‘Which means yes, you’d stay.’ He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. ‘Blood and mortar, I should have left the moment I heard you were coming back. I never should have waited.’
Nothing is as I thought it would be. All those years on the fens, I dreamt of this day. Of arriving home, grieving my father, but ready to take up his mantle as Caretaker, with Burleigh’s key in hand. Wyn was always there, in my dreams – I can’t imagine Burleigh House without him any more.
But neither can I stand to see him miserable.
‘Forget it,’ I reassure him. ‘It was wrong of me to ask you to stay here. Of course you aren’t happy at Burleigh House any more, how could you be? I’m being selfish – don’t pay me any mind. I wish you all the luck in the world, wherever it is you’re going.’
I hold out a hand for him to shake, and at first he only stares at it. But then he slides the rucksack from his shoulder and lets it drop to the floor.
‘I’ll stay until tomorrow,’ Wyn says. ‘That’s all, though. After that I’m gone, Violet. For good.’
When he walks away without taking my hand, it feels like another death. I stand alone in the hallway for a long time, just trying to piece myself back together.
5
Athousand questions crowd together at the back of my throat as we sit down to supper in Burleigh’s enormous kitchen following an afternoon of settling in. The long staff table that once sat my father’s household of twenty might seem empty with only the four of us, if not for the low evening sun pouring in the kitchen windows. The light at Burleigh House has always been thick and golden as a new-minted coin, and it’s as good as company in a pinch.
And then there are the things we skirted around on the fens, never speaking of, which hang heavy on the air. They can’t be avoided any longer, though, not now we’re back home. I gather my courage and ask the question no one’s ever yet been willing to answer.
‘I know he was looking for it, but did Papa ever actually find the location of Burleigh’s deed?’
Mira freezes with her teacup halfway to her lips, and Jed sets his fork down with a clatter. A muscle works in his jaw. ‘What are you doing, Violet?’
‘It’s no secret that’s why Papa was charged with treason – he’d been looking for the deed to Burleigh House, planning to set it free.’ I butter a piece of bread and bite into it, though there’s a rumble coming up from the floor beneath my feet at the mention of deeds. It makes me nervous, but I won’t show my worry in front of Jed. Hold on, Burleigh. Keep your vines and thorns at bay, because we can’t do without a kitchen. ‘I’m asking all of you – did he find the deed?’
‘He was killed just for looking, and that should be enough for you,’ Jed says. He gets up abruptly and stalks out the kitchen door into the overgrown vegetable garden. It’s a sign of how upset Jed is that he forgets to touch the mezuzah he’s already put up when passing by. There’s a clatter as he opens the shed, and then the scratching of a hoe against unworked soil.
We sit in silence for a long while after Jed leaves. Wyn is withdrawn, not looking anywhere but at the plate in front of him.
Finally, Mira reaches out to pat my hand. ‘He loved your father, Jed did. Thought the sun rose and set on him. But he loves you more, Violet. We both do. And Jed’s been afraid of answering that question for you since George died.’
‘Why?’ I protest. ‘No one ever talks to me. Don’t I have a right to know how far Papa got before—’
The rumble beneath my feet intensifies. A vine – sharp-thorned bramble, not English ivy – twines up the table leg and brushes against my hand. Absently, I run my fingers along its spiny green leaves, mindful of the thorns.
‘It’s not just a question you’re asking,’ Mira says. ‘It’s treason even to speak of taking a deed from the king. So if you want to stay in this House without ending up like your father did, you’ll hold your tongue, mind your own business, and do as His Majesty bids you.’
‘I’ll be happy like that, will I?’ I ask, not bothering to hide my distaste for her suggestion. ‘Just rolling over like a well-mannered dog and begging the king for favours? Letting Burleigh House go to ruin?’
Mira looks straight at me, her gaze unflinching. ‘Happy is neither here nor there. You’ll be alive, which is more important. You were happy on the fens – you could have had that life, but you chose to return here.’
‘I wasn’t happy on the fens,’ I say, pushing my plate aside. Any appetite I had is gone.
‘Content, then.’
