Lady Julia Grey Bundle

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  "I thought I would pay a call upon Mrs. Smith," I told him, slanting a quick glance to gauge his response.

  "She'll not tell a fortune, but she has a potion for anything that ails you," he advised me. We did not speak for several minutes as we climbed higher on the moor. Godwin was a comfortable sort of person, surprisingly respectful given the impropriety of our situation. When we had nearly reached the crossroads of the moor paths, he turned to me.

  "Lady Allenby says tha' you are clearing out Redwall's things," he said. I noted the lack of Sir Redwall's honorific, and the omission intrigued me. I remembered then the note in Sir Redwall's diary about his plan to speak to Godwin regarding the gardener's cottage, and I wondered if the interview had ever taken place.

  "Yes, I think he had some rather fine pieces, and Lady Allenby gave me to understand the funds from their sale would not be unwelcome."

  Godwin nodded. "Tha's true enough. They've not two pennies to rub together, save a few sticks of furniture and that old rag in the hall."

  "Oh, you mean the tapestry. I did not notice, is your name stitched there?"

  He threw back his tawny head, his laughter ringing out. "Bless you, no. They've no use for the lesser mortals in the family. I am but a younger son of a younger son of a younger son. We've been farm managers for the Allenbys for two centuries, and every last one of them has hated tha' we bear the same name as they. Sir Alfred even offered my old da' a thousand pounds to change it."

  I nearly stumbled over a tussock. He put out a strong hand to steady me. "Careful there, lady."

  "Sir Alfred? You mean Sir Redwall's father? He actually offered your father money to change his name?"

  "Aye. But he would have none of it. Sir Alfred had an apoplexy and died soon after, and all the better for us. He would have chucked out the lot of us, tha's for certain, and left us to starve. If the Allenbys have any gift, 'tis for dying when you want them to."

  I opened my mouth to question him further, but we had reached the crossroads by then and he raised his hand to point up the path. "Tha's the way to Rosalie's. You mind you know it well enough? And back again? I can come and collect you if you don't. 'Twould not serve you to get lost on the moor."

  "No, thank you, Godwin. I know my way."

  "Then I'll be off. Good day to thee, my lady."

  He sketched a little parody of a courtier's bow and left me, whistling a merry tune. I walked slowly, turning over what he had said in my mind. So many interesting little titbits, and so many questions unanswered. I was so preoccupied that I tripped over the rock just in front of Rosalie Smith's cottage for the second time, cursing roundly as I did so. There was a laugh from just over the stone wall of the garden.

  "Lady in looks, but not in speech," Rosalie said, smiling as she opened the gate.

  I waved a hand at the stone. "You might have that thing removed. That is the second time I have tripped over that stone. It could be dangerous in the dark."

  She shrugged. "Everyone knows it is there. And if you ever come to me at night, I will know it is you by the swearing."

  I proffered the cake and she took it with thanks.

  "Come in and we will slice it for tea."

  I accepted, and in a very short time we were settled at her comfortable hearthside, sipping our tea and nibbling at heavy slices of fruitcake. It was moist and rich and thick with fruit that Mrs. Butters had set to steep in tea and whisky many weeks before. She had guided Minna through the mixing of the batter and the girl had outdone herself.

  Rosalie and I talked for a few minutes about nothing in particular, then fell silent. As with Godwin, it was a comfortable silence, and I realised, not for the first time, that my most companionable moments were often found in the company of those whom society would have me shun. Other ladies of my station would simply never have considered walking with the farm manager or taking tea with a Gypsy witch. Nor would they have considered any possibility of a romantic entanglement with a man of questionable parentage who made a living in trade, I reflected ruefully.

  "Penny for your thoughts," Rosalie murmured.

  "If you were gifted with the sight, you would already know them," I teased her.

  She shook her head, her expression darkening. "I have seen those with the sight, lady. It is a cruel gift, one that takes as much as it bestows."

