up.
And received a jolt.
On the ceiling directly above the table was a wasp's nest the size of Mr. Green's fist. The thing was black with wasps, all crowded together, their wings folded back along their stingers. As Matthew watched, unbelieving, he saw a minor disturbance ripple across the insects and several of them commenced that angry humming noise.
'Uh... Mrs. Vaughan, ' he said thickly. 'You have...' He pointed upward.
'Yes, wasps. What of it?' Her manners—along with her composure, her family, and the evening—had greatly deteriorated.
Matthew realized why the nest must be there. He'd heard of such a thing, but he'd never before seen it. As he understood, a potion could be bought or made that, once applied to an indoor ceiling, enraptured wasps to build their nests on the spot.
'Insect control, I assume?' he asked.
'Of course, ' Lucretia said, as if any fool on earth knew that. 'Wasps are jealous creatures. We suffer no mosquitoes in this house.'
'None that will bite her, anyway, ' Stewart added, and then he continued suckling from the bottle.
This evening, Matthew thought, might have been termed a farce had there not been such obvious suffering from all persons involved. The mother ate her dinner as if in a stunned trance, while the daughter now set about consuming her food more with fingers than proper utensils, succeeding in smearing her mouth and chin with gleaming hogsfat. Matthew finished his wine and a last bite of the excellent stew, and then he thought he should make his exit before the girl decided he might look more appealing crowned with a serving-bowl.
'I... uh... presume I'd best go, ' he said. Lucretia spoke not a word, as if her inner fire had been swamped by her daughter's wanton behavior. Matthew pushed his chair back and stood up. 'I wish to thank you for the dinner and the wine. Uh... no need to walk me back to the mansion, Mr. Vaughan.'
'I wasn't plannin' on it, ' the man said, clutching the rum bottle to his chest.
'Mrs. Vaughan? May I... uh... take some of that delicious bread with me?'
'All you wish, ' she murmured, staring into space. 'The rest of it, if you like.'
Matthew accepted what was perhaps half a loaf. 'My appreciation.'
Lucretia looked up at him. Her vision cleared, as she seemed to realize that he actually was leaving. A weak smile flickered across her mouth. 'Oh... Mr. Corbett... where are my manners? I thought... hoped... that after dinner... we might all play atlanctie loo.'
'I fear I am without talent at card games.'
'But... there are so many things I wished to converse with you about. The magistrate's condition being one. The state of affairs in Charles Town. The gardens... and the balls.'
'I'm sorry, ' Matthew said. 'I don't have much experience with either gardens or balls. As to the state of affairs in Charles Town, I would call them... somewhat less interesting than those in Fount Royal. The magistrate is still very ill, but Dr. Shields is administering a new medicine he's concocted.'
'You know, of course, ' she said grimly, 'that the witch has cursed your magistrate. For the guilty decree. I doubt he shall survive with such a curse laid on him.'
Matthew felt his face tighten. 'I believe differently, madam.'
'Oh... I... I am being so insensitive. I am only repeating what I overhead Preacher Jerusalem saying this afternoon. Please forgive me, it's just that—'
'That she has a knife for a tongue, ' Cherise interrupted, still eating with graceless fingers. 'She only apologizes when it cuts herself.'
Lucretia leaned her head toward her daughter, much in the manner of a snake preparing to strike. 'You may leave the table and our presence, ' she said coldly. 'Inasmuch as you have disgraced yourself and all of us, I do hope you are happy.'
'I am happy. I am also still hungry.' She refused to budge from her place. 'You know that you were brought here to save me, do you not?' A quick glance was darted at Matthew, as she licked her greasy fingers. 'To rescue me from Fount Royal and the witless rustics my mother despises? Oh, if you are so sophisticated you must have known that already!'
'Stop her, Stewart!' Lucretia implored, her voice rising. 'Make her hush!'
The man, however, tilted the bottle to his mouth and then began peeling off his suit jacket.
'Yes, it's true, ' Cherise said. 'My mother sells them breads and pies and wishes them to choke on the crumbs. You should hear her talk about them behind their backs!'
Matthew stared down into the girl's face. Her mother's daughter, Stewart had said. Matthew might have recognized the streak of viciousness. The pity, he mused, was that Cherise Vaughan seemed to be highly intelligent. She had recognized, for instance, that speaking of Rachel Howarth had caused him great discomfort of a personal nature.
'I will show myself out, ' Matthew said to Mrs. Vaughan. 'Again, thank you for the dinner.' He started toward the door, carrying the half-loaf of fennel-seed bread with him.
'Mr. Corbett? Wait, please!' Lucretia stood up, a large cream stain on the front of her gown. Again she appeared dazed, as if these verbal encounters with her daughter sapped the very life from her. 'Please... I have a question for you.'
'Yes?'
'The witch's hair, ' she said. 'What is to become of it?'
'Her... hair? I'm sorry, I don't understand your meaning.'
'The witch has such... shall I say... attractive hair. One might say beautiful, even. It is a sadness that such thick and lovely hair should be burnt up.' Matthew could not have replied even if he'd wished to, so stunned was he by this direction of thinking.
But the woman continued on. 'If the witch's hair should be washed... and then shorn off, on the morning of her execution... there are many, I would venture—who might pay for a lock of it. Think of it: the witch's hair advertised and sold as a charm of good fortune.' Her countenance seemed to brighten at the very idea of it. 'It might be heralded as firm evidence of God's destruction of Evil. You see my meaning now?'
Still Matthew's tongue was frozen solid.
'Yes, and I would grant you a portion of the earnings as well, ' she said, mistaking his amazed expression as approval. 'But I think it best if you washed and cut the hair yourself, on some pretext or another, as we wouldn't wish too many fingers in our pie.'
He just stood there, feeling sick. 'Well?' she urged. 'Can we consider ourselves in company?'
Somehow, he turned from her and got out the door. As he walked away along Harmony Street, a cold sheen of moisture on his face, he heard the woman calling him from her doorway: 'Mr. Corbett? Mr. Corbett?'
And louder and more shrill: 'Mr. Corbett?'
thirty-one
PAST THE HOUSE of deceased Nicholas Paine he went, past Van Gundy's tavern where the revelers made merry, past Dr. Shields's infirmary and the squalid house of Edward Winston. Matthew walked on, his head bowed and the half-loaf of fennel-seed bread in his hand, the night sky above him a field of stars and, in his mind, darkness heavy and unyielding.
He turned left onto Truth Street. Further along, the blackened ruins of Johnstone's schoolhouse secured his attention. It was a testament to the power of the infernal fire as well as a testament to the power of infernal men. He recalled how Johnstone had raged in helpless anguish that night, as the flames had burned unchecked. The schoolmaster might be bizarre—with his white face powder and his deformed knee—but it was a surety that the man had felt his teaching was a vital calling, and that the loss of the schoolhouse was a terrible tragedy. Matthew might have had his suspicions about Johnstone, but the fact that the man believed Rachel not to be a witch—and, indeed, that the entire assertion of witchcraft was built on shaky ground—gave Matthew hope for the future of education.
He went on, nearer to where he had known he was going. And there the gaolhouse stood. He didn't hesitate,
