Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  The fire was little more than scattered coals, and in the near darkness, he could barely make out the shadowy shapes of the children sleeping on the floor.

  Exhaling, he dropped onto his pallet. No doubt, another sleepless night lay ahead. Aye, he could feel it in his bones. He’d always slept light, unable to let down his guard and truly relax in the company of others. ‘Twas the result of his harsh childhood and years on the battlefield. Mayhap, he should revisit his decision to return.

  Moll stirred on the bed.

  ‘Twas tempting to look, but he knew ‘twould be a foolish mistake. Why torture himself with what he could not taste? He closed his eyes, turned his back to the bed, and settled in for another long night.

  When Taran opened his eyes again, he saw the sun gleaming brightly between the shutter slats.

  Next, he noticed his wet forearm.

  Groggily, Taran lifted his head and drew his brows in a puzzled line. It took him a moment to realize what he was staring at, a child’s head. ‘Twas Wee Jack, drooling on his shirtsleeve, and from the size of the wet patch, the lad had driveled on him the entire night through. ‘Twas fair surprising the laddie would dare crawl into his bed, though mayhap, he hadn’t frightened the boy as much as he’d thought.

  Exercising great care, Taran extracted his arm and sat up quietly, amazed he’d slept the entire night. He couldn’t recall waking once. The fact that he felt more relaxed, alert, and refreshed than he could recall in quite some time stood as testament to that fact.

  ‘Twas then he saw her, from the corner of his eye. Moll. She lay still on the bed, watching him.

  Slowly, he rose to his feet.

  A Witch of the Heart

  Moll yawned. Sunlight streamed through cracks in the shutters to pierce the shadows of the room. On the bed, Charlotte lay crosswise, sleeping, her feet near Moll’s shoulder. Again, the youngest James had vanished. A quick search of the sleeping forms on the floor revealed the child asleep on Taran’s pallet, using the Highlander’s arm as a pillow. The man himself lay on his back, sprawled before the now-dead fire, the slow rise and fall of his chest signaling he slept still.

  Considering how little the man knew of children, ‘twould be best to rouse James—or Wee Jack, as he’d suddenly taken to calling himself—before Taran awakened to find him there.

  Moll bit her lip. Lord help her, but why did children have such a talent for trouble? She pushed back her covers, preparing to rise, when Taran stirred on the floor.

  Quickly, she fell back on the pillow, but kept her eyes open wide enough to watch.

  Slowly, Taran lifted his head and stared down at the child asleep on his arm. Moll tensed, prepared to leap to Wee Jack’s defense, when a smile caught the corner of the man’s lips. With a gentleness plain to see, he freed his arm, shook his head in dry amusement, and then glanced around.

  As his gaze swung her way, Moll held still, feigning sleep.

  The moments passed.

  Taran finally climbed to his feet with an easy grace. He stepped over the sleeping children and approached the bed. Her heart began to thud. ‘Twas nigh impossible to force herself to breathe slow and shallow as she closed her eyes even more.

  The rattling of the shutters startled her into glancing directly his way, but to her relief, his gaze had focused outside the window, instead.

  Unable to look away, Moll could only stare at the man. He was handsome. The soft morning light kissed his face, highlighting his chiseled lips and a lean jaw shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. She watched, mesmerized, as he unbuttoned his shirt, taking his time. ‘Twas fair enthralling, the way his supple muscles rolled beneath and strained the fabric—and then his shirt fell away.

  After Thomas, she’d was fair convinced she’d never think the male body a thing of beauty…but there was no denying the masculine perfection displayed before her now. Fascinated, she glanced over every muscle on his arms and bare chest as he draped his shirt over his shoulder and lifted the lid of his clothing chest.

  He took his time searching, until finally, with a clean shirt and plaid in hand, he closed the lid, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  Moll expelled a long breath, only then realizing she gripped her blanket so tightly, her knuckles had turned white.

  “What is it, Moll?” a voice whispered. ‘Twas Francis, propped on his elbow.

  Indeed, what was it? Never before had she stared at a man. “Nothing.”

  “Can you trust him?” George asked, his young face filled with worry.