‘Nor content. I was waiting, Mira. Biding my time, until I could come home. I’ll never be happy anywhere but at Burleigh House.’
‘Then reconcile yourself to the way things are,’ Mira warns. ‘His Majesty won’t make you Caretaker. Your father failed to get the deed. Burleigh House is falling apart – did you see the countryside? Folk around here are suffering because of this place. It might be better if—’
‘Don’t say it.’ I turn away and fiddle with the sleeve of my blouse to hide how her words pain me.
Mira sighs. ‘Vi, my darling girl, I’m not trying to hurt you by telling you the truth. But the fact is, I’m not sure there’s a safe way of keeping this House.’
Getting up from my place, I kneel at Mira’s side, taking her work-worn hands in my own. ‘I don’t have to be safe,’ I tell her. ‘I have to do my job, as someone who’s meant to be Burleigh’s Caretaker. Did Papa find Burleigh’s deed? Please, Mira, I need to know.’
‘What will you do with the answer to that question?’ She looks into my eyes and my gaze falters. I say nothing.
‘George found where the king keeps the deed,’ Mira admits, ‘though I don’t know that he ever laid hands on the thing itself.’
I’m breathless. The air around me is breathless too, as the House holds back, fighting against the restless, destructive energy I can feel through the flagstones beneath my feet. I am pushing too far, I know. But I can’t stop now.
‘Where, Mira? Where does His Majesty keep Burleigh’s deed?’
She shakes her head. ‘Your father never told a soul but a friend of his called Bertie Weston, and the two of them are dead and buried. I expect no one knows that secret now but the king and Burleigh House itself.’
With a wrenching shriek, metal twists and a sapling bursts through the centre of the kitchen’s long wood-fired range stove. The tree rises to the ceiling and spreads leafy branches over us, dark flowers and darker thorns jutting from every twig.
‘Oh hush, I’m sorry,’ I soothe, crouching to press my hands to the flagstone floor. Mira gets up and goes out to Jed, because she knows the words aren’t for her.
Wyn gets up too, wordlessly dropping his plate into the sink and leaving the room. As I watch him go, guilt and regret and longing all churn in my stomach. I want to be the way we were, but he’ll barely look at me. And now here I sit, having done no more than speak of treason, and my words have already bred damage. Fear fills my belly, and I ruthlessly tamp it down.
After dark, I creep up to the long, echoing attics at the summit of Burleigh House, drifting past old wardrobes and chests of drawers and clothes horses. Opening a familiar window, I shimmy out on to the roof and scoot around a brick chimney only to find Wyn, lying on his back on the slate tiles, eating a wrinkled winter apple and staring up at the starry night sky.
‘It’s nice to see some things haven’t changed,’ I say, a little shyly, because I don’t know if I’m wanted or not. ‘I missed coming up here.’
‘Didn’t they have stars in Lincolnshire?’ Wyn asks, and takes a bite of his apple.
‘Yes, but not like these ones. Am I interrupting? Do you want me to go?’
Wyn glances over at me. ‘I can’t tell you to go. It’s not my House.’
‘It’s not mine, either,’ I point out. ‘It’s the king’s.’
‘But you want to change that. Tell the truth.’
I settle down with my back to the brick chimney, which still holds a hint of the
sun’s warmth.
‘What else am I supposed to do?’ I ask, drawing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. ‘His Majesty won’t give me the key, but Burleigh needs help. I don’t see a way around this, Wyn. Have you looked at the countryside, or at Burleigh? I’m afraid this House won’t last the summer, and that’s all the time I’ve got. After that, the king’s sending a new Caretaker to oversee things.’
‘Then let His Majesty choose a new Caretaker now, and tell Burleigh you approve,’ Wyn says.
The House rumbles ominously underneath us. I’m not sure I could convince it to accept a new Caretaker, even if His Majesty sent me someone sympathetic. What’s more, I don’t think I trust anyone else to look after Burleigh. Revulsion churns in my stomach at the thought of the key in a stranger’s hands. It’s not just me the idea upsets, either – ill temper and distaste are creeping up through the slate tiles of the roof.
