The Accidental Bride (15 page)

“What is it? Are you ill?” Phoebe asked in concern.

“Toothache,” Meg mumbled. “You have to help me draw it.” She laid a hand to her flannel-wrapped cheek. “I’ve tried everything. Oil of cloves, witch hazel. It has to come out.”

“My father pulled one of my teeth when I was little,” Olivia remarked. “He tied string around the door latch and slammed the door. It hurt,” she added rather doubtfully.

“It won’t hurt as much as it does now,” Meg declared. “Come now, Phoebe, put me out of my misery.” She sat on a small stool beside the fire, and the one-eared cat jumped onto her lap.

Meg’s teeth were a constant source of trouble for her. Phoebe had performed this service for her friend before and knew how to be both swift and gentle. She found the string, located the rotten tooth, and the task was over in a second. Meg rushed to the basin in the corner of the cottage, while Phoebe stared at the tooth dangling from the string. The cat jumped onto the windowsill and began to wash himself.

“What a lot of blood,” Olivia observed with habitual curiosity. “You wouldn’t think such a small thing could c-cause so much.”

“You wouldn’t think it could cause so much pain,” Meg said thickly, raising her head from the basin and reaching up for a vial on the shelf above. She rinsed out her mouth with the contents and then sighed with relief. “Such agony . . . you can’t believe.”

“Do you want the tooth?” Phoebe handed it to her.

Meg took it and tied a knot in the string, slipping it over her head. “Maybe it’ll act as a talisman against future toothache.” She grimaced and touched her still-swollen face. “Thank heavens you came.”

“There’s something I came to tell you.” Phoebe’s face was suddenly very grave. “There’s talk of a witch in the village. The vicar was raving this morning.”

Meg nodded slowly. “That’s no surprise. You remember when you were here last I was called to a sick child?”

“Yes.” Phoebe perched on the edge of the table.

“Well, the child died soon after I physicked him.”

Olivia ceased her examination of Meg’s alabaster jars and glass vials of potions. “What of?”

Meg shrugged and drew her blanket closer around her. “I can’t say. He was fine when I left, but according to his mother fell into convulsions an hour later. He was dead when I reached him.”

“Sometimes there’s nothing you can do,” Phoebe said hesitantly.

“You and I know that,” Meg said dourly. “The child’s mother cursed me. The father spat at me. There was a crowd there, murmuring and whispering.”

Phoebe crossed her arms over her breast with an involuntary shudder. There was a jolt of fear deep in her belly. “What were they saying?”

“That I had laid a curse on the child.”

“So it
was
you the vicar was bellowing about,” Olivia said, coming over to Phoebe. She laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Like as not,” Meg said. “Superstition is an unpredictable evil.” She reached up to the drying rack for a handful of thyme and another of verbena. “Set the kettle on the trivet, Olivia. I need some tea for the swelling.”

“It seems to have come out of nowhere,” Phoebe said. “It was but last week that you cured the Bailey girl’s fever . . .. And look at the Harvey children. Last month they could barely walk with the rickets, and now they’re running all over the village.”

“That was then. This is now.”

“Maybe on the way home I’ll pay a visit to the Bear in the village, hear what people are saying. If they are talking such foolishness, I’ll have a few things to say of my own.” Phoebe’s eyes snapped.

Meg shook her head. “Have a care, Phoebe. Tar sticks.” She dropped herbs into an earthenware teapot as the kettle began to steam.

“Tar doesn’t stick to Lady Granville,” Phoebe said stoutly.

“This tar is no respecter of rank,” Meg replied. “You remember Lady Constance . . . she was not spared the witch finder.”

Phoebe frowned. “But she was accused by her husband’s mistress. And when that was known, she was released.”

Meg inclined her head in faint acknowledgment, but Phoebe could tell that she was unconvinced. “She was still not spared the witch finder,” Meg repeated. “In open court.”

“That would be terrible,” Olivia said, turning pale. To be exposed naked in open court for the minute examination of the witch finder with his long pins was a horror not to be contemplated.

“An understatement,” Meg said dryly. “But we must hope it won’t come to that.” She poured water on the herbs in the teapot, and the fragrant steam filled the small space.

“Well, I shall see what I can discover.” Phoebe bent to kiss Meg. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you need this afternoon?”

