Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

C atherine stepped forward, her hood now around her shoulders.

She was as striking as ever, though perhaps more ghostly and ethereal in this dark cellar with the lantern light hanging over her head. The way Catherine stared at Margaret without blinking made her as afraid as the situation she found herself in. Margaret jerked back as far as she possibly could in her chair, leaning away from her.

“What happened in here?” Margaret looked back at the manacles behind her. “What was this place?”

“A wine cellar,” Catherine said simply. She walked around Margaret, her eyes shifting from Margaret to the manacles.

“It served another purpose. Clearly,” Margaret declared frantically. “What happened? Who was chained up there?”

“The demon.” Catherine’s voice had quietened. “It was necessary. To frighten the devil out of him, but it never worked. Oh the screams. A small boy can scream very loudly, you know.”

Margaret closed her eyes in horror, scarcely able to believe her ears. Was it all true? Had Catherine chained Theodore up in this room as a small boy? Had she brought priests to exorcise the devil out of him then hurt him when she saw no sign of a spirit leaving him?

She is mad. She has no sanity left in her!

“Did you hurt him?” Margaret asked, her voice quavering.

“I had to.” Catherine looked around with a deep frown, as if Margaret was the mad one in this room. “Do you not see that? It’s the only way to control the devil.”

“He was a boy! How could he have been the devil?”

“Because he had too much of his father in him. He looked just like him, even as a child. He stopped screaming eventually.” Catherine stared at the iron chain. “As he got older and the scars built, when blood was drawn… he no longer shouted. The demon had taken hold by then. There was nothing more I could do.”

She turned sharply to face Margaret. “This is why I had to come for you. I had to get you out of his clutches. I had to save you.”

Margaret was blinking madly as she thought through everything she knew about Theodore. Suddenly, some of the things that had passed made sense. She understood why Theodore claimed he had a heart of stone. He’d learned that cold heart, learned to adopt it and not to reveal any pain, in order to prove his mother could no longer hurt him.

“He was just a boy,” Margaret whispered. “Who cares if he looked like his father?”

“He was the devil’s spawn.” Catherine frowned again, clearly not having expected Margaret to utter these words.

“What harm did he do you? Did he ever hurt you? Ever raise a hand to you?” Margaret knew the answer, even without having to see Catherine’s lips part in confusion. “Theodore has never hurt me. Not physically.”

He only broke my heart, but he never raised a hand to me.

“You do not know him as I do. That is all.”

“He’s not who you think he is.” The words were pouring out of Margaret in a rush now. “He saved me. The day I fell from a ladder, he was there to catch me. He carried me. He urged me to eat. To take care of myself. What demon would do that?”

Catherine shook her head then laughed, in a scoffing tone.

“You do not know him as I do.”

“Or maybe you just saw what you wanted to see.” Margaret leaned back in the chair, straining so much against her ropes once again that they cut in, drawing more blood. “Did you hate your husband so much that anything which looked like him was doomed in your eyes?”

Something fleeting passed over Catherine’s expression. It was some sort of recognition, before it was shut down fast.

“It was his spawn.”

Margaret felt sick, with bile rising in her throat. Catherine had called her own son, it.

“Did it not matter he was half of you?”

Catherine walked around Margaret, laying a hand on her shoulder. Margaret tried to lean away from that touch, disgusted by it.

“The day they handed that bundle in my arms, I knew what it was. I never wanted it. Never wanted him. Yet he was forced on me. I had to look down at those little eyes and see my husband staring back at me.” Catherine was shaking, her hand trembling on Margaret’s shoulder now. “No, you must be protected from the past. The past can’t be allowed to repeat itself again. I shall take you away from here.”

“Away? Where?” Margaret managed to move out of her hold. Catherine walked around her, wringing her hands together now.

“Yes, yes. We shall go far from here,” she was talking to herself, practically ignoring Margaret. “The journey will be long. It’s not ideal, to keep you tied up all that time, but in time, you’ll come to see it is for your own good.”

“You intend to abduct me!?” Margaret spat. She tried her best to rise from the chair, but she only succeeded in nearly tipping it over. Forced back down again by her ties, she glowered up at Catherine.

“Not abduct you.” Catherine laughed, as if the idea were truly a mad one. “To protect you.” She stepped toward Margaret. “Once we’re in Scotland, you’ll be safe from him. He’s unlikely to find you there. I’ve found a place where we can go. Were you will be safe.”

“Scotland!?” Margaret spluttered. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Least of all Scotland! I am going home.”

She looked around at the chains fastened to the wine cellar wall, realizing that she couldn’t be far away from home if this was the place where Catherine had kept her son locked up for hours at a time when he was a boy.

“How often did you hurt him?” The words spilled out of Margaret suddenly.

“As often as was necessary.” Catherine’s answer made Margaret quake in fear, but not for her. For Theo.

No wonder he is the strong and steely man he is now. He taught himself to be that man, to pretend nothing could hurt him again.

