The Midnight Witch (2 page)

Stricklend returns his attention to the family of the recently deceased duke. He met Lord Robert’s widow several times when she was still the duchess of Radnor. No doubt she would remember him, just as she would remember all her guests. She would naturally value her reputation as an excellent hostess but now, even so soon after the duke’s passing, she appears to Stricklend diminished. Her husband’s illness had been protracted and his death prepared for, but still the shock of it shows. Though her face might be veiled, her demeanor, her deportment, her seeming lack of substance are plainly visible. On her right, her son, Frederick, presents a picture of almost equal frailty. The young man is tall and good-looking, with the family’s black hair and fine, aristocratic features, but he is painfully thin, and there is a restlessness about him that gives him away. Stricklend doubts the youth will make a good duke. He will not come close to filling his father’s shoes.

The person who is of real interest to him, however, is the slim figure to the left of the dowager duchess. Lady Lilith Montgomery, only daughter and eldest child of the late Lord Robert Montgomery, sixth duke of Radnor, wears her striking beauty casually yet with dignity. She does not flaunt the head-turning loveliness with which she has been blessed any more than she would flaunt her position of privilege as the daughter, and now sister, of a duke. There is about her an air of seriousness. An earnestness. A self-contained strength, that Stricklend finds both admirable and attractive. He witnessed her coming out into society through the summer with careful attention. But it is not her feminine attributes that matter to him. Nor her social standing. What is of concern to him, what he is keenly interested in, is her ability to take on the mantle of Head Witch in her father’s place. Only time will tell if she is up to the task. If she is not, it will be a bad day for the Lazarus Coven. A very bad day indeed. It will also be a singularly good day for Nicholas Stricklend.

*   *   *

Despite the weight of his valise, the bulk of his knapsack of artist’s materials, and the awkward legginess of the easel he carries on his shoulder, Bram Cardale traverses the cemetery with a vigorous step. Being tall and strong means his luggage is less burdensome for him than it might have been for others, added to which a sense of purpose lends energy to his stride. He is glad of the shortcut, for he has walked a mile or more already, but he could happily travel until sunset, for today he begins his new life. Behind him lie burned bridges, disregarded offers of secure employment, and the comfort and stability of his family home. Ahead lies nothing certain, save that he is to lodge with the renowned and feted sculptor, Richard Mangan, and he is, at last, to attempt to become the painter he believes himself capable of being. Such a leap of faith shocked his parents. His father took it particularly badly.

“But, lad, you’ve a position waiting for you at the factory. You’d throw it all up to … to what? Paint pictures?”

“It’s what I was meant to do, Father.”

“All of a sudden our life, what we do, that’s not good enough for you?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“You’re right about that.”

“Can’t you be pleased for me?”

“Pleased you’re going off on the rim of your hat to live in a house of adulterers and heaven knows who else instead of taking your place here, where you belong? Oh, aye, I’m certain to be pleased about that.”

Bram had not attempted to win his father round to the idea of his chosen future. He had dried his mother’s tears and promised to write. There had been a moment, when she had looked deep into him in the way only she could, when he had faltered. She had touched his cheek with such tenderness, such concern … but if he did not go now he feared he would remain forever living a half-life, his talent, his art, his need to create, stifled and smothered. He could not tolerate such an existence. True, there could be no guarantees of success, and he might end up alone in London, a failed nobody, his talent exposed as an illusion. He risked one manner of madness if he went, and another, a slower more tortuous insanity, if he stayed. He had caught the evening train from Sheffield that very night. Guilt dogged his footsteps, but with each passing mile his certainty that he was doing the right thing grew.

The energy of London, the vibrant hum of the place, the sheer scale, all speak to him of possibilities and of freedom. He could not paint properly while still living under his father’s shadow, living a provincial life, where he was hampered by his family’s expectations of him. He knows he is acting selfishly, but if he must paint—and it seems he is driven by some irresistible force to do so—he must find a place and a company conducive to artistic expression and endeavor. He had written to Richard Mangan scarce hoping for a response, so when he was invited to take rooms in his house he knew it was an opportunity he could not pass up. Here was his chance to give vent to his ambition.

