Goddess Born Page 9

  “Good gracious! Whatever is the matter?” I asked, exasperated by the scene. “Has something happened in my absence?”

  Alice shuffled her feet. “Well, Mistress” she said, looking down at the floor rather than at me. “We were wondering if ye would be letting Master Kilbrid out of his chamber today? I imagine he’s hungry, missing two meals already, and may need to take a trip to the privy. There’s a chamber pot under the bed mind ye, but this may not hold too much longer.”

  She could have slapped me, the words had the same effect. “Ballocks!” I cried, the bread and cheese all but forgotten. Alice gasped and Karta’s knife clattered to the floor as I bolted from the kitchen. Taking the stairs two at a time, I dashed into my room and retrieved the key from its hiding place deep inside a drawer. Across the hall my hand shook so badly that it took several tries to unfasten the lock. Pushing open the door, I saw him at once, seated in a chair by the hearth reading a book.

  “Henry...” I started, ready with an apology for forgetting him, but the look on his face stopped me cold.

  Closing the book, he placed it on the side table and stood up. “Good day, Selah,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Do you intend to keep me locked up for the duration of my contract?”

  I shook my head, having already resolved to never lock his door again after today. “No...of course not.”

  Narrowing his eyes, he took a step toward me. “Have you had a pleasant day?”

  Very pleasant indeed, until about five minutes ago, I thought, but didn’t dare admit outright.

  “As for myself,” he continued, “I’ve spent a good deal of time wondering why you would feel so inclined to lock me in my room. Were you more concerned for your knickknacks or your virtue if I were not appropriately restrained?”

  “That’s not...I didn’t mean...” I stammered, unable to complete the sentence as he drew nearer.

  He placed one hand on the wall near my head and leaned so close I could see the pulse jump in his throat. My own heart beat erratically as I dragged my attention upward to meet his eyes, and found two emerald daggers staring back at me. Tremors ran pell-mell through my legs, and I pressed my back against the wall to keep from falling.

  A small, sardonic smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Rest assured, madam,” he said, in a soft, mocking voice. “You will find they are both safe, for neither are to my liking.”

  A rush of hot blood stained my cheeks, and my mouth opened and closed wordlessly at the cruelty of his words. Pinned against the wall, I thought of pushing him away, or screaming in outrage when he suddenly dropped his arm and brushed by me. He left the room without a backward glance, and thumped down the stairs. At the sound of the front door slamming shut, my legs gave out and I slowly sank to the floor.

  * * *

  Henry didn’t return for evening meal, leaving me to eat alone in the large dining room. My appetite was minimal at best, and I stared moodily at the beef and onion pie on the plate in front of me. After forcing down a few bites, I gave up any pretense of eating and went upstairs to bed. Tucked in under the covers, I had plenty of time to worry whether he would return to Brighmor or had deserted me altogether. Not that I could blame him entirely, being locked in his room all day like a prisoner, guilty of no other crime than taking a long walk.

  It was well past midnight when I heard him come in and go to his room. Though I was tempted to cross the hall and apologize, I decided to give him the rest of the night to cool off. Tomorrow he would forgive me, and then everything would be fine again.

  When morning came around, I went down for breakfast only to learn that Henry had already gone out with Ben to survey the property and wasn’t expected back until late afternoon. Disappointed, I went to my apothecary to prepare the plants I had collected yesterday. While my hands were busy tying up bundles of sumac, raspberry leaves and mallow to be dried, my mind worked and re-worked the words for when he returned. I wanted to get it just right, and even rehearsed the apology out loud as I cut up the catnip, putting it in a pot with sugar and water to boil into syrup. My speech sounded so good I had completely forgiven myself by the time the St. John’s wort had been crushed and placed in a jar with alcohol to soak for the next two weeks.

  The hours slipped by entirely unnoticed, until Mary poked her head into the room. “There’s a visitor waiting in the drawing room for ye, ma’am,” she said.

  I wiped the last of the St. John’s wort from my hands and untied the apron covering my gown. “Thank you, Mary. I’ll be right there.”

  It was only a matter of time before my neighbors started calling to offer both their congratulations and condolences for the recent events. Though I was tempted to claim a headache, marriages and funerals rarely occurred so close together, and it was my duty as Mistress of Brighmor to accept their regards. With a heavy sigh I walked through the house to meet my guest.

  Mary had left the door open, and I peeked into the drawing room ahead of entering. Over by the windows a man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Since our last argument I had known another confrontation was inevitable, but I hadn’t imagined it like this. Not without Henry at my side.

  Nathan must have heard my footsteps or the whisk of my skirts, for he turned around before I could retreat. “Selah Kilbrid,” he said, putting the windows at his back and walking toward me.

  Forcing a smile, I went the rest of the way into the room to meet him. “Good day, Nathan Crowley,” I said quite nicely, considering my true feelings for the man. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  “I have come to confirm the rumors that you have returned from Philadelphia a married woman.” Though his tone sounded hostile, I saw something different in his face, maybe a flicker of hope that he would somehow be contradicted.

  The time had come to put my father’s theory to the test and I charged forward, eager to have it done. “It is true. My cousin and I were married three days ago.”

