Lady Julia Grey 3 - Silent on the Moor

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Lady Allenby shook her head. “I do not know what will become of that child.”

  “She is no child,” Ailith put in sharply. “She is thirty years old, and can mind her tongue well enough if she chooses. She simply has no sense of duty.”

  Lady Allenby made a fretful noise. “I blame myself. She was a babe when Sir Alfred died, and I was left to raise my poor fatherless children alone. I was too soft with her. I ought to have remembered the Scriptures. I ought not to have spared the rod.”

  I shuddered at the thought. Father had had the raising of ten children without benefit of a wife, and yet never once had he raised a hand to any of us in anger.

  “Perhaps not, Lady Allenby,” Val ventured quietly. “They say the most spirited horses are the most easily broken in temperament. You would not like to have your daughter’s spirit broken, I am sure.”

  Lady Allenby’s eyes were stern as they fixed on my brother. “It is a mother’s duty to perfect her children,” she said coldly. “And I have failed all of mine.”

  Her eyes went to Ailith, who paled visibly. But nothing else in her demeanour changed and when she put out her hand, it was perfectly steady.

  “Come, Lady Julia. I will light you to bed.”

  THE NINTH CHAPTER

  I’ll to thy closet and go read with thee

  Sad stories chanced in the times of old.

  —William Shakespeare

  Titus Andronicus

  The next few days were passably diverting, although there was little enough in the way of either company or amusement to hold my interest at Grimsgrave in Brisbane’s absence. I thought of him often, and when no one was about, I sometimes crept to his deserted room simply to be near his things, as if proximity to his possessions meant some sort of connection to the man himself. I longed for and dreaded his return. As difficult as uncertainty was to bear, at least it offered the consolation of hope. So long as Brisbane stayed away, there was a chance of happiness. Once he returned, matters would be decided once and for all.

  My mood was not a sociable one, but I did my duty by the household. Supper was taken early each evening, and we sat by the kitchen fire for an hour only before we were lighted up to bed. Ailith and Portia and I sometimes attempted three-handed whist, although Lady Allenby never played. I wondered if it was because of her swollen hands or if she simply disapproved of cards on principle. I had noticed a few more signs of piety about her, and she was punctual with her prayers, pausing several times each day at times that corresponded to the old hours marked by the religious houses.

  Valerius had fallen into the habit of reading of an evening, as had Hilda. They sometimes talked a little, perhaps of drains or chickens, I thought nastily. But they spoke only in low tones I could not overhear, and once or twice I saw her unbend so far as to smile at him, as if their conversation had strayed to warmer matters. If her glance happened to catch mine, she instantly dropped her eyes and flushed in irritation. Clearly, she had decided not to befriend me.

  Ailith was a little more companionable. She was never demonstrative, but we had taken to walking together over the moors each morning, and it was a pleasant diversion. The more time I passed in her company, the better I liked her in spite of her reserve. I spent a great deal of time with her as Portia had become increasingly preoccupied and snappish. She had formed the habit of striking out on her own across the moors, usually taking a protesting, wheezing Puggy with her as an excuse for walking, and ignoring her plans to refurbish the house entirely.

  Valerius busied himself each day in the village, sitting in the public room of The Hanged Man and attempting to win the villagers’ confidence. When I asked him why, he would only say, “I have thoughts I wish to share with them regarding public hygiene.” I could not bring myself to pry further, and left him to his own devices, although I could not fail to notice he spent much of his time sketching what appeared to be a very elaborate poultry house.

  As for the maids, Minna—sadly neglected by her mistress—was left to her own devices much of the time, and I set her to helping Mrs. Butters. I reasoned if she were properly trained she might aspire to the post of housekeeper herself in time. It would lend her less glamour than a lady’s maid but more authority, and as I explained to her, a skill once learned is never wasted. She agreed with alacrity and spent most of her mornings in the kitchen, learning how to roll pastry and prepare simple sauces and roasted meats under Mrs. Butters’ tuition. She even persuaded Jetty, by sheer dint of her own good humour, to clean her fingernails and put on a clean apron after she had done the rough.