As he approaches the halfway point on the path to the east gate of the graveyard, Bram is struck by the number of mourners attending a burial. Large funerals are not uncommon in Sheffield but he has witnessed nothing of this kind before. He pauses in his journey, sliding his easel to the ground for a moment. He can make out several funeral carriages, all drawn by very fine horses, each black as coal, and draped in heavy velvet. The hearse itself might no longer be in attendance, but the remaining conveyances are no less impressive or flamboyantly liveried. Each has painted on its doors and embroidered on the drapery of the horses the emblem of a dragonfly, delicate and slim, its body shimmering green. Mourners stand a dozen rows deep, at least two hundred of them. Close to the grave the chief mourners look to Bram to present a touchingly small family. The young woman wears a broad hat with a long spotted veil, but he can discern elegant deportment and fine features even so. And a graceful, slender neck, the only part of her not swathed in black. Bram finds the whiteness of this small, exposed area of flesh somehow startling. Erotic, almost. A shaft of sunlight cuts through the branches of the lone cedar tree to illuminate the trio at the graveside, so that the fabric of their clothes, though cellar-black, reflects the light with such brilliance that the glare causes him to squint.

He wonders at once how he would paint such a phenomenon, how he would capture on canvas the strength of that light in the midst of such gloom. A familiar excitement stirs within him at the idea of the challenge. His pulse quickens. Images flash through his mind, light upon dark, dark upon light, blocks of color and bold brush strokes. In that moment of inspiration all is possible. He drops his luggage to the ground and scrabbles in his knapsack, pulling out board and paper, digging deeper for dusty shards of charcoal. He supports the board with one arm, pinning the paper to it with his fingers at the top. In his right hand he grasps the charcoal and turns to stand facing the scene he wishes to capture. He is in the full glare of the sun, and can feel perspiration beading his brow, dampening his hair. His hat offers more heat than shade, so he pushes it from his head, letting it lie where it falls on the parched ground. He frowns against the glare of the blank page, hesitating only a moment before beginning to sketch. A passing couple comment sharply on his inappropriate behavior. He is immune to their criticism. He knows he is witness to the grief of strangers, and he knows his actions could be seen as callous or disrespectful. The small part of him that still pays heed to such conventions, however, is stamped down by the urgency of his desire to depict what he sees, to immortalize that moment. It is not merely the juxtaposition of shapes, of sunlight and shadow, of patterns and elegant lines he wishes to show. Nor is he interested in recording a comment on society and its cherished traditions. It is the very essence of his subjects he strives to transpose to his picture.

To show what cannot be seen one must first represent what can be seen,
he tells himself.

His mind works as swiftly as his hand as he draws. Deft, energetic marks begin to fill the paper.

It is my lot to spend my life in pursuit of the impossible. To reveal what is hidden. But am I able? Am I equal to the task?

He continues to work even as he feels his head spin with the heat of the day and the intensity of his concentration. Even as curious onlookers pause to peer over his shoulder. He works on, seeking to show the brilliance of life in the midst of a ceremony for the dead. Even as the vicar closes his good book. Even as the beautiful, slender girl beside the open grave raises her head and finds herself to be beneath his fervent gaze.

2.

It is nearly four o’clock by the time the funeral cortege leaves the cemetery. I am relieved the service and burial are over, but I do not relish the idea of what lies ahead. Mama spent many teary hours instructing Mrs. Jessop, the housekeeper, and Withers, the butler, on precisely what will be required when those invited back to the house after the funeral arrive.

