The Crafters Book Two (9 page)

But I do intend to find out. Think, then, often of

Your Bemused Yet Determined Friend,

Delilah

* * *

May 1804

Dearest Caroline, whatever shall I do?

Forgive the haste with which I write and all accompanying failures of proper Form and Art. My brain reels. Well has my Papa lectured that learning is a dangerous superfluity in woman. Would that I had never opened that accursed volume! One woe doth tread upon another’s hem. I am undone!

And I will thank you, in the name of our sweet friendship, to limit your reply to what small guidance you might offer me in my peril. I really do
not
need to hear about the “utterly charming young gentleman from Huntingdonshire with the imploring brown eyes” who has so clearly turned your head from things that
really
matter. How can you stoop to vulgar Bath flirtations at a time like this?

Better if you had followed my example and lavished your time upon books rather than jumped-up Huntingdonshire pups, be their brown eyes ever so wheedling. For I confess, much pain and difficulty though Mamma’s texts have brought me of late, I find the pursuit of the knowledge they contain to be strangely compelling. The Greek I mastered with unwonted ease, the initial difficulties of the first few chapters once surmounted. It was as if I had been born to mastery of the tongue, somehow. Mamma spoke of certain members of our family having a certain Talent.
Could this be mine?
I wondered.

It must be that Talent of one sort or another has some bearing upon my facility for the Attic language, since I admit my studies were neither focused nor single-minded. I was too intrigued by the odd relationship I earlier observed between Messrs. Culpepper and Factor. You will recall—if your pet suitor has not quite driven all recollection of me from mind—that I mentioned the fear I sensed emanating from poor little Mr. Culpepper when he gainsaid the American lout. Minded to discover more, I did not hide myself away in Mamma’s old room half so much as I originally planned. My Greek studies should have suffered thereby; they did not. In the course of a scant week I find myself possessed of both a workable knowledge of Greek, a smattering of Latin (I have found another elementary text among the volumes of Mamma’s library), and the sure and certain conviction that Mr. Culpepper is in mortal danger at the muscular hands of his so-called “friend” Mr. Pericles Factor.

Yes, it is so. I know it for a fact. Criticize me if you must for what I shall now tell you:

It was only last night my theories achieved confirmation. My daily observations of our two guests hinted ever so subtly at an occult relationship between the twain which was not conducive to Mr. Culpepper’s health or peace of mind. Daily over the tea things I watched him growing paler and weaker. He no longer gobbled up every tea cake in sight. He reached such a pass that he neglected to partake of even bread-and-butter. In vain did Stepmamma urge him to second helpings over supper. His jowls lost their rosy hue as we watched. His breeches’ buttons no longer placed us all under strain.

Mr. Factor, on the other hand, blossomed. His hale complexion achieved the rosiness of rare roast beef, his well setup form acquired the muscular perfection of an Apollo, his already attractive features reached the epitome of masculine beauty, leaving even dear Lord Byron’s storied face in the dust.

By these tokens, dear Caroline, do not think I have been at all affected by the gentleman’s charms of person. I am not one to be swayed by trivialities. A pair of entreating eyes holds for me but the opportunity for scientific observation, the better to document the odd phenomenon whereby formerly sensible girls have their brains set all of a tizzy by what are, upon further study, merely two eyes like many others.

Figure in your mind, can you spare the thought, the concern now growing in my heart for poor Mr. Culpepper. The sensation of dread I felt emanating from him whenever we were in Mr. Factor’s presence was not to be ignored. It clung like a miasma of some foul and weed-choked tarn to our every moment. The raven of despair swung low above us, croaking unintelligible syllables of hideous yet occult meaning. Indeed, the whole situation became quite Gothic and literary in its overwhelming immanence.

I could bear it no more. Unprepossessing as Mr. Culpepper’s physical attributes might be, I could not in good conscience stand by unmoved while the poor man withered before my eyes. Some chord of human sympathy there is which cannot be ignored. I determined to speak with Mr. Culpepper alone and get to the bottom of matters.

