Silent on the Moor

“Oh, yes, m’lady. ‘Twas built in the time of the Stuarts, but there was a manor at Grimsgrave since before the Conqueror came.”

“Really? How interesting,” Portia remarked. “And did it often change hands?”

“Oh, no, m’lady. The Allenby family did own that land in Saxon times. They kept it until last year, when Sir Redwall died and it were discovered there were no money. ‘Twas sold, to a newcomer, Mr. Brisbane. He is a friend to thee?”

“He is,” I put in smoothly. “We thought to surprise him by paying a visit. Spring on the Yorkshire moors is reckoned to be a very lovely thing.”

“Aye, it is,” she agreed. “The daffodils are out, and all across the moors you can hear the sounds of the little lambs bleating out their first cries.” She hesitated, and I flicked a glance at Portia. This was the time to press the girl.

“Is the Hall a very large establishment? Are there many places in the household for villagers?”

Deborah drew back. “No, m’lady. They’ve a half-wit girl to do the rough, and a few lads from the farms will help Mr. Godwin with the lambing and shearing when he has need of them. And, of course, Mrs. Butters is cook-housekeeper, but there be no household there like the old days.”

“Mr. Godwin?” Portia asked, pouring herself another cup of tea.

Deborah dropped her eyes to the work-roughened fingers in her lap. “Mr. Godwin was a sort of cousin to the late Sir Redwall. His part of the family was never so exalted. They were honest farmers, managers and stewards to the Allenby gentlemen. Mr. Godwin is the last of the Allenby men left. He still has a care for the sheep.”

I darted a glance at Portia. This was a curious development. Perhaps this last scion of the Allenbys was the source of Brisbane’s difficulties in his new home.

As if intuiting my thoughts, Portia asked, “What sort of man is Mr. Godwin?”

To my surprise, Deborah blushed deeply, not a pretty rose colour, but a harsh mottled red. “He is a fine man, m’lady. He is tall and accounted handsome by the village lasses.”

I hid a smile behind my teacup. There was no mystery about Mr. Godwin. He was simply the village Lothario. I wondered if he had ever misbehaved with Deborah, or if she had merely wanted him to. Making a mental note to observe him carefully when we arrived at Grimsgrave, I turned the conversation again.

“And is Mr. Brisbane often seen in the village?”

Deborah shook her head. “Never, m’lady. He keeps up the Hall, and if he has need of something, Mr. Godwin comes. We have not seen him since January past.”

This I did not like. Brisbane was an energetic, dynamic man. If he had holed up at Grimsgrave like an animal in its den, it meant he was either brooding or had fallen prey to the vicious migraine headaches he had battled most of his life. I was not certain which was the greater evil.

“Well, we will soon change that,” Portia said with forced jollity. “It is such a charming village. We must make certain he enjoys all its natural beauties.” I stared at her. What little we had seen of the village had been depressing in the extreme. Dark stone houses clinging together against moor mists and the bleak winds that howled down from the barren heights above, pale folk with pinched faces and suspicious eyes peering out from peeling doorways. True, Amos and Deborah had been courteous enough, but how much of that had been genuine, and how much had been in anticipation of the coin they might earn?

But Portia’s remark had the desired effect. Deborah smiled deeply, revealing a few dimples in her plump cheeks, and she hurried out to see how her brother was coming along with his preparations with the farm cart.

Portia and I each poured another cup and regarded one other. “I do not like this, Julia. Did you see the curtains twitch in the windows as we made our way to the inn?”

“Perhaps they get so few visitors,” I began, but gave up when I looked at Portia’s cynical face. “No, you are right. I do not like this either. It does not even feel like England anymore, does it? We are strangers in a strange land here.”

“If you think this is strange, you havena been to Scotland,” Morag snorted.

We drank our tea and said nothing more.

Some little while later, Amos collected us while Deborah fussed over our things and helped us into our freshly-brushed garments. We thanked her for the tea and paid her handsomely, and as we ventured out into the dying sunlight, I wished we might linger just a bit longer by the friendly little fire in her sitting room. Now that I had nearly reached Grimsgrave Hall—and Brisbane—my courage ebbed a bit, and I wondered what I had been thinking to come so far on a fool’s errand.

