Chapter 22
22
The young brother and sister, Hattie and Oscar Gower, walked over from the village that Friday, and Luna and Marcus interviewed the pair in the drawing room. The lad clutched at his woollen cap, turning it over and over in his restless hands, whilst his sister answered in quiet whispers, a constant look of fear across her eyes. Marcus, satisfied that they would fit the bill, took the brother out to the gardens to introduce him to Mr Webber and fill him in on his duties.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ Luna reassured the anxious girl as the door closed behind them. She recognised that this poor child, possibly only twelve or thirteen years of age, was aware of her reputation. ‘You may have heard gossip that I have a raven that follows me about, but it has only been a recent attachment, and only since I nursed him back to health. He was caught in a trap, nearly died, and is merely grateful to me.’
The girl nodded, as though she was petrified to do otherwise.
On cue, Bran tapped at the windowpane – the weather was cooler after an unexpected summer storm the night before, and it had not been prudent to leave the window open. Luna stood to let him in, all the while hoping her unpredictable companion would behave. He hopped inside and tapped his beak on the stoneware pot that held his treats.
‘Would you like to feed him?’ she asked.
‘Nice bit of pie,’ Bran said, as he waddled back and forth in front of them both, and even the nervous girl couldn’t help but smile.
Things settled down for a while. Hattie and Oscar came over from the village every morning and returned together at dusk. On their second week, Mrs Cole sent them with Luna’s new dresses, which were a perfect fit and, even though she had specified nothing fancy, there were subtle embellishments that lifted them above the plain garments she’d been expecting. It certainly made Marcus happier to see his wife in new clothes. Even the house was looking presentable – the ground floor, at least. And the Gower offspring had proved to be a good hire; Oscar was stronger than he looked and, though Hattie remained petrified of her own shadow, she did her work without complaint.
The Webbers were reminded to stick to the story that their new mistress was Mrs Greybourne, Marcus’s wife of nearly ten years, and that nothing must get back to the village to the contrary. The housekeeper’s slips when they had been the only staff could not be allowed to happen now, and Luna knew that the fantasy of it all was becoming ever more real with each passing day – for everyone concerned.
No one admitted to knowing anything about the figure she’d seen running from the house. Mrs Webber was convinced her mistress had seen a ghost, and Marcus had dismissed it. Nothing had been stolen and he thought it was most likely a gypsy girl who’d been poking around and become spooked when she’d realised the owners had returned. It took Luna a few days to realise that her broken coral necklace was missing, and for the housekeeper to notice someone had been at her medicinal brandy. Bran was blamed for the former and Mr Webber for the latter, but as nothing else untoward happened, she eventually forgot about the cloaked woman.
A whole month passed and, as they stepped into July, Luna allowed herself to believe that all her troubles might be behind her. The constable had not come for her again, seemingly convinced that she was the wife her husband claimed she was. Perhaps, like herself, he couldn’t imagine any circumstances under which Marcus would willingly harbour a complete stranger, and a murderer to boot. Or was he starting to believe that she was the real Mrs Greybourne, particularly as so many of the villagers had accepted she was the Ravenswood Witch? There were no more visions in the windowpane and she was sleeping better. Perhaps they had been lingering effects of the laudanum. The attic remained silent and there were also no further threats written in the dust, although Hattie now saw to it that the bedroom was regularly cleaned.
Added to this, she and Marcus had settled back into a comfortable companionship. They often breakfasted together in the dining room, went about their own tasks in the day, and then shared their evenings together. Her misdemeanour with the cunning man was seemingly forgotten about and she found herself wondering that, should any of her siblings have survived beyond infancy, this might have been the sort of easy relationship she would have had with them. But she was fooling herself as to the true nature of her feelings towards the hard-working and driven man who, despite frequent periods of introspection, and the occasional flare of temper, had started to worm his way into her affections.
Late one morning, as Marcus stacked logs from one of the trees he and Oscar had successfully felled at the back of the house, she’d stood watching him for a while. His shirt was undone at the neck and a few dark hairs were visible where the cotton formed an open V. As he worked, she could see where the sweat from his exertions made the fabric cling to his body. It had been many weeks since she’d had thoughts of a romantic nature about a man, and the carnal knowledge that she possessed made her feel both deeply ashamed and strangely flustered, as her growing affections for Marcus inevitably danced around the edge of what being husband and wife meant. The day was cool, but the heat that crept up from the centre of her being set her cheeks aflame.
