Chapter 15
15
After the hasty departure of the Kellings, Luna asked her housekeeper what she knew about the death of Mother Selwood. The protracted demise of this unfortunate woman had now been mentioned to her several times.
‘From what my husband says, Mrs Greybourne cursed her by the well one night, although he’s always been a bit cagey about what he was doing out there at such an hour.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Apparently, the old woman fell to the ground, muttering gibberish and clutching at her head. He scooped her up and brought her to the house but there was little I could do, and she became sicker and sicker, until she died three weeks later.’
No wonder Mr Kelling’s poor son had been so wary of Luna. The Ravenswood Witch had a fearsome reputation.
‘This was years ago, mind, just after we started working here. My Jed’d had a bit of trouble with the law. I know he ain’t always been a good man but he had no reason to lie about this. I even consulted Mr Findlay, but the Selwood woman was beyond help.’ The housekeeper adjusted her bosom and sighed. ‘I was always a lot more wary of my mistress after that and was all for handing my notice in, but I was persuaded by my husband into staying.’
Luna didn’t want to contemplate what the persuasion might have involved.
‘What did this woman do to justify being cursed?’
Mrs Webber shrugged. ‘Apparently, she looked at Mrs Greybourne wrong. It didn’t take much to set the mistress off.’
Bran flew from his new favourite perch – an empty ceramic jardinière stand – and landed on the back of her chair, dipping his head. She rubbed her forehead against his. It was an intimate gesture they had developed and which she thought of as their kiss. She had been without physical contact for too long, and it was one of the reasons she was so conflicted about her current situation; the house unnerved her and she was desperate to escape, but at the same time, she was being looked after and experiencing genuine care from Mrs Webber, Mr Findlay and even Bran. She wanted to leave and to stay all at once.
This inner turmoil was brought home to her by a seemingly minor incident later that day. She was alone in the drawing room, still an oppressive space, with its heavy velvet curtains and proliferation of possessions that held no memories or special meaning for her, but which shouted that she did not belong. Alone with her thoughts, she heard a delicate, almost indiscernible flapping in the room, and knew this was no stroppy raven wanting her attention. Her eye was drawn to the windows where something considerably smaller than Bran was repeatedly beating its beautiful but fragile wings against the windowpane.
She pulled herself up onto one of the crutches and made her way over to investigate. It was a butterfly trapped on her side of the glass – a large white. The stark chalky purity of it contrasted with the inky smudges and matching black dots on its wingtips, reminding her that dark and light were so often found together. It struck her then that, however much she would like to believe herself a good person, she too had inky smudges that she would carry with her always. She felt sympathy for the creature, knowing it did not belong at the house any more than she did. If she stood by and did nothing, it would damage itself in its desperate desire to be outside. Lifting up the lower sash, she allowed the insect its freedom, watching it zig-zag into the sunshine, navigating an uncertain path towards the enticing aromas and hypnotic colours of the meadow ahead.
Satisfied, she returned to her chair, only for Bran to swoop into the room not long after she settled. As he landed on the floor at her feet, she saw the broken, milky wings crushed in that lethal beak of his. He dropped his prize to the floor and toyed with it, shunting it backwards and forwards, before scooping it up again, throwing back his head and swallowing it whole.
Stunned, Luna sat open-mouthed. The butterfly had not stood a chance from the moment it had strayed into the house. It would have undoubtedly suffered a drawn-out death away from its natural environment, yet it had escaped and still met a brutal end.
And as the sun went down on another bewildering day, she wondered if her options were similarly ill-fated.
Luna hadn’t mentioned Bran to Marcus in the month since he’d been gone, having responded on a couple of occasions to his correspondence by taking the addresses from the top of his letters. Instead, she kept strictly to matters relating to the running of the household, feeling she didn’t know him well enough to witter on about more frivolous matters, such as nursing a wild bird back to health. And, of course, knowing that relations between the two men were strained, she made absolutely no mention of Mr Findlay, even though his ministrations had undoubtedly accelerated the healing of her ankle.
Worried that the locals might seek revenge for the assumed cursing of the Kelling boy, she was keen to seek further advice, so decided to visit the cunning man again the following day, taking a small cake she had baked herself as a thank you for all his help. There were a dozen questions rattling around her confused head, and she hoped he might help her to understand more of the mysteries surrounding Ravenswood before Marcus returned and their contact was curtailed.
