Master of the Moors (15 page)

What is he doing?

He was tall, dressed in a
tattered old overcoat that whipped around him at the behest of a
rising wind, his hands resting atop the barbed wire but not enough
to make it bend. At first she thought he might be wearing a mask,
for surely no skin was so pale, until she realized his face was
bandaged, its loosened edges flapping at the sides. She considered
hailing him, perhaps asking what he was doing on her father's
property, but quickly decided against it. She wasn't sure why, but
his unmoving presence there unnerved her.

Dark clouds spread across
the sky, creeping up from behind the mountains like a hand cresting
water, spreading its fingers wider as it passed overhead.
Blue-white veins of lightning flickered silently. A storm was
coming.

Tabitha looked away from the man and
hurried inside.

She met Donald in the
hall, his trademark sneer faltering only slightly at the concerned
look on her face.

"Where's Mum?" she asked
him.

He shrugged. "Why don't
you go look?"

"Just tell me where she
is."

"Why do you want to know?"
He smiled, large teeth protruding just a little, a sign that he was
prepared, and looking forward to, another opportunity to torment
her.

"There's a man
outside."

"Who?"

She set the basket of
sheets down and folded her arms. "I don't know who. I've never seen
him before. Strange looking fellow if ever I saw one."

In an instant, her
brother's face lost all its smugness. An odd expression replaced
it. "Bandages?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Go to your
room."

She almost laughed at
that. "'Go to your room?' Have you been into Mum's sherry
again?"

But Donald just stared at
the door, as if the man at the fence had suddenly appeared
there.

"Donald?" She put a hand
on his arm, more than aware that the simple act of touching him
could be dangerous if she'd caught him in the mood for violence.
But he didn't even acknowledge it, and when she shook him, he
absently removed her hand and walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" she
asked.

"To talk to
him."

Tabitha was confused. "You
know him?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"We met
earlier."

"He looks like a
vagrant."

Donald opened the door. Dead leaves
skittered into the hall. Thunder rumbled over the
mountains.

"Donald?"

She stamped her foot in frustration
and he looked over his shoulder at her.

"Who is he?" she
asked.

Her brother smiled.
"Someone who makes wishes come true," he said before stepping out
and slamming the door behind him.

12

Donald spotted him
immediately and hurried over to the fence. He wished he'd thought
to put on his coat, but it was warm inside the house and he didn't
imagine he'd be out here for too long. Not with Tabby being so
bloody curious. It was only a matter of time before she went
telling tales and had their mother standing at the door demanding
to know what was going on. He would have to be quick and hope the
bandaged man understood his urgency. Though he had only known
Stephen a few hours, he had the horrible feeling that if his mother
came storming out, the stranger wouldn't hesitate to hurt her for
intruding upon their business.

As he drew to a halt, that
unpleasant smell of moldy old earth and rotten things wafted to him
from the man on the other side of the fence. "Hello," Donald said.
"You get it, did you?"

From behind the mask of
soiled bandages, dark eyes glittered. "Indeed I did, and your part
of the bargain?"

Donald stuffed his hands
into his pockets, the wind so cold it felt as if it was passing
right through him. "My sister asked him to meet her at the dance
tonight. She has no interest of course, but knows that little blind
bastard does." He smiled, expecting approval. Instead, the bandaged
man's left hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. Donald's
eyes bulged. "
What?
" he croaked, incredulous and more than a little frightened
as the man's grip tightened.

Stephen's eyes blazed.
"Watch your bloody mouth when speaking about the boy. If brains
were my supper, I would harvest a bounty from his skull and mere
crumbs from yours. So the next time you feel compelled to cast
aspersions on someone, look in the mirror, at the slow-witted,
weasel-faced young imp you find staring back at you."

"
Sorry...
" Donald thought his head
might burst, his eyes ready to pop from their sockets. Every breath
felt like someone playing tug-a-war with his tongue.

After what felt like an
eternity, long enough for the boy to convince himself he was going
to die, strangled to death by a mummy in his own yard, the man
released him. Donald massaged his throat and scowled. "What did you
do that for?"

"I have little tolerance
for sad, bitter little bullies."

"I'm not a
bully."

"Really? I'd wager your
sister, watching you from her bedroom window as we speak,
would
strongly
disagree."

Slowly, Stephen's gaze
drifted up over Donald's head, forcing him to turn to follow it.
There were four windows spread evenly across the second floor of
their home. On the far right, a pale shape lurked beneath the
reflection of the leaden sky. Donald could just make out the
scrawled shadows of his sister's concern, and immediately felt a
rash of irritation.

"Busybody," he
muttered.

"She angers you," Stephen
observed.

"Yes. So what?"

"Tell me why."

"I don't know why. She's a
prude, a smelly little cow."

"It's something more than
that though, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you
mean."

"You love her."

Donald shrugged. "Only
because I have to."

Stephen nodded once.
"Correct. You have to because the alternative is
unattainable."

"What
alternative?"

"You
desire
her."

Immediate, unbridled rage
filled the boy and he dared step closer, his fists clenched by his
sides. "You listen to me. I don't care who you think you are, but
you'd better watch your mouth. My father could have you thrown in
prison, or even an asylum, for what you just said to
me."

The soiled bandages
creased to allow for a smile. "Is it not true?"