“No, my dear.” Meg patted her cheek. “Sleep is my greatest need and that I can get alone.”

“Well, send word to the house if you’re uneasy. Unless. . .” Phoebe paused. “Unless you’d consider coming back with us now. No one will harass you under Lord Granville’s roof. And when it blows over, you can return.”

Meg shook her head decisively. “No, indeed not. I thank you, but I’m not about to leave my home because of some ignorant mischief makers.”

Phoebe had expected nothing else and didn’t press the matter.

“I wonder what my father would say if we brought Meg home with us,” Olivia said thoughtfully as they made their way back down the path.

“What could he possibly say?” Phoebe asked in genuine puzzlement.

Olivia cast her a quick look. “He might not see things the way you do.”

Phoebe frowned. She had noticed that Cato did not see the issues of the village and his tenants the way she did.

“My father is a very just magistrate and very generous to his tenants,” Olivia said. “But he doesn’t like to g-get personally involved. He’s the lord of the manor; it’s not his business.”

“Well, it’s my business,” Phoebe said after a minute’s thought. “I do like to get personally involved.”

“Perhaps you c-can change his view,” Olivia offered but without much conviction.

“Perhaps,” Phoebe said. They had reached the lane leading back to the manor. “You go on home. I’m going to make a detour in the village, ask some questions about Meg, and I’ll follow you.”

“Should you go alone?” Olivia sounded doubtful.

“They might not talk so freely if you’re there,” Phoebe said. “And no one’s going to molest me. These are my friends.”

“Yes, you see, that’s the difference between you and my father,” Olivia pointed out. “He would never c-consider that his tenants were his friends.”

Phoebe contemplated this insight as she hurried through the village. She had no doubt that Olivia was right, but how to reconcile that attitude of Cato’s with her own? Therein lay the puzzle. She was firmly convinced her own view was the only correct one, so if someone had to change, it would have to be Cato.

Still frowning, she turned into the Bear Inn, where all gossip put down its roots.

“Afternoon, Lady Phoebe.” The landlord greeted her as she entered the dark hallway. “What can I do for you?”

Phoebe had decided on the direct approach to her errand. “I was wondering if you’d seen anything of Meg, Ben,” she said.

The man’s face darkened and he turned and spat into a corner. “I’d not be wantin’ to,” he muttered. “Saving your presence, Lady Phoebe, that one’s got the evil eye.”

Phoebe clenched her gloved hands. “You know that’s nonsense, Ben. Don’t you remember how she cured your mother’s rheumatism? Singing her praises from the rooftops, you were then.”

The landlord looked a little self-conscious and he avoided her eye. “Aye, but bad things’re ’appenin’. First there was the child, and now there’s been a murrain out Shipley way.”

“What’s that to do with Meg?” Phoebe demanded.

Ben shrugged. “There’s those that saw ’er in the dark o’ the moon, walkin’ the field. The cows fell sick days after.”

“Oh, you know better than to spout such fairy stories!”

“Aye, well, ’appen the witch finder’ll discover the truth,” Ben said.

Phoebe felt the blood drain from her face. “He’s been sent for?”

Ben shrugged. “Don’t know about that. But they say he’s over Banbury way.”

Phoebe had heard enough. Banbury was but fifteen miles away. “We’ll see what Lord Granville has to say about this foolishness.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Lady Phoebe, but the vicar don’t answer to his lordship in matters of the church.” Ben’s tone was one of surly defiance, one that Phoebe had never heard before. It made her more uneasy than ever.

“We’ll see about that,” she said and turned on her heel, making her way to Granny Spruel’s cottage, where she hoped to get a second opinion.

When she left, it was already growing dark even though it was only just four o’clock, and the snow-charged sky was so low it was as if it were pressing upon the earth. She hurried down the lane towards the manor, jumping at every crack of a twig or rustle of a small animal in the hedgerows. The world seemed suddenly a very inhospitable place.

It was almost full dark when she turned into the gates of home. Her visit to Granny Spruel had taken much longer than she’d realized and had brought no reassurance. She broke into a run as she made her way beneath the bare overarching branches of the oak trees that lined the long, curving drive.

It was a sinister corridor at this dark and lonely hour, and the lights of the house were still hidden from her by the bend at the head of the carriageway.