The chance to do so presented itself with strange dispatch. I know this for vain fancy, Caroline, but I could swear that Mr. Culpepper somehow
knew
that I wished solitary converse with him, and procured the occasion. But of course that is folderol. It is my habit each evening to thrash out those problems besetting me by addressing my mirror-image while brushing my hair for bed. I am always entirely alone at these moments, and speak in a whisper. How could he have overheard? Coincidence is odd, is it not?

All that aside, I found him walking by himself in Mamma’s ruined herb garden in the rain. My surprise was great. I myself was there only because my Greek and Latin has by this time grown wieldy enough to permit the decipherment of much of Mamma’s old notebook. It is quite fascinating reading, really. There are directions contained therein for the compounding of curious draughts and philtres whose effect upon the human heart—But that is immaterial. Suffice it you to know that Mamma’s instructions were specific as to the hour and meteorological conditions that must attend the garnering of the ingredients. (Did you know, dear Caroline, that tansy leaves gleaned before teatime in a drizzle are requisite for a most subtle potion guaranteed to attract admirers of the opposite sex, whereas those plucked near noon in sunshine are only good for distilling a sovereign sunburn remedy?)

“Oh, Mr. Culpepper!” I cried. “Do come indoors. You will catch your death.”

“My death?” The little man leaned against the crumbling brick wall of the garden and sighed as though his heart would break. “That will come soon enough.” His recent lack of appetite had whittled his previously rotund form admirably and given him the illusion of height. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he had grown four inches. Too, perhaps through the blurring effect of the falling rain, his hair seemed to be more golden, the features of his face less puddingy and more hawklike, his eyes an astonishing, nigh feline green. Then I blinked, and the chimera was gone. He was weeping.

I could not bear it, Caroline. Boldly I took his arm and guided him into the house. I could hear raucous snoring coming from the front room. Mr. Factor was taking his ease. Papa and Stepmamma’s voices came from a side room, and the servants were going about their tasks here, there, and everywhere. To speak with Mr. Culpepper undetected and apart was impossible, unless I conveyed him to the sleeping chambers upstairs. I need not tell you that
this
was not an option by any means whatsoever!

That is why I silently urged him to hasten up the stairs to the attic and shut fast the door to my sweet mamma’s study behind us.

Ah, Caroline, could you have but seen the look of rapture that then crossed his features! He lingered but an instant upon the threshold of the room and breathed deep of the particular exhalation of old books. “It is true, then,” he murmured, eyes aglitter.

“What is true, sir?” I inquired. My question seemed to wake him from some happy reverie. He was his old, nervous self once more.

“Why—why, what I thought,” he replied. “About you. Studying Greek, Latin. Love of learning. Very rare quality, that. In a woman. No offense. Valuable. No mere pastime, is it? The books.” He waddled over to the table where Mamma’s notebook lay open beside a newly purchased one of my own. (Into your bosom alone will I confide that my readings of Mamma’s scientific observations have inspired me to independent explorations in realms botanical.) “This yours?” he asked, reaching for Mamma’s tome.

I know not what possessed me to fling myself between him and the table. No more can I account for the impulse compelling me to catch up the notebook and press it to my breast. I have always been a private person. Perhaps I did not wish to share any relic of my poor, dear mamma’s with one who remains essentially a stranger to me.

Scant of breath, I managed to reply, “Oh, this is nothing, sir. Mere scribblings, of no interest to anyone. However, if you find any other book here of interest, feel free to examine it.” I used one hand to indicate the common texts lining the study shelves, the other hand still clasping the notebook fiercely to me.

A shadow passed across Mr. Culpepper’s face. For an instant, I thought I detected black wrath. How consummately bizarre! As if a mouseling such as he had spleen enough to assume a look so threatening! And yet I dare swear I felt a momentary pang of terror in his presence and thought I caught a flare of green in his muddy eyes. Fancy that! Me, terrified by a walking cabbage!

It was, in truth, a passing whimsy, for upon the very next moment, the gentleman dissolved into tears. Holding his plump hands before his face, he sobbed unashamedly. Such honesty and openness of emotion could not help but move me. Setting Mama’s notebook down upon a high shelf well away from us both, I then turned to the distraught Mr. Culpepper and inquired as to what the matter might be.

