Twelfth Night

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I passed Bellmont just as he was holding forth on the subject, sotto voce. “Naturally, I am glad my children have remained in London with their mother. Adelaide is busy with wedding preparations for our eldest, and I cannot think it would benefit any of them to associate with so notorious a creature.”

  I snorted as I passed, a clear reference to Bellmont of his own peccadilloes. He flushed an angry red and motioned to a passing footman to fill his glass of wine again. I flashed him a brilliant smile and walked on. From quick conversation with my brother Benedick, I learnt that nothing had been amiss at the Home Farm. It was attached to the estate, and his responsibility as second son of the family. But he gave a nod to a little niche where one of the nine altars had once stood. Seated there, eating placidly from plates on their knees, were Benedick’s children, Tarquin and Perdita, and a third child I didn’t know.

  “You want to know what goes on around here, ask that pair,” he instructed. “They’re like mongooses. Not a thing happens in Blessingstoke, on the farm or in the Abbey they don’t know it.”

  He winked and turned away. I made my way to the little alcove, where I discovered the children eating an entire platter of fruit tarts they had liberated from the buffet table.

  “Hello, Aunt Julia,” Tarquin said through a mouthful of crumbs. “You won’t tell about the tarts, will you? Only we’ve taken the last plate.”

  “Clever you,” I said, helping myself to one. “They’re Cook’s best.”

  “And we mayn’t get any more for a while,” Tarquin said darkly. “She’s gone down with an ague, and the undercook will be preparing meals until she’s well again.”

  “That’s a pity,” I said. I turned to the third child, a portly little boy with a serious expression and a thatch of dark hair.

  “I don’t know you.”

  He brushed the crumbs from his hand and took mine with a courtly little bow. “Quentin Harkness, your ladyship.”

  “What brings you to the Abbey, Master Harkness?”

  He swallowed his tart and answered promptly. “Mr. Brisbane.”

  I lifted my brows. “My husband? Really? Why is that?”

  His dark eyes shone with admiration. “I want to be just like him. I’ve read about him in the newspaper, you see. And I think being a private enquiry agent would be brilliant.”

  I smiled. “It has its moments. But it isn’t all glamour, you know. You’ll notice everyone else is enjoying their supper whilst he’s out trying to find out who left a baby in the stable.”

  “I know,” Perdita said suddenly.

  I stared at her. “What do you mean, child?”

  She smoothed her skirts over her knees. “I mean I think I know. That’s almost the same thing.”

  Quentin laughed, dropping crumbs to his lap, and Tarquin fixed his sister with a pitying glance through his spectacles. “Really, Perdie, it isn’t the same thing at all. You oughtn’t to speak unless you know. That’s how people get sued for libel.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Quentin corrected. “It’s how one is sued for slander. Libel is what you write about someone in the newspaper. My father’s a barrister,” he told me by way of explanation.

  There was something entirely unreal about having such a serious conversation with the solemn little trio, but I ought to have expected it. Benedick’s children were highly intelligent and highly original.

  “You have a good imagination, Perdita,” I observed. I meant it as a compliment, but she did not return my smile.

  “It isn’t imagination if it isn’t made up,” she told me.

  “Who do you think left the baby?” I asked her. But she merely shook her head. I shot a look at the boys. I could have throttled them. They had dampened her enthusiasm for the story, and she would say no more. I made a note to get her alone later for a private tête-à-tête. I doubted she knew anything of significance, but it would not hurt to ask.

  “Personally,” Tarquin said slowly, “I believe it was one of Aunt Hermia’s reformed prostitutes.”

  I choked on my tea, and it was some minutes before I could speak.

  I tipped my head. “I’m not entirely certain you children are supposed to know about that.” My father’s sister had established a home for reformed prostitutes in Whitechapel, a place to help them put away their gin and bad language and learn to be seamstresses and maids. She frequently bullied her family and friends into taking them on when they had completed their training, and my own Morag was a product of the place. It was never discussed in front of the children, but I was not surprised to find they knew of it, and Tarquin gave me a pitying look.

