Chapter 19
19
Marcus and Luna walked in silence for a while, before joining a wider road, scarred with the deep grooves of carriage wheel tracks, and followed it into the bustling village. A long row of terrace cottages bled into an open square of busy shops, many with bow-fronted windows and cheery hand-painted signs on the walls. Large wooden half-barrels overflowing with purple pansies and pink petunias were dotted about, and a medieval wayside stone cross marked the junction of three intersecting roads and the village centre.
Marcus began to hastily school her as to the people and places they were about to encounter, but with so many names and facts, she was sure she would slip up somewhere. As their first port of call was to Cole’s Haberdashery and Drapers, he explained that the family had been in the village for decades. They were intelligent and honest people, he said, not swayed by silly superstitions, and much respected in the village for always helping out their neighbours.
‘There is a little feral girl called Penny that they pay to support. She used to run wild about the neighbourhood and was struck dumb a couple of years ago. Penny’s affliction was blamed on the Ravenswood Witch, along with every other misfortune and cruel act of nature that it suited disgruntled villagers to put down to the supernatural. All nonsense, of course, but I feel it only fair to warn you of any accusations you might face. However, if there is anyone we can trust to support us in Little Doubton, it’s Mrs Cole.’
Luna nodded her understanding and cast nervous eyes at the people bustling around the village square. A couple of women threw her dirty looks as she crossed to the haberdasher’s and she gripped Marcus’s strong arm with her free hand.
‘Mr Greybourne.’ A rather homely woman nodded her greeting as they entered the shop, but her eyes were edged with the fine lines that attested to a face that smiled regularly, and her demeanour was kindly. ‘And who do we have here?’
‘Why, Mrs Cole, this is my wife, much altered since she was last here, I grant you, largely because her health is greatly improved.’
The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘ Much altered,’ she agreed, looking between Marcus and Luna, confused as to what she was being told. ‘How lovely to see you out and about, Mrs Greybourne.’ She dipped her head. ‘Although I don’t think I have seen you above half a dozen times in the village since your wedding.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ Luna stepped forward and put out her hand in greeting but Mrs Cole was wary of the stranger and did not take it. She realised her error. ‘I mean, pleased to see you again after all this time. And how is little Sally? Much grown, I should imagine. She was only about seven the last time I saw her.’
She felt the gentle squeeze of Marcus’s approving fingers and she gave him an affectionate look – one that any happily married couple might share.
‘To business,’ he said, not giving Mrs Cole a chance to reply and glancing at his pocket watch. ‘Can you make up some clothes for my wife? She needs half a dozen day dresses, pretty but not extravagant, and one formal gown.’
‘I’ll need to take her measurements again.’ She looked Luna up and down. ‘She appears to have shrunk somewhat.’ Those crinkles came out in force.
‘Of course. I have other matters to attend to but I’m certain I can trust her to your care for half an hour?’
Mrs Cole nodded and called for Sally.
‘Mind the shop, will you? I need to take Mrs Greybourne out the back to be measured.’
A young girl, the very spit of her mother and perhaps thirteen or fourteen years in age, stepped from the rear of the premises, as Luna was ushered through the very same doorway. The bell on the door tinkled with Marcus’s departure.
‘Let’s get to it then. Down to your drawers and shift, if you please.’
Luna did as she was bid, trying not to mind being poked and prodded, as the dressmaker’s tape measure was stretched out from its brass casing, wrapped around various parts of her body and along her slender limbs.
The first few minutes passed in silence, as Mrs Cole scribbled numbers down in a tiny notebook, occasionally licking the end of her stumpy pencil to help it write better.
‘Which fabrics do you like?’ she asked, waving her hand towards several bolts of patterned cloth stacked on a large cutting table.
‘Oh, I really don’t mind. Stick to practical colours and simple cottons that can be laundered. And no fancy trims.’
The older lady raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not with him for the money then?’
Luna said nothing. This woman knew she was not who she claimed to be, but she had sworn to be Luna from the moment a kind stranger had assured the police constable she was his wife, and even Mr Findlay hadn’t made her stray from that assertion.
‘When my husband was a young man, Mr Greybourne gave him some money to start his business,’ Mrs Cole said, as she worked. ‘Even when his own fortunes declined, he would not take the money back, insisting it had always been a gift, and you don’t return gifts. He’s a good man.’
‘I know,’ Luna replied.
‘Then I’ll ask no more questions. He was smiling when he stepped into the shop, and is looking the most content I’ve seen him in years. That piece of information alone will make my husband very happy.’
