Silent on the Moor

“You are very practical, my dear. And as I suspected, very clever. It might well be an end to all of our money troubles. But I do not think—”

She broke off and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Just as quickly as she had broken down, she composed herself, her posture once more erect, her eyes dry.

“I do not think I could bear to touch his things, nor could Ailith. Hilda might, if you could ever run her to ground, but I fear we would be of little help to you.”

I felt a surge of relief. “I do not care about that, I assure you. If I have need of assistance, I am quite certain I can persuade my brother, Valerius, to lend a hand. I would be happy to take this on, and if you will permit me, I will write to Bellmont tonight to set things in motion.”

Lady Allenby paused another long moment, then nodded. “In that case, I accept your generous offer with one caveat. Do you think it would be possible to arrange the sale without bringing the Allenby name into it?”

I started to protest, but she held up a hand. “I realise the interest would be much greater if Redwall’s name was attached, but it has been so difficult already, with the sale of the house, and being dependent upon Mr. Brisbane’s good graces. The sale of our furnishings has been discreet. We have so few visitors. Very few know how dire our situation has become. I should not like it to be known that we were forced to sell Redwall’s things.”

I laid a hand on her arm. “Of course. I shall make certain the entire affair is handled with discretion.”

She smiled then, and for an instant I saw the staggering beauty she must once have been.

“Thank you, my dear.” She glanced about the room, her expression unfathomable. “I only hope you do not come to regret your generous offer.”

I laughed at the time, but much later I realised that had I never offered to arrange for the sale of Redwall Allenby’s possessions, nothing that followed would have happened, and one of the few inhabitants of Grimsgrave Hall would still be alive.

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

Youth is hot and bold; age is weak and cold.

—William Shakespeare

“The Passionate Pilgrim XII”

I passed the rest of the morning attending to the various grievances and demands of the maids and the pets. Morag complained bitterly about sharing her room with Minna, and the dogs, my own Florence and Portia’s Puggy, demanded to be walked. Minna cheerfully offered to attend to the animals, even to the extent of feeding my raven, Grim, when she was finished with the dogs.

“Thank you, Minna,” I told her. “Mind you wrap up well when you take them out, and keep to the moor path. They needn’t go far, and Florence will want her little coat.”

She bobbed a curtsey. “And what about Puggy, my lady?”

“God himself could not kill that dog. I doubt a little cold air will do him any harm. Take a shawl for yourself as well, my dear. We don’t want you taking a chill.”

Minna smiled her dimpled little smile and hurried off to her charges. I turned to Morag who was busy plumping the bedpillows.

“You might take a leaf out of her book,” I advised her. “Minna is always ready to lend a hand, no matter if it is her job or not.”

Morag gave a deep sniff. “I am making the bed, am I not? Not that I’ve a choice.” Her voice dropped to a mutter. “No chambermaids. What sort of household is this, I ask you?”

“A poor one,” I told her severely. “Now mind your tongue. The Allenbys cannot help their reduced circumstances.”

Morag tipped her head, a sudden malicious light in her eyes. “But the Allenbys dinna actually own Grimsgrave, now do they? It’s Mr. Brisbane who ought to be hiring the maids, isn’t it?”

I flicked a glance at the bed. “You’ve made a mess of those sheets. The bed will have to be completely made over.”

She was still complaining under her breath when I left her, but as that was Morag’s customary state, I paid her scant attention.

I found Portia at length on the staircase. She had paused on the landing and was sitting in the panelled window embrasure, looking out over the vast stretch of moorland.

“Brisbane has gone,” I said, settling in next to her.

She blinked at me. “You must be jesting—no, it cannot possibly be a jest. It isn’t funny in the least.”

“He has gone to Edinburgh on business, and said he will return in a few days, which may well be a fortnight or longer for all I know.”

“Oh, isn’t that just like a man to ruin a thrilling romantic gesture by leaving as soon as you’ve come rushing up here to sweep him into your arms and declare your love for him?”

“What a revolting image. You must stop reading novels, Portia. They are ruining you.”

Portia snorted. “Do not ask me to believe you weren’t thinking precisely the same thing. You expected him to take one look at you and fall to one knee and propose instantly.”

I smoothed my skirts primly. “Yes, well. Brisbane has never done what was expected of him. I did, however, make it quite clear to him before he left that I intended we should settle the question of our connection once and for all upon his return.”

“And you think he will hurry back for that, do you?”

“Sometimes I wonder why I bother to confide in you,” I told her irritably.

I fell to nibbling my lip in silence, and Portia stared out at the ceaseless, restless moor.

“This is the most desolate place I have ever seen,” she said tonelessly.

“Oh, it isn’t as bad as all that,” I replied. “Miss Allenby took me for a walk this morning, and I thought the moor quite pretty. Desperately cold, of course, but pretty. You ought to come out with me after luncheon.”