Portia, sensing my mood, pushed me along, manoeuvring me into the cart and sitting heavily on the edge of my skirts, pinning me in place. “No running back to London, pet,” she murmured. “Time to pay the piper now.”

If she had shown me any sympathy, I might well have run. But her cool common sense was just the prop for my failing nerve. Valerius joined us then, settling himself before the maids were handed in, the pets coming last in their assorted baskets and cages. I turned my face toward the windy moors and bade Amos drive on.

The drive itself was interminable, and with every turn of the wheels, my stomach gave a little lurch of protest. Amos said little, but did manage to point out the lay of the land. He explained that the village lay at the edge of Grimsgrave Moor and that the Hall itself was on the other side. The road skirted the moor, but he nodded toward a footpath that led over the moor from the churchyard in Lesser Howlett.

“Tha’s the quickest way to the Hall. By foot it’s more’n an hour. The road goes the long way round, and horses can never make more than a slow walk on account of the steepness and the stones. Two hour, maybe a bit more, and we’ll be there.”

I shook my head, astonished. I had never imagined that anywhere within our tiny, crowded island, such isolation could still exist. The nearest railway was half a day’s journey, and even that was the smallest possible branch line. I had been reared in the South, where all roads led inexorably, and quickly, to London.

I marvelled in silence at the landscape, in contrast to Minna, who chattered about anything and everything. Mercifully, the wind drowned her out, and though I could see her lips moving, I heard very little of what she said. Morag shot her a few filthy looks and attempted to sleep. The bench was unpadded wood and there was little support, but she managed, doubtless a skill she had learned in her days as a Whitechapel prostitute, paying a fraction of a penny to sleep upright lashed to a bench in a doss house.

The dying daylight softened to thick grey shadows over the landscape. Val looked straight ahead, his face set to the wind, while Portia and I gazed out over the moors, watching the grasses move and shift over them like restless waves on a vast inland sea. A lopsided waning moon rose to shed a pale, unreal light over the scene as we continued on, winding our way ever higher, leaving the village far behind.

At length we saw a tiny, ghostly light flicker in the distance. Amos pulled the reins and we stopped a minute. He raised his whip and pointed to the little light.

“Tha’s Grimsgrave Hall.” The words sent a little chill into my heart. It crouched at the end of a long drive, straight over the moors, unmarked by tree or bush, save a few small, twisted thorns. We passed through a gate, and I could just make out the contours of the house itself, looming low and dark, like some beast crouching in the shadows. Just in front lay a flat, glassy spot—a reed-fringed pond—its black waters barely ruffled by the moor winds. Behind the pond, a wall of black stone rose against the night sky, three pointed arches fitted with windows. As I stared, I saw the moon rise through these windows, as if the moon itself dwelt in the house. And then I realised the wall stood alone, remnant of a ruined wing.

“My God,” I murmured. There was no time to point out my discovery to Portia. Amos had drawn the cart to a stop at the front door of the house and had alighted to hammer upon the great oaken door. I alighted as well, grateful to be out of the cart, but the twist in my stomach did not leave me. All of the nerves I had suppressed in the bustle of the journey rose up with a vengeance, and I found it difficult to swallow, my mouth suddenly dry as tinder.

Chiding myself for a coward, I brushed the dust from my skirts and went to stand behind Amos, feigning a courage I did not feel. I glanced about Brisbane’s new home as we waited, wondering why it was impossible to reconcile the urbane gentleman with this dark and forbidding place. The tiny, welcoming light seemed too small, too feeble now. It glowed from a single window leaving the rest of the house shrouded in darkness. Behind me I could hear Minna’s little voice reciting the Lord’s Prayer, and I very nearly bade her say one on my behalf as well.

After an eternity, the door swung back on its hinges, and the tiniest woman I have ever seen, withered as a winter apple, stood in the doorway.

“Aye, Amos?”

“Ladies and a gennelman to stay wit’ Mr. Brisbane,” he called over his shoulder as he stalked to the cart and began flinging out baggage. There were a few protesting barks from the dogs and Grim, the raven, made an ominous noise in the back of his throat, but the pets were the least of my worries. I moved forward, inclining my head.