They spent the next half an hour discussing fabrics and the finer details of the proposed garments. It was not long after they returned to the front of the shop that the bell tinkled again and Marcus stepped through the door.
‘All done?’ he asked.
‘Yes, and your wife has selected some fabrics – quite modest choices. I’ll get the finished articles out to Ravenswood within a couple of weeks.’
Marcus looked at his old friend and dipped his head in acknowledgement.
The bell above the door tinkled again as two young women entered. It hadn’t taken long for word to spread that Marcus Greybourne and his wife were in the village, and they cast curious glances at the couple, whispering behind their gloved hands.
Luna was standing several feet away, but Marcus closed the gap and slipped his arm about her. The warmth of his touch calmed her nerves. He is protecting me, she thought, like Bran, and she was moved that he cared. She looked up to his face just as he looked down to hers and they exchanged a smile.
‘After you, dear,’ he said, ushering her out into the street .
Luna kept her head low and avoided looking at people as they stood beneath the stone cross.
‘Is there anything else you need? Any supplies that I have not thought of?’ he asked kindly.
She shook her head.
‘How refreshing to be with such an undemanding woman. Quite a rarity for your sex,’ he joked. ‘Quite a rarity for you.’
It was absolutely not the time or the place for fanciful notions – in the middle of the day, surrounded by bustling groups of people – but she felt an intense pull between them. Her eyes locked with his again and the depth of his stare forced her chest to somersault over her stomach. This was dangerous; he was dangerous. If he could not trust her with the truth of what had happened to his wife, then the sinister possibilities would haunt her and she must remain on her guard.
And yet, even the thought that he might have committed an unspeakable crime did not stop her heart rate accelerating and wholly inappropriate thoughts of him from circling through her frantically whirling mind, beyond her control.
Not concentrating on her surroundings, she broke away from his magnetic stare and stepped back into the path of a hunched figure. Snapped out of the moment, she looked over in horror to offer an apology for her clumsiness but was spoken over.
‘Don’t you cast your evil eye upon me, witch,’ the wizened old woman muttered, spitting on the ground.
Luna’s heart began a slow thud as she realised that everyone in the street was staring at her – absolutely the last thing she wanted. A young mother protectively pulled a small child to her skirts and her husband told her not to be so silly. It seemed to Luna that the village was a mix of those who believed in malevolent forces and those who did not.
She knew her anxiety was etched across her face, as Marcus’s strong arm once again pulled her close, and she took strength in that. But it had been foolhardy to come to such a public place for two very compelling reasons. Even though the locals believed her to be Luna Greybourne, she was, in reality, a wanted woman. Marcus’s lies had offered her sanctuary, but there was always the risk that someone from Lowbridge was passing through Little Doubton, on their way to Manbury, and would happen upon her, know that she was a fugitive, and turn her in. The other was, of course, that Luna Greybourne was not liked in this place.
‘What’ya bring the witch into the village for?’ the old woman shouted, and she felt Marcus’s arm tense about her waist, as he clenched his jaw.
‘My wife is not, and has never been, a witch, Hilda. It’s true, she was lost to her mind for a long time, but she’s better now. Can’t you see how quiet and rational she is?’ Her husband spoke clearly and calmly to the gathering and curious gaggle, but there was an almost undetectable flare of his nostrils and she knew that he was struggling to control his temper.
‘Four years of bad harvests,’ someone else called out. ‘Explain that.’
‘Four years of unseasonable weather,’ Marcus said. ‘The whole country suffered.’
‘How about little Penny refusing to speak, not long after she was found wandering, lost and panic-stricken on the Ravenswood road, near the jetty. I’m reckoning she saw things in them woods of yours.’
‘Whatever happened to that child was not connected to my wife.’
‘But Luna cast a spell on old Mother Selwood and her evil curse killed her,’ came the shout of another.
‘Ridiculous accusation. She believed some silly words and the genuine panic likely burst a blood vessel in her brain. There is always a rational explanation. You would just rather attribute it to mumbo jumbo.’
People were pressing in on them like the incoming tide surrounding a small island. They were totally encircled when she felt a shove from behind and fell forward, her knees hitting the stony surface of the road, as a searing pain burned hot in her neck.
‘I’ve scored the witch!’ came the gleeful cry, but Marcus had spun to face the perpetrator within a split second, finally snapping, as he held the woman he’d called Hilda by the wrists, his face a twisted glare and his voice a low snarl. His bulky frame towered above the diminutive figure.
