The Bride's Farewell

by Meg Rosoff

  “No religion I have is as godless as yours.”

  The preacher reeled as if from a physical blow, then beat an unsteady retreat—unsteady from an excess of shock or alcohol, or perhaps both. Esther let him go, but followed at a distance and watched him enter his house, then sat for some time, invisible in a stand of trees, watching and smoking her pipe. She had waited patiently for the child to leave the family. It might have taken ten years more, or twenty. But no matter. Her plan had not required haste.

  After an hour, Esther saw an older girl and three younger children leave the cottage in the quickening dark to fetch water from the well, and heard a snoring from within that sounded like the rattle in the chest of a man about to die.

  Somewhat later, having accomplished in Nomansland what she had set out to do, Esther returned to her children, setting off early the following morning with all due speed across Salisbury Plain. By nightfall, they had reached a large estate with a secluded orchard in which she and her family had often, in years past, spent the night in peace.

  From their camp among the apple trees, the children crept down across a series of rolling lawns to catch a glimpse of Lord Hayward’s grand stables, in which sixty horses were attended by an army of smartly attired grooms. Had they managed to gain entrance to the place and not been shooed away with loud threats and warnings, they might have come across a stocky white part-Arab, recently acquired—under somewhat unusual circumstances—for George Hayward’s daughter, Caroline.

  Nineteen

  Pell felt a chill as they left the village, and hugged her shawl tightly round her shoulders, hurrying along a road thrown into shadow by a tall brick wall. At the first opportunity, she ducked through a doorway in its long blank length, hoping to find a place to sleep. Inside, the wall still held heat from the setting sun.

  With Dicken close at heel, she walked quickly, on constant watch for someone who might object to their presence. Far across the gardens and fields she could see a grandly proportioned old farmhouse, constructed in a strange mishmash of Gothic arches and peaked roofs. Even from far away, the place had an abandoned air; whatever staff remained to keep house for the absent owner was nowhere in evidence. Dismissed, she thought, or perhaps just gone to earn money elsewhere.

  She followed the wall until she came to the first of a series of garden rooms held in its curve. Ducking through a low arch, she skirted the unchecked growth of deep borders and flowers gone to seed, came to a second room, then a third, and a fourth, until finally she entered a kitchen garden that looked as if it had received somewhat more attention. The only light left now was in the sky, and Pell could just make out vast cabbages, beans twisted round long stakes as high as her forehead, the luxuriant feathery growth of fennel. Along the warm west wall, she saw the dark outline of espaliered fruit trees, heavy with apples and pears but unpruned, with branches reaching out into the garden as if overjoyed to be released from symmetry. She tugged at the top of a carrot and pulled out a gnarled giant nearly as long as her forearm, planted last year and left to grow unchecked for months. Jack would love this, she thought, forgetting.

  Still no shelter. But the kitchen garden felt unnaturally warm and, frowning, Pell pressed her hands against the high south wall. It was too hot merely to have absorbed the heat of the day, and as she followed it farther she came to a huge hearth built into the wall, smoldering with the remains of a great fire. She had seen such constructions before: hollow channels conducting heat through the walls to raise the temperature of the gardens. The wall would retain its warmth for several hours after the fire died, and as the cold seeped into her bones, Pell felt the old temptation to curl up against warm bricks for the night.

  There had to be a potting shed or other shelter nearby, she thought, a little panicky now with darkness upon her. No moon lit the sky, and she had to feel her way forward beside the wall, stepping over the tangle of plants at her feet. And then suddenly the wall gave way to another hearth, empty this time, and she crouched down inside it, peering along its dark hollow channels. The heat from the fire had been drifting through all day and the recess was cozy as a badger’s sett, though not noticeably cleaner. Outside, the temperature continued to drop. If only she could crawl into the wall a little way for shelter, she might be hidden for a time, and safe.

