Storm Child (6 page)

‘The little beggar’s had me
money!’

Isaac broke into a run, knocking
people aside, dodging lobster pots and fish stalls and the hands now grabbing
to catch him.  There was no time to look around but he knew by the
footsteps ringing over the cobbles that he was being chased by more than one
person. He’d witnessed plenty of scenes like this himself over the years, and
soon half the town would be whipped into a frenzy and eager to join the
hunt.  He picked up speed, breath burning his lungs, his heart beating to
burst from his chest.  Ahead was a wall topped by the spikes of iron
railings.
It was almost the height of Isaac himself, but he
couldn’t see any other escape route and if he wanted to get away he was going
to have to clear it. As he raced towards it, he reached for the railings and
hauled himself up on top of the brickwork.  After a quick glance back, and
then down over the other side to see that it was clear, he swung his leg over.
Pain made him cry out as he caught his leg on a metal tip, but he bit down and
tried to block it out. As he glanced up again he saw his pursuers now gaining.
Throwing his other leg over the railing more carefully, he dropped down the far
side of the wall.  Without looking back again, he tore down the quayside
to make his escape. 

Once the sounds of the hunt had
abated, he stopped in a deserted alleyway and, with a shaking hand, pulled
aside the torn fabric of his trouser to inspect his wound.  The street
spun around him, and nausea added to the thumping headache he already had, but
he forced himself to look and decided the gash wasn’t that deep.  Polly
would be able to fix it. He took off his cap and ran a hand through his long,
damp fringe.  Taking the new money bag from his pocket and opening it up,
he heaved a sigh of relief.  He stuck his cap on again, pulling it low, and
made his way out to the open street.  

The gates of the town were in
sight when his arm was yanked behind him in a firm grip.  He cried out in
shock, twisting to get free, and turned to see two uniformed men.  In a
second he was held by both of them, pulling in vain to escape.  The man
from the first tavern stepped from behind them. 

‘Yes, officers, that’s him.’

Ten

The water was frozen in the pump and the ground was iron,
but the day was bright and clear and promised to warm a little once the misty
morning had passed.  The classes run by Miss Steele were only a few hours
long, and not every day, but Charlotte’s mother had decided that even that
short time was too much for Charlotte after her illness. Charlotte had never
imagined she would be so keen to get across the heath to the draughty wooden
building where the teaching took place, but she had been ill and then kept
cooped up by her mother for so many long weeks that to finally be allowed out
again, even just to school, was a relief.

Charlotte sat quietly at the long
wooden bench, waiting for Miss Steele to begin.  She looked around the
room at the handful of other children sitting with her. She was now one of the
oldest – most of her older classmates of the previous school year had gone to
work on their parents’ farms or to spin thread and weave at home alongside
their mothers. None of her remaining classmates had a face peppered in ugly
white scars. Today was the first time many of her classmates had seen her since
her illness and her appearance had elicited some curious stares as she entered.
It was also the first time she had seen many of them since George’s funeral.
She tried to ignore the stares, had spoken a few uneasy greetings on arrival to
children she had been friends with and then had hurriedly and awkwardly taken
her seat. Recently, Charlotte’s mother had insisted that Charlotte pin her hair
up – she was becoming a young lady now and that was the proper way for young
ladies to wear their hair. Charlotte suddenly wished she could let loose her
thick curls from their neat bun and hide behind them. 

As Miss Steele’s back was turned
for a moment, Mary Matthews leaned towards Charlotte.

‘Have you heard about the wolf?’
she whispered. Her eyes were bright, keen for scandal. She was a year younger
than Charlotte but the gap had always seemed much bigger to her.  She
usually had too many reasons to gossip too. Mary was the one girl in class
that, had she found Charlotte’s scars offensive and wanted to avoid her,
Charlotte wouldn’t have minded one bit. But for some reason, Mary always felt
compelled to single Charlotte out as someone to gossip to, despite the fact
that Charlotte had never given her any encouragement in this area. Once, Mary
had told the entire class that a child catcher was in town and would take any
of them found wandering the heath after dusk.  Most of the younger
children had nightmares for weeks.  In the end, Mary was forced to stand
up in class and tell them all she had made it up. Luckily for Mary, Miss Steele
was not the sort of teacher who gave out punishment lightly, or she might have
found herself caned.  Charlotte had a feeling this was another of her tall
tales.

Charlotte breathed a reply.
‘Wolf?’

‘Yes. Father says he has seen it.
He has gone with some of his farmhands to track it into the woods and kill
it.  They say it has taken five sheep just this week.’

‘Well, as long as it just takes
sheep, I won’t worry.’ Charlotte replied quickly, and then fell silent as she
saw Miss Steele’s attention return to the class.

