by Kari Edgren
My persistence was paying off. Or it might have been the mixture of blood and sweat that now moistened my raw skin. Either way, the binding began to loosen around my left wrist. I just needed a few more minutes.
“And what about Mary?” I asked, desperate to keep the conversation going. “How did you get her involved in your delusions?”
“My dear Selah. Mary already knew you were different. It was she who came to me shortly after she took the position at Hopewell.”
“You told her that I was a witch and turned her against me.”
Edgar shook his head. “Quite the contrary. She was the first to suggest witchcraft. The poor girl brought a head full of heathen traditions from the old country, it was the only way she could account for what she’d seen. If I’m not mistaken,” he chuckled softly, “she even buried a witch bottle under the front walkway.”
I scowled at him. Mary would never have acted on her own without his prodding.
“I never believed in witchcraft myself,” Edgar said, “but after speaking with the girl, I found such a charge could easily serve my purposes. I gladly passed the idea onto Nathan.”
“I can only imagine your disappointment when George McKee cleared my name after the meeting.”
“I had hoped for a hanging,” he admitted. “So much cleaner. No one to blame.”
“How unfortunate,” I sneered. “When that failed, you had no choice but to send Nathan to do your dirty work.”
“My dirty work?” Edgar said, startled by the accusation. “Can’t you see that I only want to help you?”
I jerked hard at the bindings. “You’re trying to kill me!”
His eyes gleamed like a maniac’s in the candlelight. “You’re an aberration of nature! You cannot be allowed to live!” Increasingly agitated, he struck the flint again, showering the bed with sparks this time. “After Nathan questioned his vision this morning, I had to act quickly before my identity was discovered. When Mary told me about the meeting tonight in the woods, I gave her some mandrake powder to put into your wine. The stupid girl believed that it would purge the evil from your soul.” He ducked down out of sight, and I soon heard the rough scraping of the striker against the flint.
My rage froze as raw terror pounded in my chest, turning my breath to panting gasps. “What are you doing?”
“The curse must be broken,” he said, his voice muffled by the bed. “Death is the only way.”
The pungent smell of burning cloth drifted up into my nose. “No!” I cried. “You can’t do this!”
Yanking my hand, I pulled it right out of the binding. Then, reaching over to my other wrist, I started fumbling with the knots. A hissing noise came from beneath the bed.
Edgar stood back up and stared down at me, watching my frantic struggle. “There won’t be time to escape, my dear. Submit your body to the fire that the Lord may carry you home.”
The first hint of flames peeked up over the end of the bed, slowly devouring the bedclothes. I screamed, raking my nails at the binding still holding my other wrist. Somewhere in the distance I heard the thump of footsteps followed by a thunderous crash against the door.
Edgar took a step back as the flames grew higher. “Take this curse from us, Lord!” he cried, raising his arms high in the air. “Accept thy daughter!”
The pounding continued against the door, over and over until it felt like Brighmor would break to pieces. In horror, I watched the flames race up the bed hangings to the canopy overhead, nearly enclosing me in a burning inferno. More flames crept over the footboard, inching closer to my feet. I screamed when the fire brushed the tips of my toes, scorching the flesh.
There was the loud splintering of wood, followed by a confusion of voices. Ben started beating my feet with his coat to put out the flames while Henry cut the bindings with his dagger. My limbs came free, and someone grabbed my arms, pulling me to safety.
“Let her die!” Edgar screamed. “The curse must be broken!”
“You’re the only one who’s going to die tonight,” Henry growled, still holding the dagger.
Seeing the blade, Edgar retreated down the far side of the bed where he inadvertently brushed against the burning shards of cloth hanging down from the canopy. The fire spread eagerly to the back of his coat and breeches, greedy for the dry woolen fibers.
Realizing what had happened, Edgar started frantically patting at his clothing, but the flames resisted his efforts, spreading around to the front of his coat and the spilled oil. In a whoosh, he went up like a human torch. He released an anguished scream and reached out blindly, searching for help. James took off his own coat, moving closer to smother the flames.
Fear and pain took over, and Edgar began to weave erratically. He crashed against the dressing table and then, like a crazed beast, charged straight for one of the windows. The glass shattered at impact, and he fell from the room, landing with a sickening thud on the stone walkway below.
Chapter Twenty
Full Circle
In the first days following Edgar’s death, I was overwrought by the shock of his betrayal. The pain emanating from my burned foot and torn wrists was nothing compared to the torment I felt at being so thoroughly deceived. For over forty years, Edgar had shown the greatest love and kindness toward my family. The benevolent man was now gone forever, replaced in my memory by a monster of the worst kind.
In the end, I wanted to believe that he had suffered from madness rather than an insatiable desire to avenge past tragedies. Whatever the state of his mind, his treachery had finally caught up to him, at the cost of his own life and final judgment. An eye for an eye offered some sense of justice, though it did nothing to bring back my mother and grandmother and very little to redeem the man I had once so dearly loved.
