The awakenings, p.1
The Awakenings, page 1
Contents
About the Author
Also by Sarah Maine
Title Page
Copyright
List of Characters
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Sarah Maine was born in England but grew up partly in Canada before returning to England for University. She studied archaeology and for many years worked in the profession but is now a freelance writer and researcher. She lives in York.
Also by Sarah Maine
The House Between Tides
Beyond the Wild River
Women of the Dunes
Alchemy and Rose
THE AWAKENINGS
Sarah Maine
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Sarah Maine 2022
The right of Ailsa Mainman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN 978 1 529 38511 3
Trade Paperback ISBN 978 1 529 38515 1
eBook ISBN 978 1 529 38513 7
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder.co.uk
LIST OF CHARACTERS
Fictional Victorian characters
Olwen Malkon of Swindale Hall
Her father and brothers, Oliver and William. Deceased
The Reverend and Mrs Malkon, Alfred and Edmond Malkon. Olwen’s uncle, aunt and cousins
Susan. Maid
Celia Goodfellow and Augusta Dudley. Olwen’s former governess/companion and her friend
Joyce. Maid
Dr John Osbourne. Physician
Herr Professor Brandt. Visiting professor at St Hilda’s House
Dr Nicholson and Dr Linton. Medical officers at St Hilda’s House
Mr and Mrs Percy. Retainers at Swindale Hall
Reagan. Self-styled keeper of Swindale woods
Inspector Redman and his constables. Police
The Bishop
Fictional historical characters
Ælwyn (Wyn). Ælfwald’s daughter
Oshere, (Heri). Grandson of Modig
Modig. Ruler of the land north of Hadrian’s wall
Bri. Heri’s companion
Historical figures
Ælfwald. King of Northumbria
Ælf and Ælfwinne. King Ælfwald’s sons
Osred. Nephew of King Ælfwald
Eanbald I. Archbishop of York
Æthelred. Deposed former king of Northumbria
Sicga. A nobleman in the court of Ælfwald
PROLOGUE
She woke and the dream, uncanny, fled.
But it left a lingering tail.
She rose and went to the window, pushing up the sash, and felt the night air, cool upon her face, and her pulse began to steady. The moon was full, and in its pale light the orchard trees turned to silver, with the ings spreading either side of the river, ethereal and lovely. Somewhere a fox barked and was answered by its mate from beyond the garden wall, where the church tower could just be seen. The air blew gently through the open window, spring-scented, and she closed her eyes and went on standing there, still troubled by the dream, until she grew chill. Shivering, she opened her eyes—
And stared out upon an altered scene.
She leaned forward. All was quite changed! The lawns and borders had gone, the brick walls and glasshouse had vanished, the orchard had become a woodland, and the trees, no longer arrayed in their spring finery, were shedding autumn leaves. She must be dreaming still for the moon, rising above the treetops, was now not a silvery orb but a huge harvest moon, and it hung there, blood red, in the night sky.
She looked over to where the church tower should be and found that it too had disappeared. In its place was a small wooden building, encircled by a wall and, in the pasture beyond the wall, a pale horse stood, its head turned towards her. And then she saw them, shadowy figures gathering close, and knew that their coming was because of her, and was afraid.
CHAPTER 1
That was the first time that Olwen’s odd dreams elided with reality. Until then they had been strange, haunting and disjointed, but they had at least remained within the boundaries of sleep. It felt as if she had been dreaming every night since the drowning – fractured images, desperate sequences and always a sense of urgency, a frantic striving to save a situation that was already lost.
This, perhaps, was what grief did. It took over the mind and paralysed the body.
The fever and chill she had developed upon departing from Swindale Hall, her erstwhile home, had proved a godsend; it gave her a reason to stay in her own room for much of the day, keeping away from a household that had offered such a chilly welcome. Her room was at the back of the vicarage, and it became her refuge. She lay abed now and rolled over, tangled in the sheets, and stared vacantly at the narrow bookshelf that housed a handful of books hastily gathered up upon departure, the remainder left behind in her larger, more congenial room at Swindale. ‘There’s no space for more,’ her aunt had told her. ‘You must adapt to having rather less accommodation than you’re used to …’ and be grateful. The unspoken words had echoed through the hall of the vicarage that first day when Olwen had stood, forlorn and defeated amongst her valises. ‘Besides,’ her uncle had added with a genial, unconvincing smile, ‘we have books aplenty here!’ Collections of sermons, no doubt, or dreary treatises, not the novels and stories that Celia had brought with her to Swindale.
Standing in the draughty vicarage hall Olwen had pleaded her cold, and been allowed to retire.
‘You will soon be well again.’ Her aunt’s tone brooked no other possibility.
