And yet. There’s something in me that rests easier, knowing Wyn is nearby. For almost a year after we moved to the fens, I’d wake in the middle of the night gasping, overwhelmed by an urge to look for him though I knew he was the length of the country away. If being with Burleigh feels like I’m home again, being with Wyn feels like I’m whole once more. He must feel it too, at least a little. Why else would he have come back?
I stare at the closed door for what seems like a long time, thinking about getting up to open it. But before I can, I fall into a dark and dreamless sleep.
10
I did not expect to be out in the lane, briskly walking away from Burleigh House after two days at home, and yet here I am.
Nothing’s as I thought it would be. Not the House, with its endless, all-encompassing pain, not Wyn, and certainly not me. I expected some sort of instinct to take over and guide me once I got home, letting me know exactly what Burleigh needs. It hasn’t, and so I fall back on what I know – that Burleigh likes to be looked after in the ordinary way of houses. Paint and nails and plaster always cheer it up, but they also cost money, and I haven’t got any. It’s not just Burleigh His Majesty owns – following Papa’s arrest, the crown seized all his assets.
I need to earn, just like the rest of my odd little family. Jed’s already off to his farm labour. Mira’s at her washbasin. And when I left Burleigh, the sound of a saw was already ringing through halls, meaning Wyn was busy too. I’m no use at House repairs like Wyn’s clearly turned out to be, but I can keep him in supplies.
Anything to bolster Burleigh’s flagging spirits.
Ripping a switch free from the hedgerow, I snap it at the inoffensive bushes bordering the lane. Songbirds burst from the hedge in an outcry of feathers and wing their way across the fields. Watching them go sets guilt twisting in my belly. I don’t know what a single one of them is called, while back on the fens I could tell even a female reed bunting from a corn bunting on sight.
As I carry on down the lane towards the small village of Burleigh Halt, I look to the land with a Caretaker’s eye, and don’t like what I see. Suspiciously grey and stony leaves sprout in the hedgerows. Some of the sheep in the fields have a downcast way about them, their heads drooping and their sides rising and falling only with an effort. Half a dozen songbirds lie dead in the bottom of a ditch. Burleigh House is leaking magic and mortar into the countryside like gangrene, unable to hold back all of its festering power.
But I knew Burleigh was struggling before I came back. I doubt the king would ever have allowed me home otherwise. All I need is for my beleaguered House to hang on until I can find the deed. One day at a time, Burleigh my love. We’ll take this one day at a time.
It’s not just the House that’s ailing this morning, though. I’m cold in spite of the warm weather, my legs weak as water and occasional chills running through me. It’s the aftermath of the mortar, I know – Wyn may have managed to siphon some of it off, but he didn’t get it all – and I think I’d better be discreet in how often I ask the House to show me its memories.
At last I round a bend in the lane and arrive at the little village of Burleigh Halt. There isn’t much to it. Just a row of pretty stone houses lining the main street, a market square that’s jammed with carts and wagons on Saturday mornings, a single shop that, in the way of village vendors, sells just about everything, and the Red Shilling.
After a moment’s indecision, I walk through the tavern door.
Small windows make for a moody, dimly lit interior. Tables and booths litter the front room, and a black woman with hair smoothed and pulled back in a tidy knot stands behind the counter, polishing glasses. My stomach’s gone flighty with nerves at my sudden decision to come in here, but I walk up and perch on a stool in front of her.
She crooks an eyebrow at me. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so,’ I say. ‘I’ve only just arrived in town, and I’m looking for work.’
The woman shakes her head. ‘In that case, no, I can’t help. Try day-labour, out on one of the bigger farms.’
‘Thought you might say so, but it was worth asking.’ I slide down off the stool. ‘Good day to you, ma’am.’
I’m nearly at the door when she calls me back. ‘Girl. You look like you’ve been on the fens, judging by your clothes. I’ve got a brother out fen way.’
