witch.
Little did they know, Matthew thought. Little did anyone know, except Linch. Especially little did Bidwell know, for as Rachel died writhing in the flames the plan would be set in motion to cut his throat in the same manner as the other victims.
And what could be done about it?
Matthew needed evidence. One sapphire brooch would not do; besides, Matthew was certain Linch would now hide it in a place even a rat couldn't discover. To expose the coins that Goode had found would be beneficial, but would also be a betrayal of Goode's trust. Obviously Linch was the thief who had entered Bidwell's house that night and taken the gold coin from Matthew's room, probably in an effort to ascertain if it was part of the treasure and where it might have come from. That was another question, however: how had an Indian gotten hold of a Spanish coin?
Matthew was feeling more like himself now. He wouldn't return to Linch's house alone for a barrel full of gold coins. But if he could find some piece of evidence that might implicate Linch... some hard proof to show Bidwell...
'There you are! I was just on my way to see you!' That voice, high-pitched and waspish, struck him with fresh dread.
He turned to face Lucretia Vaughan. She was smiling brightly, her hair contained under a stiff white bonnet, and she wore a lilac-colored dress. In her arms was a small basket. 'I hoped to find you in good spirits this day!'
'Uh... yes. Good spirits.' He was already edging away from her.
'Mr. Corbett, please allow me to present you with a gift! I know... well, I know our dinner last night was difficult for you, and I wished to—'
'It's all right, ' Matthew said. 'No gift is necessary.'
'Oh, but it is! I realized how much you enjoyed your food— in spite of my daughter's display of willful misbehavior—therefore I wished to bake you a pie. I trust you like sweet yams?' She lifted the golden-crusted pie from the basket to show him. It was held in a pie dish of white clay decorated with small red hearts.
'It... truly looks wonderful, ' Matthew told her. 'But I can't accept it.'
'Nonsense! Of course you can! And you may return the dish the next time you come to dinner. Say... Tuesday evening at six o'clock?'
He looked into her eyes and saw there a rather sad combination of voracity and fear. As gently as possible, he said, 'Mrs. Vaughan, I can't accept the pie. And I can't accept your invitation to dinner, either.'
She just stared at him, her mouth partway open and the pie dish still offered. 'It is not in my power to help your daughter, ' Matthew continued. 'She seems to have her own mind about things, just as you do, and there lies the collision. I regret you have a problem in your household, but I can't solve it for you.'
The woman's mouth had opened a little wider.
'Again, thank you for the dinner. I truly did enjoy it, and the company. Now, if you'll excuse—'
'You... ungrateful... young... bastard!' she suddenly hissed, her cheeks flaming red and her eyes half-crazed with anger. ''Do you realize what effort was expended to please you?'
'Uh... well... I'm sorry, but—'
'You're sorry, ' she mimicked bitterly. 'Sorry! Do you know how much money and time I spent on Cherise's gown? Do you know how I worked over that hearth and cleaned that house for your pleasure? Are you sorry about that, too?'
Matthew noticed that several citizens who'd come to the spring for water were watching. If Lucretia noticed, it made no difference to her because she kept firing cannonades at him. 'Oh, but you came in our house and ate your fill, didn't you? You sat there like a lord at feast! You even took bread away with you! And now you're sorry!' Tears of rage—misguided rage, Matthew thought—wet her eyes. 'I thought you were a gentleman! Well, you're a right sorry gentleman, aren't you?'
'Mrs. Vaughan, ' Matthew said firmly, 'I cannot save your daughter from what you perceive as—'
'Who asked you to save anybody, you self-righteous prig? How dare you speak to me as if I'm a milkmaid! I am a person of esteem in this town! Do you hear me? Esteem!'
She was shouting in his face. Matthew said quietly, 'Yes, I hear you.'
'If I were a man you wouldn't speak to me with such disrespect! Well, damn you! Damn you and Charles Town and damn all you who think you're better than other people!'
'Pardon me, ' he said, and began walking toward the mansion.
'Yes, go on and run!' she hollered. 'Run back to Charles Town, where your kind belongs! You city dog!' Something in her voice broke, but she forced it back. 'Playing in your ludicrous gardens and dancing at your sinful balls! Go on and run!'
Matthew didn't run, but his walking pace was brisk enough. He saw that the window of Bidwell's upstairs study had opened and there was the master himself, looking out upon this unfortunate scene. Bidwell was grinning, and when he realized Matthew had seen him he put his hand to his mouth to hide it.
'Wait, wait!' the brazen woman shouted. 'Here, take your pie!'
Matthew looked back in time to see Lucretia Vaughan hurl the pie—dish and all—into the spring. Then she fired a glare at him that might have scorched iron, turned on her heel, and stalked away, her chin lifted high as if she had put the Charles Town draggletail in his fly-blown place.
Matthew entered the mansion and went directly up the stairs to the magistrate's room. Woodward's shutters were closed, but Matthew thought the woman's enraged vocals must have frightened birds back in the swamp. The magistrate, however, still slept on, though he did shift his position to the side as Matthew stood next to his bed.
'Sir?' Matthew said, touching his shoulder. 'Sir?'
Woodward's sleep-swollen eyes opened to slits. He struggled to focus. 'Matthew?' he whispered.
'Yes, sir.'
'Oh... I thought it was you. I had a dream. A crow... shrieking. Gone now.'
'Can I get you anything?'
'No. Just... tired... very tired. Dr. Shields was here.'
'He was? This morning?'
'Yes. Told me... it was Friday. My days and nights... they run together.'
'I can imagine so. You've been very ill.'
Woodward swallowed thickly. 'That potion... Dr. Shields gives me. It has... a very disagreeable taste. I told him I should... wish some sugar in it on the next drinking.'
Here was a reason for hope, Matthew thought. The magistrate was lucid and his senses were returning. 'I think the potion is doing you some good, sir.'
'My throat still pains me.' He put a hand to it. 'But I do feel ... somewhat lighter. Tell me... did I dream this, or... did Dr. Shields apply a funnel to my bottom?'
'You had a colonic, ' Matthew said. He would long remember the aftermath of that particularly repugnant but necessary procedure. So too would the servant who had to wash out the two chamberpots filled with black, tar-like refusal.
'Ah. Yes... that would explain it. My apologies... to all involved.'
'No apologies are necessary, sir. You've comported yourself with extreme grace for the... uh... unpleasantness of your situation.' Matthew went to the dresser and got the bowl of fresh water that had been placed there and one of several clean cotton cloths.
'Always... the diplomat, ' Woodward whispered. 'This potion... does tire me. Matthew... what was done... to my back?'
'The doctor used blister cups.' Matthew dipped the cloth into the water bowl.
'Blister cups, ' Woodward repeated. 'Oh. Yes... I do remember now. Quite painful.' He managed a grim smile. 'I must have been... knocking at death's door.'
'Not nearly so close as that.' Matthew wrang out the wet cloth and then began to gently apply the cool cotton to Woodward's still-pallid face. 'Let us just say you were on a precarious street. But you're better now, and you're going to continue improving. Of that I'm positive.'
'I trust... you are right.'
