Silent on the Moor (2019 Edition)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Not a bit,” I told her truthfully. “We have the most useless ghosts at my father’s house. I always think if one is going to be haunted, it’s rather nicer to be haunted by something useful, don’t you think? Your tolling bell, for example. Quite helpful indeed. An Allenby would hear that and know he ought to change his ways or at the very least make a proper confession if he is to die soon.”

  She turned wordlessly and led the way across the moor. I realised my tongue had run away with me and thought to make amends, but the wind rose and rendered conversation impossible. We trudged along, here and there helping each other over the muddiest bits, until we reached a crossroads in the path. A direction board pointed out the proper way to the village, but Miss Allenby struck out toward the left, taking a smaller path that wound higher up on the moor. I followed now, struggling to catch my breath as Miss Allenby led the way, unruffled as ever. If my flippancy had offended her, she had decided to overlook it, and I relaxed a bit, enjoying the glorious fresh air and the spectacular views.

  After a few minutes, we came over a rise and I saw, sheltered just below us, a cottage sitting beside another crossroads. It was a tumbledown little place of faery-tale proportions, with a high-peaked roof that sagged in the middle and a profusion of roses twining about the doorway, although the flowers themselves would not bloom for another two months. The cottage was set apart from the path by a low stone wall, and within its shelter lay the most enchanting garden I had ever seen.

  In spite of the cold and the mud there was a profusion of green, a whole world yearning toward the sunlight and spring. Set into the stone wall was a little wicket gate, and Miss Allenby pushed through, scattering a few fat, speckled chickens as she walked. They clucked at her but continued to scratch at the ground contentedly. A fragrant plume of smoke issued from the chimney, and welcoming lights glowed at the leaded windows.

  Before Miss Allenby even raised her hand to knock, the door was thrown back.

  “Miss Ailith!” cried the woman on the threshold in welcome. “You have brought me a visitor,” she said, stepping forward and taking my hand in her own. She was an extraordinary creature. Her colouring, like most Gypsies of my acquaintance, was dark, all olive skin and striking black eyes. Her black hair was loose, curling to her waist and threaded thickly with silver. Gold coins hung at her wrists and ears, and long chains of them were wrapped around her neck. A single thin band of gold circled her marriage finger. She wore several skirts, each more colourful than the last, and a becoming blouse with a deep ruffle at the elbow. Her hand was warm over mine, and her smile was genuine.

  “You are Lady Julia,” she pronounced in tones of great import.

  I gave her a cool, deliberate smile. “It is no great feat of clairvoyance to listen to neighbourhood gossip,” I said blandly.

  She laughed at this, displaying beautiful white teeth. “Come in, lady. I am Rosalie Smith. Come along, Miss Ailith.”

  She ushered us into the cottage. It was as charming within as without. A single room, it was comfortably furnished for any possible use. A cheerful fire burned on a wide brick hearth, an assortment of pots and pans ranged around it on iron hooks. Bundles of herbs and flowers hung from the rafters well away from the fire, their fragrances mingling to something spicy and delicious in the warm room. There was a scrubbed table, large enough to seat four, and comfortable chairs with freshly-woven rush seats and gaily patterned cushions. A snug bed had been pushed under the window and tucked neatly with a spread of patchworked cottons and velvets edged in bright taffeta. A black cupboard, beautifully painted with pastoral scenes, stood in the corner, and next to it stood a small table with a violin and a sheaf of music.

  The Gypsy woman held out her hands for my wraps. “Come and warm yourself by the fire. I will make a tisane for you. Something to warm the blood.”

  I struggled out of the blue shawl and various other bits and pieces and took a chair, grateful to be out of the wind. Miss Allenby rested her basket on the stone-flagged floor at her feet while our hostess busied herself with cups and saucers and little pots.

  At length she joined us at the table. “Miss Ailith, black tea with a bit of raspberry leaf,” she said, passing her a tiny teapot. “Lady Julia, a tisane of borage.” I peeked into the pot and was enchanted to find a pale green decoction, spotted with just a few tiny, starry blue flowers.

