The Lady of Secrets (6 page)

“She is there! Hovering above my bed. Oh! Cannot you hear her horrible laugh? Do you not see her?”

Charlotte looked wildly about the bedchamber and actually ducked as though she expected some vengeful spirit to fly down upon her, claws bared. “No, Bridget,” she quavered. “I confess I do not see anything.”

“That is because there is nothing to see,” Blackwood said. Nursing his injured eye, he groped for something on the table while ordering Charlotte to gain command of herself. “Stop behaving like a fool and help—”

But Charlotte had had all she could endure. With a frightened sob, she fled from the room, nearly knocking Meg over in the process.

Dr. Blackwood noticed Meg and whipped upright. He towered over her when he straightened to his full height. His brawny shoulders, combined with his shabby manner of dress, gave him more the look of a field hand than a doctor. His disheveled brown hair and beard were badly in want of a trim, his eyes appearing bloodshot and shadowed from want of sleep.

“Who the devil are you?” he growled. His glare felt forceful enough to hurl her back through the door. But Meg stood her ground.

“I am the Lady—” Meg checked, always feeling pretentious
announcing her title. She finished simply, “I am Margaret Wolfe.”

The doctor’s lips curled in contempt. “The cunning woman from the island? That’s all I need. Although you might prove some help if you weren’t such a scrawny thing.”

“I beg your pardon!”

His gaze raked over her. “Do you think you are strong enough to help me hold that chit down?”

“Hold her down for what?”

“The wench needs to be bled.” Blackwood raised his arm and Meg noticed the sharp gleam of the lancet he clutched in his right hand.

Her gasp was lost in the howl that erupted from Bridget. The girl burrowed beneath the covers until not even the tip of her head was visible.

“It would not matter how strong I was,” Meg said. “I would not aid you in such a barbarous practice.”

“Then you are of no use whatever. Get out.”

He turned back toward the bed, but Meg darted round him.

“You are the one who should go.” She reeled back in distaste as she breathed in the odor of strong spirits. She suddenly understood the odd accent of his speech.

“By God, monsieur! You are drunk.”

A red stain spread across Blackwood’s cheekbones. “I may have consumed a little burgundy, but I am sober enough to know what needs to be done.”

“Bloodletting? Is that the only remedy you doctors know? Slicing open someone’s veins?”

“The girl’s womb is full of noxious humors that are making her hysterical. Bleeding is the only remedy.”

“What would you know of a woman’s womb or any other part of her anatomy?”

“Oh, I assure you I have made a most thorough study of the female body.” The suggestive slur in his voice only increased Meg’s anger.

“And what do you know of a woman’s mind or soul?”

“Do you have one? I believe there is some debate on that point.”

“Then go and debate it with your friend downstairs. And attempt to sober up while you are about it. The only thing worse than an ignorant doctor is an inebriated one.”

She turned her back on him and stepped toward the bed. But he grabbed her arm and spun her about. “And leave you here to give credence to this girl’s nonsense? I think not. There is something far more dangerous than a drunken doctor and that is a witch claiming to possess supernatural powers of healing.”

“I claim nothing of the kind. Let me go.”

“I will when you are on your way out the door.”

His grip tightened painfully, but Meg refused to flinch. Their gazes locked in a silent battle of will. Meg stared deep into his eyes and it felt like falling into the depths of a well. She had never encountered an expression so dark, so cold, and so empty. Not since the last time she had looked into her mother’s eyes.

Meg’s anger dissolved into fear. Her gaze flicked from Blackwood’s stony gaze to the sharp lancet he gripped in his hand.

When the door swung open, she glanced around in relief. For once she would have welcomed the sight of Seraphine charging in with sword drawn. But rescue came from a quarter she would have never expected.

The strange Englishman stood in the doorway, frowning as he took in the scene before him.

“Armagil, what is going on? Let her go.”

The man’s command was so soft-spoken, Meg feared the doctor would pay no heed. But Blackwood blinked and glanced down at the lancet as though becoming aware of his menacing posture.

He released Meg, growling to his friend. “Take her out of here.”

Meg rubbed her sore arm, bracing herself for a fresh assault, but the other man only shook his head. “No, Gil. I think you are the one who must come away.”

Blackwood glowered at his friend. “The devil I will.”