  I thought of Brisbane with a shiver. He resisted his flashes of insight, his inexplicable ability to see things he should not, and to know things he could not. This refusal to accept himself for what he was sat at the root of his migraines, vicious and torturous. He held them at bay with all manner of evil things, and I suspected his current regimen of a whisky at bedtime would not serve him for long. It had occurred to me that his music was some solace, but I knew that it would never be able to stem the tide of pain forever. Sooner or later, the pain or his visions would win out, if only they did not destroy him in the meantime. Shortly after our last investigation at my father's home in Sussex, I had visited a Gypsy woman of my acquaintance, Magda, who had known Brisbane's family, and his ill-fated mother, Mariah Young.

  The one man Mariah Young loved was not a Romany. He was a rogue, come from an old and proud Scottish family, and his people hated Mariah. But he must have loved her in spite of his wicked ways, for they married and after seven full moons had passed, she gave birth to a child, a boy with his mother's witchcraft and his father's wildness. But blood will out, and the noble rogue left his wife and son. Mariah did not grieve for him. His love of drink and other women had killed her love, and when she saw she was rid of him she danced as she had not danced since she was wed. She took her boy to her people, tried to teach him the ways of the travellers.

  But the child was a halfling, born between two worlds, belonging to neither. When he was but ten years old he ran away, leaving his mother behind and, for the first time in her life, Mariah Young knew what it was to have a broken heart. She cursed her own son. She gave him the legacy of her sight, knowing he would fight against it, knowing it would destroy him slowly from within.

  It was a horrible tale, tragic and violent, and it had gone down as legend amongst their people. I wondered if Rosalie had heard of her as well, if perhaps she knew Brisbane for what he was. I very nearly asked her, but she offered me another slice of cake then and the moment passed.

  The lurcher, Rook, came and sat with his head on my knee as we talked, and I petted him absently.

  "He does not like many folk, and none who are not Romany," Rosalie told me. "You must have some Gypsy blood, lady."

  I smiled and gave the dog a good scratching behind the ears. "I think dogs know those who like them. He is a handsome fellow. Why do you call him after a black bird, though? His coat is white as new snow."

  "'Rook' means tree in our language. Rook was cast off by his mother and my husband, John-the-Baptist, found him curled up under the roots of an oak tree, shivering with cold. He put him into his waistcoat and kept him there, although we do not keep white dogs."

  Poaching, of course. That was the primary function of Gypsy dogs, and as she had indicated before, a white animal would be of no use in the dark.

  "John-the-Baptist thought I would like some company here when he is away. So he kept him alive by giving him to suckle at a goat. And when the pup was strong enough, he came here to live. He is a good watchdog, although little enough stirs on the moors."

  "Except perhaps ghosts," I joked, thinking of the bleak grimness of the place when the sky was iron grey and the clouds seemed to lower just overhead.

  "Oh, yes. The ghosts," she said soberly. "But the dead do not always lie quietly, do they, lady?"

  I thought of the people I had known who had died. I had never seen a ghost, but I had known the unquiet dead.

  "No, they do not," I agreed. I hurried to change the subject. "John-the-Baptist is an unusual name."

  "He is an unusual man. Perhaps you will meet him. He will come this way again soon. Always in the springtime," she said, and for an instant I fancie
d I caught a note of wistfulness in her tone. I could not imagine her living so long removed from her people, seeing her husband for a few weeks of each year.

  I thought again of Magda. She had been banished from her Gypsy family and had spent some time as my laundress in London before rejoining her people. It was not impossible that Rosalie had been banished as well. I knew the Gypsies had many taboos for which the punishment was always banishment.

  "You said you are a—what was the word?" I asked her.

  "Shuvari. The English call me a witch, but among my own kind I am a healer."

  "And the villagers here, the English, they do not bother you? I would have thought them inclined to be superstitious about such things."

  She shrugged. "They remember the old ways here, when there was always a village wise woman to help babies into the world, and ease the passing of the dead. They trust me because I soften their sorrows and because I have the gift of potions. There is not a condition I cannot remedy, if a person wants my help."

