Maria’s nostrils flared with indignation at my use of his name. ‘Yes, the villagers claim that the wretch survived the plague,’ she spat. ‘And that the Devil took his tongue as payment!’ She glowered at me. ‘You know his name . . . ?’
I knew that I had to tread carefully now. She was so close to taking another fit.
‘I only know his name because one of the maids called him into the kitchens for food,’ I explained, gently placing my hand on the sleeve of her coat.
‘Well, of course he could not have told you himself,’ she said, her voice hinting of glee.
I swallowed hard, stunned by her cruelty.
‘But surely, Maria,’ I began, forcing the words from my lips. ‘A clever, educated girl like yourself would not believe that the Devil took his tongue?’
‘That is true,’ she said, drinking in the compliment. ‘Anyone that survives the plague is bound to be somewhat diminished. But what I do believe is that he’s taken advantage of my papa’s good nature!’
‘But he’s so good with the horses – surely that must be why he is allowed to stay?’ I ventured.
‘Or more likely the villagers have tricked us into taking him – so that they can spy on Papa’s work!’
‘You mean his work as an apothecary?’ I said stupidly, without thinking.
‘What do you mean?’ said Maria, her forehead bulging with a fresh wave of anger. ‘His work as an apothecary?’
‘It’s just that the wagon driver that brought me here—’
‘You said that despicable man had hardly uttered a word for the entire journey!’ cried Maria, standing furiously. ‘Yet you seem to have discussed my father at quite some length!’
‘Well, what I really think is just how merciful it was of your papa to take pity,’ I said in a desperate attempt to placate her. ‘When the boy’s own family cast him out so cruelly.’
When I first arrived at the house, Maria was not so quick to anger, I was sure of it. These days almost anything could set off her tempers. She was now looking up at the frozen vines twisted into the metal arc of the arbour, her gloved hands clenched in fury. When her eyes met mine again, I feared that she might strike me.
But instead she took in a gulp of air and breathed it out slowly, like she was willing every fibre of her being to stay in control.
‘I suppose that you are right, dear Iseabail,’ she said evenly. Then she bent over to take my gloved hands into her own. ‘You will find that Papa is really a most generous man.’
I was becoming adept at employing flattery to dispel her rages. Kind words about her father, this mysterious merchant I was yet to meet, usually did the trick.
‘Well, I hope that I meet with his expectations,’ I said. ‘Pray that he finds me to his liking.’
‘Oh, he is sure to be pleased with you,’ said Maria, now completely composed and smiling in her strangely adult way. ‘I am quite sure of it.’
‘Maybe we should be getting back inside, Maria,’ I said, standing up from the bench. Devoid of temper, her face looked pale and bloodless. ‘Your lips are turning blue.’
‘In a moment,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I’d like to take this chance to tell you about Papa’s work – dispel whatever myths you have heard.’
‘It doesn’t matter . . . really . . .’ I began, trying to steer her out of the arbour.
But Maria was determined. ‘It’s a potion that Papa seeks to make, that’s all,’ she said, her gaze falling softly across the sunken garden. ‘A potion that can cure the plague.’
My mind conjured up the strange apothecary shop the wagon trundled past on our journey here. The driver had said it was nothing short of witchcraft.
‘Most victims die within days,’ Maria continued morosely, like she was in a trance. ‘Their blood poisoned to black.’
‘Maria, please—’ I began, but she stood her ground.
‘The physicians’ remedies are no more than cures for the common cold,’ she said, her tone now bitter. ‘Rubbing pustules with onions, burning herbs to purify the air – you might as well just bury the afflicted alive.’
I shivered at the thought of the plague, remembering that Maria’s mother had herself died of the disease. I envisaged an older version of Maria – a beautiful Italian lady – dying in a grand, canopied bed. Her long dark locks strung with sweat across the finest silk pillows, a pretty face bursting with sores. The plague knew no bounds. The rich died as grotesquely as the poor.
‘Their blood,’ I said finally. ‘It really turns black?’
