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I startle. Am I losing my mind? Is the dark prince of my nightmares standing outside my cottage this instant?
A charming thought, lovely. But I have no need of doors. All the locked gates in the world could not contain me. I enter when and where I wish. I hold the key to every poisoned heart.
The rap comes again, insistent. I remember the woman at church, the one who was heavy with child. Perhaps her pains have started. Trying to shake off this strange bout of madness, I grab my shawl and my medical bag and hurry to the door.
“I am ready,” I begin to say, but two men stand before me. Local men, both farmers. I have seen them before, at market day. Their awkward bulk fills the doorframe and blocks the slanted afternoon light.
“Miss Luxton?”
“Yes.”
The taller man glances at the bag in my hands. “Might we come in for a moment and speak with you? It won’t take long.”
I bid them enter and show them to the parlour, but I remain standing. “I would ask you to sit, but as you see I was just on my way out,” I say, gesturing with my bag. “I trust you are not ill? That is the usual reason for strangers to appear at my door.”
The men shake their heads and glance uncomfortably around the room, with its vaulted ceiling and tall, arched windows. Long ago this cottage was a chapel. Now it is our home. Is that why I am being curse with this strange madness? I think. Can the echo of a thousand unanswered prayers ever truly fade? Can a chapel be haunted?
My uneasy visitors wring their hats in their hands. The tall man speaks. “Sorry to detain you, Miss Luxton. We’re from the Association for the Prosecution of Criminal Acts and Undesirables. Me and Horace, here, we’re making enquiries in the neighbourhood, regarding the matter of – well, a missing person, you might say.”
“Dead person, he means.” His companion scowls. “Don’t drag this out, Ned, I’ll be wanting supper soon, and it’s a long way home on foot.”
Missing person – dead person. Surely they cannot mean Weed? I bite my lip hard, and use the pain to steady myself.
The one called Ned swallows and nods. “Miss Luxton, there was a travelling preacher who came and went through these parts. ‘Repent, repent,’ you know the type – anyways, the man hasn’t been seen for some time. A week ago his Bible turns up near the crossroads, buried deep in a hedge of bramble. A farmer from Alnwick found it. One of his lambs got tangled up in the thorns, see, and he had to cut out the branches to free it. It was a bit worse for the rain and sun – the Bible, I mean – but you could still read the name on the flyleaf.”
Ned pauses and wipes his face with a simple cotton square he extracts from a pocket. “Forgive me, miss. There’s more, but it’s not an easy story to tell to a young lady like yourself. Not far from the Bible was… was…”
“A pile of bones,” Horace interrupts. “Human bones. Picked so clean you’d think they’d been boiled for soup.” He cleans his teeth with his own dirty fingernail, as if to demonstrate.
His words bore into me, releasing a gush of dread from some deep reservoir inside. “The ravens of Hulne Park do their work swiftly,” I say, masking my fear. “I hope you will follow their good example, gentlemen. Why are you here?”
“The truth is, miss, we don’t much care what happened to this fellow. Good riddance, one might say. Who wants to hear all that gloom and doom? But as it turns out, the preacher had a wife, and they both were members of our association. Dues paid in full.” Horace shakes his head in disappointment. “Which means that we two are stuck with the job of investigating.”
“Couldn’t happen at a worse time, either,” Ned adds. “Right in the middle of the harvest.”
“Was it murder?” I say the word as if it meant nothing horrible – murder, murder, murder – a word like any other.
Horace snorts, a contemptuous laugh. “A man’s bleached bones don’t just fall out of the sky, do they?”
“God alone knows what happened.” Ned rolls his eyes heavenward. “And God alone metes final justice. But that don’t mean we can shut our eyes to this business. The association must perform its duty, Miss Luxton. That’s why we’re here. Allow me to ask: Do you have any knowledge of this matter? Firsthand, secondhand, or otherwise?”
“I do not.”
“Duly noted. Like we said, we’ve been making enquiries. We were told there was a young man living here. May we speak to him?”
I hesitate. “Why?”
They glance at each other before Horace replies. “The widow’s paid her dues. That means we have to find someone to prosecute. Otherwise the case’ll drag on and on, and we’ll never have a moment’s peace. We could pay her to drop it, but that’d cost us a king’s ransom.”
The two men stand there, fingering their hats, waiting for my answer. Deliberately I remove my shawl and take a seat. I must, for my legs have begun to tremble.
“So you wish to find some poor fool to charge with a crime? Whether or not he is guilty of it?” My voice is cool, my anger palpable – how like my father I sound!
“Guilty, innocent – it don’t have to be so formal as all that!” Horace smiles. “No doubt it was an accident, whatever happened. Words get exchanged. Push comes to shove. The preacher ends up with a bloody nose in the dirt. Your friend goes on his merry way, as any of us would, and that’s the last he thinks of it. How was he to know the preacher could die of such a feeble blow?”
To demonstrate, Ned cuffs Horace on the head. For a moment I wonder if I am about to witness a murder myself, but Horace grits his teeth and continues.
