Blackened Cottage

by A. E. Richards

  CHAPTER 13

  GRAVEYARD

  Dear Mama,

  I am very sorry that I have not writ you for so long, but recent events have overcome my ability to grasp quill and parchment. Indeed Mama, I must tell you at once that I am no longer a prisoner in a cell in a blackened place. Much has happened, a great deal of it somewhat disturbing.

  You may find this development unsettling – as do I – for I am not yet accustomed to the air of this wooden church in which I find myself sitting as I write you, nor am I happy to find myself a fox in a hunt pursued by two blood-hungry hounds who will stop at nothing to capture me. But, rest assured, this kind of freedom is better than remaining trapped in Blackened Cottage. You see, I am on a mission – a mission to find my brother, for Father has sent little Eddie away, never to return. Of course, this is something I cannot bear. And so I am going to London to find him.

  Alas, my journey shall not be an easy one. Already, Father and Jean-Bernard are close on my tail. Not an hour ago they stormed this very church and set upon interrogating Reverend Pettigrew. But the good Reverend kept me hidden. Indeed, I owe him my life. Not only did he conceal my presence, he offered me to accompany him on his path back to London.

  Of course I accepted at once. The journey will be slow because Reverend Pettigrew must visit some villages en route to preach his message. Yet I think that I shall be in good company. Also, I believe I shall be safer this way.

  Reverend Pettigrew is a righteous man and he does not press me for information about myself. My only worry is that Father and Jean-Bernard will find me. As you said in your letters, Father is not to be trusted; so I fear what he may do if he gets his hands on me. I know he wishes to send me off with Jean-Bernard, but will his anger get the better of him? Perhaps he will decide instead to lock me in the cellar with no Villette, no charcoal, no light, no air, nothing to give me the slightest inkling of hope. Simply the thought of this is enough to turn my insides to ash.

  I cannot bear the thought of returning to that light-less place. But I must. After I have rescued Eddie I shall return to that godforsaken cottage to save Bethan who is undoubtedly locked in my room with little food or water to sustain her. Poor, sweet, kind Bethan. All she wished to do was save me and look what happened. And I know it is my fault. If only I had left when she requested it of me...but there is nothing I can do about that now.

  There is something that I feel I must tell you before I go. Upon escaping the cottage I discovered an unpleasant thing deep in the woods: a crazy old woman called Sorcha O'Floinn who believed me to be her long lost daughter, Morna. She tried to keep me with her through force, but I got away. However, I cannot stop thinking of her with sadness in my heart. Something pulls my thoughts toward her – such was her loneliness, such was her need. If I get a chance, I think I will visit her when I return. But this is an optimistic plan indeed, for I may never return.

  Sorry Mama – sometimes pessimism gets the better of me. I know you would tell me to try to smile, to lift my chin and count my blessings and I promise I shall endeavour to do this. It is just that everything would be so much easier if I could just see your face once more.

  Reverend Pettigrew says that we can post this letter upon arrival at the next village. I know you shall not be able to write me back, but I shall continue to write you whenever I get the opportunity.

  I hope you are well and safe. As ever, my heart is with you.

  Your loving daughter,

  Lisbeth

  *

  Tucking the letter inside my dress, I pull Sorcha O' Floinn's shawl tighter about my shoulders and leave the church by the back door.

  Fresh air and a walk around the church grounds will help to clear my head. Reverend Pettigrew said he will call me when he is ready to go. So far he has been very understanding. Not once has he pressured me for answers, which is something I am immensely grateful for.

  The air is certainly fresh; my face stings as the cold penetrates my skin. I blow on my hands and stamp my feet, look around the graveyard at the dusk-tempered sky which begins with yellow and filters upwards through mellowing shades of grey. It is a pleasant, calm kind of light enveloping everything it touches in glowing stillness.

  The graveyard grass is full of life, nurtured by the decaying corpses that lie beneath the surface. The gravestones are placed haphazardly, some wonky, some straight, all clustered tightly together. I carefully walk between them trying not to stand on the deceased. There are no flowers.

