The Butcher's Daughter

Chapter 21

You belong among the wildflowers,
You belong in a boat out at sea.
Sail away, kill off the hours,
You belong somewhere you feel free.
-Tom Petty

She had only drifted off for a moment, but that moment was just long enough. Long enough for the fear that had compelled her to remain seated all night at the windowsill in the first place to unfold. In the early morning light, her husband arrived at the steps of the schoolhouse. He knocked quietly at first, whispering her name into the cracks along the doorframe. The volume of those knocks grew with his concern. William had slept off his drinking, but remained lightly effected, tired and parched from his long ride and also, regretful. If only he could see her, hold her in his arms and tell Annabelle how fondly he admired every one of the childish whims that he had dismissed so coldly the other day! As he called for Annabelle a third time, he heard the sound of boots, large and clumsy, the antithesis of his wife's small, white feet in the grass behind him.

He rode past the many images of Mabel in Three Vines and it was not until he arrived in Waterford that William had made the connection. It was one thing to be notorious and sought after, with a price always hanging over his head. But to see his daughter and, due to the strong similarities in their appearances, his wife, in such peril, William was no longer in hot water. The pot was boiling over and scorching his skin every time he dared to move.

"Show yourself!" William demanded. He drew his blade and stood in front of the doorframe, instinctively protecting the mere notion of the precious girl he still believed to be housed therein. "Stay inside, Annabelle," he whispered, hoping that he had been heard.

As was expected, a man, probably the owner of one of the nearby business, approached with his musket smartly aimed at the dragoon's wide chest. "So, it is true," he started, "there's more to the babbling Annabelle Casey, than meets the eye. She always was easily persuaded, but for a redcoat to have her as his whore-"

The reflection of the rising sun projected off William's sword as he swung. That flash of light along with a defensive shot from the villager's musket caused Annabelle to awaken. All that she saw before running in desperation down the wooden stairway and into the chapel, was a bright spraying of blood across the branches of the dormant apple tree. She found no obstructions, no Reverend Chelsea to stop her from running out of the church and onto the lawn. The poor man, who she recognized as Mr. Rook, the father of one of her favorite students, lay partially decapitated at her husband's boots.
It would have been in her best interest to grab William's arm and run while they still had the chance, but she found that she couldn't look away from the violent end that befell Mr. Rook. "What have you done, William?! The Rooks are simple glovemakers. They have a child! They are good, God-fearing people!"

"He took his aim and I was faster. That is all." He grabbed Annabelle by the hand and started to move towards his horse. She was about to demand a better explanation when gunfire surrounded them from every angle. As the noise of airborne ammunition whirred past their heads and bodies, Annabelle felt his grip loosen and saw the downward effect of gravity on his strong frame. William had been shot. "Ride East," he told her as the shock and pain overcame him, "my men will find you."

She mounted the horse, but instead of riding away, she reached for her husband a second time. Just then, a sweltering pain dominated the central region of her upper torso. A faint, agonizing cry filled the air as she fell forward, temporarily drowning in the red-brown river of the horse's mane.

When her hand fell limply from William's grasp, a sudden surge of energy allowed him to draw his musket, pull himself onto the saddle and shoot back, all the while, shielding Annabelle as best he could. The pain from the bullet in his thigh was both radiating and restricting, but he willed it into numbness as they rode, quickly and chaotically through the woods in hopes of losing the men who trailed in pursuit. He was faster, he was always faster and any injury that he might have obtained before and after their escape made little difference. If anything were to trouble William, it would be the uncharacteristic silence of his wife. He would trade an eternity in hell just to hear her voice speaking those words and singing those silly songs that he had rendered trivial just days before.