“They must have been charming in the day,” I finished. “I have never seen any quite like that, with such detail.”
She smiled wanly. “And the bees appreciated it, I am certain they did. They gave tremendous amounts of the sweetest honey. I tended the hives myself until last year.” Her smile faded and her expression took on a faraway look. “They were quite my little companions, so brave. They gave their lives to assuage my pain,” she said, rubbing at her swollen joints.
“I beg your pardon?” Surely I had not heard her correctly.
“The sting of a bee is a sure remedy for rheumatism. When my hands were at their worst, I used to thrust them into the hives. The bees stung me and after the first shock of the pain, there was relief, blessed relief. But I never forgot it cost them their lives to do it. I always felt so terribly guilty afterward. And then last summer after Redwall died, it seemed the proper time to let them go. One windy day, I opened the hives and destroyed the queen’s chamber. The hive fled, and my bees have never come back. That is why the garden failed, you know. No bees to work it, and they will never return here.”
The sunlight had fallen on her face, cruelly, for it revealed the furrows and wrinkles of her ruined beauty. I wondered if Ailith ever looked at her and mourned what she would become. Or if Redwall had ever looked upon a mummy queen and thought of his mother, I thought with a shiver.
“You ought to eat before the toast goes quite cold,” I told her.
She did not hear me, or at least she gave no sign of it. “I did the right thing by sending them away. My hands are quite ruined, but pain purifies, that is what God teaches us,” she said with a nod behind me. I turned to see a prie-dieu, ebony with a cushion of the finest needlework I had ever seen. A prayer book lay open upon it, and overseeing all was a representation of Christ upon the cross, dripping with the gore of Crucifixion.
I said nothing, and Lady Allenby nodded. “You are not of the Roman faith, my dear. You would not understand. To suffer is to understand Him, and His suffering for our sins and the sins of the world.”
I felt faintly embarrassed, as I always do when earnest people discuss religion. My brothers and sisters and I had been raised Anglican, of course, and all of the momentous events of our lives had been celebrated within the ceremonies of the Church. But we seldom attended of a Sunday, and discussions of spirituality were few and far between. We were far likelier to argue over the whereabouts of Shakespeare’s lost play or the plight of prostitutes in Whitechapel, both pet subjects of Father’s and Aunt Hermia’s. God was rather far down on the list of our personal interests.
“You are young yet,” Lady Allenby assured me. “Many do not turn to God until life has revealed all of its bitterness and the promise of the hereafter is the only solace left. There is a natural order, you know. Ordained by God. It ought not to be disturbed by man.”
I thought of her children, the runaway eldest daughter, the opportunistic dead son, the peculiar daughters left to her, and I agreed that she knew far better than I of the suffering of the world.
She struggled a bit with her utensils, and I offered to spread the marrow onto her toast. Lady Allenby assented graciously, with a regal nod of the head as though she were granting a royal favour. I handed her each slice as it was spread, pausing a little so the toast should not become sodden if I prepared it too soon.
“Quite delicious, will you not join me?” she offered. I declined. “The very thing for joints.” She sampled the other dishes as well, exclaiming over the crispness of the radishes and the excellence of the mushrooms. “So few pleasures left at my age,” she said at last, patting her lips with a napkin. “It seems almost sinful to enjoy one’s food so completely.”
“I think a greater sin would be to fail to enjoy it if you are privileged enough to have it,” I said, wondering if I had overstepped myself.
To my astonishment, she laughed, a rusty, wheezing sound, as if she had not laughed properly in a long time. It ended badly, with a little fit of choking, and it was several minutes before she was settled again on her pillows.
“I am sorry. I ought not to have said it.” I busied myself with tidying the tray to hide my embarrassment.
“Dear Lady Julia, you are such a charming girl. Little wonder Mr. Brisbane is so taken with you,” she said, fixing me with those knowing blue eyes.
I folded the napkin carefully. “Do you think so? Ailith seems to be under a different impression.”
