Murkmere

by Patricia Elliott

  Afterward she went into her parlor to read; she didn’t bid me goodnight. I was standing hesitantly in the dining room, watching the footman clear our dishes and wondering if it was part of my job to help, when Scuff shuffled through in her big shoes. “Please, Miss Aggie, you’re to follow me. Mistress Crumplin has some clothes for you.”

  She took me to the laundry rooms by the kitchen, where Mistress Crumplin, a tipping tankard of ale clasped in one hand and grumbling all the while, managed to find me two nightgowns and some dresses and shawls in the depths of a vast airing cupboard.

  “They’re not much, but a deal better than what you’re wearing,” she remarked thickly, eyeing my dress.

  I clutched my skirt, worried she’d wrest it from me: one of my few reminders of home. “But shouldn’t I wear a cap and apron?” I asked, wanting to be like the other girls.

  “Gracious, no! You’re the mistress’s companion, not a maid.” She gave me an odd look. “Your mother Eliza was only a maid, you know, for all the airs she gave herself.”

  “Please, Mistress, what do you remember about my mother?” I said, thinking she was in her cups and might open up to me.

  At once she looked shifty. “Nothing, girl. Too long ago.” She paused. “One thing, though.”

  “Yes?” I said eagerly.

  She breathed damply into my face and her lips shone with the ale I could smell on her breath. “Greatly favored by Master and My Lady, was Eliza. Mystery why she ran away.”

  “Ran away?”

  “Aye, didn’t give notice, just upped and was off.” She leaned closer still, so that I drew back involuntarily. “She was frightened, that’s my opinion. Something at Murkmere got her running.”

  It was strange and lonely in my bedchamber when at last I found it. Before I climbed into bed I opened the window wide for a moment to let the frosty air blow away the staleness. The fire, which I’d poked back into life, spluttered and died in the bitter draft.

  I lay in the darkness like a corpse in the long nightgown, between linen sheets that smelled of damp. I wondered what my mother’s first night had been like. She would have slept with the other maids. What had her work been, her daily routine? Why had she run away?

  Aunt Jennet had said little about my mother’s time at Murkmere, but she’d looked troubled when I received the Master’s summons. “I never rested easy while Eliza was at Murkmere,” she’d said. “And shan’t do so with you there.” I hadn’t asked her for any explanation. I was too set on escaping the monotonous drudgery of spinning, and thought she fussed needlessly.

  But now I felt again the fear in her grip as she’d put her thin arms around me and hugged me as if she didn’t want to let me go.

  A tear slipped down my cheek, then another. I longed for her arms again. I wept for my aunt; and I wept for my mother, who was lost to me.

  Then a sound came to me in the silence of the night, outside somewhere, far away. At first I thought it was moaning on the wind, but there was no wind over the frost-gripped land outside.

  The moaning came closer. It wasn’t far from the house. As the unearthly sound came closer it rose to a bloodcurdling pitch.

  My tears froze on my cheeks. My eyes stared wide into the dark. I knew what it was now. It was the baying of dogs, a great pack of hunting dogs. I could hear them panting and gasping, their paws pounding the hard ground.

  They were coming closer. Soon they’d be beneath my window; they would scent me. Then they would leap into my bedchamber, jaws wide, teeth white in the moonlight, saliva dripping on the floorboards.

  Beneath their howling, I could hear my own whimpering, faint with terror, hopeless. I was trembling like a rabbit. My amber was under my pillow. I must touch it, hold it in my palm. That was all it would take to keep me safe: one little movement of my arm and hand.

  But I couldn’t move.

  I heard the hounds prepare themselves to leap. They were ready for the kill. I saw their black lips roll back.

  But the sounds were fading. The dogs had gone; the monstrous pack had moved on. The baying died away. I lay numb with shock, and around me the night folded into a deathly silence.

  V

  Speaking to Mr. Silas

  Each night I heard the midnight baying beyond my window. In time I learned from Scuff that what I heard were the guard dogs of Murkmere, let loose from their kennels at night to roam the grounds, but during that first week I was most horribly frightened. Morning and night I gazed down from my window, longing to see my aunt materialize miraculously in the stable yard, to take me home.