  Trust. ‘Twas such a frightening word. Could she trust the man? Was he trustworthy? Did Highland honor truly exist?

  “I don’t know, George,” she confessed in a whisper.

  “Then, let’s be sure to eat as soon as the bells ring,” he said. “At least, we can gain another meal afore we’re tossed out.”

  Tossed out? She couldn’t deny already ‘twas a depressing thought to leave the castle to run from the plague once again. Had she gotten so spoiled in just a few days?

  The morning bells began to ring.

  “’Tis time to wake, poppets,” Moll said, rousing herself from the bed. “Open your eyes.”

  The children yawned and stretched, then stumbled about, tidying up themselves along with the room as Moll leaned against the open shutter and peered out the window.

  How long would they play this game? Would she wake, each morning, fearing ‘twould be her last? The ‘fearing’ part of the thought was striking, for truthfully, now, she wanted to stay. And now that she did, would Euphemia roust them out? Just what did the future hold? She fisted her hands. She’d never dealt well with the unknown, never once had she thought not knowing as exciting as some folk did.

  She closed her eyes.

  From the look of things, she’d have to learn to make peace with the unknown. She hadn’t a clue upon which path her future lay.

  * * *

  The next few days passed quickly, each day much the same as the one before. Moll spent her time minding the children, trying her best to keep them out of sight. ‘Twas easier than she’d at first feared. The lack of residents in the castle made finding hiding places an easy task. Twice a day, they sat in the great hall eating their fill, listening to the conversations around them. At first, the castle residents worried over the plague, but as the days wore on, their concerns gave way to boredom and talk of ways to pass the time.

  For the most part, Taran kept to himself, appearing only at meals and returning to the chamber late in the night, long after the children had fallen asleep. He spoke rarely, but from what Moll could see, ‘twas the nature of the man and nothing to do with herself. He shared little of himself with anyone, even his men, with whom he spent his days mostly training in the lower courtyard near the chapel and the neighboring aviary.

  Moll rose from bed and sent the children to the great hall for the morning meal first while she stayed behind to ‘bind the bairn’ as she’d taken to calling the tedium of tying her pillow. This morning, however, as she smoothed her skirts over the lump, she’d couldn’t help but notice the pillow hung flat, clearly in sore need of fresh stuffing.

  Perplexed, she glanced about the room for something to add. She could hardly meander about the castle with her belly growing slimmer by the day. ‘Twould rouse suspicions, surely.

  Her eyes fell on Taran’s clothing chest, and curious, she finally succumbed to the temptation to peek inside. Fine, well-made cloth met her gaze. From what she’d learned as a tailor’s wife, the weave announced the collection worth a tidy fortune. She already knew the heir to the MacKenzie clan dressed well, he changed clothing often enough. Apparently, he was rich, as well.

  A knock on the door startled her into dropping the lid of the chest with a thud. She bit her lip, half expecting Taran to come striding through, but then…when did he knock? ‘Twas more likely Euphemia who stood on the other side of the door. A disturbing thought, even as she heard Taran’s deep brogue in her mind, As lover to the MacK
enzie heir, you’re no servant, Moll. Dinna forget that.

  Moll rolled her eyes and blew an exasperated breath.

  ‘Twas like a man to simply give orders without a practical care if they could even be minded. Did he truly think she could refuse a lady of the castle—especially one he very well might wed, despite what he claimed? From what she’d overheard, he was noble enough in that he had no choice in whom he married.

  The knock returned, louder this time.

  Moll straightened her shoulders. There was naught she could do but answer the door.

  She lifted the latch, but to her surprise and relief, ‘twasn’t Euphemia or her maids at all, but a freckle-faced, English girl with two neat red braids.

  “My lady,” she greeted with a bob of a curtsey.

  Moll blinked, surprised by the courtesy.

  “Lady Haddon requests your presence, and at once,” the girl continued with a friendly smile. “If you’d be so kind?”

  “Lady Haddon? Most certainly.” Moll stepped out. Who could refuse the kind lady of the castle?

  The young maid set off, leading her down the tower stairs and across the upper courtyard to the yard ringing the formidable stone keep.