She was a dark figure huddled in her cloak, blending so perfectly into the shadows that Cato, Brian, and Giles nearly ran her down as they cantered up the drive. They came up so fast that Phoebe wasn’t aware of them until the drumming of hooves made her jump sideways with a cry of alarm.

“Holy Mother!” Cato reined in his horse. “Who the hell is that?” He stared down from atop the bay charger. “Who
has business at Granville House at such an hour, on such a filthy night?”

“It’s me,” Phoebe said, stepping out of the shadows. “You nearly ran me over.”

“What in the devil’s name are you doing out here?” Cato demanded. “You’re nearly invisible in the shadows.”

“I didn’t realize it was so late,” Phoebe explained. “The night seemed to come on much faster than usual.”

“Aye, it’s black as pitch and barely five of the clock,” Giles agreed. He looked up into the darkness and sniffed the wind. “More snow, I reckon.”

Cato leaned down, extending his hand to Phoebe. “Come,” he commanded.

Phoebe didn’t argue. Her husband seemed less than pleased to see her at the moment. She took the hand and struggled to get her foot on his boot in the stirrup. He hauled her up onto the saddle in front of him and encircled her lightly with his arm as he nudged the horse into motion.

Phoebe leaned back against him, unable to resist the opportunity to feel the beat of his heart beneath his cloak and doublet, to inhale his mingled scents of horseflesh and leather, the almost lemony tang of his skin and hair. She turned her head and gave him a sunny smile, reaching up a hand to caress his cheek in a gesture of delightfully unconscious intimacy.

There was something irresistibly sensual about that smile, about the touch. Sensual and
still
surprising. Cato cast a sideways glance at Brian Morse, riding beside him. There was only one surprise he wanted from his wife, he thought a little grimly. One that would take his stepson out of the picture.

Welcoming light poured from the front door as they drew rein. The ever attentive Bisset stood in the doorway to greet them. Cato dismounted, handing his reins to Giles, before lifting Phoebe from the saddle.

“To go out without an escort at this time of day, Phoebe, is
foolish beyond permission,” he chided as he urged her into the house with a hand on the small of her back.

“It was the middle of the afternoon when we left,” she protested. “But in truth, I didn’t intend to be out so late. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

Cato frowned at her for a minute. Then he said shortly, “Come, then,” and turned aside towards his study.

He closed the door behind them and said, “Well?” He took up a decanter and filled a goblet with wine.

“I went to see a friend,” Phoebe told him, adding somewhat irrelevantly, “I had to help her draw a tooth.”

“Draw a tooth?” Cato paused, the goblet halfway to his lips. “Talk sense, Phoebe.”

“She had a toothache. I had to draw the tooth for her,” Phoebe said, articulating each word with exaggerated care. “Is it so hard to understand, my lord?”

“Yes,” Cato said forcefully. “I find it impossible to understand why Lady Granville should be going about the countryside performing the tasks of a barber! Who is this friend?”

“I believe,” Phoebe began slowly, “that Meg, my friend, was the subject of the vicar’s sermon. She wasn’t in church this morning, so I went to see if she was all right, and to warn her. There’s much talk in the village and now Ben at the Bear said there’s talk of sending for the witch finder from Banbury.” She looked up into her dumbfounded husband’s face and said simply, “We have to help Meg, sir.”

“You are associating with a
witch?”
Cato demanded when he could find his tongue.

Phoebe shook her head. “No . . . no, Meg isn’t a witch. Of course she isn’t. It’s just that the rumors have started and they’re taking hold. We have to help her. I tried to persuade her to take shelter here, but she’s too stubborn and proud.”

“You offered my roof to a woman accused of witchcraft?” Cato could barely believe his ears. “Phoebe, this is beyond anything.”

Olivia had been right. “Why would you not offer her
shelter?” Phoebe demanded. “You’re a Justice of the Peace. You’re the law here.”

“It is precisely for that reason that I could not possibly offer an accused individual my personal support. I have to be an impartial judge. Surely you understand that?”

“Meg is unjustly accused, sir.”

“If the woman is accused, then she should face her accusers,” Cato said shortly. “If the accusations are unjust, they will be proved to be so.”

“How can you
say
that?” Phoebe cried. “You know justice doesn’t always prevail. You said yourself this morning how the vicar was trying to rouse a rabble.”