Metcalfe paused, shuddering. His hand went to his throat, and I recalled the string of beads I had seen clutched in his fist the night his wife died. Only later had I realised they were rosary beads; that Grace’s family were papists.
I remembered the fear in his eyes when we came upon him at prayer. Perhaps he had worried that we would expose him. Or perhaps I was searching for another reason for his hatred of my mother and me, when the truth was simple: he believed us murderers.
‘My Anna shook all over,’ he continued. ‘It were … unspeakable. And then she was gone. Jennet had killed her.’
‘And where was the accused, in all of this? Was she near your wife when she passed?’
‘No. She were standing with my daughter. But … I know she helped her mother. And even if she didn’t, you just have to look at her to see she’s the spit of Jennet.’ The fire returned to his voice as he continued, growing louder and louder. ‘The spit of her. In image and in manner too – it has been passed down, this rot, like a contagion, from mother to daughter … They’re not like other women. Living without a man – it’s unnatural. I wager that the mother took the devil for a lover, to beget a child … and now that child has done his will. You must cut her out, like bad flesh from meat! You must hang her!’
The gallery had been shocked into silence by Metcalfe’s claims. A child born of the devil. I wished to scrub myself all over, to scrub away time with my skin and return to a place where I had never heard those words spoken about my mother and myself.
Metcalfe had stopped yelling. He was slumped forward in the stand, shoulders heaving with keening sobs, the likes of which I have never heard from a man before.
A guard came to lead him away. Just as he reached the doors, he turned back towards me.
‘Damn you! I hope you rot in Hell like your whore of a mother!’
The heavy doors closed and he was gone.
I had striven to show no emotion through the trial, but to hear my mother spoken of thus was too much. My eyes burned with the salt of the tears that ran down my face. Whispers rose in the courtroom. From the corner of my eye I saw that they were pointing at me, at my tears.
I put my face in my hands and cried. I kept my face hidden as the prosecutor spoke. It was clear from the testimony of Grace Milburn, Daniel Kirkby and William Metcalfe that I was the devil’s whore, he said, who had used my evil influence to goad innocent animals into trampling their master to death. I must be cut from society like a canker, he said, scoured from the earth like rot from wood. I had robbed my community of a good and honest man. I had robbed a woman of her loving husband. Her protector.
At this I raised my head and looked at him, staring until my eyes burned. I did not hide my face in my hands again.
26
VIOLET
‘So,’ said Frederick. ‘Where are you taking me? Somewhere with shade, I hope – I’m absolutely roasting.’
They were walking in the meadow at the very edge of the grounds. It was hilly, and at its crest they could see the green landscape below. Violet felt strangely light, as though her bones had filled with air. The sun was hot on the back of her neck. She should have brought a hat. Nanny Metcalfe would give her a telling-off if she got sunburnt.
‘There’s the wood, down by the old railway line,’ she said, pointing to a dark seam of trees running through the fields. Technically that was public land, not part of the grounds, and she didn’t think Father would like it if she went there. But he couldn’t really object if she were chaperoned, she reasoned. Especially not if she were chaperoned by Frederick. Freddie.
The lemonade suddenly seemed like a long time ago.
‘I’m parched,’ she said. She shut her eyes. Frederick was half carrying her to the woods now, her arm draped over his shoulders. Her body felt very heavy but Frederick walked on steadily, as if she weighed nothing. She felt the cool metal of the flask at her lips and gulped down more brandy, even though it was really water that she craved. Aside from her thirst, she felt quite pleasant. Was this what it was to be drunk?
She could smell the rich, damp scent of the wood. She opened her eyes. The sun was dappled by the trees, which were ancient and packed closely together. Frederick reached down and plucked a primrose flower, before putting it behind her ear. She didn’t know how to tell him that she didn’t believe in picking flowers. A butterfly took flight from a branch, orange circles on its wings like eyes.
‘Scotch argus,’ she murmured.
‘What?’
‘The butterfly. That’s what it’s called.’
Everything was growing dimmer. Violet opened her eyes and saw that they had come to a clearing in the woods, thickly carpeted by foxglove and dog’s mercury. Through the trees, Violet saw blue irises and thought of Miss Poole. She wondered how long they had been away from the Hall. Perhaps someone would come and look for them.
Frederick was laying her down on the ground. She must be very drunk, she thought. Perhaps she had become too heavy for him to carry, and he was going to go back to the Hall for help. Father would be furious. Perhaps they could just leave her out here. She wouldn’t mind. It was so pretty. She could hear a bird singing – a redstart.
Frederick was still there. She wondered why he hadn’t set off for the Hall yet. He was getting down on the ground next to her – maybe he didn’t feel well either? She could smell him – rich cologne, mingled with an animal scent of sweat. It was overpowering. The bite on her cheek was stinging rather painfully.
He was on top of her. She wanted to ask him what he was doing but her tongue was too clumsy to form the words, and then he was covering her mouth with his. He was very heavy; her lungs burned from lack of air. She tried to put her hands on his shoulders, to push him off, but they were pinned by her sides.
Violet felt his hand on her thigh, under her skirt, and then he was forcing her tights down. She heard them tear. They were silk; the only pair she had. He moved her legs apart and for a moment she was freed from his weight as he unbuckled his belt and undid his trousers. She gulped at the air, tried to speak, but then he was upon her again, his hand on her mouth, and there was a bright, searing pain between her legs. She felt the ground dig into her back harder as he moved, again and again. Still the pain continued, as if he were opening a wound inside her.
She could taste sweat and dirt on his hand. Her eyes watered. She looked up and tried to count the green leaves that filtered the sunlight but there were too many and she lost track of them. After a while – it felt like an entire lifespan, the years stretching on and mercilessly on, but afterwards she realised it couldn’t have been more than five minutes – he cried out and grew still. It – whatever horrible thing it was – had ended.
Frederick rolled over onto his back, panting.
She could feel something wet trickling out of her. She put her hand between her legs and when she looked at it, it was sticky with blood and something else – something white, like the mucus from a snail.
The redstart was singing again, as if nothing had happened.
‘We’d better get back,’ he said. ‘I say, you do look a bit of a fright. We’ll tell your father that you had a tumble, shall we? Good thing your cousin was there to help you up.’