‘But who is to say that it won’t
get a taste for child flesh…’ Mary pressed, not noticing that lessons were
about to begin.

‘Mary Matthews!’ Miss Steele
glared over the top of her tiny glasses. 

Mary looked up and blushed.
‘Begging your pardon, Miss Steele.’

‘Today, I want you all to
practise arithmetic.  I will come to you each in turn with a list of sums
for you to get on with – in silence.’ Miss Steele added, glancing sharply at
Mary and Charlotte. It was Charlotte’s turn to be red-faced.  She shot an
angry look at Mary for getting her into trouble.

The end of the morning saw the class dismissed for the day.

‘Shall I walk some of the way
with you, Charlotte?’ Mary asked. Charlotte sighed.  She could see she was
going to be subjected to more tall tales about child-eating wolves, but unable
to see a way of saying so without upsetting Mary, she nodded.

‘If you like.’

They carefully picked their way
over the bracken-strewn ground.  The day was milder than of late and walking
would have been a pleasure for Charlotte, had she been allowed to enjoy it
alone.  But Mary babbled away, Charlotte hardly listening. Until she heard
Mrs Brown mentioned.

‘Mrs Brown tells mother that you
have a new sister,’ Mary glanced slyly across at Charlotte, waiting for some
kind of response.

‘I do not have a sister.’

‘But she told –’

‘Whatever she told your mother is
incorrect.  I do not have a sister – how can I? You know my father is dead
and mother has not remarried.  We are caring for a baby girl. That is
all.’

Mary paused. ‘Can I come over to
see her?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Charlotte
replied quickly, ‘mother is not expecting visitors today.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Mary pressed,
hopefully.

‘No.’ Charlotte couldn’t tell why
she felt so strongly about keeping Georgina away from people in the village.
There was a vague, uneasy feeling settling in the periphery of her thoughts,
that people would not be altogether kind about a baby who had been abandoned on
the heath in the manner that Georgina had been.  Superstition was still
rife in this part of Dorset and Charlotte knew the sorts of things people
believed were not always sensible.

Almost as if Mary could tell what
Charlotte was thinking, she voiced it, ‘Don’t worry, I think Mrs Brown talks
nonsense’

Charlotte halted on the road and
turned sharply, ‘Mary!’

‘Well, I mean to say, I don’t
take seriously what she says and neither does mother.’

Charlotte thought for a moment.
‘What does Mrs Brown say?’ she asked slowly as they started to walk again.

Mary hardly managed to keep the
satisfied smile from her face, ‘she says that the baby was left out on the
heath in a raging storm.  That your mother brought her to Mr Finch for the
orphanage, but then suddenly changed her mind at the last moment, almost as if she
was not of her own mind…’ Mary lowered her voice, ‘almost,’ she continued, ‘as
if the child had enchanted her… She says that your mother should be wary of
what sort of devil she’s taking in.’

‘She is rather enchanting, but I
don’t think she’s a devil.’ Charlotte replied briskly, knowing full well that
Mary did not mean
that
sort of enchantment.

‘She says that she wonders if you
have taken in a changeling, or a witch and that we all should stay away for
fear that we will be enchanted too.’ Charlotte tutted loudly. ‘Don’t you think
it is a strange turn of events?’ Mary pressed.

The problem was, Charlotte did
think it was a strange turn of events. She could think of little else these
days.  A turn of events that had worried her more and more the longer Georgina
stayed with them.  The question remained unanswered:
who
had left
that basket out on the heath and why? Where did Georgina come from?  Was
there a mother somewhere, weeping for her lost child?  Or worse still, was
there a mother somewhere sighing with relief? If she was a magical child, could
they trust her? Were they safe?

‘We could do nothing but take her
in.  Mother did not want to send the child to the orphanage.’ Charlotte
looked pointedly at Mary,’ would
you
like it in the orphanage?’

‘No,’ Mary replied.  She
paused, seemingly wondering whether to air her next thought. ‘Father also says
that the wolf arrived when the baby did.’

Charlotte frowned as if she would
argue, but then sighed. ‘Mary… Georgina is just a baby.  That’s all. 
A charming but human child, however boring that may sound. There is nothing
else to say about it.’

Mary was immediately silenced by
Charlotte’s tone.  Her gaze dropped to the ground and Charlotte, glancing
across, relented. ‘Perhaps you can come and see Georgina, to see for yourself
that she’s perfectly ordinary and really very sweet.  I’ll ask mother and
tell you her decision when I see you at school.’

Mary’s head lifted again and she
beamed. ‘I would like that.’

When they had got to the point where they were to part they
halted, and as Mary turned to take her route home, she cast one last glance
back at Charlotte.

