Rory’s beside her. “Tell me the last thing you talked about.”
“The graves. And the alcove, where the Madonna was supposed to be.” She points the beam to the wall. “It’s in the book.”
“What else?”
“The stuff on the tape—the woman you heard. No, that was earlier—in the kitchen garden, before her mother rang.”
“Her mother?” Rory grabs the flashlight, sprints to the stairs.
“Hey!” Alicia runs after him.
He flings over his shoulder, “We need to find her. She could be suicidal.”
“No. Listen, Rory. Stop!” Alicia barks the word, and the sound rings through the chapel.
He pauses on the top step. Flashes the light on her face.
“You’re wrong. Her mum said she’ll tell Jesse the truth. No way she’s going to kill herself. Not now.” But Alicia’s not sounding as certain as she was.
“Okay. So, where is she?”
She can hear water. The sound a stream makes falling from a height. The breeze is stronger on her face, but Jesse doesn’t feel cold anymore. She strips her jacket off one-handed. She’s silent. Listening.
The song is louder.
If Jesse half closes her eyes, it’s almost as if she’s seeing the light beside her bed, that comforting, welcoming, rosy glow; and she remembers when she saw sounds, in color, at the hospital.
She gropes forward, pushes out into space. And gasps. In the dark, there hangs a glimmering man, his body twisted on a great cross. Light flares on that contorted form; it finds the gemstones: the trails of scarlet that cross the metal torso, the wounds on the feet and on the hands.
Jesse’s transfixed. She hurries closer. And trips. The flashlight rolls and bumps against something else, something tall and white, draped in rags.
Before the light blinks out, and the song stops, Jesse sees the bats, a squeaking black cloud. They bloom like a storm from the back of the cave. She screams. And screams. And is engulfed.
Mack’s back with the tray. He nods to their guest. “I see you’ve met my mother.” He puts the pot and cups on a small table. “Like a cup, Mum?”
“No tea for me, Mack. Welcome to the Hunt, Mrs. Marley.” A nod and Helen strides away to her office. And closes the door.
“Sugar?” Mack’s pouring. Looks up. And drops the pot as he darts to catch their guest. “I’ve got you.” He lowers her carefully to a chair. “I’ll get Mum to call the doctor.”
“No. No!” Janet’s breathing hard. Her voice cracks. “Where’s Jesse? Please. I . . .” She’s finding it hard to speak.
Mack’s worried. The poor woman looks so ill. “She said to call when you arrived and she’d join you here. I was just about to do that and—”
“Oh, please. Can we just go to her?” Janet clutches his sleeve.
He sits beside her. “Um . . .” He’s got a clear view into the dining room. The lunch service is finished, and Rachel and Jewel are setting the tables for dinner. “Just a minute.”
Janet watches him sprint to the dining room and talk to the girl with the capable expression. They both look back at her. The girl hesitates. And nods.
Mack sprints back. “Right. All fixed.”
Janet stares into the face of this giant with such kind eyes. “This means so much to me.”
“This way. Car’s in the square. Always happy to see Jesse.”
Janet gets up. She leaves her suitcase without another glance.
From inside her office, Helen hears the ding! of the bell on the reception desk. It sounds again, and she half rises.
Voices murmur as Helen picks up the phone to dial.
A woman. A man. Another woman’s voice.
Helen puts the phone back. Gets up. Goes to the door and opens it.
Behind the reception desk, Rachel is handing registration forms to the couple checking in.
“Where’s Mack?”
“He asked me to cover for a couple of hours, Mrs. Brandon. It’s no trouble.” Rachel can read the signs. Helen’s angry.
“Did he say where he was going?” But Helen knows; Janet Marley’s suitcase is an orphan, dumped beside one of the chairs. Her eyes widen at the sight of the teapot on the carpet.
“Hundredfield, I think.” Rachel points helpfully at the form. “Yes, your home phone number would be good, Mr. Dean. Just for our records.”
