Kiss of a Traitor (46 page)

Jwana gripped Willa’s shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. Willa slowly opened her eyes again. “Where?” Jwana asked. “Where you done hid it? I ain’t be helpin’ you lessen I knows wot be in you.”

Willa looked off to the side, toward the chest-on-chest. “There,” she said on a breath of a sigh. “Drawer. Third one down. Underneath. Latch in the back corner. Papa made it.”

Jwana jumped up and ran to the chest. Three drawers down. She yanked out the drawer, dumped out the contents, and ran her fingers along the inside edge, feeling for the latch. There it was, as Willa had said. She pushed it to one side, and the bottom of the drawer came loose. Lifting it out, she rummaged through the pressed flowers, diaries, and other girlhood treasures. She found the bottle beneath an embroidered lace handkerchief and beside Willa’s journal. Small, dark amber glass, half-full of liquid. She pulled the stopper, took a whiff, and smelled the miasma of poison but could not identify the substance.

“Lordy, Lordy,” she lamented. She scrambled to Willa’s side, the bottle clutched in her hand, and tucked in the covers about the shivering girl once more. “I has ta go, Willa, an’ find out wot dat wicked stepmother ‘a yourn done give you. You jes hang on, an’ I be comin’ back soon’s I kin.”

With her eyes pressed closed and her body trembling, Willa nodded almost imperceptibly.

Jwana gave her one last worried look and rushed out. She first found Quinn and informed him of the situation in terse words.

His expression hardened into steel. “I shall guard her with my life,” he said and made his way to the staircase. “That witch will not get by me.” Lifting an oak walking stick from the brass stand at the foot of the stairs, he brandished it like a sword and stalked up the treads, all stiff poise and indignant fury.

Jwana snatched a shawl from the hall rack and bustled from the house, breaking into a trot as she neared the stable. “Plato,” she called out when she entered the dusky interior. He popped his head around the edge of a stall on the far side where he was treating a horse for a cut on its hock.

“Saddle a horse dat be carryin’ us both,” she rattled off. “We got business in de swamp. An’ move dat black ass’a yourn. We ain’t got but a li’l time ‘fore ma girl dies.”

They rocketed out of the stable within five minutes, Plato in the saddle, Jwana astride behind and clinging to his waist like a burr.

Mathia practiced her arts from a shack beside Socastee Swamp and looked nothing like a witch. Rather, she was young and plump with a bushy head of hair framing her face in a cloud of soft, tangled black wool. Every slave and planter from Charles Town to the North Carolina border knew her. She supplied love potions to passion-stricken swains, and gris-gris, powerful spells to extract revenge. Young girls sought her out for abortifacients to rid themselves of unwanted babies. But mostly she mixed up healing potions from the swamp plants for every ailment from broken hearts to malaria.

Mathia looked up from tending her garden when a horse thundered into the weedy yard fronting her cabin. She recognized Jwana and Plato and smiled at the two familiar faces. Her smile thinned when she noticed the bottle clutched in Jwana’s hand and the frightened expression on the woman’s coffee face.

Despite the aura of doom emanating from the two visitors, she strode forward and spread her arms. “Welcome, Sister Jwana an’ Brother Plato. How kin Mathia help you dis beautiful spring day?” She gestured at the bright sunshine and the green leaves spurting forth on the tree branches.

“Tell me wot be in dis bottle an’ if’n I kin fix it,” Jwana said as she thrust the bottle toward Mathia.

“Hmmm,” Mathia murmured. She removed the cork and took a deep breath of the fumes, then dipped in a finger and touched it to her tongue. She spat it out on the ground. “Dis person be ‘portant ta you?”

Jwana dipped her head. “Mighty ‘portant.”

Mathia sighed and handed back the bottle. “Den I be givin’ you sorrow. De poison be white snakeroot. It be very powerful. I give it only fer de poisonin’a rats. Dere be no cure.” She tightened her lips. “De yellow-haired woman give it ta yur frien'?”

“Yes,” Jwana said bitterly. “May de Lord damn her soul.”

“She come ta me a long time ago. Says she has rats in de pantry. I warn her’a de snakeroot an’ try ta sell her somethin’ less powerful. But she be firm. She want de snakeroot bad.”

“What kin I do?” Jwana cried as she wrung her hands. Plato rested an arm across her shoulders, his face drawn in anguish.

“It be hard,” Mathia answered. “But if’n yur frien’ don’ get too much, maybe you kin help.”

“Jes tell me wot ta do. Ma frien’ done got a baby in her belly.”

Mathia tapped a plump finger against the side of her jaw. “Dat harder. You can’ do not’in’ but try. How long since dis gal done took de poison?”

“Las’ night, I be thinkin'.”

Mathia smiled. “Dat be good. Not too long. Maybe still a chance. Give mustard in water ta empty de stomach. It make her awful sick, but you be makin’ her swallow it.” She hesitated and held up a finger. “Wait here.” She ran into her shack and came back with a clear bottle of brown fluid. “Boiled dis up from black locust bark dat don’ grow ‘round here. Dis come from a Injun frien’ in Nor’ Car’lina. Mighty powerful fer cleanin’ out de bowels. Give it in tea. Den feed small bits’a powdered charcoal. It be callin’ ta de poison in her body an’ swallow it up. Do wot I be tellin’ you fer three days. Keep her still so’s de poison don’ take ta runnin’ through de blood. No food, but you see she be drinkin’ lots’a water. Den jes’ chicken broth fer a week if she still be livin'.”

“Bless you,” Jwana said through her tears.

Mathia waved a dismissive hand. “Go now. Sooner you start, sooner yur frien’ be well. Don’ be knowin’ ‘bout de baby. Maybe it be okay—maybe not.”

