The Witch's Tree, page 1
THE WITCH’S TREE
ELENA COLLINS
To Irene, my mum.
CONTENTS
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Notes
Acknowledgments
More from Elena Collins
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
Firefly sparks swirl up the chimney as logs hiss and smoulder in the grate, the blackened twigs twisted like charred bones. Smoke curls upwards, silent as a spell, as she holds out her palms and warms the span of her hands until they are too hot. Behind the window, a breeze blusters, seeping through the shutters. She smooths her skirt and stares into the hearth, watching flames leap, lick and slacken. There is no sound except the crackling fire. The blackthorn tree taps three times against the window, casting long shadows across the moon.
She moves outside on soundless feet to stand in the damp night garden. An owl sweeps its wings, hooting a single hollow cry; a hare leaps and is gone. She reaches slender fingers towards the sky as if to pluck something from it. Then the air becomes raw with cold as familiar voices echo from the old stone well. She knows the sound: it is as recognisable as her own heartbeat. She breathes out, murmuring softly in reply: it is her time now.
Over three hundred years have passed and the cottage stands solid through many changes. The old staircase has gone, the thatched roof has been tiled, the hearth is not quite as it was. The house hides so many memories, so many years of fingers touching the same walls, being warmed by the same fire.
She knows the house well: it is hers, she will not leave it. She peers through the windows, but her breath leaves no mist on the glass. The old stone well chatters and she whispers words that ripple in the deep water.
The blackthorn tree has remained in the ground for many times its natural lifespan, unbending in the dawns and dusks of each year: it belongs to her. Dark roots delve beneath the earth, deep as unspoken truths: its flowers blossom each May and sprout bitter fruits in October. It never rests and she too, can never rest.
Now two women stay beneath the same roof, sharing the same shelter. The walls keep out the cold, hold strangers beyond the door; it is a refuge where secrets and promises and love are precious treasures that have never been uttered for centuries.
Two women live in the house, embraced in its protective hold, watching, waiting. Two women, one then, one now.
1
MARCH, THE PRESENT DAY. MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
Selena had rehearsed what to say. She had imagined the perfect outcome, hoped for it with all her being: David would be delighted with the news, a baby, a new future for them both, away from Manchester, away from Veronica. She’d believed a new start was everything they had both wanted. She had been wrong. His eyes had darkened with anger; he’d shouted, she’d protested, he’d sulked, she’d cajoled, then he’d held her away from him and hissed, ‘No, Selena. It can’t happen. I didn’t sign up for this. I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. It’s not what I want.’ Then he had picked up his coat and left without another word, like a slap to the face.
Now, much later, as she gazed through the bedroom window at the night sky, at the busy road below, cars passing, people’s lives continuing normally, Selena was numb. The harsh tone of David’s voice still echoed in her ears. His mind had been made up in an instant, and she still couldn’t believe the shock of it all.
Selena crawled into bed and stared into darkness, unable to sleep, unable to stop her mind racing. The conversation was playing over and over again, as if it was still happening, although David had left hours ago. She had watched him turn away, noticing the stubborn set of his shoulders as he closed the door. How had it gone so badly when she had imagined he’d take her in his arms and promise to look after her? She’d hoped this would be the reason he would finally leave his wife.
Selena rolled over, her hands cradling her abdomen; the baby was not showing yet at seven weeks. She asked herself how she felt, and immediately three powerful emotions charged back at her. She was hurt: David had broken her heart, along with all her hopes and dreams. She felt foolish: she should have seen the signs. Claire had warned her: once she’d discovered that David was married, she knew that it was wrong to love him. Then she felt a happiness, a lightness: she was expecting a baby, a new life, and it filled her with joy. The three emotions battled for supremacy. Of course, the baby won hands down, but Selena felt deeply hurt and embarrassingly foolish.
She heard the door to the apartment click: Claire, her flatmate, was keeping late hours: she had been to a party. Selena’s first thought was to slip out of bed, reach for her dressing gown, run to Claire, hug her and burst into tears. Claire would fling her arms around her, give her a shoulder to cry on; she would say ‘I told you so.’ And it was true, Claire had repeated it, many times: a relationship with a married man was bound to end in tears, especially one like David, often self-absorbed, uncommitted and capable of manipulation. But Selena had not meant to fall in love with a married man. David had not mentioned his wife for the first six months, then, out of the blue, he had held her hand tenderly, gazed into her eyes and told her he had something he desperately needed to tell her. He promised that he truly loved her, that he and Veronica were long over, that his wife was vulnerable, brittle, and he was waiting for the right moment to leave. They no longer shared anything together, not their lives, not their bed: the marital home was an empty, loveless shell. Selena had believed him eagerly, loved him passionately, she had trusted him completely. Then, a month later, she’d discovered that she was pregnant.
