Lady Julia Grey Bundle

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  "My apologies. Miss Hilda was showing me her chickens," he explained hastily.

  I stared at him in astonishment. I had not even seen her, but Valerius had already befriended the mysterious Hilda in the poultry yard. I ought not to have been surprised. Val, like all the March men, was singularly personable, with both charm and good looks to recommend him. I longed to ask him how he had met her, but before I had a chance to speak, a young woman hurried in, throwing herself down breathlessly in the remaining empty chair.

  "Sorry, Mama," she said shortly. The woman, who I took to be Miss Hilda, filled her plate and began to eat with as much vigour as a farmhand.

  "Hilda," her mother said sharply. "You have not made the acquaintance of Mr. Brisbane's guests. You will kindly greet Lady Bettiscombe and Lady Julia Grey, and pray they will forgive your churlishness."

  Hilda laid down her fork and gave two short nods, one in my direction, one in Portia's, and shot a quick smile at Val, then took up her fork and began to eat again with astonishing rapidity.

  "Lady Bettiscombe, Lady Julia, I hope you will overlook my daughter's poor manners. I assure you she is more gently bred than she has given you cause to believe."

  If Hilda was annoyed at her mother's criticism, she gave no sign of it. She merely continued to eat, working her way rapidly through a second piece of pie before the rest of us had finished the first. She did not look up from her plate, but there was an awareness, an energy that fairly vibrated from her that made me wonder if she were not as curious about us as we were about her.

  I scrutinised her closely as she ate, observing that she was nothing so pretty as her sister. Where in Ailith long limbs and a slender neck had given an appearance of elegance and delicacy, in Hilda they were coltish and awkward. Her elbows flapped as she ate, giving her the demeanour of a restless grasshopper. Her eyes were fixed upon her food, but I had seen a glimpse of their muddy grey hue when she had glanced in my direction, and I did not think I was mistaken in believing I had detected a keen intelligence there. Her clothes were appalling. One might expect that of an impoverished woman, but hers were particularly nasty, of masculine cut and carrying with them the distinct odour of the poultry yard. I thought I saw Val's nostrils twitch ever so slightly, but he was too well-bred to offer less than perfect courtesy to a lady. He made some low remark to her and she replied with a grunt and a shrug of her shoulders while her mother and sister attempted to make polite conversation.

  Lady Allenby nodded toward the enormous pie. "Have you enough there, Mr. Valerius? There is plenty, and you have only to let Ailith know if you would like something more. I am afraid we must serve ourselves," she finished. As we had settled into our meal, Mrs. Butters had filled plates for herself and the maids, then retired to her room to entertain them.

  I remarked upon it, and Lady Allenby smiled apologetically. "An unconventional arrangement, but it was the most suitable we could devise under the circumstances. When we dine alone, we do not trouble if Mrs. Butters joins us at table, but of course it would not do to have the maids. One doesn't like to dine with staff," she finished on a deliberately cheerful note.

  "No, one doesn't," Hilda echoed, throwing a meaningful look at Godwin.

  He put his head back and roared with laughter. "Shall I take my plate and eat in the sheepfold then?"

  Lady Allenby's face had gone quite white and pinched. "Hilda! Godwin! That is enough. What will our guests think of you—" She broke off then, doubtless remembering that she was no longer mistress of Grimsgrave. I felt a surge of pity for her. The pattern of her life would have been settled and predictable before her family's fortunes had fallen so dramatically. The question of where to put the servants for meals would never have arisen during the simpler times of her youth.

  I turned to Ailith. "Tell me, Miss Allenby, what do you do for amusement?"

  She patted her lips with a napkin and replied, but I was not listening. For some unaccountable reason I felt a desperate urge to keep the conversation civil, and I asked dozens of questions, most of Ailith and Godwin, determined to keep attention away from the prickly Hilda.

  Ailith Allenby, I noticed, ate little, and what she did eat was consumed in tiny, delicate bites, and chewed very slowly. In contrast, Godwin filled his plate three times, eating heartily and laughing loudly. He was no gentleman, but he was merry and friendly, and if he was overly-familiar, it was an easy fault to forgive. The pale atheling looks that were so striking in the elder Allenby ladies had darkened to a gilded sort of masculinity in him. His hands, broad and thickly callused, were surprisingly graceful, and his features, although not as finely-limned as Ailith's, were every bit as arresting.

