Spinner regarded me a moment longer, from eyes whose depths I could not fathom. “All right, missie, I’ll be bringin’ you the bill of sale, then.”
Whistling, he turned on his heel and shambled across the yard. As he stepped he swung his left hand in a curious arc—and I watched as a pearl-handled cane appeared in his fist, a feathered hat formed itself on his head. By the time he reached the yard doors to Stirwaters, he was the very picture of a gentleman.
I sank to my knees in a sea of crumpled flannel and pressed my hands into the sharp shale of the yard, as if bites from the stones could remind me who I was.
Rosie joined me then, coming down the Millhouse steps to ease me to my feet. She stooped for the atlas page, still lying in the shale, and there was understanding in her eyes. “I can’t stand this,” she said. “I’ll go mad if I stay here one minute longer.”
“Where will you go?”
She shrugged. “Drover’s. Harte’s there—and most of the hands, too, I should think. Will you come with us?”
“How can I?”
She laid a hand on my arm, and one of us was trembling. “We couldn’t watch him before,” she reminded me. “What if it won’t work if you’re there?”
I agreed to go as far as the Millhouse stoop, where I sank hard against the stone steps. I sat there for what couldn’t have been more than a quarter hour, straining to hear anything beyond the low, ordinary creaks and rustles, the splash of water over the wheel. Pilot wandered over after a few minutes, settling herself at my feet with a bedraggled sigh. I trailed my fingers in her ruff, counted the bats wheeling overhead, counted the beats of my heart banging in my throat. Once she whimpered; I had twisted her fur so tightly it had hurt her.
At last Spinner emerged, calmly shaking the hands of everyone present. He stood like a bright, hazy spot in the circle of the other men, who drifted about like sheep who’ve lost their shepherd. I watched Mr. Harrier hand over my keys, but slowly, as if he were not quite certain what had just happened. A flash of lavender betrayed my uncle, slinking out the opposite doors. I expected to see him livid, red with fury as he’d been when I announced my engagement—but his expression was something entirely different, something altogether new. Uncle Wheeler’s face was absolutely as white as his hair, his green eyes wide with—shock? Recognition?
My uncle knew Jack Spinner. And he feared him.
I had no time to digest that—for in a moment Spinner was upon me, the ring of keys in his outstretched hand, a document in the other.
I reached out, thanks forming reluctantly on my lips, but he would not release them.
“You’ll pay?” he said, and the tone in his voice was odd, uncertain.
“I said I would.” I was still watching Uncle Wheeler, who seemed frozen in place scant yards from us.
“Whatever I ask?”
“I said I would. A Miller doesn’t go back on her bargains.”
I thought for a moment I saw him hesitate—but before I could be certain, Arthur Darling and his henchman bustled up to me, competing degrees of nastiness in their expressions.
“What is the meaning of this? What do you think you’re playing, missie?” Mr. Darling grunted, as if it required that much effort to force the words past his too-tight cravat.
“Why, Mr. Darling, I don’t know what you mean,” I said, and though I sounded very blithe, it was all a sham. My legs were ready to buckle, and I felt terribly like a dead horse that’s been left too long in the sun. “But I would venture to guess that you’ve been outbid.”
“You think you’re awfully clever, don’t you?” The wool buyer’s thin lip twisted. “But you haven’t heard the last from—”
“No,” I said, and he froze, his sharp jaw hanging open. “I think we have heard the last from Pinchfields, don’t you, Mr. Spinner? You see, gentlemen, it seems I no longer own this mill. And unless Mr. Spinner is entertaining offers—are you entertaining offers, Mr. Spinner?”
“No, no, I don’t believe I am,” he said. “In fact, I have some ideas of my own I’d like to see through.”
“What are you talking about?” said Mr. Darling, beginning to turn red. “I thought your name was Smart!”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t care what he calls himself, so long as it’s not Pinchfields. Now, do you plan to leave Stirwaters peacefully, or will Mr. Smart have to throw you out?”
