The Witch’s Daughter (8 page)

‘Ah, William. Good morning,’ she said, not bothering to disguise her irritation.

William smiled warmly. ‘I had hoped to see you here,’ he said.

‘A safe hope, after all, my coming here every Sabbath.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’ William fidgeted, tugging at his short cape, which had become tight around his neck instead of sitting neatly on his shoulders. He continued to smile at her. ‘Might we walk awhile?’ he asked.

‘There are many people here doing just that.’ Bess began to stride on. ‘It is not for me to say that they might or might not.’

William scurried along beside her, apparently immune to her sharpness. Bess was on the point of saying something else withering when she caught sight of her parents watching her. She slowed her pace immediately so that William was in step with her and treated him to a bright smile.

‘So, William, tell me. All are well at Batchcombe Hall?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

‘And your father?’ Bess disliked the man, but William no longer had a mother living for her to inquire after.

‘Quite, yes. Taken away often with matters of government, of course.’

Bess nodded, ‘Leaving you to run the estate?’

‘Well, there is my brother Hamilton. He being the eldest…’

They drew level with the Widows Digby and Smith. Bess enjoyed the scandalized expressions they wore. She couldn’t decide whom they despised more: Bess herself for having ideas above her station or William for having notions beneath his. The world they had known had been turned on its head in recent years, and nothing could be relied upon to stay as it was. It was a situation not helped by people choosing to step away from the position on this earth the good Lord had seen fit to give them. Bess inclined her head toward the ladies with an innocent smile. Widow Smith pursed her lips so hard they lost what little color they had. Bess waited until they were out of earshot before continuing her conversation with William.

‘But it was you I saw about your father’s business the other day,’ she said, ‘on the edge of Batchcombe Woods?’

‘Oh, quite possibly. You saw me? What could have so occupied my thoughts that I was unaware of your presence?’ William looked genuinely appalled at the idea.

‘You were conversing with Gideon Masters.’ Bess did her utmost to keep her voice level but saying the evil man’s name out loud disturbed her.

‘Oh, yes. We were discussing over which trees his rights extended. It seems the demand for charcoal is ever increasing. I believe the man would have the entire woodland stumps if he could.’

Bess looked at William. It was the first time she had ever heard him speak so plainly of anyone.

‘You do not like Gideon Masters?’

‘I did not say so.’

‘You don’t disagree, though?’

‘What would you have me do, argue with you or…?’

‘Or have the courage to speak the truth?’ Bess finished his sentence for him and waited.

William stopped walking and stood squarely facing her. His face was altered by his determined expression. So much so that he looked considerably older, the man replacing the boy.

‘If you will press me, no, I do not find anything to like in Gideon Masters. He has a way about him, a manner, a … disposition that leaves me unsettled.’

‘Upon my word, his manner.’

‘Mock me if you must, Bess. You asked for the truth. There is something bad in that man. Something I would rather not be in the company of, and I advise you to stay away from him.’

Bess felt her temper getting the better of her. She was in fact pleased to hear that William was wary of Gideon, that she was not alone in knowing him to be dangerous. Even so, she could not help herself bridling at the young man’s presumption that she should do as he said.

‘Why, thank you kindly for you advice, but I am afraid of no man.’

‘I did not think for one moment that you were,’ said William.

*   *   *

Later that same afternoon, Bess took Margaret down to the shore to collect shellfish. They descended the twisting path from the cliff top and stepped onto the beach. The tide had turned an hour before so that the rocks were pooled with water and bristling with all manner of crustaceans. Bess and Margaret unbuttoned their boots and left them on a dry rock. Margaret’s feet slapped onto the wet sand as she ran ahead, a soft breeze tugging at her braided hair. Bess followed her sister, basket in hand, stooping to fish cockles and whelks from the pools. Above them, gulls swooped low, raucous and bold. One or two alighted on the beach and hopped after the girls to see what might be had.

‘Look! Bess, a crab. A great big one!’ Margaret stood knee-deep in a pool, snatching at the sandy water she had stirred up in her excitement.

‘Be still, Margaret, he will hide from you in all that caddle.’

Bess quieted the girl and they peered into the settling water.