“Good evening. I am terribly sorry to descend upon you without warning. I am Lady Julia Grey. This is my sister, Lady Bettiscombe. Our brother, Mr. Valerius March.” Val and Portia both nodded to the little winter apple who instantly stepped back into the hall.

“Oh, ye must come in out of the wind,” she said, her expression one of profound bemusement. “Visitors indeed! We’ve not had so much excitement since the day the new schoolmaster came to Howlett Magna. Of course we must offer you shelter. Ye might be angels unaware, as the Bible does tell us! Come in, come in!”

We did, and I noticed she wore a mob cap on her fluffy little white curls and a wide pinafore over her striped gown. The entrance hall itself was as old-fashioned as its inhabitant—all heavy oak panelling and great paving stones. A dark carved staircase stood at the back of the hall, its shadows pierced by a single candle on the landing.

“I am Mrs. Butters, the cook-housekeeper,” she began, but before she could finish her introduction, I was aware of a presence on the staircase. Mrs. Butters must have seen my glance over her shoulder, for she paused and turned as the vision descended the stairs.

And a vision she was. In spite of the severity of her hairstyle and the plainness of her clothes, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was graceful, with a light, dignified step as she descended the staircase slowly. She moved into the light of the hall and I realised she was both older and poorer than I had first thought. She was well over thirty, with a gown that was twenty years out of fashion, its full skirts sweeping the stones of the hall as she walked. Even in the fitful light I could see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, and at the seams of her dress where it had been turned more than once. But her gaze was calm and level and she looked at us as equals do, her chin high and her expression one of gentle reproof, perhaps at the lateness of the hour.

Mrs. Butters drew back another step. “Guests at Grimsgrave, Miss Ailith. Lady Julia Grey and Lady Bettiscombe and Mr. Valerius March. They are friends of the master’s.”

The cool, appraising look rested briefly on me, then my sister, lastly Valerius. She stared a long moment, as inscrutable as the Mona Lisa and just as arresting. Her features were beautifully sculpted; no Renaissance master could have fashioned her better. The skin was luminous as alabaster; the eyes wide and impossibly blue. Her brow was high and unmarked, and her corn-gold hair was parted severely in the centre, plaited, and wound round her head like a coronet. Upon a lesser woman, it might have seemed fussy, silly even. On her, it was a Madonna crown, light enough for that lily-neck to bear. Only her hands were unpleasant, red and rough as any laundress’, the nails bitten to the quick.

“Welcome to Grimsgrave Hall,” she said at last. Her voice was beautifully modulated, with none of the Yorkshire brogue that marked the local folk. “I am sorry we have not prepared a proper welcome for you. We did not expect you,” she commented.

“I am certain accommodation can be arranged quickly enough,” I returned with a smile. “If you would be so good to tell Mr. Brisbane we’ve come. And you are?”

Her expression remained sweetly serene as she dipped a suggestion of a curtsey. “I am Ailith Allenby, my lady. Welcome to my home.”

I stared at her in confusion. The innkeeper’s daughter had told us that Mr. Godwin was the last of the Allenbys, had she not? Then I recalled her words, the last of the Allenby men, she had said. No mention of a daughter of the house, I thought with a touch of exasperation.

Portia moved forward, extending her hand as coolly as a duchess. “Miss Allenby,” she said, extending a hand. Miss Allenby shook hers gravely, and mine as well. She nodded demurely to Valerius, then motioned for us to follow her. “Amos, leave the baggage in the hall and mind your way back to the village.”

Before I could think better of it, I spoke. “It is so late, and it is so far across the moor to the village. Surely a bed could be found for Amos here.” I finished with a winsome smile, but I knew at once I had overstepped myself. There was a sudden stillness in the room, and I heard the sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Butters.

Miss Allenby regarded me steadily for a moment, as if she had not quite understood my words, and I half wondered if I ought to offer her Portia’s phrasebook.

“There be no proper barn here,” Amos put in quietly. “And ‘twould not be fit for me to sleep in the house.” His tone was edged with harshness, but as he turned away, he gave me a quick nod and I knew he would not forget.

For her part, Miss Allenby seemed determined to pretend I had not spoken. She turned to the rest of us. “If you would care to step into the kitchen, there is a fire kindled. Mrs. Butters, something warming for our guests. Then we must see to their rooms.”