Lady Allenby sighed. “Did she tell you Hilda means to marry him?”
“Words to that effect,” I admitted.
Lady Allenby motioned for me to sit on the edge of the bed. I did so, gingerly, so as not to disturb her. She twisted the edge of the coverlet in her gnarled hands.
“You must not mind my daughters, Lady Julia. It has been difficult for them, living here, so far removed from appropriate society.”
I tipped my head. “Ailith at least seems to relish it. I believe she even referred to herself as queen of this domain,” I said lightly.
The strong silvery-white brows knitted together. “Oh, my poor girl. You see, she was devoted to her elder sister and her brother. The loss of both was difficult, is difficult, to bear.” She hesitated, then went on, each word clearly painful for her. “My older children were born very close together. Only two years separated my eldest and my youngest. Redwall and Ailith were even born the same calendar year, one in January, the other in December. They always said it made a bond between them, like twins. Their sister, Wilfreda, was a little apart. She was bookish and solemn, a contemplative, competent child, rather like Hilda, but with a ready laugh. Redwall and Ailith were wild as moor wind. I never knew where they were or what they were about. Wilfreda was always at the graveyard or up on Thorn Crag, book in hand, preferring her own company save for the times she bullied Godwin into taking her riding. Wilfreda always knew her own mind, and once she had determined to do something, it was as good as done. I did not realise until it was far too late that she had decided to leave us.”
Lady Allenby talked on, spinning out her tale.
“When the children were nearly grown, Wilfreda was eighteen, Redwall seventeen and Ailith very nearly, I engaged an artist to paint them. Not Hilda of course. She was but a child. It was tradition for the Allenbys to be painted upon maturity. There used to be an entire gallery of excellent paintings in the east wing,” she said ruefully. “Until necessity compelled us to sell them, and the wing itself fell into decay. But the children, I wanted them painted, and the artist I engaged was one of fine reputation. He began with Ailith and Redwall, they insisted upon being painted together. The artist objected, but Redwall had his way. He told me he did not trust the artist, he thought the man a blackguard and felt he was not to be left alone with young ladies. He was quite right to be concerned. Ailith was painted with Redwall, but Wilfreda would have none of it. She and Redwall quarrelled terribly over it, but she had her way in the end. And she left this house with him, one moonbright night. I have not seen her since,” she finished, her voice faltering just a little.
I put a gentle hand to hers. “I am so very sorry.”
Her smile was mournful. “I was so angry when she left, I burned the painting of Redwall and Ailith. I ought not to have done it. It was an excellent likeness of them both. There was nothing of Wilfreda’s painting to burn. Only a blank canvas he had never touched with paint. He must have talked to her during her sittings, plotting with her to carry her off. I made inquiries of course, but there was nothing to be done. The trail had gone quite cold, and I did not like to make a scandal. Perhaps it would have been different if my husband had still been alive. It was so difficult after his death, everything. The house, the children. So much to look after, and I had never been taught to.”
She trailed off then, and I saw her eyelids, heavy now as she wandered in the past. I slipped off the bed and drew the curtains over the window, dimming the room. She gave a little sigh and settled deeper into her pillows. I took up the tray
and tiptoed to the door, glancing behind me to see the mournful eyes of Jesus looking down at me from the bloodied cross. It was a gruesome thing, and I did not know how she could bear to sleep with it in her room.
Once I left Lady Allenby, I returned her dinner things to the kitchen feeling quite irritable, nervy and cross, and I was not fit company for anyone. Ironically, it was company I longed for. I had begun to miss Portia terribly, and Brisbane’s insistent avoidance of me was verging on insult. He could not have been more pointed in his evasion if I had had boils and a leper’s bell.
And to complicate matters even further, I was not at all inclined to carry on with the work in the study until I had spoken to Brisbane. I could not entirely believe his assertion that he meant to keep the proceeds of the sale of Sir Redwall’s collection, but experience had taught me Brisbane was nothing if not unpredictable.