  With Dicken whining at the base of the tunnel, she hauled herself up and wriggled in as far as she could go, edging forward along the gentle slope. Inside was narrow and sooty but dry, smelling of smoke and earth and the thick musk of creatures. Even her dull human nose could discern the separate odors of fox, badger, and rat; she was obviously not the first creature to take refuge here on a cold night. She pulled herself in farther to where the conduit widened slightly, and found that it made a moderately comfortable bed. Here she curled up, her shoulders and hips resting on a crumbly layer of leaves and grass dragged in by previous inhabitants. She arranged her shawl to protect against the worst of the soot, despite a despairing sense that every inch of her was already blackened and smudged.

  She called Dicken, who stood whining, unwilling to follow. At last he gave in and scrambled up the passage, pouring himself into the knife blade’s space between his mistress and the wall, snuffling and whimpering with excitement at the musky smell of prey. Pell grabbed him by his scruff and held tight, frightened he might try to crawl up through the narrow passages and be unable to turn back. He protested in a voice clear as a child’s but eventually stopped struggling. Seduced by the delicious warmth and by Pell’s proximity, he lay calm in the velvety black.

  The heat soothed Pell’s ragged spirit and gradually she slipped into a doze, imagining herself hibernating, rolled up snug against the winter. She thought of home, of nights with a sister pressing on each side for warmth. And like that she slept well, despite the musky smell.

  Dicken woke early, growling a warning noise deep in his throat as he struggled to turn around in the tight space. Peering down toward her feet, Pell could make out a figure crouched in the doorway, blocking the feeble light. The feeling of being trapped, gone to ground and kept there, was a bad one; the smell of fox and badger now telegraphed fear. She wriggled back through the semidark of the passageway, dragging Dicken behind her, and dropped awkwardly into the fireplace, nearly knocking the figure off its feet.

  “Lord almighty! ” he shouted, leaping sideways in terror.

  She saw that it was a boy, dressed in short woolen trousers and a linen smock. He had a broad face, blunt features, and bare feet, and in his arms carried a great bundle of sticks.

  “I’m sorry to have frightened you.” Pell straightened herself. Soot streaked her clothes and left long black smudges on her exposed skin. Bits of brush and burrs stuck to her clothing, sticks and crushed leaves dropped from her hair, and the boy goggled at her, astonished.

  “What are you?” He spoke slowly, his face white with shock, his accent thick as porridge.

  “My name is Pell,” she replied sweetly, amused. “And I beg your pardon, but I slept in the wall.” She smiled, aware of the picture she made, hoping he wouldn’t raise an alarm.

  “Are you . . . a person?”

  “Of course I’m a person,” she said. “What else would I be?”

  “I dunno, miss! Why would a person sleep in the wall?”

  Pell shrugged. “One has to sleep somewhere.”

  “But I’m about to light the fires. You might have been burned to death!”

  “I wasn’t, though.”

  He didn’t answer right away, but looked behind him. “It’s a dangerous place to sleep, miss. Because of the fire. And Mr. Pottle don’t much like people hanging about. Especially those that aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “I’ll go, then. Only . . . I’m looking for a child,” she said. “And a horse.”

  The boy stared at her, aghast. “In the wall?”

  “No,” she answered soberly. “They were kidnapped. By a man who stole my money.” She smoothed her skirt. Her shoulder ached from where it ha
d been wedged up against the brick all night and her legs felt stiff. If only she had a clean apron, and not last week’s turned over to the less soiled side, now covered in soot.

  “That’s a sad tale, miss,” the boy said, looking over her shoulder and only half listening now. “And excuse my being rude, but you really must go now. Come quick, before Mr. Pottle gets wind of what’s happened. I’ll lead you out by the shortest route.”

  He ran ahead sideways, awkward with his bundle of kindling, turning back every step to urge them on faster. Pell and Dicken tripped along at his heel, the latter stopping every few strides to sniff and leave his mark.

  “Excuse me, miss,” said the boy, whispering loudly as he ran, “but are you traveling on your own?”

  “Except for my dog.”

  “Yes,” he said, his face half hidden. “Only . . . I wondered...”

  “Wondered?”