“We take your friend to the magistrate, where he apologises most sincerely and pleads the benefit of clergy. Then he stands there like a good lad while he gets his pardon.”
“A pardon?” I interject. “But a man is dead. Surely his widow will want justice. I would, if I were her.”
“Every man worth his salt loses his temper now and again. That’s how the magistrate’ll see it, you can be sure. It gets the widow off our backs and puts the whole matter to bed. We’ll pay your friend a day’s wages for his trouble, too.”
Ned grins; his teeth are yellow as a mule’s. “But there won’t be no hanging, that we can promise you.”
“Lay off the talk of hanging, you dumb ox, you’re going to frighten the girl.” Horace turns back to me. “Now that we’ve laid your worries to rest – can we speak to the young fellow?”
I stand and move to the window. “The youth you refer to goes by the name of Weed. He stayed here with us for a short while. He was a great help to my father with the work in the gardens. But he no longer lives here, and I have no knowledge of his whereabouts.”
I let my eyes drift downward, shy and maidenly. “I would like to speak to him as well. He left soon after” – I allow my voice to catch with emotion; why not? – “soon after my father suggested that we become engaged.”
My visitors exchange a look. They too were young men, once. And now that they know how I have been shamed and abandoned, perhaps they will leave me be.
“I see.” Horace’s voice is gruff. “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke to your father, then.”
“My father is out.” I wave my hand, as if to indicate the whole north of England and Scotland, too. “If you can find him, by all means, speak to him. Feel free to go outside and look. I will make tea while you do.”
Before they can catch breath enough to answer, I excuse myself and leave. How convenient it is to be a woman, sometimes! One can always use the kitchen as an excuse to escape men’s tedious conversations, their scheming and planning. Father has his work to hide behind, I think, and I have my kettle.
As I light the fire my mind wanders down strange paths. Dread churns within me – dread that, somehow, this preacher’s death has something to do with Weed’s disappearance. But what?
I take my metal canister of tea off the shelf. It is my own mixture of dried lavender blossoms and lemon balm, harvested from my garden and hung in the storeroom to dry. Weed helped me hang these stalks, I think. His hands touched these tender leaves, just as they touched me…
I measure the tea, crumbling the dried leaves through my fingers to release the sweet fragrance. As I do, I think how easy it would be to add a bit of this and that to the kettle – just enough to sicken my guests later on, when they are safe at home in their beds, with only their wives nearby to hear their cries. Or enough to kill them, and silence their annoying questions forever.
I do nothing of the kind, of course. Even after all I have seen, all I have suffered, all I have lost, I still know the difference between right and wrong.
Do you really, lovely? I find the distinction rather blurry, myself.
I am a healer, I think, blocking out the voice of evil. I will not kill.
But it is oddly comforting to know that I can.
2
20th August
This morning I treated a bad case of sunburn, rheumy eyes, and a deep wound made by a rusted nail that a careless farmer stepped upon. The last was the most serious, but if the farmer soaks his foot in a strong brew of sage and yarrow as I instructed, it ought to heal quickly.
In the afternoon I tended my kitchen garden, which shows signs of fatigue from this relentless heat. As do I, it seems. I wait in dread for the voice of Oleander to return. So far it has not.
I hope I am not going mad.
ALL DAY AND LATE into the evening, the fields ring with the sound of reaping. The scythe swings, and like solders grievously overmatched in battle, the grass falls, row after slaughtered row.
I witnessed it myself this morning, as I walked from farm to farm, dispensing cures, advice, and comfort. Now, as I sit here sewing, I try to imagine what Weed might have heard, if he had walked beside me – the cries of protest, perhaps, as the scythe swings once more.
Does the wheat despise us? I find myself wondering. Does it wish we were the ones slain?
My thoughts are scattered by a sharp sound, the pop and hiss of wood catching fire in the parlour hearth. That log, too, was once the living limb of a tree – perhaps one of the ancient ones from the forest, with their noble, spreading branches and strange tales.
“A fire in summer,” I say without looking up from my sewing. “Surely that is a waste of wood.”
Father straightens from the hearth with a grunt. “There is a storm on the way. When the wind howls like this, warmth is required.” He takes his chair and gazes into the flames. “I am worried about your health, Jessamine. Until now I have said nothing, trusting that time would be the best remedy, but my concern bids me speak at last.”
“Speak, then.” Already I am on my guard.
“It has been some time since your illness passed. To outward appearances you seem recovered, and go about your work without complaint.” Thoughtful, he gazes into the fire. “But there are days you lie late in your bed, as if reluctant to wake. Your skin is pale, but now and then your cheeks flush red, perhaps recalling some secret shame. At times you stare blindly into the air, as if conversing with phantoms. The stain of tears is ever present on your face.”
“There is no need to worry.” Anger kindles within me, but I will be cautious: My father must have some reason of his own for speaking this way. “My body is perfectly well.”
“Your body is young and strong, and can survive much. But what of your heart, Jessamine?”
I put down my needle and thread. “My heart will heal when Weed comes back.”
