Chapter 4
4
The shock of the housekeeper’s announcement caused a sudden coldness to pierce the imposter’s very core. She couldn’t believe that she’d assumed the identity of a woman who, according to the tinker, was widely regarded as a witch. A woman who had cursed another and brought about her death. Not quite sure where she stood on matters relating to the supernatural, she had always been one to err on the side of caution. She covered mirrors after a death to prevent the departed becoming trapped inside the glass and threw spilled salt over her left shoulder to avoid bad luck, but had not given much thought to those individuals who claimed to harness supernatural powers – for good or ill.
Before she had the opportunity to question Mrs Webber further, Marcus returned upstairs and the false Luna surreptitiously slid the rowan cross under her pillows.
‘Ah, you have eaten something.’ He glanced at the tray of food. ‘Excellent. I’ve come to take you to the drawing room as I’m sure you would welcome a cheerier aspect now that the sun has been bold enough to show her face. Besides, we need to talk and I feel uncomfortable doing so whilst you are reclining in a bed. ’
Talking was certainly the order of the day, and her first question would be the allegations of witchcraft against his wife. If she was lurking in the woods, was it feasible to continue this charade? And if she wasn’t, then where was she? Because it would not be wise to anger such a woman, especially one given to cursing those who crossed her.
After some further fussing from the housekeeper, Luna was gently swept up into Mr Greybourne’s arms and taken down the wide staircase.
‘Excuse the startling embellishments,’ he said, avoiding her eye but clearly aware she was horrified by the décor around her.
The bedroom may have been shabby, but the walls of the hall and staircase were defaced to a horrific degree. The wallpapers were shredded, and she recognised several further marks associated with dark magic: alchemical symbols for sulphur and brimstone, another large black outline of an eye, and reddish-brown writing in foot-high letters declared ‘ROT IN HELL’. She didn’t want to contemplate what might have been used to write these words, but she suspected blood or, at the very least, something deliberately chosen to resemble it.
‘I’ve been working hard to remove them. Most of these remaining daubs and unpleasant scribblings should be gone by nightfall,’ he said, in an attempt to reassure her.
As he carried her through to the drawing room, she noticed another large padlock hanging from the outside of the door, and a number of strong bolts on the inside – much like in the bedchamber. She shuddered. Was it to keep someone out or lock someone in? Her relief at being cared for and fed was quickly becoming the fear she might end up as some satanic sacrifice. Would the Ravenswood Witch come for her and carve her beating heart from her chest in order to cast a demonic spell? She’d read about such things in the newspapers and sensationalist novelettes, although more often in relation to the alleged cannibalistic practices on the African continent, rather than being conducted at quiet English riverside dwellings.
It then crossed her mind that Marcus might be in league with his wife. Did he procure young women for her Devil-worshipping rituals? Collide with unsuspecting individuals on deserted riverside paths, immobilise them and take them to Ravenswood under the pretence of being a caring stranger? Because if the large and powerful Mr Greybourne was also a practitioner of black magic then she stood no chance of out-hobbling him, never mind out-running him.
He carefully lowered her onto a chaise longue, rubbing again at his sore shoulder after he’d deposited her. She cursed her broken ankle. If only she had been paying more attention on the riverbank she could be on her way to London by now, far from those who were hunting her and would see her hanged, and not beholden to strangers who clearly had dark secrets.
Mrs Webber briefly reappeared with a blanket for her legs and a preparation of laudanum to relieve her ongoing pain, but the offered medication troubled her. She’d eaten the food presented to her without question, but it suddenly occurred to her that it might suit them to have her drugged and incapacitated. She knew nothing about these people but was fully aware that padlocks, satanic symbolism and associated wood-roaming witches were not to be found in most respectable households. The intense throbbing of her injury, however, was her immediate concern so she reached for the glass.
Marcus frowned.
‘Please be mindful that this contains opium,’ he said. ‘Only have what you need. It’s dangerous stuff.’
Perhaps she was not to be a sacrifice after all, or he would be encouraging her to drink the sweet-smelling but bitter-tasting opiate in order to bend her to his will. She scolded herself for allowing her silly imagination to run away with her. He’d been nothing but kind to her from their first encounter, genuinely mindful of her frail state and keen to aid her recovery, even though there were some pressing matters he had not addressed.
‘Is witchcraft practised in and around Ravenswood?’ She finally found the courage to voice her concerns. ‘The words on the walls by the stairs…’
His jaw clenched and his eyes grew dark.
‘It is all a nonsense performed by deluded individuals who either wish to control others or justify malicious behaviour. I do not and have never tolerated such foolishness in this house. If someone chooses to paint strange symbols on a wall, chant gibberish around a bonfire, or imbibe herbs and other concoctions under the delusion that they have supernatural gifts, then more fool them. What you see about you now is a remnant of the past that I am working hard to erase.’
‘But the Ravenswood Witch—’ she began.
‘I promise that she is no threat to us. Let that be enough.’
What on earth did that mean? That she was locked up? That she had been sent far away? Or even that she was dead? But Marcus moved the conversation on, obviously feeling that particular topic had been adequately dealt with. He was telling her that the witch was delusional – that the sorcery was not real. So, who did she believe? A gossipy Irish tinker, or the kind and earnest man who had spent the day overseeing her care?
‘I want to familiarise you with the drawing room, since Mr Meyer is due tomorrow at ten o’clock and it would not be appropriate to conduct the interview upstairs.’ Marcus settled himself in a nearby chair, as she looked about her and noticed how cluttered the room was. It had every sort of furniture dotted about, from ornate mirrors and glazed display cabinets to practical items, such as a table where one might eat a meal – but very little floor space.