As for Mary, flogging seemed a well-earned reward for her duplicity, and most likely would have been her fate if not for George McKee’s intervention. Once he had spoken with the girl, extracting the story between fits of tears and sobs, he determined that she was a victim in her own right and suggested she not be prosecuted.
According to George, Mary deserved to be pitied. This was probably true, though my final decision not to name her came more by a sense of duty than mercy, since it was she who had ultimately saved my life. Convinced that Edgar had only meant to purge the evil from me, she had jumped into action once his real intentions became known. While Edgar and I were busy talking in my bedroom, Nora had arrived at Brighmor. In a matter of seconds Mary told her what had happened, and together they went off into the woods, calling for the men. It didn’t take long before their frantic cries were heard and help came running.
So in lieu of formal charges, I insisted Mary leave Hopewell for good. She departed Brighmor that very night with enough money to ride the coach into Philadelphia and subsist for the next few weeks. It would then be her choice to stay in Pennsylvania or continue on to another colony and a fresh start. For all I cared, she could have gone to the Devil so long as I never had to see her again.
And I learned Alice and Evie felt the same after enduring weeks of suspicion on Mary’s behalf. Not to say that Alice didn’t have plenty of her own guilt for not sharing her suspicions sooner. She was fairly certain that Mary had made the witch’s bottle, but when nothing else happened she, like me, had simply wished the whole affair away. Once it became clear that Mary was up to her old tricks again, Alice had tried to warn me. And she would have succeeded if not for being locked in the cellar with Evie when they were sent to fetch a barrel of cider.
Three days after that horrible night, Ben was the sole representative from Brighmor at Edgar’s funeral. Ben had never had an affinity for Edgar; he had gone to see the man buried, and then report back for my own peace of mind. Henry and I were sitting in the drawing room with James when he returned to recount the morning’s events.
“It was a spar
se crowd,” he said from his seat on the sofa. “No more than a dozen folks showed up to pay their respects. During the funeral, three more men came by on horseback. I thought they meant to join us, but they only watched for a minute from the road before continuing on into town.”
“Do you know who they were?” I asked.
“The gravesite was too far away to get a good look. I don’t think they were local though, probably just stopped out of curiosity.”
“Did anyone offer a eulogy?” Henry asked.
“Gideon spoke a few words, nothing more than the requisite farewell. From what I can tell, most people are still pretty shook up over what happened and aren’t yet sure what to think.” Ben held his three-cornered hat, turning it slowly around in his hands as he spoke.
“It’s a lot to take in all at once,” I agreed. Even for me, the events from the other night seemed more like a bad dream than anything else. It was so surreal that I might have been tempted to suppress the whole ordeal if not for my physical wounds. The first three toes on my left foot had received the worst of it, having been severely scorched by the fire. Now slathered with salve and bandaged, they were a constant reminder that Edgar really had tried to kill me.
Ben glanced down in the direction of my damaged foot, which was tucked beneath the hem of my gown. “I should have been paying closer attention to the old man. Then you wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and maybe your mother...” His voice wavered and came to a halt.
I had already thought the same thing a thousand times. If I had only seen the signs or somehow linked the past, then I could have stopped him myself. “Don’t you dare blame yourself,” I said. “There was no way you could have known.”
Ben shook his head as he continued to slowly turn his hat. “I should have seen it coming,” he persisted.
“You’re not the only one,” Henry said. “It was my fault for leaving her alone in the first place.”
All this second-guessing served for naught, and I found myself growing slightly perturbed with the both of them. “For heaven’s sake,” I huffed. “You saved my life. That has to count for something.”
Ben looked up at me, his mouth twitching slightly. “It’s the one thing that will allow me to face your father when the time comes,” he admitted.
James stayed quiet during our exchange, and I wondered if he was secretly disappointed that I had survived. My untimely death would have surely fixed what he considered an intolerable situation, and allowed Henry to return to England and his proper place in society with the Princess Amelia. It was an unpleasant thought, and I pushed it aside.
The sound of horse hooves reached the drawing room, diverting all our attention to the windows. “It’s George McKee,” Henry said as the man dismounted. “Were you expecting him today, Selah?”
Three heavy knocks hit the front door, followed by the hurried footsteps of one of the servants.
“No,” I said, somewhat bewildered. “He told me the investigation was officially closed.”
In silence, we waited for the constable to be shown into the room.
“Good day,” he said, seeing our expectant faces.
“Good day,” Henry replied cordially. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”
George looked nervous. “I’m here on official business.”
“You’ve already taken our statements. Do you have more questions regarding Edgar?” Henry asked.
“No, it’s another matter entirely. Two magistrates have just arrived from Philadelphia, and they’ve requested an immediate hearing with both you and Selah. I have the summons right here.” He held up his hand, showing the rolled parchment.
My back stiffened with fear.
“Do you know the nature of their inquiry?” Henry asked.
George shifted his weight. “Some concerns have come up regarding the legality of your marriage. They didn’t give too many particulars. Just said I was to summon you to the courthouse at once.”