‘Dark as treacle,’ said Maria brutally. ‘Like the Reaper has already taken their souls and is just parading the living, rotting corpse.’
‘Then how can there be a cure for such a terrible thing?’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief. The people on my islands died easily when they became ill. And they believed that only God could spare you from death.
‘Well, his potion almost worked,’ said Maria solemnly. ‘He was so close to saving Mama.’
‘He used his medicine on your mother?’
‘That he did – but all it did was prolong her suffering. She languished for weeks instead of days. But in the end, death refused to be cheated.’
An icy blast suddenly penetrated the arbour and I leant down to fasten Maria’s furs closer about her neck, worried that she looked so cold.
‘And you can remember all of this?’ I said, thinking how I maybe should be more understanding of her outbursts. ‘You must have been so young. Poor Maria.’
At this Maria suddenly embraced me, her small body holding on to me tightly. It felt like a long time since I had been held by anyone, and I wished suddenly and painfully that Artair’s strong, warm embrace surrounded me, not the slender arms of this sick little girl.
‘But at least there is hope for your papa’s potion,’ I said encouragingly, though her perfume had caught the back of my throat. ‘If the medicine worked better than anything tried before, then maybe he just needs to change the ingredients a little. Maybe one day, he really will find a cure for the plague.’
‘Clever Iseabail, you are so right,’ whispered Maria, stroking my hair. ‘That’s where he is right now – in pursuit of his missing ingredient. If only it wasn’t so rare.’
Afew days later we were in the library waiting for our lesson to begin, but as yet there was no sign of Father Ronan.
The weather had not improved and mostly we were still confined to the house. I had quizzed Maria several times about her papa’s whereabouts – and what rare ingredient he sought – but she feigned that she knew nothing further about the matter.
Maria, bored of waiting for the priest, had taken out her box of coloured inks and a fresh sheet of parchment. She was penning a book on herbs that heal and had completed the first three pages competently, complete with accurate drawings. She really was astounding for such a young girl.
‘I don’t think that we can count on seeing Father Ronan at all today,’ I yawned, the roaring fire making me drowsy. ‘Sylvia says that he was seen staggering around in the woods.’
‘So you understand the servants now?’ said Maria, stopping what she was doing to raise an eyebrow.
‘I recognize a few phrases,’ I confessed, knowing how she hated the thought of me conversing with anyone but herself. ‘But mostly we communicate by pointing things out and miming.’
‘Well, be wary of their tittle-tattle,’ she said, satisfied, rifling through her quill box.
‘How did your papa come to know Father Ronan in the first place?’ I asked, standing to walk over to the lattice windows to escape the heat. I lay my cheek against the cold glass, drinking in the draughts, suddenly yearning for the dank air of the blackhouse.
‘He’s just a replacement for the last priest, though I’m sure the monastery just send us the idiots that are of no use to them.’
I turned to face her and she read my expression.
‘I’m afraid priests don’t last long here,’ she sighed, selecting a black quill.
‘It’s too lonely up here on the moor.’
But I knew that clergymen were used to solitude. My father once told me that it was part of their training. It must be something else about this house that was driving them away.
Just then, a horn sounded on the moor.
‘A messenger!’ cried Maria, sitting up excitedly. ‘Can you hear? Out at the posts.’
But the ground-floor windows in the library afforded only a view of the trees and so we both scrambled into the hallway.
‘The boy will fetch the message for us,’ Maria declared as she opened the front door wide, letting in fresh, cold air. Then she hopped about on one foot to the other. ‘Oh, I do hope that it is news from Papa!’
Moments later, William passed by on a pony from the back of the house, galloping up into the trees to meet the messenger at the posts whilst we girls waited in the hall. Sylvia had joined us as well as Eugene, the flappy handed servant who had greeted me on arrival.
Soon after, William was back holding up a rolled parchment which Maria demanded was handed to her immediately. Then she slammed the door in William’s face before we could even trade smiles, dismissed the other servants and ushered me back into the library.