A small fire was crackling and spitting in the grate, doing its best to bring cheer to a cheerless room on such a changeable April day. She could see outside to the meadow that she’d been carried through that morning, and beyond that she glimpsed the river Bran. These windows were south-facing, and the strong beams of sunshine that fell across the multitude of objects scattered around the room promised that the world outside was bright and inviting, even if the house was not.
‘When he arrives, we shall partially draw the curtains and explain to him that you are suffering from a headache.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, realising he was providing a convincing excuse for poor light, which would limit any chance of their deception being discovered. ‘And, as you said to the policemen, I have been unwell for so many years.’
He frowned at her wholehearted adoption of her role as his wife when they were the only two people in the room, but she would play her part earnestly and fully, to be certain there was no chance of her forgetting the charade. Besides, she had no choice but to remain at Ravenswood. If she could be of use to him whilst she was incapacitated, he might think kindly of her. But she would be gone from here as soon as humanly possible.
She belatedly caught sight of a wedding photograph of a much younger Marcus Greybourne and his wife on the circular table beside her. He noticed her interest in the item.
‘Ah, yes, this will not stand up to close scrutiny.’ The image might lack colour, but Luna’s pale eyes were apparent, unlike hers, which, despite her fair hair, were hazel.
He reached over to the table and picked it up, his thumb caressing the glass.
‘Such a deceptively promising start to my marriage. My father- in-law was already quite sick by then, but the weather was kind to us. We married in the Little Doubton parish church, as my bride had a somewhat strained relationship with the vicar from her home town. There was an arch of moss and summer flowers across the lychgate, and rose petals were strewn in our path as we walked to the carriage. I laid on wedding celebrations here at the house, inviting a handful of curious locals, keen to meet the new mistress of Ravenswood. It was a happy day and I foolishly believed myself in love. But over the ensuing years, she changed beyond comprehension.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I have altered considerably…’
His brows knitted together as he recognised her stubborn insistence to play her part. He met and held her gaze. ‘You don’t have to do this.’
‘If I trust you, will you trust me?’ she asked, wanting to be as honest as possible. ‘Know that I have done a bad thing but that I am a good person. Believe that I will do you no harm, if you promise that I am safe here for a short while.’
They exchanged a long and searching look, as though they could find the truth in each other’s eyes. She had believed in another once before and been brutally betrayed, so this was a huge leap of faith on her part. Marcus Greybourne appeared genuine but could she still trust her judgement?
He lowered his voice, almost to a whisper.
‘If I ask nothing of your past, could you really be her? Wholly and completely, until you are well enough to leave? Accepting that there are things I equally am unwilling to share?’
Her chest felt tight and her whole body flushed under his questioning stare but she nodded her agreement. Seemingly satisfied, he rose to his feet and picked up the photograph. Sliding the black velvet backpiece upwards, he removed the image and placed the empty frame in the deep drawer of a bow-fronted sideboard, before walking to the fireplace, and allowing the print to fall from his hand into the dancing flames. There was a sudden moment of combustion as the fire engulfed the paper. A hiss from the all-devouring fingers of orange and red, and it was gone… The woman in the photograph was no more.
‘Then, Luna , shall we focus on the impending visit?’
There was a startling secondary roar from the fire, even though the paper print had long since been reduced to ash and there was nothing further to ignite beyond the solid logs that had been burning quietly for some time. She shuddered. It was as if the universe knew that the woman claiming to be Luna Greybourne – with her broken ankle stretched out before her on the chaise – was an imposter.
Marcus returned to the high-backed chair, filling the narrow seat and reminding her that he cut a bulky figure.
‘When Mr Meyer arrives, it might be a good idea to apologise for your behaviour on the previous visit. You were quite rude to the gentleman they sent last time.’ He sounded compassionate rather than accusatory, but was clearly uncomfortable addressing this prior encounter. His wife was obviously a difficult woman.
‘My health was poor,’ she said confidently, leaning forward in her seat and fussing with the nightgown and blankets. ‘And I’ve been feeling so much better of late – despite the ankle.’
‘Yes,’ Marcus agreed. ‘The change in you has been quite remarkable.’ There was a further moment when their eyes met and held again – a tacit acknowledgement of everything that was happening.
‘If Mr Meyer is satisfied that all is well – that you are well,’ he clarified, ‘then your recuperation may continue at Ravenswood, even though I am going away for a few weeks.’
He was giving her permission to remain at the house, even after she had served his immediate needs, which was a kindness. She would be an inconvenience to the staff and a drain on his resources, but then perhaps she was doing enough by securing this money for him and it was his way of saying thank you.
‘Away?’
‘I’ve not been able to travel much in recent years beyond Little Doubton village, or occasional trips across the river into Manbury, and my business affairs have suffered as a result. If the funds are released, as I hope, then I must at least attempt to reverse my fortunes. The care of my wife… your care has long been my priority. You have been suffering from a disturbing malady of the mind, but I would like to think that you will give the Webbers no trouble whilst I’m gone.’
She nodded her understanding.
‘You can trust me in your absence. I owe you a great debt and will not let you down.’ She hoped he could hear the honesty in her voice.
He nodded. He trusted her enough, it seemed.
‘Then I shall leave you in peace for a while,’ he said, and began to roll his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing his strong tanned forearms. ‘I have some redecorating to do.’