A dozen other questions circled in my brain, about Hilda’s intentions toward Brisbane, the mysterious disappearance of Wilfreda, until my head ached and I could not stand to be inside a moment longer. The sky had been lowering all day, but I resolved to take my chances. I was in the hall buttoning my coat when Minna ran me to ground, smelling of smoke and burnt currants, a plump Florence resting languidly in her arms.
“There you are, my lady,” Minna said, thrusting the little dog at me. “I do wish you would have a look at Florence.”
I stopped buttoning and peered at my little pet. I stroked her head and she gave a soft moan. “She’s got terribly fat, Minna. What have you been feeding her? I imagine it’s just a bit of indigestion.”
She shook her head, her eyes wide with alarm. “I do not think so, my lady. I think she is—” She dropped her eyes modestly. “I think she is in pup.”
I looked closely at Florence, and I fancied her large, woeful eyes were slightly embarrassed. “But by whom? She does not go out, she does not mix with neighbourhood dogs.”
Minna primmed her lips. “That rascal, Mr. Pugglesworth.”
“You cannot be serious. Puggy is half-decayed. I do not see how he could manage it.”
“Manage it he did, my lady! Morag said she caught them at it two months back.”
“Did she? And she did not see fit to warn me at least?”
“She had to swat him with a slipper to get him off of poor Florence. She thought she had parted them in time, but I think she did not,” Minna added.
I considered Florence with her fine-boned, shivery elegance and Puggy in all his decrepitude. “How perfectly revolting. It seems rather incestuous, although I don’t suppose such things matter to dogs.” I cupped my hand under Florence’s chin. “My poor darling. What frightfully ugly pups you’re going to have.”
She licked at my hand and I scratched behind her ears. “Feed her up, then. She must keep up her strength if she’s going to whelp. Prepare a quiet place, warm and safe, perhaps the bottom of a cupboard if you can find one suitable,” I told Minna. “And line it with some towelling or an old blanket.”
She bobbed a tidy curtsey and left me, cuddling Florence and crooning a little lullaby. I made a mental note to write the happy news to Portia. She would be greatly diverted to know of Mr. Pugglesworth’s prowess.
As soon as I left the house, my feet turned toward the poultry yard, almost before I realised I intended to go there. Hilda was there, wrapped in a shawl and tossing kitchen scraps from a pail as she clucked her tongue at a plump chicken, muttering under her breath.
“Leave off, you great fat brute. You’ve not even given a single egg in a fortnight. I ought to put you in the cookpot.”
“You have the countrywoman’s gift for poultry, Miss Hilda,” I called. “I do not think I have ever seen such plump birds.”
She looked up, scowling, and threw the rest of the scraps out in a single motion. She stood for a moment, uncertainty rising in her face, then she made a sound of resignation and crossed to where I stood.
“I suppose you want an apology for what I said.” Her eyes were wary, and I made no move toward her.
“Not unless you mean it. I’ve always hated telling someone I was sorry because I ought to.”
She said nothing for a long moment, her eyes fixed over my shoulder as she turned the matter over in her mind. I nodded toward her little flock.
“I meant what I said. They are very fine birds. You ought to be proud of them.”
I turned to leave her, but she snorted, a derisive sound, but not one that was intentionally insulting, I fancied.
“Any fool can raise a chicken,” she retorted.
“I assure you that is not so. My brother Benedick once attempted to keep a flock to raise egg money. He managed to forget to shut the henhouse the same day Father acquired a new mastiff. Poor chickens.”
Her lips twitched, but she did not smile. “You have brothers then? Besides Valerius?”
“I am the youngest daughter of ten children. I’ve five brothers altogether. Believe me when I say you have met the best of them.”
She fell silent again and it occurred to me that she was simply unused to conversation. Lady Allenby had mentioned that Hilda was seldom to be found and rarely engaged with the rest of the household. It was entirely possible she had never had a proper friend.
