“Was that true?”
He shrugged. “Did it matter?”
I huddled deeper in my quilt to suppress a shudder. “So just your name? That was all?”
“Oh, well—there was a little matter of a thousand pounds, just to be certain I would keep the whole thing as…discreet as possible. Can’t have word leaking out, now, can we?”
“And what about your Rob Smart?”
He paused, stroking his dressing-gown collar. “As it happened, things weren’t quite so smooth as Ellison Wheeler as I may have anticipated. A few years ago I ran a bit afoul of some creditors. Crossed the wrong fellow at cards, perhaps, romanced the wrong lad’s little sister. Who can remember? And thus I found myself—temporarily inconvenienced. At His Majesty’s pleasure.”
“Debtors’ prison.”
At those two words, Uncle Wheeler faltered. “Yes. Well. And there we met again. I believe you know the rest of that tale.”
He turned to watch the fire, and as my eyes followed his gaze into the flames, I was sure that nonchalance was an act. Sparrow. Virginia Byrd. The wrong lad’s sister. He did remember how he’d come to be thrown in prison—what had he paid Spinner to get out again?
Just then, however, my uncle’s narrative was interrupted by that long-awaited knock at our door, announcing maids laden with bedclothes and—oh, sweet!—our warm, dry nightclothes. Instantly the familiar Uncle Wheeler was back, genteel but brusque and disapproving of the lateness of the hour and the state of our reclaimed garments. I tried to thank the girls graciously, but I was well past my limits of strength and courtesy by then. I think they must have noticed, for they tucked me into the bedroom with smiles, a wink, and a “don’t worry, mistress. Sleep well.”
Despite their gentle ministrations, I lay awake a long time, turning dark visions over and over in my head.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I thought surely I would get no sleep that night—my thoughts raced among worry for Rosie and William back home and Randall wherever he might be, haunting visions of murder by moonlight, and the sorry account of my uncle’s past. But the drive and the rain and the worry did me in at last, and I slept far sounder than I ought.
I awoke to a watery sunlight filtered between the drapes of my unfamiliar bedchamber. I peeled myself out of bed and bent all over to work the stiffness out of my joints, then padded to the window. My room overlooked the street below, and I watched dogs and children dart among the legs of waiting horses. Goodness, what time must it be? I rang the bell while I dressed, and asked the maid to wake my uncle and have a groom ready the trap.
She looked back at me, a little frown between her eyebrows.
“Is something wrong?” I said.
“Mistress came in with the bewigged gentleman, yes?” she said. “A new black trap and two black horses?”
“Yes, yes. What’s the matter?”
“But, mistress—” She shook her head. “He left hours ago, said you weren’t to be disturbed—”
“What?”
“Your uncle’s gone, ma’am.”
My legs went out from under me, and I sank into the little chintz armchair. “With the carriage? And the horses?”
The girl nodded. “Are you all right, ma’am? I could send for someone—”
I must pull myself together. The trap was gone, Uncle Wheeler was gone, Jack Spinner would be back at midnight, and I was twenty miles from my home and my child. I held tight to the arms of the chair so not to think too keenly of that. Where had Uncle Wheeler gone? Perhaps his confession had been merely the last act in his long performance, and, seizing opportunity and carriage both, Ellison Wheeler had fled to a new life, a new incarnation. I might never see him again. That thought gave neither sorrow nor relief. I had to get home. I forced myself to my feet.
“Yes, of course I’m all right,” I lied. “Are they still serving breakfast?” Whatever else needed doing, I wasn’t doing any of it on an empty stomach. I felt thin and hollow, like a strong breeze might blow me right over. And there was no having that, not today.
After a fortifying breakfast and an entire pot of hideous black coffee, I marched myself to the innkeeper and made inquiry about finding my way back home.
