Chapter 8 #2
“Sorry about that,” he mutters as he escorts me toward the house.
“But you have to understand how it was out there. The confusion, the darkness, the terror—the noises. And then Gavarne wandered off and got hurt.” He shudders.
“I’ve been in forests at night, and this was different. It felt different.”
“What exactly did you see?”
“Besides the demons in the clearing?” He shakes his head, looking at the path instead of at me.
“My friends told me about the things you summon, but I hadn’t seen any of them until yesterday.
We saw them clearly near the cottage, but when Marduc started yelling, they fled from us into the forest. We caught glimpses of the creatures after that, along with the shadows of bigger, more impossible things.
The others kept saying it was all your doing, that you were a witch who wanted us all to die in Wormsloe.
I told them they were wrong, but logic is weak against a fearful fool’s determination to blame someone. ”
“Thank you for being reasonable and kind,” I tell him. “I can see why my sister likes you.”
An expression of sheer joy transforms his face, and in that moment, it doesn’t matter whether he’s good-looking or not. “She likes me?”
I can’t help smiling back. “Yes, she does.”
“I like her, too, very much. And it doesn’t scare me. The, um…” He gestures to me with a faint laugh.
“My oddity?” I fill in for him.
He nods, grateful for the intervention. “Exactly. We all have something, you know? Something that sets us apart, or something we try to hide. Something we don’t like about ourselves.” He laughs ruefully, gesturing to his own face.
I’m not sure how to respond to his self-deprecation, but I don’t have to, because we’re at the front door. “Won’t you come in?”
“Gladly.”
When we enter the sitting room, Anne jumps straight out of the armchair, her quilt and fabric squares tumbling from her lap.
“Henry! I mean, Mr. Partridge,” she exclaims, self-consciously smoothing her hair. “Sybil, you didn’t warn me that we’d be having company!”
“He was passing by. I’ll make tea.” I take myself and the crutches into the kitchen.
After a couple of minutes, Anne bustles in. “What are you doing?” she asks in an undertone.
“Making tea.”
“Really, Sybil?” She gives me a stern look.
“You like him, he likes you. And he’s a good man. A kind, reasonable man. They’re in short supply in these parts.”
She drops her voice to a whisper. “I told you I’m not attracted to him.”
“Maybe you will be, if you give him a chance.”
Anne takes the tea tray from the cupboard, sets it down with a bang, then stands there, nervously toying with the scalloped edge. Her cheeks are pink.
“Fine. I’ll give him a chance.” She throws me a secret, delighted grin, and we return to the sitting room together.
Henry Partridge proves to be excellent company. He hasn’t played many games, but when he discovers that Anne and I are fond of them, he begs us to teach him. “I’m a quick learner,” he says, and the claim holds true over the next several hours.
When Mama finally arrives home, Anne, Henry, and I are deep in a game of Ghoul’s Knickers.
We hear her enter by the front door, hang up her damp cloak, and remove her shoes.
Then she appears in the doorway of the sitting room, looking more exhausted than usual.
Anne vacates the armchair and sits on the floor with Henry so Mama can have a comfortable seat.
“What a merry little gathering,” Mama says with a smile. “Mr. Partridge, are you staying for dinner?”
“I’m afraid not. I should be getting home.
I usually eat with my father in the evenings.
He hasn’t been feeling well lately, and I would hate for him to be alone.
I should also wash up from spending a day and a night wandering in Wormsloe.
Your daughters were kind enough to overlook my dishevelment, but I have imposed on their good graces long enough.
If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He rises and bows to each of us.
Despite the boost of energy he gained from Anne’s presence, he looks as weary as Mama, and he does indeed smell of dirt and sweat. We bid him farewell, and then I tell Mama what the search party discovered in the forest.
“Do you think Grandmother Riquet is really gone?” Anne asks. “It seems odd that they didn’t find her body or Herron’s.”
“Odd indeed,” muses Mama.
I merely nod, but in my mind’s eye I see the giant wolf with its starved body and slavering jaws.
Perhaps it’s not so odd that the bodies weren’t found.
Perhaps the wolf devoured them, in which case I should declare its existence to our neighbors.
But since I’m probably the one that summoned the monster, I might be held responsible for the deaths it has caused.
Our situation here could quickly become precarious.
