Goddess Born (9 page)

At my wits’ end, I was debating whether to wake Ben rather than waiting till morning when the front door finally opened. Practically holding my breath, I listened as Henry walked up the stairs, coming to a stop right outside my bedroom door. Unsure of his intentions, I picked up a book from the side table, setting it back down with a small bang to let him know I was still awake. A few more seconds passed, and he crossed the hall to his own room.

For a good while, I sat completely still, wondering what he would do next. It was quite possible that he had been innocently walking for the past four hours, taking in the cool night air before returning home to sleep. It was also equally possible that he had spent the time devising an escape plan and had only returned with the hopes of finding the house at his disposal.

My stomach dropped when I thought about my father’s watch sitting unprotected on the silver tray in his room. I had jumped up to retrieve it when I also remembered my mother’s jewelry. Going room by room, I took a mental inventory, from the silver candlesticks sitting out in plain sight to the sword hanging in my father’s study. There were so many valuables scattered throughout the house, it would be ridiculous trying to haul everything to my room.

Silent as a mouse, I stepped into the hall to listen outside Henry’s door. If all was quiet, chances were he had simply gone to bed and would cause no more trouble tonight, allowing me to think things through in the morning. For a good minute I heard nothing, and it seemed I might have overreacted, when he stirred and began pacing the room.

Sorely tempted to steal a look through the keyhole, I stumbled upon a cunning plan and scurried down the stairs to my father’s study. The top drawer of his desk held a large ring of keys, each one etched with the name of its correlating lock. Aided by a single candle, I found the one I needed and then slipped back up the stairs. Standing outside of Henry’s room again, I inserted the key into the metal hole and turned the bolt. In an instant he was at the door, testing the iron knob.

“Selah,” he growled threateningly. “Unlock this door at once!”

I took a step back and shook my head in reply, heedless that he couldn’t see me through the door. His fist crashed against the wood. I spun around, the key clamped in my hand as I flew back to the safety of my own room.

Chapter Five

Truce

I woke in the midst of a nightmare early the next morning. It was a reoccurring dream that first came to me the night my mother died and had been exactly the same ever since. Dressed in no more than a white linen shift, I was floating on my back in a pool of dark water when a hand suddenly grabbed me from below and pulled me beneath the surface. As I tried to struggle free, the hand tightened, dragging me farther down until I became entangled in the long grass growing up from the muddy floor. Starved for air, my lungs expanded, flooding my nose and mouth with water and bringing me to the very brink of death. At this point the nightmare always withdrew, leaving me gasping for breath and fighting the bedclothes for escape.

The initial terror abated as I stared out at my room, the familiar objects barely discernible in the dark gray light. Getting out of bed, I pulled on a simple cotton dress, managing the laces the best I could with trembling fingers. After drowning in my sleep at least once a month for the past four years, it should have become somewhat routine, but each time felt like the first. Fresh air was always the best remedy to counter the dream’s residual effects, and luckily I had enough work to keep me busy outdoors for the next several hours at least.

A shadowy stillness pervaded the main house when I left my room and tiptoed down the stairs to assemble the necessary supplies. Hurrying to the kitchen, which was located in the newer wing with the servants’ quarters, I pushed through the heavy wooden door and stepped from the gloomy silence into an entirely different world. Karta was moving at a frenzied pace, preparing breakfast for a full table of servants and farmhands. Unaccustomed to my presence at so early an hour, their lively chatter stopped the moment I entered.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully, pretending not to notice.

A small chorus of greetings followed in return. I didn’t like intruding on their personal time and meant to be quickly on my way when Evie burst through the cellar door with a fresh crock of butter. She gave a startled cry and dropped the clay pot to the floor where it broke into pieces, spattering both of our skirts with the sticky contents.

“Ye clumsy girl!” Karta hollered. “Jumping at yer own shadow again. Go fetch another crock and then clean up that mess before someone slips to their death!”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Evie squeaked, then fled back through the cellar door.

Good heavens!
I’d never met another soul who suffered from such nerves. Grabbing a napkin from a nearby cupboard, I started to wipe the pale yellow bits from my gown.

Mary dutifully got up from the table to help with the mess.

“Don’t bother yourself, Mary,” I said. “Have your breakfast while it’s still warm. This dress will be soiled from top to bottom by the time I’m done today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary said. “I’ll see to it this evening then.”

More than a dozen pair of eyes watched me as I grabbed two hardboiled eggs and a small jug of cider before continuing on down the corridor into the next room.

Small in comparison to the other rooms in the house, this insignificant space served as my private sanctuary. Most people referred to it as my apothecary, but the term fell short in describing all that it was for me.

