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  Part of me died in my fourteenth year, as my cloak of invisibility was wrenched asunder. I stood exposed and vulnerable, unable to stop an evil which I should have seen coming. I thought I was still a girl and had not noticed how much my body had changed, not considered the alteration as I transitioned from child to wench. I had not noticed, but he had.

  His eyes were always upon me. At first, I thought it was to rebuke me for a task poorly done. But I was diligent and worked hard so I could not account for his constant presence. My duties remained betwixt farmhouse and the dairy parlour and wherever I was, so was he.

  One market day, the mistress was not at home. She had gone to Eye to purchase household wares and had taken Samuel to carry for her, leaving her two younger children in my charge. They cavorted between home and yard while I carried out my daily tasks. By mid-morning, I had completed most of my work in the Dairy and was cleaning in the kitchen, when I fancied that I was no longer alone. Fear crawled up my spine like an army of ants as the suspicion became a certainty. I carried on blacking the cooking pot, determined not to turn around, knowing it was him but wishing him away. I thought he would leave as he always had if I did not acknowledge his unwanted presence.

  A shout came from the yard. One of the children was quarrelling with the other. I thought he was gone and believed myself alone again, but I was wrong. As I cleaned the last of the pots and made to put it away, an arm snaked around my waist, and I stepped backwards in fear. A second arm pinned me against the chimney, forcing my arm behind my back.

  I cried out and turned my head towards the door. He pushed my neck, scraping my cheek against the rough-hewn stone and my neck stung as he bit into it. Hauling my skirts to my waist, he defiled me, never speaking a word, but grunting like a boar in rut. It was brutal but swift, and when he was spent, he pushed me to the floor and walked into the yard as if it was a typical day.

  The pain and humiliation were so intense that I could not tell one wound from another. My neck and shoulders were a mess of torn flesh and blood from the bite marks. My shoulder ached, where he held it against my back while he assaulted me. I smelt of him, an odour of dirt and desperation. His rancorous, feral scent bore deep into my skin, but I did not weep. Not one pitiful tear loosed from my eyes. I would not give him the satisfaction, for only then would he win.

  I picked myself off the floor and limped into the barn where I washed him off me with a wet rag moistened from the trough. I scrubbed at my skin until it was red sore, but his smell never left me - not that day or any day. I swore that if he ever did it again, I would kill him.

  I told no one of my ordeal. What would have been the purpose? I could not quit the farmhouse for we would have starved. I could not tell the mistress for she would not have believed me. Nobody else at the farm would have cared, except for Thomas and I could not say it to him for he would care too much. Who knew what Page could do to Thomas if he could do that to me?

  So, I continued in my slavery to the Page’s, hatred festering in my chest. I crept warily around the farmhouse for the next weeks, hoping my mantle of invisibility would return. I was lulled into cautious security when he did not repeat his actions. He still watched me but did not touch, nor could he meet my eyes with his after that day. As time passed, I grew bolder and stared him full in the face whenever the opportunity arose. I would not be cowed or subjugated by this man because he was strong, and I was only fifteen and too weak to fight back. Too weak physically, but he would never break my spirit.

  Four months passed without incident, then one frosty morning while I was churning in the dairy, it happened again. A dirty hand clapped over my mouth while the other mauled my breast. He had come to take me once more and did not have the good judgement to wait until the mistress was gone, for she was in the farmhouse as always. His depravity and want had overcome all semblance of caution, and he threw me on the hay bed and mounted me like a dog. I fought him with every part of my strength, scratching, clawing, biting like a feral cat. He pulled my arm back until I feared it might snap, and I reached behind with my free arm and gouged his manhood with my nails.

  He screamed as if the devil had skewered him with a pitchfork and released my arm. I grabbed my churning stick and hit him across the side of his head. His temple cracked, and blood spurted from the wound seeping down his jerkin. He dropped on the floor to his knees, clutching his wound, momentarily stunned. The barn door flew open, and Samuel entered, followed by his mother.