  “How lovely,” I said. Rosalie Smith gave me an enigmatic smile.

  “All herbs have their purpose, lady. They can heal or kill, but one must know their secrets.”

  The conversation seemed mildly sinister to me, and I glanced sharply at my harmless-looking tisane before changing the subject.

  “I confess, Mrs. Smith, I am surprised to find a Romany living so settled a life. You are far removed from the road up here, are you not?”

  Another might have taken offence at the question, but not Mrs. Smith. She merely gave me one of her inscrutable smiles and poured out her own cup of tea. Very strong and black, she took it with no sugar, straining the leaves through her teeth as I had so often seen the women of her people do.

  “I am here because it suits me, lady,” she said, her tone friendly. “I have a purpose here. When it is served, I will rejoin my own folk.”

  “A purpose?” I sipped at the borage tisane. It was delicious. The flavour was light and reminded me of tea, but greener somehow, with a thread of something I could not quite place.

  “Cucumber?” Mrs. Smith hazarded, watching me.

  “Yes! It is quite refreshing,” I told her. She smiled again, clearly gratified.

  “I make many tisanes, for many ailments. The villagers and farmers have learned to come to me for their troubles.”

  “Are there no doctors? Not even in the village?”

  Mrs. Smith shrugged, and Miss Allenby put down her cup. “There is one, but he is quite elderly. His hands tremble, and he is very often the worse for drink.”

  “Besides,” put in Mrs. Smith, “the old ways are often the best, do you not agree, Lady Julia?”

  I shrugged, thinking of Val’s enthusiasm for the latest advances. “They can be. I think there is much to be said for modern medicine as well.”

  Mrs. Smith laughed. “You are a complicated woman, I think. You look with one eye to the past and another to a future you cannot yet see.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” I asked coolly. I was well-accustomed to the Gypsy tendency to make mystical pronouncements.

  Mrs. Smith turned to Ailith Allenby. “How does your lady mother?”

  “Better, thank you. She asked me to fetch more of the ointment for her joints and more of the meadowsweet and liquorice tea. Her hands have been troubling her of late.”

  Mrs. Smith nodded. “I will send along some quince jelly as well. Tell her to take a spoonful every day. And you will take her some fresh peppermint from the garden. Steep a handful in hot water and tell her to sip it slowly. It will stimulate the appetite.” She cast an eye over Ailith’s slender figure. “Drink a cup yourself. You will not last out another winter if you do not put meat upon those bones.”

  To my surprise, Miss Allenby did not seem to resent the observation. She merely smiled and sipped at her tea. Just then there was a scratching at the door and a low, pitiful moan. I started, but Mrs. Smith waved me to my chair with a laugh.

  “’Tis only Rook,” she said, opening the door to admit a white lurcher. He was thin, with sorrowful eyes and a clutch of long, pretty feathers in his mouth.

  “What have you brought me, little one? A fat pheasant for the pot?”

  He dropped it and gave her a worshipful stare. She patted him and waved him toward the fire. He stretched out before the hearth, giving a contented sigh as he settled onto the warm stones.

  Mrs. Smith put her prise into a basin and laid it aside.

  “I will clean it later. Perhaps your ladyship would like the feathers for a hat?” she added hopefully.

  They were lovely feathers, and I knew she would haggle tirelessly over t
he price.

  “That’s quite illegal, you know,” Miss Allenby commented, nodding toward the basin. “That dog is a poacher.”

  Mrs. Smith roared with laughter, holding a hand to her side. “Bless you, lady, of course he is! All Gypsy dogs know the value of a fat bird. He was of no use to my husband because he is white, but he suits me well enough.”

  I had heard before that the Roma never kept white dogs as they were too easily detected when they were thieving, but I was more interested in the other little titbit Mrs. Smith had revealed.

  “Your husband? Does he travel then?”

  “Aye, lady. He travels with our family, but I keep a place for him here when the caravans come this way. That is his violin,” she said, nodding toward the instrument on the little table. “And the bed is wide enough for two.”