  A decided chill hung in the air. ‘Twas the promise of an early winter. Moll hugged her arms close and quickened her pace, the only sound to be heard the crunching of their shoes over the frosted blades of grass. With each passing day, she found Haddon Hall more difficult to leave. With the plague’s spread, folk would be even leerier of strangers than they had before. Finding food and shelter for herself and the children would be nigh impossible.

  A man called out to a fellow guard on the wall above, bringing Moll’s thoughts back to the present. They’d arrived at the keep. Moll glanced up in awe. The place was a formidable fortress, each block of stone twice the size of any she’d yet seen.

  The maid passed through a side door and led her up large, spiraling stairs, to the very top. At the end of a spacious corridor stood a massive, oak door, its surface studded with nails and its iron hinges painted black. Never had Moll seen a more impressive door. Surely, such a thing alone could withstand an army of men.

  The maid padded silently forward and lifted the latch to slip inside, beckoning Moll to follow with a crook of her finger.

  Moll entered slowly. She saw the window first, a stained-glass wonder depicting a rose in full bloom, surrounded by the sweeping branches of a willow. The dappled light of the early morning sun streamed through the panes, painting patterns on the flagstone floor.

  “’Twas a wedding gift,” a feeble voice said to her left. “From my own dear husband.”

  Moll whirled.

  Lady Haddon sat wrapped in furs and with her feet propped on a needlepoint footstool before an enormous fireplace, its carved mantle held up by two stone dragons with gaping maws. A small golden spaniel lay on the thick fur spread beneath her feet. As Moll approached, the animal’s tail began to wag.

  “My lady.” Moll curtseyed low.

  Lady Haddon nodded to the red-cushioned chair opposite her. “Do sit, Moll. Please.” She waved a delicate hand in invitation, her pale skin marbled by spidery, blue veins.

  The fur coverlet slipped to her knees, revealing a fur-trimmed dark green gown that fell softly over her large belly, a belly made even larger since the rest of her seemed far too thin.

  Moll frowned, somewhat taken aback. She didn’t need to be a Witch of the Heart to see the woman stood in dire need of a restoring potion of the most potent kind—and right quickly. ‘Twas clear she was ill. Deathly so. She’d known she was ill, but not to this dramatic extent.

  Moll’s heart contracted in sympathy, and curtseying again, she took her seat.

  As the chair creaked beneath her, the golden spaniel rose stiffly to its feet, then after circling three times, settled back down for a nap.

  “How I wish I could sleep so deeply,” Lady Haddon said with a rueful laugh, then she fixed Moll with a look and added, “But, I confess, I am more jealous of you, Moll. You are so full of life, so strong.”

  Moll hesitated. With the fear of witchcraft second to only plague in the land, ‘twas too dangerous, of course, to reveal herself the daughter of the most powerful witch in Wales. And truly, how much of a witch was she? She only knew a smidgeon of her mother’s potions. Yet, as a sworn Witch of the Heart, no matter how weak a one, she’d practiced from childhood the healing of those in need who crossed her path—and Lady Haddon’s heart was in a sore need of healing as she’d ever seen.

  “I wish I had but a sliver of your strength.” Lady Haddon sighed. “Would that I knew your secret.”

  A seed of an idea sparked in Moll’s mind. “’Tis not much of a secret, my lady. The women of my family drink a daily, restoring tea made of lichen and mushrooms.” ‘Twas a fib, but the potion wasn’t. A proper brewing would, no doubt, strengthen the woman until, hopefully, the root cause of her ills could be found.

  “A restoring tea?” Lady Haddon’s eyes lit with interest.

  Moll gave her pillowed stomach a pat. “’Tis always a help with the birthing.” She wasn’t one to lie, but now that she’d started, she might as well make it a grand one.

  Lady Haddon straightened in her chair, intrigued. “The birthing,” she repeated, her fingers slipping to touch the locket hanging around her neck. “Then, this tea is the secret to your many healthy babes?”

  “I’m sure of it. Healthy babes, every one of them.”

  Naked hope swept over Lady Haddon’s face. “I must have this tea, Moll,” she whispered, excited. “With all the tonics and tinctures the physician brews for me, surely, one more cannot hurt.”

