Chapter Twenty-five Passed like a Spirit #2
‘I won’t get in the way,’ said Mr Delavaud.
Kensa’s words came thick from her throat: ‘I want hot water, wood for the fire, any spare linen as can be found and the window to be opened for air.’ She wiped her forehead with her dirty sleeve. Her mother’s dress was ruined. ‘After that, you’ll watch him while I rest.’
Mr Delavaud’s frown became more pronounced. ‘I think that’s a job for the housekeeper … ’ He petered off at Kensa’s glare. ‘Yes, right away.’
It was Mrs Howard who returned with the necessary items, while the curate trailed behind her and spoke loudly about gathering wood when there was an ample pile by the grate.
He occupied himself in the way men do, pretending to appear busy while being quite the opposite.
Kensa changed the bedsheets as carefully as she could and spoke while she did it, explaining any movements she was making to Sir George. He did not reply.
In her work, she never once thought to harm him or conduct herself poorly or allow his wound to fester.
As soon as she had entered the bedchamber, her vengeful impulses left and she had seen only a man who needed help.
It confused her, to not know herself or what she wanted until it was right before her.
Outside, the day was ending, fading into a soft-baked indigo only seen in the warmer months.
What had the Bucka said about the hag and her aversion to sunlight?
A trickling dread began to pool in Kensa’s kneecaps and she wanted to settle them somewhere.
Kneel down and tuck herself into a ball and not move until it was over.
Kensa asked the curate gently, ‘Have you ever done this before?’
Mr Delavaud managed to nod and shake his head simultaneously. ‘Been at a sickbed? I’ve had siblings who were—’
‘No, administered last rites to someone who’s dying,’ said Kensa. ‘That’s what you’re here to do, isn’t it? Should he start to fade, you’re going to read him verses?’
‘There’s a lot more to it than that.’ Mr Delavaud swept a hand down his torso, in the way she had once seen Sir George do. ‘He has to be conscious, for a start.’
‘Then you have done it?’
‘Um, well … ’ He took in a large breath, then deflated as it left him. ‘No, I haven’t.’ He cleared his throat anxiously. ‘Is he dying then? Should I—’
‘I think he’ll pull through,’ said Kensa, and she found she believed it. ‘He’s exhausted as he’s bled a load and I doubt the laudanum did him any favours. Plus, his breath smells like alcohol and I wager he was drinking prior to standing on a poacher’s trap.’
‘That isn’t a surprise,’ said the curate, the tension leaving his body. ‘Then I suppose I best be on my way?’
‘No!’ Kensa almost shouted, though Sir George did not stir. It would be dark soon and the hag might be wandering the woods outside. ‘No, better to be safe, surely?’
‘I thought you said he wouldn’t die?’
‘I mean, who can say?’ Kensa flapped her ensanguined hands. A sudden gust shook the trees as though to agree with her, and when the night came, it came suddenly.
Mr Delavaud studied her, reading her as he might his psalms. A distant clock in the hallway marked the hour and he said softly, ‘I will stay.’
Mr Delavaud was poor company. She wished she’d sent him away, even with the looming threat.
He fell asleep immediately and sprawled on a plump throne at the fireside.
It was hard not to compare him to Jack, the only other man she knew around her age.
Their builds were starkly different, and their manners at odds.
And there was a smugness about the curate’s mouth, even in slumber, as though he was amused by a joke only he was privy to.
Mrs Howard placed supper in the bedchamber’s doorway, prior to giving a stern, ‘Goodnight.’ There were three bowls and Kensa assumed her helping was the smallest. Sir George showed no wakeful signs and, considering the curate was also indisposed to slumber, Kensa ate all three portions.
There was one candle by the sick bed, which spread buttery gold out from one corner.
Kensa had never seen a candle as fine and clear as this one.
It did not smell, either, unlike the other lights she was familiar with.
Aside from that, the only other luminescence came from the fire, quiet now without the curate’s persistent prodding.
‘Mm,’ came a rasp, filtering over the bedsheets.
Sir George was awake.
Kensa’s hatred rose anew, summoned by his open eyes – brown, thankfully – which met her own. She moved to his beside and stood as a statue to observe him, to wait until he registered her.
‘Where am … ?’ He trailed off, confused.
He trembled as he reached to his bedside, to the water she had placed there.
He could not manage alone and Kensa, teeth gritted, raised the glass to his lips.
The magistrate drank large gulps, the water flowing over his mouth and down his chest, dotting the sheets.
It was a good sign; he was alert and thirsty.
If the wound was kept clean, he would recover well enough, though he would always know pain when he walked.
Good.
Kensa withdrew the empty glass and set it down loudly. ‘Do you know who I am?’
Sir George’s fingers moved awkwardly, one coming to his face, to the stubble grown there, while the other felt at his leg. He did not rise and Kensa doubted he could.
‘I need more water,’ he said.
‘Are you listening?’
‘Do as I asked, girl.’
Kensa did not move. Her right palm hovered over his leg. She longed to press it down, to make him cry out and suffer and writhe. ‘I was a child,’ she said. In her other hand was the hagstone, clutched tight enough to click her knuckles in their sockets.
‘You will do as I command—’
Kensa raised her voice. ‘Do you know who I am?!’
‘Yes.’
Sir George raised his head an inch from his pillow, then brought it down again, sighing loudly.
‘Alexander Rowe,’ he said. ‘I know you’re his.
’ His voice was a grumble. Kensa could hear the exhaustion in it, as well as discomfort.
‘I need to piss,’ he said, lifting his arm to her, as though she would take it, as though she would help him.
‘Why did you do it?’ Kensa’s gaze was hard. Her body smouldering, her skin blazing.
‘Where is Mrs Howard?’ Sir George went to rise and faltered. ‘You will go and fetch her.’
Again, Kensa did not move. He would not look at her.
There was a sound from behind her and she had no doubt it came from the curate.
His snores had ceased. If she was overheard, she did not care.
She wanted her answers and would force them out, if needs must. Eventually, the magistrate spoke, though not with ease.
‘I was younger,’ said Sir George. ‘I was required to prove myself and, in truth, there was ample evidence to convict Alexander Rowe.’ A pained grunt split his mouth atwain.
‘Once we received a convincing testimony, there was nothing else to do bar hang him: he was too dangerous and no cell could ever hold him.’
Slowly, he tried to ease his legs off the bed, the good one followed by the bad.
She did not help him. ‘Testimony?’
Sir George’s breathing was ragged. He braced one hand on the nightstand, while the other fumbled for the piss pot beneath his bed. When he heard Kensa’s question, delayed as though he listened through water, he stilled and sat up as straight as he could manage. He looked paler for the effort.
‘Has no one told you?’ Oh, the pity he gave her. It stitched the question with such weight that Kensa could see its letters against the hanging curtains around the bed. ‘It was a man from the Coast Guard, one Peter Skewes.’
A non-conforming syllable caught on Kensa’s lips.
‘You’re lying,’ she said, when at last she could speak, only to find him relieving himself.
Unfortunately, any response Sir George might have given her was lost – and not to his own baser needs. With no warning, he dropped the piss pot. Its fine china broke. Hot urine splattered across the floorboards and walls and Kensa’s finest shoes.
She cried her outrage, a cattish yowl as she leapt back. ‘If I don’t get a bloody—’
Kensa’s running mouth fell slack and her mind emptied. She could not summon a single errant thought. For in the magistrate’s shaking grasp, drawn from his bedside table, was a pistol.
It was aimed directly at her.