  “Of course we know. We know masses of things.”

  “I’ll wager you do,” I assured him.

  Quentin spoke up then. “But they ought not to be wasting Mr. Brisbane’s time with babies,” he said, curling his lip. “Not when there’s a proper ghost in the village.”

  “It isn’t a ghost,” Tarquin contradicted. “It’s a witch.”

  “’Tisn’t,” Quentin argued, shooting me an abashed look. It was bad manners to argue with his host, but I could see that his passion for accuracy warred with his upbringing.

  “What’s this about a witch?” I asked them.

  They both perked up, and Perdita withdrew a little, as if accustomed to giving way to her brother. But of course, she would have to, I realised with a pang. Tarquin was her elder and a boy. Everything in civilised society had taught her that her opinions were not as important as his, her skills not as valued. I felt a rush of affection for her, but just then I saw her small, clever hand reach out and deftly slip the last jam tartlet off his plate and into her mouth. Perdita would be just fine.

  I turned my attention to the boys, who were vying politely for the right to tell the story.

  “There’s a cottage by the river, beyond the vicarage. It’s called Stone Cottage. Do you know it?” Tarquin asked.

  “I do. Clever name,” I added as I pulled a face.

  “Actually, it is,” he said with a pained expression. “It wasn’t called that because it’s made of stone. The family that built it were called Stone.”

  “Ah, I see. Proceed.”

  “Well,” he said, warming to his tale, “the family died off, all except the old Mrs. Stone. She was rumoured to be two hundred years old, and she kept a pack of cats as big as dogs.”

  “Two hundred? Really?”

  He gave me a repressive look. “She wasn’t really two hundred, Aunt Julia. You mustn’t be gullible. But she looked it. Her chin and nose had grown quite close together, like this,” he said, pulling his chin and nose as near to one another as he could. “And she had a crooked back,” he added, hunching himself like an amateur actor in a production of Richard III.

  “And cats as big as dogs,” I reminded him.

  “Yes, exactly. The villagers called her Old Mother Stone.”

  Something stirred in the back of my memory. “Wait, I remember her! She was still alive when I was a child. But she didn’t look anything like that. She was a sweet little old woman with silver hair and a face like a plump apple. She was nearly as wide around as she was tall! And there was one cat, a slim little white thing called Snowdrop.”

  Tarquin’s expression was reproving. “That’s not nearly as good a story.”

  “Well, I am sorry, but it happens to be the truth. Aunt Hermia used to worry over her because she hadn’t any children to look after her. She would send us down from time to time with a basket of things, and Old Mother Stone always gave us fresh honeycomb on bread to eat.”

  “Definitely not a witch,” said Quentin with some satisfaction.

  “As I was saying,” Tarquin said repressively, “the old lady gained a reputation as a witch.”

  “She wasn’t a witch,” I protested. “She was just a countrywoman, good
at healing nettle rash and beestings.”

  “So you thought,” Tarquin corrected. “After she died, the cottage fell into disrepair and folk began to talk about the things she had done for them, secret things.”

  I felt a stab of unease. If Old Mother Stone had dabbled in anything more demanding than nettle rash, it would have likely been women’s troubles. And I wasn’t certain how much Benedick would approve of my encouraging his children to ponder such things.

  “There were potions and charms,” he went on in a sepulchral voice.

  “Yes, yes,” I hurried him on. “Then what?”

  He hesitated, his enthusiasm dimming slightly. “Well, then nothing, I suppose. Except that she has returned.”

  I blinked again. “Returned? What are you talking about?”

  “We’ve seen her,” he told me.

  “We saw a ghost,” Quentin corrected. “If she died, what’s in the cottage now is a ghost.”

  “But we don’t know that she died,” Tarquin argued. “Witches know things. She might have just flown off for a bit and decided to come back.”

  “Unlikely, old man. Where has she been for the last twenty years? And who did they bury?”

  Tarquin considered this. “Excellent question, Quentin.”

  Quentin puffed a little, his expression solemn. “There’s much investigating to be done.”