I was in luck—believe it—the stage comes through the Gold Valley once a week, and by some odd convergence of the stars in my favor, it was due that afternoon. There was no question of hiring a private cab; last night’s rain had left the road a river of muck stretching in both directions, and no sensible driver would attempt it. And though everything told me to point toward Shearing and go—run, fly, just get home however I could—a foot journey of near twenty miles is not undertaken lightly, and stranding myself even five miles down the road would not get me passage on the stage. I had to wait a good four or five hours I could not afford to spare, but the cost was minimal, and it would have me home by evening. Just in time—should we not break an axle or be beset by highwaymen—to make my meeting with Jack Spinner.
Since the landlord clearly did not want me loitering about his common room while I waited all day for the stage to arrive, I collected Pilot from the stables and set off walking into town. For a Sunday morning, it was surprisingly lively. Much larger than Shearing, Haymarket made her living from the farmers in the widening valley to the south and supported a booming mercantile economy. It gave me a pang to walk through those paved streets and know that if one of the shops I saw—the cartwright’s, the brewery, the tannery—failed, the whole town would not crumble behind it.
It seemed as though the Wheelers had all but built this town. In addition to the splendid brick storefront of Wheeler & Sons, Ltd, Wheelwrights & Carriage-Maker, Haymarket boasted a Wheeler Square, Wheeler Street, some business proclaiming itself Wheeler & Roper, and a public house called Wheeler’s. Even the imposing city market hall bore the Wheeler name. Signs were evident, too, of the Lowman family—in the shabby little hostelry, in a sign for a dressmaker in a dingy upstairs window, in an abandoned butcher shop. No wonder young Enoch had longed for grander things.
In a noisy little square surrounding a dry fountain, I stopped and bought lunch from a cart. As I was counting out coins for the pasty, I saw that the awning was bedecked with strings of small figures twisted from straw. I looked down at Pilot, who bore a wise expression that seemed to answer all my questions. I brushed my fingers against her ears.
“How much for the corn dollies?” I asked, peering into my reticule.
“For you, miss? I’ll throw one in for a penny.”
I went to choose one, but the old woman stopped my hand as I reached for a little figure.
“That’s not for you,” she said. “Here.” She pulled down a dolly from the back of the cart and pressed it into my hand. It was a small figure and somewhat misshapen, almost impish, with a little hat crudely shaped from the straw. I frowned at it.
“Are you sure?”
The old woman nodded, tucking her hands inside her cloak. “I think that’s the one you want.”
Pilot let out one short sharp bark and gave the old woman her most engaging smile. She may just have been impatient for her share of the pasty, but it’s hard to say.
The old woman nodded comfortably. “You mind her, missie,” she said. “She knows.”
By the time the stage was due, I was convinced that it had become enmired or overturned, but it finally lumbered into the coachyard. The only passengers disembarked at the Red Drake, and the coachman generously allowed me to bring Pilot aboard.
“How long will it take to get to Shearing?” I asked as the coachman helped me aboard.
“In this muck?” He shook his head. “It’s hard to say. But I haven’t lost a wheel yet, and Heavy and Pull are two of the best horses for this kind of weather. Don’t you fret—I’ll have you home for your supper.” And then, with a jolt and a groan and an alarming mechanical creaking, we were off at last.
Well past my promised supper-hour arrival and deep under cover of starlight, the coach heaved and slid its
way into Shearing. Although the journey itself had been relatively uneventful—we only got stuck once, and the coachman and the horses had us unstuck in minutes—I had been frantic the last few miles. I was half out of my seat and ready to dive out the narrow coach door the moment we crossed the Stowe bridge and passed the smithy.
The stage normally stops at the Drover’s Arms, but the coachman kindly let me off at Stirwaters. Pilot leaped out the moment he opened the door, disappearing after some skittering shadow, and I was scarcely far behind. I had a moment of indecision when I alit from the coach—home or mill? Home or mill? William and Rosie were at home, but Spinner would surely be at the mill by now. Oh, mercy, what was the hour? I fumbled through my cloak for my earth-encrusted watch, but my numb fingers could not seem to find it.