“It’s time now. Yes, it’s time. We can’t afford to dally any longer. Now you are awake, we must take advantage of the moment and speed away.” Catherine moved to the doorway, returning a second later with a pelisse in her hand.

It was excessively fine, too beautiful in fact. Catherine didn’t even seem to notice that it would be too thin to keep out the snow and the cold as she thrust it toward Margaret.

Silently, Margaret nodded at her hands.

“If I untie you…” Catherine began slowly. “You will not fight me on this, will you? You will come away. As you must.”

“On one condition.” Margaret met her eye. “I will come, and I will not fight, if you tell me one more thing.”

“What?” Catherine urged in a hurry. Clearly, now she had made up her mind that they needed to go, she was determined they should leave at once.

“Why did you hate Theodore’s father so much?”

Catherine blinked. Plainly, she had not expected such a question.

“To marry a bully is to marry the devil himself.” She shook, her hand clutching the outstretched pelisse now trembling madly. “He never hid his character from me. Not once. The marriage was arranged, thrust upon me, against my wishes. As but a woman, what choice did I have?”

Sympathy stretched in Margaret.

Before her stood a woman who had been forced into a life she did not want.

Then she remembered the feeling of the blood running down her wrists, and the aching pain in the base of her skull. Perhaps Catherine had been someone she could understand… once. Yet not anymore.

“What happened to him?” Margaret whispered. “What became of Theodore’s father?”

“He died.”

“I know, but when? How?” Margaret asked. “Theodore has never spoken of it. No one has –”

“Enough!” Catherine abruptly shrieked. All semblance of humanity escaped her face. She looked more creature than human at all. “We are not to talk of him anymore. It’s time to leave. Yes, you will come now.”

Margaret wriggled in her chair once again.

“You’ll have to untie me, Catherine.”

Slowly, Catherine took a step toward her. Any trust she might have felt in Margaret coming quietly, however, must have bled away when she saw Margaret’s expression.

“You’ll fight me on this… won’t you?” Catherine asked in a tiny voice.

“I will not run from a man.”

“From a demon!”

“I only see one demon in your family. It’s not Theodore,” Margaret spat under her breath.

“You…” Catherine raised her hand. She was going to strike Margaret, and there was nothing Margaret could possibly do to avoid it.

Then there was a noise on the stairs. Someone was running, heavy footsteps heading this way.

“Out of my way!” a voice demanded.

“Theo…” Margaret whispered.

Catherine’s hand fell limp at her side.

Theodore shoved the man away again. He vaguely recognized him. The tall, hulking figure was one Theodore had seen hanging around his mother’s carriage at times when they had crossed paths. He presumed the man must have been in his mother’s service, though he may have done much more than just drive her cart.

Theodore thundered down the wine cellar steps.

He could remember coming down these steps as a child. No taller than his mother’s hip, he had been thrown down them once. He could remember now the sharp pain in his ribs as he had landed heavily on the flagstone floor.

His feet landed loudly on those stones now as he looked around the cellar.

Margaret was tied to a chair. His stomach ached when he saw the blood around her wrists, and how her ankles were even tied to the feet of the chair too. Catherine stood beside her, a cloak at her shoulders and a pelisse in her grasp. Her grey eyes didn’t blink as she stared back at him.

“Maggie –” Theodore barely got the word out before he heard the man’s footsteps behind him.

“Johnson, be careful!” Catherine warned the man.

Theodore didn’t need to turn to know what weapon was now being forced against the back of his head. He felt the barrel of the pistol into the base of his skull.

Margaret was in pure terror, her cheeks white, her eyes frantic.

“Don’t hurt him!” she shrieked. “Please!”

The safety catch was taken off the pistol.

I could die at any moment.

Something awful happened to Theodore. Was this to be his end? Dying in this awful wine cellar after all? So many times as a child had he feared this would be his last resting place. He wasn’t going to let that be his future now.

“I’m taking her away from you,” Catherine spat, moving between him and Margaret. Fortunately, Theodore was so tall, he could see over his mother’s head, and still look at Margaret.

She twisted her hand and winced. That’s when he caught the sight of blood dripping down her neck too.

She’s been struck!

“Maybe I couldn’t save myself from the devil, but I will save your wife from his spawn.” Catherine threw her arms in Theodore’s direction. He calmly looked over her head.

He had learned once in this room, long ago, that the way to hurt Catherine the most was to show her that she couldn’t hurt him.

“I tried to make you normal. I tried to drive out the evil from you, but I failed. I could not do it. God forgive me, I could not do it, but he sees all.” She seemed quite mad, turning in a circle as she thrust her finger back toward him. “He sees what you truly are!”

Still, he looked over her head at Margaret. The blood on her wrists was more evident now as she turned her hands back and forth, desperately trying to escape. Theodore wanted to run to her, but feared the moment he moved, Johnson would take his shot and he’d be dead.

“You didn’t even shed a tear when your father died. You saw the fire, and still, you didn’t cry. No humanity! No tears!”

She hadn’t cried either.

Theodore kept the thought to himself.

“You never smiled either. Emotion was alien to you!”

