By the time anyone finds the body, Felton will be miles away.
Hester
Glad of a few minutes alone, I stand on the balcony, looking out. Indolence has descended over the afternoon. Melis and Rafe are playing cards in the bedroom, Hope has dropped off in a chair in the blue room, head lolling, sweat beading on her upper lip, and the Giffords are somewhere downstairs.
Beyond the gate a dead trunk, a naked old man, guards the path, prodding with several gouty fingers towards the dark hollow in the vegetation where the track begins. A trio of poplars soars above the rest, heads together, whispering, sharing secrets – so many secrets. If I focus my eyes into the green depths I can see the silent movement of antlers between the foliage and something, a buzzard or a kite, screeches, almost the sound of a human infant in distress.
There is barely a breath of wind, all life suffocated by the heat, which hasn’t let up since our arrival five days ago. If anything it has intensified. The air is as thick as aspic and we are entombed in it, like banquet vegetables. A flowering vine reaches its fingers up the building, spreading its heady soporific scent. Only the bees, dusted with pollen as they dip in and out of the brazen blooms, continue their industry. Even they dither, seeming half intoxicated, too, by the cloying vine, finding themselves drawn into the shade of the interior from where only the fortunate escape, the others leaving their desiccated little carcasses on the window ledges.
The house seems to have a sad life of its own: its crevices are filled with mice and its beams squeeze out tears of resin, its old bones creaking and complaining at night, like an arthritic old man. We are so remote here, without even the sound of church bells to remind us of God and time.
I have no choice but to decide to feel safe. The alternative is a fate I cannot bear to confront. But a small cog of fear clicks and whirs perpetually, deep in my mind. I tell myself I will feel better when Ambrose Cotton’s guard has arrived.
In the meantime we have become absorbed into the small routines of life. Margie’s domain is the kitchen, where she is almost always to be found, sleeves rolled up, muscular forearms deep in flour, kneading. She is a good cook and makes cheeses that stink and sweat in the cellar but taste smooth and delicious spread on the coarse bread she bakes daily. Margie is superstitious, always touching her head for wood, and says the house hides her things deliberately, when she has misplaced them. Gifford, who indulges his daughter’s beliefs to her face but chuckles at her behind her back, tends the vegetable garden, creaking into the kitchen with earthy clumps of potatoes or carrots that Margie swiftly transforms beneath her sharp kitchen knife.
I have noticed that Hope, when she is not scrubbing the life out of the laundry, or dusting the bedchamber as if she can clean our lives into order, has struck up an incipient friendship with Lark. The two have taken to perching on the fence in the evenings, talking.
Lark’s realm is the barn, where she tends and milks the goats and other livestock, so surefooted that it is easy to forget she cannot see. The Giffords’ yard-dog has a large, lolloping puppy that has taken a shine to Rafe. He has called it Captain and it has teased him out of the doldrums. The shock of the attempted abduction had left its mark, and it is a relief for me to see my son’s mood lighten.
Melis has taken it upon herself to revive the neglected hives in the corner of the paddock and seems quite content to busy herself mending the dilapidated skeps. In the evenings we sit in the kitchen telling stories and playing cards, using pebbles for wagers, always keeping one ear open for the bark of the yard-dog, hailing an unexpected arrival.
There is a certain allure to this unobserved life and, were my circumstances different, I might enjoy a simple existence away from the eyes of the world. We have fallen swiftly into the routine of the place. I collect the eggs each morning from the henhouse, a folly of a structure designed in miniature imitation of the house itself, dovecote and all. Big enough to house at least forty brooders, it is a reminder of what this place once was, filled to the rafters with guests. Now a mere dozen hens nest there and a noisy cockerel lords it over them all.
Its wood is rotten and paint peeling, but it was someone’s labour of love once, with each tiny brick and slate picked out, each window brought to life with a spot of white to mimic a splash of light. Only the balcony is missing, just a few splintered struts hanging where it must once have been.
