The Witch’s Daughter (30 page)

Gresseti’s voice was unmistakable.

‘Good evening to you, Signorina. Have you time to spare to entertain a gentleman this night?’

Eliza closed her eyes. The moment had come. It seemed fitting that she should at last choose to confront Gideon on this night. Walpurgisnacht. Samhain. Halloween. During the hours of darkness on the eve of All Saints’ Day, restless spirits walked the earth. The underworld was touchable; a door opened and its inhabitants were drawn back into the tangible world. This was the perfect moment to connect with those who would help her. Her sisters in witchcraft. Now she would unleash her own long-buried power. She turned to a place in her mind she had not allowed herself to visit for centuries. A place of hidden strength. A place of wonder. A place of magic. Long-forgotten words began to form in her mouth, filling it up, pressing against her teeth, eager to be spoken aloud. She summoned the strength that she knew dwelled within her, though it had lain dormant for so many years. Behind her closed lids, rainbows of color played out a chaotic display. In her ears, she felt the breath of a thousand voices whispering, urging her on, echoing her own silent incantations. Power surged up through her body, a tide of will, a ferocious heat, a glorious, electrifying, seething energy. As she felt her body transformed, Eliza slowly opened her eyes and lifted her face. A face that had about it now the evanescence of magic.

Gresetti gasped as he recognized Eliza, his mouth opening in wonder at the radiance of her expression. Then he smiled, a long, thin slither of a smile that wound its way around his face like a snake coiling back, ready to strike.

‘Why, Bess,’ he said, ‘look at you. I always said one day you would be magnificent.’

As he spoke his features began to blur. As Eliza watched the man who had been Gresseti twisted and pulsated, melting into the half-light and the rain before reforming into a solid being. Now Gideon stood before her. He was dressed in the same somber black clothes and hat she remembered. His face was still as strong and seductively handsome as ever. The smile he wore was dangerously warm. His body was broad shouldered but lithe and youthful. She could smell desire on him as he took a step toward her.

‘I have waited so very long to stand face to face with you once again, Bess. I saw the brilliance shining out of you all those years ago, when you were not much more than a child. You were a Bel fire waiting to be ignited. I was merely the spark that grew to the flame inside you. The flame that fuels your power now. Your power and your desire. You feel it still, don’t you, Bess? You cannot lie to me. I know your heart. You liked me well enough once, do you remember? Do you remember how your body burned with desire for me, night after night, hmmm? I told you then our time would come. And now it has. I know how you want me. We were always meant to be together, you and I.’

‘Yes.’ Eliza kept her voice level. ‘The time has come. The time to put an end to all this. An end to the hunting. An end to the fear. An end to the killing.’ She lifted her arms, stretching them out and up in supplication, drawing down the force of those she had called upon for help. Those she had summoned. ‘Time to put an end to you, Gideon!’ As she uttered his name, she brought her arms down to point at him with a whip crack of lightning. As Gideon reeled backward, she screamed the words of the spell, words she had memorized and practiced a thousand times in preparation for this very instant. The instant when she would conquer Gideon or die attempting to do so. One way or the other, her soul would be free of him at last.

Gideon hit the ground with bone-breaking force, but still he sprang up in a second. He seemed to grow before Eliza’s eyes until he loomed above her, his own dark power emanating from him in sulfurous waves. He began to spin with such velocity that Eliza found herself being drawn into the whirlpool of his pulsating blackness. She screamed, annunciating the final words of the spell with her last breath before giddiness began to claim her senses.

Suddenly there was silence. Eliza found herself thrown onto the wet ground. She lay gasping for breath, fighting to rid her lungs of the toxic fumes that had filled them. She cast about her wildly, but she was alone. Completely alone. There was nothing to be seen of Gideon. Dumbfounded, she clambered to her feet and felt her way unsteadily along the street, leaning heavily on the stone wall of the buildings on one side, not trusting her legs to support her unaided. She listened for a telltale sound. She craned her neck, peering into the gloom in all directions. She sniffed the air. Nothing. No trace of him remained. Had the spell worked? Could it be true that she was really rid of the evil creature, free of him once and for all time? She had never imagined it would be so simple, that he would not fight against her, countering each blow she inflicted with a greater one of his own. She searched on, but he was nowhere. He had vanished. Had she succeeded in obliterating him, or was he merely hiding? She stayed in the alley, watching and waiting, wanting proof. But she could find none. Only time would tell if she was truly free of him or if he was simply biding his time. Pulling her sodden hat from her head and wiping her sweat-damp brow with the back of her hand, Eliza staggered in the direction of her lodgings to await Simon’s carriage.

