They tie the horses up, ready to go. The whole process can’t have taken much more than five minutes and Hope is thinking, as she dashes back to the kitchen, how pleased Hester will be with her.
The shadows are lengthening, and the light is thinning, birds are in their early-evening fluster. It will be dark soon and they will be gone. Hope balks at the idea of the forest at night, swallowing them, its unknown menace seeming almost as terrifying as the prospect of remaining here.
The kitchen door is slightly open and there, to her horror, is the hulking shape of Felton sitting at the kitchen table, his back to her, ladling yesterday’s stew into a bowl.
She stops dead, unsure what to do.
He hasn’t seen her.
She notices a meat cleaver on the end of the table nearest to the door, its iron head giving her a menacing wink as a low shaft of light catches its shine. She swallows, telling herself to keep calm, but can feel the prickle of panic as she imagines him wielding it.
As she begins to sidle away Felton turns, catching her in his sights. ‘Where are they all?’
She contorts her face into the semblance of a smile. ‘Resting, I expect.’ There is a slight quiver in her voice but he doesn’t appear to notice. He is smiling too.
The cleaver shimmers. He would disarm her of it in an instant were she to try what she is thinking.
‘My arm’s giving me trouble again.’ He is rubbing his elbow. ‘It was so much better.’
‘It must be all the effort.’ She thinks of him earlier on the ladder hauling heavy buckets to soak the thatch, to stop the spread of the fire that he started. ‘You must have reopened the wound.’ She is astonished by her composure.
‘I don’t suppose you’d take a look?’ He begins to roll up his sleeve and undo the bandage, seeming completely at his ease.
She takes too long to reply because he says, ‘What? You gone off me? I thought you liked me a little.’
There is that smile again.
He scoops a spoonful of stew into his mouth, speaking through it. ‘And the scowl you’re wearing makes me think otherwise.’
‘No, no. I’m sorry. It’s not that.’ She is blathering nervously now. ‘I just can’t stop thinking about the fire. It’s unsettled me. What might have happened.’ She remembers Hester’s instructions now. ‘If it hadn’t been for you … You saved Rafe’s life.’
He shrugs off the compliment. ‘I’m no hero, just trained for such things, that’s all.’
He pats the bench. ‘Come and sit.’ She feels his good hand at her back, remembering how, only hours before, the sensation had made her feel wanted, protected, safe.
Not now.
A brew of fear and revulsion threatens. Her face is close enough to his to smell his stewy breath and the smoke in his hair. The wound is like a mouth, its lips pink, gaping slightly, and she has to muster all her inner grit to stop herself running from the room.
‘It doesn’t look infected, has just opened a little. There’s a pot of that salve somewhere.’
She stands, glad to put herself out of his reach. ‘Who left this here?’ She surprises herself by the levity of her tone and picks up the cleaver. ‘Filthy thing on the kitchen table, Margie won’t be pleased. Better put it away.’
She takes it outside and, dragging over a stool to stand on, hangs it on the high hook above the door, out of both their reach, resisting the urge to run as far and fast as she can.
Returning the stool inside, she goes to the shelves, feeling his gaze on her back. The small jar of salve is there. She pulls several pots down, pretending to look for it, while concealing it cupped in her palm.
‘Hester must have taken it upstairs. Rafe had a scorch on his hand. I’ll be back.’ She manages to sound coy as she slips from the room. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’
He grunts, continuing to eat, bread now, wiping the bowl clean with it and shoving it into his mouth.
Hester
Darkness falls swiftly and I am thankful for the cover it will offer us. Hope’s soft tread sounds on the stairs and I unlock the bedroom door, gathering our bags ready to depart, but am instantly aware that something is amiss.
‘He’s awake. He’s in the kitchen.’ She is frayed with panic, blathering about the lieutenant’s wound and something about the pot of salve, which she is holding in her open hand.
‘I need you to think.’ I speak firmly, feeling the urgent press of time. ‘Did he behave differently towards you?’ I am trying to cobble together a new plan and wondering how he managed to get downstairs without either me or Rafe hearing him pass. I suppose he is accustomed to stealth.
