The Witch’s Daughter (12 page)

‘It seems there are people hereabouts not to be trusted,’ he said, his words softly spoken but in a voice that contained unmistakable strength.

Bess ignored him and untied the horse.

‘Such a pity,’ he went on, ‘that a trusting nature should be so taken advantage of. It is a rare thing to find innocence in these dark times. I do not enjoy seeing it abused.’

Bess looked up at him, unsure whether he was mocking her or showing genuine concern. She could not read his expression. She finished untying the reins and started to turn the horse.

‘What will you tell your mother?’ Gideon asked, making no attempt to move from her path.

‘Why, the truth of course.’

‘Will she not berate you for your foolishness?’

‘Would you have me lie to save face? What sort of a daughter would I be then?’

‘A clever one, maybe?’

‘Better foolish and honest than clever and false.’

‘Fine sentiments, Bess. I applaud your integrity.’

There was something about the way he spoke her name that Bess found deeply unsettling.

‘I have no need of your approval, sir.’

Now he smiled properly, plainly amused by her show of defiance. His angular features and dark eyes were softened and transformed by his wide smile. His eyes crinkled, and it would have been easy to believe in that moment that the man’s natural disposition was one of gentleness and merriment. Bess found this new, pleasant, charming version of the man more unsettling than his usual self. She looked at the ground and made as if to push past him. He held up a hand, stopping her silently with the gesture.

‘I will buy your cider, Bess,’ he told her.

Bess felt renewed anger lending her strength but reminded herself that he had witnessed the results of her rage. The knowledge that he had seen this secret part of her, that she had somehow unwittingly revealed herself before him disturbed her.

‘Will you stand aside, or must I drag the mare about for your further amusement?’

‘Why so cross? All I did was offer to buy your cider.’

‘When you know full well I have none to sell.’

‘Really? Are you certain?’

She frowned at him, then turned back to look at the horse. The panniers were full. She grabbed at them, unable to take in what she was seeing. A moment ago they had been empty—she was certain of it. Yet now the flagons were returned to the pack, and each, judging by the weight, was full. She plucked out a stopper and sniffed the contents. There was no mistaking the sweet fruity scent that greeted her. Bess felt the skin over her spine wriggle. She turned slowly back to Gideon, who was casually stroking Whisper’s ears.

‘What trickery is this?’ she asked, her faint words snatched up by the wild wind that pulled at her cape and caused her eyes to water.

Gideon watched her as he spoke. ‘Not trickery, Bess. Just simple magic. You do believe in magic, don’t you?’

‘I believe such talk is blasphemous and people have been hanged for less.’

‘That is because you are a God-fearing young woman who has been taught well the ways of the world. Between all those books your mother forced upon you and the dry words of Reverend Burdock, what else are you to think?’ He stepped closer to her, his body blocking the wind so that between them was a small pool of stillness amidst the wildness of the fading day. ‘But you know, Bess, in your heart, you know the truth. There is magic all around us. In the boiling clouds. In this wicked wind that even now delves beneath your clothes to set its chill fingers on your soft young body. In the cider that goes away and comes back again.’ He lifted a hand slowly and lightly touched a lock of hair that had come loose from under Bess’s hood. ‘And you, Bess, there is magic in you.’

‘I do not know what you mean.’

‘I think you do. I know what I saw. I know what you did. Do those words sound familiar? They should. You spoke them to me not so very long ago. We are not so different, you and I, Bess. I wish you would see that. Don’t pretend to me you haven’t wondered why you survived the plague when the others did not. How often do you hear of anyone so ill, so taken by the vile disease, how often do you hear of them returning to good health, hmm? With not a blemish upon their pretty pink skin.’

‘I was fortunate.’ Bess could hear the tremble in her own voice.

‘Fortunate? Do you think God spared you, perhaps? Why would he do that? Are you better than the others, d’you think? Is that it?’

‘I know only that my mother nursed me back to health.’

‘Indeed she did. Indeed she did.’ He nodded, then let his hand drop. ‘Surely that must have been strong medicine she found for you. Has she told you how she did it? Have you asked her what herbs she used?’ He made the word
herbs
sound ridiculous.