Helen goes back to her office. In less than a minute she exits and strides to the front door, shrugging on a jacket.
“The teapot, Rachel.” Helen points on her way past the desk.
“Certainly, Mrs. Brandon. I’ll clean it up right away.” Rachel watches her employer leave.
“Miss? The keys.”
Rachel jumps. “Yes. Here you are, Mr. Dean. It’s just to the right at the top of the first flight of stairs. Lovely view of the Beast Market. Enjoy your stay.”
“For your trouble.” Mr. Dean extends a pound coin.
“Oh, no need at all.” Rachel refuses nicely. Americans, always so courteous; not like some.
The front doors of the Hunt are glass, and Rachel watches with interest as Helen throws open her car door, then backs from the space at speed.
Jewel hurries from the dining room. “That’s done. Anything else?”
“Take the bags, would you? Room eight. Name of Dean.”
Jewel’s not happy. “Can’t Mack take them up?”
“He’s already gone.”
“But my shift’s about done.”
“Just you and me here, now.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. B’s out too.”
They both watch as Helen honks at a pedestrian who dares to get in her way.
“Good thing, from the mood she’s in.” Jewel looks nervous. Her normal response to almost anything.
Rachel sighs. “We can do it together. Come on.”
It’s a nightmare. A bat is trapped in Jesse’s hair. Squeaking, scratching madness, animal and human, they’re both frantic. On her knees in the dark, trying not to whimper, trying not to scream again. Nothing works.
“Shush.” Alicia holds up a hand.
“What?”
“Shush!”
They both stop breathing.
“There!” Alicia hurries back down the stairs again. She’s running through the chapel, flashlight bouncing, Rory clattering behind. In front of the back wall, panting, she stops. He joins her.
They both hear it this time. Muffled, but a scream. Definitely.
A woman’s voice. Terror.
Rory’s shoving boxes and chairs aside to get to the wall.
Alicia drops to her knees. “Look.” The light shows the opening, close to the piled-up paneling.
She plunges through. And disappears.
Rory hesitates. He’s never liked the dark.
52
I FELT MY way along the tunnel. Without light, the close smell of earth was all that was familiar, yet I could breathe—there was no smoke or taste of burning in my mouth. The song pulled me forward. I did not know if it was in my head or my heart.
I stumbled into the first cavern with the last notes as they died. Empty dark pressed my face like fingers as I walked forward, arms outstretched.
“Margaretta?” I called out, so that she would not be frightened. “Here I am.”
Flint struck sparks like stars and a candle shone, fingers red around the shaft. A man stood there, waiting. I could not see his face.
I weighed the ax. “Show yourself.”
A shuffle, and the flame shone higher.
“Swinson?” The damage to his face was stark. “How did you know?”
The man spoke over me. “Our history is your history, Bayard de Dieudonné. That is how I know.”
“What do you mean?”
“A baby was born to our house too.” By candlelight, his eyes were scarred holes as he limped toward me. “Out of pity, my great-grandfather covered the naked body of her mother with his cloak when he found her in the forest. And though the w
oman could not speak, they married.” His voice grew stronger. “She was never seen again after the birth of her daughter. And though the child’s father died fighting the Norman devil, that baby survived to breed. As a slave. The slave of your house, as we have been since.”
“What do you want, old man?” I could not let him see I pitied him.
“My daughter and her son. I have nothing without them.”
“You are wrong.”
I turned. Alois bowed as he came through the red door, but not to me; blood had soaked his jerkin and his trews.
One hand gripped the ax, the other Godefroi’s sword as I stepped forward.
“Not far, now.” Mack’s kept up a one-sided conversation for most of the drive.
“No.”
“You know this part of the world?” A glance.
“Too well.” The Scots accent had flattened over the years in Australia, but Janet’s burr was coming back.
He shifts down. “Too well?”
Janet Marley doesn’t answer. Eyes wide, she’s staring at the gates of the estate as the car passes between them. In the distance, the river glimmers.
“Die!”