  The most pleasant aspect of this arrangement was that it stopped Morag from continually complaining about Minna. Mrs. Butters did not seem to mind the girl’s chatter, and Morag was free to get about her business without distraction, although there was precious little for her to do. My hems were invariably crusted with peat mud, but I seldom changed, and often wore the same costume from morning to night, quite a difference from London where I might wear six ensembles in a single day. After Morag had tightened every button in my wardrobe and polished my boots over and again until she seemed in danger of wearing through the leather, I gave her leave to read the books I had brought with me. She was not a proficient reader, having come late to her letters, but she was an enthusiastic one, and had a taste for low romances. I had tucked a few into my trunk for just this sort of occurrence, and it was not uncommon to find her holed up in her tiny room, feet stretched to the fire, happily tossing titbits to Florence as she devoured the further adventures of Miss Melanie Lovelady and her lover, the Count of Rompollion.

  My afternoons were spent in Sir Redwall’s study, with Grim the raven for company, carefully compiling the detailed catalogue of his collection. I had written to my brother Bellmont straightaway, encouraging him to use his influence with the museum to explore the possibility of purchasing the items Sir Redwall had brought home from Egypt. Even to my untrained eye there were a number of quite fine pieces, and I managed to tidy things enough to begin setting these aside. The obvious tourist tat went into another pile, and I was very pleased to find an excellent assortment of books, some scholarly, some written for the more casual traveller, but all in better shape than I might have expected given the haphazard method used to store them. A few mice nibbles here and there, a bit of wear on the covers, but all in all a very comprehensive collection. There was even a first edition of the Description de l’Égypte, commissioned by Napoléon after his conquest of Egypt and running to several volumes—twenty-three to be precise. It had been a massive undertaking, written by more than one hundred and sixty scholars, all presenting the most comprehensive knowledge of Egypt at the time of the Napoleonic conquest. Father had the second edition in his library at Bellmont Abbey, and it had been one of my favourite pastimes as a child to while away long afternoons tucked in the window embrasures, studying the plates of illustrations.

  This edition was, if possible, even more exquisite, and I toyed with the idea of making Lady Allenby an offer for the set myself before I decided such a gesture might be too fraught. One would not wish to insult Lady Allenby by offering too little, but neither would one wish to spend too much above the value. Better to let them go, I decided. I put them carefully aside and moved on to the lesser volumes, including one or two extremely distasteful tomes on mummification with very nasty illustrations. They were disgusting enough to fetch a very high price, I had little doubt.

  In all, the work was very interesting, but it could only divert me so long from the question of Brisbane. More than one moonlit night had found me perched in my window embrasure, reading breathless verses of quite stimulating Egyptian love poetry from the little red volume. And several times I collected myself, pen poised halfway through a word, staring out of the window and across the moor as if I expected him to come striding toward me through the heather.

  Finally, one afternoon when I had stared at a collection of shawabtis so long their features had blurred, I threw down my pen and fled the house
on my own. I had learned to dress for the moor. My fetching hat with the violets had been torn to pieces by the wind, and I knew better now than to leave the house without a thick shawl. I borrowed one of Morag’s, a warm black affair knitted of the best wool, and wrapped it over my head, tucking the ends carefully into the waist of my skirt. On an impulse I asked Minna for one of the little cakes she had baked that morning and she presented it to me proudly, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pretty ribbon. I tucked it into a basket and set off on the moorland path from the kitchen garden, raising my face to the sun.

  “Thee’ll get wrinkles on tha’ pretty face,” came a good-humoured voice from behind me. I whirled to see Godwin emerging from the kitchen garden. He was smiling at me and carrying a canvas sack. I waited for him.

  “Hello, Mr. Allenby. Running off to join the circus?” I asked, nodding toward the sack.