"No! Of course it isn't!
What kind of a vile thing is that to suggest? My own sister! You're
off your bleedin' head!"

"You would turn her down
if she offered to lie with you?"

No
, he thought then, and felt the color rise to his
cheeks.
No, I wouldn't, but damn you to
hell you bastard get out of my HEAD!
He
knew how disgusting such urges made him; he knew how the village
would look upon him if it were ever revealed that he lusted after
his own sister; he knew how badly his father would beat him, and
yet none of it helped contain the flaring impulses that rose
whenever she touched him. On such occasions, he lashed out at her,
hurt her, to punish her for tempting him, and to punish himself for
the feelings her touch had induced in him.

It was wrong, all of it.
It made an anomaly of him, an aberration, a freak of nature, and he
knew it. At night he whispered reassurances to himself that he was
not mad, and promised himself he would grow out of it, find another
woman who loved him and forget all about his uncontrollable
illness. But then Tabitha would pass him by, or lay her hand on his
arm and fire would spread from his loins to scorch his throat and
he would hit, punch, kick to get away from the desperate need to be
with her.

"You're a liar," he said
at last, avoiding the man's eyes. "Take your horrible lies
somewhere else."

"Donald," Christopher
said, leaning over the fence to touch the boy's shoulder. The odor
was noxious and Donald had to suppress an urge to recoil. "I count
honesty among my many afflictions. It's my business to know people
better than they know themselves. If I were you, I would not waste
your time suffering because of a perfectly natural compulsion.
There is no shame in it, and why shouldn't a fine young lad like
you get what he deserves? Often the pariah becomes king and what
woman wouldn't part her legs for a king?"

Donald frowned. "I don't
know what you mean."

Stephen's crooked smiled
widened. "You will soon. Here." From his pocket he produced a slim
silver object and waggled it in the air between them. Liquid
sloshed within. A faint smile crossed Donald's lips at the sight of
it.

"Is that really
his?"

"Oh yes."

"How did you get
it?"

"I took it from
him."

"I'm surprised he let
you."

"What makes you think he
had a choice? Now, take it."

Hesitantly, Donald did as
he was told. "It's full?"

"Filled it
myself."

"Who knew Doctor Campbell
had a heart?"

"Oh, he had a good heart,
Donald. A warm heart."

With a quick look over his
shoulder at the watcher in the window, Donald slipped the flask
down the front of his pants and covered the bulge with his
shirt.

"I give it to you on the
understanding that you complete your end of the bargain, or I'll
come back for that flask, and anything else I deem worthy of
taking."

Donald nodded. "It'll be
done."

"I have no doubt. Once
you've taken care of this for me, there will be something else in
it for you too." Again his eyes moved over Donald's shoulder, his
smile widening as he looked directly at Tabitha.

Donald swallowed, but said
nothing. He couldn't tell if it was excitement or fear that made
his guts churn. His legs were shaking by the time Stephen's gaze
found him again.

The man's eyes were dark
as coals. "She'll beg for you," he said.

***

For supper, Mrs. Fletcher
made rabbit stew, which she served with freshly baked bread. The
jack o' lanterns watched with disapproving stares from the sink,
Neil's turnip looking particularly appalled. Still, it looked a lot
better now that Grady had surreptitiously pared off the rough
edges. Of course, if Neil found out, he'd be furious, but if they
were lucky he wouldn't.

"So, Mrs. Fletcher," Grady
said, tearing the crust off a slice of bread and dipping it into
his stew. "About that engagement of ours."

Mrs. Fletcher blushed and
rolled her eyes in exasperation. Kate found herself wondering, not
for the first time, if there was something more than just harmless
joking going on between the charwoman and the groundskeeper. They
had quite a bit in common, after all. They were about the same age.
Mrs. Fletcher had lost her husband to consumption; Grady's wife had
died in childbirth. They shared the scars of grief and had both
been in Mansfield House long enough to see it pollute the hearts of
others. And yet they shared a wicked wit and indomitable spirit,
despite the melancholy that sometimes showed in their eyes. Kate
liked to imagine them as husband and wife, in a different time
perhaps, or under different circumstances. She thought they'd have
made each other happy, just as they made each other happy now, even
if Mrs. Fletcher liked to pretend it was torment.

"You're incorrigible," she
said, closing her eyes and sighing.

"Well, when faced with
such staggerin' beauty as yours, I often forget myself."

"Oh now, really," the
charwoman protested with a smile. She waved her napkin at Grady as
if it were a talisman to ward off evil. "Behave yourself in front
of the children."

"It's quite all right,"
Kate said, drawing a glare from the old woman.

"I think they're in love,"
Neil murmured, his sly expression a far cry from the sullen one
he'd shown earlier. Kate was glad to see his sour puss had lost
some of its severity.

Mrs. Fletcher gasped.
"Neil! I think Mr. Grady and I could forever go without hearin'
another of your preposterous statements!" She began to fuss over
the food, busying herself with the doling out of second helpings,
even though no one wanted any. Grady, looking amused, touched her
hand. She pulled away as if burned.

"Ah sure," he said
wistfully, "the poor boy knows the value of speakin' the
truth."

"Oh go away," the
charwoman scoffed. "All this mockery will have me in the
madhouse."

"We'd visit you every
day," Kate said, "and I'm sure Grady would bring you flowers every
day to brighten up your cell."