I was saved the choosing, for the Millhouse door flew open with a clatter and Rosie burst out, sliding as her feet hit the wet shale. She righted herself and threw herself at me headlong.
“He has William!” she gasped, and I saw with horror that my sister had been crying. I grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.
“What? Who has William?” Oh, Lord—was I too late?
Rosie couldn’t catch her breath. “Uncle Wheeler!” she finally managed, and I was so relieved I didn’t understand her.
“He came back here? Where are the horses?”
Rosie stared at me. “Mr. Carter took them,” she said. “Charlotte—I didn’t know—it just happened before I could do anything. When he came back here, in your carriage—by God, Charlotte, I thought he’d killed you!”
“Rosie, slow down. What happened?”
She took a ragged breath, holding fast to my arms. “Uncle Wheeler came back this afternoon—we didn’t know when to expect you, and I had just put William down. He burst into the house like a madman, and when he ran upstairs—I didn’t know what he was doing! I was helping Harte, so I couldn’t follow straightaway. I swear, Charlotte—I was expecting you to come at any moment! And then you didn’t—so I went to check on William—and they were both gone.”
“Where was Rachel? Biddy Tom?”
“Josie Lawson’s baby came due, and her mam couldn’t manage by herself, and I sent Rachel to the Grange to fetch more nappies for William. She never came back.”
I looked across the yard to the grey shadow that was Stirwaters. A faint flickering light burned in the spinning room—not lamplight or the horrible red blaze of fire, but a cold, shadowy glow like moonlight.
“They’re in the mill,” I said quietly. It seemed so obvious now, I could barely believe I hadn’t known it as soon as I heard Uncle Wheeler had abandoned me. Now that Spinner had caught him up at last, Uncle Wheeler thought to make a better bargain with him.
“I know they’re in the mill!” Rosie cried. “But I can’t get in! Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve been trying, all bloody day!” She was sobbing now, a wild, robust sob of red runny nose and shrill hysterical breathing.
“What do you mean, you can’t get in?”
She shook her head. “I just can’t, that’s all. The doors aren’t locked, but they won’t budge, nor the windows. I even tried breaking a couple, but rocks just bounce off. I can’t explain it—”
“No,” I said, my thoughts far away from my voice. I was watching the shifting moonlight pouring from the spinning room windows. “I’ll get in. I’m the Miller he wants.”
Altogether too calmly, I took my sister by the elbow and steered her back into the Millhouse, relating all—well, most—of what I had learned on my journey.
A voice carried in from the parlor. “Rosie, is that you?” Rosie popped her head around the door.
“George Harte, you put yourself back into that chair this bloody instant! And I mean it this time! Charlotte’s back.”
“Thank God.” With a scrape and shuffle, Harte’s curly head appeared in the doorway. He was leaning heavily on a crutch, his face red with effort. “Charlotte—we were worried. What happened to you?”
“I lost my way a little,” I said, “but I’ve made it now. Let’s go get William back. You—sit back down. You’re not fit to be moving about yet.”
Harte gave a grunt that may well have been pain. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m coming with you.”
“The devil you are,” Rosie said.
“Harte,” I said, “William’s half lost already, and Randall…I cannot risk you, too. I want at least one of the men I care about safe at home. Do you hear me?” And there, at last: I was shaking.
Harte reached out to put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t,” I said. “I won’t make it if you do that.” I turned away from Harte before I could see the look in his eyes.
What I beheld instead was almost as disturbing—and as fortifying. Our home looked like Biddy Tom’s cottage, bedecked for some harvest festival that only we would observe. Apples and broom arched over the doorways, colored glass balls hung in every window. Great symbols were sketched on the glass and the chimneys, marks drawn out in chalk or soot on the floor before any threshold leading outdoors. An odd, herby effusion burned over the kitchen fire, casting the room in a heady smoke.
Rosie was watching me. “I’m not taking any chances,” she said.
I stared at the salt sprinkled on the windowsills, for once not thinking how dear it was. I’d pour out a dozen salt cellars if we made it through this night.
