Ruth Warburton: Witch Hunt

Luke nodded, a bitter resignation spreading through his bones. It seemed as though witchcraft should be good for something at least. And yet Rosa, in her own way, was as powerless as him.

‘Clemency . . .’ Rosa’s voice broke into his thoughts.

‘What?’

‘Clemency. My friend, Clemency. She has money. And she might—’

‘No.’ Luke cut across her furiously. ‘We can’t trust her!’

‘Because she’s a witch? Is that it?’

‘No, because . . .’ Because she’s a toff – one of them , was what he’d been about to say. But wasn’t Rosa one of them too?

‘Look.’ She grabbed his arm. ‘I let you take me to that place, that pub. You vouched for Phoebe and I trusted you. Won’t you trust my word on Clemency? Luke, she won’t betray us, I promise.’

He took a deep breath – held it – counted to ten while he thought. Then he let it out with a gusting sigh.

‘All right. It’s your funeral.’

‘I hope it won’t come to that for either of us,’ Rosa said, with slight acidity. Then she pulled her shawl around her shoulders and stood up straighter. ‘Let’s get walking.’

God, it was a long way. What made it worse was that Luke seemed immune to it. He never complained, never stumbled over piles of rubbish on the pavement, never slipped into a puddle of filth. He just strode beside her, not panting, not grumbling, but walking tirelessly. At Covent Garden he took her arm to forge a path through the throngs – it had seemed as if they would be stuck for ever in the shifting mass of traders and carts. Rosa let herself be pulled in his wake as he shoved and pushed with one shoulder, ramming through the tight-packed crowd. After that he kept hold of her arm, tugging her along, helping her to keep pace.

Even so, Rosa’s feet in their tight-buttoned boots were crying out, and her free arm throbbed painfully. It was too bad that she had spent all her magic healing Luke’s shoulder. Not that he was grateful for it, she reflected bitterly as they crossed Piccadilly. She should have saved her energy and healed her own skin first. Now she would be lucky if it didn’t scar.

She thought again of the smooth pale skin of his shoulder, the veins blue beneath the glaze of blood, the muscles shifting and tense as he strove to pull away, and the soft brush of hair beneath his arm. She could not remember ever having touched a man’s naked body before. She had seen boys, of course: Alexis and his friends bathing in the lake, and once, as she spied through her bedroom curtains, Luke himself stripped to the waist and bathing beneath the pump in the yard. But touching a full-grown man so confidently, so intimately? That, never. The thought of what she had done – stripping back Luke’s clothes even as he struggled away from her – both amazed and appalled her. Where had she found the courage?

Luke didn’t speak as they tramped across London, and for that she was grateful. Other men would have made solicitous small talk, remarked on the weather, the crowds, the likelihood of rain. Not Luke. He walked in silence, his arm firm beneath hers, just glancing at her from time to time to make sure she was keeping up. And she herself had no breath to spare for chat.

At last they passed Fortnum and Mason’s and she was able to let out a sigh of relief. Not far to Clemency’s now. Pray God that Philip would be at the Ealdwitan for business. The thought gave her sudden pause and she stopped.

‘Luke.’

‘Yes?’

‘Clemency is married.’

She waited for him to respond, but he did not, and she was forced to continue. ‘I trust her, but not her husband. He is a member of the Ealdwitan, our ruling council, and he reports to Sebastian. What shall we do?’

Luke thought, still in silence. Then, just as she was about to prod him in despair, he said, ‘Well, we’ll have to find out if he’s home. The servants would recognize you, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So I’ll have to ask.’

‘Yes, but, Luke, they’ll tell you he’s not home anyway. He’s not going to come to the door for a—’ She stopped, not wanting to wound him, but she could see he understood. It was a part of his life as much as hers, after all. He had had eighteen years to get used to her class looking down on his.

‘No . . . he won’t come to the door for a stable-hand, but I don’t need to see him.’ He began to walk again, and they continued in silence up Piccadilly until they reached the turn-off for Clemency’s house.

‘Left here,’ Rosa said, and then, as they rounded the corner, ‘the third house on the right is Clemency’s – the one with the rhododendrons in the front.’

‘Stay here,’ Luke said. He dropped her arm.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Going to find out if her husband’s there – what’s his name, by the way?’

‘Philip. Philip Catesby. But, Luke—’

But he had already gone up the road, knocking on the big polished front door.

Rosa flattened herself against the railings, her heart in her mouth, and listened as a maid opened the door. She heard Luke’s murmuring voice and the maid’s tart response.

‘No, he ain’t at home to the likes of you. And next time, come to the tradesmen’s entrance.’

Rosa watched through the rhododendron leaves as Luke pulled off his cap, his straw-coloured hair tumbling over his forehead, and smiled at the girl.

‘Sorry, miss,’ she heard. ‘I’ll know for next time. It was only I had a message for him, from Mr Greenwood.’

‘Well, he’s down at his office,’ the girl said, mollified. She brushed an imaginary speck of dust off her white apron. ‘If you fancy coming back later, he’ll be here around four. Or you can leave a note.’

‘Not to worry,’ Luke said. He flashed another smile and a dimple appeared in his cheek. ‘But I might take the excuse to come back if I thought I’d get a smile from you. Think you could manage one before I go?’

‘Oi, cheeky!’ the girl said indignantly. But she was smiling, looking at him under her lashes as she shut the door.

So Luke could flirt! Who would have thought it – silent, taciturn Luke. Rosa watched through the leaves as he came back down the path, the smile gone from his face, his expression serious again.

‘He’s out, did you hear?’

‘Yes.’ The question only remained, was Clemency? There was only one way to find out. ‘You’d better wait here while I go and speak to Clemency.’

‘All right.’ He bit his lip, looking down at her, the dimple buried as if it had never been. ‘Be careful.’

‘I will be.’

Her heart was pounding as she went up the path to the front door, where Luke had knocked only a moment before. She plied the knocker again and heard the girl’s footsteps.

‘I told you,’ she heard as the girl opened the door, ‘smile or no smile, it’s the tradesmen’s— Oh! Who’re you?’

‘I’d like to see your mistress,’ Rosa said. The girl frowned, taking in her shabby, burnt clothes and cheap shawl, but puzzled by her accent. ‘Mrs Catesby. Is she at home?’

‘Not to you.’ The girl came down with a thump on the side of suspicion and folded her arms. ‘What of it?’

‘I don’t want any of this “not at home”,’ Rosa said impatiently. ‘If she’s here, she’ll be at home to me. I’m an old friend.’

‘Oh really!’ The girl raised one over-plucked eyebrow. ‘Queen of Sheba, are we?’

‘If you don’t go and get your mistress immediately,’ Rosa hissed, ‘I’ll see to it that you’re sacked. Tell her Miss Greenwood is at the door and you’ve kept her waiting by refusing to pass on a message. Look.’ She fumbled in the pocket in her skirt and pulled out a card – smudged and sooty round the edges – bearing the name ‘Miss Rosa Greenwood’. The girl looked down at it, chewing her lip, and seemed to make up her mind.