  I read the inscriptions: Mary Priest, 1855-1865, Beloved Daughter...John James Banks, 1848-1860, Beloved Son...Heather May White, 1843-1846, Beloved Sister and Daughter.

  So many lost ones. So many children. Emotion wells in my throat, but a morbid impulse compels me to continue reading the stones.

  Suddenly, a man dressed all in black jumps up from behind a gravestone not five yards away. He waves, beckons me forward. He is tall and broad with masses of grey hair and a wide smile. He cannot be much less than five and fifty. I hesitate, go forward two steps and stop.

  “Hello. Is anything the matter?” I say.

  Only then do I notice a woman standing in the shadows on the edge of the graveyard. She too wears mourning black. She hugs herself as if holding her intestines in, her eyes cast to the ground at her feet. Her body announces enormous sorrow. The only animated element about her is her red hair which curls down to her waist.

  A shiver ripples across my shoulders and down my arms.

  The man strides over and stops inches from my chest. Frowning at his closeness, I step back, but he steps forward again, grinning as he does so.

  “My my, but you are a beauty to behold!” he says. He reaches out, touches my cheek.

  I flinch, step back, “What do you think you are doing?”

  He laughs, “What I always do – checking out the local beauties. What is your name beautiful maiden? Such a beautiful face deserves a beautiful name.”

  I glance over at the woman in black. She is staring at me. She looks fairly young. Vulnerable. She is too far away. I cannot read her expression, but I can see that she is shaking her head with great fervour.

  I look at the man in alarm – is he not to be trusted?

  “What do you want?” I demand, edging backwards.

  “Not much,” he smirks, “just your name, to start with.”

  “My name is Lisbeth and I do not take kindly to being touched by strangers.”

  He smiles broadly. He has remarkably thick grey hair and strange grey eyes that do not match his smile.

  He moves too close once more, “Very well. But if I tell you my name, I shall no longer be a stranger shall I?”

  “I am sorry to say that I do not wish to know your name Sir. Indeed, I do not wish to remain in your company any longer than is absolutely necessary. Also, may I remind you that your companion is waiting.”

  I incline my head towards the red-haired girl.

  He sighs as if irritated.

  “As you wish, but may I ask one favour from such a beautiful lady as yourself?”

  I hesitate, “You may ask.”

  He grins, “May I have the honour of kissing your hand?”

  I begin to say no as he lunges forward and seizes my wrist. His grip is so strong, so resolute that I cry out.

  “Lisbeth! Time to depart!”

  It is Reverend Pettigrew's voice coming from the church.

  The man's face drops into a scowl, “That old, self-righteous bastard.”

  He releases my hand and runs away, grabbing the woman roughly by the wrist and dragging her with him. I watch them go, knees trembling.

  Is fear emanating from the woman or am I imagining it? I am tempted to run after them, pull the woman away, ask her if she wants to go with this strange man, but the preacher's booming voice pulls me back to what is at stake.

  I turn to go. Something stops me. A niggling voice urges me to go and look at the gravestone that the strange man was looking at.

  Fearful that the Re
verend will leave without me, I hurry over to the grave and crouch in front of it. The words that I see blare inside my head like a thousand clashing bells:

  1820-1862

  Morna O'Floinn

  R.I.P

  *

  Dear Diary,

  I know I said I would not write again, but I find myself needing to ink my quill more than a rabid hound needs to snap its teeth.

  Jean-Bernard and I rest here for the night. By here, I refer to Grousehill, a village not five miles from Blackened Cottage. Tomorrow we venture south towards London in the hope that we may ambush Lisbeth en route.

  It infuriates me that we must engage in such a chase! She is not well and her mind tells her things that are untrue, unjust, but why can she not heed the sense of the common man? Why must she persist in playing these silly games? I know she can love me no longer, but can she not at least show me a little respect? All I care about is placing her in a good position that shall hopefully lead to her eventual happiness and yet she scorns my efforts! It is maddening. Utterly maddening. At times, I swear I am losing my mind. If it were not for Jean-Bernard, I fear I would go insane.

