Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I have learned that knocks arriving after nightfall seldom bring kindness. That is why, when I hear a rap at my door this night, my heart stumbles and falls like a newborn foal.
It is neither friendly nor patient, the kind of knock that might come from the neighbors or a passing traveler in need of bread or warmth. No, this feels different down to my bones.
I set the mortar down on the table with cautious hands. My palms are stained green from the rue I’ve been grinding this evening, and the distinct, spicy scent of rosemary still clings to my dress.
I wipe my hands on my apron, the skin itchy and inflamed from handling nettle earlier.
The knock comes again before I reach the door—angry and demanding.
Carefully, I open it and stare into a familiar face.
“John.” My voice is as stiff as an unused muscle, dripping with politeness and kindness I do not feel.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head as I correct myself—out of fear only, not manners.
I hate the way the fear tastes, the way the smell fills my nostrils, seeping out of my skin.
“Mr. Reardon. What can I do for you this evening?”
The man stands tall in the doorway, so tall he has to crouch down slightly. He holds a hat in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his trousers. Behind him, clouds gather in the sky, gray and filled with warning.
A warning is no longer needed. The storm has arrived.
His face is flushed, and I suspect it’s more from drink than anger, but I could be mistaken. He’s out of breath and reeks of sweat. There’s no question he walked here from the village, likely with his thoughts festering like a rotting wound.
“You know why I’m here,” he says, his voice deep and slow.
“I’m afraid I do not.” I clasp my hands together in front of me.
“No doubt you’ve had time to think. Plenty and then some. And what have you decided?”
I’m careful to keep my voice steady as I answer. “I’ve already given you an answer.”
“Yes, you said no. It was obvious you needed more time to think.”
Rain begins to pour, quieting the earth around us, drowning out our noise. It smacks the roof, a chorus of pelting and pattering so loud I pray the girls won’t hear us.
“Sir, I am sorry. My answer remains unchanged. I cannot marry you. I will not.”
He steps closer to me, but I refuse to move back. He will not be my stone, and I shall not be his water. He will not move me.
“Those daughters need a father, and you need a husband. There’s no denying it, Mrs. Wilde. Now, I’m trying to be reasonable.”
“We do not need anything other than what we have. This land is more than enough.”
“People have died over less,” he mutters, so low I almost don’t hear him.
“Foxglove will protect us. My daughters and I are safe here, though we thank you for your concern.”
“Protect you.” His lip curls with a laugh.
“You think the land can do anything to protect you from men? You and your kin, you’ve always been different.
Mad. All the talk of herbs and roots and healing.
You think we don’t know what you do up here in this house all alone? You think I don’t know what you are?”
“I am a woman,” I say. “A mother. Nothing more.”
“You think you’re better than all of us. Tainted goods with a dead husband and two daughters who will end up beggars because their mother can’t see past her own stupid pride.”
I inhale deeply, breathing in the smell of the storm. It’s heavy, like a warning. “I never claimed to be better, sir. Only free. I do not wish anyone any harm. I only want to live in peace with my daughters, here on our land.”
He nods slowly then, thinking. “Your daughter, then. The oldest must be coming into her womanhood. I’m willing to marry her, and I’ll allow you to remain on this land as long as you live.”
Bitter fury rises in me, ready to explode. He’ll allow me to live on the land I own? Lightning tears through the sky, alighting our faces through the window, mirroring the crack of rage I feel. “That is very kind of you, sir. But I’m afraid the answer is still no.”
He lunges forward without warning, mad as a hornet. I jerk back, but my heel catches on my skirt as he grabs my arm. I twist away from his grip and rush across the room, searching for anything I can find to defend myself.
He grabs my skirt as I reach the table. He throws me forward onto it, scattering my herbs and vials to every corner of the room.
The mortar is just out of reach, but I grab the first thing I can—the blue-handled herb knife James gave me, the one I used to carve our name into the heart of Foxglove.
I roll over against the table as he fumbles with my skirts, and I know just what he means to do.
The knife is slick in my palm, still covered with plant oil. I slash at him once, but his grip doesn’t loosen. He spits at me, and I feel it warm and hot on my chin. I swipe again, this time for his face, and the blade catches his cheek.
He curses and covers the wound with both hands. I rush past him, hurrying for the door to lead him away from where the girls are sleeping soundly in their beds. He grabs me just before I make it and slings me across the room.