A well-worn wooden table stood in the center of the room, on which rested a mortar and pestle, a set of scales, and numerous leather journals containing the recipes for remedies passed down from my mother and grandmother. Shelves lined one wall, holding all manner of jars filled with tinctures, decoctions, and finely ground herbs. The wall adjoining the kitchen was primarily taken up with a stone fireplace and an assortment of iron pots and kettles that ranged in size from a few cupfuls to one large enough to boil a bushel of licorice, pennyroyal and yarrow during the grippe season. Numerous bundles of healing plants, collected during the fall and this past spring, hung from hooks that Ben had nailed into the long wooden beams that ran along the length of ceiling. On the only exterior wall there was one good-sized window and a door that led out to my herb garden.

From under the table I fetched a large basket to hold my breakfast provisions along with a hand trowel, gloves and clippers. I then grabbed my straw hat, plunking it on my head as I went out the door. Ben had offered to give Henry a full tour of the property this morning, which was fine by me—I had other things to do.

First, I planned to visit the family burial plot to pay proper respect to my father and other family members. Out of habit, I dallied on the way to gather a large bundle of wild flowers, and the sun was just rising when I reached the spiked iron fence that enclosed the plot in a generous square. The gate swung open with a creaked greeting, and I continued forward in search of solace amongst the deceased.

Over the years the graves of my mother and grandparents had become a familiar sight, but the newly turned dirt over my father made my eyes sting hot with tears. Determined to be strong, I brushed them away with my gloves. Then taking the trowel and clippers from the basket, I knelt down to weed and trim the grass. This was no small job, and my arms ached and dark patches of sweat showed on my gown by the time I had finished. Removing my filthy gloves, I arranged the flowers into bouquets and placed one on each grave.

Pleased with how it looked, I sat down to rest and to eat. My stomach grumbled loudly, and although the eggs and cider were not a feast by any means, they would suffice until I got back to the house.

A narrow strip of grass ran between my parents’ graves, offering just enough room to stretch out for what needed to be done next. Lying flat on my back, I stared up at the clear, blue sky and started recounting all that had happened since my father had died. My confession was thorough from beginning to end. I apologized for my poor behavior, promising to do better just as soon as everything was resolved with Nathan Crowley. Unsure if they could actually hear me in the next life, I talked anyway, on and on until my eyes grew heavy with sleep and I dozed off in the shade of the towering oaks that stood sentry around the graveyard. The sun hung high in the sky when I finally woke. With my conscience greatly relieved, I bid my family farewell and headed off into the forest.

To be sure, I wanted to visit the Otherworld next, but it was too dangerous in the daytime, no matter how well the altar might be hidden. So instead, I spent the next several hours in search of healing plants that thrived on my family’s estate, most likely from the power that seeped out each time the altar was used to open a passage between the worlds. Over the years the surrounding woods and farmland had become infused with this power, giving us not only an abundance of highly potent plants, but also the best wheat in all of Pennsylvania. As a result, my father had always received the highest prices at market while my remedies were considered a staple to many folks in Hopewell and the surrounding villages.

Susanna Appleton was expecting a baby this summer and would want raspberry leaf tea to help with the labor. Lucy Goodwin, the mother of my best friend Nora, suffered regularly from depression and needed more tincture of St. John’s wort. Then there was Gideon Boyle, who complained often of indigestion. He swore by the healing benefits of my marrow tea, which he much preferred to skipping second helpings of his wife’s delicious pies. While searching for these plants, I also stumbled on a cluster of catnip to aid with fevers and headaches and some fine looking sumac leaves for poultices. My basket brimmed full when I returned home in the afternoon.

Subsisting on nothing more than two eggs and cider since morning, I left the basket on the wooden table in my apothecary and went into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of freshly baked bread. Karta looked up from chopping onions when I entered. Evie stood with her back to me, pumping a small bellows into the oven.

“Good day,” I said. Loaves of bread rested on the table and I cut a piece along with a thick slice of cheese.

“Good day, Mistress,” Karta said, but in such an odd tone it caught my attention at once.

Evie only peeped at me nervously before turning back to her work.

“Is there something the matter?” I asked.

Just then Alice came in with a bundle of laundry on her way to the washroom. “Oh, goodness,” she said, coming to a halt, her voice sounding as queer as Karta’s had the moment before.

I looked between the two of them, their eyes gone wide as they exchanged glances and tried to communicate without actually speaking. “It’s none of our concern,” Karta said at last, so quietly the words almost went unheard. She pursed her mouth and continued chopping onions.