7

Eliza spent the days directly following her encounter with Gideon in a state of bewilderment. Part of her was still alert to the possibility of his reappearance, still waiting for him to play his final hand. She could not believe she had conquered him with such ease, and she was afraid to let down her guard, aware that he might be marshaling his resources for a surprise attack. Aside from this persistent fear, however, it was a time of wonder. Having utilized and unleashed the full force of her power as a witch, Eliza now walked on a different plane from the one she had inhabited previously. Her senses had become heightened to an extraordinary degree. Smells, sounds, sights, and tastes assaulted her every moment. She found herself unable to stand near a newly lit fire, for the fumes from the coal turned her stomach. She could detect the aroma of baking in the kitchen even while she was upstairs in Abigail’s sickroom. She could clearly discern the words of whispered conversations in the street outside the drawing room window. From the bottom of the stairwell, she watched a spider on the ceiling at the top of the house spinning its web while she listened to the
click-clicking
of its legs as it worked. Cook’s best soup was intolerably salty. The sweetness of an apple became an incomparable delight. Added to all this, Eliza was more aware of her body than ever she had been. She might be a witch, completely and undeniably now, but she was still first and foremost a woman. It was as if her desire had been trodden down along with her craft all those long, dry years, and now she was alight with it. Simon’s presence became exquisite torture. Close proximity caused her breath to quicken, and the touch of his hand made her shiver with pleasure. She dared not let him kiss her for fear of utterly losing control. Her altered state did not go unnoticed. Abigail had recovered her strength a little and was sitting up in bed while Eliza read to her.

‘Eliza, my dear, please slow down.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You read at so swift a pace I cannot take in what is happening.’ Abigail laughed softly. ‘Surely
Dr. Jekyll
was never meant to be understood at such a gallop.’

‘Oh, I did not realize…’ She closed the book and let it rest on her lap. ‘How are you feeling? You look very much stronger.’

‘Indeed, I am. I should be ready for you and Dr. Gimmel to do your best with me any day now.’ She shifted her position against the pillows. ‘Would you be so good as to pass me my shawl? Yes, that blue one, thank you.’

Eliza draped the soft woolen stole around Abigail’s shoulders and tried to focus on the idea of performing surgery on her friend. She was right; they would operate very soon. Eliza still felt such a procedure might well prove fatal, but she was determined not to transmit her fears to Abigail, who was clearly trying so very hard to be brave. The door opened and Simon came in carrying a vase of flowers so vast he could barely be seen.

‘For you both, ladies, to bring a little cheer to the room.’

‘Oh, Simon.’ Abigail clapped her hands. ‘They are delightful.’

‘And so many of them,’ said Eliza. ‘Did you buy up the entire flower stall?’

‘I believe I left the odd buttonhole in case someone had need of one. Now, how about over here on this table? Abigail, can you see them from there?’

‘I should imagine I could see them from the top of Primrose Hill. You spoil me, brother.’

He came over to the bed and took her hand.

‘And why not? I am so happy to see you regain your health. Why there is even color in those cheeks, I fancy.’

‘If there is, it is rouge,’ Abigail told him. ‘Now, why don’t the two of you escape this jail and take a turn around the inner circle? I have a park-full of flowers to look at in here. No reason for everyone to sit about watching me. I promise not to do anything that requires either medical attention or brotherly fussing before you return.’

‘If you’re sure?’ Simon made a poor show of reluctance, his eyes on Eliza as he spoke.

Eliza knew she looked radiant. He had already commented upon it several times in the last few days. She knew also that he was aware of her desire for him. She had done her best to hide it, but it was an impossible task.

‘Oh, I don’t have a suitable hat for walking out,’ she said, feebly searching for an excuse not to go. She was torn between wanting to be with him and being afraid of the strength of her feelings in her changed state. She needed more time to become accustomed to herself this way. ‘I left mine at my lodgings.’