He looked up from his task and caught her staring at him. Embarrassed, she spun away and hurried to the Dutch barn, just needing a moment to gather herself. It had been built without walls and used to store straw and hay when the Greybournes kept horses, but three sides had now been boarded up to make it a more practical storage space. All the outside tools and machinery were kept there – the old gig, and an assortment of ladders and barrows. It was not a place she’d been in before and she felt the strangest chill sweep over her as she crossed the threshold.
This was a place of death – she felt it.
She looked about her, wanting to focus on anything except how Marcus made her feel, and walked to the back, where she spotted an abandoned animal trap on the top of a large wooden barrel. That’s why she felt so unnerved – this barn was where those vicious jaws had held Bran captive for several days. Her hand reached out to touch the cold black metal and she shuddered .
‘Come away. This is an eerie place,’ Marcus’s voice drifted over from the doorway, making her jump.
She hesitated, as she heard him approach. He stopped directly behind her but she couldn’t bring herself to turn and face him. The warmth of his breath danced across the back of her neck before one of his large arms reached around her to lift her hand from the trap.
‘I don’t like Webber using these. There has been enough cruelty on these lands. If a creature must be killed, let it be outright.’ His fingers lingered for far too long over hers before he let go.
Everything in her body came alive, as though his touch had sent an electric current through her. Still, she kept her back to him.
‘The ravens?’ she said. ‘Were they all trapped like this?’ She tried to focus her mind on anything other than his scent and how small she felt beneath his towering frame.
‘Seven succumbed to poison in the water trough – all of which were subsequently eviscerated – two were shot, and you saw the one nailed to the gatepost. Bran was the only one caught in a trap. I remain amazed that he survived but am glad of it. Animals have astonishing instincts, sensing things we have allowed our evolution to override. He is extraordinarily fond of you…’ He swallowed. ‘For me, it is the reassurance I sought that you belong here.’
She turned slowly and tipped her chin up to his face. She saw his eyes dart to her mouth.
‘We should?—’
‘Yes.’
Neither moved and an awkwardness filled the space between their bodies. He brought his face a fraction of an inch closer to hers, and his eyes flicked back to her lips, just as there was an almighty crash and a whole row of garden tools propped up along the side wall toppled, one after another, falling to the barn floor. He pulled away and the moment was lost, also falling to their feet .
She’s here, Luna thought.
She’s watching.
That afternoon, Luna wandered into the kitchens hoping to beg a glass of lemonade, or even offer to make up a jug herself should there not be any, but Mrs Webber was nowhere to be found, and she knew Hattie had been sent on an errand to collect milk and eggs from the neighbouring farm.
The room was totally empty but beyond the quiet of that space, she heard someone humming. The sound was coming from the tiny corridor that led out to the pantry, stillroom and scullery. With silent feet, she crept closer. The stillroom door was ajar, and she could see Mrs Webber’s wide back, as she stood before the pine table, her elbows moving as she ground something with the large pestle and mortar. But it was not part of the preparations for dinner, or even a medicinal poultice, she realised with growing alarm, because to the housekeeper’s left, drawn on the pine top with chalk, was a strange symbol within a circle, and she was chanting words in a language Luna did not recognise.
‘She must be gone from this house.’ Mrs Webber turned her head, suddenly speaking in hushed tones, clear unambiguous words, to someone else in the room who Luna could not see. ‘I want her out and will do anything necessary to drive her from Ravenswood. Let’s hope when the Devil comes a-calling on All Hallows’ Eve, he takes the damn woman with him.’
There was a catch in Luna’s throat. She had believed the housekeeper to be on her side, but the realisation that this woman was the foe masquerading as a friend that Mr Findlay had warned her about cut her deeply. Leaning forward to see who else was in the room, she finally spotted Bran and her already shaky world began to crumble. He was perched on the top of a small pine dresser and overseeing the whole ritual. She drew back immediately, wary of being discovered, and a restrictive band tightened around her chest.
She needed air.
Knowing Marcus and Mr Webber were busy in the meadow, she slipped out into the back gardens, gathering up a shawl as she left. Her head was spinning. Who could she trust? She no longer knew. Even the bird she had nursed back to health seemed to be in league with her enemies. He had always displayed his displeasure when he thought people were up to no good, like the Kelling boy or the manservant, and yet there he was standing by as the housekeeper cast a spell to drive her out. Or perhaps the pair of them were involved in darker ill-wishing? She was shaken by the prospect that the reciting of magic words and mixing potions could do her serious harm.