Portia rolled her eyes. “There is no luncheon. It is called dinner here, or hadn’t you heard? And they sit in the kitchen, and they take every meal there, like savages.”

I pinched her arm. “Hush. The Allenbys keep country ways. They cannot afford to heat the dining room.”

“Ah, but Brisbane is now responsible for the cost of heating this place,” she corrected, echoing Morag’s sentiments.

“It makes no difference,” I told her repressively. “They sold the furniture. There is nothing to sit upon and no table to set, so it is the kitchen for you, my girl. Pretend you are at Wuthering Heights. Everyone there ate in the kitchen.”

Portia affected a faraway look and shivered, calling in a high voice, “Heathcliff, where are you? I’m so cooooooold.”

I shoved her. “Don’t be such an ass.”

She rose with a sigh. “I fear lunch, er, dinner will be something quite provincial. Game pie and boiled cabbage, unless I am very much mistaken.”

I linked my arm through hers and drew her down the stairs. “You are a terrible snob, Portia. Have I ever told you that?”

“Frequently.”

The rest of the household had already assembled in the kitchen by the time we arrived. Mrs. Butters was scurrying between oven and table, and although Portia raised her eyes significantly at the sight of the game pie and the bowls of boiled cabbage, I thought the table looked extremely inviting. A clean cloth had been laid, and although it had been mended, it was done with great skill and care, the stitches tiny and precise. A cheap glass vase had been filled with an armful of nodding daffodils, lending an air of gaiety to the room. The serving dishes were pewter rather than silver, but the mellow glow served the room, I decided, and the food itself smelled wonderfully appetising.

Besides the pie and the cabbage, there were dishes of pickles and a large fresh cheese, a great cottage loaf of new bread, and a clutch of boiled eggs. There was even a bowl of newly-picked salad greens, lightly dressed, and a tiny dish of mushrooms fried to crispness.

Lady Allenby was already seated, her walking stick braced against her chair. She motioned to me and I took the chair next to her, while Portia seated herself opposite. Ailith Allenby was helping Mrs. Butters, moving smoothly to carry the last few dishes and to pour a pitcher of beer for the table. In the corner, Jetty was scraping scraps into a basket by the sink, her mouth slack as she looked Portia over carefully from head to foot. I could not blame her. Portia was dressed in a particularly luscious shade of cherry that became her exceedingly well. I had no doubt Jetty had ever seen such a garment in this grey and gloomy corner of England.

Just then the kitchen door opened and a tall man entered, shrugging off a worn tweed coat and doffing his flat cap. He paused a moment to hang his things on a peg by the door, and I took the opportunity to study the newcomer. He was Brisbane’s opposite in almost every way. Though they were both tall men and muscular, this man was blond, with startling blue eyes and lines on his face that marked where he smiled, deeply and often. They were of an age, but it was clear to see from their faces that they had lived very different lives. This was an outdoorsman, a simple man, with simple tastes, I decided; one who would be happy with merely a roof over his head and a fire in his hearth.

He glanced up then, and caught my eye, smiling. I looked away, but he strode to the table, offering his hand.

“You must be one of the ladies from London. Lady Julia or Lady Bettiscombe?”

Before I could reply, Lady Allenby thrust his hand away from mine. “Godwin, manners! You must wait to be presented to a lady, and you have not yet washed.”

His smile did not falter. He withdrew his hand and contented himself with a wink. “I will go and make myself presentable then,” he said, casting his glance wider to include my sister. Portia raised her brows at him as he moved to the sink, dropping a kiss upon Mrs. Butters’ cap as he reached for the cake of soap. “Hello, Jetty, my love,” he said to the bashful hired girl. “Have you had a pleasant morning?” To my astonishment, the mockery had dropped from his tone, and there was only gentle affection.

The little maid flushed with pleasure and smiled, a great wide smile that showed a mouthful of crooked teeth as she giggled.

Mrs. Butters laughed and scolded him for being in the way, but Lady Allenby was not so forgiving.

“I do hope you will excuse him, Lady Julia,” she murmured. “We have despaired of teaching him how to conduct himself. I am afraid we are so isolated here, it is difficult to maintain the proper distance. And he is family, I suppose,” she trailed off, and I thought about the tapestry in the great hall. I had not seen his name stitched there, but then I had not looked for it. I made a mental note to investigate after the meal and hurried to reassure Lady Allenby.

“Think nothing of it, Lady Allenby. I completely understand.”

Godwin finished washing himself and hurried to take a seat at the table. He had his pick of either the chair by Portia or the one next to me, but he chose to partner Portia, offering her his handshake, which she accepted with lazy grace. He complimented her costume and was just moving on to how well it suited her complexion when Ailith sat between her mother and Portia, leaving two empty chairs for Valerius and the mysterious Hilda.

As if thinking had conjured him, Valerius entered then, nodding graciously toward Lady Allenby, and casting a hasty glance over the rest of the table.

“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.

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