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Rosalind’s hand reached up to feel her face. “Yes.”
“Did he wear gloves at first, then take them off, only to put them back on once he was finished?”
“You could not possibly know that. Unless you have some second sight.”
“No, no. I am sorry. I should explain. My grandmother is often called to help in situations such as this. Of late we have seen three other women. I merely describe what the other women told us in case you did not know how to start.”
“So there have been others? I am not alone.”
“Sadly not, but I believe it may be possible to trace the culprit.” Rosalind did not say anything for a while, the import of this information needing time to be absorbed. “Is there any water I can boil? Or some ale?” Lucinda continued, “I have a tonic to mix for you to drink.” Rosalind motioned to a jug by the small hearth. “Some quarter ale, freshly made this morning. I keep thinking I should cry, but it is as though he stole all my ability to feel along with my maidenhood. Is it wrong not to cry?”
“Of course not. Both terror and violation can stifle feeling for a time.”
Rosalind unfolded her arms and began to wring her hands together while at the same time rocking to and fro in the chair. “It is only...I fear Robbie may think I welcomed or invited it if I do not break down and cry.”
“Oh no, he does not think that at all. He blames himself entirely. He feels he should have been here to protect you.”
“How can he blame himself? He did not know I would be here. I arrived early. I wanted to have the fire lit and his dinner warming since I knew he had a big meeting of the swordmasters. He has always taken it as his duty to protect me. When we were small, he hardly let me out of his sight. If I burnt my finger or bumped my elbow, he would want the physician. If I so much as sneezed, he would bundle me up inside for days. Do you know what a burden such devotion is?”
“A large one, I presume?”
Rosalind rolled her eyes and raised her hands. “Och! It is like being swaddled like a babe, never free to stretch out your limbs. In the end I gave up arguing and waited until he was out of sight before plunging headlong into doing something that he considered dangerous. Lately, to my relief, he has not been as stifling. I put it down to all the time he spends at the fencing academy. I thought he may have been smitten with someone, his attention blessedly diverted elsewhere. Sorry. You must think I am gabbling on to avoid the unpleasantness, but I fear, after this, he will be completely insufferable. He means well. I know he does, but I pray for the day a wife takes him off my hands.”
While Rosalind talked Lucinda busied herself with mixing the tonics as Grandma Jones had taught her, one to help prevent a child from taking, the other to help Rosalind sleep.
“A girl wonders what her first time will be like,” Rosalind said, so softly it was almost to herself. “Will her husband be gentle? Kind? Tender? You never, ever anticipate something like this.” Tears began to well and spill from her eyes and her body took to shaking as if a chill air invaded from under the door. “Why me? Who would do such a thing?”
“Take this. It will help you feel less agitated. It can also make you sleepy. Would you mind starting at the beginning while your memory is fresh and before the draught takes effect? Any detail you remember might help uncover this monster.”
And so Rosalind related her story, a story that was crushingly familiar. She thought it was her brother coming home when she heard the footsteps, and did not turn to see it was not, until the attacker was well into the room. His face was covered with a mask and he held a knife in his hand. So many of the details in her story were no different to what Lucinda had heard before. The blindfold, the rope, the gloves, the callous humming, the cruel delight in cutting two locks of hair as a keepsake. Rosalind described the man’s eyes as coal-dark and frightening, eyes that reminded her of ravens waiting to pick over your soul.
However in Rosalind’s story there were a few differences that caught Lucinda’s attention. With the others he tied them up first and it was all done in a rush, but after the attacker put a blindfold on Rosalind, he removed her clothes with an agonizing slowness, only tying her hands behind her back once she was naked. Why? Was it to add to her humiliation, his own pleasure, or did he have another agenda? Or was it simply because he knew he had plenty of time?
“The thing I cannot get out of my head is the look on Robbie’s face when he found me.” Rosalind twisted her skirt in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut. “I cannot describe the shame of being left naked and tied to that chair. I think he did it on purpose. It was as if he knew how it would affect Robbie to find me thus exposed. Do you think this beast could be someone Robbie knows? Or some enemy of my uncle? He has plenty. You see I thought the reason he did not speak could be that I might recognize his voice.”
“That is possible, however, he did not speak in any of the other attacks either. Drink this. Tis a healing tonic though I am told the taste is quite sharp.” Lucinda offered Rosalind the second tonic. She thought about whether to tell her what the tonic was for, but cowardice won out and she decided to leave such explanations to Grandma. Pray to God she had the mixture correct. The worst thing for Rosalind would be an unwanted baby. Rosalind dutifully drank the tonic.
“You are right. Tis bitter indeed.”
Bitter and potentially dangerous if the quantities she measured were wrong.
“I am sorry to burden you with all of this, but I have no one else I can talk to. I do not want my aunt or cousins to know anything of what has happened. They would find a way to blame me, I am sure. They resent Robbie for being the male heir, especially as we are related on our mother’s side and not even Cavendish’s. My uncle wants Robbie to take his name, but we McCraes are a stubborn lot. If push comes to shove, I believe he will do it. He is not fool enough to throw away a title and a fortune for the sake of a name. I should not complain. As the niece of Lord Cavendish, my marriage prospects improve. Unless word gets out of this. Then I am worth nothing. Our family is burdened with enough shame without my adding to it.”
Taking the cup from her hands Lucinda knelt in front of Rosalind. “For the last time, please believe me, this is not your fault.”
“Maybe not but I will still be punished if anyone finds out.” Once again Rosalind began to rock in the chair and wring her hands as though constantly washing them. “And what about when I marry? I will not bleed in the marriage bed. My husband could divorce me for false pretenses.”
For the second time that afternoon, Lucinda Evans took a McCrae into her arms. As she had done with her brother, she hugged Rosalind to her breast, holding and soothing her like a wounded child. “Hush now. Trust me. There are ways around that problem. Many a bridal bed has been spotted with a vial of pig’s blood, like they use in the theatre.”
“That is pig’s blood they use? I always wondered how they did that. Robbie took me to The Globe once, but now he says it is too rough and dangerous and I must wait to go to a performance at Blackfriars. Do you have a brother?”
“I did once. But he died. I tried to be him for a long time. In some ways, I still am.”
“I am sorry. You must miss him, and here am I complaining about mine.”
“I did miss him a great deal. I even dressed in his clothes and pretended to be a boy for years. I felt that it should have been me and not him that died. A son is of much more use to a swordmaster. A son carries everything on.” Why was she telling someone she just met all of this?
“Oh I understand about guilt,” Rosalind said, looking at Lucinda with such knowing it was almost painful to take a breath. “If it wasn’t for me, Robbie would have long ago left our uncle and made his own way in the world. My uncle uses it as a chain to make Robbie dance.”
