Page 22 of A Lullaby for Witches

The knock at the door the following week was sharp and angry. Mother and I had been mending in the parlor, though my mind was far away, spinning through my memories of Jack and the night we’d spent together. Mother shot me a questioning look, but I just shook my head. I was as surprised as she was to be getting a call so early in the morning, and on a Saturday, no less. Could it really be that Jack had already spoken to his parents again and was now here to ask for my father’s blessing? Or perhaps he had decided to forfeit his inheritance altogether and had come to abscond with me.

My heart raced as I stood behind my mother as she opened the door. It was not Jack, but three men in work coats and rough trousers, their skin raw and chapped from the sea. After my initial disappointment wore off, it took me a moment to recognize one of the men as Jenny Hough’s husband, Bernard. My stomach tightened; I knew why they were at our door. I only wondered that it had taken them so long.

I had always been able to keep my worlds separate, the wild witch that worked magic in the nights, and the dutiful daughter of my parents in the daytime. So I could only watch, frozen, as those two worlds met in a spectacular collision.

“Gentlemen, can I help you?” Mother looked perplexed, but she was as polite as always.

“That’s her!” shouted Bernard, pointing at me over my mother’s shoulder. “That’s the unnatural woman what told my wife she could bring back our little Suzy. Said that we had to kill another child and bring her the body if we ever wanted to see our girl again.”

The other men howled their agreement. Perhaps the only thing more unnerving than a group of wild boys in the woods was a group of angry men on your doorstep.

“I said no such thing!” I exclaimed.

By this time my father had overheard the commotion and come to the door. “What is this?” he demanded.

“They say that Margaret...” My mother trailed off, looking at me as if I were a stranger in her house. “They say that she told them to kill a child.”

My father shot me an alarmed look, color blooming behind his mustache. But I just held my chin up, unfazed. Let them hurl their insults and accusations, they could prove nothing.

“Bring her out! She must be made to answer for this. My wife hasn’t stopped crying in weeks.”

“She gave my wife a draught to keep from conceiving,” another man shouted.

There was jostling, and I realized that the men meant to gain entrance, to do what I wasn’t sure, but no doubt nothing good.

“Stand back!” I’d never heard my father raise his voice in such a manner. There was a vein throbbing in his neck and he was bright red. He’d stepped in front of my mother, his arms braced on either side of the doorframe. “If you have a grievance against my daughter, then do the civilized thing and hire a lawyer. I won’t have angry hordes beating down my door with baseless accusations.”

Their hateful looks could have eviscerated me, but the men must have known that they had no other recourse, so they left, cursing over their shoulders and spitting on our front walk.

When they had gone, Father shut the door, and I was left with my parents in the silent hall.

“What,” my father said, mopping his red brow, “was that all about?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I said innocently. “They must have mistaken me for someone else.” But I could tell from my parents’ expressions that I would have to do better than that.

“I do not know from what kind of encounter their bizarre accusations sprung, and I’m certain I don’t want to know. Your mother and I have been patient with you, looking the other way at some of your more...aberrant behavior. But I will not have people knocking down my door with craven accusations about my daughter. I have a business to run, a reputation as a good, honest family man to uphold.”

Mother’s gaze had not left me the entire time my father had spoken. “What did they mean,” she asked quietly, “when they said that you told them to kill a child to save their own?”

I might have told her the truth, but she wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I decided to meet her in the middle with a version of the truth instead. “His wife came to me asking for a cure for her sick child. There was nothing I could do, and in her grief she must have imagined such a scenario.”

It was the first time I had admitted anything to do with my practice, and I was more fascinated by what my parents’ reaction would be than anything else.

“There’s to be no more of this...of this herbal or medicinal practice,” Father said, pacing about the hall. “We have looked the other way while you pursued this hobby, but you want for nothing in this house, and I won’t have my daughter engaging in a debasing trade. Perhaps it is time we began to think of marriage, or sending you somewhere for some polish.”

For the first time since the knock at the door, a real sense of panic began to set in. Was he in earnest? I was nineteen years old and I could not go to some faraway boarding school—I was pregnant. And I could not—Iwouldnot—marry any man but Jack.

Though it prickled my pride, I bowed my head in what I hoped was sufficient obedience. “I will leave off in my herbal work and give you no cause for reproach,” I murmured. “You have my word. It was only a fancy to pass time—I never thought it would cause any trouble.”

The look my father gave me was unreadable, but eventually he nodded. “Very well. Perhaps you should go upstairs and spend some time thinking on how you might improve yourself and be an asset to this household. Your mother and I will discuss this further.”

As I climbed the stairs, I could hear my mother’s distressed whispers, and then my father angrily stalking back to his study. I did not believe that I had truly fooled my parents, and it was only a matter of time before the truth leaked out around the seams of my lies and omissions. I had seen the anger in those men’s eyes; there was a reckoning coming.

12

Augusta

Augusta was on her hands and knees in one of the second-floor bedrooms, examining a bedpost, when the murmur of women’s voices floated up from downstairs. Condition reports were one of Augusta’s favorite parts of her job, and once a week she would slowly walk through the house, dusting the furniture and art, taking note of any damage that might have occurred during the previous week. The guests that came through the house were usually respectful and careful, but accidents still happened and occasionally someone would bump into a chair and scrape the floor or knock a painting with their shoulder in passing.

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