  William Page knelt there, stripped of dignity as he had stripped me of mine. Wounded and immobilized, his breeches about his knees, wife and child looking on, his humiliation was complete.

  Martha Page stood stock still, jaw agape. It took her several moments to comprehend the meaning of the sight before her. And when the light of understanding spread across her face, her brows furrowed in anger. She grabbed the sweeping broom from the wall and thundered towards me, face contorted. I scrambled to my feet, still weak from the assault and shrank against the wall. She swiped the broom towards me, hitting until the blows rained down on my shoulders. I crumpled against the stone wall, my will to retaliate almost gone when a voice cried ‘No’ from the open barn door.

  It was Thomas.

  He lunged at the mistress and yanked the broom from her hand then broke it in two parts across his knee. “Leave her alone,” he cried.

  Martha Page recoiled in surprise. “Get him, Samuel,” she barked.

  Samuel moved towards Thomas, but Thomas was quicker. He brandished the broken broom pole in his hand and held it towards Samuel. Backing towards me, he grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. I stood, trembling then Thomas and I stepped backwards, towards the barn door. Samuel glared and inched closer.

  “Run,” Thomas commanded, and reaching deep beyond the pain, I picked up my skirts and ran beside him until the farmhouse was small in the distance.

  We collapsed in a wooded area on the outskirts of the village. Thomas held my hand as I caught my breath. “You cannot return,” he said, “neither of us can.”

  I asked him what he would do, and he told me that he had an uncle in Diss in the county of Norfolk. He would go and live with him for a while. He asked me if I would join him, but I could not forsake those members of my family so dependent upon me, and I said that I could not. We left the woods and parted, and I never saw him again. He was one of the few people ever to show me kindness. I hope he had a good life.

  I waited until nightfall to return home for I had cuts and bruises all over and would not be able to hide them as I had before. Blood covered my skirts. I could not imagine how I would be able to keep this thing from my mother, but I was determined to try. My efforts were in vain. It did not remain secret for one moment, for my mother was waiting up for me. She must have sensed a problem for she usually retired to bed far earlier.

  I unlatched the door, trying to prevent its usual squeak. Mother was sitting on a wooden chair, staring fixedly ahead, her face illuminated by the faint light coming from the stub of a candle. She rose to greet me, touched my face, and held me close. She stroked my hair over and over, asking no questions, making no judgement of me. It was as if she knew. Finally, she asked me if it was William Page, and I told her it was. She stripped my clothes from me and tended to my wounds as best she could. When she had finished, she sat beside me, jaw set and shaking with rage.

  I was angry too, but not in the same way. Hatred had simmered inside for many months. Now, it poured through my veins, swept through my heart, and clung to me like a fog, filling my nostrils with the stench of its all-consuming power. That night, as I lay awake with my mother’s hurt washing over me in waves, I allowed the hatred to make a permanent home, welcoming the evil that grew within.

  Chapter 11

  The Basement

  Lawrence rose early, washed, shaved, and dressed then made his way to the dining room, where he found Michael sitting alone with a copy of the Times spread across the table in front of him.

  "Good morning," said
Michael, looking up from the paper. "Here's a rum thing."

  "What is?" asked Lawrence.

  "A bear turning up in a chapel," said Michael, pointing to an article. "It escaped from a travelling show and wandered into a chapel in Mortlake. That must have been a sight."

  Lawrence laughed. "An unusual member of the congregation," he said, "talking of which, have you written something worthy of your Sunday congregation?"

  Michael grinned. "It's nearly finished," he said.

  "Excellent," said Lawrence, "in that case, would you consider helping me?"

  "Happy to," said Michael. "How can I be of service?"

  "It is a somewhat delicate matter," said Lawrence. "which would be uncomfortable to explain, if you were not an old friend and a man of the cloth."

  "It sounds intriguing," said Michael, folding the paper. "What does it entail?"

  "It concerns Loveday," said Lawrence, "she’s rather forward, don’t you think?"

