Angel of Ruin (27 page)

“I don’t think you have, Father,” Deborah said quickly. “Only, your generous and fair nature, your ability to see both sides of any dispute, has led you to be overly charitable. And Father, it is no surprise that a man such as yourself should feel sympathy with rebels. For were you not one yourself, in your youth? The earliest distress of my life was your removal to prison for sedition.”

“Hmm.” He stroked his chin gently. All was silent for a few moments. “I shall think upon it, Deborah. Leave it as it is for now. When I return from Cambridge I will reconsider.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You may go. You were in a hurry to be somewhere not long past.”

Deborah put aside her writing tray. “Thank you, Father.”

“And thank you, Deborah,” he said gruffly, turning his chair away. She took the small compliment of his affection carefully. Lately, she had had to guard her heart against the passionate loyalties which Father aroused in her. She wouldn’t be hurt by him again. Pulling on her cap and gloves, she headed for Amelia’s.

The sweat ran in trickles under Betty’s clothes as she and Liza stuffed a fish by the cooking fire. It was too hot to be in the kitchen, but the work had to be done. Pike was John’s favourite and, as he occasionally reminded her, if she couldn’t cook his favourite dish at least once a week, what was the point of him calling her his wife? She could never be certain whether or not he was jesting when he said such a thing.

She glanced up at Liza. The maidservant sported a purplish bruise on her right cheek which Betty had administered. The idiot had confessed to Mary that Betty had sent her spying for proof of magic. Despite lack of material evidence, she was in no doubt about their guilt. Liza had said that Mary appeared from nowhere, and Father Bailey had sent word that the book and mirror had disappeared from a locked trunk in his home. The situation had become dangerous now. With the girls dabbling in necromancy, what was to stop them turning it against her? Once the animosity she had felt for her stepdaughters was simply jealousy. Now it was fear.

Betty sprinkled flour on the fish and rubbed it in. Sweat tickled where her thighs touched. She wriggled her legs together to ease it. Summer was fully upon them. In a few days, she and John were travelling up to Cambridge to stay with an old friend of his there. The girls had been invited but all had refused. John had
secretly confessed his relief: even Deborah was becoming unpredictable.

“Ma’am, how much sugar shall I put in the rice pudding?”

Betty pushed her hair off her face with the back of her wrist. “Why do you never remember a single thing I tell you?” The tickling between her legs had inched higher and was becoming unbearable. This heat would drive her insane if Liza’s incompetence didn’t first.

“I always get it mixed up with the sugar cakes.”

Betty strode over to Liza’s side of the large table, measured out the sugar and dumped it into the mixing bowl. She wanted more than anything to be able to scratch herself down below, but her hands were covered in flour.

“Thank you ma’am.”

“There’s an easy way to remember and that’s —” Betty gasped. Suddenly the tickling had become a scratching and she squeezed her legs together tight to relieve it.

“Ma’am?”

Betty reached for a nearby cloth and wiped her hands vigorously. “I have to go upstairs for a moment,” she said. As she dropped the cloth she noticed a spider crawling on the floor by the table. “And squash that ere it makes its way into the pudding,” she called over her shoulder as she rushed out of the kitchen.

“Squash what, ma’am?” Liza called after her. But Betty barely heard her. She scratched herself vigorously through her skirt, but still the tickling, prickling sensation pestered her. Her private parts and thighs were awash with the feeling. Once within the privacy of her bedroom, she pulled the pot out from under the bed and squatted over it, yanking up her skirts.

Spiders.

The intensity of her scream surprised her, and was still echoing in her ears as her frantic hands moved between her legs. Spiders, dozens and dozens of spiders, crawling around in her pale pubic hair. She brushed at them desperately, but the itch, the awful itch of them, was inside her and she knew it. She shrieked and shrieked as she tried to squeeze them out. A little urine escaped her body and some of the spiders landed in the pot. She plunged her fingers inside herself and roughly scraped her insides. They were on her fingers, crawling up her hands, softly dropping on the edge of the pot and the floor around it.

The commotion outside the bedroom could barely distract her.

“Betty? Betty, are you sick?” This was John, and it occurred to her that her scream must have terrified him if it had brought him up the rickety stairs.

“Ma’am, ma’am!” This was Liza rushing in, pushing through the curtains. “Whatever’s the matter?”

“Spiders! Spiders! Look, they’re everywhere!” In her shock and distress, she didn’t give a thought for her dignity, but stood with her skirts hoisted, showing her naked quim to the maidservant.

“Ma’am, I can see no spiders. Calm down. There are no spiders.”

“But they’re everywhere!” She scooped up the pot and proffered it to Liza; even as she did, she realised that the itching had stopped, that she could not see a single spider on the edge of the pot.