  At least I saw little of Leah during the day. She had lessons with the Master all morning and after luncheon at noon, for a further hour before he rested. Then she’d wander the grounds in the bitter weather until dusk fell, Dog and I trailing along silently behind her, until, invariably, she managed to slip from us and flee to the mere.

  “She’s your responsibility now,” said Dog, with hateful satisfaction. “Go, find her yourself—if you can!”

  And she’d retreat to the warmth of the kitchen quarters while I traipsed off in pursuit of Leah, scouring the edges of the muddy wastes and frozen reeds for a sight of that flying silvery hair and lanky frame.

  I didn’t see the heron again. Nor did I ever glimpse the swans as I stared out over the ice to the dark little island. Sometimes I wondered if it were only Leah herself who could see those mysterious birds.

  She never spoke to me at mealtimes, but pointedly brought in a book to read, as if I weren’t there at all. Usually we were waited on by the taciturn footman, Jukes, whom I’d seen outside the Master’s rooms, but one time Scuff came to serve us, her face intent and anxious as she waded over with the dishes.

  Leah looked up from her book. “Your apron is disgustingly stained, Scuff! You should be ashamed.”

  “She’s only young, Miss Leah,” I dared protest as the poor child crept out with our dirty plates, her head hanging.

  “That’s why she’ll take notice of me,” snapped Leah. “The other servants care nothing for my wishes. Haven’t you noticed how ill-kept the house is, how disordered? My guardian doesn’t notice, he’s too much in his rooms, he doesn’t see his housekeeper’s a sot. Outside we’re short of keepers and the estate runs to weed.” She stared somberly at her fingers for a moment, then glared across at me. “Wait until I’m Mistress here, I’ll change things! I’ll get rid of the lot of them!”

  I was so amazed that she’d actually spoken to me, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  The Master spent a couple of days in his bed, but in the middle of the week he was pushed into the dining room by Silas as we were finishing luncheon. He looked pale, his great hands twisted together in his lap, their strength sapped. Leah leaped to her feet, leaving her stewed apple uneaten; her face was transformed with joy. She knelt next to the chair and stroked the Master’s grooved cheeks.

  “I’ll look after the Master now,” she said to Silas. “You may leave us.” She put her smooth young cheek close to the Master’s and said gently, “I shall take you to oversee your property, Sir.”

  And then she began to wheel him from room to room.

  I saw what an effort it was for her to push the heavy chair, how her arms bent like celery stalks; yet she persisted. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I hovered miserably behind, jealous of their private jokes, of the affectionate way the Master rumbled back at Leah’s whispers.

  When he was well enough to tutor her again, I went after the little group as it started off on its expedition to the watch-tower. The tower stuck up like a finger from a copse of silver birch on top of a grassy rise to one side of the Hall. From a distance it looked similar to the one near our village: a plain square structure built of the local dark red stone. Once, watch-towers had been built all over the Eastern Edge to guard against invasion from the sea; now they were mostly used in the summer months to look out for bands of marauders.

  When I’d asked Scuff how the Master managed to reach the
top room to tutor Leah, her eyes grew wide. “He’s raised up by a magical contraption, Aggie — a ‘lift,’ he calls it. I’ve seen them before in the Capital, but this is his own design. You’ll see!”

  And of course I was determined to do so, if I could.

  A bitter wind was gusting from the north as Leah pushed the chair up a well-worn track, with the Master bundled up in rugs, bumping from side to side. Jukes the footman followed behind with a basket of medicine bottles covered by a blowing white cloth; I followed Jukes at a discreet distance.

  Leah’s face was strained and pale, and her black-gloved fingers were clenched on the bar of the chair. “Let Jukes take over, my dear,” said the Master as he struggled to keep his balance on the seat. “It will be easier for us both.”

  Leah looked more determined than ever. “I don’t need help,” she said furiously. “It is only that the ground has become so hard and cracked.” As she stopped pushing to catch her breath, she caught sight of me. “Why have you come? Go back!”