  ‘Twas far from the truth, and even more likely, ‘twas the physician’s brews that were leeching what health remained. “I shall begin, at once, my lady. I’ve seen plenty of lichen within these walls, and I’m sure, there are mushrooms here to spare.” She moved to rise.

  “Wait.” Lady Haddon held up her hand, then raised her voice, “Bridgette, bring the gift, will you?”

  Puzzled, Moll turned as the redheaded-maid entered, her arms overflowing with linen, satin, and velvet of various hues.

  “These gowns will suit you well, Moll,” Lady Haddon whispered, clearly having spent what little strength she’d possessed. “One is quite small, small enough for your daughter, I’d imagine.”

  Moll frowned, surprised, as Bridgette draped gowns, shifts, and even a cloak over the back of the red-cushioned chair. ‘Twas clear without even looking further that the fabric of the gowns alone was worth a small fortune, even before the cost of the fine needlework and trimmings of beads, fur, and lace.

  “Gowns? There must be a misunderstanding, my lady.” Moll cleared her throat. “These are far too fine.”

  “Nonsense.” Lady Haddon laughed, the effort lending her pale face a blush of momentary health. “As for the fineness of them, the MacKenzie heir would beg to differ, I’m sure. You know as well as I how much the man loves a fine cut of cloth.”

  The MacKenzie heir? Taran? Moll glanced down at her worn gown. He’d mentioned its condition a few days past. Indeed, ‘twas an eyesore compared to the finery on display. Small wonder, the man had sought to protect his pride.

  Lady Haddon yawned. “These are gifts you cannot refuse, Moll. Take them, for you and your daughter. As for your sons, I’ve tasked a servant to find them clothing in the storerooms, as well as shoes, for all.”

  Warm clothing, shoes… Moll bowed her head. “I am grateful, my lady,” she whispered, never meaning the words more. “I would I could repay you.”

  Lady Haddon laughed. “Oh, but you shall, my dear. Indeed, if your restoring tea works even a tenth as well for me as for you, I shall stand in your debt.” She fell back in her chair then, clearly having run the course of her strength. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I fear I must rest now.”

  Moll eyed the woman, concerned that their brief exchange had so fully taxed her strength. “Then I shall be on my way, my la
dy. If fortune favors, I shall have your brew this very night.”

  Summoning one last burst of strength, Lady Haddon whispered, “Bridgette, see Moll has all that she needs.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The young maid nodded.

  With a final, low curtsey of respect, Moll gathered the clothing and followed Bridgette out of the room.

  “And what do you require?” the maid asked once they stood outside the chamber.

  “A fire, a pot, water, and a peaceful, quiet place to brew,” Moll replied, at once. Aside from the ingredients which only she alone could harvest and at the proper time of day, she required nothing else.

  Bridgette’s brows furrowed in thought, then, she grinned. “’Tisn’t washday until the next week. The laundry will be deserted—if you don’t mind the company of the tubs.”

  Moll smiled. “’Twill only tempt me to take a bath,” she confessed with a laugh.

  “There’s water aplenty in the castle well. You could take ten baths, if you wish.” Bridgette grinned even wider, then her mirth faded, and her young face grew serious. Dropping her voice, she asked, “Can you help her? Truly?”

  Moll hesitated and then nodded.

  “’Twill be a miracle.” Bridgette sighed in relief. “I’ll leave you to find your way back. ‘Tis straight down the stairs. I’m off to ready the laundry.” With one last smile, she was gone.

  Adjusting the gowns, Moll set off for the stairs. ‘Twas easy enough. She headed straight down and out the door, hurrying across the frozen grass to the north tower that led to Taran’s bedchamber. She was halfway up the stairs when a flash of a green plaid through the arrow-slit window caught her eye.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She paused and peered through.

  The broad shoulders and dark hair announced ‘twas truly Taran this time and not his clansmen. He crossed the courtyard with Charlotte, James, Jamie, and Wee Jack at his heels. Outside the great hall’s door, he came to a stop, turned, and planted his hands on his hips to survey them all.