Liza inspected the pot closely. “No, ma’am, no spiders.” She took Betty gently and smoothed down her skirts, led her to the bed. “I think you must be ill.”

Betty allowed herself to be led, her mind still aswarm with the hot horror.

“Liza? Is everything well?” This was John, just outside the bedroom curtain.

“Yes, sir. Mrs Milton’s taken a nasty turn is all. You’re not to worry.”

Voices just outside, conferring. One of the girls. Then Deborah spoke: “Betty? Liza? Can I come in?”

Betty was too shocked to answer. Deborah tentatively parted the curtain. “Are you unwell, Betty?”

“She said she saw spiders in her pot,” Liza replied.

Betty shook her head. “I know they were there. I felt them.”

“It is very hot. Perhaps you are feeling dizzy?”

Betty met Deborah’s gaze for the first time, and suddenly a connection snapped into place. The girls were involved in magic, and now they knew that Betty was watching them. This was her punishment.

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out, witch!”

Deborah’s shocked reaction made Betty think twice before saying anything else. “Betty, I … certainly, I shall go. I shall help Father down the stairs.” In a moment she was gone, leaving Betty staring at the curtain.

“Ma’am, we’d best get you into bed,” Liza said, turning down the covers. “You’ll need to rest if you’re to be well enough to travel to Cambridge on Friday.”

The thought of going to Cambridge provided a moment’s relief: away from the girls and their magic, safely out of the house. But then she thought about Father Bailey, about how John would never let an exorcist into the house. And she knew she could not go.

“I am most unwell,” she said. “Tell Mr Milton to prepare to travel by himself.”

B
etty could not remember having been more anxious in her life. John had left, sour and resentful, at first light, urging her until the last moment to travel even though she was ill. The fact that her illness was feigned only served to heighten her guilt. What kind of wife was she, sending a blind man on a long journey alone? Yet, the coachman had been given an extra shilling to keep an eye on him, and she told herself he would be safe. The reasons she had stayed behind were far more urgent than John’s brief discomfort.

Some time during the full sun of the afternoon, she had managed to get the girls out of the house, too. Liza had been charged with that responsibility and for once hadn’t disappointed. The maidservant herself had reluctantly taken the afternoon off at Betty’s insistence. Finally alone, Betty paced back and forth, from the kitchen to the front door, wondering when Father Bailey would arrive. He was already late, and she wanted him finished and gone well before the girls arrived home. The last thing she needed was for them to discover her plans.

She stopped and peered through the window. Footsteps on the street outside caught her attention,
but it was only a couple walking past on their way to the main road. She perspired lightly. John was known to so many people. What if somebody saw the Catholic priest arriving at their house? If it were one of John’s supporters that would be bad enough. But one of John’s detractors with that information could be dangerous.

But what was she to do? There were devils in the house. The girls were witches. And she never wanted to suffer under one of their hideous spells again.

Finally, finally, she could see him advancing up the hill. Her eyes darted about, searching for witnesses. Thankfully, the street was empty. She threw open the door and called out hello.

“Good evening, Mrs Milton,” he called in return. He was dressed in a long white robe, and carried a cloth bag.

Betty breathed again only when he was safely inside, away from the eyes of the public. She closed the door behind him.

“Good, then. Where shall we start?” he said, smiling his rotten-tooth smile. “Where are your stepdaughters?”

“The girls aren’t here,” Betty said.

Father Bailey raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Look you there now! Did you not want me to perform an exorcism?”

Betty’s heart fell. “You mean they have to be here?”

“’Tis them to whom the devils cleave. They must be cleansed.”

“But they will hurt me.”

“Once they are cleansed they will not hurt you. They will kiss you and thank you for saving their souls.”

“Can you not cleanse their room?”

“An excellent idea. And then I can come back
tomorrow and finish the task. Will you show me where they perform their magic?”

She nodded and led the way. Father Bailey, with his slow, methodical movements, took an age to ascend the stairs. Betty despaired of him working quickly and leaving promptly. And as for him coming back tomorrow to work on the girls — if they suspected an inkling before he arrived, then she dreaded how they would repay her. Perhaps next time it would be snakes instead of spiders. Her throat grew dry at the thought.

Father Bailey pushed open the door to the girls’ bedroom and took a step in, Betty close behind him. He lifted his nose and sniffed the air.

“Ah yes, this room is full of evil.” He turned to her. “Tell me, Mrs Milton. Did you ever find the book and mirror after they disappeared from my home?”

She shook her head. “No, Father. But I suspect they are in Deborah’s closet.” She pushed the door open and showed him in.

“The girl has this much private space? Why, no wonder she has turned to necromancy. Young women should be watched more closely. They are predisposed to evil.”

