by Nunn, Kayte
Rowan visited the apothecary, asked if he knew of anything that might speed her mistress’s recovery, but he had nothing to offer. ‘Time,’ he said gravely. ‘Only time will tell.’
On the second day a letter arrived at the merchant’s house, addressed to Rowan. It put her in something of a confusion, for she had never received such a thing. She thought fleetingly of her brothers and prayed that nothing untoward had happened to them, for tragedy, it seemed to her at that moment, was everywhere. ‘I do not recognise the hand,’ she said, taking it to Prudence, for the cook was a better reader than she.
‘’Tis from Miss Stephenson,’ Prudence said after she had broken the seal. She held the paper in her meaty fingers and peered at it short-sightedly. ‘She says she must return to London, for she has had word from her sister that there are mercers asking to see her designs.’ She turned to the next page. ‘She says she will pray for Mrs Hollander and asks you to send news when you are able. There is an address here.’ Prudence refolded the paper, handed it back to Rowan and took a slug of gin from her beaker.
Early on the fourth morning, Patrick was finally persuaded to leave his wife’s chamber while Rowan and Alice saw to their patient. As Rowan lifted the sheets she saw a movement under her mistress’s nightgown. A pulsing of her belly. She placed her hand there, felt the movement again. ‘I believe the baby is coming.’
‘What?’ asked Alice. ‘It still lives?’
‘It is too soon,’ Rowan whispered. ‘Too soon.’
‘Should I fetch the doctor?’ Alice asked.
‘No, this is woman’s work. Send for the midwife.’
The birthing was quick. Less than an hour, Rowan reckoned, going by the sound of the church bell, which only chimed once. She had been present at several births with her mother, but none like this, none where the woman did not cry out or curse. Caroline was silent, her eyes rolled so far back in her head that all Rowan could see were the whites. The midwife said little, asking for more cloths and then, at the end, for Rowan to hold her mistress’s legs apart so that she could pull the new life from her.
Rowan had never seen so tiny a newborn; scarce bigger than a rabbit, as skinny as one too, and the thick hair covering her skin made her look more like a monkey than a human child. Rowan’s heart twisted for one born so early, before her time.
The midwife presented the poor mite, swaddled in muslin, to the master after the process was over. Caroline Hollander had not once come to her senses during the delivery, remaining as unreachable as she had been since the day they had pulled her from the river.
The master sat on a chair next to the bed, holding the child but numb, barely taking in the fact that he had a daughter.
‘Do you have a name for her, sir?’ the midwife asked as she tidied the room.
He looked between Rowan and the midwife as if seeing them for the first time.
‘Diana,’ he whispered. ‘Diana Grace.’
Rowan turned her attention to the baby. The pinkness of her features was darkening, and before her eyes she turned a deeper shade, almost blue. Snuffled for breath.
‘The poor wee thing,’ the midwife said gently.
Prudence stood at the doorway. ‘She must be christened.’
But Patrick Hollander would have none of it. ‘Let me be, woman!’ he cried. ‘For I cannot think straight.’ He looked around the darkened room, his gaze resting on the motionless form of his wife on the bed beside him. ‘I so desperately wanted a child, but never, never like this,’ he whispered. ‘I am wholly to blame.’ He handed the infant to Rowan and stumbled from the room, careening down the stairs, slamming the front door behind him.
‘Let us hope he has gone to the parsonage,’ said Rowan.
‘I rather fear he might have gone to the tavern instead,’ said Prudence, watching his progress from the window.
They both turned at the sound of the midwife’s gasp of horror. Saw the sheet that covered their mistress was now soaked red with blood. ‘I can feel no beat,’ said the midwife, her finger to Caroline’s neck. ‘She is gone from us.’
Less than an hour after her mother left the world, Diana, cradled in Rowan’s arms, took a final breath, her skin now as pale as marble.
Though he agreed to the funeral of his wife, Patrick would not let go of the babe. When a tiny coffin – smaller even than a hatbox – was delivered along with the one for Caroline, he took possession of it and ordered them all from the house.
