Mercy of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  “Just what is going on, Vicar?” Samuel demanded.

  “Rumors have increased that your wife has brought Satan out from the grave with her.” His hands fisted at his sides as he turned to Maggie. “They say your indecent conduct is evidence of the devil’s handiwork, you who have always been a godly woman. And there are rumors you harmed that poor foreign girl.”

  “No,” Ian stepped forward. “That rumor is most untrue. Maggie only came to her aid.”

  “He’s right,” Maggie said. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Samuel whispered, glancing at Sarah. “It is what they think. What can we do, Vicar?”

  “I will marry you.” Ian met her eyes, begged her to acquiesce. “Mayhap it will appease them. It would not be the first time someone let their passions get the best of them.”

  Her eyes grew wide.

  “I cannot guarantee that it will work,” he said. “But I think it will help.”

  “I see no other recourse.” Samuel nodded.

  Vicar cleared his throat. “Some say, Mistress Maggie, that you summoned the devil to bring your sister back from the dead.”

  Maggie gasped. “Who would say such things?”

  His Maggie had told him about Edward Carter’s threat to spread rumors. He would pay him a visit. Tonight.

  “It is not fair.” She slammed her fist upon the table, making the babe cry.

  “You have no choice,” Samuel yelled. “You will marry.”

  They stood toe to toe, Maggie’s chest heaving, Samuel’s dark eyes in slits.

  The vicar glared at Ian expectantly. Now? This is not how he planned it, but he would do whatever necessary to ease her way. So he kneeled in front of her. She stood, arms folded, staring down at him like an avenging angel.

  “Maggie, my heart. You are a woman most unique and rare.” He took her hands. “Would you live with me, be my wife and companion? I will honor and love you. I will serve you, with all that I have within me. I will sing you my soul.”

  Her eyes glinted like black onyx. “Yes, damn you.”

  The vicar gasped, “Mistress Maggie!”

  Ian kissed her fisted hands. As his lips brushed against her knuckles, her flesh yielded toward him, just slightly. She smiled.

  Vicar cleared his throat. “I will ask for a special license from Doctor’s Commons. The wedding is day after tomorrow.”

  ****

  Ian had proposed and now set about readying the house for his new bride. He straightened from dusting and saw the parlor with a stranger’s eyes: threadbare rug, a worn divan, dingy lace doilies, and a fireplace in need of polishing. A miniature of his mother sat upon the mantel along with a Chinese figurine from the Ming Dynasty he’d sent home to Daniel.

  He smiled at the thought of Daniel receiving the object in the post. He could hear his practical brother say, “It is just like Ian to send something completely useless.”

  He had found the vase in Hong Kong while in search for a cure. The hunger and chaos of the crowded markets beat at the base of his throat, the smells of dumplings, sweat, and fear that pierced his skin like needles. He had walked endlessly, days on end, every movement and sound flowing through his veins, into his mind, heart and filled it to bursting—joy, pain—making him throb from the inside out. In his jagged thoughts Ian wondered if his condition was an affliction or a blessing. Until the descent into the dark pit.

  Remembrance faded like wisps of smoke, and he slowly became aware he’d broken in two the flute held in his hands. He could not control it then: how would he hold himself now, close his senses off to everything around him?

  He shook himself. He would not dwell on doubts. There must be a combination of the many herbs and tinctures in his travel chests that could alleviate the torment, if only he would work harder. He would trust his instincts, how the glow of her eyes and her purposeful movements quietened him. He would put himself in her hands, and pray God she would never know what plagued him. Pray God he could worship her body so well she would forget all else.

  He climbed the stairs to the sleeping chamber, struggling to catch his breath in anticipation of their wedding night. In two days he would sink his face into the valley of her waist, cradle her lush hips in his hands, taste her sweet nipples, and make her back arch with desire. Precipitous and obligatory their wedding might be, but he would make sure she would not regret it.

