Lady Julia Grey 3 - Silent on the Moor

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Mrs. Butters was subdued as she prepared breakfast, and I do not think anyone was inclined to eat. I picked at some eggs, and tried not to think. Portia fed bits of York ham to Puggy, coaxing him to eat from her hand.

  “Puggy’s off his feed,” she complained. “I think he would rather be upstairs with Florence and the pups.”

  To our mutual surprise, Puggy had turned out to be a devoted father. He doted on Florence, offering her the choicest titbits of food and permitting her to use his favourite cushion. He growled when anyone came near his little family, and had even nipped Morag when she touched one without his express permission.

  “I do not see how we can keep them apart,” Portia said, offering Puggy a spoonful of coddled egg. “Do you mean to come back to stay with me, or will you go straight down to the Rookery?”

  I thought of the peace of the countryside in Sussex. The Rookery was the charming little house Father had presented me with as a Christmas present. My devoted butler, Aquinas, had written that all was in order and I could finally take up residence whenever I liked. I would have as much quiet and solitude as I wanted, I thought.

  And perhaps more. The city, with all of its heady diversions, might be a better distraction at present. But the thought of my family, pressing dinner invitations and outings upon me, made my stomach hurt. I wanted to be alone, but not alone. I wanted to pour out my hurts and frustrations, and I wanted never to speak again. In short, I was at war with myself.

  I shrugged at Portia and idly buttered my toast. “I do not care. I suppose I will stay for a little while with you.”

  “You needn’t sound so enthusiastic,” she said waspishly. “I am no more thrilled about the prospect than you, I assure you.”

  I would have put out my tongue at her, but it was simply too much effort. Mrs. Butters brought another rack of toast, although we had scarcely touched the one on the table. I think she simply wanted to keep busy.

  “Mrs. Butters, what will become of you? If Mr. Brisbane is closing up Grimsgrave, where will you go?”

  She gave me a brisk nod. “You needn’t worry about me, Lady Julia. Mr. Brisbane made certain I would be taken care of. I have a sister in Leeds. He has said he will arrange for my transportation to her when he is ready to leave Grimsgrave. I have put a little something by, and I will be perfectly all right.”

  “I am glad to hear it. At least someone will,” I said peevishly.

  “And Minna,” Portia put in.

  I lifted a brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Hasn’t she asked you yet? She means to stay here and marry Godwin Allenby.”

  “Out of the question,” I told her. “I know they have an understanding, but he cannot keep a wife.”

  “You will break the girl’s heart,” Portia said softly.

  I sighed. “I have promised her mother to take care of her, Portia. I have thought it over carefully, and I cannot leave her with an impoverished husband, no matter how much she loves him. If he cannot provide for her, he cannot have her.”

  Portia looked to Mrs. Butters. “I do not suppose Godwin has a tidy sum put by as well?”

  Mrs. Butters shook her head sadly. “I regret not. I have grown rather fond of that girl. She would have trained up as an excellent housekeeper. Her cookery is very solid, and she has a head for figures.”

  “What if we took Godwin back to London?” I suggested. “He could find employment, something reliable and steady. Then when he has saved enough, he can approach her mother for her hand.”

  Mrs. Butters clucked. “Oh, no. Tha’ would never do. Godwin is an Allenby. He belongs to these moors. He would never live in a city. I think it would kill him.”

  She cleared away a few of the dishes then, and Portia and I regarded each other across the breakfast table.

  “We are a couple of sour old women,” I told her.

  “But you are right, even if I hate to say it,” she said. “We cannot let her marry for love if it means she will starve. What if she had children? How would they keep them? I was stupid to think it. I just wanted a happy ending for them,” she finished wanly.

  “Because we neither of us have ours?” I asked softly.

  She nodded and we fell silent.

  “Then we will have to give her a dowry,” I said finally. “We will each put up fifty percent. Name a sum that will settle them, either as far as purchasing a small farm and a herd to stock it, or a business in the village.”

  “We cannot offer it directly,” Portia warned, and I bristled.