  I felt a flicker of interest stirring. “Not without me.”

  Tarquin and Quentin exchanged glances and looked at me with identical grins. “Do you mean it?” Tarquin asked.

  “Of course. If you’re going to go hunting witches and ghosts, you’ll want an experienced hand,” I told him.

  “Mr. Brisbane’s own right hand,” Quentin breathed.

  “Partner,” I corrected gently.

  “Of course,” he said, his excitement scarcely dampened. His eyes shone. “Do you think if Mr. Brisbane returns, he’d like to help us?”

  “I have no doubt,” I promised, crossing my fingers behind my back.

  The boys shook hands, eyes shining with enthusiasm, but before they could make further plans, there was a commotion at the door. Portia had arrived, her hair in disarray and her skirt marred by a suspicious stain. She went directly to the buffet table, taking a glass out of Aquinas’s hand as she went. She downed it and handed it back just as I reached her.

  “Do not speak to me. I cannot believe you left me there all day with that...with that creature,” she said, lifting a plate and surveying the contents of the table. Dishes had been arranged atop a snowy damask cloth interspersed with vast displays of winter greens and berries and hothouse flowers. Aquinas had spared no glory, putting out the Cellini salt cellars and epergnes and a vast dish for holding ice and oysters. Portia seized the oyster tongs and began to load her plate.

  “Don’t finish them off,” I ordered. “I haven’t had a single one.”

  She turned, picked up the very last oyster and raised it to her lips. She slurped it down without a word and handed me the shell.

  “That was uncalled for,” I said, a trifle hurt. “But I cannot imagine how one small baby could upset you so terribly. He’s very tiny.”

  She gave me a quelling look. “I don’t mean the child. I mean that Scottish hell hag of yours.”

  “Morag? What has she done?”

  Portia helped herself to a large serving of pheasant and quince jam.

  “What has she not done? She spent the entire day elbowing me out of the way, making me feel the most wretched fool. Every time I touched him, she snatched him away as if she thought I were going to heave him into the fire. She crooned and fussed and made the most appalling cooing noises at him.”

  I felt my blood run cold. “You mean Morag likes him?”

  “She adores him. I think she wants to keep him for a pet,” she told me.

  I laughed. “We have quite enough of those.”

  As if on cue, a tiny furred head peeped out of my décolletage. Portia sighed. “Hello, Snug.” She popped a tiny grape onto her finger and dropped it down my bodice. “For the dormouse,” she said with a malicious smile.

  I twitched and twisted, trying every which way to retrieve the grape as Snug chased it down, tickling as he went. “Oh, you are foul,” I told Portia bitterly. “I didn’t want anyone to know I had him with me. You know how fussy Olivia can be.”

  “Why didn’t you leave him upstairs?” She scooped up some potatoes Dauphinoise and a serving of peas.

  “Too dangerous. Between Father’s cats, my raven, all the dogs and the Siamese I am keeping for Morgan Fielding, it’s Noah’s Ark around here, and poor Snug is on everyone’s menu.”

  As if to underscore the sentiment, Snug gave me a long look with his sadly sweet brown eyes and dove into my décolletage again.

  “But the little fellow gives me an idea,” I said slowly.

  “What?” Portia demanded.

  I flicked a glance to our solemn niece, Perdita, sitting with her knees clasped as closely as her secrets. “Never you mind,” I told her. “Never you mind.”

  Chapter Four

  Angels and ministers of grace defend us!

  —Hamlet, I, iv, 38

  Brisbane came long after the food had been cleared and we had all retired to our rooms for an early night. Father insisted upon plenty of rest so we would be at our peak by Twelfth Night—a losing proposition as my brothers usually crept down to the smoking room long after Father had fallen asleep and stayed there half the night, drinking and sharing stories. The March sisters usually did the same, but we had the good sense to go to the billiards room and play for money. It was always a pleasure to collect a little pin money from my sisters.