Hope is heaving in great gulps of quaking breath. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Now, listen to me.’ I grip both her shoulders, forcing her attention to what I have to say. ‘As far as he’s concerned, we don’t know anything.’ He may well have discovered his missing journal and sniffed out our plan to flee but I have to calm Hope. ‘Did he have his gun with him, downstairs?’
‘I – I can’t remember.’ Her eyes are jittering madly to and fro.
‘Never mind. He must have. He always carries it with him.’ I attempt to sound light, when in truth I feel as heavy as an anvil. ‘He intends no harm to you.’ I take Hope’s hands, squeezing them. ‘Remember that and hold your nerve. Wait here a moment.’
I pick up the journal and steal out onto the landing, listening down the stairwell. Once I’m sure it is silent, I tiptoe into the lieutenant’s room, half expecting him to be behind the door with a blade. Everything is tidy. Only the linens are rumpled and marked with grey shadows of grime where he has been sleeping.
Quick as I can, I replace the journal, then cast about, looking under the bed and behind the door. Hanging beneath his coat, I find what I’m looking for, bundle it up and return to the bedchamber.
I fling the pouch of shot and powder onto the bed. ‘He might have his pistol but it’ll be of little use without this.’ I don’t mention the probability of him having some shot and powder in his pocket. It would only frighten her more.
‘Listen to me carefully.’ Hope is hunched beside Rafe on the bed, her arms wrapped tightly about her torso. I hand her the salve. ‘You must go back down. He’ll already be wondering what’s keeping you.’ I find the phial of sleeping draught, last used for Melis, and hold it out to her. ‘Give him a drink and tip this in, all of it. It’ll knock him right out. Shame it’s not enough to …’ Hope’s look says she knows what I’ve left unsaid. ‘Then see to his arm, make an excuse and come back here.’
Hope has begun to shake uncontrollably. I imagine him downstairs, wondering why she is taking so long, afraid now that he will come in search of her. ‘I’ll go instead.’ My words are blunt. ‘Lock yourselves in. I’ll be back before you know it.’
I have no choice but to leave them, so, with the phial tucked into my pocket, I shut the door, hearing Hope turn the key.
I walk into the kitchen. ‘Hope tells me your arm has flared up. I’m so sorry.’ He regards me with a hollow look. Is he disappointed, I wonder, to see me instead of my malleable young sister? He doesn’t ask where she is. I can see the hilt of his gun, hitched to his belt as ever. Its up-tilted barrel suggests it might be loaded. He wouldn’t shoot me, I reason. Not with the Giffords so close by. It would be hard to make it seem accidental. But if he is desperate?
I put the salve on the table, and bustle about, taking down a length of muslin from the shelf. Noticing Margie’s kitchen knife, I slide it out of sight beneath a cloth, should I need it. ‘I don’t know how to thank you for saving Rafe’s life.’
He is unable to hide his awkwardness but I pretend not to notice, blithely saying we should drink a toast to him and that I believe there is a flagon of French wine in the cellar.
‘Would you like some? It’s the very least …’
‘I’d like that very much.’ He directs a look my way, then glances towards the cellar door, which is pinned open, gaping darkly. There is an alarming
intensity to his gaze, a flare of something, and I realize I have made a fatal error.
I can hear Margie’s warning: Take care on those steps. I can feel his firm shove on my back and myself tumbling over and over in the dark, cracking my head on the stone step at the bottom. If the fall doesn’t finish me off, he can easily stave my head in with the butt of his pistol. That would do it. Fear trickles cold through me.
Delaying, I tear the muslin into strips and smooth the salve onto his wound, noticing the fingers of his right hand are smudged, not with soot but with ink.
‘What about that wine, then?’ he says.
Dread curdles me as I think of reading the words that turned all I believed on its head, my heart squeezing tight as a fist at the thought of Ambrose murdered, of Melis cold in the chapel, of my own death brushing so close.
As if by magic, just when I feel my resolve buckling, Lark appears at the door.
‘Can I smell stew?’ She puts down her churn of milk and feels for a chair, scraping it back and sitting down. ‘I didn’t expect anyone to be in here. Who is it? No, let me guess.’ She holds up a hand, sniffing the air. ‘Lavender. That can’t be anyone other than Hester.’ She laughs, swiping her hair from her forehead. ‘Tell me I’m right.’