‘I don’t think that’ll be enough,’ I tell Wyn. Not enough for Burleigh, and not enough for me. ‘I think – blood and mortar, Wyn, I think I have to finish what my father started.’
There it is. The thing that’s been weighing on me since we left the East Fen, and that I haven’t, until this moment, fully acknowledged even to myself.
‘You don’t have to, though.’ Wyn’s voice is flat, devoid of emotion, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the sky. ‘You’re not a Caretaker. You don’t have the key, like you said, and you can’t work House magic without it. It’s foolishness to think you can do much here, Violet, and trying for the deed will be the death of you. You don’t need to end up like your father did.’
On my far side, out of his view, little daisies sprout beneath my hand, their soft petals brushing the webbing between my fingers.
Don’t I?
‘What happened?’ I ask Wyn.
‘Your father kept doing his job. Working House magic after the king had taken the key. That’s what killed him.’
‘Not that. Why did you stay?’
A muscle works in Wyn’s jaw. ‘George asked me to.’
‘I still know when you’re lying. That’s not the truth,’ I chide.
Wyn sits up with a single fluid motion and fixes his eyes on me. I can feel restrained anger radiating from him, just as I always feel Burleigh’s frame of mind.
‘That is the truth,’ Wyn says. ‘Or at least as much of it as I’m willing to tell.’
I rest my head against the chimney and watch the sky as Burleigh paints a mournful, pale green aurora across it. It isn’t the season for such a sky. But here – magic is always in season at Burleigh House.
‘Violet,’ Wyn says, and my heart sinks at the sound of his voice. I know what he’s about to say – he asked me this same question so many times when we were children. ‘Come with me when I leave tomorrow.’
‘I can’t,’ I tell him regretfully. ‘You know I can’t.’
‘Trying for the deed will get you killed. Better to leave Burleigh to its fate – let things run their course, and let the king put it down before it ruins the West Country. Yes, I know that’s what he plans to do – gossip travels faster than horses.’
The slate roofing tiles shudder and jump beneath us, making a high-pitched, chattering sound. I reach back and press a hand to the solid brick of the chimney and, slowly, Burleigh calms.
‘I told you I haven’t changed,’ I say. ‘Burleigh still comes first for me. Before—’
‘Stop,’ he says angrily, that bad temper I sense bubbling up from beneath the surface. ‘Burleigh isn’t human, Vi. It’s not your family or your friend. It serves its own ends, and that is all. Even your father acknowledged that fact – a Great House puts itself first. This place does not deserve your loyalty or your blood or your tears. It is a monster bent on nothing but its own survival, and every pretty trick, every fire lit for you, every flower blooming at your feet, is nothing but a ploy to win your affection.’
A breeze kicks up, making a sad, dissenting sound as it runs over the open mouth of the chimney.
‘Well, if Burleigh’s such a monster, why are you still here?’ My words ring on the night air like a challenge. ‘You could have left weeks ago. Yet here you are, Haelwyn of Taunton. Here you are.’
‘I stayed for you,’ Wyn grits out. ‘To try and change your mind about this place. But I see you’re right – you’re no different than before. Still stubborn and pig-headed as ever when it comes to Burleigh. Do you know who had the right idea about this House? Your mother. She’s the clever one. Got out while she still could.’
He scrambles to his feet and swings back into the attic through the dormer window before I can reply. I’m left swallowing back tears yet again – it seems that’s all I’ve done since coming home.
A few feet away from me, just where Wyn was sitting, a pair of ghosts spring to life. My child-self and Wyn as he once was sit side by side, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a thermos of tea back and forth between them and watching the stars. There’s a strange blueish cast to them and an odd sort of ripple, as if they’re lit by sun reflecting off water. It’s a peculiarity of Great Houses, this dredging up of old memories that makes it look as if spirits haunt the halls and grounds.
I watch for a moment before wincing and shaking my head. ‘Please don’t, Burleigh.’
The children Wyn and I were flicker and fade away.
6
It’s still fully dark when I wake the next morning to the sound of rooks shouting at one another in the House’s eaves. For a moment I’m disorientated, not sure why the gulls sound so strange, and then I remember – I’m home. My head throbs with too little sleep, but I sit up anyway. The smells of stone and woodsmoke and mildew wash over me, along with the fresher, cleaner scents of earth and wet grass, drifting in from the windows I forgot to shut last night.
