but Rosa could almost hear his single raised eyebrow and the smile that would be twitching at the corner of his mouth as he sipped his port. ‘Though her morals are straight-laced enough to satisfy any maiden aunt.’

  ‘Stop the spell,’ Rosa said. Her voice was hard.

  ‘Shh,’ Mama hissed.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? I said, stop it!’

  ‘Be quiet, you silly girl. The walls aren’t that thick, even without magic.’

  ‘Stop the spell or I’ll go in there and tell them that you’re spying on them.’

  ‘Rosa!’ Mama spun round and flung the glass furiously on to the chaise longue. It bounced up and hit the wooden arm of the chaise, and Rosa flinched as it shattered into splinters that skittered across the Turkey rug. Mama’s face was dark with anger and her voice was hard. ‘Firstly, if you ever dare speak to me in that tone again you will find that you’re not too old for a whipping. And secondly, in case you hadn’t noticed, this family is sailing perilously close to the rocks. Matchenham is mortgaged to the hilt and fast falling into disrepair. If our friends find ou
t that it’s let, God knows how we’ll weather the disgrace. Alexis has just taken a mortgage on this house so that we can hold your coming-out ball next season. He is clawing his way up the ladder at the Ealdwitan, but without family influence or money to spend, his climb will be slow, if not impossible. We have one remaining asset. You.’

  Rosa went cold.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are only three things that matter in this life, Rosa: beauty, breeding and power, which is to say, money. God and your family have provided you with the first two. Now it is your responsibility to barter them for the last.’

  ‘You want me to marry for money!’ Rosa cried. ‘Marry Sebastian Knyvet?’

  Images, memories, flickered through her head. Sebastian, his tanned skin glinting in the summer sun as he swam in the lake at Matchenham, his boyish body already halfway to manhood. Sebastian, taking her little kitten and holding it over the nursery fire, and then laughing at Rosa’s cries. She remembered his words as he handed the little creature back to her. ‘It’s so nice to feel them cling to you, don’t you think, Rosa? I wouldn’t hurt it, you know, not much.’ And Sebastian, leaning towards her over the dinner table tonight, his eyes aflame with the candlelight and something more. She thought of his face in the gas-light as he walked towards the house, the way the gas-lamps shadowed his sharp cheekbones, the glimmer of his golden hair as he lifted his top hat . . .

  She put her hands to her face, feeling the heat of the fire.

  ‘I don’t want to marry – I’m too young, I—’

  ‘You will marry for money, Rosa.’ Mama’s voice was curt. ‘And you will do it this season. We cannot manage another season for you. This is your one chance: by hook or by crook, we must have a marriage settlement and a protector for this family. Who are you to turn up your nose at Sebastian Kynvet? He’s handsome, rich, well connected – what more do you want? Dear Lord, his father is a Chair at the Ealdwitan! Think of what a link to his family could do for Alexis, for all of us!’

  ‘I don’t . . . I can’t . . .’ Rosa’s face was hot, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe, the stays pinching cruelly at her waist until she felt she was about to be cut in two.

  There was a noise at the door. The handle began to turn and Mama’s gaze flickered towards it and then to the glass on the floor.

  ‘Gestrice!’ Mama pointed at the fragments and they shuddered, and then a small whirlwind whisked them off the floor and into a swirling mass of glass that spun for a moment above Mama’s palm. Then, as the door opened, the glass dropped with a small thud into her outstretched hand and she turned to greet Sebastian and Alexis with a smile.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your cigar, Mr Knyvet.’

  ‘Oh please, Mrs Greenwood, I beg you to call me Sebastian. It feels strange to be so formal when I scrumped apples from your orchard as a boy.’

  ‘Very well then, Sebastian. Can I offer you coffee? Or brandy, if you prefer?’

  ‘I would love to – but I’m sorry, I must go. Please forgive me. It’s disgracefully rude to leave so soon after your charming dinner, but I promised my father I’d call in at the headquarters tonight, and it’s getting very late. I hadn’t realized how time had flown.’

  ‘Another time,’ Mama said with a smile, but Rosa saw the way her rings winked in the candlelight as she tightened her fingers on the glass in her hand.

  ‘With pleasure.’ Sebastian raised her free hand to his lips and smiled. ‘Thank you, Ma’am, for a delicious supper, and for the charming company.’

  Rosa stood, very still and upright, as he turned to her.

  ‘Miss Greenwood . . .’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips. For a moment she felt nothing at all – just as if she were carved out of wood or stone. But as his lips touched her satin-gloved knuckles, his fingers found the soft skin beneath her wrist where her glove button gaped. Skin touched skin and she felt something prickle over her – she could not have said what, whether it was excitement, a shiver of longing, or even a kind of fear. She felt Alexis’ eyes boring into her back and then she withdrew her hand from Sebastian’s.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Knyvet,’ she said. Her voice was low, so low she thought perhaps he would not even hear her. But he did.