  “I know that. It would be insulting to them both. We will have to disguise it as an inheritance. We can make Brisbane give it to Godwin, say it was a legacy from Ailith’s death.”

  “But Ailith’s property would go to Lady Allenby,” she pointed out.

  I waved her aside. “Nuns cannot inherit property,” I told her loftily. “At least, I do not think they can, and if they can, we will simply have Brisbane tell him otherwise. We’ll make up some story about Hilda getting a sum as well. I hardly think Godwin will question such a piece of good fortune closely.”

  Portia’s eyes lit up and we haggled then, even drawing Mrs. Butters into the business. The three of us worked the sums and argued over the details, but in the end, we devised a settlement that seemed suitable without being too generous. There was also the question of how to present the money. We agreed to leave it to Brisbane, and Portia volunteered to apprise him of our plan while I began to pack.

  I do not know what was said, or how. I only know that by suppertime, all was decided. Minna flew out of the kitchen as I was coming down the stairs. She was still holding a ladle in one hand, dripping sauce upon the flagstones as she clasped me in an embrace.

  “Oh, bless you, my lady! I know you did this. Miss Ailith hated him, she would never have left him money. But I know you and Lady Bettiscombe did this between you. How can I ever thank you?”

  She was sobbing freely now, and I disengaged myself gently. “If you keep crying, you will water the sauce and ruin supper.”

  She wiped her eyes on her apron and shook her head. “I cannot believe it. I just knew we wouldn’t be able to marry, not with us having but a shilling between us. And then when Mr. Brisbane told us, it was like a miracle, like the world just cracked open wide and everything I ever dreamed of was inside.”

  She hugged me again, fiercely, and flew off to the kitchens, leaving me feeling fairly staggered. I was the daughter of an earl, I thought bleakly, born to privilege and wealth most people could not even hope to imagine. And in that moment, I would have happily traded places with a little maid who had everything I did not.

  Ailith Allenby was buried quietly in the graveyard of the ruined chapel. There were no hymns, no weeping, only the soft patter of the rain that fell upon the coffin. The grave had been dug the day before, and I noticed that Brisbane and Godwin were conspicuously absent for a long period of time before the burial. They never said, and I never asked, but I saw the grave was rather shallower than one might have expected and the bottom of it was freshly packed, as if something else had been buried before Ailith’s coffin was lowered into the ground. No one else seemed to notice anything amiss, and I murmured a prayer for the souls of the lost babies as well as their unfortunate mother as the clods of earth covered her at last.

  It was a small and solemn group that wended its way back to Grimsgrave under a cluster of black umbrellas. Hilda and Mrs. Butters served as chief mourners in the absence of Lady Allenby. Brisbane had sent word to Lady Allenby of Ailith’s death, but she had not replied. Perhaps she was already too deeply entrenched in the solitude of her convent life, or perhaps she struggled with the twin burdens of guilt and relief: guilt at her own crimes and relief that the daughter who was bent upon her destruction was dead.

  There had been a letter from Sister Bridget, brief and to the point. All of Ailith’s personal property was to be given to the poor of the parish “that she who had done so little good in her life, might do some in death.” Harsh, but
not inaccurate, I thought. Hilda refused to deal with the matter, so Mrs. Butters saw to the removal of her things. I wondered if somewhere in the village a little girl would be awed at the gift of the elaborate doll’s house, never dreaming what it had meant to Ailith’s twisted mind. The doll’s house was uninhabited when it left Grimsgrave. The tiny infant dolls with their unmistakable gilt hair had been laid in Ailith’s coffin. I could not imagine leaving them in the toy house, and destroying them seemed somehow wrong. Yorkshire folk believed that suicides walked the earth, never resting in their graves. It seemed a primitive sort of magic to leave the dolls with her, but perhaps she would lie quietly.