“Thank you, George,” Henry said, his tone not varying one whit from when the constable first came into the room. “Please let the men know we’ll be there shortly.”
Apparently relieved to have the summons delivered, George bowed politely and left the room.
No one said anything until the front door closed again, and we watched the constable mount his horse.
“We’ve been discovered,” I said, my initial shock turning to dismay.
Ben looked at Henry, still unaware that he wasn’t anything more than an indentured servant. “Unless Captain Harlow has returned to Philadelphia, there’s no one to refute your identity.”
“You may be right,” Henry said.
Sallow skin and greasy black hair flashed through my mind. “What about Dirk Fletcher?” I asked. “He knows Henry isn’t my cousin. Oh, Good heavens! What if he came with the magistrates?”
Henry stood and offered me his hand. “Then he’s a greater fool than I ever imagined,” he said, helping me to my feet. “Ben, would you please have the carriage brought up. I think it’s best not to keep the gentlemen waiting.”
* * *
We rode in silence for most of the two miles into Hopewell. Guiding the horses to a stop in front of the humble courthouse, Ben jumped down from the driver’s box to open the carriage door. James stepped out first, followed by Henry, who then turned to assist me.
“Selah,” he said once my feet were on the ground. “I’m not exactly sure how this is going to unfold, but I’ll need you to trust me.”
This went without saying. “Of course I trust you.”
“I might find it necessary to alter some of the facts from our time in Philadelphia. If this happens, it’s important that you not contradict me in front of the magistrates.”
“But, Henry—”
He placed a finger over my lips. “I may have a way out of this, but only if you trust me and agree not to argue.”
I frowned at him, displeased with the secrecy. “Most men wait to be married before they demand obedience. I fear you’ve gotten ahead of yourself.”
“Please, Selah, we’ve no time for a discussion.”
His green eyes pleaded with mine until it seemed I had no other choice. “Fine, I’ll not contradict you.”
“Thank you,” he breathed, obviously relieved. With this understanding between us, we followed James and Ben up the steps and into the courthouse.
Straight ahead at the far end of the room, two men were seated at a long oak table. They didn’t see us at first as they spoke quietly, their heads bent together over a thick stack of parchment. George McKee cleared his throat to get their attention. The two men looked up, and I recognized Martin Jones, the magistrate who had officiated at our wedding. Judging by his grim expression, the recognition was mutual.
The other man appeared vaguely familiar, with his short gray hair and silver rimmed spectacles. He appeared less sullen than his associate as he studied our little group. “Those of you who are here to observe the proceedings will please have a seat,” he said, casually pointing at the row of wooden chairs running along one side of the room.
Henry suddenly tensed at my side, and I saw his fingers twitch instinctively for the dagger that was safely sheathed beneath his coat. Such a dramatic response seemed an overreaction to the magistrate’s request until Ben and James moved aside. Standing half a head taller than me, they had been blocking much of my view. As they walked off to take a seat, I saw Nathan already sitting in one of the chairs, next to another man.
My stomach lurched violently, nearly flipping over altogether from the telltale locks of long black hair. The man turned slightly in his chair, a satisfied sneer playing on his pasty white face. Just as I had feared, Dirk Fletcher had accompanied the magistrates to Hopewell.
Henry leaned close to my ear. “That murdering scum will regret showing h
is face today,” he growled softly. “Don’t offer anything you’re not specifically asked by a magistrate. We need to find out what they know before we give anything away.”
“Shall we begin?” the gray-haired man asked, pulling my gaze back toward the big oak table. “I presume you are Selah Elizabeth Kilbrid and Henry Samuel Kilbrid.” In addition to his plain black clothing, the lack of Mister or Mistress clearly indicated he was a Quaker. I just hoped he was a nice one.
Henry remained silent and I simply nodded my assent.
The man looked directly at me. “You have grown into the spitting image of your mother,” he said, quite unexpectedly. “Do you remember me?”
Other than a hazy recognition, nothing came to mind.
“I hardly expected you would,” he said, not unkindly. “It must be ten years since we last met. I am Ely Burgess. Your father and I were business partners before he moved to Hopewell.”
The name and face immediately came together. “Pleased to see you again, Ely Burgess,” I said with a curtsy.
“I first met the late Jonathan Kilbrid the very day he arrived in Philadelphia from the Old World,” Ely said, neglecting to specify whether or not he was also pleased to see me again. “At the time we were both ambitious young men with little more than determination and hard work to recommend us. We became fast friends and remained so for nearly half a century.” Ely paused for a moment and started slowly tapping two fingers on the table.
He had purposefully emphasized a friendship with my father, certainly a bias in my favor. I felt my shoulders relax just a bit. Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all...
Ely’s fingers came to a rest and his eyes narrowed behind the silver-rimmed spectacles. “The reason I have mentioned my long association with Jonathan Kilbrid,” he said, all traces of kindness gone from his voice, “is to better explain the nature of my distress at how many times his daughter’s name has been brought to my attention these past two months.”
