CHAPTER ELEVEN
“The dead don’t hurt the living. My Bertie, God rest his soul, tells me the dead don’t have to as the living do that to themselves.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
There was something…off about this Sunday morning. It wasn’t the cold, although the temperatures had dropped drastically in the night, and it wasn’t the wind that blew chillingly through the small gaps in the windows.
There was just something odd about the sky – it was a strange pale blue and seemed to shimmer slightly with silver, as though the heavens were slowly freezing. And, apart from the wind, there was hardly any noise, as if all the animals and scurrying creatures knew what was to come. Even the horses, which normally could be heard whinnying from the stables, had quietened.
The curtains billowed and Rosalind cursed, stuffing a stocking in the corner of the window frame. Some days it felt like there wasn’t any glass in them. She’d have words with Benedict. The building had recently been renovated and yet the windows were as draughty as the asylum’s. One bitterly cold winter’s night, she and Mrs Tadlow had huddled together in bed and had, quite honestly, been surprised they’d still been alive come morning.
Alice helped her into the warmest pelisse she had. It was a deep green, with silver frog fastenings, snug and trimmed with fur. She envied men with their wool trousers and high boots. They never had to worry about a chill wind whipping up your skirts.
She wondered if Lucas had found out anything yesterday? An excruciating headache had overcome her in the early afternoon and she’d retired to her room with a compress and closed curtains, the light paining her. She knew he’d made it safely back again. Mrs Mereworth had whispered it softly in her ear when she’d brought up a tisane of feverfew and valerian that Lucas had made up to ease her pain and aid sleep. The gentle herbal mixture had obviously worked well as she’d slept like a babe.
Strong emotions often brought about such a headache. To know that Lucas had gone through such pain and then to be further punished by the laudanum had torn at her very heart. She had seen the doctors give some patients laudanum at the asylum – to sedate and stupefy.
But Lucas had been strong enough to conquer it, although he seemed to feel slightly ashamed for his weakness. She only saw his strength.
Her body quivered as she remembered his touch, his lips… What was it about Lucas? She’d been courted by a few gentlemen of the neighbourhood, enjoyed their company, but none inspired the same feelings. She didn’t just like him, she…she was falling in love with him: deeply but dangerously, as it could never be. Mayhap she had always loved him, as a child and now as a man.
Opening her chamber door, she slowly made her way downstairs. These feelings didn’t change anything. Lucas had been able to overcome his demons but hers were different – they would never go away. They were always there, ready to pounce on any given night.
Her demons weren’t tangible: she could never break that bottle of laudanum or look at a boy to remind herself of its evils. Her demons weren’t natural: they waited silent and still, invading her unconscious mind against her will.
Lucas had told her about his past in trust, to encourage her to reveal her own secrets, she knew that – but it wasn’t so easy.
If she were a lucky woman, Lucas might court her; the magnificent man might marry her and they would have children… She could have none of that. She would not inflict this curse on others. A screaming witch is what he would wake to – a shameful horror.
Straightening her shoulders and forcing her lips to curve, Rosalind bounced down the last step. She refused to be miserable: since leaving the asylum, it was not in her nature. Her life was good and full, and she would enjoy Lucas’s company as long as it lasted: his strength, his intelligence. The only question was whether she could stay away from his touch, his kisses…
Lucas watched her skip down the last steps as he waited in the hall for the carriage to take them all to church. Rosalind had looked a tad pensive and sad at the top but then seemed to quickly shake off the bad humour.
It was a trait he admired. When he fell into a depressive mood, it always took an age to recover; it clung like mud on his boots, pulling him down into a quagmire of low spirits, so difficult to pull his feet out again.
He’d been worried about her last night, worried that he’d said too much, worried he had kissed her too roughly…too passionately.
Strangely enough, it had been Mrs Mereworth that had reassured his troubled thoughts. He had thought to question the lady at dinner but conversing over another venison stew, albeit a delicious one, he had come to a few conclusions.
Previously, he had thought Mrs Mereworth cold and sharp and indeed she was, but in the way of an ice crystal – fashioned, delicate, easily shattered. Asking her a piercing question about her past had made her lips tremble and fingers shake. He’d felt an utter blackguard, and Stone had looked at him as though he was the lowest insect.
As a consequence, he had quickly changed the subject, using all his rusty skills to amuse and divert. There was a plethora of entertaining stories from the war – although only a third he considered tame enough with which to regale the ladies. Finally, he had made her laugh and was pleasantly surprised – it was a low, seductive chuckle that would send most men into a frenzy of delight. She had looked at him with those blue eyes sparkling in pleasure and understanding.
“I can see why Rosalind likes you, Major,” she had said to his surprise. “She will be most distressed to have missed dinner tonight. She has these bad headaches every now and then, so please do not worry. She will be her normal…candidself tomorrow.”
He’d always thought Mrs Mereworth disapproved of Rosalind, but even this he now had to reconsider. No one in this place was straightforward. And then he realised, with gravity, that he was one of them.
“‘So shall it be at the end of the world: the angels shall come forth, and sever the wicked from amongst the just, and shall cast them into the furnace of fire: there shall be wailing, and gnashing of teeth.’”
Lucas glanced around at the congregation. Everyone looked either terrified or transfixed; even Rosalind and Stone were paying attention. The vicar was devastatingly charismatic, although he did seem to focus very much on hell and damnation, so different from the vicar at Helmdon, who oft read from the Corinthian gospel about love.
The man was now talking about eyes being plucked out, and Lucas felt gorge rise in his throat. He remembered his young second lieutenant who’d been shot in Roliça. He had no need to hear of damnation in the next life: he had seen it and lived it in this one.
Could a parishioner have taken these words to heart and sought God’s vengeance?
Was it even a coincidence that he was talking of fire and flames, when a man sat on a pew in front of him that had been burned so horrendously? Or did he have a point to make?
He eyed the pulpit. Certainly, the vicar didn’t seem to be singling him out. Indeed, he didn’t actually stare at anyone; instead, he roared to the heavens with anger and resentment.
