Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

‘That is the Luck!’ Stephen yelled. ‘That is all there is!’

Harriet reached the last turn of the stairs. She poured powder down the muzzle, placed the lace ripped from her cuff across it and put the ball on top. She was shaking so hard she almost dropped the ball, then she pulled out the ramrod and pushed the charge home. Now she just had to hold steady enough to prime the pan. Oh God, hang on, Stephen, please. Just another moment, just one more moment .

‘You lying little dog!’ Sturgess crossed the space between them and lifted up his knife again as Sophia tried to thrust Stephen behind her.

‘I’m not lying! That’s the Luck! That’s all!’

Sturgess hesitated for a second. Then there was a voice at the archway.

‘Sturgess.’ Harriet said it quite quietly. ‘Get away from my son.’ Stephen looked towards the arch and saw his mother, a pistol raised to shoulder-level. Her hand was very steady. Sturgess turned and took a step towards her. She fired at once, her arm straight. The force of it knocked Sturgess backwards; he threw out an arm, but it was not enough to save him. He stumbled, and for a moment they all watched as his feet scrabbled for purchase on the edge of the void, before his body went slack and he disappeared into the darkness. His cry was cut off, suddenly and completely.

Stephen yelped and stumbled towards his mother. She lowered herself to the ground to receive him and pressed him hard into her arms, rocking him, her eyes tight shut. Miss Hurst remained with her back against the opposite wall, her hands over her face. On the flags between them the Luck gleamed in the light of Mr Sturgess’s lantern.

Casper’s search for the herbs he needed to treat Crowther had taken him through the darkness to the high paths above Silverside Hall. The land opened up to him as its own creature and he could move as sure-footed in the darkness as in the day. In the moonlight he gathered the comfrey, herb Robert and ribwort he needed to knit Crowther’s shoulder together again, knowing them by the texture of their leaves, their scent and shadows. His own pain felt as if it had been lifted from him the moment he gathered Agnes into his arms and carried her from Sturgess’s folly alive and whole, so when he caught the sound of the first shots coming from the path to Gutherscale he launched himself down the slope towards them like a fox who hears the pack behind him. He had not yet reached the path when he heard another crack from the tower.

He found Mr Quince, his hands all bloodied and tears running down his face, trying to stem the bleeding of both Felix and Swithun, and Ham attempting to raise himself onto his feet, his hand on the swelling bruise of his forehead. Felix’s wound was flowing fast and his breath was coming in a fierce pant. Casper dammed it firmly with Felix’s own coat and showed Quince where to hold it. Having done what he could and hissed at the gape one bullet had left in Swithun’s belly, but unable to wait any longer, Casper was about to turn and run for the tower when he saw a light bobbing towards them. Miss Hurst was carrying the lantern. Mrs Westerman followed her with her son in her arms.

Miss Hurst at once dropped to her knees by Felix’s side, a rapid stream of her own language at her lips. Mrs Westerman paused by Casper, but did not speak to him. Instead she let Stephen down onto his feet. He took the Luck from his waistband, its scarred body wrapped once again in its leather pouch, and handed it to Casper.

‘Sturgess is dead,’ he said. ‘Mama shot him.’ Casper glanced at Mrs Westerman and she nodded, so Casper took the Luck once more. Holding it in his left hand he placed the fingers of his right hand on Mrs Westerman’s forehead. She flinched, but allowed it and shivered as he whispered something too low for anyone else to hear. Then he tucked the Luck into his waistband and released her.

Ham and Casper followed Harriet back to Silverside carrying Felix between them. It was on Casper’s word they took him first; he judged Felix had the best chance of living through his hurt. It was slow progress. No one spoke and the only sound was of Felix’s damp and catching breath. Silverside was a blaze of light and they found themselves greeted on the lawns by the servants of the place with lanterns raised and white faces. Felix they laid in his bed, leaving him to the care of Miriam and Mrs Briggs, and the hysterics of his mother. The last view of Mrs Westerman Casper had that night was through the half-open door to her rooms. She had her son on her lap, her face buried in his neck and was rocking him to and fro, though who gave comfort in that embrace, and who received it, Casper could not say.

Quince remained with Miss Hurst doing what they could for the Fowlers until Casper and Ham could come back with help and means to carry them. By the time they returned, Mr Quince had seen the man he had shot with the arrow die, his pinched, frightened face turned towards the lake. He had not bled much. Quince had crawled away from the body when the breath shuddered to a stop and the eyes became blank, and crouched on the path staring at the corpse till Ham and Casper arrived. He asked the man’s name, and Casper told him in a low voice, placing his hand on Quince’s shoulder as he did. All the while Miss Hurst calmly tried to make Swithun more comfortable, one hand on his brow, one on the padding placed over the ugly wound in his belly. His hands scrabbled in the dirt of the path. The servants Casper and Ham had brought with them carried torches, and by their light Quince watched Casper touch his fingers to Isaac’s throat, then pull mistletoe from his bag, place a sprig of it in the dead man’s mouth and close his lips over it. The Fowlers were lifted onto the blankets and carried to Silverside Hall.

Mr Sturgess was forgotten until after sunrise, so his corpse lay that night among the ruins of Gutherscale and the broken emblems of his family’s great house, guarded by the crows.

12 May 1718, Silverside Hall

Lottie scratched at the door. ‘Ruben?’

She thought she heard a stirring within and pushed it open a little, lifting her candle. There was a curse from the bed and her light fell on a tumble of blankets. Ruben Grace lifted his head. A woman was lying across him in her shift, her bare legs over him, her head, the brown hair all loose, scattered over his chest. Lottie breathed in sharply and turned her back. She heard the maid scurry under the blankets.

‘What is it, Lottie?’

She remained bowed over her candle. ‘There is something I must tell you. And in private.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, of course now!’ she hissed. She heard his low chuckle and the smack of a kiss delivered. She glanced swiftly back over her shoulder; he was cupping the girl’s chin in his hand, and she was watching him like a greyhound watches its master. He swung his legs out of the bed and Lottie turned back to the candle, her face hot, and listened to him dress.

A moment and he touched her on the shoulder and passed by her across the threshold. She followed him and he pulled the door to behind them. He bent over the candle towards her.

‘It’s Sir William,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Does he ask for me?’ He made as if to turn away and up the stairs to the upper chambers.

‘No, no.’ She put a hand on his arm to stop him. Another man would have asked her questions, hurried her, but Ruben stayed quiet and still, his attention complete.

Lottie drew in her breath. ‘I saw the light under the door to his room, and I was going to ask him if he needed anything further this evening. You know how he has been up and pacing every night these last three days.’ Ruben didn’t speak, but simply kept his eyes on her face. ‘I heard something — the door was a little open, so I looked in.’ She licked her lips and stared into the candlelight. It fluttered and smoked. ‘Ruben, did you ever see the Luck?’