‘But how will he knows that it works? I mean, who will he test it on?’ I said, puzzled. ‘And what about the mineral spring? Does he not care that he will leave behind such a wondrous resource?’
But Maria was too busy with Whitefoot to reply. The dog, now risen up on long, shaky legs, was backed up tight against the panelling on the wall, a look of pure fear in his eyes. I hoped whatever the merchant’s latest present to his daughter was, it was not another pet.
Plaustrell was expected home two days before Christmas and William was stationed at the posts. The boy was ordered to blow a hunting horn twice on the merchant’s approach so that a welcome committee could be assembled in the entrance hall.
By then, the entire manor house was in full flow of Christmas preparation. The doorways and fireplaces had taken on the look of mystical forests, decked out with thick twists of green foliage, shiny spiked holly and cream-tipped ivy. The kitchens meanwhile fanned out continual fogs of spiced meats and sweet pastries, and barrels of French wine had been hauled up from the cellars.
Maria, being far too impatient to await the sounding of the horn, had us both sitting by the fireplace in the entrance hall from early morning.
Even Whitefoot was restless, pacing the tiled floor with his gangly limbs, only stopping occasionally to make a pool of slobber at the front door.
‘I told you Papa would keep his promise to be here by Christmas.’ Maria glowed as she perched on a barley-twist chair. I sat in silence, winding a loose thread from my gown around my thumb until the tip of it turned ghostly white.
‘Please don’t fret,’ said Maria, sensing my trepidation. ‘Papa really is the most wonderful, kind person. Really, you have nothing to fear.’
But I was about to meet the man who had gone to extremes to find his daughter a suitable companion. And now this companion would greet him wearing his dead wife’s clothing. Wanting to appear grateful, I made sure that the pearl necklace he had given me was on full display.
Whitefoot’s paws skittered around the hall, pans clanked in the kitchen, and in the quieter moments we heard the soft ticking of the hall clock. I snapped the thread around my finger, causing the blood to rush back to the tip, blooming crimson.
Then, suddenly, the hunting horn blew and before the echo of the two long blasts had died, Maria had joined the dog in running around the hall in a frenzy.
‘He’s here, he’s here,’ she cried, wild curls flying out behind her. ‘Everyone take their places!’
Eugene, sweat-beaded, scuttled out from the library and picked up a handbell from the sideboard. He began to ring it feverishly.
Within seconds the whole staff had emerged from their respective doorways to muster in the hallway, straightening caps and dusting down aprons. The servant replaced the bell shakily before smoothing down his shirt and rearranging his knickerbockers above the knees.
Unable to wait for the pulling of the doorbell, Maria ordered that the front door be opened wide, letting in long blasts of icy air. Whitefoot exited through it like a bullet, barking madly as he disappeared into the trees.
Then the entire household waited stock-still, listening for the sound of hooves until, ultimately, an elegant man on a grey mare emerged from the copse of trees, closely pursued by the lolling dog.
‘Papa! Papa!’ screamed Maria, running out from the house.
The man on horseback was dressed top to toe in black and wore a wide-brimmed hat topped with a blue feather. What looked to be a fully grown wild boar was strapped across his knee.
Whilst still some distance away, he threw his legs to one side of his saddle and dismounted dramatically, tossing the pig like a sack of flour to the ground. The dog by now was wagging his tail madly at his feet and the man patted Whitefoot’s head before ordering him to sit and stay exactly where he was. Miraculously, Whitefoot obeyed, leaving Plaustrell free to sprint off again and scoop up his daughter into his arms.
Sylvia was barely able to contain herself, hopping about from one stockinged leg to the other whilst several other maids gave out giddy gasps of delight.
I, on the other hand, had the sudden urge to burst out laughing! My nerves had bubbled over into a hysteria brought on by the spectacle and I took several deep breaths, trying to regain my composure.
The servants, however, did not care an ounce to keep their dignity and flung themselves, one by one, on to the floor as the merchant strode up the steps and through the open door, still carrying Maria, a squirming mass of curls, in his arms.