  Indeed, Jean-Bernard keeps his head far better than I. He talks of when we find her. I talk only of ifs and buts. He contains his frustration while I allow mine to ferment and grow rampant. Sometimes I envisage wrapping my arms around her and squeezing her so tight that she cannot breathe. I aim to shun these impassioned feelings but every time they arrive they seem to grow in strength. It is just as well that Jean-Bernard is here. He constantly reminds me that when she is at his home she will get better. Every hour he assures me that he is the key to her happiness. Only he can cure her of whatever it is that attacks her mind.

  Perhaps there is one positive thing to all this: I am come more alive. My desire to capture her triggers in me energy that I have not known these past few years. I only hope that if, no, when, we find Lisbeth, Jean-Bernard will help me reign in this dreadful anger. Nothing more is to be said for now.

  I go.

  C.C

  *

  “Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been one day since my last confession.

  I saw her again, my heart's desire. She spoke her name to me. Lisbeth. Such beauty. Such poise. I felt compelled to reach out and touch her perfect hand. Indeed, I could not help it. I could not resist the urge to be close to her, for though I know God's will, I cannot do it.

  And thus, now, my mind is awash with impure thoughts and evil desires. I seek my own interest, not Christ's. I love pleasures more than God. I am wicked, sinful, full of lust. I cannot let her go. The devil tells me to follow her and bring her home with me and so I shall. I shall follow her to the ends of the earth if I have to, so help me God. But on my way, I shall continue to confess my sins and seek forgiveness.

  I am sorry for this and all the sins of my past life, especially for all my sins against purity.

  Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I shall endeavour not to sin again.”

  *

  Night arrives in the form of a black lake dotted with gold. Venus glows so brightly that the stars are envious. The February air is merciless, slicing through the folds of my shawl with ease. I cannot stop shivering. Will this virulent cold never cease?

  I hurry towards the horse and carriage where stands the Reverend's driver, a sixteen year old lad called Jojo.

  Of African blood, Jojo's skin is so black that he blends with the night. His body remains that of a boy who is yet to grow into a man. Close up I can see that his young face is handsome but unfailingly unsmiling.

  “Jojo this is Lisbeth. She shall be joining us on our journey,” Reverend Pettigrew says.

  Jojo curtly nods and takes Reverend Pettigrew's travel case, tying it securely to the roof of the simple brown carriage. Other parcels are already tied to the roof. I wonder what they might contain.

  I go to look at the horses that are to lead us to London. Both are ebony, their manes untangled and shimmering under the moon's radiance. They grunt and shift their weight from foot to foot as if impatient to be on their way.

  “What beautiful creatures,” I murmur as the Reverend helps me into the carriage.

  He smiles with delight, “They are my babies. The one on the left – the one with a white patch over her eye – is Eve. Greedy madam she is too. Penchant for apples. The other is Adam. A fairly sensible old boy. Bit stiff in the hips.”

  I laugh. It is a strange feeling, almost overwhelming. I have not laughed since Bethan.

  Reverend Pettigrew winks, “What is life without a sense of humour?”

  My laugh catches in my throat.

  He seems to sense my inwardness and takes hold of my hand, “Dear Lisbeth, something is as clear to me as the lantern light that guides our journey tonight: you have suffered a great tragedy. Now, I shall never press you for knowledge nor expect you to smile as oft as I, for your recovery will be a struggle of vast proportions. However, I shall endeavour to guide you through this dark time and, if, given time, you feel content to open up to me, I shall listen with an ear that is entirely free from judgement.”

  I hesitate, fighting back tears. “Thank you, Reverend.”

  He smiles kindly.

  The heaviness behind my eyes intensifies.

  “Sleep,” he says, patting my hand in a fatherly fashion.

  “Thank you so much,” I murmur.

  “Think nothing of it.”