  After cakes and wine at Grimsgrave, everyone dispersed. Portia went to play with the puppies, Mrs. Butters to rest, and heaven only knew where Brisbane had got to. Valerius, still weak from the blow to his head, was dozing by the fireside, and I found Hilda in the room she had shared with Ailith. It was barren now that Ailith’s things were gone. A little trunk stood open under the window and it was half filled with Hilda’s books and unbecoming tweeds. In spite of the recent tragedies, there was a new serenity to Hilda that she wore well. She even smiled a little in welcome as I settled myself on a chair.

  “I am glad you have come,” she said, and I believed her. “I wanted you to know that I am leaving tomorrow. Miss Earnshaw has offered me a post in her school. I am to live on the premises in Manchester and help her establish the curriculum. And when the pupils come, I am to teach modern languages and ancient history. Miss Earnshaw is not at all troubled by my lack of formal education,” she finished, blushing hotly. “She says even though I am self-taught, I am well-suited to such a post.”

  “A very good fit, I think,” I told her. “So you are leaving the moor at last.”

  She nodded. “I do hope Minna will see to my chickens,” she said with a tiny smile.

  “Perhaps you will have a flock at the school. You can teach the girls poultry-keeping skills,” I suggested. “Every woman ought to have her own money, even if it is just a bit from the eggs.”

  Her smile broadened then. “Perhaps we will. It is a useful skill at that.” She faltered then, and I could see that she was steeling herself for what she was about to say.

  I spoke first. “Have you told him?”

  “No, but I did write him a rather good letter. I even quoted a bit of Donne. He’ll like that.”

  I nodded. “Yes, he will. My brothers all have a weakness for poetry, I’m afraid.”

  She looked up sharply then. “Do you think he will come after me?”

  I thought a moment, then shook my head. “I think not. My brothers share a love of poetry, and a rather pliable character. They would all rather languish in their heartbreak than do anything useful about it. You’ve made rather a lucky escape, if you ask me. Valerius may take up writing sonnets, and that would be a tragedy indeed.”

  I spoke lightly, but I knew Valerius would feel the disappointment keenly. It was the first time in his life he had truly played the man, and I pitied him. He had so much compassion, so much tenderness to give. He had been badly thwarted in his choice of profession, and now he was to suffer yet another defeat.

  Hilda straightened her shoulders then, and for the first time I saw the proud, stiff carriage of the Allenbys in her. “It would be too easy, you know. That’s the trouble. If I married him, I would be safe and comfortable, and I would go on feeling as though I were wrapped in cotton wool. I am terrified of going to Manchester. I am terrified of living in a little room and making my tea on a spirit lamp. I am terrified of teaching. And that is why I must.”

  I knew only too well the feeling of being wrapped in cotton wool. I rose and offered my hand.

  “Fear is how you know you are alive, my dear,” I told her.

  She took my hand and tipped her head to one side. She was actually rather pretty now that she wasn’t scowling at me, and I understood why Val had thought her attractive. It was an interesting face, and one that promised great character.

  “Are you afraid, Lady Julia?” she asked at length.

  “Every day,” I told her, thinking of a future without Brisbane. “Every day.”

  After I left Hilda, I set off amid lowering cloud to bid farewell to Rosalie and John-the-Baptist. Portia and I were almost completely packed and would be up before cockcrow to make the long journey by road to the village with our trunks in time to catch the train to London. There was so much I wanted to thank Rosalie for, and I knew I would miss her terribly.

  The rain was teeming down by the time I reached the cottage. Its lights glowed through the darkening gloom of the afternoon, beckoning with such homely warmth I nearly wept.

  “Oh, don’t be feeble,” I told myself firmly. “You are merely tired and a little melancholy. A hot cup of tea and some good company, and you will be right as rain.”

  I set my shoulders against the wind and pressed on, nearly slipping over the flat rock at the turning of the path, and then almost falling against the door as a strong gust blew against my back.

  “Lady Julia!” Rosalie exclaimed. She ushered me in, already rubbing at my hands and face with a towel. “You ought not to have come today. The storm grows stronger.”

  “I wanted to say goodbye,” I explained, my voice muffled by the towel.

