Chapter 3
3
The false Luna awoke some time later in a large four-poster bed. It took her a while to remember the events of that morning, work out where she was, and recall that she had willingly stepped into the shoes of another woman.
Despite the sunshine outside, the room was draughty and a fusty smell lingered in the air. The wallpapers were faded and the furniture dusty and dull. Hardly any light came through the rain-speckled windowpanes, obscured as they were by lofty, waving trees. An unsettling silence hung heavy. She couldn’t hear any of the sounds one might expect in a busy household: the chatter of servants going about their daily tasks or the scampering of feet, as they hurried along corridors with hot water jugs and chamber pots.
It took her a few moments to notice the man seated in the far corner, his head in his hands, unaware that she was awake. There was an open book resting across the arm of his chair, and she studied him for a while, his large fingers rubbing at his temples and the occasional deep sigh punctuating the silence, like a worn pair of bellows expelling their last puffs of air .
This was the person who had simultaneously foiled her escape plans by accidentally immobilising her, and then offered her refuge – perhaps to offset his guilt. She was at the crumbling and isolated house on the edge of the woods, and he was Mr Greybourne.
From out of nowhere, the sash window that had been open a couple of inches to allow the room to air, dropped suddenly and inexplicably, with a loud bang. He jolted and knocked the book from where it was balanced. It landed with a thud and he hastily retrieved it, before placing it on the small tripod table beside him.
‘Ah, you’re awake. You have slept for most of the morning and through a very noisy rainstorm. April is certainly living up to its reputation.’ He jumped to his feet and came to her side.
She winced in pain and tried to shuffle up the bed but this only agitated her ankle further.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked, rubbing his large hands together, anxious to assist her. Still not dressed in the smart attire she would expect of a man who owned such a sizeable property, he continued to resemble a labourer. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and he was in woollen trousers, with a small blue neckerchief under his collar.
‘Can you please pull me up to a sitting position?’ She was grateful for his practical offer of help, but he was alarmed by her words.
‘You want me to touch you?’
She took a moment to reflect that two strangers unchaperoned in a bedroom, one male and the other female, was verging on scandalous. But then it hadn’t been her idea to come to this house, or indeed to place herself in his bed. She saw him chew at his bottom lip as he contemplated her request. He hesitated a fraction before placing his hands under her armpits, gently heaving her slim body towards the headboard .
As he hoisted her into position, she noticed for the first time that she was wearing a voluminous white cotton nightgown. He followed her concerned eyes and colour flooded to his cheeks.
‘Mrs Webber bound your ankle and saw to your night attire. If you suspect that I have done anything untoward, you are quite wrong,’ he snapped.
His eyes narrowed and she felt momentarily guilty, because it had crossed her mind that he had brought her to Ravenswood for nefarious purposes. Hadn’t she learned the hard way that some men believed women were put on this earth purely to service them and their carnal desires?
‘I’d like you to eat something,’ he said, clearly keen to move the conversation on. ‘Could we tempt you with some soup? I fear you were in quite a state of distress before the accident and a hearty meal and a period of rest will help. I feel responsible for your broken ankle and am anxious to make amends.’
He paused, took a step backwards, and sat gingerly on the foot of the bed, trying not to crowd her. But he was nervous. She could sense it.
‘The thing is, there is a clerk from the solicitor’s due at the house tomorrow,’ he continued. ‘We have a visit every year, to ask my wife questions about her health and general well-being, and to ensure the terms of her inheritance are continuing to be met. As you may appreciate, it is a meeting I had every reason to suspect would end in disaster but perhaps, with our unexpected encounter, it might have a more… positive outcome. It’s not the same gentleman as last time, which is rather fortuitous – they seem to get through these junior clerks quite quickly – but the young man will need to establish that Luna is fit and well…’ He looked down at the mound of quilt that concealed her legs. ‘Or more accurately, alive , in order for her annual allowance to continue… ’
So, this was about money, she finally realised. This was why he had claimed her so impetuously down by the riverbank. She was a convenient puppet in a theatrical production where he wished her to play the part of his wife in order for him to continue to draw income from the estate of some relative or other benefactor of Mrs Greybourne. His generosity had more mercenary motives than she’d hoped. At least she’d not been kidnapped to be abused or assaulted. But where was his wife? Rather careless to mislay a whole person. And at what point would she be returning?
