Page 30 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“My lady.” Moll curtseyed low.

Lady Haddon nodded to the red-cushioned chair opposite her. “Do sit, Moll. Please.” She waved a delicate hand in invitation, her pale skin marbled by spidery, blue veins.

The fur coverlet slipped to her knees, revealing a fur-trimmed dark green gown that fell softly over her large belly, a belly made even larger since the rest of her seemed far too thin.

Moll frowned, somewhat taken aback. She didn’t need to be a Witch of the Heart to see the woman stood in dire need of a restoring potion of the most potent kind—and right quickly. ‘Twas clear she was ill. Deathly so. She’d known she was ill, but not to this dramatic extent.

Moll’s heart contracted in sympathy, and curtseying again, she took her seat.

As the chair creaked beneath her, the golden spaniel rose stiffly to its feet, then after circling three times, settled back down for a nap.

“How I wish I could sleep so deeply,” Lady Haddon said with a rueful laugh, then she fixed Moll with a look and added, “But, I confess, I am more jealous of you, Moll. You are so full of life, so strong.”

Moll hesitated. With the fear of witchcraft second to only plague in the land, ‘twas too dangerous, of course, to reveal herself the daughter of the most powerful witch in Wales. And truly, how much of a witch was she? She only knew a smidgeon of her mother’s potions. Yet, as a sworn Witch of the Heart, no matter how weak a one, she’d practiced from childhood the healing of those in need who crossed her path—and Lady Haddon’s heart was in a sore need of healing as she’d ever seen.

“I wish I had but a sliver of your strength.” Lady Haddon sighed. “Would that I knew your secret.”

A seed of an idea sparked in Moll’s mind. “’Tis not much of a secret, my lady. The women of my family drink a daily, restoring tea made of lichen and mushrooms.” ‘Twas a fib, but the potion wasn’t. A proper brewing would, no doubt, strengthen the woman until, hopefully, the root cause of her ills could be found.

“A restoring tea?” Lady Haddon’s eyes lit with interest.

Moll gave her pillowed stomach a pat. “’Tis always a help with the birthing.” She wasn’t one to lie, but now that she’d started, she might as well make it a grand one.

Lady Haddon straightened in her chair, intrigued. “The birthing,” she repeated, her fingers slipping to touch the locket hanging around her neck. “Then, this tea is the secret to your many healthy babes?”

“I’m sure of it. Healthy babes, every one of them.”

Naked hope swept over Lady Haddon’s face. “I must have this tea, Moll,” she whispered, excited. “With all the tonics and tinctures the physician brews for me, surely, one more cannot hurt.”

‘Twas far from the truth, and even more likely, ‘twas the physician’s brews that were leeching what health remained. “I shall begin, at once, my lady. I’ve seen plenty of lichen within these walls, and I’m sure, there are mushrooms here to spare.” She moved to rise.

“Wait.” Lady Haddon held up her hand, then raised her voice, “Bridgette, bring the gift, will you?”

Puzzled, Moll turned as the redheaded-maid entered, her arms overflowing with linen, satin, and velvet of various hues.

“These gowns will suit you well, Moll,” Lady Haddon whispered, clearly having spent what little strength she’d possessed. “One is quite small, small enough for your daughter, I’d imagine.”

Moll frowned, surprised, as Bridgette draped gowns, shifts, and even a cloak over the back of the red-cushioned chair. ‘Twas clear without even looking further that the fabric of the gowns alone was worth a small fortune, even before the cost of the fine needlework and trimmings of beads, fur, and lace.

“Gowns? There must be a misunderstanding, my lady.” Moll cleared her throat. “These are far too fine.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Haddon laughed, the effort lending her pale face a blush of momentary health. “As for the fineness of them, the MacKenzie heir would beg to differ, I’m sure. You know as well as I how much the man loves a fine cut of cloth.”

The MacKenzie heir? Taran? Moll glanced down at her worn gown. He’d mentioned its condition a few days past. Indeed, ‘twas an eyesore compared to the finery on display. Small wonder, the man had sought to protect his pride.

Lady Haddon yawned. “These are gifts you cannot refuse, Moll. Take them, for you and your daughter. As for your sons, I’ve tasked a servant to find them clothing in the storerooms, as well as shoes, for all.”

Warm clothing, shoes… Moll bowed her head. “I am grateful, my lady,” she whispered, never meaning the words more. “I would I could repay you.”

Lady Haddon laughed. “Oh, but you shall, my dear. Indeed, if your restoring tea works even a tenth as well for me as for you, I shall stand in your debt.” She fell back in her chair then, clearly having run the course of her strength. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I fear I must rest now.”

Moll eyed the woman, concerned that their brief exchange had so fully taxed her strength. “Then I shall be on my way, my lady. If fortune favors, I shall have your brew this very night.”

Summoning one last burst of strength, Lady Haddon whispered, “Bridgette, see Moll has all that she needs.”

“Yes, my lady.” The young maid nodded.

With a final, low curtsey of respect, Moll gathered the clothing and followed Bridgette out of the room.