‘I see him!’ Margaret was irrepressible. She began to laugh and soon had Bess giggling loudly too. Both girls squealed as they splashed their hands into the pool after the crab. Margaret squealed even louder when she caught it. Bess plucked it from her and dropped it into her basket.

‘I’m going to find another!’ sang Margaret as she danced on to the next pool, her waterlogged shift and skirt clinging to her skinny little legs.

Bess straightened and watched her go, enjoying the leisure and simple happiness of the moment. The beach was long and wide, a tawny crescent stretching as far as Batchcombe Point. On the other side of the promontory, the beach changed. A strange combination of tides and currents and layers of rock decreed that beyond Batchcombe the beaches in the area were not of sand but of smooth pebbles, large ones at the near end, each bigger than a goose egg, dwindling to sandy-colored damsons a mile farther on. Bess let the hissing of the lapping waves lull her into a gentle daydream. She noticed something now, at the far end of the beach, just at the water’s edge. It was a dark shape, too distant to be clear. As she watched, she could see that the shape was moving slowly toward her. She half closed her eyes, shading them with a hand, straining to focus. Now she could see it was a figure. A man, dressed in dark clothes with a wide-brimmed hat. He walked with purpose but seemed barely to advance across the wet sands. Bess heard Margaret chattering behind her about tiny fish, but she felt compelled to watch as the man drew slowly, slowly closer. She could not be certain, but she believed she knew who it was. The somber clothes, the tall stature, the methodical, assured movements. It was Gideon Masters. What could he be doing here on the beach? He had no basket or fishing rod. Bess could not imagine him a man to wander idly by the sea. He continued his approach, so that she began to make out his stern features and realized he was looking straight at her. She was transfixed. She licked her dry, salty lips and noticed that her breath had shortened. She remembered what William had said. Something bad in that man. Was that why she felt like this?

‘Bess, come here, help me catch these little fish. Daddy will be so pleased! Bess, come now!’

Bess tore herself from the object of her fascination, turning to answer her sister.

‘A moment, Margaret, don’t frighten them away before I get there.’

She peered back down the beach, part of her hardly daring to look, expecting to see Gideon only paces away. But he had gone. The beach stretched out empty before her. Empty and undisturbed. She ran forward, searching the sand for footprints, but there were none. She could hear Margaret calling after her, but she searched on, splashing through the shallow foam, scanning the beach and the rocks that led up to the cliff. Nothing. She tried to convince herself he must have been walking in the wet sand. His footprints would have filled in quickly, all trace of his walking instantly erased. That seemed logical. Still it did not explain how he had crossed the expanse of dry sand between the water’s edge and the path to the cliff top. Nor how he had covered the space with such speed that she did not see him go. That she could not see him now toiling up the winding track.

‘Bess?’ Margaret was becoming anxious.

With a furiously beating heart, Bess hurried back to her sister.

3

The year turned the corner away from summer and began the fertile rot of autumn, and the family put their efforts to the apple harvest. The trees were not young but were reliable and healthy and had produced another fine yield. The ground was beginning to soften with the increasing rain, but the branches still held their leaves, though they were more copper than green now. Bess and the others worked carefully through the orchard. John had parked the wagon in the gateway, and each basket of apples was tipped gently on to it, ready to be transported to the barn. From there, Anne and Bess would spend many days putting the apples through the press to produce strong, sweet cider that would slake thirsts and lift spirits throughout the following twelve months. Thomas and John climbed wooden ladders with round rungs to reach the higher parts of the fruit trees. Bess and Anne took the apples from them as they were passed down, while Margaret was given the task of collecting windfalls. The harvest would be painstakingly picked over and spread out in a dry, airy part of the barn. It was slow work, but the time invested would pay dividends.

‘Have you fallen asleep up there, Thomas?’ Bess was becoming impatient standing at the foot of the ladder, apron stretched out, waiting for the fruit.

From the next tree her father laughed, his head deep among the foliage. ‘Ah Bess, mibben Tom be struggling to choose. This is important work we are about. I favor my zider free from maggots.’

Bess began to tap her toe in exasperation. ‘Mibben he’s waiting for them to move on,’ she muttered.