Bess could not make sense of what he was saying. He seemed to be implying that her mother had used magic to save her. But that was nonsense. Her mother knew no magic. Her mother was no witch. And yet it was as if he knew more than she, as if he had some knowledge of what her mother had done. Of how she had done it.

Gideon reached into his pocket and took out four coins. He pressed them into Bess’s hand.

‘For the cider,’ he told her. ‘Hurry home now, the light is dwindling.’ So saying, he touched the rim of his hat as he inclined his head toward her and then brushed past her, striding away. Bess looked at the coins. It was a good price.

‘But, the cider…’ she called after him. ‘You have not taken the cider.’

He replied without looking back, ‘Oh, I think you’ll find I have. Good day to you, Bess. Until we meet again.’

Bess whipped around, her mouth gaping as she saw the panniers empty once more, hanging loose and flat against the mare’s flanks. She turned back, her mind in chaos, but Gideon had gone.

5

When Bess returned home, she had intended to tell her mother the full tale of what had happened. Why should she not? And yet, when the time came, she found herself reluctant to mention Gideon Masters at all. Her own reticence puzzled her. In the end she simply said she had sold the cider, and her mother, being pleased with the price, had not questioned her further. As the days slipped by, the moment for telling more went with them, so that Bess soon convinced herself there was nothing more to be said. In quiet times, however, when she had occasion to let her mind wander back to that wind-beaten place in front of the inn where she had watched magic performed, Bess knew there were a hundred questions screaming for answers. What powers did Gideon possess that he could do such things? And what did he know of how Bess had been saved from the plague? Bess turned such queries over and over inside her head, yet something prevented her from voicing any of them to her mother. This, she knew, was the most perplexing question of all: Why could she not bring herself to speak to her mother of what Gideon had told her? What was it that she feared to hear?

The long winter plodded on with leaden feet toward an ever-retreating spring. The barren cow sickened and died. The chickens showed no inclination to resume laying. The solitary pig had quite lost its mind and added to Bess’s heavy workload by regularly escaping the confines of the yard and having to be retrieved from any number of haunts. It was on just such an occasion, when Bess was shoving and shooing the wretched animal back along the lane, that a visitor came calling. There was no wind or rain that day, so that Bess heard the thud of approaching hoofbeats. She left off cajoling the pig and peered down the twisting path, watching the gleaming mount cantering closer.

William, she thought. Just that. She had not the energy to form an opinion of his presence after so many months of not seeing him. He brought his horse to a halt and slipped from the saddle, greeting her with a formal bow. Bess stood impassive, watching him. As he straightened and came to look at her properly, she saw in his reaction how much the preceding months had taken from her. She had known, of course, that she could not endure all that had happened without some outward sign of her suffering, but it was hard to see it so clearly declaimed on William’s handsome young face. It was true she bore no marks of the plague itself, but grief and heartbreak had been compounded by a winter of hardship. She knew well she was not the same girl William had walked with in the churchyard the autumn before. Her skin had lost its youthful glow, her figure its early promise of fecundity and pleasure. Indeed, her flesh hung loosely on her bones, her naturally angular frame now looking poor and frail rather than lithe and elegant. She put a hand to her hair, knowing it to be sullied and unkempt. She let her palm fall against her skirts but made no attempt to brush the dirt from her clothes. She set her jaw. Let him find her as she was. There was no purpose in pretense.

William stood before her with restless eyes.

‘Bess, please accept my condolences. I was truly sorry to hear of your misfortune. Your father was a good man, and your brother and sister…’ He left the words unspoken, his practiced politeness failing to provide him with the means to properly express his sympathy.

Bess gave a small nod by way of answer. The silence between them quickly became as solid as a stone wall. She dearly wanted to break it down, but she felt unable to do so. It was for William to reach out to her. It could not be the other way around. She waited.

‘I would have come sooner, but I am only recently returned. From France, indeed. My brother and I were sent there on business. For my father.’

‘Many who were able fled the plague.’

‘Please, do not reproach me, Bess. It was not my choice to leave.’