“I think not. I think your heart will only begin to mend when you accept that Weed is gone.” Finally he looks up from the fire and faces me. “Gone, and never to return.”
“I don’t believe you.” If he wishes to provoke me, he is succeeding. “Time and again you have told me that Weed left me – heartlessly ran off as I lay dying. Before I did not have the strength to argue. Now I do.”
“Calm yourself –”
“Weed loves me. If he is keeping away from me, there must be a reason.”
“I have told you the reason. He is a common scoundrel, who despoiled and abandoned you in the most unforgivable manner –”
“You have told me lies. For I know Weed would be at my side even now, unless some force was preventing him.”
“You have not had any word from him at all, then?”
“No. I have not.”
Father looks at me, strangely satisfied, and I realise, This is what he wanted – to know if I have heard from Weed. Why would he wish to know that?
I feel exposed, and look away to hide the tears that spring to my eyes.
Such passion! Such grief! It is most enticing, my lovely. A pity you waste it on that ridiculous boy, that callow, unwanted Weed…
The room sways. I clutch my head.
“What is it, Jessamine? You look unwell. Let me prepare a tonic for you.”
I am faint, but I will not admit that to Father. He pours something for me to drink and brings it to me. The glass hovers in front of me. In its swirl of liquid I see visions: A dying lamb. The madhouses of London. A pair of large, terrifying wings.
I push the glass away. “I had terrible dreams when I was ill, Father,” I say in a low voice. “Some of them were about you. About what you did on your trips to London.”
His eyes glitter in the firelight. “Take a sip, my dear. It will steady you.”
“I dreamed that you went to the madhouse there. That you fed poison to the lunatics, in order to test your formulas.”
He stands so quickly the drink spills. “How strange. The fantasies our minds concoct when we are sick….”
I rise to my feet, clawing at my head as if I could tear that voice out by its roots. “A fantasy? I thought so, too. Now I am not so sure.”
Careful, lovely… your father has a dreadful temper, you know….
I watch the blue vein on his forehead throb. His words are calm, but his voice is a tightened sinew of rage. “Jessamine, it seems your mind is more affected by your illness than I first supposed. I suggest you go to bed. I know some cures that can help you.”
“Your cures!” I practically spit with contempt. “I think your cures are poison, Father. I think everything you have told me is a lie, and that which I believed to be a dream is all too real.”
The images take form again – me, flying high over the fields of Northumberland, born aloft by a pair of dark wings. “And Weed’s love for me, and mine for him, is the realest thing of all,” I gasp. “If you will not tell me where he is, then I will have to look for him myself.”
“Enough.” Three strides, and he is across the room. “I will tell you what you wish to know. But I warn you, you may regret it.” He gestures for me to sit down. “During your illness, Weed became distraught. Because of his extraordinary talent for healing, I believe he felt responsible for curing you, and was driven mad with frustration when he could not. He grew agitated, unreasonable. Finally he left. I could not chase after him, for I did not dare leave your side. You were at death’s very threshold that night.”
The light of the fire glows behind my father, casting lurid shadows along the stone floor. “He abandoned you, Jessamine, and you should despise him for it, not pine for his return. But you are right to call me a liar: He did not simply run off, as I have told you in the past.”
I sit there, unmoving as a statue in church, as Father’s voice drops deep. “You were so weak. I thought it would kill you to know the truth. As time passed and you regained your strength, I dared hope you would make your peace with my story and would never have to know the fate of that coward Weed. I prayed you would forget about him. He fooled us both, for a time. I do not blame you for being deceived by him. I was deceived as well.”
The flames leap, and the shadows do their mocking dance. My father’s words toll like a bell.
“Weed is dead. He hanged himself, in a remote part of the woods of Hulne Park. I found the body myself. The fool!”
Father approaches me and places a hand on my shoulder. I allow myself to soften, to weep. It is not difficult. I shed tears at will these days.
“I thought it would be too cruel to tell you the truth. But it is crueller still to let you go on longing for something that can never be.” He steps back and spreads his arms, as if waiting for me to step into his embrace. “I hope you can forgive me, Jessamine. Oh, the curse of being a parent! The sins we commit to ease our children’s suffering!”
I rise from the chair. Father takes a step toward me. I wheel from his open arms and race outside, into the storm.
“Jessamine –” His voice follows me to the door, but the moment I am outside the shrieking wind drowns out every sound but the pounding of my own heart. Let Father run after me if he dares. I am one with the storm now, wild and furious, a howl of rage.
“Weed!” I hurl my desperate cry to the starless sky. Up the twisting path I climb. The ground is muck beneath my feet. Am I truly mad, then? I must be, to think the poison garden is the only place left for me to turn.
But how else will I finally discover what is real? How else will I know what is true, and what is a lie?
And when the worst has already happened, what is left to fear?
Unless the worst is yet to come. The thought stops me short. I pause for breath. Eyes closed, I feel the earth spin drunkenly beneath my feet, slipped off its axis like a wheel on a broken axle.
Foolish Jessamine… did you really think I was only a dream?