  The glimmer of hope disappeared, and his shoulders unexpectedly slumped forward. In all the workings of my imagination since our last encounter, it had never occurred to me that he would so easily accept defeat. I watched him closely, tense and ready for battle. But there were no signs of an impending fit, no agitated twitches or heated blood creeping up beneath the skin into his face. Rather than anger, it was anguish I saw, and for a moment he looked like a different man.

  “I didn’t want to believe it,” he said quietly, all traces of hostility gone. No more than a step away, he stared at me, his dark eyes searching my face. “When the first letter arrived explaining what you were, I thought the writer slanderous or perhaps even insane to make such a brazen claim. But he persisted, and each week another letter arrived, meticulously documenting your actions.” Nathan’s speech quickened and his eyes began to dart around, not remaining on one thing for more than a few seconds at time. The conversation had shifted unexpectedly and my spine stiffened in warning as I tried to find some sense in his ramblings.

  “It was mostly the little things. You cured Allison Dowling of the brain fever when her own parents thought her lost; you fixed Amett Oswald’s lumbago with a simple decoction when the best doctors in Philadelphia could do nothing for the man. Then this last spring little Ollie Trumble fell from a tree and his sister said you had performed no less than a miracle in saving his life.”

  I kept my anger at bay, though just barely. “I’ve no idea who’s sending you letters and disparaging my name, but we’ve already been over this. I am a gifted healer, nothing more.”

  Nathan continued, heedless of my words. “Week after week he built a case against you, finding the Devil’s hand in your every deed. Then one day a letter came insisting the time had come to rid our town of your wickedness once and for all. It was unthinkable what he asked me to do, and for days I prayed, begging for guidance, wh
en finally a vision came. That very night I wrote him back, detailing my experience and how it was God’s will for us to marry.”

  “Your will, more like it,” I shot back testily, but he gave no indication of hearing me.

  “After so many letters back and forth this was the first time we ever agreed, though for very different reasons. You see, a woman sworn to the Devil is unable to marry a man called of God and our marriage would have cleared your name. The writer scoffed at my intentions, certain you were unable to consent, and that your denial was the last evidence he needed to reveal your true nature.” Nathan spoke so quickly now I had difficulty keeping up or making much sense of his strange ramblings.

  Yet my skin prickled with unease from the idea of an anonymous enemy. “Who is this man? What did he want you to do?”

  Again my questions went unanswered. “For months I courted you, even resorting to threats to make you see reason. But no matter, I was refused at every turn. As a final act of defiance, you openly scorned God’s will and returned to Hopewell a married woman. He was right all along. I now see that my vision was a test to make me acknowledge what you really are.”

  A dreadful chill flowed through my veins. “What test?” I asked slowly. “What are you talking about?”

  “By refusing to obey God’s will, you have shown your loyalty to another master.”

  I gasped and stared at him with wide, pleading eyes. “You mustn’t say such things. I have done nothing of the sort.” Without thinking, I reached up and placed a hand on his arm.

  “Do not touch me, witch!” he cried, jerking away as though burned by my touch.

  The very walls pressed in around me, and my head began to spin. With one word, his previous threat had transformed into a blatant accusation, and I froze as though paralyzed when a familiar voice came from somewhere behind me.

  “You will not speak to my wife that way,” Henry said. With a few long strides he was standing at my side. I must have wobbled slightly, for his arm went protectively around my waist, pulling me closer.

  Nathan started at the sight of my husband and took a small step back.

  No longer alone, my strength returned and I glared with a vengeance at Nathan Crowley. “Don’t you dare call me a witch! Just because I wouldn’t marry you doesn’t mean I’m in league with the Devil, for believe me, if I were, his hounds would be dragging your wretched little soul to hell this very moment!” The words came unfettered from my mouth, fueled by rage and emboldened by the very large and very dangerous man standing by my side.

  Nathan’s eyes bulged to the point of bursting and his face turned that ugly shade of red. “Do you see what you have married?” he demanded, looking directly at Henry. “Only a witch would speak so to a man of God!”

  “Selah is no more a witch than you, sir,” Henry said evenly. “And you will apologize for insulting her.”

  Nathan had reached the height of agitation and went on, completely oblivious to the threat in Henry’s voice. “I’ve been told you sleep in separate rooms, and that she locks you in at night. One can only imagine what terrible secrets she is hiding to treat her husband so shamefully.”

  Henry stiffened at my side. “Our sleeping arrangements are none of your concern,” he said, though he must have been humiliated by Nathan’s intimate knowledge of our affairs. For myself, I was in a fury at how quickly this bit of gossip had traveled into town, and wondered which of the servants was speaking so freely behind my back.

  “Do you know that she roams the woods at night in search of the Devil?” Nathan asked, speaking in earnest to Henry. “Cast her off before it’s too late. There would be no loss of honor to have the marriage annulled and return to Ireland. I give you my word she will be tried and punished.”

  “How very convenient for you to get the first husband out of the way,” Henry said. “If I go willingly, you could step into my place without so much as a hiccup.”