  He scanned the room, looking for what might be needed to make it more welcoming for her. It had not altered from when Daniel had lived here alone. It was Spartan but large with a simple bedside table and a brass bed. The walls were bare, and the only spot of color was a satin bedcover of imperial blue that had belonged to their parents, who had died his fifteenth year.

  That very winter, Daniel seamlessly took charge of the shop, though only two years older. Restless as always, Ian had spent most days wandering the outlying areas and travelling to London for needed herbs, assisting him when necessary.

  Daily, he heard the creaking of the ships as they crept into the harbor, heard the sailors’ cries beyond the fog, their songs and tales of adventure, and his restlessness pursued him. His travels grew lengthier, and he and Daniel made plans for the future that would satisfy both his wanderlust and his ambition.

  Ian would go to medical school in London, train under the great doctors there. Daniel would remain in King’s Harbour. When he returned with his degree, Ian would treat the patients, and they would purchase their medicines from Daniel. With great excitement and enthusiasm, he set off to London, determined to excel at his studies. And indeed he did for a time. Enough of the past. He would not let it diminish the joy they would share in this room. Instead he envisioned what Maggie might need at their bedside. A fine bottle of wine and goblets? Some oil to ease her maidenhood? His cock throbbed in anticipation. He would bathe tonight; she seemed a fastidious soul, and he would not offend her. In the corner by his steamer trunk stood a lacquered screen bought for its beauty in Japan. Perhaps it could be taken downstairs to go round the tub for her privacy. He would find some oil of roses to scent the water, for he’d smelled a hint of it on her skin.

  The basin and ewer in the corner was acceptable, nothing fancy. In the mornings, she would rise and splash her face with water, wash the sleep out of her dawn-hued eyes. The knowledge they would greet the morning together coursed through him in a rhythm that beat through his bloodstream, and a song rushed out with great wings that demanded to be released in an assurance of joy.

  He took air in through his nose, slowly, listening to his breathing as the old man in Varanasi had taught him to control the rush of sensations. There was something he’d to do yet tonight. He must protect Maggie from Edward Carter, no matter the cost.

  Ian’s footsteps resounded on the cobblestones, cool air upon his face refreshing with clarity. Drinking songs burst out of the Shipwreck Hotel, the thump of mugs upon the table, snatches of hearty laughter. There’s nothing as satisfying as a drinking song. Everyone knew the words, and the chorus of voices, out of tune or no, never failed to stimulate him. But he did not need that right now. Perhaps later.

  He would be polite, in control. There was no response to his knock on Edward Carter’s door, so he turned the doorknob slowly and crept in. A single candle illuminated the desk, and a light shone from a door in the back recesses of a hallway.

  “No, please!” A scream scorched the tiny hairs upon his skin. Ian made his way toward the sound and then heard Edward Carter’s voice.

  “Have I not told you to keep your mouth closed to what goes on behind these doors? That girl of yours should keep her mouth shut.”

  He heard a strangled gurgle, and a young man’s voice as he struggled for air. “Please, I promise. I promise.” There was labored breathing and the scrabble of feet on the floor.

  “Perhaps I shall shut her mouth for her. With my cock.”

  “No.”

  “She won’t want you after I loosen the rest of your teeth. One more?”
/>
  That voice. Ian had heard it before. Fire coursed through him as he rushed toward the door, swinging it open. A boy of about twenty was strapped in a chair, his mouth held open by a chunk of wood. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth.

  A man stood at his side, a pair of bloody pliers in his hand, but he did not know him as Edward Carter. “Ah. I wondered when you’d show up. Just taking care of my assistant here.” He kept his eyes on Ian as he wiped the boy’s mouth. “Off with you. That should do it.” He untied him, patting him on the back.

  “Now then.” Carter wiped his hands on a rag. Smiling, he said, “How is my favorite lunatic?”

  “I see you haven’t changed. Still on your quest to alleviate suffering.”

  “Yes, quite,” he said.

  Ian followed him out into the front room. “Why did you come to King’s Harbour?”

  “Doesn’t a man have a right to make a new start?” The doctor eyed him from head to toe, smoothing back a lock of hair that hung over his forehead. He’d missed a spot of blood under his fingernail. “You’re looking well, for a Bedlamite.”

