by Lisa Cach
The baron then turned his horse about and set his heels to its side, Mr. Carlyle lingering for several moments more, giving Gwen a long, final look before turning to follow the baron.
Eddie looked at Gwen, her head already sagging under its own weight as she stood bent forward in the stocks, and wondered what he had ever seen in her.
Nathaniel rode at a canter down the path to Valerian’s home. He was pleased with how Gwen’s punishment had been implemented—there had been neither fuss nor protestation, and even Paul had expressed his satisfaction before riding off to Yarborough on an errand. Nathaniel was confident that the townsfolk would not act against either Valerian or her aunt now that he had shown that he strongly disapproved of such actions, and of superstitious beliefs.
Still, he mused, it was well-thought of Valerian to keep the full extent of her healing talents hidden. The villagers would not evaluate such information with a logical mind, and could be tempted to behave even more foolishly than they had already. But as things were, he was certain that the threat of his displeasure would keep them in line.
He emerged from the woods into the meadow and spotted Valerian drawing water from the well. He dismounted, tying Darby to a tree, and proceeded on foot to where she cranked the handle of the winch. She did not hear him approach, his footsteps obscured by the grass and the creak of metal.
Her hair hung over one shoulder, and he could not resist creeping forward and pressing his mouth against the bare skin of her neck, gleaming pale and tender in the soft light of the morning.
His reward was a shriek and an elbow in the jaw, accompanied by the wild ratcheting of winch gears let loose as the bucket dropped back to the bottom of the well.
“Nathaniel! My God, you scared me.”
He rubbed his jaw and grimaced. “That is a sharp elbow you have on your arm, Mademoiselle.”
She briefly touched his chin. “Sorry. I did not know it was you.”
“Were you expecting someone else to come kiss your neck?”
“Of course not. But you should know better than to sneak up on a lone woman, whatever your intentions.”
He doffed his hat and bowed low to her. “You have my apologies. You are correct. My only defense is that I was overwhelmed by the vision of your loveliness, and was unable to control my lascivious tendencies.”
“Satyr.”
“Seductress.”
He saw the smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Did you come from town?”
He straightened, and after a brief search for the devil bird, put his hat back on his head. “I did. I do not think you have anything further to worry about.”
“Mmm.”
She did not sound convinced, but he would let time prove him right. He put his hand to the crank and began to draw up the bucket. Valerian leant on the edge of the well, watching.
“You did not come to see me the night before last, nor yesterday,” he said as he worked.
“You did not come to see me, either.”
“True. I waited for you, though. Have you changed your mind about this arrangement?”
She cocked her head and looked at him speculatively. “Are you worried that I might have?”
He shrugged. “It would be a disappointment.” It was a gross understatement, and he saw her smile fade. “You were not expecting me to make a grand declaration of love, were you?” he teased.
“Me, expect the great Baron Ravenall to express his undying devotion to a poor country lass? No, of course not.”
He pulled the bucket over the edge of the well and set it down. “Would it please you more if I said I could sleep nary a wink for listening for your tap upon my window glass, and that every footstep in the hall became yours? That I could not eat for thoughts of having you naked in my bed, your skin damp with sweat, your thighs parted in invitation, the folds of your womanhood swollen with desire, your—”
He was cut off by her fingers pressed to his mouth. “Yes, ’twould please me more,” she said in a whisper.
He pulled her hand away and sank his fingers into her hair, holding her steady as his mouth came down on her own. He gently sucked her bottom lip, then traced it with his tongue, the smooth flesh feeling much as he knew those other lips between her thighs would. He pulled her head back, and slid his lips down her neck, nibbling at where it joined her shoulder. He brought one hand up to caress her breast and felt her breath quicken.
He released her, and she took a stumbling step to regain her balance. “You have not answered my question,” he said.
“Question?”
“Our arrangement.” He smothered a smile, watching her try to gather her thoughts. It was gratifying to know he had such an effect on her.