‘They’re so nosy!’ she declared as she shut us back into the heat of the room. ‘Sit over there, Iseabail, and I will read it to you.’
As expected, the message was from the merchant and even though Maria would not let me too near to the scroll itself, I recognized that it was written in Latin. The sight of the familiar, wispy calligraphy brought a sharp lump to my throat.
‘He promises to be home for Christmas!’ she cried joyously. ‘And Papa is a man of his word!’
‘May I see?’ I said, but the girl twisted away from me.
‘And he’ll bring a wild boar for the table,’ she went on.
I decided to wait until she had read it, then ask again to see it myself. I wouldn’t be able to read all of it as my Latin was still poor but I could at least see if he had mentioned my name.
But to my dismay, after Maria had finished with the letter (the silent reading of which she interluded with whoops of joy), she stood and threw the whole thing on to the fire.
‘Did I ever tell you that crow-feathers are best for drawing fine lines?’ she commented, sitting back up at her desk and picking back up the black quill as if nothing had happened.
‘What else did the letter say?’ I asked steadily.
‘Nothing much,’ said Maria, now scratching away diligently on the translucent calfskin. ‘Only that he would be bringing me a special present.’
‘Did he say what it might be?’
‘No,’ she said airily, dipping her quill again.
‘Then why did you burn it,’ I said slowly, thinking about whether or not the girl even knew of the promises her father had made to me. ‘Why did you need to burn the letter?’
‘Because it’s private,’ said Maria. Then added, ‘And I don’t want the servants to read it.’
I sat on the armchair furthest from the fireplace and picked up a pamphlet of Latin poetry. ‘Which servants can read Latin?’ I said evenly, sure that the only person she was hiding anything from was me.
Maria scratched her forehead with the feather end of the quill, thinking. ‘I meant . . . Father Ronan,’ she said dismissively. ‘He’s always poking his nose into things.’
‘What about the rare ingredient?’ I said, desperate to know anything at all about the rest of his message. ‘Did your papa say he had been successful in tracking it down?’
‘Papa’s message was addressed to me, Iseabail,’ she said, visibly rattled that I had once again brought up the subject of her father’s potion. She re-secured one corner of her scroll with a weight to stop it from curling. ‘What it contained is none of your business.’
I stared into the fire, my face boiling with heat and frustration. I was desperate to know if the merchant had sent the supplies he’d promised.
For although I had learnt many things here in his grand and wondrous house, not much of it seemed relevant to the life to which I would eventually return. Supplies to see my island safely through the winter would make coming here all worth it.
‘I am so very glad to hear that your father is a man of his word,’ I said gruffly, wondering if Maria was aware of any of promises that he had made to me. One thing was for sure, I would raise them the moment I had any privacy with him. ‘Really, I can’t wait for Christmas.’
Just then, Whitefoot let out a loud yawn from his cushion in the corner.
‘That dog is such a lazy beast,’ I said, standing to walk to the bookcase where I angrily squashed the pamphlet between two tomes.
‘I’ve already told you,’ said Maria. ‘He’s a pet. And just look at him – so handsome!’
Whitefoot was handsome. He was entirely dusky grey apart from his left paw – a sock of purest white. As I watched him, the beast stretched out all his long legs at once.
‘I thought you said he was an Irish hunting dog,’ I replied drily. ‘Yet I’ve never seen him give chase to so much as a mouse.’
This made Maria giggle. ‘Nor does he pay any heed to the winter hares that venture into the gardens. Papa will be furious to see that he now lounges around like a king.’
But I was loath to engage in pleasantries with the girl when she had acted so sly. ‘I’m going to see if Sylvia has heated water for me to take a bath,’ I announced, making to walk to the door.
Maria eyed me suspiciously. She had never known me to seek out a bath unprompted. I always found them such a bother. All that undressing and redressing, getting my hair wet and soapy.
‘You must snuff out the candles before you go,’ directed Maria peevishly. ‘I won’t stay in here alone.’