The two men spoke in English in low voices as if they thought she could not understand. Or perhaps as though she had become a thing of no importance, not even present. The conflict of will was between them now, Blackwood’s gaze dark and ferocious, his friend’s calm and steady.

“The girl’s sister is down there raising an uproar, Gil. She claims you are doing nothing to ease her sister’s suffering.”

“Perhaps I could if I was allowed to proceed. I was close to resolving this matter until
she
intruded.” Blackwood gestured angrily toward Meg. “Why did you let her come up?”

“Because she was expected. Except for the landlord and the village priest, it is clear that all these people place a great deal of faith in her skills.”

Blackwood snorted.

“Whereas I was worried all along that you are in no condition to deal with this.”

“I am fine.”

“Are you, Gil? Look at your hand.”

Blackwood gazed down at his trembling fingers, grimaced,
and clenched them into a fist. His friend stepped forward, placing his hand on Blackwood’s shoulder with the kind of gentling gesture he might have used on a restive steed.

“Come away. There is nothing you can accomplish here. Let us see what the lady can do.”

“You expect me to walk away, just so you can satisfy your curiosity about this witch? Damn it, Graham, you know what could happen—”

“I know, but there may be better ways of dealing with it. Come, Gil, before the girl’s brother or some of those other hot-tempered louts belowstairs take a notion to come storming up here. We cannot afford to find ourselves at the center of anything that might draw down upon us the attention of local authorities.”

Blackwood regarded his friend belligerently and swore. He shrugged off his hand and then stormed out of the bedchamber without looking back.

Meg had all but held her breath during the entire exchange. “Thank you,” she said.

The Englishman stared after Blackwood, but Meg’s quiet words drew his attention back to her. He bowed stiffly and addressed her in French. “My apologies for my friend, mademoiselle. Blackwood can be rather abrupt and difficult, but he is a good doctor except for when …”

“When he has been imbibing too much wine?”

“In his defense, he did not expect to attend to any patients this evening.”

Meg appreciated the man’s loyalty to his friend, but she could not allow this excuse. “Is it not the mark of a good doctor to always be prepared to minister aid when needed?”

He fell silent as though unable to argue the point. Meg studied his eyes. She thought if sorrow were a color, then this
man’s eyes would be tinted with it. Instead they were blue, a startlingly vivid blue.

“We have had a long journey to arrive at this place,” he said at last. “Dr. Blackwood is very wearied. We both are. But I assure you he will trouble you no further, Mademoiselle Wolfe.”

His easy use of her name jolted Meg. As the man prepared to leave, she said, “You appear to know who I am, but I still have no idea of who you are, monsieur.”

“My name is … Graham.” He hesitated before adding, “Sir Patrick Graham, at your service, milady.”

He surprised her by taking her hand and lifting it lightly to his lips. And then he was gone.

A
S THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND SIR PATRICK GRAHAM, MEG
watched him go with a bemused frown. Under different circumstances, she would have been favorably impressed by the knight, calm, serious, gentle in his manners, traits that she admired in a man and such a contrast to his rough brute of a friend.

But the Englishman’s presence in Pernod had alarmed Meg from the start and the conversation she had overheard between Graham and Blackwood did nothing to allay her anxiety.

She did not have the leisure to fret over it now. A groan from behind her reminded Meg of that. She hastened over to the bed to find Bridget quivering beneath the coverlet.

“It is all right, Mademoiselle Tillet,” Meg said. “Dr. Blackwood is gone. No one will hurt you now.”

The only response was another moan. When Meg tried to ease back the covers, Bridget clutched them tighter.

“I am Margaret Wolfe, the healer from the island. Your grandmother sent for me to help you, Bridget. Please allow me to look at you.”

The girl’s frame shook beneath the blankets as though she were stricken with an ague. Meg managed to wrest the blanket back far enough to expose Bridget’s face.

She touched her hand to the girl’s brow. For one who was supposed to be fevered, Bridget’s skin was cool, although damp, her blond hair matted. She reeked of the sour odor of sweat, but that was not surprising between the crackling fire and all of these candles. The bedchamber was stuffy and overwarm. Meg felt beads of perspiration gather on her own brow.