The old clock spits out its high-pitched ping, marking the quarter-hour. I feel as if I have already been in this place half a lifetime. Hope half wakes, shifts and settles back to sleep. If it were up to me, I would lock that clock, with its infernally loud tick, in a cupboard and let it run down. I would like to forget altogether about the passing of time but Hope seems to have become attached to it, carefully winding it each day as if all our lives depend on it.
I see something, a distant ripple between the trees. A flash of vivid colour, crimson, tells me it is not an animal, or that old mendicant we encountered. A dreaded image pops into my head of Worley and his red coat, and my legs feel as heavy as lead.
I tell myself it must be Ambrose Cotton’s man but we must take precautions.
‘Wake up,’ I cry, shaking Hope and running to the bedroom to warn Melis and Rafe. ‘For God’s sake, all of you, hurry!’
While Hope pulls on her breeches and tucks her hair under a cap, I ram our clothes and other belongings into a cupboard out of sight and stuff the letters into my dress. I hold out the pistol for Hope, who looks at it a moment before taking it and concealing it under her clothes. Taking Rafe by the hand, I pick up his toy monkey and half drag him to the blue room, Melis in our wake. Together we heave away the heavy back-plate.
On seeing the dark opening, Melis’s breath comes fast, in shallow rasps, and her eyes flick back and forth. ‘I can’t go in there. I can’t.’ She is wringing her hands and shaking her head desperately.
‘We’ve talked about it, Melis.’ My own fear nips at me, I am weighing up whether I can risk leaving her outside – it is Rafe George wants and I am the one standing in the way, not Melis – but I can’t, of course I can’t.
The dog starts up a rapid volley of loud barks.
‘It won’t be for long. I’ll be with you.’
Melis, chewing her nails, doesn’t seem reassured, and I can feel Rafe’s body tighten as if he is preparing his dissent too.
‘It’s the safest place here.’ I sound absolutely confident, though I am not – not at all. Really, I am sick with fear.
Leaning round the balcony door Hope says, in an urgent low voice, ‘There’s a man in the yard, talking to Gifford.’
I abandon my coaxing and shove Melis into the space, bundling Rafe in behind her before he, too, has a chance to protest, secure in the knowledge that Lark and the others have been primed to say nothing of our presence.
‘Can you cope?’ I ask Hope pointlessly. We have been over the drill. There is not space for us all in the priest-hole, so she will greet the visitor in her man’s disguise and feign no knowledge of us. ‘Remember the ring. If he has a black enamel ring he is Ambrose’s guard.’
She offers me a wan smile and a nod.
I shuffle after them into the tight space, feet first. The air is stale and smells of ash and dread. There is just enough room for the three of us to sit huddled tightly together, arms cradling our knees. Melis is shaking.
Hope pushes the iron plate back into position with a loud scraping sound and I have a final uneasy glimpse of her face. Then the light is gone. I am entombed in a darkness so intense I lose my bearings and seek some source of light, however vague, a tiny slit where the back-plate meets the wall, a space between the floorboards giving onto the room below. There is nothing but a blanket of black that is at once limitless, spreading out for ever, and suffocating, closing in around us. In the darkness all noise is amplified. The tick of the hated clock reaches in, beating through the quiet, counting out each long moment.
I feel the wing-beat of panic in my throat, but I cannot give rein
to my fear or I will unleash chaos. I must focus on keeping Rafe and Melis from succumbing to their demons. My sister grips my arm hard enough to leave a bruise. I gently release her fingers one by one and lean to kiss her cheek. It is as clammy as wax. ‘Don’t worry. I’m here.’ Useless words that cannot stem her fear but she is mercifully quiet.
It is as hot as a furnace and Rafe is panting like a wary dog. I pull him onto my lap, holding him in the crook of my body, like a baby. Just when I might have expected him to make trouble, he heaves a long sigh and relaxes into my embrace. I think I can hear the suck of his thumb in his mouth, something he hasn’t done since infancy, and am glad I remembered his monkey. My love for him swells, subsuming me. It is not a mere tender affection but a fierce warrior love, strong and whetted on retribution. I would protect my child to the death.