  She roared with laughter again while Miss Allenby and I looked politely away. Had it not been for Miss Allenby’s company, I might have joined in her laughter. I had always had an affinity for such women—comfortable and at ease in their own skin—and I had known a few of them. My father’s particular friend, Madame de Bellefleur, and Minna’s own mother, Mrs. Birch, came to mind. But Miss Allenby was cool to the point of primness and I did not like to shock her.

  She reached for her basket then and presented it to Mrs. Smith. “Godwin slaughtered a lamb, and Mama has sent along a small joint. I hope that will be sufficient?” It was a question, but only just. It was apparent from her tone that she considered the haunch a fair trade for the medicinals she had come to fetch.

  Mrs. Smith peered into the basket, inspecting the lamb carefully. She put it aside and handed the basket back to Miss Allenby. “It will do,” she said at length. “The dew will be dry now. Go and cut an armful of mint. I will fetch the ointment of St. Hildegarde and the quince jelly.”

  Miss Allenby rose and took up her wraps and basket. Rook the lurcher raised his head lazily when she opened the door, then laid it back down.

  “He is a lazy one,” Mrs. Smith commented with a fond look at the dog. “But his company suits me.”

  “It must get lonely for you,” I ventured, “alone up here, with only the odd villager for company.”

  Mrs. Smith shrugged. “I told you, lady, I have a purpose. If one has a purpose, life is bearable enough, do you not think so?”

  I did think so, in fact. I had spent the better part of my widowhood searching for one.

  “But I think you will be lonely here,” she said suddenly, leaning toward me and pitching her voice low. “And when you are, you must come to Rosalie. You will have no greater friend on the moor. Do you understand?”

  I did not, but I smiled at her, wondering if she had perhaps become a bit unhinged living in such isolation.

  “How very kind of you,” I began, but she waved me off.

  “I am not kind,” she said firmly. “My family is known for its gifts, but I do not have the sight. I do not see the future, although I do feel when danger is about. I feel it now, and it hovers over you, like a creature with great black wings.”

  I stopped myself from rolling my eyes in annoyance. I had heard such things before, always from a Gypsy fortune-teller who wanted her palm crossed with silver.

  “I do not wish to have my fortune told, Mrs. Smith, and I am afraid I have no coin on me at present.”

  To my astonishment, she grabbed my hand and held it firmly in both of hers. Her hands were warm and smooth and I could catch the scent of herbs on her skin. “Lady, I do not want your money. I speak honestly of friendship. You must call me Rosalie, and you must come to me whenever you have need of me. Promise me this.”

  I promised, albeit reluctantly. She rose then and rummaged in the black-painted cupboard. She returned with a tiny pouch of brightly-patterned red cotton. She pressed it upon me.

  “Carry this with you always. It is a charm of protection.”

  I must have looked startled, for she smiled then, a beautiful, beneficent smile. “I am a shuvani, lady. A witch of my people. And I want you to know I will do everything I can to protect you.”

  I took the little pouch. It had been knotted tightly with a silken thread and it held several small items, nothing I could recognise from the shape. “I do not know what to say, Mrs. Smith—”

  “Rosalie,” she corrected. “Now keep that with you and show it to no one.”

  Obediently, I slipped it into my pocket, and only then did she resume her lazy, good-natured smile.

  “I think Miss Ailith is ready to leave,” she commented, nodding toward the window. “Have you finished your tisane?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I collected my wraps and bent to pet the lurcher. He gave a little growl of contentment and thumped his tail happily on the floor.

  “Tell me, Rosalie,” I said, twisting the unbecoming shawl over my hair, “if all herbs have a purpose, what was the point of giving me borage?”

  Rosalie smiled her mysterious smile. “Have you never heard the old saying, lady? Borage for courage.”