  As the carriage starts to move, tiredness defeats me. I descend into fretful sleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  MIST

  Leaving behind nightmares of dead children, I become aware of the steady clip-clop of Adam and Eve's hooves, the rumble of the carriage's wheels and the bumping motion of the carriage. My neck and shoulders are terribly stiff, my body chilled right through. I stretch and try to rub warmth into my hands.

  Reverend Pettigrew sits opposite, eyes closed, chest rising and falling languidly. His blanket is on the ground. I pick it up and gently wrap the soft material around him. I look at his balding head, think of my long, thick hair, wonder how he copes in conditions such as these.

  Pulling aside a brown curtain I look through the small window, trying not to steam it with my breath.

  Mist. Such a mist as I have never born witness to; white, thick as soup, impenetrable, obscuring the countryside like a white ocean, concealing earthly beauty while creating an ethereal beauty quite its own.

  I exhale. Now I cannot even see the mist, for the mist of my breath destroys my view. Using the cuff of my sleeve I wipe the window dry and, as I do, my eyes refocus on the glass, centering on my reflection. I stare at my eyes, surprised by how tired they look. They do not look like my eyes. I shake my head, look at the Reverend. Still he sleeps soundly. Not a thunderstorm would stir him.

  My mind wanders to Father and Jean-Bernard. I cannot help it. When I picture them, darkness surrounds their bodies and their faces are livid. I shudder. Though I hope they will not pursue me any further, I know deep down that this is a vain hope. It will be easy for them to discover that a young woman accompanies the Reverend. It will also be easy for them to find out where the Reverend intends to go next.

  It may be that I will need to abandon Reverend Pettigrew and his carriage and find my own way to London after all.

  The good Reverend stretches and smiles, “Good morning Lisbeth. How are you feeling on this chilliest of morns?”

  Though scratchy with thirst, his voice booms with life.

  I smile, “I am not too unwell, though I must admit I am worrying that my pursuers may track me to this next village.”

  “I see. I must say, I think there is very little chance of that, but, may I ask, what do you think would happen if they were to locate you?”

  I pause, unsure how much to disclose. My feeling is that I can trust him. Nothing suggests otherwise. I inhale deeply, “If they find me, they will take me back.”

  “And why is this a bad thing? Have they harmed you? Do they inte
nd to harm you?”

  “To be honest, I know not precisely what they intend, but I do know that they are angry at me for leaving and I fear they may wish to punish me. I also know that Father desires to send me off with Jean-Bernard, his old friend, and I do not wish to go. I believe Jean-Bernard may have unsavoury plans for me. I am scared. I do not wish to be trapped any longer. Indeed, all I want is to find my little brother, return home to find my friend Bethan, and then get as far away from Father and Jean-Bernard as possible.”

  He goes silent for a moment. It seems as if he is deep in thought. Finally he reaches out and grasps my hands firmly in his, “Dear Lisbeth, fear not, Jojo and I shall see you safely to London. We shall help you find your brother and I shall assign Jojo the task of driving you back home.”

  Close to tears, I open my mouth, close it, smile, “Thank you. I will not ask why you wish to help me, for I can see that kindness is what you do.”

  He laughs, “You flatter me Lisbeth! I also do a great many other things that are not so good. Like this!”

  Out of his cassock he draws a small whisky flask. With a wink, he gulps some then offers it to me. I hesitate, then take it from him and have a small sip. Begin to cough. The amber liquid burns but warms at the same time. The smoky flavour is odd but I feel I could grow to like it.

  “My word! That is some kick!” I exclaim.

  Reverend Pettigrew laughs again. I watch him, this preacher who is so full of unexpected surprises, as he slides back the window and bangs on the outside of the carriage, “Jojo! It is my turn to drive! Come, warm yourself with a spot of whisky and keep Lisbeth company.”

  The carriage slows to a halt and, with a pat of my hand, Reverend Pettigrew jumps down. Moments later Jojo ducks inside and sits opposite me, making sure to avoid my eyes.