On their return, there was no sign of it, and none of them, not Prudence nor Jeremiah nor Alice nor Rowan dared approach Patrick to enquire as to its whereabouts.
FORTY-ONE
July 1769, Oxleigh
Though Patrick Hollander’s body recovered from his near-drowning and the loss of his wife and child, his spirit did not. His former boundless confidence had been shattered, and he moved with the gait of a broken man, one who no longer understood or even wanted to be a part of the world about him. Rowan watched on as he stood in the churchyard, shaking like a poplar in the breeze, on the morning of his wife’s funeral. There was, of course, no question that he would be held to account for his part in the tragedy. Though she, Mary and Tommy had seen exactly what had happened, neither she nor Tommy would have dared speak out, and Mary was long gone, returned to London.
Caroline was buried in the gown made from the fabric she had so delighted in; the tangle of deathly flowers her funeral shroud. Rowan found herself unable to shake the guilt at her part in the tragic events; indeed, it felt as if it were a heavy robe she was condemned to wear forever. She had failed to warn her mistress strongly enough about the dangers she sensed, the evil woven into the gown, had not been able to prevent her from wearing it. That she had also made up a tincture to still the life that grew in Alice’s belly, but may in fact have contributed to the death of her mistress’s infant, left her consumed by guilt and remorse.
One evening, when the master was out, Rowan could bear it no more. Standing at the top of the servants’ staircase, beyond the door that closed it off, she waited in the shadows for Alice as she crept up to bed. As she was about to pass, Rowan reached for the maid’s wrist, using all her strength to hold her pinned against the wall. ‘Tell me,’ she hissed, bringing her face close. ‘The draught. Did you use it on our mistress?’
Alice writhed against her grip, but Rowan was not about to let her go until she heard the truth. ‘Witch,’ the older girl spat.
‘How dare you call me that?’ Rowan replied. ‘You were all too eager for my help not so long ago, weren’t you? Now,’ she said, tightening her grip until Alice moaned in pain, ‘tell me the truth.’
Alice shook her head violently but Rowan held her fast, waiting for an answer.
‘You were the one who made the draught. Perhaps you should have been more careful with it,’ Alice eventually replied.
Rowan seethed as her suspicions were confirmed. ‘How could you use such a thing for your own evil ends, and worse, try to place the blame on me when our mistress took ill?’ she asked. ‘Were you ever actually in need of it yourself?’ As she uttered the words, the final piece of the puzzle dawned on her.
Alice laughed. ‘You fell for my pathetic act, didn’t you? You credulous clot. I had you completely convinced.’ She mimed holding her stomach and laughed again, a bitter, hollow sound. ‘If she had lost the child, then Patrick would have been free to come back to me. I had no choice but to do it.’
Alice’s eyes glittered in the moonlight, and in that moment Rowan fancied she saw a trace of madness in their depths. She loosened her grip, all out of fight. She had been completely outfoxed by Alice. ‘I feel sorry for you,’ she said. ‘You fool yourself more than you did me. Don’t you see that he would never acknowledge you, a mere maid? Did he ever make such an assurance?’
Alice’s expression darkened at Rowan’s words. ‘I know he would have, had he the chance. I would have given him reason to.’
‘But you didn’t, did you? For despite your lies to me, you did not gr
ow his child within you.’
Alice twisted again, taking advantage of Rowan’s distraction and wrenched herself free. She stumbled and fell heavily against the door. It was not properly closed, and so swung back against her weight, banging against the wall. In the split-second that followed, she overbalanced and then she began to fall, calling out as she did so. The movement seemed almost a dance, a tumble of skirts, petticoats and bloomers. Her cap came off and her hair escaped, flying about her face. Try as Rowan did – and she surely did – to reach out and save her, she was too late, and was left grasping thin air as Alice toppled down the steep stairs, before coming to rest with a heavy bump against the banister.