  “That was a long time ago. I would never have been there, if not for you.”

  Breathe deeply.

  “Oh yes,” he drawled. “You were ever the faultless hero, the professors’ golden boy.”

  “I held no malice toward you.”

  “You could not leave well enough alone, could you? Had to report me to the authorities, when I was hurting no one.”

  “You were desecrating the dead. And I did not report you.”

  A tiny light of comprehension brightened Carter’s eyes, then shuttered over.

  The reason for the miscreant’s arrival became clear. He had thought Ian responsible for his expulsion from medical school, and he was going to exact his revenge.

  Had Carter not done enough already?

  And while he bided his time, he would amuse himself. Sarah’s missing tooth, bodies for sale to the highest bidder in London...but how would they prove it? Perhaps it was as the spirit said, there were others besides Sarah.

  “You were always lording your superiority over us,” Carter drawled. “Until we saw the real, raving mad, you.”

  Wisps of memory floated back: the anatomy room, the corpse laid out, the sinews and muscles calling out their melodies. Ian had not been able to keep it to himself, their songs pounding in his head. He had to share it with his fellow students, if they would only listen. The man known as Carter appearing at his elbow, persuading the professors he would take him where he needed to go.

  Ian straightened. “I am not here to discuss my past or yours, only to insist you stop your malicious rumors about the midwife and her family. Stay away from her.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard how you fancy her. Odd taste, that.”

  They stood nose to nose. He would not respond to Carter’s goading. “You are to stop,” he said, “or everyone in this town will learn that you are a fraud.”

  “You would not do that.” Carter grabbed him by the shoulders.

  Ian grasped his wrists, turned them, and shoved him backward.

  He lost his balance, quickly righting himself, straightening his vest. “Does your woman know where you’ve been?”

  “Yes, she doesn’t care,” Ian lied.

  Carter tried another tack. “Would the fine people of King’s Harbour trust an apothecary who could go insane at any moment?”

  “We are at a standstill, then.” Ian fought to slow his heart and the urge to slam a fist into his smirk. “I warn you, leave her alone, or I will kill you.”

  As he turned to leave, the bastard laughed. “I will never forget how you pissed yourself when they beat you because you would not stop singing.”

  Once outside, Ian gulped the salt air...Maggie had a right to know what she married, regardless of whether she had a choice or not.

  Chains upon his wrists burning, screaming the song, melody and harmony at war.

  That man was not Edward Carter. His name was Phillip White, the man who sent him to Bedlam. Memories long buried began to surface like a drowned corpse.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning Maggie replenished her midwife’s bag and set out to check on Sabine, with plans to question Jonas about the night of Sarah’s trial. He was usually at the Siren or the Shipwreck this time of the day. She also needed to pay a visit to Emma Neal, who was due to deliver any day. It seemed odd she had not heard from her.

  The bitter cold of a few days ago had given way to a mild sun that flirted in and out of the clouds and cast shadows on the ocean. Shouts of jubilation erupted from a fishing boat docking as the shiny scales of a net full of fish flashed in the sun. The cheerful banter of the men with their haul did much to cheer her into the day.

  On impulse, she stopped into the bake shop to pick up a treat or two for Lena and Sabine. Martha whistled as she frosted a cake, but upon seeing her enter, dropped her knife on top of the cake.

  “Good morning, Martha.”

  “Maggie.” She wiped the knife off with her apron and resumed her work, avoiding her eye.

  “It smells heavenly in here. Is that gingerbread baking?”

  Her husband appeared from the back room and just as quickly retreated. Certainly Martha did not subscribe to the rumors that circulated about her and Sarah?

  “Martha, have you not been my friend these many years? Please tell me you do not believe what is being said about us?”

  “They say you brought your sister back from the dead, Maggie.”

  “Who says?”

  “Everyone.” She wrung her hands in her apron.

  “When did you hear this rumor?”

  “Yestermorn.”

