“Yes,” said Mary. “Now it all seems so clear. The trunk filled with charms, the talismans to drive away your spirit, the spell my mother believes she cast over Stephen Purceville: all but the fabric of illusion, given substance by the wholly independent actions of men. I, too, have no more need of such miracles.”
“But,” said Michael firmly. “Though the shadows of evil fade in the light of day, the evil itself does not. The Purcevilles, both young and old, are still very much to be feared.”
Nineteen
As if in answer to his words, the thunder of hoofbeats came suddenly to their ears, approaching unexpectedly (for the British fortress lay in the opposite direction) from the west. The widow Scott, who had felt the danger growing as the day wore on, was the first to react. She was up and out of her chair, and pulling back on the carpet before her son had a chance to stand clear.
“Michael, quickly!” And she forced her trembling hands to find the latch, and pull open the trap door.
“Michael, quickly!” And she forced her trembling hands to find the latch, and pull open the trap door.
Michael moved toward the opening, then turned to say a last word to his betrothed. But by chance his eyes lighted on her portrait, and for the first time he saw the bullet-hole at her throat. In horror he thought of Stephen Purceville, and in a flash read between the lines of what the women had (and had not) told him. And even as his mother tried to urge him down the steps, he reached out and took his lover by the wrist.
“Mary, too! Until we’re sure!” She nodded gratefully, not wanting to be parted from him, and the two descended.
“Remember my words,” the widow whispered through the crack, before sealing them in darkness. “You must be willing to sacrifice me. No arguments!”
She closed the trap and pulled the rug to, even as the snorting of hard-driven animals mingled with men’s voices and the sounds of dismounting. Heavy boots rattled the front steps, followed by a thumping fist upon the door.