Rowan peered into the gloom, seeing a heaped tangle of arms and legs on the landing far below. Alice lay quite still, and even from where Rowan stood she could see that the maid’s neck was twisted at a most unnatural angle.
A chilling silence filled the house.
Then, the bang of another door and the uneven sound of someone ascending the staircase from far below.
‘I heard everything,’ Prudence puffed once she reached the scene.
‘It was an accident, honest it was,’ Rowan said. ‘You must believe me. I meant her no harm.’ She shook with terror at the thought that she had now been the cause of another death.
‘Aye, girl, I know that.’ Prudence caught her breath and stooped over Alice, a hand at her neck.
‘What should we do?’
‘I’ll fetch someone who won’t ask any questions,’ she said, surprising Rowan with her quick thinking.
Prudence straightened up, giving a final despairing look at Alice and hastened down the stairs.
She returned a while later, bringing Tommy with her.
At Prudence’s instruction, the three of them carried Alice’s body down the remaining stairs and out of the back door, where his cart was waiting.
‘You’d do this for me?’ Rowan whispered as they covered Alice’s body with an old sheet.
‘Of course. For Prudence, and for you,’ he reassured her. ‘Don’t worry, Prudence told me everything. You are not to blame, not in the slightest.’
‘But where will you take her?’
‘Best you don’t ask,’ Tommy replied.
‘Make sure no one sees you,’ Prudence warned as he wheeled the cart down to the end of the garden.
He gave them an acknowledging nod and disappeared into the blackness.
After he had gone, Prudence and Rowan went to the kitchen, where Prudence retrieved the bottle kept on the sideboard and poured them both a cup of gin. Rowan choked on the bitter liquid, but forced it down. It would help numb her, for a while anyway, though she knew there was no way she would sleep that night. Neither of them would.
‘I’ll tell the master that she’s skipped out on us all,’ Prudence said, taking a hefty swig. There was still no sign of him, and Rowan surmised that if previous nights were anything to go by, he would not return until the early hours of the morning. ‘Say she’s gone to a family in Summerbourne. He’ll not be surprised, I’ll wager.’
‘But what about her things?’ asked Rowan.
‘Nothing that a good bonfire won’t do away with.’
‘But her family? Won’t they miss her?’
‘She didn’t have none,’ said Prudence. ‘Came to us from the workhouse.’
Rowan knew then why Alice had been so terrified of going back there.
‘I hope – ’ Rowan’s voice wobbled. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m to blame for … everything.’
‘Hush, child. How could I think that? Alice got what was coming to her, one way or the other.’ Prudence drained her glass. ‘There’s been too much death in this house, that I know,’ she said grimly. ‘We will not speak of it again.’
Prudence’s words offered Rowan some comfort, but she could not shake the worry that Alice’s body might be found, and that her part in the tragedy would be revealed. The following day, a loud knock on the door brought two men to the merchant’s house, demanding to see the master. Rowan did not recognise them from the town and, with a growing sense of foreboding, she eavesdropped at the parlour door, keeping to the shadows so she would not be discovered.
‘We’re here to investigate allegations that you are harbouring a criminal,’ one of them said.
‘That is utterly preposterous,’ Patrick replied. ‘For there is only me and my servants, all of whom I can vouch for. Do you really come to torment a man who has so recently suffered the loss of his wife?’
Rowan saw shame on the men’s faces, but they continued nonetheless. ‘We seek a young woman. Rowan Caswell,’ one of them said.
Rowan froze, feeling herself go hot and cold all over. They had come for her.
‘There is a maid in my employ of that name, but I assure you she is no criminal. I am quite prepared to attest to that.’
Despite his words, Rowan held her breath, torn between wanting to discover more, and the desire to flee for her life.
‘We have information to the contrary. That she purports to supply supposed “healing nostrums”, with fearful consequences. That she is in fact a poison-maker.’
‘I know of no such activity,’ Patrick said. ‘And I very much doubt that it would occur under this roof, for it is well known that I do not tolerate such things.’