He examined the walls and the bed, and Betty wondered when he would start the proceedings. Time ticked by.

“Very well, I shall start here,” he said. He reached into his cloth bag and brought out a flask. “Let us pray.”

Betty bent her head as he started mumbling away in Latin. It went against everything she had been taught about God and faith, but she complied because she saw no alternative solution. After the Amen she looked up to see he had pulled the cork out of the flask. He began to speak more Latin, and she wished for even a basic command of the language so she could understand what he was saying.

As he spoke he drew crosses in the air and scattered water out of the flask. He spent a long time in Deborah’s room, then moved into the main bedroom. More invocations, more crosses, more holy water. Betty had a thousand anxious questions poised on her tongue, but did not make a sound in case he had to start the prayer all over again. Already the evening was growing dangerously late. Elongated shadows drew across the room as the long twilight settled in.

It took less than an hour, but Betty’s anxiety had drained her. When Father Bailey declared the room free of demons, she ushered him downstairs as quickly as she could.

“Thank you, Father, I appreciate your help.”

“It is my duty, Mrs Milton. But I shall return tomorrow for the girls.”

“Father, I fear that they will know you are coming and they will punish me.”

“Pray, child. God will protect you.”

Maybe, not long ago, Betty’s faith could have been strong enough to assist her, but after the incident with the spiders she wasn’t so sure. “What time will you come, Father? Early? At first light while they are sleeping?”

“A good suggestion. Expect me at dawn. In the meantime, keep safe. The house is rid of demons, but the girls may bring more with them.”

He was out the door, standing in the street. Two passers-by glanced at them. Did they know John? Would they tell? They kept walking without comment.

“Good day, Father Bailey.”

“Good day, Mrs Milton.”

Betty closed the door quickly and pressed her back against it. Safe for now. Still, her heart hammered in her chest. She prayed that the girls wouldn’t find out what she had done.

“Well, I know not why it takes three of us to carry a pie,” Mary said as they rounded the corner into Artillery Walk.

“’Tis not as though you’re actually carrying anything, Mary,” Deborah sniffed.

“I’m keeping an eye on Max, aren’t I? Dear boy.” The dog trotted happily in front of them.

“I think Betty wanted us out of the house for a while,” Anne said, pulling her lame leg behind her.

“That’s clear enough,” Mary said. “Perhaps she is having a paramour to visit.”

Deborah giggled. “Mary, you are the limit.” She looked up the hill and saw a pale figure emerge from their front door.

“Wait, is that Father Bailey coming from our house?”

“That dirty old Papist,” Mary huffed. “Surely not. It must be next door.”

“I am certain it is not,” Anne said. “Deborah is right. He was visiting Betty.”

They all looked at each other and burst into uncontrollable laughter. “Betty’s paramour is a Catholic! How
pleased
Father would be to know,” Mary said, nearly doubled over with laughter.

“But think about it, Mary,” Deborah said. “Perhaps Betty is secretly Catholic. Can you only imagine? Having to pretend all this time that she’s of our faith, and stealing away to confession when nobody is watching.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Why else would she have Father Bailey to visit?”

Anne suddenly reached out and clutched Deborah’s wrist with a cold, white hand. “Sisters, no. We have it wrong. What is Father Bailey famous for?”

“I have no idea, Anne. Why do you look so pale?” Mary said.

“He is an exorcist.”

At once, they all turned to look up the street. Father Bailey had disappeared from view.

“Surely …” Mary breathed.

“That stupid trick you played on Betty, Mary …” Deborah started.

“Let’s get home. Don’t let Betty know that we know,” Mary said. “Be composed. He can’t hurt us, can he?”

“He is gone now, anyway,” Anne said.

Mary caught Max in her arms and they hurried home. Deborah thought about the demons living in the walls of her closet. Could Father Bailey get rid of them? And would they come back as soon as she used the demon key again? Her right hand involuntarily went to her neck, to feel the heavy chain there.

“Betty, we’re home,” Mary called smoothly as they closed the door behind them. Deborah followed Mary to the kitchen while Anne hung back to check in the downstairs rooms.

“Hello, girls,” Betty said. Even if she hadn’t seen Father Bailey leaving the house, Deborah would have known something was amiss. Betty was positively ashen, and her voice was all strained friendliness, overlying a desperate fear.

“Here is your pie, Betty,” Deborah said, placing it carefully on the table.

“Only I don’t see why three of us had to go,” Mary said. “I thought there must be baskets of food to pick up.”

“You must be feeling better if you are up and working,” Deborah said.

“Much better, thank you. Liza has the rest of the day off, so I am fixing supper.”

“Mary, Deborah,” Anne said from the doorway. They turned. “Come upstairs and we shall rest a while ere supper.”