  More than once I found my eyes drifting to his over the meal, and more than once he shot me a mischievous wink when he thought no one else was paying attention. He put me a little in mind of Lucian Snow, the curate at the parish church at my father's country estate at Bellmont Abbey in Blessingstoke. I could only hope Godwin Allenby made a better end than Mr. Snow, I thought with a shudder.

  After the midday meal, the gentlemen left again—Godwin to attend to his sheep while Valerius struck out to explore the moor. Hilda scurried away as soon as the last spoonful of pudding had been swallowed, and the other Allenby ladies retired to their rooms. "A little repose just after dinner is the best thing for digestion," Lady Allenby said, although I suspected she needed the rest more for her twisted joints than as an aid to digestion. She had eaten almost as much as Godwin, and I marvelled at her still-slender figure. Perhaps Rosalie's mint tonic had been just the thing to spur her appetite.

  Mrs. Butters bustled in to clear the dinner things, and Portia and I left to take a turn in the garden. I warned her to bundle up, but the sun had come out, and the afternoon was warmer, if not exactly pleasant. We strolled aimlessly, exploring the various gardens, arguing mildly over what each of the ruins had been. We finally settled on a water garden to the east of the house, fed by the reedy pond that lay just in front of the main façade, and an orchard farther on, the trees now badly overgrown and desperately in need of attention.

  Portia brushed a litter of dead leaves from a crumbling stone bench and sat heavily. "The entire place is a wreck. I wonder that Brisbane even took it on. He could not have known what he was letting himself in for. It will take a fortune to make it right again, and the passion of someone who wants to reclaim it."

  "Oh, I don't know," I said thoughtfully, turning slowly on my heel to survey the entire orchard. "Really, it wants a lot of pruning and perhaps some repairs to the walls. The paths need to be marked out freshly, of course, and it could do with a new ornament or two. That cupid is quite nasty," I finished, nodding toward a derelict statue that looked more like a small devil than the embodiment of Love.

  Portia sighed. "I meant the estate, dearest, not the orchard. There is hardly a room fit to live in, and the entire east wing has fallen into disuse. Lady Allenby gave me a tour of the place whilst you were about with Ailith."

  "I poked about the public rooms earlier," I confessed, coming to sit beside her. "Did you see the tapestry? All those little stitched crowns?"

  Portia nodded, her expression faraway. "They are a bit ancestor-mad, I think."

  "But why? I mean, we've kings and queens perched in the family tree, and we do not go about putting it on the walls for everyone to see."

  "Because we have never lost it," Portia pointed out patiently. "The Allenbys haven't been royal since the time of Canute. Do I mean Canute? Was he Saxon?"

  "Danish, I think." It was difficult to remember. We had had several governesses, none with a very firm grasp of history.

  Portia shook her head. "In any event, the Allenbys probably lost everything except their royal blood when the Normans came in and upset the apple cart. They've no grand titles. They are marooned out here like Robinson Crusoe and Friday, with no proper company and a house that is threatening to fall down over their heads at any moment. Is it any wonder they cling to what little prestige they once
had? If nothing else it gives them something to lord over the neighbours."

  "Speaking of neighbours…" I began. I told Portia about Rosalie Smith, describing her little cottage in great detail, and finishing with our mysterious conversation.

  When I had done, I pulled the little charm from my pocket and dropped it into Portia's palm. "What do you think she meant? What protection should I require? And why should she be a friend to me?"

  Portia pressed it back into my hand. "Julia, you have seen enough Gypsies to know their tricks. She means to frighten you. I'd wager a fiver the next time you go, she will speak of death stalking your shadow and promise to banish him for a pound, and ensure your good health if you buy a candle for another shilling."

  I replaced the charm carefully in my pocket. "You've grown cynical in your old age."

  "And you are still foolish in yours," she returned, though not as harshly as she might have. "That Hilda is rather beastly, don't you think? She smells of the poultry yard. Dreadful clothes."