Celia would have known how to bring comfort, Olwen thought. Celia would have been resolute in the face of these disasters. But Celia was gone, along with all that was familiar. The drownings, so swiftly followed by Father’s decline had left her devastated, thrown completely off-balance, numbed by it all, too stunned to think.
And alone, quite alone …
She had not known that Celia would leave her, but her aunt had told her the day after the funeral when she was already gone, her employment no longer a necessary expense. ‘We’ve no room in the vicarage for a governess you’ve long outgrown,’ she had told her. ‘I can’t imagine why your father kept her on for so long.’ Because she was her friend, Olwen had wanted to wail, because she made things all right. Celia had been her mentor, and her rock. But the triple tragedy that had befallen her family had been beyond even Celia’s ability to mend and Olwen’s protests had gone unheeded. And it seemed that, with Celia’s departure, her misery was absolute. Her uncle no doubt meant to make her feel welcome but he stressed rather too frequently that he was now responsible for her, her legal guardian, and that he was fulfilling his Christian duty in a wholly laudable manner, consistent with his standing in the parish. Olwen suspected that her aunt’s welcome was grounded in avarice rather than empathy, and as for her cousins – Alfred seemed to watch her, like a predator biding his time, while Edmond guilelessly accepted her arrival with indifference.
Closing up Swindale Hall after the funeral had mostly been undertaken while Olwen tossed in her bed, fever-ridden and incapable of rational thought. Mrs Percy, bless her, had seen to it all, suffering stoically the curt commands of her aunt, who had taken it upon herself to play the mistress.
Which she was not, of course. Sw indale Hall belonged to Olwen.
And yet the thought of living there again was inconceivable. Olwen rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. The place would be forever tainted by what had occurred there and she dreamed of it some nights, standing empty and hollow. In one such dream her brothers had sprung from under dust-sheeted furniture, dripping wet, shrieking with mirth at a prank well-played, ‘We knew we could fool you.’ And she had woken, daring for an instant to hope, only to slide back into despair as her reasoning returned. Sometimes in the dreams she heard her aunt’s voice: ‘There really isn’t space, you know …’ and it was not of books that she spoke. Or she would turn and see Alfred standing, framed in the doorway, staring back at her, his features too deeply shadowed to read. And yet, amongst the anguish and the sorrow, her dreams sometimes stirred in her a strange yearning, a longing, and she would glimpse a hillside, catching the scent of bluebells on the wind.
But last night it had been different, and she was left feeling unsettled and disturbed. A waking dream … Did such a thing exist? Or had grief brought her to the point where dreams and reality merged at the margins of consciousness? Since arriving at the vicarage she had exaggerated her illness in order to extend her solitude, but perhaps she was fevered still … And yet today was the day she had been told that she was well enough to go for the first time to Sunday service, and she sensed that any special pleading would fall upon deaf ears.
She dressed slowly, brushing her hair with care then twisting it into a knot at the nape of her neck and stared at herself. in the mirror, barely recognising the bruised expression and her dark-encircled eyes. And last night’s dream stayed with her … She went downstairs, troubled by it, and pushed open the door to the dining room where breakfast was being eaten. The vicar looked up, greeting her with bonhomie, ‘Ah! My dear child.’ His wife gave her an appraising nod, and Edmond offered a vague smile. There was no sign of Alfred, for which she was grateful.
The scale of disquiet that the dream had engendered, however, was completely eclipsed by what she felt halfway down the aisle of St Helen’s Church an hour or so later. And it changed everything. The fear came from nowhere, unheralded and shocking. She had entered the church through the porch, noting how the spring sunlight shafted through the lancet windows, lighting vases filled with pussy willow and sweet-smelling jonquil before pooling on the stone-flagged floor, and she had only taken a few steps before it struck her.
Fear without substance, all-consuming and real …
Grabbing the polished filial at the end of the pew, she turned in distress to Edmond, clutching at his arm and trembling. Startled, he sat her down. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
She shook her head, bewildered.
‘Olwen? You draw attention to yourself.’ Her aunt, behind them, hissed angrily and thrust a bottle of smelling salts under her nose.
Parishioners were flowing into the church as they did every Sunday but they came to an unexpected halt, their progress blocked, while those already seated craned their necks to watch the little drama unfold. The circumstances of Olwen Malkon’s arrival in the village had sustained gossip for the past fortnight and here she was, on her first appearance, behaving in such a diverting manner. The personification of youthful grief, the women thought, dewy-eyed and maudlin; how well black became her, their men decided, imagining how they might comfort her.
‘I cannot stay,’ she whispered up to Edmond.
His mother answered for him. ‘Nonsense. We set an example, Olwen, it is expected.’
