“What is it?” Val demanded. “Someone bringing out their plague dead?”
I shook my head slowly. “No, there was a man walking this way, but he saw us and ducked rather quickly into the linen draper’s. I have never seen such a set of whiskers. He looks like Uncle Balthazar’s sheepdog. They are certainly shy of strangers, these Northerners.” I nodded to the doorway of the shop opposite. The fellow had been nondescript and rather elderly, wearing rusty black with a slight limp and a tendency to embonpoint. A set of luxuriant whiskers hid most of his face from view.
“Probably frightened away by how clean we are,” Val put in acidly.
I turned to him, lifting my brows in remonstrance. “You have become a thorough snob, do you know that? If you are so appalled by conditions here, perhaps you ought to do something to make them better.”
“I might at that,” he said. “God knows I shall have little enough to do in any case.”
There was an edge of real bitterness to his voice, and I suppressed a sigh. Val could be difficult enough when he was in a good mood. A peevish Val was altogether insufferable.
Portia signed to us then, her expression triumphant. The blacksmith at Howlett Magna had business where we were bound and agreed, for a sum that seemed usurious, to carry us, with maids, pets, and baggage, to the village of Lesser Howlett. From there we must make other arrangements, he warned, but Portia cheerfully accepted. She called it a very good sign that we had engaged transport so quickly, but I could not help thinking otherwise when I laid eyes upon the blacksmith’s wagon. It was an enormous, rocking thing, although surprisingly comfortable and cleaner than I had expected. In a very short time, we were settled, maids and bags and pets in tow, and I began to feel marginally better about the journey.
The countryside soon put an end to that. Each mile that wound out behind us along the road to Lesser Howlett took us further up into the great wide moors. The wind rose here, as plangent as a human voice crying out. Portia seemed undisturbed by it, but I noticed the stillness of Valerius’ expression, as though he were listening intently to a voice just out of range. The blacksmith himself was a taciturn sort and said little, keeping his attention fixed upon the pair of great draught horses that were harnessed to the wagon. They were just as stolid, never lifting their heads from side to side, but keeping a steady pace, toiling upward all the while until at last we came to Lesser Howlett.
The village itself looked grim and unhygienic, with a cluster of bleak houses propped against each other and a narrow cobbled road between them. A grey mist hung over the edge of the village, obscuring the view and making it look as though the world simply stopped at the end of the village road. We alighted slowly, as if reluctant to break the heavy silence of the village.
“Good God, what is this place?” breathed Valerius at last.
“The far edge of nowhere, I’d say,” came a sour voice from behind us. Morag. She was laden with her own enormous carpetbag as well as a basket for my dog, Florence, and the cage containing my pet raven, Grim. Her hat was squashed down over one eye, but the other managed a malevolent glare.
In contrast, Portia’s young maid, Minna, was fairly bouncing with excitement. “Have we arrived then? What a quaint little place this is. Will we be met? The journey was ever so long. I’m quite hungry. Aren’t you hungry, Morag?”
Portia, deep in conversation with the blacksmith, called for Minna just then and the girl bounded off, ribbons trailing gaily from her bonnet.
Morag fixed me with an evil look. “All the way, I’ve listened to that one, chattering like a monkey. I’ll tell you something for free, I shall not share a room with her at Grimsgrave, I won’t. I shall sooner lie down on this street and wait for death to take me.”
“Do not let me stop you,” I said graciously. I pinched her arm. “Be nice to the child. She has seen nothing of the world, and she is young enough to be your granddaughter. It will not hurt you to show a little kindness.”
Minna was a new addition to Portia’s staff. Her mother, Mrs. Birch, was a woman of very reduced circumstances, endeavouring to rear a large family on the tiny income she cobbled together from various sources, including washing the dead of our parish in London and laying them out for burial. Minna had always shown a keenness, a bright inquisitiveness that I believe would stand her in good stead as she made her way in the world. It had taken little persuasion to convince Portia to take her on to train as a lady’s maid. Our maids, Morag included, were usually taken from the reformatory our aunt Hermia had established for penitent prostitutes. It seemed a luxury akin to sinfulness to have a maid who was not old, foul-mouthed, or riddled with disease. I envied her bitterly, although I had grown rather fond of Morag in spite of her rough edges.
Portia at last concluded her business with the blacksmith and returned, smiling in satisfaction.
“The inn, just there,” she said, nodding across the street toward the largest building in the vicinity. “The innkeeper has a wagon. The blacksmith has gone to bid him to attend us to Grimsgrave.”
I turned to look at the inn and gave a little shudder. The windows were clean, but the harsh grey stone gave the place a sinister air, and the weathered signpost bore a painting of a twisted thorn and the ominous legend “The Hanging Tree.” I fancied I saw a curtain twitch, and just behind it, a narrow, white face with suspicious eyes.