Sweat blossoms under my clothes, spreading out through my body, trickling down my face. I wipe it away, catching a whiff of saltpetre, the residue left on my hands from when Gifford taught us all how to shoot a firearm that morning. I think of Hope with the pistol. She had met the target first time, much to Gifford’s surprise. He had refused to believe she was a novice.
I try to remember the sequence of loading: the powder poured down the barrel, then the square of ticking to cradle the lead ball, all pressed in behind the powder with the ram-rod. ‘A gun should be handled as if you mean it,’ Gifford had said. ‘Imagine it is a fowl for the pot and you must break its neck.’
So many words to remember: the flintlock, the frizzen pan, the dog lock, the powder horn. ‘Carry it angled upwards – don’t want the lead falling out – and never set it to full-cock unless you intend to fire it.’ Holding the loaded pistol had infused me with a new sense of authority. I was shocked to find myself imagining how that feeling would multiply, were I pointing it at George.
‘Can you hear it?’ Melis murmurs, drawing me out of my thoughts. Her breath is coming in short, agitated bursts. I offer a silent prayer that this is not the first salvo of one of her episodes. Not that. Not now.
I stroke her hair, whispering more platitudes.
‘Can you hear it?’ she repeats. ‘There is something in this house. Something evil. Can’t you hear it? It has stolen the song of the bees.’
‘You’re not making sense.’ I try to counter her outburst with pragmatism but I am rattled – I can feel how tense she is. If she has an episode she will give us away. ‘Hush.’ I continue to stroke her hair, trying to calm her, tight as a bowstring myself.
‘You must be able to hear it.’ She still won’t temper her tone and now Rafe is stirring too.
‘Be quiet.’ Rafe’s voice bursts out of him, too loud and edged with alarm.
Not knowing what else to do, I press my hand over his mouth. He struggles but I hold fast. ‘Please. It’s not safe.’
‘It’s everywhere.’ Melis is now rocking slightly back and forth. ‘Can you not hear it? You must be able to hear it.’
We fall silent and, to my horror, I begin to hear a kind of rhythmic buzzing throb that seems to echo round my skull, now faint, now loud, making me fear Melis’s auditory hallucinations might be contagious. A worm is crawling into my ear and feeding on my mind.
I tell myself firmly that it is nothing more than the hush ringing in my ears. But the sound seems to be gaining momentum and volume.
Hope
The man stands at the bottom of the steps facing away from Hope. On seeing the red of the jacket slung over his shoulder, her heart cranks up but as she nears it becomes clear that this is not Worley. This man is bigger.
Seeming to intuit her presence, he turns to face her with a greeting. He has a kind face, framed by a wildly unkempt burst of russet hair and several days’ worth of beard. The jacket, she sees now, is made of peat-coloured felt with silver buttons and is half inside out, displaying its red lining. If this man is Ambrose Cotton’s guard, she wonders how much use he will be, as his left arm is in a sling.
The puppy bounds up to him and he stoops, ruffling its ears. ‘Who’s a handsome fellow, then?’
Hope remains on the top step. He waits for her to say something, scrutinizing her with what appears to be suspicion. As she is about to speak, he smiles, saying, ‘I come in friendship,’ and she is struck dumb because his expression is transformed. The smile overtakes his entire face, the lines of it catching as far up as his temples and even including a slight lift of the shoulders. It exposes a friendly gap between his front teeth. Despite trying to look directly at him, in a masculine manner, she is too shy to meet his eyes, which are the same fox-coat colour as his hair, making him seem more animal than human.
She finds her voice, remembering to deepen her tone. ‘May I ask what your business is here, sir?’ She picks nervously at her fingernails and is glad to see Gifford nearby, his ancient musket under his arm, keeping an eye on the visitor.
‘I have been sent by Dr Cotton of Littlemore Manor to ensure the safety of Mistress Hester, her son and her sisters.’ He huffs a small gust of laughter. ‘I sincerely hope I have come to the correct place, as there seems not to be another house in the vicinity and this is where my map led me.’ He opens and lifts the palm of his good hand.