Swords clashed and sang. I parried, a pivot to the side.
A grunt. A slash. Both returned. Maugris had sliced Alois deep, but the man was good.
“The. Battle.” Step, thrust, back, feint. “Is. Lost. Alois.”
His blow went astray as I dodged the blade. “No!” Forward, forward, slash, pivot, and I slashed again.
Margaretta’s voice. “Brother!”
“Get back!” My shout to her.
Alois dared me, “Look. Look at your whore.”
But I did not. Sword hand, ax hand, sword hand, ax hand, I drove him to the wall, a dog with a wolf.
Margaretta sobbed and I flicked a glance. The dress had been sliced from her back with a whip and her face was a bloody mess.
I ran at Alois. He got a slash away—it clipped my sword hand. And sheared it off. I felt no pain as it fell to the floor, still holding the sword. Blood fountained as if it were not my own.
But I held the ax in my left hand. And threw it.
Alois dropped to his knees, the ax head in his chest. He wavered there, as if to pull it out. And toppled.
A wail. Swinson hobbled to his son and I staggered to where he stood. And put my good arm around the old man’s shoulders. “Here it ends.”
As I passed into the dark, I heard the child’s voice calling. And saw Margaretta’s face.
Alicia trips. Something’s on the floor.
“Rory. Rory!” She crouches beside Jesse.
Rory bursts from the tunnel. “Jesse?” He pinches the skin on the back of her hand.
“What are you doing?” Alicia tries to pull him away.
“Reflexes.” Another pinch. “Jesse!”
Jesse’s fingers twitch. She frowns. And sighs.
Rory sits back. He stares, perplexed. A small bat chitters as it flits above their heads. “She’s asleep.”
“Asleep, but . . .”
“It’s happened before. Look.” He points. The light, held from above, shines down like a follow spot. Jesse’s eyes are moving under her lids.
“That’s . . . creepy.”
“She’s dreaming. Or . . .”
“Or what?”
He looks at Alicia. “Or she’s somewhere else.”
Alicia says politely, “Of course. She’s what, on a cruise?”
He ignores the goad. “We should take her to the house.”
Alicia drops the flashlight beside them and hurries back toward the entrance of the tunnel. “I’ll get help.”
“Wait.” Rory stands. He points the beam. “Turn around.”
Alicia stops.
Slowly, part by part, light reveals the great figure of the Christ.
Astonished, Alicia steps close, reaches up to touch the torn feet.
Rory joins her. “Is this in the book?” He turns her gently by the shoulders.
Alicia gasps.
The figure is so simple—so tall and slender, with little detail except that hands of blackened silver hold the child against the mother’s chest. Rags of fabric hang around them both, and the stone they’re made from glitters white.
“Jesse.” Alicia hurries to kneel beside her friend. “Jesse. Wake up.”
The girl’s eyes snap open. “The bat. There was a—” She scrabbles to sit up.
Alicia breathes, “Look.”
Rory plays the beam over the head of the standing figure. Light shows filaments of bronze streaming down like hair.
Jesse says wonderingly, “The Mother has no face.”
53
WHERE IS she? You said she’d be here.”
They’re in the kitchens at Hundredfield. And Janet won’t sit down.
“They can’t be far away. Rory’s car is outside.” Mack wasn’t sure where else to bring Jesse’s mum; the front door was open, but Hundredfield seems empty.
“Rory?”
“My brother. He’s staying too.”
Janet pales. “Helen’s little boy. He’s here too.” She’s speaking to herself. Now she sits. Slowly.
“Yes. He’s a doctor. Tell you what—why don’t I go upstairs and see if Jesse’s resting? She’s recovering well, and he’s looking after her.”
“I knew it. I knew something was wrong.” Janet stuffs a hand in her mouth.
There’s the sound of feet on the staircase and the low murmur of voices. On any other day, the relief on Mack’s face might have been comical.
Rory enters first. He stops, stares at the woman sitting in the chair.