You never gave me a reason to smile.

“I should have drowned you at birth!” Catherine hurled the words angrily at him. “I should have taken you to that cleaning basin and drowned you in it.”

Margaret cried now. Fresh tears fell from her cheeks at the horror of the words, but Theodore felt merely numb at his mother’s insults. He had heard it all before. He had learned how not to feel the pain of them.

He thought he could feel nothing anymore, but he had been quite wrong. Margaret coming into his life had showed him what capacity he had left to still feel.

“Did she do that to you?” Theodore addressed his wife alone. “Maggie… the back of your head.”

“Leave!” Catherine wailed. “Leave now! I will not let you take her. I shall save her from you.”

“No,” Margaret whispered. Without words, she made plain who had done it. She looked at Johnson behind him.

A fury took over Theodore. It was as if he could feel the thunder that sometimes overtook the clouds was now welling up inside of him. Calmly, with quiet fury, he turned back to look at Johnson.

The man’s hand didn’t shake, his dark eyes staring back at Theodore, peering over the barrel of the gun.

“Leave, be gone, demon, you – ah!” Catherine screeched as Theodore pulled back his hand and punched Johnson hard in the nose.

There was an almighty crack of bone as Johnson went down. His nose was broken, the blood pouring at once as Theodore stamped on his hand next. Johnson cried out, dropping the gun, allowing Theodore to snatch it up fast. Unconscious, Johnson could put up no further fight.

“You shall not win,” Catherine wailed once more, her voice moving.

Theodore whipped around to see that Catherine now stood over Margaret.

“You shall leave us. You shall run now, or… or I shall hurt her.” Catherine raised her hand.

It looked rather pathetic now, her hand held high over Margaret’s head.

Theodore had learned to fear her hits as a child, but not now. If he needed to, he could stop that strike.

“You will not hurt her,” Theodore warned. He didn’t match the animation in his mother’s voice but kept calm and dark. He moved toward the pair of them, just as Catherine raised her hand higher.

“Another step, and I will – no!” She broke off as he caught her wrist, stopping that hand from falling on Margaret.

“Hurt her… lay another finger on her…” Theodore said, his voice deathly now. He saw the fear in his mother’s eye.

Perhaps I can be like my father after all.

The terror he saw in those gray eyes made her no longer look like steel, but meek.

“I will make you pay for it,” Theodore warned. He then threw her wrist backward, forcing Catherine to stumble away.

She gripped her wrist, rubbing it continuously, checking for a wound, even though Theodore knew he hadn’t gripped hard.

“Maggie.” He dropped to his knees in front of Margaret and untied the ropes. “You’re bleeding.”

“Theo.” The moment he loosened one of her hands, she reached out toward him, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“For her. For what she put you through.” Her breath hitched. “It should never have happened.”

Her hand clutched tightly onto his jacket, the blood smattering across his lapel, though he hardly cared. As long as she was safe, he would have taken his whole suit being a complete mess. He took her hand and turned it over, kissing just above her wrist and holding his lips to her for a few seconds longer than he should have done.

She whimpered, a soft sort of moaning sound, showing how much that kiss meant to her.

As much as it means to me.

“It’s not your task to apologize for it.” He released her ankles then took her out of the chair, turning her in his arms so she was safe, and he was between her and his mother. “I never expected an apology from her.”

“An apology?” Catherine repeated, her jaw falling slack. Still, she clung onto her wrist that bore no injury, as if he had burned her skin. “Why would I apologize?”

“She’s mad,” Margaret muttered, clutching onto him. He laid a hand across her back and waist, holding her tight, keeping her safe.

“It was a madness put there by my father. It bred… it grew… until she was no longer human at all,” Theodore whispered. “Tell me, Catherine.” She jerked at his use of her name. “Was it all to punish me for being his son?”

He nodded at the chains on the wall where she had held him prisoner and hurt him.

“You should have died,” she suddenly spat. “If you had died when he did, it would never have needed to happen. You should have died in those flames. As he did!”

“He died in a fire?” Margaret muttered, her fingers closing tight on his arm. He held his hand over hers, trying to offer some sort of silent comfort in the midst of all this horror.

“He did,” Theodore whispered. “I was young, I barely remember it, but I remember…” He closed his eyes. The fire had taken hold fast. Mrs. Lancaster and the rest of the staff had been screaming.

Mrs. Lancaster was the one who had got him out of the house. They had run into the stable yard together, taking cover from the flames. His father had never made it out of the house, yet his mother had.

“We were amazed when you came out of the house,” Theodore said to Catherine. “You came out… so calmly…” He asked a question next that he had been terrified to ask his whole adult life. “Were you the one to start the fire, Mother?”

It was the first time he could remember calling her that.

She wailed, a broken thing, rather than a human at all. She fell against the wall, shaking her head and clutching her chest.

“It was supposed to kill you both!” she spat.

Theodore needed to hear no more. He took Margaret’s hand and dragged her out of the cellar, as far away from his mother as he could possibly get her.