Movement near the fireplace catches my eye, and I freeze in place. There, beside the cold hearth, is my own ghost. I can feel an urgency in the air, a sort of static hum registered by the skin and not the ears. Burleigh wants my attention. It has something to say, and this time I let its memory play on.
Little Violet must be nine, judging by the ragged patch of hair at the back of her head. I remember that – I’d caught my braid on spruce gum and had to have it cut out by Mira. My younger self, brought back to temporary life by the House, lies on the hearthrug with a well-worn copy of Gulliver’s Travels open in her hands. Like the memories last night, Little Vi’s not quite solid or real. I sit and watch as she glances at the clock on the mantelpiece, tucks the book under one arm, and skips out of the room.
As a child, I grew used to turning a corner and finding some long-dead Sterling in the corridor or beyond an open door, as the House pondered an incident in its past. But Burleigh’s memories have never come with this sense of importance before – with the awareness that there’s something my House is desperately trying to say. Curiosity piqued, I slip out of bed and follow after Little Vi. She makes her ghostly way down the stairs, step by slow step, barefooted and sliding her hand along the banister to better feel what the House feels. I do the same, and there’s restlessness under the habitual anxiety and pain creeping up from the floor. Something about this memory Burleigh wants me to see worries it, and I wish I could ask the House why.
My child-self dances down the central corridor of the east wing, heading out through the conservatory and across the rose garden. She picks up her skirts and leaps like a deer through the wildflower meadow, forcing me to hurry to keep up. Though there’s enough light to see by and the sky is growing pink with dawn in this present moment, the Violet of the past is lit by full sun. It must have taken place at mid-morning, this memory, though I can’t recall it yet.
At the very edge of the meadow, up against the woods at the back of the grounds, Little Violet ducks into a summerhouse. I blink uncertainly – the small, glass-paned building is there, but not there. Sometimes I see a pile of rubble, sometimes the structure whole and complete. And I think I know now what it is the Ho
use is dwelling on.
The summerhouse’s interior ripples with the same shifting, limpid light that strikes my ghost. I settle down on the ground to watch as my father and a gentleman, white-skinned and prosperous-looking, speak in hushed tones. Little Vi sits nearby and opens her book once more. I remember that – the book, my father’s nearness. What I’ve never remembered is the conversation he had. All I recall is the sweet scent of the roses overgrowing the summerhouse, and Gulliver among the Houyhnhnms.
The House remembers, though. And it remembers what I didn’t see at the time – Wyn as a small boy, crouching in the long grass outside the summerhouse.
‘—they want answers, George. They want us to make our move,’ the unfamiliar gentleman says. His voice sounds distant, as if I’m standing with my ear to the keyhole of a locked door. ‘It’s time we have this done with.’
Outside the summerhouse, a stiff breeze seems to have risen up. Though I can’t feel it in my present moment, the stalks and heads of ghostly wildflowers tap-tap against the panes of glass, sounding for all the world like eager fingers. It’s as if a legion of Little Folk are asking to come in.
‘It’s no use, Bertie,’ Papa says. He’s haggard and careworn – I can tell all of this happened not long before the king descended with his soldiers and his charges of treason. ‘I’ve found locations for all the deeds except Burleigh’s. And if you think for an instant that I’ll set things in motion when my own House is the one left at risk, you’re a fool. There’s not a chance.’
My sun is fully up now, and shining cheerfully enough. But the light around Little Vi and Papa and the gentleman called Bertie has gone grey. I can hear fitful gusts of rain beating against the glass of their summerhouse. Even as a child I was quick about picking up on the moods of the House, and rainfall during daylight hours should certainly have told me something was wrong – Papa kept everything well regulated in the Blackdown Hills, with rain falling only in late evening. But that day I found myself so absorbed in my book, I failed to notice Burleigh’s growing discomfort, just as I missed a bedraggled Wyn, peering through the glass.
A Treason of Thorns Page 5