My shoulder slams into the hearth, and the knife clatters from my hand. My breathing stops as I reach for it, begging—pleading—for my fingers to find it again.
I watch in utter horror as it slides across the floor, striking a place where a knot in the wood has bowed the plank. In a mere second, the knife vanishes between the floorboards, out of sight and unreachable.
My heart thuds in my ears as I curse under my breath, turning to fight with my bare hands, but his own hands are already around my neck.
He holds my body down, my cheek pressed against the cold stone.
Above me, the fire crackles, and if I could just lift my hand, I could grab a log and burn him.
If I were half the witch they claim I am, I could move the flame to his skin with just my words, but I can’t.
He lowers his face next to mine, gloating with his foul breath. “You think no man can own you, eh? I warned you of the dangers of being out here alone. How about I show ’em to you now?”
I struggle against his strength, my mind only on the girls.
They’re sleeping peacefully, and I owe a great degree of thanks to the storm for that.
The land is protecting them from the horrors unfolding in their home.
But what next? If he kills me, what will come of them?
What will he do to my babies? Marry Rose, perhaps, but what of Lyddie?
She is too young to marry. Too young to be alone.
And then, as if I conjured her simply by thought—
“Mama?”
It’s her voice filling the air. My Lyddie.
I was wrong.
The storm didn’t protect her, though it has kept her sister in peaceful dreams. Our noises must have woken her from sleep.
I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want her to know of these monsters just yet. I turn my eyes to her, choking, barely able to get the sound from my throat. “Lyddie—run—get your sister and go—”
John swats at her without looking behind him, knocking her to the ground. I fight harder, using every ounce of my strength to remove his hands from neck.
He will kill them both if he gets the chance. If I don’t stop him.
The words swell in my chest with a deep sense of knowing, but as my vision fades, I see movement behind John again.
Lyddie is back. Perhaps she never left. She didn’t run.
My sweet angel, my lamb, barely ten winters on this earth, stands just behind John on the wood floor.
She’s barefoot, her hair tangled from sleep, her nightgown dusting the floor.
She looks between us. Takes in the sight of the man holding her mother down, at the panic that must be on my face.
Without a word or hesitation, she moves.
She takes the fire poker resting on the chair. My eyes lock on her small hands wrapped around the ornate handle, at how perfectly it fits in her palm.
He doesn’t see her coming. Doesn’t hear her. Doesn’t feel her the way I do, even when my vision fades in and out, even when I can no longer hear anything. I feel her moving, know where she is.
She raises the iron poker high above her head, and with one single stroke, she brings it down over his head with more fury than should fit inside her tiny body. She grunts from the force of it, all the breath leaving her little lungs.
Foxglove is filled with the sickening sound of iron against flesh. Against bone.
He shouts—loud, strong—and it startles her. She teeters, stepping back and away from him. For a moment, I’m certain she’s going to drop the fire poker and run. For a moment, I hope she will.
His eyes search the air for help that isn’t here. The sounds escaping his dry lips become a cry, one that dies in his throat when he stills.
She swings again. He groans, and his groan turns to a gurgle. He stands to his feet, hand to his head as he staggers, turns, and rushes toward her.
Without a drop of fear, she lifts the poker into the air, pointed at him, and when he lunges, I watch as the black iron slices through his neck, silencing him at once.
He drops to the ground in a heap. Firelight casts dancing shadows across his form as I try to catch my breath. My neck burns under my own touch, my skin raw from the wood and stone underneath me as I struggled against him.
I gasp for breath as Lyddie runs to me, her little body shaking as she releases the heavy sobs she’d fought desperately to hold in. I gather her in my arms, rocking her against me. I can’t find my voice, can’t speak, though I don’t know which words I would choose even if I could.
Outside, the storm rages on. Rain smacks the roof like stones, and thunder booms over Foxglove, drowning out all else.
The land tried to warn me today when I felt the storm in my bones, but I ignored it. I wasn’t listening hard enough. Lyddie, though, she must’ve heard. She must’ve known. This moment, as unfair as it is, was meant for her.
Not her sister. Not me.
My brave, wild daughter answered the call when she felt it, and she saved us. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for not being the one to do it.
We remain there, unmoving, for quite some time. When the storm is over, the ground will be soft enough to hide what we’ve done. The earth will protect our secrets once again.