The wool buyer leaned in toward me, jabbing his finger at my chest. “Now see here, you little—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, sir,” Spinner said, and it was the same old rusty-metal voice I knew so well. The men from Pinchfields drew back from Spinner, frowning. I took advantage of the moment.
“Accept it, gentlemen, you’ve lost.”
Darling flushed, a bloom of Saxon red all across his fat face. “I—I—” He turned on Spinner, who eyed him back levelly.
“Good night,” Spinner said, and it was as if he had let loose all the foul air from a tomb. Darling and the wool buyer sprang back, startled. Mopping his damp face with an oversized handkerchief, Darling hurried away across the shale, muttering what sounded like “Blasted Millers!”
Oh, why wasn’t Rosie here to witness this? I wanted to laugh, watching our rivals waddle ignominiously into the dusk, but a stab of pain deep in my belly made it come out as a gasp. I turned to Spinner, who was watching me with a strange intensity. He untwisted his fingers from the brass ring, and I snatched the keys and the bill of sale from his grasp. I stared at his signature on the title, scribed in a lovely, swooping hand I could not make out. As I watched, the letters straightened, compressed…Like the lines in my father’s atlas, changing by themselves, the signature now read Charlotte Miller Woodstone.
“What—what did you do for the other Millers here?”
He cocked his head and smiled vaguely, the grand hat tipped precariously on his unruly red hair. “Who said I did anything for them?”
“But you—you said they knew your work.” I gripped the keys so hard I thought my fingers should snap, as another twinge struck me. “You said—”
“Aye,” he said, and his gravelly voice was tinged with satisfaction. “So I did. Well, Mistress, as I was sayin’—ye’ve got your keys now, the mill is yourn for good and all. I have your word, then?”
“Of course—” I said, still trembling. “But—”
“I best go,” Spinner said. Something about him was shifting, blurring—I thought to see him returning to the form I knew—the tradesman’s dress, the shabby clothes. But instead his fine hat, his topcoat, the cane all became more distinct. The ruddy side-whiskers receded; the unruly hair grew long and neat. “I’ll come for my payment, Mistress Miller. I know you’re good for it. But right now—right now I’ve another debt to collect on!”
He turned from me, and something about him was still hazy. Feeling light-headed, I reached for Stirwaters’s doorframe, but felt myself sinking, terribly slowly, toward the ground.
The great ring of keys slipped from my fingers.
Chapter Twenty-Three
William Miller Woodstone arrived in this world on a hot afternoon in August, with considerable screaming and indignation, and then, as if satisfied that he had made his point, settled into life as a very amiable baby. Right from the first he was plump and jolly, with a soft pale fluff of hair and eyes of indeterminate color, like his father’s. Do other mothers behold their newborn sons as I did? Do they all find themselves stopped, breathless, in what they were doing to merely stare, in wonder, at the tiny life before them? Do they hold fast to their hungry babes and think fierce thoughts about their futures? Do they draw out a wide circle and say, “Nothing will intrude upon this sacred space?” I do not know; I think they must—but I must also admit I felt as though I had brought forth the only child in the universe, that I had performed the greatest miracle in the history of creation, and that nothing since time began was blessed with quite the brilliance and perfection of my son William.
I gave birth in the Millhouse—in my own ol
d bedroom—the shock and disorientation I had felt upon Jack Spinner’s departure being nothing more than the first stages of my labor. Perhaps it was required—perhaps Miller children were destined to be born at Stirwaters. Randall was sent for straightaway; but in the meantime, William and I had Rosie. Never in the history of children has a boy had such a proprietary auntie. During the first weary hours of my motherhood, Rosie held him, changed him, cooed to him, laid him in my arms, and gingerly lifted him out again. She sat by his basket as I slept, and admitted no one into my bedchamber but herself, Rachel, and Biddy Tom.
Eventually, we all insisted that she sleep, and she went reluctantly. I carefully shifted my position in the bed, and Mrs. Tom swept in to brusquely tuck and adjust my bedclothes.
“I’m so tired,” I said, straining to see past her to where William lay, more than an arm’s reach away.
“It will pass,” she said. “If you have the good sense to stay abed and listen to those as know better. I’ve birthed more babies than you can count, Mrs. Woodstone, and they all do better if their mams take care of themselves first.”