  "A gift indeed," I observed. "You are lucky, Rosalie. Not many people have the good fortune of knowing their purpose so clearly."

  She tipped her head to one side, as I had often seen my raven, Grim, do. Her eyes were dark and bright with interest. "You speak as though you wander, lady. But you should not. Your path is one you put your feet on some time ago. And even though you cannot see the way for the shadows, you must know these shadows will not always cloud your vision."

  I toyed with the Medusa pendant at my throat, turning the coin over in my fingers. Rosalie looked at it curiously, but said nothing. I tucked it away lest she ask about it. My relationship with Brisbane was complicated enough without trying to explain it to a virtual stranger. "You speak like a fortune-teller now. I thought you did not have the sight."

  "I may not read tea leaves or palms, my lady, but it is easy enough to read faces. Yours is a questioning face, always looking for answers, always seeking the truth, for yourself and for others."

  I smiled at her. "I think that is a very polite way of saying I am curious as a cat. And we all know what happened to the cat—curiosity killed her."

  Rosalie took the last slice of cake onto her plate. "Yes, but you forget the most important thing about the little cat," she said, giving me a wise nod. "She had eight lives left to live."

  * * *

  I hurried my steps as I returned to Grimsgrave Hall. Dark clouds had gathered, and though it had not begun to rain, the wind was freshening, whipping my skirts and shawl about me and dragging my hair free from its pins. I cursed it as I struggled down the moor path, so intent upon my unruly hair that I did not see Brisbane approaching until he was nearly upon me.

  "You've come back," I said stupidly, so stunned was I to see him there, conjured like something out of a dream. He was dressed for travelling, his suit perfectly neat, his cuffs crisp and white. How he managed to keep himself so fastidious was one of the mysteries I had yet to solve.

  He fixed me with a humourless look. "You ought to be inside," he scolded. "There is a storm coming." He was scant feet away, but I could scarcely hear him for the wind.

  "I know," I told him, exasperated. "Where do you think I am going?"

  He took my arm just above the elbow, his fingers warm even through the wool of my clothes. He nudged me along the path, guiding me toward the house.

  "Well, considering you are the most contrary woman of my acquaintance, you might just as well have been headed for the crag."

  I pulled a face, but when I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him, I thought better of it. There were lines of fatigue at his eyes and mouth, and for this brief moment, it was enough simply to be near him.

  After a moment, he turned sharply to me. "Are you quite all right?"

  "Yes, perfectly. Why do you ask?"

  "Because I have just called you contrary and you did not bother to contradict me. I thought you might be ill."

  He was watching me intently, and in that moment, every feeling I had ever nurtured for him rose up within me.

  "Do shut up, Brisbane," I told him. I raised myself on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek. I meant it to be a trifle, a little thing to tease him with. I ought to have known better. One cannot taunt a lion and walk away unscathed.

  In the space of a pulsebeat his arms were around me and we forgot the wind, the coming storm, the sad ruin of a house before us. We forgot everything except this electric thing that bound us, sparking a reaction whenever our flesh touched. He smelled of leather and wool and tasted of apples and I could have died in that moment and counted myself happy. He groaned my name when I put my lips to his neck, and then he kissed me again, wrenching the shawl from my head completely to bury his hands in my hair, scattering pins to the ground.

  It might have been only a minute, it might have been a hundred years we stood there. It was not until the thunder rumbled directly overhead that we broke apart. Brisbane was breathing heavily, his broad chest rising and falling like a man who has just run a great distance. He stepped back sharply, then gathered up my shawl, fairly flinging it at me.

  "For God's sake, Julia. You were a fool to come and a greater fool to stay," he shouted over the wind. "Why do you not go back to London?"

  As calmly as I could manage with shaking fingers, I laid the shawl over my head and tied it securely. "Because you need me. You said so yourself."

  He thrust his hands into his hair, tearing at it. "I was wrong. I did not mean it. I do not need you. Do you hear me? I do not need you. Go away, Julia. Go back to London and take your silly romance with you. I want none of it."