Betty’s eyes were wide with anticipation.

“We shall return in half an hour or so,” Mary said. She smiled a wicked smile. “How cosy, just the four of us for supper.”

Betty tried to smile in return, but her anxiety was clearly overwhelming her. Deborah could sense it like a nerve trembling in the room.

Upstairs alone, the girls sat on the edge of the bed.

“I could see nothing downstairs,” Anne said. “He has left no signs of his visit.”

“But you still suspect he was here in his capacity as an exorcist?”

“I know not. What do you think, Deborah?”

Deborah bit her lip as she considered. She could check instantly, of course, simply by looking in her scrying mirror to see if her demons were still here. But her scrying mirror was a secret as much as her demon key. “Does it matter? He cannot hurt us, can he?”

“I am not certain of that, Deborah,” Mary said. “What if he comes back? What if he tries to exorcise us, and then we can no longer call upon Lazodeus.”

Or use the demon key. Deborah stood and paced. “You are right to worry. But how can we know what he plans? Or how to protect ourselves if he returns?”

“Lazodeus could tell us,” Anne said confidently. “He will know.”

“Yes,” said Mary enthusiastically. “Yes, we shall call him.”

“Call him, then,” Deborah said.

Mary took a step out into the centre of the room and looked up. “Lazodeus? We need to ask your advice. We may be in danger.”

A shimmer near the window, then he appeared, dressed in his splendid clothes, all slow smiles and beautiful eyes. “All three of you?” he said. “I am honoured.”

But instantly, something was wrong. Perhaps even before he finished his sentence, he pitched forward and barely steadied himself on the windowsill.

“Lazodeus? Are you unwell?” Mary hurried over, Anne limping behind her. They had an arm each within seconds, and had led him to the bed.

“What has happened?” he said, looking around bewildered. “Who has been in here?”

“Do you feel pain?” Anne asked.

Deborah heard the frantic note in her sister’s voice, and it galvanised her to move forward. “The exorcist,” she said. “He must have blessed the room, and it is making the angel sick.”

“No!” Mary shrieked. “We are sorry, Lazodeus. You must leave immediately.”

He fell back on the bed, his eyes closed and lay still for long moments.

“Lazodeus,” Anne cried, lifting his wrist and patting it roughly. “Open your eyes. What is wrong? What can we do?”

He seemed to gather strength and his eyelids fluttered open. “I am too weak to leave. I have been crippled by the blessing.”

“Oh, what have we done?” Mary sat back and dropped her head forlornly. “What fools we are.”

“Will you be well again?” Anne asked.

“I …” His eyelids dropped again. His voice came in a soft croak. “I can recover if I rest. But if he comes again, it may finish me.”

“Finish you?”

“The exorcist has the power of Michael’s sword in his words.”

“Annihilation,” Deborah said softly.

“We shall keep him away from you. How long will you need to recover?”

“A day, two days,” he replied.

“’Tis lucky Father is away,” Deborah said. “Though we will have to keep Betty and Liza out of the room.”

“You can have Deborah’s closet,” Anne said.

“No, he can’t!” Deborah replied.

“He’s sick,” Mary said, turning on her. “Have some compassion.”

“I do not want Deborah’s closet. I cannot move in any case, and you won’t be able to carry me. I’m afraid I shall have to lie right here until I am better.”

“Fine. We shall sleep on the floor,” Anne said.

Already Deborah was shifting the dresser. “We need to keep this door barred. Two of us will have to go down to supper. We can’t let on that anything is amiss. And one of us will stay here with Lazodeus.”

“I’ll stay.”

“No,
I’ll
stay.”

“Anne can stay,” Deborah said. For some reason she was unsettled by the idea of Mary and Lazodeus being alone together. Anne was more trustworthy.

“Why are you our commander suddenly?” Mary asked, indignant.

“Please, I must have quiet,” Lazodeus said, his hand flying to his brow. Immediately, Deborah’s two sisters fell silent, crowded about him, touching him gently and fussing with his pillows. Hopeless. Both of them were clearly in love with him.

“Both of you stay, then,” Deborah said. “I shall have supper with Betty alone.”

“Tell her we’re sick,” Mary said distractedly.

“I can think of lies enough, Mary. I trust the angel to your care while I change for supper.” Neither of them
noticed her disappear into her closet. She quickly pulled out the scrying mirror and passed her hand over it.

“Show me the walls of my closet,” she whispered. The demons were all still there, wriggling against each other and chittering their strange language. Father Bailey’s blessing was of mixed success then: it had affected the angel mortally, but her demons not at all. She frowned. Amelia might be able to explain it. Deborah’s knowledge of ethereal beings was still limited. She hid her mirror once again, and prepared to keep company with Betty for supper.