‘Then you agree that we want no such practices in this town. Has the maid been in your employ for long?’
‘Long enough for me to know that she is a good and able servant,’ Patrick said.
‘Nevertheless, might you summon her?’
Patrick sighed heavily, and then agreed to their request. ‘You must question her here, in my presence. I will not have her taken away.’
As the men muttered among themselves, Rowan slipped from the shadows and hurried to the kitchen, finding Prudence returning from the scullery.
‘There are men with the master,’ she gasped. ‘They wish to question me.’
‘About Alice?’ Prudence’s eyes bored into her.
‘No, they accuse me of being a poisoner.’ She collapsed onto a chair.
Prudence reached for Rowan’s arm and steadied her. ‘Who are these men?’
Rowan shook her head. ‘I have never seen them before. The master insisted that they are mistaken, but they are not convinced.’
As they wondered what to do, a shout came from upstairs, summoning Rowan.
‘Help me?’ Rowan pleaded.
‘Take courage and face them, for it is too late to run.’
‘No, sir,’ Rowan replied, her eyes cast down demurely as the first of the two men questioned her. ‘I have no knowledge of such matters.’ She clamped her boots together to stop her legs from trembling under her skirts and giving her away.
‘Tell me, where is your proof?’ Patrick looked as if it had only then occurred to him to ask.
Rowan noticed that for the first time the men looked less confident of their position.
‘At the moment, we are acting on an allegation, sir.’
‘Pfft,’ he said. ‘And who is making such an allegation?’
‘A rumour reached our ears and we were compelled to investigate.’
‘Well, I – and the maid here – have sworn that there is no basis for this.’ He stood up and went to the door. ‘Prudence?’ he called. ‘Prudence, come in, please.’
Prudence had followed Rowan up the stairs but remained loitering in the hallway, and she bustled through the door only a moment after being summoned. ‘Yes, master?’
‘These gentlemen,’ he said, ‘have come with accusations that a member of this household is a poisoner.’
‘Such a thing is an impossibility, master,’ said Prudence, pretending to be shocked. ‘For we are a God-fearing, respectful household that wishes no harm to man nor beast.’
‘Indeed,’ said Patrick. And then to the men, ‘I told you there was no cause for suspicion. Now be away, and leave a poor man to grieve the loss of his wife in peace.’
The men d
id not look entirely persuaded of Rowan’s innocence but were left with little choice but to back down. ‘Very well. If you are prepared to swear to her good conduct, we shall let the matter rest, for now.’
‘If you are found to have misled us in any way, the consequences will be most serious,’ added the second man.
‘I find that I no longer care, for far worse things have been done to me in recent weeks than you are likely able to imagine. Prudence, please see the gentlemen out.’
‘Th-thank you, sir,’ stammered Rowan when the front door had slammed, ‘for favouring me.’
Patrick swept out of the room without replying.
The altercation seemed to briefly revive the master, but as the days passed and the shop bell rarely rang, he sank once more into despondency. He barely registered Prudence telling him of Alice’s departure, saying only that it was for the best, for he could no longer afford her wages. The friends he had once entertained abandoned him, for the breath of scandal hung heavily over the house, and he rarely left the parlour, asking for meals to be served to him there, staying up late into the night over a bottle or two or more.
Few now called for Rowan, for it seemed that news of the accusations made against her were known by all in the town. She was thankful to be left alone, for she lived with the fear that the men would come back, with proof this time, or worse, that her part in Alice’s death would come to light. She worried that the master might not be able to pay her too, come the quarter year, but a new loyalty towards him prevented her from looking for work elsewhere. Besides, half the town seemed set against anyone connected to the merchant’s house.
She had plenty of time to wonder what her master might have done with the tiny coffin, for it was a puzzle she could not solve. One afternoon, as he sat in the parlour staring fixedly into the fireplace, she plucked up the courage to ask him about it.
‘The baby, sir?’ she asked. ‘Diana Grace? Shouldn’t she be buried in the churchyard?’