Bess thought he looked so much younger than she remembered. Still a boy. Whereas she was no longer a girl. Her youth had been buried along with her family. She sighed, knowing that yet another gulf had opened up between her and William. Something more to keep them separate.

‘And you?’ William tried a smile. ‘You are well, Bess? And your mother?’

‘As you see.’

‘I see you have suffered. I wish to help you, Bess. Sincerely.’ He stepped closer. ‘I know it must be very difficult for you both, trying to work the farm without…’

‘We do what we must.’

‘But it is surely too much, Bess. You look so very weary.’

‘No more nor less than any other person with beasts to tend to and fields to work and not much sustenance to fuel their labors,’ said Bess, failing to keep a bitter edge from her voice.

‘Won’t you let me help you? You know, I think, that I have always had an affection for you, Bess. That I hope you have counted me a friend.’

Bess was astonished. Had he chosen this moment to declare his feelings for her? Here she stood, shabby and wretched, a pauper among peasants whose prettiness had been all but snuffed out—was he now going to speak of love? Of marriage? A marriage that had, even before her beaten state, been a farfetched notion, and one that would have raised objections and questions. Could he truly believe his father would permit him to choose such a woman for his bride? Bess felt a sob catch in her throat. Whether it came from the thought of rescue from the relentless struggle of poverty or the idea of the warmth and comfort of William’s affection for her, she could not say. Her legs weakened as if she might crumple onto the ground. Seeing her frailty, William slipped an arm about her shoulders to support her.

‘Do not be troubled, Bess. I will not let you suffer so. You will see. I came to tell you that Lily Bredon, who was maidservant to my dear mother for many years, has left our employ. After my mother’s death, Lily became housekeeper, but she is no longer young and has gone to live with her sister over in Dorchester. At once I thought of you and your mother. We have need of a housekeeper, and another kitchen maid would be a boon, now that my brother looks set to marry. The quarters are cheerful enough and warm. The work is not over-arduous, I think, and you would not be hungry ever again. Is it not the perfect solution? Say you will speak to your mother about it at once.’

Bess stared up incredulously at him. His eyes shone with the joy of offering such a wonderful opportunity of salvation. She could see only sincerity and kindness in his expression, of that she was certain. It was clear to her that in his innocence he had not the slightest notion of the pain he had just inflicted upon her. Somewhere deep within her a strange sensation stirred, accompanied by a curious gurgling sound Bess did not recognize at first. Only when it grew louder and stronger did she know it to be laughter. Not a gentle chuckle or a nervous giggle but a forceful belly laugh, so raucous and unexpected it caused William to take a step backward. Bess laughed so her body ached and tears fell unchecked from her eyes. William stared at her, clearly concerned he had somehow prompted a madness to overtake her. She waved a hand at him helplessly.

‘Forgive me, William,’ she said. ‘I am no longer able to contain my baser emotions, as you see. And after all, is not a fool supposed to cause mirth?’

‘Do you call me fool?’

‘No.’ She shook her head as she dabbed at her eyes. ‘Not you, dear, kind William. It is I who am the simpleton here. I deserve that title. And none other. As half the village did their utmost to inform me, though I would not hear it.’

‘I fail to comprehend you, Bess. I had thought to offer you hope, to assist you in your time of need, but you laugh at my suggestion.’

‘Your offer is a fair one. It is of sound sense, as I would expect from you. It is that very sense I lack, which sets us apart from each other more than any other thing. You are more worldly wise than I had allowed for, William.’ She recovered her composure and began to feel a heavy sadness settle about her. She had not, until this moment, understood the strength of her own affection for William. She had overestimated her worth, failed to heed the words of those who knew better the order of things, and now she had caused her heart to be bruised by her own stupidity. How could she ever truly have believed William Gould of Batchcombe Hall would consider her for his future wife? ‘I am sorry, William,’ she said at last. ‘It is a kind offer, genuinely made, but it is not one I could accept.’

William shuffled his feet, fidgeting before he raised his eyes to hers with a tentative smile. He reached out and took her hand in his. Bess was harshly aware of how calloused and roughened her own fingers were against the smoothness of his own. When he spoke, there was longing in his voice.