“Good gracious! Whatever is the matter?” I asked, exasperated by the scene. “Has something happened in my absence?”

Alice shuffled her feet. “Well, Mistress” she said, looking down at the floor rather than at me. “We were wondering if ye would be letting Master Kilbrid out of his chamber today? I imagine he’s hungry, missing two meals already, and may need to take a trip to the privy. There’s a chamber pot under the bed mind ye, but this may not hold too much longer.”

She could have slapped me, the words had the same effect. “Ballocks!” I cried, the bread and cheese all but forgotten. Alice gasped and Karta’s knife clattered to the floor as I bolted from the kitchen. Taking the stairs two at a time, I dashed into my room and retrieved the key from its hiding place deep inside a drawer. Across the hall my hand shook so badly that it took several tries to unfasten the lock. Pushing open the door, I saw him at once, seated in a chair by the hearth reading a book.

“Henry...” I started, ready with an apology for forgetting him, but the look on his face stopped me cold.

Closing the book, he placed it on the side table and stood up. “Good day, Selah,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Do you intend to keep me locked up for the duration of my contract?”

I shook my head, having already resolved to never lock his door again after today. “No...of course not.”

Narrowing his eyes, he took a step toward me. “Have you had a pleasant day?”

Very pleasant indeed
,
until about five minutes ago
, I thought, but didn’t dare admit outright.

“As for myself,” he continued, “I’ve spent a good deal of time wondering why you would feel so inclined to lock me in my room. Were you more concerned for your knickknacks or your virtue if I were not appropriately restrained?”

“That’s not...I didn’t mean...” I stammered, unable to complete the sentence as he drew nearer.

He placed one hand on the wall near my head and leaned so close I could see the pulse jump in his throat. My own heart beat erratically as I dragged my attention upward to meet his eyes, and found two emerald daggers staring back at me. Tremors ran pell-mell through my legs, and I pressed my back against the wall to keep from falling.

A small, sardonic smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Rest assured, madam,” he said, in a soft, mocking voice. “You will find they are both safe, for neither are to my liking.”

A rush of hot blood stained my cheeks, and my mouth opened and closed wordlessly at the cruelty of his words. Pinned against the wall, I thought of pushing him away, or screaming in outrage when he suddenly dropped his arm and brushed by me. He left the room without a backward glance, and thumped down the stairs. At the sound of the front door slamming shut, my legs gave out and I slowly sank to the floor.

* * *

Henry didn’t return for evening meal, leaving me to eat alone in the large dining room. My appetite was minimal at best, and I stared moodily at the beef and onion pie on the plate in front of me. After forcing down a few bites, I gave up any pretense of eating and went upstairs to bed. Tucked in under the covers, I had plenty of time to worry whether he would return to Brighmor or had deserted me altogether. Not that I could blame him entirely, being locked in his room all day like a prisoner, guilty of no other crime than taking a long walk.

It was well past midnight when I heard him come in and go to his room. Though I was tempted to cross the hall and apologize, I decided to give him the rest of the night to cool off. Tomorrow he would forgive me, and then everything would be fine again.

When morning came around, I went down for breakfast only to learn that Henry had already gone out with Ben to survey the property and wasn’t expected back until late afternoon. Disappointed, I went to my apothecary to prepare the plants I had collected yesterday. While my hands were busy tying up bundles of sumac, raspberry leaves and mallow to be dried, my mind worked and re-worked the words for when he returned. I wanted to get it just right, and even rehearsed the apology out loud as I cut up the catnip, putting it in a pot with sugar and water to boil into syrup. My speech sounded so good I had completely forgiven myself by the time the St. John’s wort had been crushed and placed in a jar with alcohol to soak for the next two weeks.

The hours slipped by entirely unnoticed, until Mary poked her head into the room. “There’s a visitor waiting in the drawing room for ye, ma’am,” she said.

I wiped the last of the St. John’s wort from my hands and untied the apron covering my gown. “Thank you, Mary. I’ll be right there.”

It was only a matter of time before my neighbors started calling to offer both their congratulations and condolences for the recent events. Though I was tempted to claim a headache, marriages and funerals rarely occurred so close together, and it was my duty as Mistress of Brighmor to accept their regards. With a heavy sigh I walked through the house to meet my guest.

Mary had left the door open, and I peeked into the drawing room ahead of entering. Over by the windows a man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Since our last argument I had known another confrontation was inevitable, but I hadn’t imagined it like this. Not without Henry at my side.

Nathan must have heard my footsteps or the whisk of my skirts, for he turned around before I could retreat. “Selah Kilbrid,” he said, putting the windows at his back and walking toward me.