Selena heard a soft thump, a muffled expletive. Claire had probably stubbed a toe: no doubt she had drunk a few glasses of wine. Tonight was not the best time to ask for sympathy. Selena would talk to her tomorrow.
She rolled over in bed because her phone was buzzing: David! She had texted him earlier, twice, begging him to reconsider, and now he had answered. She grabbed her phone from the bedside table, imagining a frantic apology, promises of love: he would tell her he had reacted stupidly; he’d changed his mind – everything would be all right. But the number wasn’t one she recognised.
She held the phone to her ear and mumbled ‘Hello.’ There was no reply, just silence, the strange sound of someone listening, then the line crackled, dead. Selena groaned, wondering who would call a wrong number at almost two o’clock in the morning. She cradled her belly and squeezed her eyes shut. Sleep was the best option, but it would not come easily.
The following day, Selena’s sleepless night showed in her bleary eyes as she hunched over the breakfast table in her dressing gown clutching a cup of peppermint tea, her red hair held back in a ponytail, her brow smudged with tiredness.
Claire, in contrast, was bright-eyed and fully dressed. Her spiky blonde crop was damp from the shower as she stood by the worktop pouring black coffee. She told Selena what she already knew. ‘You look like death. I assume it went badly with David.’
‘Worse than badly.’ Selena’s eyes filled with tears again. ‘I’ve been so stupid, haven’t I?’
‘You know you have,’ Claire said kindly, sitting across the table, reaching over and taking her hand. ‘What did he say?’
‘Basically…’ Selena shook her head. ‘He doesn’t want to have a child with me; it was unplanned, and he said – what was his phrase? – “I didn’t sign up for this.” Then he suggested I was trying to trap him. Do you know…’ her eyes widened, ‘… he even said that his wife would be devastated if she knew he had a pregnant girlfriend because she can’t have children. In all of this, he put Veronica first, and that tells me what I already suspected, that he has no intention of leaving her.’
Claire wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you think she knows about the two of you?’
‘She doesn’t. He’s been promising for the last month to tell her when the time was right. There was always something – her mother was ill, then she was too fragile. And, of course, I trusted him. But now…’ A tear slipped down her cheek.
‘Now what?’ Claire sipped her coffee, her expression quizzical. ‘What are your plans?’
‘I’ve learned a hard lesson.’ Selena wiped the tear away with the back of her hand. Another tear followed quickly. ‘But I’ll bring up my baby alone. I can manage – oh, my goodness, Claire – I neve
‘Don’t even think about it.’ Claire’s tone was firm. ‘You’ll stay here. You can look after the baby and keep painting. We have the gallery together. You are in a strong position financially. Look at everything as a positive, Selena.’ She squeezed her hand. ‘It’s a baby, a new life. That’s so exciting.’
‘I wanted to share it with David. I hoped we’d find our own place together; I hoped…’ Selena took a deep breath. ‘Oh, I’ve been so stupid. I should have left him as soon as I found out that he was married.’
‘Okay. Positive thinking.’ The toaster ejected bread and Claire was on her feet, knife poised, spreading butter. ‘We’ll go down to the gallery together and sell some paintings. The latest ones you’ve done are attracting so much interest, the landscapes, Pendle, North Yorkshire.’
Selena sighed. ‘All painted from photos I took when I was with David.’
‘David’s let you down. He promised so much, but he just never came up with the goods, did he?’
Selena shook her head miserably. ‘I truly believed that he wanted a new start with me. He swept me off my feet. How could I have been so naïve?’
‘He’s unreliable. And selfish. Seriously, there are better people out there, trustworthy men, nice ones – or no man at all. That’s a choice too.’
Selena nodded weakly. ‘David was a terrible choice – you always said that.’
‘Even before he told you he was married – and how long into your relationship did you discover that nugget of information? Six months?’
‘Yes – he always had to be somewhere else, and I just believed what he told me, that he was travelling for work, staying in hotels, photographing different locations. I can’t believe how deluded and pathetic I’ve been,’ Selena said. ‘And when I found out he had a wife, it was too late. I was in love with him. And he told me not to worry, he was going to leave her…’
Claire sighed. ‘I have to say, I always knew he was a liar, with his flowers and flattery and that soft wheedling voice he has.’
‘You told me often enough,’ Selena admitted. ‘We don’t have much luck in love, do we, Claire?’