  "I suspect they are suitable for her purposes," I said slowly. "But she seems highly put out that we have come. I wonder if we are somehow upsetting her apple cart?"

  Portia shrugged. "I cannot imagine how. Lady Allenby told me all she does is keep chickens and walk on the moor. God knows I shan't interfere with either of those occupations. Perhaps she's just peevish. Like Nerissa."

  The mention of our crabby elder sister set both our mouths twitching.

  "What do you think of Godwin?" Portia asked.

  I tipped my head, thinking of his handsome face and warm smile. "A rogue, but not a serious one. He seems a merry sort, doubtless wanting for company here," I said, casting a look about the deserted ruin of the orchard.

  "But Deborah, the innkeeper's sister, said he was popular with women. He must go into the village. I wonder," she trailed off.

  "Yes?" I prodded her.

  She shook her head, casting off her reverie. "I wonder if he is entirely trustworthy about women. I am worried for Minna."

  I laughed aloud. "Minna? Our little Cockney cabbage? Why on earth should you worry for her?"

  "Because she has never been out of London. Because all the men she knows are pale and thin and weedy. Because Godwin Allenby is a big strapping man who radiates health and animal good looks and would be very attractive to a girl of Minna's class."

  I considered. "I suppose you are right. I hadn't thought of it, but he is very different from the London lads. The accent alone would make him seem exotic to her."

  Portia snorted. "I can scarcely make out one word in three. What the devil was he talking about at luncheon?"

  "Dinner," I corrected. "He was talking about the view from Thorn Crag, and telling us we ought to make our way up there on a fine day. He claims we could see all the way to Scotland, which I highly doubt, but it is enticing."

  Portia goggled at me. "You learned all of that from the gibberish he was talking? How on earth did you make him out?"

  I shrugged. "After Morag, I imagine I could understand anyone. In any event, you needn't worry about Minna. I shall tell Morag to keep an eye open, and we will all have a care for her. I am very fond of Minna, as I know you are. Besides," I finished with a shiver, "I should hate to be the one to explain to Mrs. Birch how we let her eldest daughter stray from the path of virtue. I am rather frightened of Mrs. Birch."

  Portia nodded solemnly. "As are we all." She was silent a long moment, then she seemed to gather herself and rose from the bench. "I suppose we had better make some plans to put the house in order," she said. "We must tread carefully. I know Brisbane owns the house, but I cannot help but feel the Allenbys are still very much mistresses here."

  I thought of Ailith and her corn-gold hair and wide blue eyes, her exquisite grace and her easy self-assurance. And I thought of Brisbane, immured here for the long cold months of winter with nothing to do but sit opposite that beautiful face and marvel at its perfection.

  And I felt a surge of determination.

  I rose and shook out my skirts, brushing the odd leaf from their folds. "Do not worry, Portia. They may have held sway here in the past, but this is a new day."

  THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

  He that dies pays all debts.

  —William Shakespeare

  The Tempest

  After our conversation in the orchard, Portia retired to rest whilst I made excuses to remain downstairs. She shrugged and went on her way, and I scurried to make certain no one was lingering in the hall as I slipped into Sir Redwall's study. I had little doubt Brisbane would not appreciate my efforts to help the Allenbys, and until I knew why, I had no intention of letting him discover it.

  I could hear Mrs. Butters humming a hymn tunelessly to herself and the occasional giggle from Jetty as they scrubbed the kitchen, but once I closed the door behind me there was only the cool silence of the deserted room.

  Deserted, and yet populated with treasures I could only imagine. I scarcely breathed as I moved between the dust-sheeted heaps, wondering which held riches from a pharaoh's tomb, and which the crude trinkets fashioned for picking a tourist's pocket. And I wondered if I should be able to tell the difference. I had no experience with Egyptology beyond attending a few lectures in London and the unrolling of a mummy that a certain duchess had arranged as an entertainment. It had been a gruesome evening, but thrilling nonetheless, and as I picked my way through Sir Redwall's possessions, I wondered what I would do if a mummy lay amongst them.