Besides, if the villagers know about the wolf, they might try to enter Wormsloe again to kill it, which might only result in more death. Perhaps it’s better to leave well enough alone.
During the next couple of days, I keep limping over to the front window, checking anxiously to see if an angry mob is advancing on our house, determined to drag me out and interrogate me, or worse.
But no one comes to question me further about demons or disappearances.
And before I know it, the night of Beresford’s next orgy arrives.
The same cabriolet comes to fetch me. I don’t use the crutches this time, just a walking stick. My ankle is healing, and I can hobble along well enough.
When I enter the barn, its steamy warmth envelops me.
The party seems to have started earlier than last time, judging by the guests’ state of undress.
Bodies drape over each other amid the smoky fragrance, the haze of golden lust, and strains of passionate music from a trio of stringed instruments in the corner.
Fingers press soft skin, legs twine and slide, tongues slip into eager mouths.
There’s a desperation in the air that wasn’t present last time.
Every person in this room knows what happened in the forest. Faced with shapeless threats and the truth of their own mortality, they are seeking warm flesh, hard bone, living eyes and lips, a carnal comfort to center themselves and blur the edges of their fear.
In the middle of it all, I stand in my scarlet cloak and hood, with the walking staff in my hand. Only when a girl gasps and shrinks deeper into her lover’s arms do I realize how menacing I must look to them, wreathed in the drifting smoke from the censers.
Quickly I untie my cloak, drape it over a chair, and set the staff aside.
I’m wearing the delicate, almost threadbare petticoat trimmed in frayed bits of lace.
Compared to the other women, who have come here in their best robes and undergarments, I look scrawny and impoverished—a destitute witch who doesn’t belong among them.
For a moment, I consider leaving, but before I can make up my mind to do so, Beresford’s arms gather me up like a devoted storm and carry me off to our curtained retreat in the corner of the barn.
“My savior,” I quip as he shoulders his way through the drapes into the cushioned space beyond.
He doesn’t answer, only lays me down and positions my ankle carefully before sweeping my hair off my shoulder and kissing the skin he exposed with focused fervency. He keeps kissing all the way down my arm, flipping my wrist over so he can press his mouth where my pulse flutters.
“Did you lose your powers of speech?” I ask him. “When I last saw you, you didn’t speak a word to me. Your tongue talked to my pussy instead. The experience was rather fun, but I’d like to actually converse with you this time.”
He looks up, devilish humor twisting his mouth. “How are you this evening, my dear?”
“Quite well, thank you, my lord,” I reply primly. “And you?”
“I can’t complain.” He kisses the center of my palm.
“Did you hear about the disappearances in the forest?” The words burst out of me, even though I told myself I was going to forget my worries and immerse myself in the oblivion of pleasure.
Beresford’s gaze sharpens. “Yes, I heard.”
“Are you frightened?”
“Frightened?”
“Wormsloe is becoming more dangerous. Your estate borders it, yes? Whatever lives in there could come creeping out and attack you.”
“Do things usually creep out of the forest?”
“No, but folks around here are concerned that it might start happening.”
“And you want to know if the potential danger scares me.” He runs a broad hand up my leg. “It does not.”
I exhale, relieved by his unperturbed attitude.
“I am sorry for the people you lost, though.” His eyes search mine, true sympathy glowing in them.
“I didn’t like Herron much,” I confess. “Grandmother Riquet and I had a volatile relationship, but she did mean something to me. She was family. Distant family, the kind whom you rarely see and argue with at times, but family nonetheless. Do you have family? I’ve never heard you mention them.”
His eyes flare a fraction wider. “Family…”
“This isn’t a question about your past,” I say hastily. “So it’s not off limits. I want to know about your present. You must have at least one living parent or sibling. Maybe distant aunts, uncles, or cousins?”
He glances away. “I have no one. It’s only me.”
“Oh.” I place my fingers over his. “I’m so sorry to hear that. At least you have a lot of friends now.” I wave my other hand toward the space beyond the curtain.
“Those aren’t friends. They are guests.” His lip curls, his tone faintly derisive.
“They are eaters and seekers. They love to gobble rich food and gulp wine. They seek opportunities for debauchery. I provide those things, and therefore they come to me. They pretend to like me because I give them what they want.”
“I’m sure they aren’t all like that.”
“Trust me, they are.”
“That’s pathetically cynical of you.”