Amos took his leave and shut the door behind him as Portia raised a brow at me. We had seldom been entertained in kitchens. But before we could move, the door opened again, flung hard on its hinges. The moor wind gusted inside, flaring the candles as a man strode over the threshold.

“Brisbane,” I said, my voice catching. He saw me then, and I think his expression could not have been more surprised if he had seen a ghost. In fact, he stopped a moment and put out his hand, as if to prove to himself I was no wraith.

“You cannot be here,” he said finally. His hair was the longest I had ever seen it, witch-black and tumbled to his shoulders. His eyes, black as his hair, were fixed on mine, and he had gone pale under the olive of his skin. His black greatcoat hung carelessly from his shoulders, and as we stood, staring at one another, it slid unheeded to the floor. He wore neither neckcloth nor waistcoat. His white shirt was open at the neck and tucked loosely into his trousers, but it was not the unseemliness of his attire that made me gasp. His shirt and his bare forearms were streaked with blood.

“Brisbane!” I darted forward. “You are hurt.”

He shied, stepping aside sharply. I did not touch him. “It is not mine.” His voice was hoarse and strange, and for the space of a heartbeat he seemed utterly unknown to me, a stranger in a familiar person. We were inches apart, yet we did not touch, did not speak for a long moment. He was struggling to say something, or perhaps not to say it. His lips parted, but he held his silence. He snapped his mouth closed again, grinding his teeth hard against each other. Unlike the Brisbane of old, whose emotions had been so carefully in check, this man’s face wore a thousand of them, warring with each other until I could not tell if he wished to kiss me or throttle me.

“Will you not bid me welcome?” I asked quietly, lightly, forcing a smile. I put out my hand.

He looked down at it, then at my face, and I saw that the mask had settled into place again. The emotions I had seen, or thought I had seen, were mastered once more.

“Welcome,” he said coolly, shaking my hand as a stranger might, barely touching my fingertips. “I hope you enjoy your stay at Grimsgrave.”

He nodded formally at Portia and Valerius, but said nothing. He brushed past me, stalking toward the staircase. He did not ascend. There was a door underneath it I had not seen in the dim light. He slammed it behind him as he left me standing in the hall, unwanted as a discarded toy.

I smoothed my skirts and turned to follow Portia, averting my eyes from Valerius’. They had heard, of course, as had Miss Allenby. Our hostess did not look at me as we moved into the kitchen, but I knew from the pained expression of her lovely features she pitied me, and in spite of her elegant manner and her beauty, I decided then, quite deliberately, to dislike her.

THE THIRD CHAPTER

Two women placed together makes cold weather.

—William Shakespeare

Henry VIII

To her credit, Miss Allenby said nothing and schooled her expression to serenity by the time we were seated round the fire. She helped Mrs. Butters in cutting and buttering bread and pouring tea, never hurrying, never moving with anything less than perfect composure. It was oddly soothing to watch her, every gesture carefully chosen. I could not imagine her untidy or rushed. And thinking of Miss Allenby prevented me from thinking of Brisbane. My thoughts were so disordered I could not even manage polite conversation. I signed to Portia behind Miss Allenby’s back, and nibbled at my lip.

“You must forgive my confusion, Miss Allenby,” Portia said with forced politeness. “I thought there were no more Allenbys at Grimsgrave.”

Miss Allenby smiled serenely. “The Allenbys built Grimsgrave. We have lived on this land since the days of the Saxon kings. Now, only my mother and sister and I are left. And Cousin Godwin, although he is not of the family proper.”

A thousand questions tumbled in my mind, and doubtless Portia’s as well, but she kept her queries courteous.

“Ah, a mother, too?” Portia remarked. “And a sister? When will we have the pleasure of making their acquaintance?”

Miss Allenby laid the slices of bread and butter onto a thick brown plate and placed it on the table. There was no cloth, only smooth, scrubbed wood. “My sister, Hilda, is not yet returned from a walk on the moor.”

Portia blinked at her. “She must be a very singular sort of person to walk the moors at night.”

Miss Allenby’s smile deepened. “We were reared on Grimsgrave Moor. It holds few terrors for us, even in darkness. She is often wakeful, my sister. Walking helps to order her thoughts.”