“Oh.” She picked up the bucket of water, then set it down again. “No, I have not changed my mind.”
“Then why is it that I have spent the last two nights alone?”
Her glance flicked to the cottage, then back to him. “It is nothing to do with you. With us. Truly. Things have been a bit chaotic, is all. Aunt Theresa has not been feeling well, and I did not want to leave her alone.”
“I trust it is nothing serious. If there is anyone who could remedy a person’s ills, it would be you.”
“My powers are not so grand as you might think.”
He pulled her back into his arms, gently this time, and kissed her on the forehead. Valerian’s concern for her aunt roused feelings of tenderness in his own breast for this caring young woman. Tenderness, and a faint sense of yearning. He felt her arms reach around his waist and hold him tightly. “I am glad you came by,” she said into his chest.
“As am I, although I do believe I hear a dismissal in that.”
She leaned back until he could see her face. “Only a temporary one. Come back half an hour before sunset. I have something I would like to show you.”
He kissed her again, then let her go with reluctance. “I shall be counting the hours.” And shall be at a loss for how to fill them, he silently added as he left her there by the well.
Chapter Sixteen
Valerian scratched at the damp skin under the fake linen bandage she wore over her forehead. She had thought she would have today to spend quietly tending to Theresa, and mixing up sleeping and painkilling draughts that her aunt could use as her illness worsened. There was no reason to have her aunt spend her nights awake and in pain when there were ways to give her rest.
Theresa had pointed out that sleeping draughts of wolfsbane, belladonna, or mandrake could not be much of a danger to one who was facing her end soon anyway, although Valerian still preferred to use the safer herbs like her namesake, Valerian, and wild lettuce, and she planned to make a pillow of hops. Still, she would have the more powerful drugs ready for when her aunt wanted them. It was the least she could do.
Instead of the quiet day at the oak table crushing and mixing and distilling, contemplating her later meeting with Nathaniel, she had been plagued by visits from ill and barely ill people seeking treatment from the local witch. Apparently her newly confirmed status as a sorceress, the baron’s declarations notwithstanding, had roused in the district not only feelings of dread, but utter faith in her powers and an overwhelming curiosity to see for themselves.
She had treated them all: handed out pumpkin seeds for deworming a child; Scotch broom tea to relieve a woman’s water retention; nettle juice for a rash; mullein and wild cherry for a cough and sore throat; and a lotion of rue to cut down on the fleas and lice making one family’s life an itching hell.
The only person she had actually allowed inside the cottage was Sally, who had come to visit her and not to gawk. For Sally she made chamomile tea, and sat with her and Theresa before the fire.
“They have taken to calling you the Raven Witch,” Sally said. “On account of Oscar, I suppose.”
They all three turned to Oscar, who was eyeing the plate of biscuits. “Poor hungry bird,” he said.
&nb
sp; “Yes, he is a terrifying beast,” Valerian said, breaking up a biscuit and feeding him from her hand.
“You are on everyone’s mind and lips,” Sally continued. “You, and Gwen and Eddie. They are not speaking to one another, and Eddie is cured of whatever it was that ailed him. I do not know how to describe the mood in the air, though—tense and fearful, but excited, too, like when there is a fair at Yarborough.”
“Judging from the visitors we have had today, there does not seem to be much animosity towards Valerian,” Theresa said, sipping tea.
Sally shrugged a little uncomfortably. “That is there, too. All the men sit around The Drunken Raven, swilling ale and muttering darkly, and twisting everything that has happened to such a degree that you would not know you had taken any part in it. The more they drink, the more horrible and plentiful the stories become. Or so my husband tells me.”
“And Mrs. Torrance no doubt presides over them all, dirty bar rag in hand,” Valerian said. “She spreads more poison with that tongue of hers than any witch ever has with potions.”