Resigned, I turned on my heel and began extinguishing the numerous hot wicks with a metal snuffer. There were so many of them just in this one room – some set in sticks of solid silver, their drips cemented to petrified waterfalls, others spluttering wastefully within wide glass jars. Every one of them was fashioned from the finest beeswax.
Such an extravagance.
Back in the blackhouse, fatty tallow sticks were moulded from seal or whale blubber, salvaged when the great beasts beached themselves on to our shores. Even then, we could only use them sparsely – hardly ever during daylight hours, even though the inside of the blackhouse was always dark. But the burning of tallow sticks was not allowed anywhere in the merchant’s house, not even by the servants in their own quarters. The merchant, it was said, could not abide their acrid smoke, their imitation stench of whatever animal’s fat they’d been shaped from. Maria told me that he said tallow smelt like death itself.
And I too was guilty of adoring the smell of beeswax. I worried how I would cope with the coarse odours of island life when I returned home. When my trunk had been brought up, only a matter of hours after I’d been installed in my new room, I found its stench already unbearable. Maria was away taking a bath and so before the girl set eyes on it, I dragged it down the corridor, up a small flight of stairs and pushed it under the eaves of the roof. And that’s where it would stay, until it was time for me to leave.
But I had to keep the island in my sights – for it was my home, and Artair was waiting for me.
I wandered to the sideboard under the guise of snuffing out the candles there but my intention was to look at the massive rectangular map hung on the wall above it.
Its title was Theatrum Orbis Terrarum, Latin for ‘Theatre of the World’ and it was beautifully etched out in black on to calfskin and filled out in places with gold and silver leaf. I hesitated before snuffing out the next candle.
I found the irregularly shaped island called Anglia sandwiched between the Atlantic and the North Sea. There were no borderlands marked in Anglia, nor even a separation of England from Scotland. Compared to the rest of the world, the island seemed insignificant. Off the top north-west tip of Anglia, several half-hearted blobs were painted marooned out in the Atl
antic. I couldn’t be sure if any of them represented St Kilda but reckoned that was the direction from which my journey here had taken me.
All these oceans and lands that I had not known existed. I had promised Artair that I would return with all this knowledge, and wondered if I should try and make a copy of the map.
‘Remember that it is possible to sail around the entire world,’ said Maria, seeing what I was looking at. ‘That the left and right side of the map are joined by the Pacific Ocean.’
‘Because it is round like a pebble,’ I mumbled to myself. Father had been right after all.
‘Papa has sailed most of it, of course,’ the girl went on. ‘Even to the Americas. But he says that there is still so much to discover – forests no one has ever set eyes on, beasts that your mind could not even conjure up.’
My eyes were drawn across the Atlantic, to the newly discovered Americas where a sailing ship was being tossed by perilous waves, closely pursued by a tentacleclad monster.
‘Where does he trade?’ I said, wondering what other dastardly creatures lay beneath that vast tract of ocean and shivering at the thought of having to journey back across the sea to my island. ‘And what kinds of things?’
‘Silks from China, silver from Russia, clocks from Bavaria.’ Maria had risen from her desk and had gone to kneel by Whitefoot’s cushion. ‘But he has made his fortune – these days his travels are mapped by other intentions.’
‘His pursuit for this rare ingredient?’ I said, not able to stop the sarcasm leaking into my voice. The pursuits of this rich man were starting to annoy me – sailing the world on a wild goose chase, bringing back special gifts for his already spoilt daughter. The man sounded like he’d never done a hard day’s work in his life.
But Maria did not reply. She was too intent on bothering the dog.
‘And if he completes his potion, Maria, what will his intentions be then?’
Maria by now was stroking Whitefoot, but his ears were slicked back and his teeth bared in a low growl.
‘When Papa has found what he is looking for, he will take me back to Italy, because it will be safe for us to do so – and also I hate it here,’ said Maria. ‘And Papa gets me anything that I want.’
The Pure Heart Page 7