The old woman rocked on her stool, moaning, crooning, “Fawn-de-la, nah greit. Muirneach my babe, bye-baby-bye. Cush-nah, babe.”
“I am so sorry, dear Goody,” I said in a low whisper.
She looked startled. “She was so bonny, my babe. So winsome and merry.”
“How lovely she was,” I said, nodding as if I knew. “Just a small child?”
“Yes. Small as a puppy. Tiny like her great-grandmother. A wee bairny.”
I stiffened. I had not heard that word in so long. “Are you better now?”
“I am, dearie. Usually after such a storm I have to weep until I can weep no more. You have broken that part of the curse.”
“I have done almost nothing, Goody Carnegie, except believe you. Is it your child, the one whom you mourn?”
“My only child. My wee one. My very heart I would give for her.”
“And you did.”
She looked upon me, startled, and a glimmer of a smile appeared at her lips. “Aye. I did that. Heart and mind, of mine, both went into the grave with her. Would you have some tea? It is a mess in here.” She arose and started dumping sand and leaves from the teacups. “I haven’t put the kettle on this morn.”
“I will help you, if you like.” I meant to be reserved, to keep everything hidden and held, both my shame at being treated so by Wallace, and my guilt in taking his love, if the fault were partly mine, from Serenity. By the time we had breakfasted on tea and bread—I did not tell her my cup had sand in it—I had explained what happened in more detail than I intended. In all of it, Goody Carnegie remained quiet and thoughtful. I wondered if perhaps she could not comprehend my words. Finally, I said, “I need an honest way to earn thirty pounds or more. I want to go home to Jamaica.”
“She is not there.”
“Madam?”
Goody shook her head. “Nothing. I get things mixed sometimes, now and long ago. I see it as if it is happening right before my eyes again and again. Sometimes when I awaken I am in a different place than when I lay down.”
I nodded as if this made perfect sense though I did not understand at all. I supposed she had not heard me. I said, “At your word, men in this town gathered and listened to me. You must have some influence. I have no right to ask your help but I fear I have made enemies and there is no one else I know. Some might help out of Christian charity; some would not for the same reason. There are people here very devout and others up the road who thought I was a fairy.”
“They only listen because they are afraid. That’s the Boyne family. The old man and woman. Their son went down a well and they believe it was fairies did it. Or I.”
“I am afraid my reputation is a rat’s nest already. I know no one who would trust me save yourself. I have some skills, though. I sew, embroider. I can spin and weave, too. If you know someone who would take me in as a servant, paid, so that I could save fifteen pounds—”
“You can? Here I thought you were a lady.”
“I am.”
“I meant not that way.” She scratched her head ferociously. Her hair was matted and snarled, looking like a giant gray animal perched atop her head. “Well, you could live here with me but you wouldn’t want to and I would not want it, either. I get too sad, and I fret, and talk to myself and to people who are not here, but I think of them then I talk to ’em. I could not pay you but I could give you the other house to live in. Come here.” With that, she was off, marching up the road, her hair flying in the damp morning. I grabbed my parcels and dashed to catch up with her as she prattled on and on. “At least you’d have a roof. I don’t live there, o’ course. Haven’t since the time of my sorrows, and won’t ever again. It is haunted, you see, and sometimes the spirits in there chase me, when it is raining heavy. They won’t bother you; it’s me they come for. If I could move away to another country I would, to be free of them.”
“But how would I earn money?”
“I’ll show it to you.”
The day went sultry before we had gone a quarter mile. I pictured that perhaps she was taking me to one of the ramshackle hovels I had passed before I got to the Boynes’ house. Goody Carnegie turned up a lane which climbed a small hill and circled it. I was hard put to keep up with her, for her nightly jaunts must have put strength in her legs, or else it was true what I had heard that sometimes the mad are unearthly strong.
“Much farther?” I asked, when she came to an abrupt halt.