Jwana dosed Willa that night and for the next three days. Willa moaned and writhed with the pain in her throat, belly, and bowels from the powerful purgatives. Jwana beseeched God, praying each night on her knees beside the girl’s bed for Willa’s life and that of her child.

Willa survived the ordeal and the baby remained firmly attached to her womb, though she became weaker and weaker as the purges sapped her energy. Jwana made a rich chicken broth on the fourth day and spoon-fed her patient. Another two weeks passed before Willa recovered enough to tolerate solid food, but then she grew stronger day by day. As time passed and Willa failed to miscarry or come down with fever, Jwana’s hopes rose for the continued health of both her charges.

Marlene made attempts to gain access to Willa’s bedchamber several times during her stepdaughter’s illness. Quinn and Plato took turns guarding Willa’s door and barred Marlene’s way. Even when the woman insisted she had a legal right to see to Willa’s welfare, a motherly expression carefully arranged on her face, they turned her away. She went so far as to call in the doctor from Georgetown, who insisted Willa be bled. He, too, was refused admittance amidst much sputtering from the thick lips in his red, muttonchop whiskers.

As May burst into a full, glorious spring, Willa arose from her bed and dressed. With Jwana, Plato, and Quinn beside her, the bottle of poisoned laudanum in her pocket, she searched the house for Marlene, but the woman seemed to have vanished. At long last, Willa glanced out the study window to spot the flash of a silk skirt in the sunlight bearing down on the gazebo. She marched outside with her grim group of supporters following her.

Major Digby sat on the upholstered bench in the gazebo while Marlene paced the wood floor. The major eyed the visitors, his mouth tightening a bit as he spread his arms out along the top rail, lounged back, and rested an ankle on his opposite knee.

Marlene pivoted toward the sound of shoes scraping on the steps and came forward with outstretched arms.

Willa raised her hands to warn her off. “Not another step,” she said.

Marlene broke off short of actual contact. “Wilhelmina. I’ve been out of my mind for worry of you,” she gushed. “I even summoned the doctor, but these
servants
,” she spat the word, “would not allow me to see to your comfort.” Her gaze came to linger on Willa’s distended belly. Everyone present could see she still carried her child.

Willa extracted the bottle from her pocket and held it up.

Marlene’s face blanched.

“I daresay this looks familiar, does it not?”

Marlene pressed a hand to her chest. Her eyes widened, and she took a step backward. “Why … why no. Whatever is it?”

Willa kept her voice calm. “Need we play out this farce, Marlene? ‘Tis the bottle of poison with which you killed my father … your husband. It contains the identical ingredients you used in your effort to take my life and the life of my child.”

Marlene gasped and threw a panicky look at Digby. His face held no expression while he watched the scene. “No, no. Never before have I seen that bottle. How could you accuse me of such an appalling deed? I loved your father.”

Willa grimaced. “You love only yourself and Papa’s money. Perchance you have some affection for Digby. God knows he has occupied your bed long enough. Were I that close to you, I would watch my back and employ a taster for my food.”

Marlene finally released her animosity. She struck out at Willa. Plato seized her hand and slowly released it with a hard look and a shake of his head. “You can prove nothing,” Marlene charged. “We have only your word the contents of that bottle had anything to do with your father’s death. He is buried now, and to my everlasting sorrow, you and that bastard you carry are yet alive. I warn you, harbor no delusions the word of servants and slaves will be accepted above mine and Major Digby’s. I am the niece of the Marquis of Hatfield. My father is General Coates. I have standing in this community and in Charles Town.”

Willa reached the end of her tether and lashed out. The movement came so unexpectedly Marlene had no time to take evasive action. She reeled back from the ringing slap across her cheek and clapped a shaking hand to her face. Rage distorted her features. “That will be the only time you will strike me, you hell-borne brat.”

“In that, you are quite right. The next time you will feel the sting of my pistol instead of my hand. Pack your bags and be out of
my
house by dark. I care not where you go so long as you remove yourself from my sight forever.”

“You cannot throw me out,” Marlene shouted. “The provisions of George’s will clearly state—”

“I have a witness,” Willa interrupted. “The woman who sold you the poison will attest before a court that you purchased it from her shortly before my father fell deathly ill.”

Marlene turned her eyes on Digby. “Are you going to allow her to do this?”

As his mouth curved in a rakish smile, he spread his hands and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It appears Wilhelmina has the upper hand, my dear. I believe you have no choice.”

“You bear as much responsibility as do I.”

He looked at Willa and arched a brow. “Have you a witness to implicate me in any wrongdoing?”

“Unfortunately not. Nevertheless, I know you had your filthy hands in this matter. You bear as much guilt as Marlene.”

“So you say,” he replied softly. “But you have no proof.”

“You are correct. I have no proof, only my intuition.”

He rose in a languid motion, brushed off his uniform, and smiled. “You cannot hang a man on intuition.”

“Perhaps I cannot. But I can banish you from Willowbend and vow to shoot you for a trespasser should you dare to set foot on my property again.”

He swept her a mocking bow. “Agreed.” Taking Marlene’s hand, he tucked it beneath his arm. “Come, dear,” he said. “I shall help you pack.” Marlene glowered and tried to wrest her hand away. He held it firmly and tugged her along. Her shoulders stiff, her mouth spitting furiously, Digby guided her from the gazebo and into the house.

After the victory at Fort Watson, the militiamen’s confidence soared and they stepped sprightly. Soon the orderly march degenerated into loose knots of laughing men recounting their heroism. Colonel Lee and General Marion allowed them their good spirits. The trees were green yet again; birds sang from nests in the branches, and the soldiers deserved to seize a brief chance at frivolity because their next battle could be their last.