‘I lived outside Thiswick the last few years,’ I answer carefully. ‘Did some fishing, cut some thatch. Whatever would make me a bit of coin. I’m not proud, and I work hard.’ I quell the urge to bite at a fingernail as I wait for her response.
‘Oh, don’t string her along, Frey,’ a strange voice says from a dim corner of the public room. I twist my head around and notice two figures I’d overlooked sitting in the shadows at a booth. There’s a young man, dressed like a gentleman and impeccably tidy, but it was his companion who spoke in a girl’s clear tones. She’s all in black crepe from head to toe, cheap but well cut, and keeps her back to me. They look like any one of a hundred young couples in inns across England, the offshoots of families in trade, striving to make themselves a little more respectable in their style and manners.
‘You know you’re going to hire her,’ the girl says without turning around. ‘If only for a chance to say you had George Sterling’s daughter in your employ.’
Frey, the innkeeper, sets her glass and polishing rag down. ‘You’re George’s girl come home.’ There’s no surprise behind the words, and I expect she knew all along. When I nod, she gives me an appraising look. ‘You willing to fetch and carry? Wash and dry? I’ll need you to be quick and sharp. The village lot think they’re a cut above and don’t like getting their hands dirty. There’s no place here for you if you feel the same.’
I step forward, eager to please. ‘I’ll do anything you’ll pay me for, and you won’t hear a word of complaint.’
She smiles and holds out a hand to shake. ‘Good girl. Your father would’ve liked that answer. I’m Frey, as her ladyship said.’
I take Frey’s proffered hand across the counter, and her grip is firm. ‘Vi. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘Likewise. I’ll need you for evenings, so your shift starts at three o’clock. That’ll be your start time, every day but Sunday. And I’ll want you to start today. All right?’
I don’t hesitate. ‘Of course. Thank you, ma’am.’
Her smile broadens. ‘Not ma’am, just Frey. You can call that other one sitting over at the table ma’am. I’ve said all I need to, but I’m sure she’s not finished with you yet.’
‘I am not a ma’am,’ the girl in the booth says, clearly disgruntled. I crane my neck, trying to get a look at her face, but she stays well within the shadows. ‘You make me sound like some hideous dowager with five grown children. Nothing could be further from the truth, isn’t that so, Alfred?’
‘Hm, what?’ The young gentleman across the table from her glances up from the book propped in front of him and smiles. ‘Oh, of course. You’re a pearl among women. A shining star. A veritable fountain of youth. Absolutely not a ma’am.’
‘Laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think, Alfie?’ the girl says fondly. ‘Frey, can we use the private dining room, and trust you’ll see we’re not interrupted?’
In answer, Frey tilts her head towards a doorway near the strange couple’s table. I hesitate as Alfred gathers up his things and precedes us, a long-suffering stoop to his shoulders.
‘Oh, come on,’ the girl says as I continue to hang back. ‘Frey’s right here and the kitchen staff are nearby. If I try to chloroform you, there are plenty of people about to hear you scream.’
‘I don’t think that’s how chloroform works,’ I answer dryly, but the girl doesn’t respond. She simply waits for me to step into the room before her. Overcome by my own curiosity, I finally give way. I can hear the rustle of her skirts as she gets up from the table and I fight the urge to glance over one shoulder. If she doesn’t want me to see who she is till we’re alone, I’
ll wait for introductions.
The private dining room is done up far more expensively than the public room, with silver-grey damask wallpaper and a long, gleaming wood table. I’m so used to dropping off fish and clams at back doors that it seems exceedingly strange to have been in not one but two private rooms in the past month, although I hope this interlude will be less upsetting than the last one. Alfred’s already settled himself back in at the head of the table, book open before him once more. The girl shuts the door behind me, and I turn, finally getting a look at her.
She’s a good six inches shorter than I am, with a small, round face. There’s a hint of gold to her skin, like sand on a sunny day, and her eyes are deep brown, nearly black. Her hair is a mass of loose black curls bundled up on top of her head, and when she moves her hands, inexpensive silver bangles make music at her wrists. I’ve seen her once before, and however she’s dressed, however ordinary she’s made herself appear, I’d know her anywhere.