  In dismay I came closer to explain. “I only wanted to see the lift, Miss.”

  The Master, gray-faced with cold and convalescence, peered around at me. “And see it you shall, Agnes. I’m always happy to show off its working.”

  “Then let’s hope it does so,” muttered Leah, giving me a resentful look.

  “Come and walk beside me, Agnes,” said the Master, thumping the arm of his chair with enthusiasm. “Let me explain the mechanics of it.”

  It went over my head, the Master’s description of pulleys and weights and wheels; but he took unbounded pleasure in it. His cheeks took color and he waved his hands about, his voice loud to emphasize the finer points of the lift’s workings. When I glanced over at Leah, I surprised a smile on her face before she had time to hide it.

  At last we came to a sizeable tussock, frozen solid in the middle of the track, and there was no going around it, for we were into the birch copse now and surrounded by gorse and scrub. Leah struggled in vain for some moments, Jukes looking on in concern, yet not daring to help her. At last, I said tentatively, “Perhaps if we do it together? If I press on the lower bar, it will lever up the front of the chair so you and Mr. Jukes can lift it over.”

  Leah knew she had no alternative but to agree. She nodded curtly at the footman to put down his basket, and then the three of us managed the maneuver with little difficulty. As we started off again, my bare hands were still on the push bar. I could see Leah looking down at them as she took hold of the bar again herself, but she did not protest at my help. Side by side and in silence, she and I pushed the chair the remaining distance together.

  To my delight the lift turned out to be a tiny house with a gilded roof and chimney. It sat beneath a pulley system that ran to a window at the top of the watchtower. Supports ran up the side of the tower to keep the house steady on its journey through the air, and I stared at these with incredulity as I rubbed my numb hands together. I’d never dare trust my life to machinery, I thought, and wished I’d listened better to the Master’s explanations.

  A footman was waiting for us by an enormous winch, his sleeves already rolled up for action in spite of the freezing wind. He gave me a suspicious look as I peered through one of the arched windows of the little house. Inside I could see rich fabric on the walls, even candelabra for night journeys; a small brazier was lit against the chill.

  “Everything’s ready for the Master, just as it should be,” the footman growled to no one in particular.

  “Miss Agnes is merely satisfying her curiosity, Pegg,” said the Master, with a smile. “She has never seen a lift before.”

  “Well, if she is satisfied enough, Sir,” Pegg grunted, “we’ll be getting on pushing you inside it.”

  Jukes secured the wheels of the chair by iron grips to the floor and closed the door. “Take it up, Mr. Pegg.”

  As we watched, the squat but burly Pegg began to crank the handle of the winch, his muscles bulging beneath his jacket. I thought he’d find it impossible, because of all the weights attached to the chains. To my astonishment, the little house began to rise slowly up the side of the tower.

  “Come, Jukes,” Leah said, moving away. “He’ll be at the top in a minute.”

  Jukes followed her to a door in the base of the tower, which closed behind them. Soon I heard the window at the top opening, and then the lift had reached it, hanging in space against its supports.

  I looked in alarm at Pegg as he took his hands from the winch, but the lift remained steady. “Be gone now, Miss Cotter,” he said roughly, “there’s nothing for you here.”

  I took a last look up at the tower, at the window behind which must surely be the forbidden bookroom: even now I thought the Master, who’d been so kind to me, might change his mind. Then defeated, watched by the disapproving Pegg, I left, winding my way back disconsolately through the blown gorse.

  Somehow I lived through my first week at Murkmere. I helped Leah wheel the Master to the tower each day, but was never invited inside. Back in the house, I’d wander its dark, icy passages until I knew them by heart, or stay in my bed-chamber, staring at the damp-patterned ceiling. I thought I might die from boredom.

  So far I’d nothing to tell Mr. Silas, for every time I’d followed Leah, I’d lost her. On the whole she ignored me: she certainly never told me where she was going.