‘Do you think I am up to it?’ she whispered.
He considered her question, rubbing his chin with his hand as he studied her face. ‘Yes, I have a feeling you will do admirably.’
She’d already decided that it would suit her purposes to assume the identity of another for a while, but how on earth would she pass herself off as someone she had never met and knew nothing about?
‘But I won’t press you too much on the matter immediately. Instead, I will go to the kitchens and fetch you up a tray of food. You look half-starved.’
‘Can you not ring for someone?’ she asked, pointing to the bell pulls either side of the bed. The house was huge and must surely have a complement of staff. It seemed silly for him, the master of the house, to be fetching her something to eat.
‘Not since the wires were severed.’ He shrugged, as she contemplated his choice of adjective. Not damaged or broken, but severed . A malicious and deliberate act.
At that moment, her empty stomach growled and he smiled.
‘Food is the priority,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Mrs Webber’s cooking is truly atrocious but I’ll wager, like me, you are not in a position to care.’
‘Thank you… erm… Mr Greybourne.’
‘You must call me Marcus,’ he supplied. ‘And the servants have been instructed to call you Mrs Greybourne, especially as you seem so reluctant to divulge your true identity.’ He immediately put his hands up as if to deflect any defence of her actions that she might offer. ‘I don’t say that to enquire into your secrets, nor am I passing any judgement on the accusations made against you by those we encountered by the river. I have learned the bitter lesson that life is not black and white. We are none of us truly one thing or the other, but shades of everything in between.’
Did he have dark secrets too? she wondered. Was he not willing to condemn her because he had also done things worthy of condemnation? She’d certainly done a wicked thing and was only glad her parents were not around to witness how far she had fallen into the bowels of hell. But the truth of the matter was, desperate people would always be driven to commit desperate acts through desperate circumstances. He appeared to understand this, and she felt reassured. She would be Luna for him because he had been a saviour for her at the moment when her whole life could so easily have spiralled even further, and perhaps irrevocably, out of her control.
‘I am Luna Greybourne,’ she said, confirming the decision she’d already made as she’d passed out in the kitchen, but on this occasion meeting and holding his eye. ‘But my recent accident has left me confused and forgetful. I will need your help to regain my memory.’
A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he nodded his gratitude.
‘We have the whole afternoon ahead of us,’ he said, and walked to the half-open door, which she belatedly noticed had a large key on the inside, and a padlock hanging from the outside. Having made the decision to follow through with the ridiculous pantomime that she was his wife, there was still something about this house and its occupants that unnerved her. Had she leapt from the spitting frying pan and into the raging fire ?
As he left, gently closing the bedroom door behind him, she put her hand to her throat in an attempt to stem her rising emotions, only to realise that she was still wearing her small coral pendant – a painful reminder of the life she had run from. It was not a piece of great value, but it was what it represented that angered her so. Gripping the thin chain with determined fingers, she ripped it from her neck and flung it across the room in her fury. It was supposed to ward off evil and ensure good health, but had failed her on both counts. She could not bear to have it around her neck one moment longer.
Overcome, she allowed her head to fall back onto the feather pillows behind her, her heart heavy and her emotional and physical pain so overwhelming, she didn’t know which one would break her first. In a few short months, her whole world had changed; she had gone from moderately content, to wishing she were dead. The man she loved had died and her heart had been ripped in two. Slowly, her eyes focused on the panelled canopy above her head, frowning at the scratches and deep marks she could see gouged into the oak – her attention drawn to one in particular.