  He laughed, his face crinkling into a mass of weathered lines. His eyes were lit with amusement, and I fancied for just a moment if he were properly dressed and groomed, he would give any of the finest gentlemen in society a fair bit of competition. But even as he was, grimy and unkempt and shaggy as a moorland pony, he was arrestingly attractive. He raised the sack.

  “Tha’s a bit of dinner for myself. Minna is a fair hand with the cakes now,” he told me. We walked together slowly, and when we came to a boggy bit, he took my elbow, letting his hand linger perhaps a moment too long on my arm.

  “Thank you, Mr. Allenby.”

  “Thee must not be so formal. I am Godwin. ‘Mr. Allenby’ is too grand for the likes of me.”

  “Very well, Godwin. Where will you be taking your dinner?”

  He paused and stepped behind me, raising his arm just over my shoulder to point out a steep rocky outcropping rising high over the moor. “The heights up there on yon crag. Thorn Crag, it’s called. ’Tis a good enough place to survey the whole of the moor. I must collect the sheep. ’Tis nearly time to dip.”

  I was acutely aware of his arm still stretched out beside me, his rough sleeve brushing my cheek. I stepped neatly aside.

  “Surely you alone cannot dip the entire flock.”

  He smiled at me again, holding no grudge though I had evaded him.

  “I’ll have a few of the boys from the next farm over to help. But mind you stay away. A nasty business tha’ is, the dipping of sheep.”

  Of that I was only too aware. When I was twelve, I had pestered my brother Benedick to let me help him dip Father’s flocks at the Home Farm. Finally he agreed, without bothering to tell me the dip was mixed up of a few extremely nasty things, including arsenic. It took me the better part of a month to wash the smell away.

  “And where are you off to, my lady?” Godwin asked, raising his brows at the cake in my basket.

  “I thought I would pay a call upon Mrs. Smith,” I told him, slanting a quick glance to gauge his response.

  “She’ll not tell a fortune, but she has a potion for anything that ails you,” he advised me. We did not speak for several minutes as we climbed higher on the moor. Godwin was a comfortable sort of person, surprisingly respectful given the impropriety of our situation. When we had nearly reached the crossroads of the moor paths, he turned to me.

  “Lady Allenby says tha’ you are clearing out Redwall’s things,” he said. I noted the lack of Sir Redwall’s honorific, and the omission intrigued me. I remembered then the note in Sir Redwall’s diary about his plan to speak to Godwin regarding the gardener’s cottage, and I wondered if the interview had ever taken place.

  “Yes, I think he had some rather fine pieces, and Lady Allenby gave me to understand the funds from their sale would not be unwelcome.”

  Godwin nodded. “Tha’s true enough. They’ve not two pennies to rub together, save a few sticks of furniture and that old rag in the hall.”

  “Oh, you mean the tapestry. I did not notice, is your name stitched there?”

  He threw back his tawny head, his laughter ringing out. “Bless you, no. They’ve no use for the lesser mortals in the family. I am but a younger son of a younger son of a younger son. We’ve been farm managers for the Allenbys for two centuries, and every last one of them has hated tha’ we bear the same name as they. Sir Alfred even offered my old da’ a thousand pounds to change it.”

  I nearly stumbled over a tussock. He put out a strong hand to steady me. “Careful there, lady.”

  “Sir Alfred? You mean Sir Redwall’s father? He actually offered your father money to change his name?”

  “Aye. But he would have none of it. Sir Alfred had an apoplexy and died soon after, and all the better for us. He would have chucked out the lot of us, tha’s for certain, and left us to starve. If the Allenbys have any gift, ’tis for dying when you want them to.”

  I opened my mouth to question him further, but we had reached the crossroads by then and he raised his hand to point up the path. “Tha’s the way to Rosalie’s. You mind you know it well enough? And back again? I can come and collect you if you don’t. ’Twould not serve you to get lost on the moor.”

  “No, thank you, Godwin. I know my way.”

  “Then I’ll be off. Good day to thee, my lady.”