“Valerius is by far the most easygoing of my brothers,” I continued. “I wonder, is he anything like your brother, Redwall, was?”
She shook her head slowly. “You must have heard tales of Redwall by now. You must know what he did to the villagers. He was thoroughly spoilt and undeserving.” Her complexion was mottled again, a sure sign she was becoming distressed.
I cast about for a safe subject, then decided recklessness might serve as well. “I understand from Ailith that you mean to marry Mr. Brisbane.”
Her mouth gaped, then she closed it with an audible snap. “I suppose you think I am a fool. You’ve come to taunt me.”
“I assure you, Miss Hilda, I am in no position to taunt anyone. But Brisbane hardly seems like a good match for a young lady of solitary temperament. I merely wondered if you had thought the matter through.”
She jerked her head angrily. “Of course I have. I don’t really want to marry him. You must know that.”
“Naturally. You do not even look at him, so you cannot wish to marry for love of the man.”
In spite of herself, she laughed, a wheezing, unfamiliar sound. “No, I most assuredly do not love him. But I want my home. And I am so deadly tired of not having money.”
She kicked at her pail, rather like a tired child, and I realised that was precisely what she was.
I seated myself quietly on the step, and after a moment she began to speak, not to me, but in a low, faraway voice, as if she had forgot I was there.
“Poverty is so wearing. I remember what it was like to have nice things. When I was a child I had the prettiest dresses. And picture books. And a pony of my own.”
“There is always a pony,” I murmured, but she did not seem to hear.
“But then Papa died, and Mama was never good at figures. Nothing seemed to pay as it ought to. And Redwall left, just when he ought to have been making it better. He left and travelled the world, letting the capital run through his fingers like water and here we sat, watching it all fall apart, sinking a little further each year. We turned our clothes and when that would no longer serve, we went to the attics and wore things that were half a century out of date. Who was to care? No one ever comes here. No one visits, no one even knows we exist. And then Redwall came back and for one brief, dizzying moment, I thought it would be better. I thought he would put everything to rights.”
She fell silent again, lost in her memories. I ventured to ask, “And he did not?”
Her mouth twisted in bitterness. “No. He was sick, you could see it in his eyes when he arrived home. Malaria. And the treatment for it only made him worse. He lasted less than two years. He had every chance in the world, every advantage, and he squandered them all.”
I thought about the entries in
his notebooks, the mentions of doses of something that began with a q. Quinine, no doubt, to ease the symptoms of his malaria.
Hilda’s gaze sharpened suddenly. “I know about the collection,” she said, her voice flat. “I know it was lost with the house. Mama and Ailith think that Redwall kept it back to save us, but I know the truth.”
“I am sorry for that.” I paused, wishing I could give her some reassurances that Brisbane would take care of her little family, but I had none to give. Though I believed Brisbane was a man of honour, I could not speak for him. “How did you discover the truth?”
“I went through Brisbane’s papers,” she told me roundly.
I stared at her. “Miss Hilda, I am appalled.”
“You may not judge me,” she returned, her face white to the lips. “You have not lived as I have.”
“You misunderstand me. I am appalled I did not think of it myself,” I told her truthfully. I had spent a fair bit of time alone in his rooms, and I had not troubled to read his papers. “Although Brisbane always seems to know when I am up to mischief. I daresay he would have known what I was about.”
Her colour returned, and she seemed mollified at my approval. “It is so unfair,” she said fiercely, “that we should be ruled by men. They control our very happiness, and yet they do not see fit to tell us anything. We have no more consequence than these chickens,” she finished, nodding toward her little flock, contentedly scratching the ground in front of their tumbledown little henhouse.
We were silent a moment, and it was the pleasantest moment we had yet passed. There was a sympathy between us, and I ventured an expression of sentiment.
“I am sorry for your loss, Miss Hilda. It is difficult when those we love disappoint us so acutely.”
Lady Julia Grey 3 - Silent on the Moor Page 17