A Curse Dark as Gold (36 page)

"All right," Rosie said. "Now your stocking."

Harte mumbled something that might have been a curse, but his free hand fumbled out and touched Rosie's hair, then her cheek. She paused a little and smiled at him.

The boot and stocking free, it was plain how bad the break was. The very skin of the leg had turned purple; the knee pointed out in a direction contrary to nature, other bumps and protrusions taking its place. It made me sick to look at it, for while it could have gone so much worse, that morning a broken leg was bad enough.

Biddy Tom arrived at last, her simples bag and another, much larger carpetbag in tow. She set to work briskly, dosing Harte first with some sleeping powder so she could set the limb with as little pain as possible.

"He may not sleep," she warned, "but this will help him bear it. Mr. Harte, if you could release Charlotte's hand; I believe your mistress would like to sit down." His grip softened and his hand fell away, but I could not feel my own fingers. I sank down, right atop the little tea table, and jostled William on my knee as we watched Biddy Tom set to work on Harte's leg.

The setting and plaster complete, she shooed the crowd away. Harte did sleep, which was a relief to all of us -- his face relaxed at last, and he stopped shivering.

"Good work, Rosie," Biddy Tom said, and Rosie only nodded. She was looking us over with a strained and wary expression.

"What do we do now?" she said. "This wasn't a coincidence. Harte falling off a ladder, today of all days? Harte's never fallen off a ladder in his life!"

"No," said Mrs. Tom, "no coincidence. The danger you are in is very real --"

"It's not him," I said. "The mill didn't want him to go."

"You mean the mill doesn't want
you
to go," Rosie said.

I shook my head, the understanding so clear it was almost painful. "No, I must go. Otherwise
I'd
have fallen off the ladder -- or come down with fever. But Harte doesn't have to come with me. He isn't a Miller; this curse has nothing to do with him." It seemed a foolish thing to say, with him lying broken on our sofa, but I knew I was right.

Rosie was shaking her head as she took my meaning in. "I won't leave him," she said, and I leaned over and touched her hand.

"No," I said. "You must still stay here and watch Harte, and watch William. Just as we planned." And before I could feel the pang in my breast, I handed William over to his favorite aunt, my fingers lingering on his gown longer, perhaps, than necessary. "Mrs. Tom, will you stay with them?" She nodded.

"You can't mean to go alone!" Rosie said.

"I must," I said, certain down to my very bones. "I won't risk what's happened to Harte happening to anyone else. It's put to me to break this curse, and I'll not see anyone else endangered by it."

Chapter Twenty-Six
Rosie
wasn't happy, releasing me to the unknown dark, alone, unaided. But in the end she agreed it was unavoidable. She insisted that I take Pilot, at least, and I confess I am surprised that dog left her master's side for me that night. In the distance, a bonfire burned at the churchyard, the guide-light for the dead, casting its baleful glow into the rising night. I bit my lip and tried not to think what might be watching for those flames,

I set off in Randall's father's carriage, the horses sprightly and glad to see me. There was no moon, just a glowering stormy overhang of clouds, and as we left the last of the village behind, I was grateful for the coachlights. The groom at Drover's had filled and lit them, and as they swung in graceful rhythm to the horses' steps, they cast a welcome arc of light around me.

I pulled my collar up against the breeze. Those clouds did not look welcoming, and I could only hope my errand would not detain me in bad weather. It was a drive of four hours, and Harte's accident had already delayed me. I had an overnight valise packed, in case I must stay at an inn, but I hoped not to use it. Pilot's warm presence, tucked against my ankles on the footboards, was more welcome than I would admit.
As I drove. I went over Biddy Tom's instructions for the journey in my mind. I was not sure what I expected to find -- some evidence, perhaps, of what had passed among Harlan Miller, Malton Wheeler, and Jack Spinner in the crossroads, so many years ago, I could only hope I had not misinterpreted the information -- the mill's intent -- and that I was being drawn toward the
breaking
of the curse, and not my own fate at its fell hand. To that end, Mrs. Tom had given me clear instructions. I was to find something that witnessed the setting of the curse, and, if possible, the identity of the man who set it. She had likewise pressed me to accept a charm of protection -- a blue string, tied round my wrist -- but I had declined, fearing that any such might form a barrier between me and -- whatever I was driving toward.