Outwardly, she was calm as she stood by the kitchen door, concentrating on her breathing, but inwardly she was a tangled knot of violent and uncontrollable reactions. Was this how Luna had felt? That there was no one at Ravenswood she could trust? No wonder the poor woman had spent so much time alone in the woods. By allowing herself to become part of this household, had she, as she’d suspected back in April, jumped from the frying pan into the Devil-worshipping bonfire?
The warmth and reassurance of the summer sun couldn’t reach her now that she was in the shadow of the house, terrorised by the high canopies of the trees. It always felt like a house of two halves, and never more so than at that moment, as she stood there, small and friendless. Even the smells from this side of the gardens were darker: musty earthiness, damp wood and the stench of decay.
She straightened up, a slow determination building, and knew it was time to face her biggest fear: venturing into the woods. If she couldn’t do this one simple thing, then she didn’t deserve to remain at Ravenswood, and certainly didn’t deserve to walk in the shoes of Luna Greybourne. It was a bright July day and she told herself that she had nothing to be afraid of. So many people were pulled into the depths of those trees – from Marcus’s wife to Mr Webber, the fleeing woman to Old Mother Selwood. She had to see the sacred well for herself, and set the ghost of Luna – real or imagined – to rest.
Instinctively, she reached into her pocket for the rowan cross, until she remembered with a jolt who had given it to her and wondered if it might not be of rowan after all, but some other wood that had the power to do her harm. She took it from her skirt pocket and threw it on the ground, driving her heel into the soil and snapping it, repeating that magic was only real if you believed, as she stepped from the boundary of the garden.
Before coming to Little Doubton, she’d always thought of trees as splendid and noble things. Moving from the city to the countryside had given her an appreciation of nature in all its glory. There were green parts of Branchester, it was true, but these were sparse oases in an overwhelming landscape of buildings that blocked out the light, and air saturated with dirty smoke. She recalled fondly the sweet chestnut grove of Lowbridge, and the leafy cut-through to the part of the river that Daniel had so loved. It had felt such a tranquil place, away from people, yet teeming with life. But stepping into the woods felt quite the opposite; like the barn, it felt like a place of death.
She ventured further in, thinking that the witch in Hansel and Gretel had built her gingerbread house deep in the woods for a reason – it was hidden from view, a place she could conduct her mischief away from prying eyes. And yet, with every step, Luna felt she was being watched. The gnarled trunks of the trees were covered in twisted faces, and the creeping branches were their wizened hands, reaching out to grab her as she passed. Gentle summer breezes toyed with the vibrant green leaves and whispered vicious threats of what would happen to her should she continue her journey.
What struck her, as she bravely strode towards the heart of the forest and, she hoped, the direction of the fabled well, was the lack of wildlife. There were no red squirrels leaping from bough to bough, no butterflies resting in the shafts of light that fell through the canopies above, and no birds at all, tweeting warnings to each other of an intruder. Now that his kin had been murdered, Bran was the only creature that this sacred place had left to protect it, but was he guarding against the forces of evil, or the forces of good?
Eventually, she stumbled into a clearing, and a patch of sunshine illuminated a stone well. A small wooden roof of overlapping timbers was supported by two posts, with the circumference of the well wider than she’d expected, perhaps four feet across. Rushing towards it, as though it could offer her sanctuary in this most eerie of places, she placed both hands on the edge, feeling the cold of the stone surround seep into her fingers, despite the warmth of the day.
She leaned forward to peer inside – a cavernous hole so deep that she could not see the bottom. It was easy to understand why people were convinced it was a portal to the underworld. Could the Devil really be summoned into this world through something constructed by man? There was a growing part of her that believed he possibly could.
‘Oh,’ she said, jolting backwards as she noticed strange symbols and markings carved into the stonework and scratched into the wood of the supports. The echo of her surprised exclamation swirled around those plunging walls as though there was someone or something lurking deep inside and calling back to her. She frowned and felt a cold gust rush past her face and shoulders. Something had certainly been summoned from the depths, even if it was only the stale air.
‘Luna?’ she called into the abyss. It came back to her not as a question but a statement, definite and taunting. ‘Luna, Luna, Luna…’ the echo confirmed.