I make for the door.
‘Violet, stop.’ The Princess of Wales stays steadfastly between me and the exit. I think wildly of knocking her down – surely she can’t put up much of a fight, tiny thing that she is. ‘I want to help you.’
‘Oh, like your father helped mine into an early grave? Or like he just tried helping me into a forced marriage? No thank you.’
‘Please.’ Esperanza clasps her hands together. ‘The king’s sending someone else to keep an eye on you and Burleigh. Someone much worse. I wanted to warn you—’
‘No, I don’t think so. I can very plainly see he sent you, as you’re standing right in front of me. Good day.’
I try to edge past her and she glares, dark eyes blazing. ‘What was your father, Violet Sterling?’ Esperanza asks, and it’s not a question but a command. She emphasizes my last name and I can feel myself grow more defiant.
‘England’s greatest Caretaker,’ I answer proudly. Everyone knew it, before Papa’s arrest. Most people still know it now. How else did he and Burleigh manage to survive for seven years without a key? ‘No place ever prospered like the West Country while he looked after Burleigh. No one did their duty quite like him. The House came first, before king, before country, before his own life.’
Esperanza leans a little closer. ‘So we agree it was more than odd then, that your father, the model Caretaker, should risk everything, but first and foremost Burleigh’s health and safety, on a chance at obtaining the House’s deed? He’s not the sort of man who’d do that for personal ambition, or the simple nobility of the goal. No, it must have been desperation instead.’ Esperanza reaches out and pats the chair next to her. ‘He knew the truth, you see – that Burleigh is failing. Dying. Whatever you want to call it. It’s the only reason he was desperate enough to gamble on the House’s freedom – because Burleigh’s plight isn’t the result of the House arrest. It was already sickening before it was forced to kill your father.’
‘I don’t trust you,’ I tell her. She nods. ‘But I’m going to sit down.’
The princess takes a sealed and yellowed envelope out of her reticule and hands it to me. ‘I know you’ve just got home and we’ve only just met, and it’s an understatement to say you’re on bad terms with my father. This must be difficult to hear from me and even harder to believe, but I really do want to help. And I know you don’t trust me yet, but I think I know whose word you will trust.’
I take the envelope reluctantly and break open the seal. With a little chill, I recognize the untidy scrawl that wanders across two pages of parchment. It’s my father’s script – I’d know it anywhere, and the faintest whiff of tobacco and starch and Burleigh House itself still clings to the pages. I’m run through by a sudden and childish longing to be at home with Papa’s final words, sitting in the haven of my airing cupboard with Wyn as we used to when we were small. But the princess is watching me, so I smooth out the wrinkled pages and read.
Dear Violet,
You’re still just a child as I write this, and perhaps I’ve kept too much from you, because I hate to burden you with the responsibilities I’ve been given. In my own way, I’ve tried to prepare you as best I know how, to look after Burleigh House when I’m gone. But I would keep that task from you for as long as possible. It has been my joy and my privilege to serve our House, Vi, but never for a day has it been easy.
The truth is that the Great Houses of England are in decline, sickening beneath the bindings they’ve been placed under. As best I understand it, the binding they’ve been placed under prevents them from ever really ridding themselves of all their magic. A Caretaker helps, to be sure, but can channel only so much of a House’s power away. And as old magic lingers, it goes bad, tainting the rest of it, like poison in the blood.
Only the return of the deeds may restore the Houses’ health. I say may because it is no sure thing, and all my efforts on Burleigh’s behalf may be too little, too late. They call me a great Caretaker, but I am no greater than any other, and it took me far too long to see the truth, Violet. That in taking from the Great Houses and binding them to our purposes, we meddled with something we should not have, and perhaps signed their death warrant.