  From the contempt on Nathan’s face, it was plain any love for me had long vanished. “I’ve no use for the Devil’s whore,” he sneered. “She beguiled me once with her evil tricks and I will not play the fool again.”

  In one quick movement Henry had a hold of Nathan’s arm and was roughly ushering him to the door. “That’s enough from you, Mr. Crowley,” he said. “We’ll be finishing this conversation outside if you don’t mind.”

  Nathan twisted around to face me, nearly purple with rage. A thick vein pulsed in his forehead. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, saith the Lord! She is an abomination before me and must be destroyed!”

  While Henry pulled him bodily from the room, I remained behind, stunned by the enormity of my miscalculation. From his very first overture, Nathan had considered me no more than soft-bodied prey, and like a cunning little spider, had slowly spun his web and waited for me to land. Long before I ever left for Philadelphia, I had been unwittingly trapped and flailing against the sticky threads. He planned to have me one way or another, either as his wife or accused of witchcraft and driven from Brighmor.

  “Have you recovered?” Henry asked from the doorway.

  Turning, I saw the safe distance he kept between us. “Yes, I’m fine.” The lie slipped unsteadily from my tongue.

  “Nathan and I had a very instructive conversation,” he said, looking a bit self-satisfied. “I don’t think he’ll be coming back any time soon, but I’ll stay close to the house for the rest of the day just in case.”

  I nodded and he turned to go, when I remembered something more that needed to be said. “Thank you, Henry.”

  He looked at me curiously and I desperately wanted to know whether or not he had believed any of Nathan’s accusations. “Just doing my job,” he said, and then turned and walked away.

  The drawing room was grandly proportioned, with tall windows and a high ceiling, and being left alone allowed too much space for my problems to grow unchecked. Following such a confrontation, I found myself yet again teetering precariously between either throwing myself on a nearby sofa in a flood of tears or simply smashing every porcelain object within reach. In the end, I opted instead to return to my apothecary in the hopes of clearing my mind by chopping and grinding every last plant in the room.

  Hours passed and my shoulders ached satisfyingly when I looked up from my work and noticed night had come. At some time during my labors Mary had carried in a small plate of food. It had gone mostly untouched, except for the few flies feasting on a piece of cold chicken. Carefully pouring the last of the ground mustard seed into a jar, and wiping the mortar and pestle clean, I laced my fingers together and reached up to stretch the stiffness from my arms and back. Though my problems were far from over, I felt much better, and grabbing a jar of salve and some strips of linen, I set out for Henry’s room. He may not have wanted to see me at present, but his wounds still needed to be checked for infection and wrapped with clean bandages.

  I knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. When he called me in, I found him propped up on his bed reading, and by his raised eyebrows he was rather surprised to see me.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Your bandages need changing,” I said, and held out the supplies as evidence. “It should have been done last night, but...you were...unavailable.” This sounded better than you stormed from the house and stayed out walking until after midnight and worrying me half to death in the meantime. Unavailable was close enough to the truth.

  He pushed himself up from the bed, unlaced his shirt, and pulled it over his head. “I am at your disposal,” he said, tossing the shirt back onto the bed. Even standing in front of me half-naked, his demeanor remained formal and his tone had returned to cold indifference, making it all too clear that he didn’t care for my company.

  Crossing the room, I set the linen and salve on the bed and then busied myself unwrapping his bandages, wishing to have th
e job done and be gone from the room. Once his wounds were exposed, I pressed lightly on the ribs beneath the scapula, checking for tenderness and any fractures I may have missed.

  “Does this hurt?” I asked.

  “Not really. A little soreness is all.”

  Minimal bruising remained around the wound, but otherwise the skin was knitting together nicely. I scooped same salve from the jar and rubbed it on his back, along the lower trapezius and into the latissimus dorsi. His skin felt smooth and warm and I cursed silently when my pulse unexpectedly quickened. Good heavens! I thought, rather put out by my reaction. He’s just another patient, no different than old Edgar Sweeney or Thomas Dowling.

  Henry’s hair fell an inch or so past his shoulders and it was all I could do to keep from reaching up and running my fingers through it. To counter the temptation I conjured up images of Mrs. Ryan’s boils, which she routinely asked me to lance. But try as I may, there was no getting away from Henry’s broad shoulders and the lines of muscle running just beneath the skin. In the off chance any damage had been overlooked, I ran my fingers along his spine and across the upper trapezius, brushing his hair aside as I continued on to his deltoid. Henry shivered from my touch and then tensed as though annoyed his body would respond in such a way. Well, at least I’m not the only one being affected, I thought with some satisfaction

  “You are healing very well. The stitches can come out at the end of the week,” I said at last.

  “Almost too well. I feel so good, it’s easy to forget that I was shot four days ago.”

  “The strong tend to heal quickly,” I said, biting my lip as I wrapped strips of linen around his torso. His wounds did look remarkably good for so short a period of time. Perhaps in my excitement I had gone a tad bit beyond sustaining life. Oh, well. Nothing could be done about it now other than pretend it was normal to heal from a pistol wound in less than a week. I shook my head at the very idea, knowing I’d sustained paper cuts that had taken longer to mend.