‘No. There is nowhere else.’ She realizes too late that he meant it as a joke of sorts – it is plain to see there is nothing but trees for miles around.
‘And you are …?’ she asks.
‘Lieutenant Bloor.’ He turns back to Hope, pulling a ring from his finger, holding it up. ‘Dr Cotton instructed me to present this as proof I come on his orders.’ He takes a step up and simultaneously she takes a step down, realizing now the heft of the man, as he is still taller than her, though two steps below. His shirt is pulled tight across his shoulders revealing his broad bulk, and she revises her first impression: even with one good arm, he could surely floor an attacker with ease. But there is something about him, too, something broken, not just his arm but something more profound that she senses, and which sparks her compassion.
Now he is closer she can smell him. He smells strong, like a horse after a gallop. She takes the ring. It is a plain band inset with black enamel and engraved with some words in what appears to be Latin.
‘If you could please show it to the mistress of the house?’
He smiles again and looks intently at her, making her feel as if she is having her pockets searched. It is not an unpleasant feeling.
‘Would you be so kind as to wait here?’ She indicates to the hovering Gifford that he keep watch, and whips herself away, up and up to the blue room, taking a look from the balcony to make sure he is still there. He is, exactly where she left him.
She taps on the chimneypiece. ‘Can you hear me?’
Hester’s voice comes faintly, as if from deep in a well. ‘Who is he?’
‘He’s called Lieutenant Bloor, says he’s been sent by Ambrose, gave me the ring. It is black enamel as you described.’
‘Thanks to God.’ Hester’s relief is manifest. ‘Get us out of here, Hope. It’s unendurable.’
Hope inches the heavy plate away and the three crawl out, blinking in the bright light. They are filthy with smut and ash but none of them seems to care. Melis is pale as bone, her face set rigid, and she has bitten her fingernails so far to the quick there are smears of blood on her cuffs. Hester inspects the ring and says nothing but appears to be satisfied, attaching it to the locket chain she wears around her neck.
Melis leads her nephew out onto the landing wordlessly, while Hope and Hester push the fire’s back-plate into place. Hester stops a moment and pulls a bundle of letters from under her dress, brown and spotted with age, which she slips into the hiding place before the two of them close it up.
‘What are they?’ Hope’s curiosity is roused.
‘It’s better you don’t know.’ Hope’s frustration must register as Hester says, ‘I only keep you in the dark for your own safety. You’re very young. It wouldn’t be fair to burden you.’ She then takes on a formidably stern
tone. ‘You’re not to tell a soul about them. Not a soul. Is that clear?’
‘Quite clear.’ Hope tries to imagine what the letters might contain that could make her unsafe and wonders what other secrets Hester is keeping from her, all the things she doesn’t know, all the hazards. The lieutenant is here now, she tells herself, and he will protect them.
Felton
Two women and a child come outside to greet him. They are a ragged bunch, smeared with dirt, which one of them – the mother, he supposes – explains away with the excuse that they have been digging in the vegetable garden.
This is a lie. The dark smudges look to him more like ash than earth.
Both women are very slight and it is almost impossible to imagine them as a threat to anyone, least of all the formidable George. But Felton is well aware that danger can be wrapped in unexpected packages.
Looking at the mother with her unremarkable features – he can’t help but notice she goes barefoot – it is hard for Felton to believe that George has sired a child with her. Initially he had assumed it was the other one, who is better put together and holds a passing resemblance to his own sister, Bridget. It seems an insult that George might have been drawn to this plain woman, who appears entirely unabashed to display her dirty toenails.
‘We are very glad to see you, Lieutenant Bloor.’ She fingers the enamel ring, which is now suspended from a chain around her neck. ‘Tell me, how is Dr Cotton? And his wife? She was very unwell when we were last at Littlemore.’
He gives her a noncommittal reply, suggesting that Dr Cotton’s wife is recovering steadily. He can’t help the memory of his hand saturated in the doctor’s blood, right up the wrist and into the sleeve of his old jacket, abandoned in favour of this smart new one, with its scarlet lining and silver buttons – Bloor’s jacket.
The Honey and the Sting Page 10