And then she wondered if Marcus’s wife could be lying dead at the bottom of this unused well. It was the perfect place to conceal a body. Although the whole forest whispered death, there was no unusual insect activity to indicate anything unpleasant was decomposing in the pit before her. But then the real Luna had disappeared over three months ago. Perhaps she was just bones now.
She picked up a large stone from the ground and tossed it into the well, wondering how deep the hole was. It bounced off the sides and ricocheted down the walls, until there was a thud as it hit the bottom. No water; no hope.
Luna stood upright and a small clay figure in the soil by her feet caught her eye, highlighted as it was by the sun reflecting off tiny metal pins. These pins had been deliberately driven into the limbs, heart and eyes of the miniature human form – a cruel act to get revenge on someone who had committed a perceived wrong. Even city girls knew about poppets from the silly playground games played by naive children who didn’t realise what godless forces they were meddling with. She felt the wound in her neck throb, even though it had healed into a deep pink scar, as though someone was at that very instant sticking a pin into the neck of a clay figure of her.
She shuddered and shook the ridiculous notion from her head. Then she noticed another poppet, half buried in the crumbly mulch of last winter’s fallen leaves. And then another, and another… Mr Findlay was right – this was a place of good and evil. No wonder half the villagers were convinced Satan himself would be summoned up on All Hallows’ Eve, to prance around these wo ods and collect up the souls of the dead. With everything she’d found in the last few minutes, she was of a mind to accept it was entirely possible.
Having circled the well a few times, Luna decided to head back to the house, but was alarmed to realise she didn’t know which way was home. If only she’d had the foresight of Hansel and Gretel and left herself a trail to follow. There was still no sign of Bran – not that she would have welcomed his arrival after his betrayal – and the midday sun was now directly above her, giving no clue as to her orientation. Panic bubbled in her chest as she turned to each tree surrounding the well in turn, but they all looked the same: towering oaks bending towards the clearing; wise old men guarding this precious watering hole – men who had been standing here for several hundred years.
There was nothing for it but to decide on a direction and continue in a straight line until she either stumbled across Ravenswood, the river, or came out into open countryside. What she could not do was remain at this unsettling place. Like a fool, she hadn’t told anyone where she was going, and the thought that she might still be wandering aimlessly around in the dead of night was petrifying.
A further breeze swept across the clearing and Luna pulled her shawl tighter around her body. In the same way she had found the courage to run from the police and travel all those miles across the rugged countryside on foot, with no food or shelter, she would find the courage to get herself out of this muddle.
Picking up her pace, she started to half stride, half run away from the well, but those wizened hands were reaching for her and managed to entangle her on a couple of occasions, hooking their bony fingers into the loops of her shawl. In the end, she abandoned it when a grasping tree tugged it from her shoulders. All she wanted was to be out in the sunshine again .
After a few minutes she lurched into another, smaller clearing where she saw, to her horror, three large wooden crosses protruding from the ground. Each one had a slightly raised mound in front – undoubtedly graves.
Heart racing and mouth dry, she approached the sad line of markers for whatever was buried beneath. She could see from the way the wood had weathered that these were three separate burials over the space of several years. But why was this graveyard hidden deep in the woods? Were these resting places a secret – not meant to be found?
She approached them cautiously, her panicked mind racing with possibilities. It was still Greybourne land, so were they connected to the house or the family in some way? Or were they the bodies of sacrifices made at the well – animal or otherwise? And then she chided herself for being so dramatic. Could they be lost or stillborn babies, she considered: too young to be baptised, and therefore not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground? Mr and Mrs Greybourne had no children but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been pregnancies.
And then she saw something that made her heart almost stop. Each cross had an initial carved into the middle. From left to right, there was a ‘C’, a ‘G’, and the newest grave, likely only dug a few months ago because the wood had not dried out and discoloured like the previous two, was carved with an ‘L’.
‘Luna,’ she whispered with incredulity to the trees and they laughed back at her. Surely only Marcus would have the right to give permission for burials here. Had she stumbled on the hidden grave of a woman who had perished at the hands of her husband? What if he had been controlling her? Whispering untruths into her ear to convince her she was going mad. Had she been a naive fool to let his kind eyes and gentle touch lull her into thinking she was safe with him, when she was nothing of the sort? She knew only too well that someone could present a front of compassion, yet be manipulating you with unkind motives.
And, as she suddenly heard a flapping of wings and the familiar cry of ‘kiss me’, she wondered if she would one day be under a fourth mound of soil, another wooden cross at her head to mark her final resting place.