Chapters (76)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Also by Karen Brooks
- Title Page
- Dedication
- EXPLANATORY NOTE
- PART ONE
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- PART TWO
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- PART THREE
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- PART FOUR
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Epilogue: Autumn 1706
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- GLOSSARY
- LIST OF CHARACTERS
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Seumas Cowper, the reverend’s oldest son, a rangy lad in his twenties, with thinning hair and narrow lips, who’d appeared when the screaming started, raced towards the kirk, casting a dark glance in Sorcha’s direction as he did so. ‘Fetch the doctor, would you, Mrs McIntyre?’ said Patrick over his shoulder as he kicked open the front door. Blocking entry momentarily, he waited for her acquiescence. He didn’t want her coming inside his house.
‘Of course,’ said Sorcha and, forgetting her creel and the bucket, ran back towards the High Street, aware of the whispers and pointing fingers of the Mortons’ neighbours, many of whom simply poured into the house behind Patrick, his now rigid, silent son and weeping daughters.
She hadn’t even reached the corner when she heard words that made her heart sink. ‘What’s that bucket doing there? Och, what mischief is this?’
As she spun around, she saw Mrs Crawford waddling towards the bucket, Mr Roberts and Mr Baker heeding her call. Upon their heels were Cowper’s two eldest girls, frowning and whispering behind their hands before raising their heads and staring at Sorcha with granite eyes.
She didn’t wait to hear what they might say, but ran, the feeling in her stomach transforming into a leaden weight.
Eleven
ELEVEN
Keeping’ the stick in the wud man’s e’e.
(Keeping an argument going too long.)
It was late before Sorcha was finally able to go home. The sun had long since set and the wind had picked up, bringing with it a touch of frost as well as the melancholy sigh of the ocean and the smell of peat, fish and other reminders of comfort. An argument erupted from within a house, a lone bird shrilled. Smoke obscured the stars, but Sorcha knew they were there. It was the first night in ages there were no clouds. If she was up to it, she would try and see the starlight later, offer a few prayers for her family and the poor lad who lay stricken.
Sorcha had raised the doctor, but returned to the Mortons only to be denied entry. Joining the curious throng waiting outside for news, she was there when the reverend forced his way through and was admitted immediately. To her dismay, the bucket had been removed — to where, she dared not ask. Gossip was rife already. Talk of a wicked charm spread. Some of the folk had been inside and seen Peter laid on his bed. Sorcha didn’t need to ask how he fared, it was on everyone’s lips.
‘His face was unrecognisable,’ said Hetty Collins, the butcher’s wife, rubbing her gnarled hands together. ‘All twisted and ferocious.’ She pulled her mouth and widened her eyes to demonstrate.
‘Aye, and his chest was like a barrel, fit to burst.’
Sorcha couldn’t see who was speaking, only hear the glee.