  “A girl like you. It makes no sense.”

  “I have no one else.”

  He stopped, horrified. “But . . . where will you go?”

  “To Pevesy. There’s a man there—”

  His face lit up. “But, miss! I’m from Pevesy. My brother lives there still, with my mother.”

  “I’m searching for a man with two dogs. A poacher.” Her heart sank at the description. It was worse than useless.

  The boy looked skeptical. “I don’t know. But you could ask him—ask my brother, that is. The smithy’s boy.” From the distant lawn of the big house, Pell could see an ancient bowlegged man with a wheelbarrow approaching at considerable speed. The boy followed her glance, squeaked, “Mr. Pottle!” and was off again, away from her this time, the bundle of sticks flying in every direction.

  “Wait!” Pell called after him. “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Robert! Robert Ames!”

  From the road, she waved at his retreating figure and then set off. She didn’t stop until they had rounded the next wide curve in the road and, looking back, could see nothing familiar.

  Twenty

  All that cool morning she walked steadily uphill, sweating with exertion, then shivering as the moisture cooled in her clothing. If the walking hadn’t been so strenuous, she might have enjoyed the views more, the great rolling swards of chalk grassland stretching out golden in all directions, skies dotted with hobby and merlin, circling, anxious to be off south. They passed scrabbly stands of juniper that led down to scarp lowlands, but the descent only signaled more climbing ahead. At last, from high on yet another hill, Pell spotted the tower of Pevesy church far below in the town. She didn’t dare descend looking as she did.

  They found a wooden shed shielded from the road, its roof intact. Bread and watery beer made her evening meal, while Dicken, ribs barely concealed by his soft winter undercoat, gnawed at the carcass of something that might have been a rat. When he came to her, she wrapped her hand around his muzzle and shook it gently, and he looked into her eyes and hummed his devotion to her in a low voice. Pell spread out half a bale of dirty straw and burrowed into it, hugging Dicken to her for warmth, but still the nighttime hours passed slowly.

  They rose before sunup, Dicken reluctant, unrolling himself with a deep low stretch and a question aimed at Pell about his breakfast. Mist hung in the gray light all around them. A damp handkerchief would do for her toilette; rubbed across her face and hands, it came up black with yesterday’s soot and it was some time before her skin scrubbed up clean. While Pell combed and plaited her hair, the sun rose above the horizon and her spirits rose with it. Despite the chill she removed her filthy apron, and checked the little cloth purse around her waist, knowing exactly what she would find there. Enough for bread for another day or two, no more, and then what would she do?

  They entered town, curling down a steep hill and crossing over the Avon on a narrow wooden bridge. At the baker’s in Pevesy she bought yesterday’s stale loaf, hard halfway through, though this didn’t deter Dicken, who grinned happily and carried his crust off out of sight before swallowing it down. The meal did little for the emptiness at the core of her. At home there was bacon only rarely, but they’d an orchard and a cow, and she dreamed of stewed winter apples with cream.

  Past the checkerboard flint shops and houses, past a tall white mill already buzzing with activity, she smelled and heard the blacksmith’s shop—the rusty tang of hot iron, the exhaling whoosh of the fire, the dark clang of hammers and hissing bellows—before she reached it. Pell slipped into the grimy interior, standing out of sight in a dark corner while her chilled limbs unfurled in the heat of the forge and she inhaled the familiar smoky combination of charcoal and iron and sweat with something like bliss. A broad-shouldered young man with a thick leather apron and a blackened face peered at her from behind the left hind foot of a heavy cart horse. She’d seen his features before, only softer, less defined.

  “Hello?” he said, wondering at her presence in this place.

  “You wouldn’t be Robert Ames?” And at his nod she said, “Your brother told me where to find you.” She felt suddenly shy.

  The young man frowned. “Which brother? I’ve dozens.”

  If she’d only asked the boy’s name! “The gardener’s lad at the big house just along—” She pointed, flustered.

  He winked at her. “I haven’t really got dozens. What help did he offer?”