‘Let’s not go there, regretting things, feeling sorry for ourselves. Our luck is fine. We’re single, independent, solvent.’ Claire hooted a laugh, the wave of her hands dismissive, carefree. ‘I’m over a bad marriage. I have this flat; we share a business that’s doing really well, our paintings sell like hot cakes. You have a baby on the way. It all looks good from where I’m standing.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Selena wasn’t sure. ‘We both left uni – what – fifteen years ago? This isn’t how I thought things would be by the time I was thirty-eight. A single mum-to-be, painting my pictures in your flat…’
‘We’re fine.’ Claire’s mouth was full of toast. ‘Come on – get dressed and we’ll go down to the gallery, open up, make some money, chat to some clients.’
‘That’s where I met David. He was so interested in my paintings, in me, so charming and attentive.’
‘The D-word is banned.’
‘But what if he comes in to see me? What if he apologises, says he’s sorry and he’s changed his mind?’ Selena was surprised to hear the hopefulness in her voice. She was annoyed with herself, with her weakness where David was concerned.
Claire laughed again. ‘So what if he does? You tell him where to go. He’s let you down. He’s spineless.’
‘You’re right. But I feel so – dreadful.’ The tears still shone in Selena’s eyes. She took a breath, now determined. ‘Yes, okay, just give me twenty minutes to get my act together. I can do this. Life goes on.’ Her phone buzzed and Selena picked it up, murmuring a hello, listening for a moment, then she put it back on the table. ‘Nothing. Just silence. How odd.’
‘Wrong number,’ Claire said. ‘Come on – let’s get Saturday underway. We have a living to make – three mouths to feed.’
Claire winked and Selena eased herself up into a standing position. Her back was aching and she felt lethargy creep into her muscles and settle there, but she would put her best foot forward. Claire was right. She’d give herself a month to get over the heartache, then she’d be fine.
An hour later, Selena and Claire had opened the doors to Ariel Art, their gallery in a lively bohemian street close to the centre of Manchester. Claire had filled the coffee machine, which was bubbling away at the back of the gallery, the aroma of Arabica beans filling the shop. A few customers had arrived, perusing the paintings on the wall. Several pictures were Claire’s, bold images in the Social Realism style: gaunt families, distorted faces, splashes of bright colour. There were many other artists’ work, Cubist, Abstract, African art, but it was usually Selena’s paintings that took people’s breath away as they stared at stark landscapes, dark moody hills, low-hanging skies, turbulent storms.
She was seated on a stool, watching an older couple gaze at her interpretation of Pendle Hill, murmuring in low voices. Claire strode across to talk to them confidently, all crimson smile, tight jeans and shining blonde crop. Selena was feeling cold; she rubbed her hands together briskly. It was a blowy March morning outside, a few leaves and a stray piece of litter whirled up in the wind; she shivered. Despite being wrapped in a shawl, a long dress and thick boots, her bones ached. As she watched Claire chattering animatedly to the couple who were praising Selena’s painting, she suddenly felt weary.
Selena gazed around the little gallery, once a second-hand clothes shop which she and Claire had chosen for its perfect location and wide, double-fronted windows. They had painted the whole place sail-white, installed gold lighting and marvelled at how popular their project had quickly become. That had been ten years ago: Claire had been married to a musician called Ross and Selena had been living with Flynn, who had been her boyfriend since university.
So much had changed since then: her life had been a steady merry-go-round of unsuccessful partners, every relationship beginning with new hope and inevitably ending badly. The gallery and Claire were the only constants in her life.
Claire was talking to the cheerful couple; a bearded middle-aged man was loitering near the coffee machine. A professional-looking woman with huge round glasses was gazing at Selena’s painting of the Yorkshire Moors, Robin Hood’s Bay, another place she’d visited with David. A woman swathed in a black coat had just entered the gallery, her dark hair and sunglasses making her look a little like a sixties film star, like Jackie O.
Selena caught Claire’s eye, noticing the small wiggle of her finger as she called her over. ‘Perhaps you’d like the artist to tell you a little about the painting?’
Selena moved across to the couple, the slim woman in a smart suit, the man in a heavy overcoat with a neat goatee beard.
The woman’s eyes shone. ‘Oh, I know exactly where this view is. Pendle Hill is such an incredibly atmospheric place. I love the way you’ve captured the mystery and the magic of the place.’
The man agreed. ‘I was born near there, in Blackburn. Daphne and I know the area well. It’s a fabulous painting, so bleak and beautiful. When did you paint it?’
‘Last winter. I went there with my b— with my brushes and paints,’ Selena said. ‘Yes, Pendle Hill is such a great place to paint. The scenery somehow pulls you in.’