  One evening at Devotion, toward the end of that week, Mr. Silas favored me with a smile. Perhaps he was wondering why I hadn’t been to see him. Perhaps I’d do so the very next day. At least I could ask him for permission to visit Aunt Jennet.

  After luncheon, when Leah had returned to the tower for her afternoon tuition, I approached the steward’s door and knocked. Now that the moment had come to see him alone, I felt slightly sick. If it hadn’t been for my longing to see my aunt, I might have run away.

  There was a rowdy noise coming from the kitchen quarters and it was hard to hear if Mr. Silas had said anything, so after a minute I lifted the latch and went in.

  He was sitting at a desk with papers spread in front of him and a quill pen in his left hand. There were gold coins neatly arranged in glinting columns on the dark wood — more money than I’d ever seen in my life, a miser’s dream — and I stared at these as I came in. I could feel my eyes widen. Then I looked at him.

  He was wearing spectacles that changed him into someone I didn’t know. I thought I saw a frown between his smooth brows as he looked up; his eyes were magnified and glaring. Then he removed the spectacles and was smiling after all, smiling as he opened drawers in the desk and slid the money in deftly, as if he knew without looking where it should go.

  He locked the drawers and put the keys in his breast pocket. “You surprised me, Agnes. I didn’t hear your knock.”

  He motioned me to a chair in front of the desk and I sat down, feeling more nervous than ever. He was tidying away his papers now with quick, neat movements, and I, not wanting to stare, fixed my gaze on the mahogany cupboard behind him where a huge Eagle carved in black wood glared down at me, wings raised ready for the kill. It was intended to convey the Almighty’s sacred form, but it was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.

  At last he looked up. “You’ve come to talk about your mistress?” he said gently, leaning a little toward me, his dark eyes on my face, his elbows in finest tweed resting on the cleared desk.

  I nodded, clutching my hands together.

  “How do you find her, Agnes? Is she very different from other girls her age?”

  I began to talk, haltingly at first, but then faster, encouraged by his sympathetic questioning. I forgot I’d been anxious about seeing him. It all poured out: Leah, her unfriendliness, the impossibility of tracking her to the mere. At the end he stood up, came over to me, and laid a hand on my shoulder reassuringly

  “You’ve done well, Agnes. I know how hard it must be for you to come from your home to a place like this, to such a demanding position. I fear Miss Leah’s soul has been lost already, whatever you try t
o do for her.”

  I stared up at him. “You don’t mean the Night Birds have taken it?”

  His hand gripped my shoulder with a warm pressure through the gray serge of my dress. “Not yet. But she wears no amulet.”

  “It’s not only her soul, Sir. What about the danger from kidnappers?”

  To my astonishment I saw him smile slightly. “I don’t believe there’s any real risk. Murkmere’s not a rich estate. Mr. Tunstall doesn’t even attend Council — he hasn’t done for years — he’s privy to no state secrets worth possessing. No, we must concern ourselves with Leah’s spiritual welfare, you and I. Watch her behavior, see if your good influence can save her, Agnes. I see you at Devotion. I know your soul is safe.”

  His fingers touched the skin of my neck. He moved on to the leather thong that threaded my amber. He pulled the stone from my bodice and held it in his palm, close to me, as if examining it. Beyond his head I could see the black Eagle on the cupboard, with its cruel, curved beak.

  “Your amber,” he whispered, “keeps you safe from harm, doesn’t it, little marigold? Yours is an unblemished soul — a sweet, pure delicacy of a soul — and we must keep it that way, mustn’t we?”

  “Yes, S-Sir,” I stammered. His eyes were intent, unblinking as he gazed down into mine. They were so dark, the pupil merged with the iris. I couldn’t look away but had to stare back, my own eyes wide, my heart beating fast. I could smell the dusky flower water he used; he must have dabbed it on his wrists, his fingers. Then he blinked suddenly and dropped the amber so that it fell back against my skin.

  “I should return to my work, alas,” he said. “But come again, Agnes. I want to know if anything worries you, any little change in Leah’s behavior. All the souls in Murkmere concern me, but Leah’s particularly, of course. The estate will be hers one day, and she must be fit to run it.”