No one else was on the road. We trotted along the pressed earth for miles, seeing no more than a light in a cottage window, so I was surprised when Bonny gave a neigh and shied slightly at a figure walking along the verge toward Shearing. I slowed to pass the pedestrian more carefully, and then gave the reins such a hard yank I nearly spun the carriage round in the road.

I hadn't recognized him, at first. Dressed all in black, he blended into the shadows, and might have been a highwayman. But he was so disheveled! His jacket was half off one shoulder, his waistcoat unbuttoned, shoes and stockings scuffed with dust. Beneath his hat, pulled low over his brow, his white wig stood out brightly in the night, a ragged halo round his drawn face.

"My God," I breathed, my hand trembling on the reins.

For a moment, my uncle seemed not to know me. "Charlotte?" he said, at last, gazing upward. A faint smile broke on his lips. "My angel of salvation. Why does it not surprise me to see you here?"

This was impossible -- and alarming. I shook my head, not sure what to make of it all. "Where are you going?"

Uncle Wheeler hesitated, a hand on Bonny's bridle. The black horse leaned into his touch, and he stroked her nose as if it were second nature to him. "As a matter of fact, I found myself rather compelled to go back to Shearing. Much as I adore the place." The words were all in place, but his voice sounded odd, uncertain.

"You're mad."

His fingers paused on the horse's soft nose. "I wonder," was all he said. I could read no answers in his face. He was gazing into the distance and frowning vaguely, as if he could not quite recall how he had come to be there. A furrow appeared on his forehead, and a fog of confusion seemed to waft from him.

"How did you get here?"

He never looked up, his gaze still locked westward, into the last, fading light. "There was a gentl -- an obliging gentleman, with a wain ..." As he trailed off, he shook his head, but more as if to clear it. He brushed futilely at the dust on his jacket. "Now if you don't mind, I really must be on my way."

"What can you possibly have to gain by going back to Shearing?" I said.

He paused. "Ah, well, you know how it is. Just a little ... ah, unfinished business to attend to...."

I shook off the chill I felt. I could tell he was only half attending to what he said. Something was amiss, out of place, in the smooth mask of his face. He truly did not know where he was going -- or why.
"You heard it, didn't you?" I said softly. I could scarcely believe I was saying such things, but it seemed so obvious now. "Stirwaters -- calling you back?" The mill was drawing us all together, and onward, along some unknown path for some purpose yet to be made plain.

"Don't be absurd." But he said it absently, from mere force of habit. Pilot had risen, tense, and stared hard at Uncle Wheeler, her ears pricked forward with attention. I frowned into the dusky moonlight, then sighed. I was running out of time. The last thing in the world I wanted was to bring Uncle Wheeler along on my journey tonight. But the idea that some other carriage might come along and actually take him back to Shearing disturbed me even more.

"Get in."

The shadowed coachlight made his face paler than ever, and I thought he looked thin. "Agreed. I don't suppose there's any chance you'd allow me to drive?"

The look I gave him was all the answer he needed.

We rode in silence for some time. I had nothing whatever to say to the man, but I did wonder where he'd been these two months. Had he found more rich friends to cadge off? Had Spinner caught him up?

Perhaps I did not wish to know after all.

Once inside the carriage, my uncle seemed free of the strange spell. He sprawled lazily on the seat beside me, one leg propped upon the dash rail, his hat drawn low over his brow. Finally, he said, "And where are you headed, by dark of night, all, all alone?"