“Can’t you move him closer? I want to see him.”
“I cannot. He is close enough, and you will see enough of him once you’re up and about.” She gave a little chuckle, but I didn’t find anything amusing.
“But I need—” My voice was raw.
Mrs. Tom looked at me sharply, and I felt the power of that penetrating gaze. “Now don’t you worrit,” she said sternly. “Your mam were plumb wore out from a forty-hour labor, and that little boy was born small and sickly. Yours is not. He’s a big strapping lad like his da’, and you will only make yourself sick frettin’ for him!” She did, however, slightly turn the basket so I could peek inside it without stretching too far.
I fell back into an uneasy sleep, plagued by dreams I could not remember when I woke. Mrs. Tom appeared one last time, with a cup of foul-smelling tea she pressed on me, and after that I slept soundly. I awoke at last to morning sunlight pouring through the windows. Feeling the satisfied weariness of staying abed longer than I was accustomed to, I gingerly stretched my sore body and took a deep breath—and nearly choked on it.
I smelled lilacs.
My eyes flew open, and I struggled to sitting, darting my gaze round the room. There was no one there, of course, but the sickly sweet fragrance of lilacs gone past their prime was heavy in the air. Confused, I swung my bare feet to the floor and, a little wobbly, managed to stand. I was reaching for William’s basket, sure something was wrong, when Rachel burst into the room.
“What’s this, then? Charlotte Miller, get yourself back in that bed this instant.” She swept William up in a froth of lacy blankets, as if I meant to do him some harm. He regarded me solemnly out of round eyes, his plump face drooped into a frown.
“Please—” I held out a beseeching hand. “Let me have him.”
“Back to bed,” Rachel repeated. She had me firmly by one shoulder, and I had not the strength to push past her. “Calm down, love. Your baby’s right here, and he is just fine. Now if you’ll sit down, I’ll let you hold him.”
I frowned. “Was—was my uncle here?”
Rachel watched me carefully. “Your uncle? No. No one’s seen him since the auction.”
“But I thought—” What had I thought? I couldn’t seem to remember, now.
With some effort, Rachel got me settled once more. She put William in my arms, and I held him with a grip like iron, until she had to untwine my fingers from his tiny body. “I have to go,” I whispered. Something was wrong here, but I could not wrench my thoughts from their muddled fog to tell me what it was. Everything had run together into one great confusion. “This place, it—” I faltered, uncertain. William nuzzled his face against me, and for a moment I forgot everything. When I looked up and met Rachel’s wide, concerned eyes, my mind was clear again.
“Rachel, can you wake Rosie and send for someone with a carriage? I want to take William home as soon as possible.”
“But, Charlotte—” she clearly had half a dozen protests to this demand, but the only one that made it out was “This is your home.”
“Rosie can come with me,” I continued. “And if there’s trouble, Biddy Tom is right next door.” I simply could not keep William in Stirwaters Millhouse any longer. Whatever danger sought my son…it was close to the mill.
I was happier once I had William at the Grange. I had Rosie and Colly to help, and a huge frothy nursery prepared for him, all yellow and green and full of sunlight. The windows looked onto the lush, sheep-dotted hillsides—not down on the village and the mill. There was a bed in the nursery, meant for the nurse; I installed myself there, awaiting Randall’s return.
For the first time ever, the Grange felt like home.
Randall descended on the village like a triumphant general, beaming wider than ever and practically bursting with pride. I was quite recovered by the time he arrived, so when he swept me up in his arms and squeezed all the breath out of me, I only laughed and kissed him back. At William’s cradle, he hesitated, reaching out a tentative hand but not touching him.
“A son!” he whispered. “Can you credit it? My son—our son!”
I looked from my dozing child to my husband, a cold spot growing in my belly. I wanted to shush him, wave him to silence, hold myself tight and pretend I had not heard all the joy and wonder and hope in his voice. “Yes, well, you can hold him, you know,” I said, forcing the briskness into my voice. I scooped William from the crib and held him out to his father.