All serving staff are to wear their mourning livery for the event, and those working below stairs will sport black armbands. There is to be a buffet of grand proportions, and the house dressed and presented in somber but dignified style. The food will be light, and refreshing. The heat will no doubt have already sapped the strength and wilted the nerves of those attending, so iced tea will be offered, along with lemonade and sherry. Withers will have selected a reasonable burgundy for those who felt the need of it, and whiskey, of course, for the men. Deliveries of lilies and black ribbon arrived almost hourly throughout the morning. Secretly, I wish we could have had a simple gathering. I favor the modern trend for a paring down of the traditional trappings and trimmings of a society funeral. But I understood my mother’s need to throw herself into her role as widow, and to do this one last act as lady of the house. For now, at least, she has the diversion of being occupied to lessen her grief.

After slow progress through the busy streets the driver at last draws up in front of what has been the London home of the Montgomery family for generations. Number One Fitzroy Square stands four stories tall, its broad white frontage separated from the world by gleaming, black iron railings. Wide steps lead up to the columned portico which frames the heavy black door. The brass door furniture and bell pull have been polished to a deep shine and only ever touched by gloved hands. The square is formed by four streets of such houses, all striking in their symmetry, their snowy facades, and their pleasing classical proportions. In the middle of the square there is a large private garden, ringed by a fence of railings which match those in front of the houses. Each household is in possession of a key so that they might enter and enjoy the lavishly planted gardens, with their walnut and chestnut trees, their shady walks and flower-filled beds. The foliage of the trees and the abundant shrubs provide a dignified yet pretty division between the houses on one side of the square and those opposite, and are so cleverly designed as to give the impression almost of a small slice of the countryside, transplanted to the heart of the city.

I feel my mood lighten a little, as it always does when coming home. I might have to graciously accept condolences from people I hardly know for several hours to come, but later, when the last guests have been helped into their carriages, I can, here, be myself.

Are you willing to listen to me yet, Lilith?

I feel my spine tingle as the same spirit I heard in the graveyard whispers in my ear once more. I am shocked. Shaken. No spirit has ever spoken to me in this way, without being called. I struggle to retain my composure. I will have to talk to this restless soul, that is certain. But not now, not here. My family needs me now. My non-witch family.

A young footman opens the door of the carriage and Withers, broad shouldered and dependable as ever, appears to offer his assistance to Lady Annabel. Freddie, enlivened no doubt by the prospect of a drink, has already sprung from the other side of the carriage and hurried round to help his mother.

“All right, Withers,” he says, with jarring eagerness, “you can leave Lady Annabel to me. Come along now, Mama. Let’s get you a nice glass of wine, shall we?”

“Don’t be silly, Freddie, you know I never drink wine. Withers, is everything ready?”

“All just as you instructed, Lady Annabel.”

“The flowers … they must be sprayed regularly. This dreadful heat…”

“I’ve put William to the task, my lady.”

The dowager duchess halts her faltering forward progress and stares at Withers. For a moment she looks utterly lost.

“William?” she repeats in a small voice. “Do you know, I don’t seem able to picture his face?”

I hurry to her side. “William Radley, Mama. The second footman, you remember?”

“Oh, yes. Yes of course. Fancy my forgetting. William Radley. How silly of me.”

“You are exhausted, Mama,” I say, taking her arm.

“And thirsty, shouldn’t wonder,” puts in Freddie.

I cast him a look that goes unnoticed as the two of us bear our mother up the steps and into the coolness of the house. Freddie is ready enough to offer help when it suits his purposes. It is not the sort of help I can ever allow myself to rely upon. There will always be Freddie’s own needs behind any offer of assistance. I would be a fool to forget it.

Mama need not have worried; Mrs. Jessop and Withers have carried out her wishes to the letter. The hallway of Number One Fitzroy Square was built to impress, and impress it does. The careful Art Nouveau decor that my mother has so successfully embraced seems only enhanced by the vases of cream aromatic lilies, tied with black satin bows, which have been placed at considered random throughout. I find their perfume in the sultry heat almost overpowering and am aware of a burgeoning headache behind my eyes. Three immaculately turned-out servants hold trays bearing tall glasses.

I pause to speak to Withers, taking off my hat and handing it, with a nod, to my lady’s maid, Violet.

“I shall sit with Mama in the morning room. Would you direct people to us there?”