  He sketched a little parody of a courtier’s bow and left me, whistling a merry tune. I walked slowly, turning over what he had said in my mind. So many interesting little titbits, and so many questions unanswered. I was so preoccupied that I tripped over the rock just in front of Rosalie Smith’s cottage for the second time, cursing roundly as I did so. There was a laugh from just over the stone wall of the garden.

  “Lady in looks, but not in speech,” Rosalie said, smiling as she opened the gate.

  I waved a hand at the stone. “You might have that thing removed. That is the second time I have tripped over that stone. It could be dangerous in the dark.”

  She shrugged. “Everyone knows it is there. And if you ever come to me at night, I will know it is you by the swearing.”

  I proffered the cake and she took it with thanks.

  “Come in and we will slice it for tea.”

  I accepted, and in a very short time we were settled at her comfortable hearthside, sipping our tea and nibbling at heavy slices of fruitcake. It was moist and rich and thick with fruit that Mrs. Butters had set to steep in tea and whisky many weeks before. She had guided Minna through the mixing of the batter and the girl had outdone herself.

  Rosalie and I talked for a few minutes about nothing in particular, then fell silent. As with Godwin, it was a comfortable silence, and I realised, not for the first time, that my most companionable moments were often found in the company of those whom society would have me shun. Other ladies of my station would simply never have considered walking with the farm manager or taking tea with a Gypsy witch. Nor would they have considered any possibility of a romantic entanglement with a man of questionable parentage who made a living in trade, I reflected ruefully.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Rosalie murmured.

  “If you were gifted with the sight, you would already know them,” I teased her.

  She shook her head, her expression darkening. “I have seen those with the sight, lady. It is a cruel gift, one that takes as much as it bestows.”

  I thought of Brisbane with a shiver. He resisted his flashes of insight, his inexplicable ability to see things he should not, and to know things he could not. This refusal to accept himself for what he was sat at the root of his migraines, vicious and torturous. He held them at bay with all manner of evil things, and I suspected his current regimen of a whisky at bedtime would not serve him for long. It had occurred to me that his music was some solace, but I knew that it would never be able to stem the tide of pain forever. Sooner or later, the pain or his visions would win out, if only they did not destroy him in the meantime. Shortly after our last investigation at my father’s home in Sussex, I had visited a Gypsy woman of my acquaintance, Magda, who had known Brisbane’s family, and his ill-fated mother, Mariah Young.

  The
one man Mariah Young loved was not a Romany. He was a rogue, come from an old and proud Scottish family, and his people hated Mariah. But he must have loved her in spite of his wicked ways, for they married and after seven full moons had passed, she gave birth to a child, a boy with his mother’s witchcraft and his father’s wildness. But blood will out, and the noble rogue left his wife and son. Mariah did not grieve for him. His love of drink and other women had killed her love, and when she saw she was rid of him she danced as she had not danced since she was wed. She took her boy to her people, tried to teach him the ways of the travellers.

  But the child was a halfling, born between two worlds, belonging to neither. When he was but ten years old he ran away, leaving his mother behind and, for the first time in her life, Mariah Young knew what it was to have a broken heart. She cursed her own son. She gave him the legacy of her sight, knowing he would fight against it, knowing it would destroy him slowly from within.

  It was a horrible tale, tragic and violent, and it had gone down as legend amongst their people. I wondered if Rosalie had heard of her as well, if perhaps she knew Brisbane for what he was. I very nearly asked her, but she offered me another slice of cake then and the moment passed.

  The lurcher, Rook, came and sat with his head on my knee as we talked, and I petted him absently.

  “He does not like many folk, and none who are not Romany,” Rosalie told me. “You must have some Gypsy blood, lady.”

  I smiled and gave the dog a good scratching behind the ears. “I think dogs know those who like them. He is a handsome fellow. Why do you call him after a black bird, though? His coat is white as new snow.”

  “‘Rook’ means tree in our language. Rook was cast off by his mother and my husband, John-the-Baptist, found him curled up under the roots of an oak tree, shivering with cold. He put him into his waistcoat and kept him there, although we do not keep white dogs.”