The branches above her head parted. Thomas frowned down.

‘Cease chiding, Bess. I be going fast as I’m able.’

Bess sighed. ‘Better let me up there if the task be too vexing for thee.’

Anne walked past with another laden basket. ‘Bess, leave him be. He shan’t work faster for you nagging him.’

Bess opened her mouth to protest at what she was being asked to put up with, when without warning Thomas came hurtling past her. He crashed wordlessly to the ground. For a second Bess was too stunned to move, then the sound of Margaret’s screams brought her to her senses.

‘Thomas?’ Bess stooped over her brother. She repeated his name, but he lay motionless. Anne pushed her way to him.

‘Thomas! Here, let me to him. Margaret, step out of the way, child. Thomas?’ She knelt beside him. At last, the boy groaned and opened his eyes. The family let out a collective breath of relief.

‘How do I come to be down here?’ he asked, attempting to get to his feet.

‘Hush! Lie still,’ Anne told him, stroking his forehead. She flinched, drawing her hand away as if his skin had burned her. She looked up at John. ‘He has a fever.’

‘That caused him to fall?’

Anne nodded. ‘Help me get him to the house and put him to bed.’

They raised him gently to his feet, an arm around the shoulders of each parent, and half carried him to the cottage. Bess made to follow, but Anne called back, ‘Help Margaret with the windfalls. Come in when you’re finished.’

Bess bridled at being so excluded. She wanted to help tend to Thomas, not to be left out in the orchard. But she knew work had to go on. And, more important, Margaret must not be alarmed. She would do as she was told and take a turn in nursing her brother later.

A low cot was made up for Thomas in the main room so that he might benefit from the fire. When dusk fell and Bess at last took Margaret in, she was concerned at the sight of her brother. In a few hours he appeared to have gone from a pale but strong young man to a clammy, fever-ridden boy with ragged breath and dull eyes. Bess took her turn in gently sponging his face. Anne had added a few drops of rose oil to the water, but they could not mask the increasing odor of poor Thomas’s overheating body. Despite the fire that seemed to be raging within him, he shivered, moaning at the pains in his limbs and joints, complaining that he was colder than a cow’s tail in winter. When Margaret was asleep in the other room, Anne had John and Bess help her strip Thomas. They bathed his whole body and put him in a soft nightshirt of his father’s.

‘What is it, Mother?’ Bess asked.

‘A fever.’

‘Born of what ailment?’ Bess pressed her for a more detailed answer.

‘Too soon to say. We must bide with him. Time will reveal to us what it is that makes him suffer so.’ Anne would not meet her daughter’s questioning gaze. ‘Go to the dairy. Fetch me the tea in the tall jar on the top shelf.’

‘The nettle tea?’

Now Anne looked at her. ‘Yes. You remember how to prepare it?’

Bess nodded.

‘Quickly, then.’

Bess left her brother’s side with reluctance but with purpose, pleased her mother considered her able to make the infusion for him. As she reached the door to the dairy, she glanced back. The three of them made a poignant tableau—mother kneeling at her stricken son’s side, father standing beside her. As Bess watched, John, without taking his eyes off Thomas for an instant, reached down and stroked Anne’s cheek. Anne placed her own hand over his and gripped it tightly against her face. Bess knew, in that tiny moment, in that one small but telling gesture, she knew that her brother was in mortal danger.

By the next morning Thomas seemed neither better nor worse but had lost the ability to sleep. Instead, he fidgeted on his bed, shifting his weight this way and that in a vain effort to find a less painful position. Margaret was out collecting the eggs. John had gone to Batchcombe market to sell the cheeses. Anne and Bess worked at their lace so as to be close to Thomas. All at once he swung his legs to the floor and struggled to his feet. Both women rushed to him.

‘Thomas’—his mother put her hands on his shoulders—‘you must rest. Do not try to raise yourself.’

‘No!’ Anger tinged his curiously slurred words. ‘I must be about my work, Mother. I cannot leave all to father.’

‘You are not well,’ Bess told him. ‘Father will manage until you are recovered.’

He would not be quieted but fought against them with some newfound strength.