Hardly able to believe that Lark has arrived in my moment of need, I laugh too, my fingers touching the stem of lavender that is in my buttonhole. ‘And the lieutenant is here with us. I was about to go and fetch a jug of wine from the cellar. You can keep him company.’ I rise. ‘Would you like some as well?’
‘I wouldn’t refuse.’ Lark has felt out a spoon and is dipping it into the large pot on the table, scooping stew into her mouth. ‘Mmm. Delicious. It’s always better the next day.’
Gingerly, I descend the cellar steps and am enfolded in the musty gloom where I find the flagon, returning quick as I can. Someone has already put three cups on the table and, thinking fast, I say, ‘Good wine calls for glass, wouldn’t you agree?’
The cupboard where the glasses are kept is just outside the kitchen door. Everything is layered in dust, rows and rows of glass and stacks of dishes that can’t have been used in years. It makes me think of the great feasts that must have been held here, rowdy hunting parties and goodness only knows what. The place seems all the more dead for that thought.
I wipe three glasses on my shift and bring them into the kitchen, filling them with wine at the sideboard so I can’t be seen from the table. I surreptitiously empty the draught into one, handing it to Felton after Lark has hers, so he can’t pass it on. Then I sit, placing the jug on the table, holding up my own glass to make a toast.
‘To Lieutenant Bloor. Our hero!’ Lark echoes me enthusiastically and I touch my glass to hers with a chink. I observe the lieutenant shifting in his seat, his features tightening as I touch his glass too.
He notices I have seen his discomfort. ‘Arm’s aching something awful.’ He cradles it to make his point and swigs back the red liquid.
I make conversation, breaking off hunks of bread and serving out the stew. When I put a spoonful into my mouth I realize I haven’t eaten all day. Thinking of the long journey to come, I force myself to continue, although fear has stolen my appetite.
When Felton’s glass is empty, I refill it. He begins to slur a little, his face reddening. He asks for more, yawning loudly, slumping over the table. His tongue is stained blue from the wine.
‘I think it’s time for bed,’ I say.
The lieutenant makes an unintelligible sound and hauls himself to his feet, gripping the chair, which skids away beneath him. He lurches, stumbling, managing to get a grip on the edge of the sideboard, clinging to it to keep himself from falling.
Lark and I each take an arm and stagger to the makeshift bed that is still in the hall. The bed we made for Melis. Half lifting, half pushing, we manage to get him onto it, where he collapses, spread-eagled.
I slide my hand to the pistol in his belt, but he grips me with his great paw, suddenly alert.
‘I was only going to put it to one side for your safety.’ Remarkably my voice remains steady.
‘No.’ He is aggressive, pushing me away, slurring, ‘I’m a soldier. Sleep with my gun.’
I withdraw my hand and he rolls over with a groan, making the weapon inaccessible.
‘Good night, Lieutenant.’ He is struggling to keep his eyes open.
‘Sweet dreams, sweet Bridget,’ he mumbles, and loses consciousness. He thinks he is with his sister.
He shifts again, half rolling back, the hilt of the pistol peeping out. I wait, watching, until his breath deepens to a rumbling snore, and try once more, easing the gun away little by little from under his body, until I am able to spirit it under my shift, triumphant.
I wait a moment, watching him, thinking how easy it would be to take that sharp kitchen knife and drive it into his chest. How easy, yet how difficult – unthinkable – to take a life, unthinkable for me. How does a conscience become sufficiently eroded to make murder banal?
Hope
They creep down, past the chapel. Hester glances to Hope, her expression pained. There is no choice but to leave Melis’s body behind. Even so it feels wrong.
As they reach the hall, Hope glances in revulsion at the sleeping hulk on the makeshift bed.
She follows Hester, who holds Rafe’s hand as they slink past him into the kitchen and out through the back door. It is a perfect night for travelling. The air is fresh and the moon, three-quarters full, spills its cool light over Lark, who is waiting by the gate with the horses and the puppy.
‘Captain’s coming with us,’ Rafe says, in a gleeful whisper.