“Doom!” he cried, in accents resonating with echoes of the charnel house. “Oh, I am condemned!”

“Mr. Culpepper, you have the advantage of me,” I said, much alarmed. “Shall I fetch you a physician?”

“He could do me no good.” The wretch shook his head.

Again I had the fleeting impression of another, more conventionally handsome face beneath his unimpressive features. The attic light was never of the best. “The power which enslaves and torments me,” he went on, “lies beyond the narrow ken of a physician’s care. I shall perish for it, and the supreme irony is that I must meet my fate beneath the very roof which shelters my one hope of salvation.”

“Oh sir!” I exclaimed. “I know not what you intend!”

At this juncture, tears of supplication standing in his eyes, Mr. Culpepper made bold to take my hand in both his own and—But here comes the post! I must seal this missive and dispatch it to you with the assurance that you shall hear more anon from

Your Devoted Friend,

Delilah

* * *

June 1804

Dear Caroline,

(Albeit I use the term more for Form’s sake than out of any delusion that you hold my friendship worthy enough for either of us to refer to the other as “dear.”)

How could you? The outpourings of a heart in agony are pooled before you in my previous missive, and all you can think of to send me in reply is an utterly
groveling
request for the receipt needful for distilling the tansy love philtre to which I gave but passing mention!

I am almost minded to refuse you all further knowledge of what passed between Mr. Culpepper and myself since last I wrote you. As for the philtre ... I shall think about it. Perhaps were you to evince a modicum of polite interest in my fate, I might be swayed to look favorably upon your request. For the philtre does indeed function as Mamma’s notes suggest, of this I have proof positive.

If I choose
not
to send you a vial thereof, console yourself, dear,
dear
Caroline, with the thought that there are plenty of other fish in the sea, as well as in Huntingdonshire. But my decision in the matter remains to be seen, does it not?

Having now attracted some sliver of your attention, I shall tell you what transpired between Mr. Culpepper and myself that rainy afternoon in the attic chamber. I had, I believe, left the gentleman in possession of my hand, and in great distress of mind. He spoke of a great peril threatening him, yet at the same time of salvation’s sweet hope to be found under the very roof presently sheltering us.

To be sure, I asked him what he meant by this hope of salvation, expecting to hear him speak of Papa’s brother, my Uncle Paul, who holds a cure of souls in Lower Sandwallop and who occasionally takes tea with the family. Shock of the most vivid sort showed itself plainly on my face when instead Mr. Culpepper took the hand already in his keeping, pressed it to his bosom, and most fervently exclaimed:

“You!”

I was at a loss, though not so far gone as to neglect extricating my hand from his clasp. “Forgive me, Miss Delilah,” he continued. “I forget myself.”

“You do indeed,” I averred. “Touch me again and I shall take steps.”

With a despairing moan, he turned from me. “Alack!” he cried, overcome. “Have I then alienated my one possibility of help?” He raised his eyes to mine and—O Caroline! How dare you venture to compare the pedestrian gaze of your Huntingdonshire swain to ocular orbs like Mr. Culpepper’s, abrim with poetic longing and misery?

“I will tell you a tale,” he said hoarsely. “If you will but hear it out, I shall ask no more of you.”

What could I do, in simple human charity, save consent? And so it was that Mr. Culpepper related to me a history at once dazzling, baffling, revelatory, and horripilating, concerning as it did myself.

“Your dear mamma bore the maiden name of Crafter, did she not?” Mr. Culpepper asked in tones reserved for those who already suspect the answer to their inquiries. Upon my admission, he continued: “You are therefore connected by blood to a clan whose reputation in certain circles is—Ah, how to put this so that I may not too gravely shock your sensibilities?”

“So long as my own reputation remains untarnished, sir,” I riposted, “the peccadilloes of my ancestors do not touch the welfare of my soul.”

“Oh, but they do, they do!” he groaned, his plump cheeks drawn into a grimace of sorrow. “For that sept of the Crafter clan which yet flourishes in America is stained most hideously black by their continued, unrelieved, and unrepentant practice of”—here he dropped his voice and glanced about the chamber, as if seeing spies among Mamma’s retorts and alembics—
“witchcraft!”