She waited until Bran was absent from the house, knowing he often became agitated when she approached the boundary of the Greybourne lands. It was almost as if he knew that she’d be ill-treated by outsiders and wanted to spare her that. Mr Findlay was delighted that she’d returned and pleased to see she was no longer reliant on the crutches. He prepared her another healing tea and she noted how much more relaxed she felt at Honeysuckle Cottage with this kindly gentleman. There were no strange whispers in the air or disturbing shadows in the corners. Luna’s presence was woven through every part of Ravenswood, but here she felt she’d escaped the woman. Here, she felt safe.
And yet, she was presenting herself as the very person she was trying to be free from.
‘Mrs Greybourne, my dear, you look troubled.’ He happily accepted her ongoing charade as he cut the cake.
‘I have memory issues and there are parts of my life that I am struggling to recall,’ she explained, as she took a small slice.
‘Would these be the parts before you broke your ankle?’ He chuckled to himself as he settled into the chair opposite her.
‘Mrs Webber said you have long since tended to me, even though my husband is unaware of your care, and I wonder if I had confided in you at all? ’
‘You were quite deluded back then,’ he said, deciding to play along on this occasion, ‘and thought you could summon Satan himself. Although quite what you intended to do with him should your nonsense have worked, I’m not sure. Perhaps that is all behind you now.’
‘I am certain it is, but I would like to understand why I was so drawn to the woods. Mrs Webber mentioned a well,’ she said.
‘Indeed. It stands in a clearing, and is fed from a spring somewhere deep underground, but it dried up decades ago and no one knows why. Legend says, “when new life is created at the well, so shall the well come back to life”, but I’m not sure anyone really knows what that means. You were very much consumed by the legends and folklore of the Greybourne lands, and were keen for the waters to flow again.’
‘Were they really curative, as the legends claim?’
He shrugged. ‘They were undoubtedly pure, and as such could be used to heal any flux of the body. Pilgrims walked for hundreds of miles to buy small lead ampullae filled with the holy waters. Over time, however, the site attracted those who practised dark magic. People would utter imprecations at the cursing well, or stick pins into clay poppets to direct evil forces to those they wished harm, leaving the tiny figures at the site. But, should it ever flow again, I would certainly be interested to test its healing capabilities.’
‘Is it still visited by those who want to access it for these darker purposes? Witches and the like?’ she questioned. ‘Because my husband doesn’t believe witches are real.’ She tried to sound confident with her assertion but failed. ‘Are they?’
‘If you’re asking me whether you are a witch, then the answer is no, but I do believe the well is a magical place and such people exist. When the farmer’s wife asks me for a charm to protect against the neighbour who’s blighted their crops, even if I am inclined to think the weather is responsible, I will supply the required item – for their peace of mind, if nothing else. But when I look into the eyes of the monster who has ill-used little children, then I know that evil exists, and it frightens me. Have you not felt the overpowering aura in the clearing?’
‘I haven’t been into the woods,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t bring myself to step foot in them. All that talk of the Devil being summoned makes me quite anxious.’
‘Not all magic is bad.’ He leaned forward to pat her knee. ‘And not every danger we face is other-worldly. Sometimes our greatest threats are more tangible. Mrs Webber has told me that on at least one occasion, Mr Greybourne… your husband… has gone for you, hands around your throat, until she intervened. He has a temper. A calm and measured man, until he is pushed too far, and then he snaps as easily as a dried twig on the forest floor.’
She’d seen herself how quickly his mood could change when the policemen had doubted his word, and knew that he had gone on the rampage the night his wife had destroyed his beloved library.
‘Wicked acts aren’t always planned,’ Findlay continued. ‘Mr Webber accidentally killed a man in a bar brawl.’
The surprise on Luna’s face led him to explain.
‘It happened before I moved here but I understand he spent some time in gaol, and it was widely reported in the papers. He was full of drink and will undoubtedly regret his actions for the remainder of his life. Do you not think your husband might be capable of snapping, too?’
She knew Marcus to be kind, thinking about how he’d taken her in. But was it possible that he’d been pushed to breaking point by a woman he’d given ten years of his life to, only to be met with abuse and disdain?
She shook her head .
‘However much damage was done to his beloved Ravenswood, and even after the cruelty he suffered, I can’t honestly believe he would be driven to such a violent act.’
‘Maybe not, but I am the keeper of many confidences and even the most forgiving of men would struggle to forgive the infidelity of his wife.’ The older man raised his eyebrows. ‘I think that might drive even a good man to violence…’