  She finished wiping my face and took my wet things. Only then did I realise she was not alone. I had expected John-the-Baptist, but not Brisbane. He was standing at the window, looking out at the moor, his back to the room. He must have seen me coming for some distance, time enough to school his reaction. He did not turn.

  “Good afternoon, lady,” John-the-Baptist said cordially. He rose and offered me his chair by the fire.

  I held up a hand. “No, I cannot stay. I merely wanted to come and tell you both goodbye. I am leaving tomorrow, quite early.”

  Still there was no reaction from Brisbane. The set of his shoulders betrayed nothing. Was he angry I had come? Or was he as shattered as I by the idea of parting forever?

  “I am sorry to hear it,” John-the-Baptist said. “We will wish you a safe journey.”

  Rosalie went to the painted cupboard and returned, pressing a small silken bag into my hands. Like the first she had given me, it was lumpy and hard, and hung on a bit of velvet ribbon.

  “Another charm, this one to keep you safe,” she told me. “It is full of things which call down the protection of God, and it has been blessed by a powerful shuvani.”

  “You?” I asked, looping it about my neck.

  She smiled and lifted her chin. “Of course.”

  We forgot ceremony then. She embraced me, pressing me close to her heart. “Do not fear the road before you, my dear. Only those who step boldly tread the right path.”

  I smiled at her enigmatic words. A true Gypsy to the end, I thought with great affection. I shook hands with John-the-Baptist, who then bowed with a flourish.

  “Safe journey, lady,” he told me.

  I hesitated, then held out my hand for my wet things. It was a struggle to put them on again, for they were cold and heavy now, but I managed, and gave them both a smile that was rather braver than I felt.

  I left, but Brisbane had never even turned. He could watch my back then as I left, I thought angrily, striding firmly through the wicket gate and slamming it as I went. I was not watching my steps. Between my irritation at Brisbane and the flooding rain, it was difficult to see, and my toe caught the flat rock at the crossroads.

  “Why doesn’t someone move this bloody thing?” I demanded, kicking it hard.

  I do not know if it was my petulant gesture that dislodged the stone, or if the ground was so sodden the merest touch would have caused it to crumble like cake, but it did. One moment I was standing on solid ground, the next, I was hurtling into the opened earth, my feet and arms flailing as I fell. My scrabbling hands caught at a root and I hung, suspended, feet dangling helplessly over an abyss. I dared not look down. I screamed for help, and before the echo of the word had e
ven died away, there was Brisbane. He must have seen me fall. There was no other way he could have managed to reach me so quickly.

  “Thank God,” I sobbed. He lay flat on his stomach, doubtless tearing open the stitches in his ribs, but he never gave the slightest hint he was in pain. He turned over his shoulder to shout something, and I fancied John-the-Baptist was anchoring his legs. He reached down with both arms, almost, but not quite reaching me.

  He cursed soundly, then reached back with his left hand to secure a better grip. He stretched out his right hand and just caught my wrist, holding it fast.

  “I cannot hold on, and you cannot lift me with one arm,” I said, kicking my feet in a vain attempt to find some purchase on the wall of earth in front of me.

  Brisbane gritted his teeth against what must have been a tearing pain in his shoulder. Rain dripped from his sleek black head and he held on to me with an iron grip.

  “Trust me,” he said, infusing his words with every emotion he felt but had never dared to say.

  “I do,” I told him, realising I trusted him more than any person I had ever known. My life was literally in his hands, I thought wonderingly, and yet I knew I would be perfectly safe.

  And then he dropped me. Without preamble, without discussion, he merely opened his hand and let me fall. I was too startled even to scream. I landed with a thud some four or five feet below where I had been dangling.

  “Well, I suppose I am well-served for not looking down,” I thought sourly. There was some commotion above, and in a moment Brisbane descended smoothly by means of a rope, holding a lantern that threw wicked shadows across the planes of his face.

  “You might have warned me,” I told him with a peevish scowl.

  “I didn’t want you to have time to be frightened,” he said simply, but his tone was distracted. He was circling slowly, raising the lantern to throw its feeble light along the earthen walls.