Aware I was the only member of staff now standing, I knelt awkwardly on one knee, which still left me a few feet higher than the rest of his sprawled-out servants.
But I could not tell if the merchant had acknowledged my presence or even looked in my direction, because his hat obscured the top half of his face. The only part that was visible was his cleanly shaven jaw.
Up close his velvet doublet was spliced through at the sleeves with shimmers of gold and his breeches (also black) were tied with purple ribbons halfway up his slim calves. His legs, that seemed to go on for ever, ended with a pointy pair of black boots.
Still carrying Maria, he stood before each servant, permitting them to rise and kiss a massive ringed gem on his left hand.
‘Padrone,’ they all murmured, sounding delirious as they each took their turn kissing the ring.
Finally, after biblically reviving all his servants, the merchant finally lowered Maria gently to the floor.
‘And who do we have here?’ he said in perfect Gaelic, turning on his heel towards me.
Although it was not the first time I had heard a male voice speak my language since leaving the island, it still felt strange and delicious to my ear. He pulled up the brim of his hat to reveal a slim, handsome face with eyes flecked the same brownish yellow as his daughter’s.
At a wave of his hands, all the servants stood up and bowed backwards out of the hallway, leaving my kneeling self alone and exposed.
‘This is Iseabail, Papa,’ said Maria importantly, pushing her curls out of her eyes. ‘Isn’t she quite the thing?’
The merchant looked at me intently. He was younger than I had expected and his features were familiar. But of course he was: he looked just like Maria.
‘Please . . . stand,’ he said.
I did as he asked and Plaustrell approached, but instead of offering his ring he proceeded to circle me twice, his boots clicking across the tiled floor like chicken’s feet. I didn’t meet his gaze but I knew that all the time his eyes were upon me – or upon his wife’s gown, at the very least.
‘I had Sylvia adjust all of the clothes to the right size.’ Maria beamed like she was showing off a dressed doll. ‘This purple gown suits the skin tone best.’ Then Maria said something else in Italian that was not meant for my ears.
The merchant did not answer but his eyes flicked to the pearl resting just above the neck of the dress. Then he walked over to the sideboard purposefully and pulled off his gloves, one finger at a time. ‘Let’s not talk about people as if they were not present, Maria,’ he said in Gaelic, laying the gloves next to a vase. ‘It’s rude. And shut that door, will you, before we all catch our deaths.’
Maria blushed furiously, the brightest of pinks. ‘Of course, Papa,’ she said, flouncing over to the door where she stood fuming on the threshold, looking out towards the moor. ‘Whitefoot, come in now, boy!’ she shouted, her voice cracking as she swallowed her tears. ‘Come in now, good dog.’
But the dog just remained sitting in the exact same spot as he had been ordered to by Plaustrell, for once not seeming to mind the cold. As usual, he had no intention of doing what she asked.
‘You naughty thing!’ she screamed, stamping her foot. ‘Come to your mistress immediately!’
But the dog just gave out a small yelp and lay down.
And it was not until her father’s lips emitted a deep low whistle that the great dog sprang to life.
‘Well, you can’t come in now!’ said Maria, pushing
the door closed hard before the dog could reach the step. I caught a glimpse of William approaching on horseback, leading the merchant’s grey mare off to the stables with the dead pig slung once again over its back before the door was slammed shut.
‘Unfaithful mutt,’ said Maria, leaning back against the metal handle. I was surprised at how disrespectful Maria was to her father, but all he did about it was to throw me a conspiratorial look of amusement.
‘Did you notice that I brought you a boar?’ said the merchant cheerfully. ‘I shot it on my way here, for the Christmas table. I’ll have Cook stuff it and make it look fine.’
‘That’s not my gift, is it? You promised me a gift,’ sulked Maria, walking over and taking my hand. ‘We are bored with everything in this house, aren’t we, Iseabail. Now where is it?’
‘All in good time,’ said the merchant patiently. ‘My wagons will arrive this evening from the ship and you will not be disappointed by your bounty. For now, I need to settle in, take a bath, get rid of these filthy clothes.’ And with this he took off his hat, revealing hair that was so closely shaven that his olive brown skull shone through.