I started. His voice, smooth and languid as always, did not make those words any less chilling. He had not shown himself to be a violent man -- but, then, did I truly know him?
He could easily be concealing a knife in that black jacket, and we were as good as nowhere, out here on the long stretch of dark road.

But, oddly, that thought no longer frightened me. I had faced this man down before, and he was no comparison to the threat that awaited me back home. "Haymarket," I said.

He eyed me from beneath his hat brim. "Haymarket's a big city -- well, compared to what you're used to. Where,
precisely?"

I let the reins droop, trusting Blithe and Bonny to keep up their steady forward progression. From beneath my cloak I withdrew the rolled-up form of my father's map, which I had, with no little pain, cut from his atlas. If it survived the journey, I would frame it above my fireplace. I showed the map to my uncle, and pointed a gloved finger at Simple Cross. There was just enough light to read by. Uncle Wheeler grabbed my hand.

"That's not Haymarket -- that is the middle of nowhere. What sort of business could you possibly have there?"

I didn't answer, but my face must have given something away. Uncle Wheeler grabbed the reins and gave them a brutal jerk. The horses scrambled to slow down, rocking the trap madly, and I grabbed for the dash rail as Pilot rolled against my feet and barked.

"Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what night it is?"

"Are you superstitious, Uncle?"

"Hardly. But I'm no fool, either. You must be mad; no good can come of this."

"I'm not looking for good," I said softly. "I'm trying to save my son."

He eyed me warily, but a slow smile spread across his face. "Oh, I see," he said. "This wouldn't have anything to do with our mutual acquaintance, now, would it? You wouldn't perhaps have gotten yourself involved in any ... unfortunate bargains?"

I drew back, stung. "Please, just give me the reins."

Uncle Wheeler made no response. He was staring past me into the shadowed trees. Pilot whined softly from beneath my feet, and the horses neighed, restless. A low wind had risen in the wood; branches rustled and creaked in the distance. I turned; among the shifting leaves ahead I saw the flash of lamplight -- there and then gone again. I blinked, uncertain I had really seen anything. And then it was back, bobbing along steadily. I shook my head -- someone walking home by the margin, carrying a lantern. Several yards farther along, another light -- larger, yellower. A cottage. I reached across for the reins.

"No, wait --"

I glanced his way. "Uncle, let me say again: I really am pressed for time. I am happy for you to ride with me, but if you intend to distract me from my errand, I will leave you here." Voice of the mill or no.

He turned toward me. "Leave me? You'd like that, I'm sure."

When I made no reply to this, Uncle Wheeler looked sharply at me -- and gave a strangled laugh. "Good God, girl, do you know
nothing?
Look --" I followed his finger into the darkness. The lights winked out, quick as that. "Keep looking." Another light, deeper into the forest, now coming our way again, now gone. I watched in confusion for several minutes. Even Pilot climbed up to see what the delay was.
"That isn't lamplight. They're corpse-lights -- will-o'-the-wisps. There's likely to be a bog back there, or a ravine." I shook my head, lost.
"You'd
call it superstition, no doubt. But the local peasantry will tell you those lights are the spirits of lost souls, leading unwary travellers to their doom."

All Souls' Night.

"So unless you mean to see me stumble off a cliff and break my neck -- which, I have no doubt, should please you no end -- I'll thank you to keep driving."

The odd lights followed us all evening, first on one side of the road, then the other, then ahead. I told myself my uncle was having a jest at my expense -- it
was
a cottager, out searching for a lost dog, or perhaps some drunken farmhand, stumbling home from a long weekend. Nothing more eldritch than that. But if that were all, my drunken cottager made as good time on foot as my horses. I reached down for Pilot's feathered head, glad for her solid presence.

Eventually we came in sight of Haymarket, or the first scattering of houses and farmsteads leading into town. The map was still open across Uncle Wheeler's lap, and I peered at it again. I thought I could make out the shape of our path -- and the tree-coated hill before us looked like the one marked out on the map. We were close; we had to be.