  I twitched aside a dozen dustsheets, tantalised by the glimpses of polished stone and gilded wood, the flashes of gold—or perhaps something baser. I itched to fling them all aside, but I knew there was no method to that, and if I was not a properly-trained Egyptologist, at least I knew enough to have a care with the items. Since I did not know which was truly valuable and which was worthless rubbish, I decided to handle them all as though they were priceless, a sensible precaution under the circumstances, I thought. And I would catalogue the items as I found them. I would have preferred to group them like with like, but the conditions of the room made that impossible. There simply was not sufficient space to alter the current arrangements, and as it was, moving the furniture and statuary would require a great deal of muscle—muscle I had no inclination to find at present. In spite of my assurances to Lady Allenby, I did not wish to involve Valerius before it was absolutely necessary. I had little doubt Godwin would be happy to help, but it seemed prudent to keep a bit of distance until I knew him better, and as for Brisbane, the less he knew of my plans for the present, the happier I would be, I was convinced.

  After a lengthy search I found the desk, an enormous thing with dozens of drawers and a handsome bit of carved detail. There was nothing of Egypt about this piece. It was of good English oak and more than a hundred years old, judging by the patina. I ran a hand over its surface, smooth as satin from years of careful polishing. The pigeonholes still held paper, and I found a few sheets of foolscap to begin my notes.

  As I opened the drawers, searching for a pen or bit of pencil, I realised the desk had not been cleared out after Sir Redwall's death. His diary lay open to a date from the previous summer, the page annotated in a spidery masculine scrawl. It took a bit to decipher it, but it was a note to himself: Unwell today. Dosed twice with q. I flipped to the previous page and there was the note: Felt poorly. Single dose. I continued to flip back and each page had a note about his health and sometimes estate business, each item marked with a little tick, presumably after he had concluded the matter. Speak to Godwin about gardener's cottage. Arrange sale of little pasture. Letter from SB. Some of the days were noted with tiny drawings, hieroglyphs from the look of them. His handwriting had grown progressively more feeble over the weeks before his death, a sign of his deteriorating health, no doubt. But had he realised he was dying? He had, by his own hand, arranged for the sale of one of his pastures. Surely he had known the failing state of his fortunes. Had he planned some retrenchment before his death and been unable to carry it
out?

  I closed the diary and moved on through the pigeonholes and little drawers, finding nothing of value but everything of interest. There were no letters from SB, nothing to indicate if this had been an inamorata or a business associate or even another scholar of Egyptology. I would have expected letters from creditors, but there were none. I found a tiny scarab, its enamel long since lost, and a small ball of bits of twine, carefully saved and wrapped neatly. There was a penknife, a handsome thing marked with the initials AA. I took it to be his father's, Sir Alfred's, saved for sentimental reasons, or perhaps simply because it was an item of good quality. The dockets for correspondence were neatly labelled, To be answered, To be read, To be filed, but empty save for a few mouldering issues of periodicals pertaining to Egyptology. I scanned them for articles penned by Sir Redwall, but found none. This was not entirely unexpected. Many gentlemen preferred to use a nom de plume when writing professionally. I laughed at the obviously false soubriquet St. John Malachy-LaPlante, and those I laid aside. It was not entirely impossible that Sir Redwall had written them himself.

  The rest of the desk revealed nothing of note. If Sir Redwall had left debts, someone had removed the bills, perhaps with an eye to satisfying the creditors. I assembled a few items I should need—paper, ink, pen, blotting paper, gluepot, even a clever little notebook that had never been used—and tidied the rest away, thinking to put them in the largest bottom drawer. I opened it, and realised I had missed something. There was an album of sorts wedged into the bottom, and I prised it loose with the aid of the paperknife. It was an old-fashioned leather album covered in black kidskin. I opened it and read the inscription: The property of Redwall Allenby 1858. I did the subtraction quickly. The album was a child's then, begun when he was still a schoolboy.

  I glanced through the first few pages, past the reports of his tutors, pasted carefully in with little notes from his father and clippings from newspapers. They were yellowed and crumbling and I smiled at the thought of the boy carefully cutting the columns and pasting them into his album. Most were pieces about Sir Alfred, lauding his career and praising the Allenby family. Clearly the boy had shared his mother's pride in their name and accomplishments.