Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [160]
Poor man, thought Mrs. Ash. Pity was sugar under her tongue.
It wasn't that she lacked feeling. She'd been crying on and off for three days and nights, ever since she first saw that purpled body on the kitchen floor. Her heartbeat was still rapid with the shock of the sight. To think of it! We know neither the day nor the hour. Of course she grieved for Mrs. Jones, who hadn't been the worst of mistresses, not by any means; the house would sound hollow without the light movement of her feet.
What gall the Reverend Cadwaladyr had, standing up there as pious as a monk, when the shillings in his pocket came from pimping for a murderess! Nance Ash had trekked the five miles to the vicar's house yesterday, to tell him about his curate's shameful connection with the girl who'd killed Mrs. Jones. But to her mortification he'd told her that Cadwaladyr's actions as master of the Crow's Nest were not under the aegis of the Church—and that the case was bad enough without her meddling.
But how comforting the curate's prayers were, still.
For we must needs die,
and are as water spilt on the ground,
which cannot be gathered up again;
neither does God respect any person.
Nance Ash nodded her head at a pious angle. There was a hidden pattern, a reason for all this horror, even if most mortals were too blind to distinguish it.
Behind her ribs was joy. A tiny, parched kernel, but joy nonetheless. Now was it come, the hour of her redemption? Now would the servant be granted her just reward?
Well, Mr. Jones would need looking after, she argued with herself. The man would really have to marry again, for his own sake as well as the child's. A virtuous woman, someone old enough to share his burdens. But still young enough, perhaps, to bear his son.
Nance Ash's heart was thumping. She was only half-ashamed to allow these thoughts so soon. She cradled them to her breast. Head bowed, she prayed that good might come out of evil. She cast a glance at Mr. Jones, and nibbled her lips to make them redder.
The gravediggers stood by the door for spade money. The mourners, filing out, gave more than they could afford, as a mark of respect.
Daffy hung back till everyone was gone, fingering the little paper bag in his pocket. He shivered in the chill of the empty church. For three days he'd felt as if he had a fever. To have had connection with a murderess—to have come within a whisker of marrying a monster—Once more he shut his eyes and thanked his Maker.
The Skyrrid soil in the bag was damp. He scattered a handful on the coffin in the open grave, so his poor mistress would rest easy. Not all of it, mind; he saved a good sprinkle, in case his cough came back this winter. You should always hold a little in reserve, he knew; you never could be sure what evils lay ahead.
Outside in the sun, he was brushing the mountain dust off his hands when he sensed someone walking by his side. Blonde hair, pink freckled skin. He stared at his cousin Gwyn. It had been months since they'd exchanged a word.
'Daffy,' she murmured.
'Gwyneth. A fine crowd,' he added, to get them past the awkward silence.
Her knotted hair was full of light. She nodded, her pale eyes low. 'She was well thought of, your mistress.'
'I never served a better,' said Daffy.
After a little silence, Gwyn said, 'They caught the girl, I heard.'
'Aye.' His walk slowed; he felt sick.
'You must have known her as well as anyone,' said his cousin, letting her curiosity show.
He gave a small, exhausted shrug.
'Would you ever have thought it of her?' she asked, eyes shining.
Daffy started to shake his head, then stopped. 'Now I think of it,' he said unwillingly, 'there was always something about her.'
Gwyn's sky-blue eyes widened. 'Vicious?'
'No, no.' He considered the matter as he walked a little nearer to the girl's side. 'But something more than a maid needs. She was ... troublesome.'
Gwyn allowed the pause to lengthen. 'I heard a thing,' she murmured.
'Oh?'
'That she'd, you know, more