Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [51]
“I have news,” I say. “Of her.” His face blanches, then he limps around to the front of his desk, as if he can somehow bring her nearer by closing the gap between us.
“Yes?” he says anxiously.
“Her body has been found,” I say. “In a cave by the river.” He blinks several times, does not seem to take this in. Did he think she was alive? Finally, he looks down at the volume in his hands.
“It is a great relief,” he says, his voice hollow. I tell him of the children and the cave, and of her removal to the alehouse. But I cannot bring myself to tell him of the injury to her womb. He slowly shuffles back to his chair and sits down heavily.
“The painter would like to see the body,” I say. “It would help him greatly.”
“Yes, of course,” he murmurs. “He must see.”
“I shall take him to her this evening, for they will likely bury her again tomorrow.”
“So soon?” he asks, as if he will be losing her all over again.
“I do not know, sir.” He sits in silence for a moment.
“I should like to look upon her one last time,” he says at last.
I hesitate. It will be difficult enough without him. And yet he is my master. I think of Mary and her chiding words about my willingness. And then I think of the painter, and the sureness with which he handled him.
“It would prove . . . difficult,” I say delicately. “She is under lock and key, and your presence would almost certainly cause suspicion.” His face falls. I refer to his title and stature within the village, but of course he thinks only of his disfigurement.
“Yes, of course,” he says.
“And too, she may be altered,” I add. He stares at me for several moments, swallows, and looks away. This last is too much for him.
“Thank you for coming,” he says quietly. And I understand that I should go.
By suppertime, the news has already reached the others, and much has been made of the cut to her womb. The fact that she was pregnant and the baby has been stolen is now common knowledge, and I wonder how much time will lapse before my master learns of it. Or the boy, for surely time will out all secrets, despite my mother’s efforts to protect him.
“ ’Tis a foul thing indeed,” says Josias, shaking his head. “An act of wickedness beyond belief.” He and Lydia appear truly shocked by this latest episode, while the others seem merely titillated.
“Perhaps this time they’ll chain her to the casket,” offers Rafe.
“Perhaps this time there’ll be no need,” I say, then instantly regret it, for now all eyes are immediately upon me. Rafe continues chewing slowly.
“So it was the bairn they wanted,” he says after a moment. They all turn to me and I shrug.
“I do not know,” I say.
“It is possible. Perhaps it was the devil’s child,” he says, and I am instantly reminded of Dora’s warning to my mother. I stare at my food, determined to say nothing more.
“Aye, there could be sorcery involved,” says Lydia.
“I’ve heard tales of witches using babies of the dead,” Alice adds excitedly.
“And casting spells upon the womb,” says Lydia. I raise my eyes and see their flushed faces nod in unison. I cannot bear to hear more, so I quickly finish my food and retreat to the kitchen, where Cook is busy with a pot of soup. I have not seen her since this afternoon.
“There is trouble about,” she says, fixing me with a knowing look. I lay a hand upon her arm to reassure her.
“It is past,” I say firmly.
She shakes her head slowly from side to side. “This is not the end of it,” she says.
I delay some hours before going to the alehouse, waiting in my room until the time is right. When I arrive the painter is already there in the corner by the fire, an empty tankard by his side. His face is flushed from the heat and his eyes are bright with anticipation, and I cannot help but wonder whether it is the prospect of seeing me or her which brings the sparkle to his eye. I take a seat opposite him.
“I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I reply, lowering my voice. “I only wished to wait until there were fewer people about.” He nods