‘Papa, your hair!’ said Maria, dropping my hand and running to his side. He indulged her by bowing down so that she could rub the dark-brown fuzz. ‘Why is it so short? It feels like a scrubbing brush.’
‘Lice,’ he said, standing back up straight and scratching his head at the memory. ‘Had to cut the whole lot off.’ As testament to this, the back of his neck was noticeably lighter, as if it had until recently been covered up by hair. ‘The ship was full of the creatures. I made sure I shaved off every hair on my body rather than bring vermin back to my own house.’
With this personal revelation, he looked at me directly, causing my cheeks to burn up.
‘What you need is a bath full of sage,’ said Maria, happy again. ‘And your clothes will be soaked in vinegar solution immediately.’
‘That’s my girl,’ he said, ruffling Maria’s hair fondly. He turned back to me. ‘We’ll talk later, Iseabail – but for now, I need to give instruction to my household. Christmas is tomorrow!’ He glanced down at his daughter. ‘We have so much to prepare.’
‘Isn’t Papa wonderful?’ said Maria later in the library. We had just finished our daily instruction with Father Ronan and were sitting by the fire with our embroidery.
‘I must say that you are most alike,’ I said, putting down my sewing hoop. ‘Both in looks and in . . . manner.’ I had quickly noted the startling resemblance between father and daughter – the dark skin and flecked eyes, the tallness, the way they held themselves with the arrogance of nobility.
She shot me an arch glance. ‘Papa has requested an audience with you,’ she said, guiding her needle through the gauze and pulling up the thread. ‘After he has eaten and finished giving instruction to the servants.’
Maria had spent a good hour or so alone with her father after he’d bathed, and I was nervous as to what they had been talking about. Whatever it was, she had returned to the library in a good mood.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I look forward to that.’
‘Don’t expect it to be a long meeting,’ said Maria imperiously. ‘He has so much to organize before Christmas, you see, so you are the least of his concerns.’
‘Sounds like Christmas is important to him,’ I muttered, insulted that I was to be allowed so little time with the man who had summoned me all the way here.
‘It is. There’s sure to be a big celebration – and Papa’s parties are always full of surprises,’ said Maria, pausing, her needle suspended in the air. ‘I wonder who he will choose this year as his Lord of Misrule!’
‘His Lord of what?’
‘Misrule,’ she repeated. ‘Every Christmas, it’s traditional to choose a member of the household to be the Lord of Misrule . . . a kind of king for the day. The person gets to sit on a throne, and everyone must wait on them hand and foot! The Lord is allowed to order everyone around as he or she pleases – even me and Papa!’
‘Good grief,’ I said, trying to imagine such a spectacle.
‘Well, whoever it is, it will be quite an event. So much food and wine and delicacies brought from afar. I do hope Papa has brought back sweet dates. Where was I . . . ? Oh yes! And tonight is Christmas Eve, so there will be a special midnight Mass.’
‘It is good to have your papa home,’ I said, thinking of how the house had already taken on a whole new feel in the few hours since his arrival. Now there was an endless stream of Italian song echoing around the corridors as the servants went about their duties, though all of this conviviality brought forth a sharp string of memories from home. Of Eilidh singing as Mammy prepared stew, of Artair knocking at the door, a fresh basket of guga from the hunt strung across his strong shoulders. Although most of the apprehension I had of meeting the merchant had lifted, I hoped I would be brave enough to broach the subject of my return home at our meeting.
‘Well, let’s all make the most of him before his things arrive,’ sighed Maria. ‘Because then we’ll not see hide nor hair. He’ll lock himself in his workshop, slave to his scrolls and potions.’
‘There is good news on his missing ingredient?’ I asked stealthily. What she had said in the library about going back to Italy should the potion be a success had been troubling me. Did he think that if he packed up his household to return to Italy, then I would go with them?