‘I look forward to meeting
Georgina.’ Charlotte smiled. Then, remembering something else, Mary added.
‘Don’t go out after dark until my father has caught the wolf.’ Her face now was
more serious.  Charlotte wondered whether Mary actually believed this, and
was not making it up after all. Even so, Charlotte didn’t think a word of it
was true.  Wolves had not been seen in these parts for hundreds of
years.  There were stories, of course, there were always stories, but they
were just that. 

She waved a hand airily. ‘Of
course, I’ll be careful.’

Charlotte arrived home to find her mother baking bread and
Georgina sitting at her side making patterns in the flour.  She beamed at
Charlotte’s entrance. ‘Georgina started to walk today!’ she squeaked. ‘Isn’t
that marvellous? She’s so quick and clever.’

A bit too quick and a bit too
clever, Charlotte thought, and those nagging doubts began to fill her mind
again. ‘Mother…’ she began, ‘Mary told me something today, about the things
some people in the village have been saying about Georgina…’ She glanced
uneasily at her mother, surprised at herself for bringing the conversation up.
Her mother seemed unconcerned.

‘What sort of things?’ she asked
absently as she wiped at Georgina’s face with a damp cloth.

‘That…’ Charlotte took a deep
breath. It was a ridiculous idea and one that she hated herself for repeating,
‘that she is a changeling… that there is something strange about her…. that….’

Her mother looked up sharply.
‘Charlotte! How often have I told you to pay no heed to the gossip you hear
from the village?’

‘Yes, but this –’

‘This is no different! Georgina
is a poor, abandoned child in need of a guardian. As I recall, you did not want
to take her to Mr Finch.’

Charlotte could have argued that
her mother
did
want to take Georgina to Mr Finch and suddenly,
inexplicably changed her mind. She could have argued that since Georgina’s
arrival her mother had behaved like someone completely enchanted by her. She
could have said that she hated the way Georgina had taken George’s place and
become the most important thing in the household, that Charlotte missed the
time she used to have with her mother that belonged to just her. She could have
told her mother that sometimes, when she thought about where Georgina might
have come from, it gave her an uneasy feeling.  But she didn’t say any of
these things, because she knew that her mother would not listen to them. She
simply bowed her head and went to her room to take her boots off. 

Later, when the kitchen had been cleared, Charlotte’s mother
turned to her. ‘I have an errand to run this afternoon. Would you watch
Georgina for me?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Charlotte had
planned to spend the afternoon sketching.  Her teacher had always taken an
interest in Charlotte’s drawings, praising her as a great talent and it had
encouraged her to keep practising at every opportunity. But mother had asked
her, and considering the conversation they had had earlier, Charlotte could not
refuse. Her plans would have to wait for another day.

Charlotte’s mother wrapped a
thick shawl around her. ‘I should be back before teatime, but if I’m not, don’t
forget to feed Georgina.’

‘I won’t,’ Charlotte replied, not
really paying attention. Georgina was playing happily with George’s old wooden
blocks, bashing them on the hard floor and grinning at the racket. Charlotte
wondered just how many other keepsakes of George’s her mother had kept hidden
and was now bringing out for Georgina.

Pushing the thought from her
mind, she followed her mother to the outside door and watched as she glided
across the heath towards the direction of the village, hitching up her long
skirts to save the hems getting snagged on the rough bracken. She closed the
door softly and turned back to Georgina, who was so busy playing that she
hadn’t even noticed Charlotte’s mother had gone.  If she continued to be
this preoccupied, Charlotte thought, perhaps she could get on with her
sketching after all. 

Hurriedly, she gathered her
pencils and some thick paper from the box under her bed.  She went back to
the kitchen with them, to find Georgina still happily amusing herself. Next,
she rushed to their tiny growing plot at the side of the house, where a holly
bush grew at the cottage wall, and picked a few sprigs.  Returning to the
house, she took a seat at the kitchen table and began to draw.

Charlotte hummed as she drew,
pleased with the way her pencil moved and the picture that formed as she
worked.  After a while, she sat back and admired what she had done. Then
it occurred to her that some colour would make it even more pleasing.  Her
mother had a wooden box of watercolour paints that she kept in the old chest in
her room. Charlotte had been allowed to use them, carefully, from time to time.
She set down her work and, after making a quick check on Georgina, who was
still happy, smacking out an odd beat by bashing her blocks together, Charlotte
went to find the paints.

She hadn’t been gone long, but
when Charlotte came out from her mother’s bedroom with the box of watercolours,
Georgina had moved from her spot.  Instead, she had somehow pulled
Charlotte’s work from the table and held pencils in both hands, scribbling merrily. 
Charlotte’s masterpiece lay ruined, thick black snakes of pencil markings
criss-crossing it. Georgina looked up at Charlotte, pleased with herself, and
held the mess up for her to see.