  He turned then and left me standing in the middle of the moor, the vast empty moor that tore his words to pieces on the wind. It was a long time before I followed him, but when I did, I saw Hilda's pale, watchful face peering from the window on the stairs.

  THE TENTH CHAPTER

  The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on.

  —William Shakespeare

  Henry VI, Part 3

  I slept poorly that night, my dreams full of misty moors and storms breaking over Thorn Crag. I wandered, lost and sodden, crying out to Brisbane. He stood at the top of Thorn Crag, laughing, his black greatcoat tossing on the wind as he circled an arm about Ailith Allenby. I woke and buried my head under the pillow in disgust. I could not imagine a more pathetic scene. It was something straight out of melodrama, and it occurred to me that the setting of Grimsgrave Hall was bringing out all of my worst tendencies to sentimentality.

  "I loathe myself," I muttered.

  "Do not talk to yourself, Julia. It makes me fear for your sanity," Portia said dryly.

  I peeked out from under the pillow, surprised to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed in head-to-toe velvet the colour of pale seawater, and holding a packet of envelopes.

  "The post!" I cried. We had had no correspondence since we arrived at Grimsgrave. There was no delivery arrangement for the Hall, and Godwin's trips into the village to collect from the postmistress were few and far between. Valerius had offered to fetch it himself, but the postmistress had declined to give it to him as he was a stranger. He had sulked the better part of a day over the insult, but I had little doubt it would be forgot once he had had the pleasure of his letters.

  Portia handed me mine and I thumbed through them eagerly, delighted to see that Father had written, as well as a number of my siblings and my dear friend, Hortense de Bellefleur. There was also a letter from Bellmont, and I put it carefully aside to read later. I could not stand to open it yet lest he disappoint me by not agreeing to help the Allenby ladies.

  Portia had opened her first letter and was staring at it, her complexion quite pale.

  "Dearest? Is something wrong?"

  She shook her head and pocketed the envelope. "No, just those damned Riche brothers. I told them I needed a proper riding costume before I left London and they've sent me nothing but apologies. Difficulties with the woolen mill in Scotland, or some such nonsense."
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  She fell to reading her letters again, and I sank into reverie. Memories of the crushing scene between Brisbane and me on the moor rolled over me and I thrust them back. This was not the time to let a trifling setback discourage me. He had told me the first night that he needed me, and after seeing how shattered he was by one kiss, I believed his actions rather than his words. He had not appeared for supper the previous night, nor to sit with the rest of the household. He had kept to his room instead, carefully locking the door behind him as he went. I would have been affronted at this precaution had I not realised that he knew me very well indeed.

  Resolutely, I rose and began my toilette. I chattered to Portia about my plans for the day, scarcely noting her quiet answers.

  "I only hope Bellmont won't be completely horrid about helping the Allenby ladies," I went on, dithering between my violet tweed ensemble and a smart black velvet suit more appropriate for town. "You know how stubborn he can be. I must say, I did not expect to like Ailith. One cannot like a woman so perfect, even if her clothes look like something out of a primer on modesty, but she has proved to be quite amiable, although that Hilda is quite foul. But I do quite like Lady Allenby and I mean to do all that I can for them. How is the organising going, by the way? They do not seem to mind you taking a hand in things, and you really ought to get on, you know."

  Portia shook herself, as though she had been a thousand miles away. "Oh, they are cordial enough. As yet I have only made lists. Linen to be bought, furniture, plate. The builders will have to be brought in to see about the collapsed wing. It may not be feasible to repair it. Brisbane will have to decide."

  I caught sight of her then in the looking-glass. She had taken the letter from her pocket again, and she looked as I had never seen her look before. She was pale to the lips and her expression was one of utter loss. I turned and went to her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

  "Portia."

  Her brave façade crumbled then. She turned her face up to me, tears sparkling on her lashes. Even in grief she was beautiful. "She's left me, Julia. Jane has left me."