Page 31 of The Shadow Key

Henry frowns at the explanation. It seems so … flimsy. Yes, he can understand why the villagers might dislike Julian Tresilian’s less than mindful treatment of them, but him? What of the gatehouse? What of the gunshot? Could his heritage really be so offensive that someone might contrive of a way to be rid of him?

‘No.’

Linette blinks. ‘No?’

‘No,’ Henry repeats. ‘That is not everything. There’s something more to this, something you aren’t telling me. What is it?’

Though her expression does not change Henry knows instinctively he is right. But there is no time to push her, less time for her to answer, because there comes then a long and mournful moan.

Together their attention snaps to Gwen Tresilian. The older woman is gripping the sides of the table, knuckles jutting against her thin skin, staring at the tiny bit of gristle on her plate with a look of unmistakable horror.

‘O na,’ Linette whispers, and the words are barely out of her mouth before Lady Gwen begins to scream.

CHAPTER NINE

It was bound to happen, of course. Linette had expected it the moment she brought her downstairs, that some small obscure occurrence (for it was never entirely clear what would prompt it) was like to send her mother into a dreadful fit.

Yet.

She had been so desperate to attempt normality – to see her mother dressed in something other than a nightgown, her hair clean and combed, smelling sweetly of orange blossom and fir; so desperate that mother and daughter should dine together, as if there were nothing wrong at all. But there was nothing normal about Gwenllian Tresilian when she started to tear at her throat, her nails – cut short, always – scoring ugly red lines down her neck. There was nothing normal about her when she fought off Henry’s attempt to help and, in her terror, collapsed upon the floor. No indeed, there was nothing normal about seeing her thin body twist under the physician’s grasp, those terrific screams shifting into a mournful wail, eyes dark and wide with fear, long hair spread out beneath her like a white avenging flame.

Linette plays it back in her mind: Merlin crawling beneath the table with his tail between his legs; apples escaping their bowl in the commotion, rolling onto the floor, rosy skins bruising. The bell toppled, the wine glasses fell, their unfinished meals spilt gravy from their plates. And all the while her mother screaming, screaming, screaming …

She clenches her jaw. Never will she get used to it. Never will she grow accustomed to such a horrific sight. To see her mother so paralysed with frenzy week after week, to see her suffer so cruelly year on year, it is more than Linette can bear. Foolish, she scolds herself now as she accompanies Henry to her mother’s room the next morning. Foolish to think it could have been any different from all the other times before.

He had been kind, all things considered. He did not treat her mother like an inconvenience, did not pretend she was a body with no soul attached to it. Yes, his grip on her mother’s thin wrists was forceful but when the laudanum he administered took effect and her eyes fluttered closed, Henry pulled her long sleeves down to cover them, cradled her head gently on his knees. Yes, Linette thinks, opening the door to her mother’s chambers, the new physician treated her with respect, compassion. He carried her upstairs, laid her down gently on the bed without one word of censure or scorn. Not like all those doctors Julian brought from London who denounced her mother a hopeless case, not like Dr Beddoe with his sneering looks and false pity …

As it did the night before, the smell of vanilla hits them like a wave as soon as Linette opens the heavy panelled door. Unlike last night, however, Henry does not reel back from the sight of it, but she can still see in his dark eyes that he does not quite know what to think. She understands why. Draped over pictures and poking from vases and pots are the spindly branches of Penhelyg’s local fauna and flora: the dark mottle-limbs of rowan, the lobe-leaves of oak, the variegated-pattern trails of ivy and, of course, the vanilla-scented flowers of gorse.

Yes, it must look very strange indeed.

They pass through the small sitting room, past Enaid’s truckle bed – already made, despite the early hour – and into Lady Gwen’s bedroom, with more foliage of the same suspended from the ceiling. Linette marks that the yellow blossom of the gorse is beginning to wilt. Soon, she must send Geraint out for more.

Enaid rises from the chair at her mother’s bedside, closes the small Bible she had been reading, presses it hard to her chest.

‘’Tis bare past eight, sir.’ She shifts her gaze to Linette. ‘Your mother’s not long woken – surely the doctor does not mean to examine her now? I’ve not even rung the bell for breakfast.’

Linette frowns at the defensive tone in Enaid’s voice, but before she can reprimand her Henry cuts in.

‘As I could not conduct an examination last night, madam, now seems the perfect opportunity. The laudanum should have worn off some hours ago.’

‘But, sir—’

Linette presses Enaid’s arm.

‘Enaid, come now. Henry will not keep Mamma long.’

The housekeeper blinks at the new doctor’s Christian name on her lips. She seems to want to challenge this informality (Linette is sure she will, later), but Enaid keeps her mouth clamped shut. Keeps too her position by the bed, stubbornness imprinted on her wrinkled features like ink.

Henry levels an annoyed look at her, pointedly clears his throat.

‘This is what I’ve been employed for, Mrs Evans. Would you have me neglect my charge?’

Enaid presses the Bible closer to her heart, as if she might find comfort there. She swallows so hard the lace at her collar jumps.

‘Very well,’ she says quietly, not looking at either of them. ‘But I’ll not have my mistress upset again.’

‘Believe me, nor would I.’

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