Should I fail to save Burleigh, it will someday fall to you to finish what I started. I know you love our House, Vi – I haven’t only kept myself apart from you because the business of a Caretaker occupies me so often. Part of my reasoning for keeping a distance between us was so that you’d learn with your heart as well as your mind to put Burleigh first. Perhaps this was unkind, even cruel, of me. I’ve done many things for our House I would not have, under any other circumstances. Many things I’m not proud of. And I think, my dear, that if you do set both your heart and mind upon it, you will not just be a great Caretaker. You will eclipse me in every way, and do the things I could not do, be the person I could not be.
Things are coming to a head, and soon I will either succeed or fail in everything I have set my hand to. Jed and Mira will look after you, should I fare badly. There are precious few other people you can rely on – Frey at the Red Shilling, if you can win her over. The Westons and Sterlings have worked alongside each other for centuries, and it’s a tie their family won’t throw over lightly. I’ve asked Bertie Weston, a colleague of mine, to take you in should you find yourself without a home. Queen Isabella is a friend too, and one I’d trust with your life.
Beyond that, look to yourself, Vi, and our House.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you. You’re my very heart and soul. But I am a Caretaker, and I hope I’ve taught you well what that means.
All my love,
Your father, George Sterling
P.S. Tell Wyn I’m forever grateful to him. Tell him it isn’t enough, but it’s all I have to offer.
When I glance up from the letter, having read through it twice, Esperanza and Alfred are both watching me.
‘Where did you get this?’ I ask.
‘My father was Bertie Weston,’ Alfred says.
I fix him with a narrow look. The white-skinned, prosperous-looking gentleman talking with my father in the summerhouse, who Mira said might know the location of Burleigh’s deed. ‘The letter says your family was to take me in if anything happened to Papa. What went wrong?’
Alfred shakes his head apologetically. ‘My father died not long after yours was placed under House arrest. Heart failure. My mother couldn’t bring herself to go through his things until several years after his death, and by then I was on the Continent. That letter only fell into my hands a month or two ago, along with instructions to give it to you if any trouble befell George and your House. I’d have found you and delivered it earlier if I’d known it existed.’
‘Well, better late than never, I suppose,’ I say, staring down at Papa’s handwriting.
‘Let me get you a raspberry tart,’ Esperanza offers. ‘It’ll make you feel less grim. Alfie, would you mind?’
Alfred disappears and returns in a moment with plates of finger sandwiches and little sausage rolls and
fruit tarts, which he sets out while Esperanza watches approvingly. He stops at her place last, and she catches his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm.
‘Darling,’ Esperanza says. ‘I know you never thought you’d hear me say this, but I want you to talk about Great Houses.’
Alfred gives her a dubious look. ‘Truly? What if I get carried away?’
‘Well, I’ll have to cut you off. But I have faith in you. Even you, Alfred Weston, can be concise.’
I bite into a sausage roll, swallowing past a pained, empty feeling that’s opened up in my chest since reading my father’s words. ‘Does he know a lot about the Great Houses?’ I ask.
‘He’s literally writing the book on the subject.’ Esperanza carefully picks several blackberries off her fruit tart. ‘Vi, it’s the most tedious thing I’ve ever heard. He’s three volumes in and it’s supposed to be eight when he’s finished. I have him read it to me when I can’t sleep.’
‘Yes, well, it’s a scholarly work, Espie, not a novel,’ Alfred says dryly.
‘That’s how we met each other.’ The princess gives his hand a conciliatory pat. ‘While he was on the Continent, doing research among the ruins of the Great Houses that have failed there.’
I frown. ‘I’ve never heard of any Great Houses on the Continent that failed.’
‘Unfortunately you have,’ Alfred says. ‘You just didn’t know what you were hearing about at the time. Do you know where the first of Europe’s Great Houses was bound?’
I shake my head.
‘In the Italian countryside. At the foothills of a mountain named Vesuvius. They called the House Arx Oriens and made it a shrine, with an oracle in place of a Caretaker. Oriens had been bound for nearly five hundred years by the time it failed, causing the mountain to erupt. But Italy has many bound Shrine Houses now, and very few people will speak of the House that once stood outside Pompeii.
A Treason of Thorns Page 9