“I—no, no—” Randall stuttered, recoiling. I burst out laughing, William gurgled sleepily, and the chill passed. Randall’s face lit up like a sunrise, and he eagerly took hold of his son, cooing over him in an absolutely besotted fashion that would have had the bank fellows in tears behind their laughter.
“We’ll have to get a nurse,” Randall said some hours later, when we had managed to convince ourselves to leave the boy alone for exactly long enough to eat dinner.
I hesitated. Rosie and I had grown up in the mill; Mam would have died from shame having a stranger raise her babies! I remembered rocking Rosie in the office as my mother pored over the books; the spools and shuttles were our playthings and our teething-toys. I had always assumed that I would tote my child to the mill and back, but now the thought of it filled me with a strange, cold fear. Yet the idea of a nurse, of leaving William alone where I could not see him every minute…We may have defeated Pinchfields and thwarted my uncle’s plans, but I still could not feel completely safe.
“Can’t we wait a bit? He’s only tiny. I don’t think I could leave him with anybody else.”
Randall polished off a dish of custard and reached for my hand. “I know what you mean,” he said. “I couldn’t bear it when I heard I’d missed it all!”
I smiled, but it waned too quickly. “That’s not all you missed,” I said under my breath, but he heard me.
“What?” He looked up sharply. “Did something happen while I was gone?”
It took all the strength I could summon to maintain my placid expression. “No, of course not. Just—I quarrelled with Uncle Wheeler. That’s all.”
Randall eyed me carefully, until I squirmed under his gaze and looked away. What could I tell him? That I had narrowly missed condemning him to debtors’ prison? That I had harbored a forger and an imposter in my home all these months, and that my poor judgement had nearly cost not only my mill, but my husband, as well? He didn’t deserve that. He did not, in fact, deserve to be tangled up in any of the misfortunes that clung to me and the Millers. I had done a very unfair thing, marrying Randall Woodstone, and I would keep him from as much as I could, for as long as I could. But I felt I owed him…something.
“He had these letters!” It just tumbled out, as if it were the last item stuffed into an overpacked trunk. “These letters—with my name on them. Asking for money. He made them look as if I’d written them.”
“Wheeler? That blasted rogue
! I knew he was a rake—but I never expected him to go that far.” Randall sighed. “I offered him some money. A few months ago. To let us have Rosie, to leave Shearing, to forget he ever met you girls…He just laughed in my face. Said he was satisfied with the ‘current arrangements,’ and until I could offer him something better, he was staying.”
“You what? Oh, Randall.” Like a light breaking into a dark room, I felt something give way inside me. I remembered what I had felt when Randall asked me to marry him—as if he could protect me from anything. He would know what to do—about Uncle Wheeler, about Spinner, about the curse—about everything. If I just opened my mouth and let the words out, we would be safe again.
But as I looked at him, the set of his jaw, the tight hold he still had on my hand—I knew it was all an illusion. Less tangible even than the vision of him drowning in the flooded mill pit. There wasn’t anything he could do. There wasn’t anything anybody could do.
So I just sat, staring at my hands folded in my lap, my fingers turning pink from the tightness of my grip.
“Charlotte.” Randall’s hand was on my shoulder.
I shook my head miserably. There was so much more I wanted to say, so much I needed him to know, to understand, but I didn’t dare.
William’s cry, startling me to standing, was a welcome relief.
“I’ll come with you,” Randall said.
“No,” I said. “I’ve got him. Truly.”
He caught my hand and watched me with some deep concern. I wanted to meet his eyes, answer all the questions I found there—but I couldn’t. I couldn’t take the risk. I turned my face toward the stairs and pulled—just slightly—on his hand. A moment more, and he let me go.
I slept poorly that night, separated from Randall in the nursery. Very late my restlessness turned to wakefulness, and I pulled myself up in bed, listening for William, but he slept silently in his cradle. Sounds from the study below, where Randall kept his office, shook me fully awake, and I scrambled out of bed and into my dressing gown. I crept down the stairs to the subtle, frantic sounds of drawers being pulled open, little locks broken, papers rifled.