  A slow smile spread across Michael's face. "I understand," he said, "she’s an unusual girl."

  "I am not sure I would choose that particular adjective," said Lawrence. "I’ve been acquainted with Loveday less than a day, yet she has engaged me in conversations I would not have with women or men I have known much longer. And wherever I am, so is she. Though pleasant company, she is much younger than me. The whole thing is more awkward still because we are both residing under the roof of our good host, The Reverend. I don’t know whether to be flattered or worried."

  Michael nodded, "I understand your concern," he said, "but I am not sure how I can help."

  "Loveday plans to visit a friend in Wingfield today," said Lawrence, "and she’s asked me to walk with her."

  "Is that so awful?"

  "No, I don’t mind accompanying her, but I fear she will see it as a sign of encouragement."

  "Quite likely," said Michael. "I’m surprised she hasn’t asked Emily to join her?"

  "She says Emily refused to go, but it wouldn’t altogether surprise me if she didn’t ask her in the first place. She says she’ll go alone unless I join her."

  "Young ladies walk alone quite often round here," said Michael. "It is safe around Fressingfield, though I expect the Reverend would prefer that she travelled in company while in his care."

  "I agree," said Lawrence, "but she particularly wants me to join her. She says that any mishaps she suffers from travelling alone, will be entirely my fault."

  "Loveday is very good at getting what she wants," said Michael. "She’s not likely to come to harm. You could call her bluff and say no."

  Lawrence rose and studied the view from the dining room window. A low mist hung over the garden, and crow caws drifted faintly from distant nests.

  He turned to Michael. "I don’t feel comfortable with the thought of any young lady walking alone while this talk of witchcraft persists," he said solemnly.

  Michael raised an eyebrow, "you do surprise me."

  "It is not that I believe in the supernatural," said Lawrence quickly. "You know I don’t, but I have spoken to rational people who believe in irrational things. They are frightened, and fear can make people behave in unpredictable ways."

  The door opened, and Anna McElliot entered carrying a wooden tray. She placed it on the sideboard and unloaded a toast rack, teapot, and jars of preserves which she put on the table. She held the door open, and Mary followed bearing two plates covered with silver domes which she deposited on the sideboard.

  "Thank you," smiled Michael, lifting a lid and helping himself to scrambled eggs and bacon.

  "Have you decided to escort Loveday to Wingfield?" he asked.

  Lawrence collected his plate of food, then added buttered toast. "I feel obliged to," he said. "Besides, George Corbyn works at one of the farms there, and I might have an opportunity to speak with him."

  "I could join you if it helps," said Michael. "One of my parishioners has recently been released from a tuberculosis asylum. She’s staying in Wingfield with a relative temporarily while she recovers. I would have waited until she returned home to Fressingfield, but I could call on her early. Violet might like to join me if Mrs Harris can spare her. She knows my lady a little."

  "That sounds ideal," said Lawrence, relieved.

  "In that case, I’ll go to the village later and arrange to hire a cart. We can all travel together," said Michael.

  Lawrence smiled. "Thank you," he said. I knew you were the right person to ask."

  Michael finished the last of the bacon and placed his cutlery on the empty plate. "If that’s all you need, I will retire to the study and put the finishing touches to my sermon."

  "One small thing before you go?" asked Lawrence, "I could do with some information. It won’t take long."

  "How can I help?"

  "Have you ever heard of the Fressingfield Witch?"

  "A little," said Michael, "But not enough to know whether she was real or a myth. The Reverend Raven will be better informed."

  "Is he around?" asked Lawrence.

  "He is probably at the church," said Michael. "You’ll need to leave now if you want to catch him, though. He is going to Norwich later today and won’t be back for at least a week."

  "Thank you," said Lawrence. "I’ll look for him now." He put his hand on the door then turned back. "Thank you for Wingfield. It would have been awkward…" His voice trailed away.

  "Think nothing of it," said Michael rising from his chair.