  She told him of her search, straining to be heard above the roar of the forge and hammer, as he finished fixing a high-ridged plowing shoe to the great hoof. For a moment, he disappeared in a shower of sparks.

  “Come outside,” the young man said at last, releasing the animal’s foot. Together they stepped into the farrier’s yard where a variety of horses stood tethered side by side, exhaling steam and patiently awaiting a turn. “I don’t know anybody by that name, and the other man, with dogs . . .” He frowned, shrugged, and shook his head. “You’re sure Pevesy is the right place?”

  She was sure of nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “So am I.” She could have cried.

  “Don’t mind my asking, but what is it you’ll do now?”

  Pell sighed. “I shall need to find work.”

  “What sort of work?”

  She paused. “I’m good with horses.”

  “So am I,” he said, laughing. “Would you put me out of a job?”

  “Only if I could, Mr. Ames,” said she, and smiled at him.

  “We’ll ask my mother. If you’ll hold off till dinnertime, you can come home with me.”

  Until then she made herself scarce, not wanting to inconvenience him. At midday, the young man led Pell and Dicken through the Pevesy streets at a brisk walk, till they reached a blue door with a small white horse painted on it. Pell stooped to examine it.

  “My father painted it,” Robert said, “after the horse on the hill. It’s meant to bring luck.”

  She’d take what was going, Pell thought.

  Despite the bright day, the tiny house was dark inside, the table spread with a plain cloth on which was set bread, cheese, butter, and ham with a jug of beer. Robert Ames introduced her to his mother, explained that she was looking for a man by the name of Harris, or a poacher with dogs, who had stolen from her. Pell noticed that he didn’t explain her search further, adding only, “She knows our Michael.”

  The woman’s face, pinched and suspicious, didn’t alter at either reference. Stole what from you? her expression said. She stared hard at Pell, and when Robert left the room a few minutes later she leaned in and spoke in a low flat voice. “He’s to be married,” she said. “And soon.” The rest was obvious: So don’t be getting ideas about him.

  Pell perched on the edge of a hard wooden chair, poised to leap up and flee. Dicken sidled up next to her.

  “He can stay outside,” growled the woman, swatting at the dog. But a minute later, when Robert returned, Dicken slid under the table next to an old collie, making himself invisible in the shadows. As Pell tucked gratefully into bread and butter a
nd ham, she could feel Dicken’s stare and, with a sigh, reached under the table with a chunk of fatty meat. A minute later, the dog stood up, wriggled round to Robert Ames’s knee, and laid his head on the boy’s thigh.

  “You won’t be getting my lunch that way,” Robert said, pulling one of the silky ears.

  “I will not have you feeding that animal,” hissed his mother “Whssst! ” She aimed her broom at the dog. “Get out like I told you!”

  Dicken scarpered and Pell looked away, ashamed.

  “My aunt always needs extra help in the dairy,” Robert told Pell, and his mother frowned. “I’ll ask if she’ll take you on for a bit. You could board there, for now.”

  Pell nodded, counting the time since Bean and Jack had disappeared. Five days. Five days that felt more like a lifetime, and no idea what to do or where to go next. She would take a job if it was offered, for now at least, and first solve the problem of having no money. In the meantime, anything might happen. People heard things, or were seen. Children reappeared or sent messages. Horses found their way home.

  Despite a tendency toward despair, she remained unable to imagine that she would not soon be reunited with all that she had lost.

  Twenty-one

  Bean’s clothes were taken away and the workhouse matron scrubbed him with water, and soap made of lye and soda, which hurt his skin.

  “He’s not right in the head,” she told the girl who passed over the large jug of cold water. “Just looks and looks at you like that. Infuriating, it is.”

  “P’raps he can’t hear.”

  “Oh, he can hear, all right. And he can talk, I reckon, just don’t fancy it. DO YOU, BOY?”

  The girl peered at the huge moon eyes, saw them blink rapidly to push back tears. “He’s not yet ten,” she said, “but his face is rather like an old man’s.”