  But this night there seemed little likelihood of merriment. Most of them looked drawn and a little pale, as if they were longing for their beds. I went to our room in the Jubilee Tower and tucked Snug into the sauce boat that served as his bed. He used one of Brisbane’s handkerchiefs as a bit of nest, and he lived up to his name as he cuddled right down and went to sleep. His peaceful slumber made me wonder how the infant upstairs was faring. I had picked up a book, but it lay unread on my lap as I considered possibilities. A maid might leave a child untended, but how could she conceal her condition from the rest of the staff? Most of them had duties that required heavy lifting and long hours. Surely no expectant mother could manage it without somehow calling attention to her interesting condition. And how would she explain her absence when she gave birth? None of the maids had been down with sickness.

  What of a village girl, unmarried and afraid? The same questions applied. A girl might hide a burgeoning child under petticoats and corset, but silhouettes were slimmer than they had been in decades. It would be far more difficult a trick than it might have been thirty years before. Still, a small baby—and this one was rather tiny—might be concealed if it were conceived out of wedlock and the mother were desperate.

  I felt a pang for her then, a shaft of compassion I had not expected. What sort of woman would abandon her child without any kind of instruction for his well-being, any trace of a claim? A desperate one, to be certain. And desperate people made mistakes—mistakes that could unmask them.

  Just then, Brisbane appeared, none the wiser for his investigations and starving.

  “Supper was cleared ages ago, but I will ring for a footman to bring you a plate of cold meat. You really uncovered nothing?”

  He shrugged. “The villagers are far more inclined to talk about the Revels. It took the devil’s own work to stop them questioning me about being St. George. They all seem convinced one of the maids here must have got into trouble.”

  One of th
e maids had got into trouble, I remembered, but the footman responsible had proposed marriage to her on Christmas Day, and they would be married as soon as it could be arranged.1 But she was only a matter of weeks into her pregnancy. There was simply no way the child was hers, and the rest of the maids, questioned closely by Brisbane, had been thoroughly mystified.

  Brisbane went to wash while I rang for a footman. The minutes ticked by and yet still he did not appear, so I ventured into the corridor to hunt one. I had to go as far as the main staircase before I found Aquinas. He was dressed in his greatcoat for his nightly rounds about the Abbey, bolting doors and locking windows and testing each from inside and out. He was just starting to draw the curtain over the vast window on the landing when I found him.

  “My apologies, my lady, but the footmen are all answering bells at present.”

  “Goodness, the family are being demanding tonight. All I want is a plate of something sent up for Mr. Brisbane as he missed his supper. Some cold meat, that sort of thing. And some good wine.”

  Just as Aquinas bowed his head and turned to grasp the velvet curtain once more, I happened to glance out the window. A slim, quick figure darted across the pale expanse of frosty ground and out of the soft glow from the windows, swallowed up by the shadows beyond.

  “Aquinas, give me your coat,” I ordered.

  Without hesitation, he whipped off his greatcoat and dropped it around my shoulders. I hurried down the stairs and out a side door I knew would not yet be locked. I had no time to wrestle with bolts and chains if I meant to catch her.

  I followed her, far enough behind to keep careful eye upon her but not close enough to alert her to my presence. She crossed the vast gardens of the Abbey estate and then a field that divided my father’s land from the village. A vast, lopsided waxing moon hung high overhead, casting a soft, pearly glow over the landscape. But trees and stone walls cast thick shadows, and from time to time I lost her and had to press on, following the marks in the frost as best as I could in the fitful light. I was wearing soft slippers, which offered little comfort against the cold ground, but I was silent as a spectre as I glided after her. Not once did she look round, and I admired her courage as she passed the graveyard at the church of St. Barnabas. It offered no horrors for me, either. Another graveyard on another winter’s evening might have been unwelcoming, but this graveyard was special. My mother lay there, under a stone angel weeping tears of ice. Ivy grew over her grave now, thick and luxurious, and the angel sported a wreath of holly and ivy in honour of the season. I wondered idly if she rested peacefully in her tomb, but it did not matter. My mother would offer me nothing but protection, and as I passed the graveyard, I lifted my nose to catch a whiff of her favourite lemon verbena scent on the night air.