Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [70]
“I’ve been at Chepton until this evening,” she says, her eyes filled with concern. “I only heard the news just now.” I tell her what I know about the infant they found, and she shakes her head in dismay. She forces me to sit and ladles some broth from a pot over the fire.
“You are pale,” she says, placing a wooden bowl in front of me. “This will do you good.” I sip the hot broth.
“Have you heard anything else?” I ask anxiously. She nods a head toward the other room.
“It is very full within. They lose their heads when they drink: men’s tongues are even looser than their wives’.”
“They speak of her?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “There is no one they do not speak of: every crooked woman is a witch, every stray animal harbors the devil, and every sick cow is a victim of enchantment.” She shakes her head. “It has gone too far.” She reads the fear in my eyes and lays a reassuring hand upon my arm. “It will come to naught,” she says.
“What if it doesn’t?” I reply.
Just then the door opens and the painter stands awkwardly in the doorway. Mary straightens and he nods to her.
“Forgive me,” he says. She motions him in, then picks up a tray and excuses herself, disappearing through the door behind him. He turns to me.
“I looked for you at the Great House,” he says. I do not offer a reply. What could he possibly want? He takes a step forward into the room. “I heard the news about your mother,” he continues.
Our eyes meet for a moment.
“She is innocent,” I say finally, looking away.
“I did not think otherwise,” he says. “But it is strange, this accusation, is it not?” He looks at me inquiringly. I sigh. He is an outsider, does not understand our ways, nor the damage that simple minds and idle talk can do.
“There has been much talk,” I say. “It will likely come to nothing.” I echo Mary’s words, unsure if I believe them. He is about to speak when Mary enters carrying several empty tankards. He watches her a moment, then turns to me once more.
“I am sorry,” he says quickly, then disappears behind the door.
Mary raises her eyebrows. “For what does he apologize?” she says.
I think of Dora and his revelation of their past. Is he sorry for his deception? Or his devotion?
“I do not know,” I say. She smiles grimly and shakes her head, begins to douse the tankards in a bucket.
“How goes the portrait?” she asks after a moment, wiping her hands on her apron.
“The dead do not sit still,” I say.
She looks at me and smiles.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning my mistress appears somewhat revived: her color has improved and the glassiness has gone from her eyes, though it is clear they are failing her. She agrees to take some breakfast and I prepare a tray for her under Cook’s supervision: nothing cold and nothing solid, she admonishes, only that which has been well-cooked and sieved. My mistress frowns when I set the tray in front of her, but she eats slowly and finishes most of it. At length she pushes the remainder aside.
“Edward came to see me this morning,” she says cautiously. “He told me of your mother’s predicament.” She regards me closely, and I sigh inwardly. Even in her sickbed she is not immune from gossip. “I urged him to intervene on her behalf,” she continues. “Though I know not what he can do.”
“They do not accuse her at present,” I say.
“No doubt they will, if no one else is found,” she replies. She looks toward the window. “It does not bring honor upon the Great House,” she says at length. I turn to her. I thought her talk of marriage between Edward and me had been borne of her delirium, but apparently the notion remains planted firmly within her. With horror, I wonder whether she has spoken to him of it, and hope fervently that she has not.
“I am sorry, mum,” I say. She turns to me and nods beneficently.
“The Lord will steer us free from peril.”
I do not share her confidence.
* * *
Later, she sleeps, and I go to visit Long Boy, as I have promised