The door opened and Sidonie Tillet crept into the room. Bridget’s grandmother approached the bedstead anxiously.

“How fares the poor child? Can you help her, milady?”

“I hope so.”

Bridget panted, her eyes clenched shut. She tried to strike Meg’s hands away, but Meg captured one of the girl’s flailing arms. She groped for Bridget’s wrist and managed to take her pulse. A little hectic, but surprisingly normal for one claiming to be possessed.

“Tell me. What other symptoms has your granddaughter exhibited?” Meg asked.

“Vomiting, fever, and strange swelling. Fierce pains and terrible bouts of trembling as though something seizes hold of her and shakes her like a cloth poppet. She cannot even rise from the bed. She says demons are pinning her down.”

“And when did all of this begin?”

“I first noticed signs of the sickness coming upon her three days ago. Bridget would be distressingly ill upon arising. I caught her vomiting behind the cowshed and I—” The old woman flushed. “I am ashamed to tell you what I suspected and accused my poor girl of, but then Bridget fell down into a terrible fit.”

“Did she indeed?”

“It soon became clear this was no natural woman’s ailment but the workings of some terrible witchcraft.”

Bridget bucked and shrieked as though to confirm her grandmother’s words. She tossed her head from side to side.

Meg clasped the girl’s head to stop the wild movements. “Bridget. Bridget Tillet. Open your eyes and look at me.”

The girl writhed beneath Meg’s restraining grasp. When Meg repeated her command in a firmer voice, Bridget’s eyelids fluttered open. Meg stared deep into the blue depths, capturing Bridget’s gaze and holding it.

The girl’s eyes were remarkably clear, unclouded by anything other than fear and defiance. From the time she had been a child, Meg had been adept at the ancient wise woman’s art of reading the eyes. She felt she had lost some of her skill as she had grown older, but Bridget Tillet was a simple country girl. She possessed neither the cunning of madness nor the guile to keep Meg from discerning her thoughts.

Discomfited by Meg’s probing, Bridget twisted her head to one side, letting out a howl of protest when Meg peeled back the blanket further to examine her.

Bridget’s chemise was soaked with sweat, outlining her thin frame. There did appear to be a slight protrusion in the region of her abdomen. Meg ran her hands gently, but firmly over the swelling. Bridget jerked beneath her touch, scrabbling for possession of the coverlet.

“Grandmère! Help me. Make her stop.”

Sidonie clutched her granddaughter’s hand. “I am here, my child. What ails you, dearest? Tell me where it hurts.”

“Everywhere. I ache, I burn! Old Mère Poulet torments me so. She swears not even the Lady of Faire Isle shall save me. Oh, cannot you hear her horrible cackling laugh, Grandmère?”

“No. Oh my poor angel!”

Poor devil would have been a more apt description of Bridget Tillet, Meg thought. She swallowed the caustic remark, realizing it would do little good. The girl was faking this possession and doing it badly. Meg had encountered far more clever deceivers. But Bridget’s performance was quite good enough to terrify the credulous villagers of Pernod and cause a harmless old woman to be hanged for witchcraft.

She longed to seize Bridget by the shoulders and shake a confession from the foolish girl, but that would prove no remedy. If she confronted Bridget and called her a liar, the girl might well turn on Meg, naming her as a witch in league with la Mère Poulet to torment her. Meg realized if she was to have the truth out of Bridget Tillet, it would require more subtle means and she would have a better chance of that if she was alone with the girl.

Meg drew the coverlet back over the girl. “Alas,” she said. “It is all too apparent this poor child is cursed. Fortunately, I do know how to break this witch’s hold over her. There is a powerful spell I can use, but I will need help.”

“Anything,” Sidonie said. “Anything to save my granddaughter.”

“I need you to go below and brew up a kettle of water. And you—you must, er, fetch some garlic. Chop up a large quantity of it.”

“Garlic?”

“Yes,” Meg replied solemnly. “For my spell.”

The old woman looked mystified by her request, but hastened below to obey. As Sidonie left the room, Meg caught a glimpse of Denys Brunel pacing on the landing. He darted an anguished look in the direction of the room.

It struck Meg that the young man took far too tender an interest in these events for one who claimed to be merely a good friend of the Tillet family. An idea formed in her mind, one not without its risks, but she hoped it would succeed.