“As long as they stay at the inn, I do not think we need worry about them,” Theresa said. “The baron’s protection may well be enough to restrain them to muttering only. And as for Mrs. Torrance—I would sooner believe the sun would cease rising than that that woman would cease her gossiping.”
Valerian tried to take some comfort from her aunt’s words, but wondered if this time it might be different. There seemed no way to live down what had happened this past week. She would be treated as even more of a leper than she had been before.
After Sally left, Valerian went outside to clean up her impromptu infirmary. She was moving the bench back against the cottage wall when she saw yet one more woman headed towards her through the knee-high grass of the meadow. Oh lord, who now?she wondered.
To her surprise, it was Mrs. Torrance herself. To her recollection, the woman had only once been out to the cottage, and that shortly after Valerian and come to live with her aunt. She had never asked what the innkeeper’s wife had wanted of Theresa, had been too wrapped up in her own grief over her parents to care.
Pretty pink ribbons fluttered from the straw hat Mrs. Torrance wore.
“Rrrr . . .” Oscar said from his perch on the edge of the roof.
“Oscar,” Valerian warned in her sternest voice.
“Rrrr . . .”
“Oscar, no!”
“Finders keepers! Rrrraw!” Oscar cried, and launched himself into the air and across the meadow at Mrs. Torrance’s hat.
“No! You bad, bad bird, come back here this minute! Mrs. Torrance, duck!” Even as she shouted it, she knew it was hopeless. She ran towards Mrs. Torrance, who stood rooted in place, her eyes wide with fearful fascination as Oscar flapped his big glossy wings towards her.
The battle was brief and bloodless. Mrs. Torrance covered her face with her hands, hunching her shoulders in terror as the black spawn of Satan landed atop her head with the weight of a thousand demons. His talons dug into the straw of the hat, scraping her scalp, and his wings beat the air about her face as he tried to lift off with his prize. A keening cry rose from Mrs. Torrance’s throat, and she stumbled around in a circle, blinded and whimpering, until at last the ribbon beneath her chin gave way, and Oscar and the hat rose free.
“Finders keepers! Oscar is a superior bird! Rrrraw . . .” Oscar’s voice trailed off as he flew into the woods with his prize.
“Mrs. Torrance, I am so dreadfully sorry. Are you all right?” Valerian asked, reaching her at last. She held the woman’s shoulders, checking visually for any injury Oscar might have wrought in his greed. The woman’s hair had been pulled loose from its pins, and stuck out from her head in ratty clumps.
The woman finally gathered her wits enough to recognize Valerian, and when she did she took a step back, her face turning angry.
“You! That bird!”
“I know, I know,” Valerian interrupted before she could go any further. “He is horrible he has no manners whatsoever. He attacked Baron Ravenall in just the same way.”
From the look in the woman’s eyes, Valerian knew she thought Oscar had been sent purposefully to attack her. “Please, come sit down. Perhaps Oscar will bring it back and we can salvage it. I will pay for it, if he does not. Please believe me, Mrs. Torrance, I would never let Oscar do such a thing if he were within my complete control.”
“I should not have come here,” Mrs. Torrance said. “I was a fool to do so. A fool!”
Valerian led her to the bench and sat her down. She was intensely curious as to just why Mrs. Torrance had chosen to darken their doorstep at long last. “Let me get you some tea, something to soothe your nerves.”
“No. Do not give me any of your brews.” She took several more deep, ragged breaths until at last she seemed to gain some control over herself. Valerian waited, having learned that silence was the best prompt to speech. She had no reason to like this woman, but if she had a physical complaint, Valerian would not hesitate to help her.
“Is your aunt here?” Mrs. Torrance asked at last.
“She is not seeing anyone.”
“Not seeing anyone. Huh. Not seeing anyone, or just not seeing me?”
“Not seeing anyone,” Valerian repeated calmly.
“I have come about the warts.”
She said it like Valerian should know whereof she spoke. “The warts? Yes?”