‘How dare you touch my wife?’ he shouted, visibly shaking. ‘How dare you hurt her? She is innocent of these crimes. You are all a bunch of small-minded superstitious people, with nothing better to do than to blame someone else for your misfortunes.’ He released her and then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and bent across Luna to apply it to the wound, his eyes concerned and his touch suddenly incredibly tender.
‘There’s evil magic about these parts, all right,’ said Hilda, rubbing at her wrists. ‘The well has been dry for decades, and even God’s creatures stay away from your woods because of what goes on in there: fornication, blood sacrifices and contact with the spirit world. She’s been seen, your wife, dancing around them fires that she’s lit. With her pale hair, and wrapped in a linen sheet, the men say she looks like a white butterfly, flapping about, and we all know butterflies are messengers from the spirit world.’ This was news to Luna who wondered, yet again, if the dead insects in her room at Ravenswood had any special significance. ‘Shrieking and howling into the night, like a banshee, throwing sacrifices down the well. Everyone knows that they are gateways to the underworld, and that the Devil is being summoned and she …’ Hilda pointed at Luna, ‘…is the one in league with him. ’
The small crowd stepped back to give them some space and allow Luna to get to her feet. Her hand went to her neck to assess the cut. Dark red blood stained the white cotton square, and she could smell the iron-like odour, as whispers of ‘witch’ continued to be muttered by some.
‘That woman’s a sorceress, all right. She has a raven as a familiar,’ a young man insisted. ‘Mr Kelling’s son told us. Black and evil, it follows her about and does her cursing for her.’
‘We’ve always had ravens at Ravenswood and anyone with any ornithological knowledge knows they are intelligent creatures and clever mimics. There have been many people over the years who have trespassed on my grounds to gain access to the well. The bird could have picked that cry up from anyone. It also calls “nice bit of pie” but I’m sure no one is suggesting he is a competent cook.’ There was a ripple of laughter from some, but the general mood remained antagonistic.
Mrs Cole belatedly stepped from the haberdashers to see what all the fuss was about. Her wide arms were crossed and her face was set in a manner not prepared to brook any nonsense.
‘Leave Mrs Greybourne alone,’ she said. ‘I don’t take kindly to people who are unpleasant to my friends.’
Marcus threw her a grateful look.
‘Well, I for one am visiting the cunning man to get myself some charms.’ The old woman remained defiant. ‘Better safe than sorry… or cursed and dead on the floor.’
Without thinking her words through properly, Luna saw a way to defend herself. Findlay knew she wasn’t a witch, largely because he knew she wasn’t Luna, but surely he would stand up for her.
‘Ask Mr Findlay,’ she said, spinning to face everyone. ‘Ask him if I’m a witch. He knows that I’m not a threat to you, or your precious crops. If you trust him so much to ward off evil, ask yourselves why he is so kind to me. ’
It was only when she saw Marcus’s reaction that she realised what she’d done.
‘You’ve spoken to that man?’ he asked, his grip on her uncomfortably tight as he pulled her closer to his face and shook her arm. ‘When I expressly asked you to have nothing to do with him?’ The flare of rage that he’d directed at the woman who had harmed her only moments before began to simmer up again, and she knew he was struggling not to lash out at her.
‘I… I…’ But there was nothing she could say because she had spent time with Mr Findlay.
‘We’re leaving,’ he said, a vein throbbing across his temple. The crowd parted as the pair moved towards the Manbury road. All the good feeling between them had evaporated. Marcus wasn’t just cross, he was furious, and she felt terrible then, for giving him cause to be disappointed in her.
As they left the village, Marcus striding ahead and no longer caring about her ankle, she spotted the tinker who had told her about the ferry all those weeks ago when she’d been running for her very life. He was leaning against the bakery wall and sucking on the end of a clay pipe, the tools of his trade at his feet in a little cart. He was the only person who had paid her close attention that day. To everyone else she was a scurrying figure of no interest, but he had held a conversation with her as she’d spun a tale about needing to get to London to see a dying relative, asked for directions to the ferry, and had taken the penny she had offered in grateful thanks.
He narrowed his eyes as she passed but said nothing. An uneasy feeling swirled in her stomach. What a fool she’d been to think assuming the identity of another could solve all her problems. Things were more complicated than ever, and there was a part of her that longed for her old life – before it had been cruelly destroyed by another.