She couldn’t be absolutely certain, but the large pentagram directly above her head appeared to be upside down. And, if that were the case, it was not the protective sign of life favoured by pagans, or representative of the five wounds of Christ within Christianity, but instead confirmation of her worst fears. It was a disturbing indication that Devil worship was being practised in this house.
Mrs Webber came upstairs a little while later and presented her with a bowl of watery beef soup and a slice of thick bread, spread with lard and rosemary. She forced the barely palatable food down, fondly remembering the culinary expertise of Mrs Banbury, the cook at Church View – that woman had been a wonder with a piece of brisket and could whisk up a béchamel sauce with her eyes closed.
The housekeeper fussed about, plumping the pillows, tucking in her sheets and tidying up the gloomy and largely masculine space. She took a dusting cloth from her apron pocket and flicked it over the surfaces, and the girl in the bed wondered why the household staff had not kept the master bedroom in better order.
At one time, the colourful tapestry bed canopy, rich mahogany Georgian furniture and thick Persian rugs across the floor would have made this a most opulent bedroom, but the neglected nature of everything tainted it all. Dark green, flocked wallpapers and poor natural light made her feel as though the walls were pressing in on her. As grateful as she was for the food and shelter, she had the uneasy sensation that the house was as much of a prison as the one she’d striven so hard to avoid.
‘You poor child,’ Mrs Webber said, scooping up the broken pendant from the floor and placing it on the dressing table. ‘Taking such a tumble and having that great lump of a man fall on your leg. And now stuck here with us on the edge of nowhere, when surely there must be folks desperately missing you back home.’
It was not phrased as a question but Luna knew she was enquiring about her circumstances.
‘There is no one. This is my home now. You are my family.’
‘Lovely thought, to be sure, but I wouldn’t wish living here on anyone. We need to get you well again and on your way as soon as we can. Before bad things happen.’
The older woman’s concerns mirrored her own but she had struck a deal with Marcus and intended to honour it, wherever the real Luna might be and whatever dark arts were being practised inside the house .
‘Your master needs me to be Luna Greybourne and so, for the duration of my stay, that’s who I intend to be.’
The housekeeper shook her head in resignation.
‘So I was told, and I heartily disapprove, even though I would not dare go against Mr Greybourne.’ She cast an anxious glance at the bedroom door and lowered her voice. ‘But if you’re staying here, you’ll need protecting. Have you not seen the markings? We’re being watched by the spirits of the dead.’
The housekeeper pointed to a small evil eye above the curtains that Luna hadn’t noticed – a painted black circle with thick lines radiating from the outer oval. After rummaging in her pockets, Mrs Webber passed over a small wooden cross bound with red thread.
‘There’s a wickedness within this house, on the Greybourne lands, and even in our village. It’s like Ravenswood has pulled in all the dark forces for miles around – a terrifying whirlwind sucking everything that is monstrous into its eye. Mutilated livestock keeps being found on the fields, sicknesses break out for no reason, and the dead come back to haunt us. Keep the charm about your person at all times. It’s rowan,’ the older woman explained. ‘Wards off witches and malevolent spirits.’
Where were these malevolent spirits? And how would she even know if she was in the presence of a witch? She was curious and reached out to grip Mrs Webber’s sleeve, hoping she might supply some direct answers. ‘An Irish tinker in Little Doubton told me that a witch lived in your woods. Is she the person you are trying to protect me from?’
Was there an old crone lurking in the thicket of trees that stretched beyond Ravenswood? Someone who would curse all she came across? Perhaps this witch was even connected to the mysterious disappearance of the mistress of the house and was in league with Mr Greybourne ?
Mrs Webber narrowed her eyes and chewed at her bottom lip with her remaining top tooth before answering.
‘There ain’t no old crone living in the woods. Quite the opposite; the Ravenswood Witch is young and beautiful, but she’s a cruel one, with a beastly temper and not of her right mind… You, Luna Greybourne, are the witch.’