Hester wavers in her answer. ‘Well, sweetheart …’
‘The puppy has to stay.’ Hope is firm and can see Rafe tensing, readying for an outburst.
Hester is on tenterhooks.
Hope squats to meet her nephew in the eye. ‘I know you love him. But we can’t bring him. He’ll slow us down.’ Rafe’s mouth is pinched. ‘We’ll come back for him when it’s safe. Lark will look after him, won’t you, Lark?’ He drops his shoulders, unclenching his hands.
‘He can sleep in the barn with me.’
The child mumbles his consent with a shrug, and Hester looks relieved as she helps him up onto the grey.
The gate is shut with its big wooden strut firmly wedged into place. Hope and Lark force it up, heaving together. A loud thump echoes through the night as it bursts from its slot and they all instinctively turn towards the lodge, expecting the lieutenant to burst from the door.
The house is cast pewter at night, its windows iridescent pools of quicksilver, a place in which sharp objects have a life of their own, where things scuffle behind the walls and cats become ensnared in traps. She thinks she can make out a face at the chapel window, a flit of light. Part of her refuses to believe Melis is gone.
They slip into the dark mouth of the forest where the moonlight struggles to filter through the thick vegetation. They can’t see more than a yard in front, but Hope is just able to make out the pistol in Hester’s hand. She has the lieutenant’s firearm tucked into her own belt and doesn’t know if it makes her feel safer or not, but focuses on the fact that in a few hours they will be in Ludlow at the Feathers, with its smell of fresh beeswax polish, its starched linens and nosegays hanging from the bedposts.
They move in silence.
The forest is alive with sound: a vixen shrieks; an owl wails and another, more distant, replies; something barks an alarm; a crashing and breaking of twigs comes from the undergrowth nearby.
Shapes appear, faces in the trunks of the trees, hooded figures, long arms. She counts in her mind to a hundred and then back to one, over and over again, as they move on slowly.
The path widens, moonlight shivering over it, and they have a view of the star-encrusted sky at last and space to push the horses into a canter. The thunder of their hoofs obliterates the forest noises.
Finally, they arrive at a clearing where the route f
orks.
‘Which way?’ Her whisper is loud.
Hester is scrutinizing the piece of paper on which she made a note of points on the journey from Ludlow. She can’t read it. There is not enough light.
Hope feels her spirits leaking away but Hester points up at the sky.
‘That’s the Little Bear, and we need to go east, so it’s this way.’ She sets off down the wider of the two paths.
Hope is reassured by Hester’s confidence, that she knows the stars. Were she alone she would be impossibly lost by now.
The fear of the lieutenant behind them has now become the fear of what may lie ahead. Two women and a child riding alone in the dark could easily fall prey to brigands.
The shadowy figures in the trees hold knives in their knotted fists, hunched, ready to pounce.
She takes a deep breath and returns to her counting, pushing away the dark thoughts, listening only to the steady drum of the horses.
Rafe begins to hum a tune faintly in the quiet, a song she has often sung him to help him sleep. She joins in with him and it dulls her nerves a little.
The path narrows once more, the trees becoming thicker, enclosing them, forcing them to slow down again.
A damp slap drags across her face.
She flails her arms to swipe it away, discovering it is nothing more than a trailing frond. Hester reaches out a hand to reassure her and they continue, pushing far into the arms of the forest, moving slowly until dawn creeps up on them, its glow casting the branches black, sharp shapes of leaves, in contrast with the paling sky.
Hope knows that dawn comes at about six in mid-August. It seems impossible that only fifteen days have passed since they left Orchard Cottage: a dozen lifetimes of events have been packed into that short period, none good.
‘Not much further and we’ll be out in the open country. Ludlow is only a few leagues on. A couple of hours at most.’ Hester’s unshakeable confidence is infectious, and Hope gives vent to a trickle of optimism.
They stop to rest the horses, allowing them to graze on the tufts of grass that line the path. A cock crows, sure indication that human habitation is close by and Hope’s confidence grows. She unpacks the victuals, handing them round, and they sit on the ground to eat. Rafe is wan with exhaustion, leaning against his mother, eyelids leaden, barely able to stay awake.
The Honey and the Sting Page 20