And there was the crux of it all. I probably would make it through the night, alive and intact, and Rosie, too—but what of William? What of Stirwaters? Could I save either of them? Could I save them both? And if I couldn’t—? My breath struggled up through my breast. It didn’t bear thinking of. I must save them. I must.
Suddenly, we heard the front door fling open with a bang. Rosie jumped, and I thought she might come clear out of her skin.
“Charlotte! Rosie! What are you girls playing at?”
I whirled at the sound of the voice, to see Randall framed in the doorway, moonlight silvering his hair and shoulders. All the strength went out of my knees, and I sank against the kitchen table. He strode into the house and threw his hat onto an armchair, slamming the door behind him. “What is this? Charlotte, you look a mess. Where’s William?”
“One question at a time, please, brother,” Rosie said.
“No,” Randall said. His face was hard and lined, the same look he’d worn when I saw him last. “I want all the answers at once. What is this you’re doing—you’ve got wards on every door in the house—I couldn’t even get near the kitchen! Straw dollies and salt and—is that henbane? Gods, Charlotte, what have you two been messing with?”
And then, before I could answer, he had taken three long strides from the doorway and caught me up in his arms, squeezing me so tightly I couldn’t breathe. “What’s going on?” he said into my neck. “The Grange is ice cold, and it looks like you haven’t been there in days. How’s William?” He pulled back and looked likely to bend down to kiss me.
“William’s been taken.” I blurted it out, just like that. I don’t think I could have managed it any other way. In the space of a heartbeat his face went ashen, and he sank to the floor, somehow finding a chair on his way down.
“Taken? You mean kidnapped? How—when?” He could barely shape the words, and his hand reached out, not finding me. I grabbed it and held it close to my beating heart, as if I had any right to do so.
“Looks like the girls’ uncle took the lad,” Harte broke in gently. “We’re not sure why, but there may be some bad debts involved.”
Randall stared from one of us to the other. I put his hand to my lips and shook my head at Harte.
“No,” I said. “That’s not the truth.” The time for secrets was long past. I took a deep breath. “Randall, I’ve made some very poor decisions, and I’ve put our son’s life in danger.” He went stiff under my touch, but I forged on. “And I will tell you everything, just as soon as I can. But for now, I have to go.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes, as I said those words to
him, yet again. His gaze was hard and cold and colored of steel. Very well, I could take my strength from that. I squeezed Randall’s fingers far too tightly and then dropped his hand. I withdrew the glass jar from my rain-spattered cloak and shook it in the lamplight.
Randall rose and caught my hand, stilling the jar in midair. “What is that?”
“It’s earth,” I replied as calmly as I could. “I must take it to Stirwaters immediately if I’m to ransom William.”
“Earth? What kind of earth—Charlotte, are you working magic?”
I was unprepared for the vehemence in his voice—the surprise, yes, but not the other thing…what was it? His grip on my wrist was like a vise. “Let me go,” I said, twisting in his grasp. His hand loosened but did not free me.
“No. You tell me what this is.”
“Please,” I said. “You must trust me.”
His shoulders slumped, and I thought he might fall. I pulled him closer to me. “Charlotte, of course I trust you. Always. But trust me. Is this about that curse?”
I nearly dropped the jar, but Randall saved it. “Charlotte. Did you really think I could live for any time in this village without hearing the rumors? Especially since William was born. You can’t take such talk seriously. Whatever danger William is in, I’m sure there’s nothing unnatural about it.”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “It’s very real.” And then I spent precious time accounting for the dark deeds of Millers past. It seemed fitting, truly, for if I failed tonight, I should be no better than any of them: The Miller who sold her child to save the mill.
“Ah,” he said finally. “Sad business. So many years—that’s a long time for a curse to stand. He must have been quite powerful. Or very angry. If you mean to try and break it, you’ll need something that witnessed the laying down of the curse—this earth, I suppose? And an image of the man himself wouldn’t go amiss.” He reached a hand toward me and brushed his fingertips against the dolly still pinned to my collar.