  * * *

  I collected Miss Allenby from the front garden and we bade Rosalie farewell. She pressed the jar of quince jelly and a tin of ointment upon Miss Allenby who thanked her graciously. As we passed through the wicket gate, I fell deeply into thought, pondering what Rosalie had told me. Perhaps she belonged to a more subtle variety of Gypsy than those I had yet encountered. Perhaps, rather than overt offers to tell fortunes or lift curses, Rosalie’s methods were more insidious. I had not paid her for the little charm, but who was to say that on my next visit she might not insist the danger was growing nearer and that only a costly amulet might hold it at bay? It was a cynical thought, but one that bore consideration, I decided as I tripped over a stone.

  Miss Allenby put out a hand to steady me, aghast. “My apologies, Lady Julia. I would have warned you about that stone, but I did not imagine you could have missed it.”

  She was right about that. It was nearly a yard across, a marker of sorts at the little crossroads in front of the cottage, and though it stood only a few inches proud of the earth, it was enough to catch an unwary foot.

  “I was woolgathering,” I said apologetically.

  She nodded. “I can well understand, although I have never found the moor a good place to think—the wind seems to drown out my very thoughts. But my brother used to walk the moor quite often when he was puzzling out a problem, and my sister still does. Perhaps you will find it a restful place as well, should you stay for some time.”

  As a conversational gambit, it was blunt and inelegant. I rose to it anyway and replied with perfect truth. “I do not know how long I shall be at Grimsgrave. Some weeks at least, I should expect.” Heaven only knew precisely when Brisbane would return, and it could take some time after that to settle matters between us.

  She nodded, as if I had confirmed some private conviction of hers. “It is a great distance to travel for a shorter visit,” she observed.

  “That it is,” I agreed.

  We moved down the path toward the turning for Grimsgrave Hall. The wind had died a little, and I seized the opportunity to take a better measure of Miss Allenby’s situation.

  “Your brother was Sir Redwall Allenby?”

  She nodded, her face averted.

  “I understand he was an Egyptologist, a scholar,” I ventured.

  She paused, but still did not turn to me. “He was. He made quite a name for himself in certain circles.”

  The lovely mouth was thin now, the lips pressed together as though to hold back some strong emotion. Impulsively, I put out a hand.

  “I believe his death was fairly recent, and I can see that it grieves you still. Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it, sudden tears shimmering in her eyes. After a moment she composed herself and turned to me.

  “You are very kind, Lady Julia. It was sudden and you are quite correct. It does grieve me still.”

  She started slowly down the path and I h
urried to keep up with her longer stride. “Everything changed when Redwall died. I had no idea the house had been mortgaged. His death left us paupers, Lady Julia, beggars in our own home. My mother and sister and I are dependent upon Mr. Brisbane for every crust of bread.” She stopped to take a breath, her hands fisted at her sides. “We are to remain at Grimsgrave until a home can be fitted out for us.”

  I felt a rush of pity for her then. I could only imagine how difficult the past months had been for her. To lose a beloved sibling, a home, and a fortune was too much to be borne. I could only hope Brisbane was not making the situation more difficult in his present bad humour.

  “I do hope Mr. Brisbane is proving a hospitable landlord,” I offered.

  She shot me a questioning look over her shoulder, and I quickened my pace. “I simply mean that he can be terribly short-tempered. But his bark is much worse than his bite. If there is anything you need, you have only to ask him. He really is quite generous. To a fault at times.”

  She turned abruptly, fixing me with an appraising look. “How well do you know Nicholas Brisbane?” she asked without preamble. I nearly stumbled again, this time into a rabbit hole.

  “As well as anyone could,” I told her. “He is a singular sort of person. I would imagine it would take a lifetime to know him completely.”

  She paused again, raising delicate gold eyebrows. “Really? I have not found him much changed.”

  I stared at her, and for some unaccountable reason, I felt the chill of the moor wind as I had not felt it before. “You knew him? Before he came to Grimsgrave?”

  Miss Allenby nodded slowly. “We were children together. Didn’t he tell you? He was a boy in this place.”

  She turned and led the way back to Grimsgrave Hall. The wind had risen again, and conversation was impossible. It was just as well. Ailith Allenby had given me much to think about.

  THE SIXTH CHAPTER

  Crabbèd age and youth cannot live together.

  —William Shakespeare

  “The Passionate Pilgrim XII”