‘But I cannot,’ she repeated, her eyes still on her cousin. And it was a plain fact. She could no more take a step forward than she could fly up to the rafters or perch on the rood screen. People were squeezing past them, taking their seats then twisting round to watch as the organ’s welcoming melody faded to swell again in the opening chords of the first hymn. Her aunt, pink-cheeked with annoyance, hissed at her again, gesturing to their pew at the front where, by now, they should be seated, hands folded in dutiful attention.
Setting an example.
‘I need air.’ Brushing aside the smelling salts, Olwen got to her feet, meeting the woman’s outraged eye. ‘Forgive me, but I cannot stay.’ Her palms were clammy and her heart thumped alarmingly.
‘Nonsense!’ her aunt repeated. ‘You must—’
She broke off as a quiet voice spoke from behind. ‘Can I be of assistance, Mrs Malkon?’
The woman turned and gave a tight smile. ‘You’re very kind, Dr Osbourne, a passing faintness, nothing more …’
‘I need air,’ Olwen insisted, desperate now and gulping, hemmed in by Edmond and her aunt. The smelling salts had cleared her head enough to sharpen the sense of menace.
‘And air you shall have.’ The doctor’s tone was firm. ‘Make way, if you will,’ he said, then lowered his voice and cocked an eyebrow at her aunt, ‘or I reckon you’ll have a scene on your hands.’
The woman bit her lip, aware of the growing buzz of interest, and conceded the ground. ‘Edmond, you go too.’ But Olwen had already slipped through the gap the doctor had created and was half-running back up the aisle, head down, oblivious to the curious stares. The doctor strode after her and Edmond, delayed for a moment by his mother, followed.
She reached the porch and stood there, gasping for air, her palm against the wall, while, behind her, the organ brought the congregation to its feet, and to order.
‘D’you feel sick?’ The doctor stepped in front of her and studied her face. She shook her head. ‘Dizzy?’ Another shake. ‘Good. Take off your bonnet.’ She tugged at the ribbons and he took it from her, tossing it onto the close-cropped grass, his eyes still on her face. ‘I’d loosen that crêpe collar if I were you, it looks too tight.’ It was, and she did. ‘Good. Now breathe in through your nose, deeply and slowly, while I count to five.’ He counted. ‘Out through your mouth. And again. One, two …’
Edmond emerged from the porch. ‘All right now, coz?’
‘… three, four …’ The doctor waved him to silence. ‘Let it go. And again. One, two …’ Confident fingers took hold of her wrist and he stared ahead as he noted her pulse, then smiled for the first time. ‘Calming nicely. Slow breathing helps. Always remember that. Are your stays too tight?’
Edmond guffawed. ‘Is that all it was?’
The doctor gave him an even look. ‘In my view, tight stays account for much that bedevils their wearers.’ Turning back to Olwen, he gestured to a tabular tomb, dark with velvety moss. ‘Sit a minute.’ He shrugged out of his jacket and folded it for her to sit upon. ‘D’you have anything to drink on you?’ he asked Edmond.
The youth proudly patted his pocket. ‘Brandy.’
‘Excellent.’ He snapped his fingers for it and Olwen, now seated, had recovered enough to appreciate the expression on her young cousin’s face as he surrendered his flask.
‘I don’t drink brandy,’ she remarked. ‘Nor do I wear my stays too tight.’
The doctor took the flask and sniffed its contents. ‘Pleased to hear it.’
‘Neither am I given to swooning and making an exhibition of myself.’
He handed it to her. ‘So what brought that on, d’you suppose? Take a drop, it’ll do you good.’ And while the brandy lit a fire in her throat, the hymn came to an abrupt end as if the congregation could suddenly see right through the nave wall and had been shocked into silence by the outrageous tableau they made. The vicar’s niece, in full mourning clothes, sitting, bare-headed, on a tombstone, sipping brandy, no less, with a stranger who stood there in his shirtsleeves, discussing her stays.
‘That’s better,’ the doctor said; the little smile had not escaped him.
‘Mama said we should slip in at the end of the hymn,’ Edmond said, glancing back towards the porch.
Olwen’s smile vanished. ‘No.’
‘No?’ The doctor explored her face. ‘Why not?’
‘I simply can’t.’ She looked aside, avoiding his scrutiny, and studied how the yew trees cast a dark shadow on the walls of the ancient chancel. Sentinels of the dead, someone had told her, heartwood red, sapwood white, the embodiment of Christ’s blood sacrifice. She swayed a little as the fog of fear came close.
‘Oh no you don’t.’ The doctor reached her in a stride. ‘Head down, between your knees.’ He recovered the brandy flask from her limp grasp and passed it to Edmond.