A slight shadow passed over the lovely features, and she hurried to leave off the subject of her sister. “My mother is upstairs, abed with a rheumatism. She will be sorry to have missed your arrival, but we did not expect guests. I am afraid Mr. Brisbane did not mention you.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words. It worked—almost. “I am quite certain my mother will be better tomorrow. Perhaps you will meet her then.” I heard the hesitation in her voice, and I knew precisely what it meant. She had her doubts whether Portia and I would even last the night under a roof where we were so clearly unwelcome. This last thorn-prick was too much.

I rose and yanked at the strings of my cloak, jerked off my hat and tossed them both at Morag. “See to these.”

“But your tea, Lady Julia,” Miss Allenby began.

“Tea would be very nice, Miss Allenby, but I have a bit of unfinished business to which I must attend first. Do excuse me.”

Valerius rose as if to remonstrate with me, but I gave him a silencing look. He lapsed back into his chair and shrugged. His role had been to offer his sisters protection during the journey. What we did once we arrived in Yorkshire was our affair, and he knew he was powerless to interfere.

I made my way to the door Brisbane had used and knocked soundly, not even pausing to gather my courage. There was no reply, and after a moment, I tried the knob, rather surprised to find that it turned easily in my hand. I had half-expected a barricade.

I pushed through and found myself in a large chamber, crowded with indistinct shapes. The light was poor, and it took a moment for me to realise everything in the room was covered in dustsheets. Packed nearly to the ceiling, the shapes left only a narrow path leading to a door in the wall opposite. This door was slightly ajar, flickering light spilling over the threshold. I threaded my way through the dustsheets, careful to disturb nothing. I hesitated at the door, then pushed it open. I had not troubled to disguise my footsteps; he would have known I was coming.

The door gave onto a smaller room furnished simply with a bed, a small writing table, and a single chair. A second table, tucked into a corner, had been carefully draped with a piece of linen to cover something, but I did not stop then to wonder what. A little fire burned in the hearth, scarcely large enough to drive the chill from the room.

Brisbane was busy at a basin set upon the deep windowsill. He had stripped off his blood-streaked shirt and was naked to the waist, scrubbing at his hands and forearms until the water went quite red. I had first seen him partially undraped in a boxing match on Hampstead Heath. The effect was still rather striking, and I cleared my throat.

“I am glad you are not hurt,” I said, motioning to the impressive breadth of his chest. He was muscular as any statue I had seen in my travels in Italy, and yet there was a sleekness to his flesh that no cold marble could hope to match. Black hair spread from his collarbones to his hips, and I put my hands behind my back lest I be tempted to touch it. High on one shoulder there was a round scar, still fresh, from a bullet he had taken quite deliberately to save another. A different man might have worn the scar as a badge of honour. To Brisbane it was simply a mark of his travels, a souvenir of his buccaneer ways.

He reached for a thin linen towel and wiped at his face. “I might have known it would take more than a closed door to keep you out.”

“Yes, you might have.” I closed the door behind me and moved to the chair. I did not sit, but the back of it was sturdy and gave me something solid to hold.

I waved at him. “Do carry on. Nothing I have not seen before,” I said brightly.

“Do not remind me,” he returned with a touch of asperity. “My conduct toward you has been ungentlemanly in every possible respect,” he added, turning away.

I blinked rapidly. “Surely you do not reproach yourself? Brisbane, whatever has happened between us has been as much my doing as yours.”

“Has it?” he asked, curling his thin upper lip. He moved to the travelling trunk that sat at the foot of his narrow bed. He threw back the lid and reached for a clean shirt. It was a mark of his fastidious ways that he knew precisely where to find one.

I tipped my head to one side and began to enumerate on my fingers. “You did partially disrobe me to question me about the circumstances at Grey House, although I should add that you asked permission first. You kissed me on Hampstead Heath, but as I kissed you back, you can hardly count that amongst your crimes. You gave me a piece of jewellery, highly inappropriate, but I kept it, which is equally inappropriate. We have been together unchaperoned, both at your lodgings and mine, upon numerous occasions. I have seen you in a state of dishabille more than once, but on none of those occasions was I specifically invited to view your nakedness. If anything, my misbehaviours quite outnumber yours. I would say we have compromised each other thoroughly. Steady, Brisbane,” I finished. “You are about to tear that shirt.”