  Lawrence left the breakfast room and walked the now-familiar path between The Vicarage and church. As he approached the porch, he noticed the open door and heard voices coming from inside. Lawrence pushed the door to its full width revealing two women arranging flowers in the aisle. He recognised one as Hannah Roper and walked towards her.

  "Hello again," he said, as he approached. "How are you?"

  "Busy," she replied, warmly. "There’s a wedding at the church tomorrow, and we’re dressing it up for the occasion."

  "It looks very nice already," said Lawrence running his hand over a carved figure at the end of the wooden bench.

  "Would you like me to show you around?" offered Hannah.

  "I would, but not today," he said." I must speak with the Reverend before he leaves for Norwich. A guided tour will be very welcome when I have more time."

  "She smiled, "it will be my pleasure. Let me know when you are free. Reverend Raven is over there."

  Hannah pointed towards the back of the church where the Reverend was poring over a book of text behind a screen.

  Lawrence walked down the aisle towards him, and the Reverend raised his head.

  "How are you, Lawrence?" he asked, extending his hand. "Our paths have not crossed much since yesterday, but I hear you have been busy."

  "I have," replied Lawrence, "but I won’t trouble you with a report of my progress, knowing that you are about to travel. A name has been brought to my attention. Sorry to interrupt your arrangements, but I need to know more about this woman before you go."

  "What is her name?" asked the Reverend.

  "Faith Mills."

  A frown passed over the Reverend's face. "I am surprised you know her name. It all happened so long ago. There is no cause to consider Faith Mills in context with recent events. Reason and logic seem to have absented themselves from the village these last months."

  "The man who mentioned Faith Mills is well-educated," said Lawrence. "He doesn’t believe in witchcraft and holds superstition in contempt."

  "Regardless, I would rather not speak of her in here," said the Reverend, gazing sternly around his church. “It is better if you consult the records directly. You will find a stone storeroom in the grounds of The Vicarage with a basement beneath. The old parish chest was moved from the church many years ago and is now stored underground. It contains registers and records, many of which I have used for historical research. You will find information about Faith Mills in there."

  Lawrence thanked the Reverend and walked back through the church, feel
ing somewhat unnerved and sensing that he’d just received a gentle admonishment.

  Hannah had completed her flower arrangement and was making her way towards the porch. She smiled at Lawrence as he passed. "Have you met Annie Riches?" she asked, nodding towards her companion.

  Lawrence offered his hand. "Pleased to meet you," he said.

  They loitered outside the church, passing the time. "Annie is, or rather was, Mary Corbyn's daughter-in-law," Hannah continued. "She is married to William Riches."

  Lawrence smiled, resisting the temptation to ask questions about Annie's deceased mother-in-law while in company. He appreciated Hannah's introduction, but decided that it would be better to question Annie Riches alone another time. He elected to return to The Vicarage without delay, made his excuses to the two women and retraced his steps.

  Lawrence avoided the front door of The Vicarage and unlatched the side gate instead. He walked along the edge of the building past the stone-built orangery and towards the rear of the garden laid to well-mown lawn. Lawrence surveyed the area trying to work out where he might find the storeroom. After a little searching, he located it at the rear, screened from view by a wooden, ivy-clad trellis covered in climbing roses. Lawrence walked past the newly budded plants towards a timber door which appeared to lead to the storage room. He tried the handle and found it unlocked, but stiff, the latch distorted by swollen wood. Lawrence gripped the handle again and forced it open. Metal ground against metal as it came free.

  He entered a room which was small, dark, and square, and lit only by a tiny cobweb covered window on the left-hand side. A dust-covered trestle table and bench stood centrally in the room. The table held a tarnished metal candle holder and a wooden box containing spare candles, matches and an empty inkwell. Lawrence exhaled, and a film of dust particles rose above the desk. He raised his hand to his mouth and reached towards the window to let in some air, but it was firmly stuck. Lawrence surveyed the small space. It held all the materials necessary for writing or research but had not been occupied for a long time.