‘Pish,’ said Abigail, ‘as if I haven’t a hat to lend you. Go into my dressing room and choose one and hurry up. The sun does not stay out long in November; you must make the most of it.’

Eliza did as she was told. Abigail’s dressing room was through an adjoining door. Trunks and wardrobes of dresses and crinolines and nightclothes and cloaks and capes and shawls lined the walls. There was a shelf filled entirely with hatboxes. Eliza lifted lids here and there until she found two possible hats. She took them to the dressing table by the window to try them on. The first was much too fussy, with a net veil that made her feel so silly she giggled at her reflection. She took it off and put it on the dressing table. She was about to try the next one when she noticed a pretty silver box. It was smaller than a hatbox but the wrong shape for a jewelery box. There was a swirling pattern of dog roses tooled onto it, with green and pink enamel highlighting the leaves and buds. Eliza could not resist picking it up. She held it in the light the better to study the lovely decoration and beautiful craftsmanship. There was a slender key in the lock. She turned it and the lid sprang open. Inside, a tiny figure in an emerald dress twirled on a stage of glass as the music box began to play. Eliza found herself unable to move. She wanted to throw the box across the room and run from the house, but her hands felt stuck fast to the silver. The dancer twirled, a sly grin on her pinched face. Eliza wanted to scream, to cry out, to hurl the offending object through the window, but she sat as if mesmerized by the movement and the melody as the unforgettable notes of “Greensleeves” played on and on.

*   *   *

The next morning Eliza left the house early and was at the hospital before even Mr. Thomas was at his desk. She sat in Dr. Gimmel’s room staring blankly out the window. After finding the music box, she was certain of nothing. Everything she thought she was sure of seemed now to be built upon shifting sands. Eliza closed her eyes and tried to calm her whirling mind. Today, she was to operate on Abigail. Nothing must distract her.

The door opened and Dr. Gimmel strode in, newspaper in hand.

‘Have you heard?’ he asked, jabbing at the paper with an angry finger, ‘Have you read the reports? Another murder. Another brutal slaying of a defenseless woman. In her own room, if you please.’

‘Another?’ Eliza stood up shakily. ‘Not the Ripper. That cannot be right.’

‘See for yourself.’ He thrust the paper under her nose. ‘Only a few steps from your own home, Eliza. I tell you that place is a pit of horrors. Why you insist on living there…’

Eliza was not listening anymore. Her eyes were fixed on the name of the victim. Mary Jane Kelly. The vision she had experienced weeks ago of the girl’s body cut open and reduced to a gory mess had been horribly accurate. She scanned the article, taking in the details, searching for some sign, some assurance that this was not the work of the same man. How could it be? She looked for the hour the body was discovered. It was later than her encounter with Gresseti, though as yet the police did not know exactly when the woman had died. Had he survived and fled to kill again? No, surely there was not time. How would he have found his way to where Mary Jane lived? Or had she been wrong? Could it be that he, Gideon, had had nothing to do with the murders? Nothing made sense. She could not believe that the killings were not in some way connected to herself. The victims had almost all been her patients. And she had been convinced for weeks that someone was following her and hiding in the shadows. And then Gresseti had followed her while she was dressed in Connie’s clothes. And the organ grinder had played “Greensleeves.” It had to be Gresseti. And Gresseti had revealed himself to be Gideon. But questions remained, questions that would have to wait. Dr. Gimmel finally succeeded in breaking into her thoughts.

‘Dr. Hawksmith! Come, we are needed in theater,’ he said.

In the operating theater, Nurse Morrison was already busy preparing the table. Fresh sawdust had been placed in the blood tray and carbolic had been liberally sprayed throughout the room. Instinctively, Eliza checked the tiers of seating. All were empty. As she put on her theater apron, she found her hands were trembling. She shook her head, frustrated by the ease with which she was distracted and unsettled. This was no time for nerves. She must remain entirely focused on Abigail. Still her head buzzed and the blood seemed hot in her veins. She occupied herself with inspecting the instruments, trying to turn away from the voices in her mind that were urging her on to use witchcraft. Now, more than ever, she needed to be Dr. Elizabeth Hawksmith, assistant to the revered Phileas Gimmel, dedicated physician and skilled surgeon. Abigail’s life depended on it.