She gets up. “Hello, Rory.” Her voice shakes. “You won’t remember me, but I remember you.”
Behind, Alicia’s helping Jesse through the door.
In the frozen pause that follows, Jesse looks from Alicia to Rory. And then at her mother’s stricken face.
“Oh.” Janet breaks. She stumbles to her daughter.
And Jesse opens her arms.
Rory strides back into the kitchen. “Before you ask, they’re in Jesse’s room. Janet’s close to collapse.”
“Yet you thought that was a good idea—to leave them alone?” Alicia’s expression is grim.
Rory is stung. “Jesse asked me to help her. You heard her. She’s an adult. It’s her decision to talk to her mother. Not mine. Not yours.”
A small, frigid silence. Then Alicia says, “You said you’d find a link between us all. But this?”
He shakes his head. “Jesse didn’t know, Alicia. She didn’t know any of it. You saw her face. She was stunned.” He’s trying to keep the discussion civil.
“Rubbish.”
“Oh, so Janet was boasting, was she? So proud to tell her daughter, in front of us all, that she’d been a housemaid at Hundredfield with my mum? The woman’s distraught at being back, we all saw that.”
“Did we?” Alicia narrows her eyes. “I said this was a scam. Some kind of really, really elaborate plot to . . .” She runs out of words.
Rory’s pacing. “Janet was shocked when she saw me. And you. Come on, Alicia, be reasonable.”
Mack clears his throat. So far, he’s been ignored. “I’m with Rory. I’d swear Jesse didn’t know her mother worked here. She’s genuine. Truly.”
“Oh, certainly.” Alicia’s switched back to cool patrician.
Rory barks, “Stop it! Be grateful for what Jesse did today. She’s changed your life with what she found.”
Alicia pales. Then flushes.
“Hey, you two.” Mack’s more than uncomfortable. He’s never heard his brother this emotional before.
A bell jangles on the wall.
Alicia, head held high, leaves the kitchen.
“Where’s she going?”
“The front door, where do you think?” Rory flashes Mack an unfriendly glance.
“I’m an innocent bystander. None of this is my fault.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
&
nbsp; Mack grumbles, “Just trying to do the woman a favor. She said she wanted to see Jesse, so I dropped everything and—”
“You couldn’t wait, could you? Just barged in, invited or not.” Rory’s tone is dangerous.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mack stands fully upright. He’s bigger and taller than his brother.
“Like a dog with your tongue hanging out.” Rory uses his words like a whip.
Mack says slowly, “I get it. Envy. Because Jesse chose me, not you.”
“Oh, grow up.”
This uppercut is for real, and it drops Rory where he stands. Mack looms over his brother. “I did. You didn’t notice.” Shaking out his hand, he leaves Rory sprawled on the floor.
“Is Janet Marley here?” Helen’s outside Hundredfield’s great front door.
Standing in the open doorway, Alicia doesn’t immediately answer. She’s staring at Helen, an odd look on her face.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to know.”
“Actually, I do. Mind, that is. You’re not especially welcome here.” That aristocratic drawl.
Helen opens her mouth. And closes it again.
As if she cares hardly at all, Alicia says, “I’ve a question for you, Helen. You’ve always been rude to me, or cold, even when I was little. Why is that?”
The other woman pales. “You Donnes. You think you can say what you like to anyone.”
Alicia starts to close the door.
“Wait.” Helen’s face is different suddenly. Vulnerable.
Alicia waits.
Helen swallows. “You won’t believe me.”
“I shan’t know that, shall I, until you tell me.” Polite. Reasonable. Utterly implacable.
They stare at each other until Helen looks away. “I’d be grateful if you’d let me talk to Janet. Talk to them both. It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask.” Helen doesn’t know how to plead; this is as close as she comes.
Alicia says nothing, but she opens the door wider and stands to one side.
In the hall, the suit of armor waits. That eyeless helm watches as the women cross the hall together, Alicia leading the way toward the stairs.
Wild Wood Page 37