  ‘Goodnight . . . Rosa,’ he said softly, close to her ear. Then, as he straightened, ‘Do you ever ride?’

  ‘I’m – I’m sorry?’ she stammered.

  ‘I ride most days in the Row. I wondered if you were ever there?’

  ‘I . . .’ Rosa bit her lip. She had barely taken Cherry out since they had come to London. Riding in the Row just wasn’t riding – what she wanted was to gallop across the muddy fields and lanes at home, not trot decorously up and down while others cast aspersions at her shabby, old-fashioned habit.

  ‘Yes, often,’ Mama said firmly. ‘Rosa is quite devoted to riding. Her horse is lame just at the moment, but I have no doubt you will see her in the Row soon enough.’ She smiled. It should have been pleasant, but Rosa saw only her teeth and the vein that stood out in her throat. ‘Goodnight, Mr Knyvet – Sebastian.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Greenwood.’ Sebastian turned and took his top hat from James, who was waiting in the doorway with his coat and cane. He raised his hat to Mama, nodded to Alexis, and left.

  Mama watched from the window as he made his way down the dark street, the thick yellow fog swirling in his wake, until it closed around him and it was as if he’d never been there at all. Then she turned to Rosa and her face was hard.

  ‘Tomorrow you will ask Clemency to send for her dressmaker, and we will fit you for a new habit.’

  In the middle of the night Rosa woke. It was very late; she wasn’t sure how late, but gone midnight. But a light showed faint and flickering beneath her bedroom door, from a corridor that should have been dark. Impossible that the servants would be up so late. And it wasn’t Alexis; she could hear his snores coming from the other end of the house.

  Gathering her nightgown, she swung her legs out of bed and stood, her heart beating in her throat. It was stupid to be scared. If it was burglars, she had more weapons than they did.

  Rosa whispered a spell beneath her breath, a charm to give herself courage. And then she opened her bedroom door.

  The corridor was dark, but she could see where the light was coming from: the study door was ajar and the glow of a candle cast a long golden streak across the threadbare hallway runner. Rosa padded closer, her bare feet silent on the soft rug. As she drew near she took a deep breath and held it, tiptoeing the last few feet.

  It was the book she saw first, open on the study table. It was bound in thick fading leather with a small brass lock and gold embossed letters that read The Holy Roman Catholic Bible. But it was not a Bible. That cover was only for the servants. Inside, beneath the lock, was something very different. Not the family Bible, but the family Grimoire, handed down from mother to daughter, with spells added by every generation, notes on poultices, scribbled additions in the margins: If rue cannot be found, then the dryed herb will serve very well, only let the mix be steep’d another night . . .

  It was the most precious possession in the whole house – and the most private. And someone was reading it. In secret.

  Rosa flung open the door with a furious bang. Then her mouth fell open.

  Her mother looked up, her face white, her eyes wide and full of alarm. She was in her nightgown, her hair in a thick plait down her back.

  ‘Wh— Rosa!’ She let out a shaking, exasperated breath. ‘Good Lord, child. What are you doing sneaking around in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I could ask the same! What are you doing with the Grimoire?’

  ‘It is none of your business!’ Mama snapped. She slammed the book shut, flipped the brass lock. But not before Rosa had caught sight of the heading: A Silver-Tonguéd Charme – to Persuade the Reluctant to yr Cours
e.

  ‘Mama . . .’ They stared at each other in the candlelight. Her mother’s handsome face became hard, stubborn. ‘Mama, tell me you’re not meddling with Sebastian. It would be suicide to do this to an Ealdwitan. If he found out . . .’

  ‘There is nothing to find out.’

  ‘Then why—’

  ‘Hold your tongue!’ her mother hissed furiously, and she pointed at Rosa. Magic crackled from her fingertip and Rosa’s mouth snapped shut like a trap, so hard she bit her tongue and tasted blood. She breathed through her nose for a long moment, tempted almost beyond endurance to defy Mama, lift the spell, scream back at her.

  I am a stronger witch than you, she thought. And you know it. I could lift this spell and there would be nothing you could do to prevent me.

  But she could not do it. She could not bring herself to defy her mother in cold blood.

  She only shook her head, telling her mother with her eyes what she must surely already know – that it would be madness to do this, madness to risk the fury of the Knyvets by ensnaring their son with a charm any hedgewitch could discover and undo. Then she turned and left, feeling the darkness swirling at her heels, as her mother snuffed the study lamp and stalked the opposite way down the corridor to her own bedroom.

  It was only later, in her own room, as Rosa pinched the candle wick and undid the spell in order to rinse her mouth with cold water, swilling away the taste of the blood, that the realization came to her.

  It was not Sebastian her mother had been trying to bind.

  The spell had been for her.

  Luke woke, sweating, and with his shout of fear echoing around the bare little room. His shoulder burnt with the pain of the brand, throbbing beneath the dressing, and for a minute he lay, his chest heaving, his skin wet with sweat. Then he turned with a shiver, the bedstead squawking in protest, and drew the rough blankets up to his chin.