  Was Edward Carter fueling these rumors? It was hard to tell in this small town, where rumors were as prevalent as seaweed. Perhaps Martha could be reasoned with. She was a practical woman. “You have known us well for five years, Martha. Sarah and I nursed Isadora when she nearly died from smallpox. Remember her fever, how we could not get it down? But we were there, praying with you, day and night. I am the same woman.”

  “I know, Maggie. But I’m afraid.”

  “Trust me, Martha.”

  She set her shoulders back and nodded. “You are right. I let it get the better of me. What would you be wanting, Maggie? I have gingerbread, of course, and sticky toffee pudding.” She bustled behind the counter. At this sign of normalcy, Isadora and Bess entered and greeted her like an old friend.

  Maggie exited a few minutes later, greatly relieved, the bundle of goodies warming her hands. It looked as if she could count on Martha’s family. But they might be the only one, for as she walked the short distance to the inn, a number of people out enjoying the sunshine did not bother to greet her. Only a fool would miss the undisguised looks of revulsion levelled in her direction.

  She entered the Siren with a sense of relief. As predicted, Jonas lay in a corner by the massive fireplace. Lena never had the heart to throw him out, for he was a miserable soul indeed: skin and bones, white hair wild and sparse on his pate, drool pooled on the floor, his skinny ankles sticking out of baggy breeches.

  There was no sign of anyone about. She set her things down and crouched by Jonas.

  “Jonas. Wake up.” She shook his shoulder, and eventually he opened his eyes and scrabbled backward like a crab.

  “Jonas. I need your help.” She opened up her bundle and handed him the gingerbread. “Here, I brought you something.”

  He settled himself against the stone wall and devoured the food.

  “Now you must answer some questions. What were you doing at the graveyard the night my sister was buried?”

  “No, I mustn’t speak of it.” He moaned.

  “You must. It will be my secret, I promise.”

  “He will kill me.”

  “Edward Carter?”

  He put his hands in front of his face as if she would strike him. “He will kill me if I tell. That he sent me there. And if he does not kil
l me, the spirits will.”

  “The spirits?” Maggie tried not to gag as she patted his shoulder. The smell of gin seemed to seep from his skin.

  “There was a nun. And an old crone. And a snake. And the old crone...no, no more!” He scrambled to his feet and exited before she could even rise.

  So now they knew for certain Jonas worked for Carter. Doing what? She went upstairs to check on Sabine, who showed some improvement, thanks to Lena’s nursing and Ian’s herbs.

  When she told Lena about her marriage to Ian the next day, she wrapped her in a tight hug.

  “Liebchen, does God not surprise us all? Ach, I have a dress that will suit you. I will bring it over in the morning.”

  “No, you needn’t fuss over me. My church dress is adequate.”

  “You say you do not want to marry this man, Maggie. But I have seen the way you look at him, as if you’d like to eat him. Stop thinking, my friend. I will make sure you look beautiful tomorrow, as a woman should on her wedding day.” She hugged her again. “He is a good man, a kind man.”

  “He is an odd man,” Maggie muttered and amidst Lena’s laughter, set off for Emma’s cottage.

  The fog had moved in. The short distance to her client’s home seemed interminable, the fog oppressive. Though it was the middle of the day, she felt inclined to look over her shoulder, as if someone followed her. Foolish.

  She received a chilly reception from Emma’s mother. Emma had already given birth to a little girl, delivered by Edward Carter the night before. The bastard had stolen her patient right out from under her! Maggie tried to hide her hurt and displeasure upon hearing the lavish words of praise for the great doctor. How quickly they’d forgotten she’d delivered Emma’s other children safely.

  As she returned home, greatly disheartened, footsteps echoed behind her. When she stopped, they stopped, but by the time she reached the cottage, it was like it never happened. Nearing the barn, she heard Samuel’s voice raised in anger.

  “Sarah, you must return home.”

  Her sister paced about the barn. What was she doing out of the house?

  “I must go and speak to Edward Carter. They tell me he has buried other women, mothers like me.”