Behind me, Valerius muttered an oath, but Portia was already striding purposefully across the street. We hurried to catch her up, Morag hard upon my heels, and arrived just as she was being greeted by the innkeeper himself, a dark young man with the somewhat wiry good looks one occasionally finds in the Gaels.
He nodded solemnly. “Halloo, leddies, sir. Welcome to tha village. Is i’ transport thee needs?”
Portia quickly extracted a book from her reticule and buried her nose in it, rifling quickly through the pages. I poked her sharply.
“Portia, the innkeeper has asked us a question. What on earth are you doing?”
She held up the book so I could read the title. It was an English phrasebook for foreigners. “I am trying to decipher what he just said.”
The innkeeper was staring at us with a patient air. There was something decidedly otherworldly about him. I noticed then the tips of his ears where his dark curls parted. They were ever so slightly pointed, giving him an elfin look. I smiled at him and poked my sister again.
“Portia, put that away. He is speaking English.”
She shoved the book into her reticule, muttering under her breath, “It is no English I have ever heard.”
“Good afternoon,” I said. “We do need transportation. We have been told you have a wagon—perhaps you have a carriage as well, that would be far more comfortable, I think. There are five in our party, with baggage and a few pets. We are guests of Mr. Brisbane.”
“Not precisely guests,” Portia said, sotto voce.
But her voce was not sotto enough. The innkeeper’s eyes brightened as he sniffed a bit of scandal brewing. “Brisbane? Does thou mean tha new gennelman up Grimsgrave way? No, no carriage will coom, and no carriage will go. Tha way is too rough. It must be a farm cart.”
Portia blanched and Morag gave a great guffaw. I ignored them both.
“Then a farm cart it will be,” I said firmly. “And do you think you could arrange such a conveyance for us? We are very tired and should like to get to Grimsgrave as quickly as possible.”
“Aye. ’Twill take a moment. If tha’ll step this way to a private room. Deborah will bring thee some tea, and thee can rest awhile.”
Valerius excused himself to take a turn about the village and stretch his legs, but I thanked the innkeeper and led my dispirited little band after him upstairs to private accommodation. The inn itself was like something out of a children’s picture book. Nothing inside the little building seemed to have changed from the days when highwaymen stalked the great coaching byways, claiming gold and virtue as their right. Still, for all its old-fashioned furnishings, the inn wa
s comfortable enough, furnished with heavy oak pieces and thick velvet draperies to shut out the mists.
The innkeeper introduced himself as Amos and presented a plump young woman with blond hair, Deborah, who bobbed a swift curtsey and bustled off to bring the tea things. We did not speak until she returned, laden with a tray of sandwiches and cake and bread and butter. A maid followed behind her with another tray for Minna and Morag, who perked up considerably at the sight of food. They were given a little table in the corner some distance from the fire, but Portia and I were settled next to it, our outer garments whisked away to have the dirt of travel brushed from them.
When the tea things had been handed round, Deborah seemed loath to go, and at a meaningful glance from Portia, I encouraged her to linger. We had not spoken of it, but it occurred to me—and doubtless to her as well—that it might be a good idea to glean what information we could from the locals about the state of affairs at Grimsgrave Hall.
For her part, Deborah appeared gratified at the invitation to stay. Her blue eyes were round in her pale face, and she refused Portia’s suggestion that she send for another cup and share our tea.
“I could not do tha,” she murmured, but she patted her little mob cap, and a small smile of satisfaction played about her mouth.
“But you must sit a moment,” I persuaded. “You must be quite run off your feet.” That was a bit of a reach. The inn was clearly empty, and although it was kept clean enough and the food was fresh and ample and well-prepared, there was an air of desolation about the place, like a spinster who was once the belle of the ball but has long since put away her dancing slippers and resigned herself to the dignity of a quiet old age.
Deborah took a small, straight-backed chair and smoothed her apron over her knees. She stared from me to Portia and back again.
“You seem terribly young to run such an establishment,” Portia commented. “Have you been married long?”
Deborah giggled. “I am not married, my lady. Amos is my brother. Will thou have another sandwich? I cut them myself.”
Portia took one and Deborah’s face suffused with pleasure. “I help him run the inn when we’ve guests.” She looked at us wistfully. “But thee’ll not stay here. Amos will take thee to Grimsgrave Hall.”
“Is the Hall a very old place?” I asked, pointedly helping myself to another slice of cake. The girl did have a very light touch. I had seldom had one so airy.
“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.
Silent on the Moor (2019 Edition) Page 3