As usual, Maria sidestepped the question. ‘I peeked up into his study earlier,’ she said, ‘and he’s already scribbling away at yet another of his translations. I bet there are more manuscripts on board his wagons when they arrive tonight.’
‘Translations – you mean he changes one language into another?’
‘That’s another of his obsessions – he believes he can find cures for every affliction in the world by deciphering ancient scrolls. Mark my words, he’ll be locked in that tower before Christmas is over – take his meals in there, sleep in there too!’
‘There is a bed – inside his tower room?’ I said, surprised. I’d been trying to imagine what lay inside the circular walls of the tower ever since Maria told me what she had glimpsed in there.
‘I suppose that there must be – not that he has any intention of letting anyone in to see it. I should stay away from there if I were you. Papa can become rather frightful if disturbed from his work.’
‘And all this . . . for a cure for the plague?’ My voice dropped to a whisper as a thought occurred to me. ‘But why this obsession, when his wife is already dead?’
Maria’s look darkened; her sewing hoop dropped from her fingers. It rolled away across the floor.
‘I’m sorry—’ I began. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
But her eyes had taken on that faraway look again, just like when she recalled her mother’s death back in the arbour.
‘Have you ever seen a dead body, Iseabail?’ she asked slowly.
‘Several,’ I said awkwardly, relieved that my tongue slip had not upset her. ‘Though none ravaged by plague.’
‘Of what then?’ said Maria, still staring ahead at nothing. ‘What do the people of your island die from, Iseabail?’
‘Lack of food, the cold,’ I said, embarrassed by this fact. ‘Some die from fevers. Most people do not live to see old age. Many do not live even to be children.’ I picked up her sewing hoop and held it back out to her.
‘And what would you say the main difference was?’ asked Maria, not seeing what I was offering her. I leant forward to drop the ring into her lap instead, catching a waft of sickly perfume. ‘Between a body that was dead – and one that was alive?’
I sat back in my seat and thought for a moment, not wanting to upset her further. Her question brought to mind the little baby that my mother had lost a few years ago. It had been born strong and looked to flourish, but then it had been taken suddenly by the eight-day sickness.
‘Iseabail?’ said Maria, now looking at me. Desperately seeking an answer.
‘Movement,�
� I said evenly, thinking of how the dead baby had looked to be sleeping. ‘There is movement in a live body, even if it is sick. A flicker of the eyelids, a rise of the chest. But a dead body . . . lies quite still.’
Once again, I feared that I might have pricked a painful memory of the girl’s mother. But instead, it appeared that I had enraptured Maria for she was staring at me in a most peculiar way.
‘I think that you are quite right,’ she said, quite captivated. ‘A body that moves must surely be living.’
I breathed a sigh of relief for having said the right thing.
Just then, there was a knock on the door and Sylvia entered. She conveyed a message to Maria and I made out the word ‘Padrone’.
‘Papa will see you in his study now,’ said Maria picking up her embroidery airily. ‘But I’d hurry along if I were you . . . before he becomes distracted.’
The merchant was sitting in his study, a small annexe set just off from his bedchamber, hunched over his desk in a high-backed chair. I had thought it odd that I should walk through his sleeping quarters, but things were such in this household that I was rarely surprised any more. It was the first time I had been in his chamber since my illness and his four-poster was now neatly made up and the lion bed-curtains were drawn right back to the wall. A strong scent of sweet, burning spice filled the air.
‘Almost done,’ he said without turning, sensing my presence at the threshold. He continued scratching away with his quill on a piece of vellum whilst referring to a tatty parchment unrolled across the length of his desk.
Finally, the merchant waved with his free hand. ‘Please come in, Iseabail, pull up a stool.’
I would have rather remained standing but instead I fetched a seat from a nook near the fireplace. I placed the warmed stool on the rug and sat down, noticing that the merchant appeared to be wearing a black silk scarf wrapped around his head.
With a loud sigh, the scribbling ended abruptly, his quill rattling into the glass jar. He stood up to face me. Following the passage of my eyes, he reached up to touch the strange head-garment.
The Pure Heart Page 8