“Yes, the warts. They have been on the bottoms of my feet for ten years now, and I want to be rid of them. You tell her that. Tell her Alice Torrance is tired of those things, tired of standing on them all day, sending their pains through my feet, reminding me of what is past. If she will not take them off, then you do it. You have proven you can. You are neither of you in a position to say no to me, not when the whole town is ready to take my side, baron or no baron.”
Valerian wondered if perhaps the woman had been inhaling beer fumes for a little too long. What on earth was she on about? “Will you excuse me while I consult with my aunt?”
“You tell her Alice Torrance is here.”
Valerian left her glaring on the bench and slipped inside. Aunt Theresa was waiting for her, her expression halfway between exasperation and amusement.
“That woman,” Theresa said in a voice low enough not to carry out the window. “She has all the sense of a particularly malicious goose.”
“What is she going on about, with the warts and all? Do you know about this?”
“Ten years she has not spoken to me, and I have not missed the sound of her voice for one of them.”
“What happened ten years ago?”
“It is not a pretty story.”
“I do not expect it to be. This is Mrs. Torrance, after all, and apparently there are warts involved.”
“Ten years ago she came to me claiming to have been raped, and she asked me to rid her of the child the man had started in her belly. She was in such distress that I agreed and prepared the juniper. She was violently ill for two days, until at last her blood came. I thought that was the end of it.
“When she had recovered, she came to see me again, weeping as much as she had the first time. After much ranting and accusation, it became clear that she had not been raped, and had in fact aborted the child of her lover. She had been afraid that her husband would know the child was not his and she’d rid herself of it for that reason. She was feeling guilty now, though, and found me a convenient scapegoat. She claimed I had forced her to do it and stolen the baby for use in spells and incantations.
“I confess I lost my temper at that, and told the woman that until she accepted responsibility for her own actions, she would feel the pain of her guilt every day of her life. All I really meant was that she would never find a cure for the pain in her heart as long as she looked to other people instead of herself. If she would have just allowed herself to grieve for the babe, instead of blaming me, she would not have had this eating at her for ten years.
“But that is not what s
he heard. From what she said to you just now, she blames the warts on her feet on me.”
“So what should I do?” Valerian asked.
“What would you normally do?”
“Tell her they would go away in time, although apparently these have not,” Valerian said. “Or I would have her rub her feet several times a day in fresh nettles, to bring on a severe rash, and then soak her feet in very hot water. That sometimes helps, but it is not a pleasant cure.”
“Or?”
“Or, if the patient seemed particularly gullible, I would prescribe a ‘witchcraft’ cure, and have her do something ridiculous and frightening, like catch a cat at midnight and touch its nose to each wart three times while reciting the Lord’s Prayer backwards. ’Twould scare the warts off her body.”
“Now,” Theresa asked, “which of the above seems the most suitable to our dear innkeeper out yonder?”
“Personally, I would prefer to rub her feet with nettles.” Aunt Theresa gave her a look, and Valerian pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “But I suppose it could be just as satisfying to scare the daylights out of her. I do feel a bit sorry for anyone who has spent ten years eaten up inside over a choice she made. But why did she come now?”
“I can only guess. Whatever reasons she may say she has, perhaps she is finally ready to forgive herself. And as the guilt goes, so can the warts,” Theresa said.
Valerian got up and started searching the shelves for eerie paraphernalia to use in the cure. “Well, perhaps she will stop spreading so many lies if the warts do disappear.”
“Let us not start expecting gold to shower us from heaven.”
When Valerian returned outside, she was carrying an old wool blanket under one arm, in the other hand a basket with various animal bones and four stubby candles. She ignored Mrs. Torrance and spread the blanket on the ground, then set one candle at each corner and lit it. She stood in the center of the blanket in her bare feet, and with a sheep’s horn in hand pointed to the north, south, east, and west, all the while lowly chanting a memorized Latin passage on digestion from one of her father’s medical texts.
