Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;

  My fingers ache, my lips are dry;

  Oh! If you felt the pain I feel!

  But oh, who ever felt as I!

  —Sappho

  I spent the next two days sulking around Grey House. I worked on the household accounts, tidied the stillroom, read and wrote letters. Or at least I pretended to. The truth is, I often found myself staring at a book I did not remember picking up or writing such utter gibberish that in the end I tore the pages into tiny pieces and dropped them into the wastepaper basket. I was utterly useless, waiting for Brisbane to send a report and for Simon to expire. I went often to the sickroom, intending to read to Simon or simply sit with him, but he had settled into a routine with Desmond and seemed easier with him. I made Simon uncomfortable and, if I am honest, I was uncomfortable as well. Edward’s death, while horrible, had the saving grace of being quick. Simon would not be so lucky. It was torture to watch him suffer, and I was craven. I made every excuse I could to avoid the sickroom, until my conscience prickled and I knew that I could put it off no longer. I always felt a guilty sense of release when I slipped out again, like a child on holiday from school.

  To assuage my guilt I spent hours closeted with Cook, concocting menus that I thought might tempt him to eat. I needn’t have bothered. He ate little, sometimes barely tasting the delicate morsels we sent up. Each day I saw the plates go by, often untouched, and each night I prayed to a God I no longer wholly believed in for Simon’s deliverance. But he lived on and I added that to the score I had to settle with God.

  To add insult to injury, it was at about this time that I was adopted. One morning, as I sat muttering obscenities over Cook’s outrageously extravagant food accounts, I heard a sound from the floor. A distinctive, wholly unwelcome quorking sound. I edged around my desk and glanced down.

  “Good Lord, how did you get loose?”

  The raven looked up at me and cocked his head. “Good morning,” he said, quite civilly.

  “Yes, good morning to you, too, I suppose.” He continued to regard me thoughtfully and I returned the favor. He was too big for me to wrestle back to Val’s room were I so inclined. But even if his size was no deterrent, his beak and talons were. We enjoyed our impasse for some minutes, but at length I grew bored and returned to my accounts.

  Immediately, the wide black wings whirred and the raven flapped up and settled himself on my desk. I froze, but he did not move again, apparently content to perch there, watching me. He was rather gentlemanly, all things considered. He did not disturb my papers or inkwell, keeping himself carefully out of my way. His round, shining eyes were focused steadily on my pen, watching with great interest as I made my sums.

  After a minute, I opened a box of sugared plums and held one out to him.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He made a sound I had not heard before, something very like Aunt Hermia’s sigh of pleasure whenever she is offered a box of violet creams. He plucked the plum from my fingertips and tore into it. It was not particularly pleasant to watch, but he seemed very contented.

  “Sweeties,” he said when he had finished.

  “Hmm, yes, sweeties. Whatever shall we do with you?” I asked him rhetorically. Val had made no progress with his scheme to return him. I had scanned the newspapers every day, but there was no mention of a scandal regarding the Tower ravens. For all intents and purposes, I supposed the fellow belonged to us now.

  Or perhaps to me, I thought with a flutter of alarm as he toddled across the desk. He lowered his head, bobbing it toward me. After a moment, I realized he expected something and I lifted a hand to scratch his handsome feathers.

  “You are no better than a dog,” I said repressively. But he was busy making his little quork and bobbing for more scratches on the head. When he was finished, he flapped down from the desk and busied himself inspecting the room. He walked the length of it, poking his shining head into the nooks and crannies, occasionally chattering at me. I responded, feeling rather stupid, but at least he said a word or two in return, which is certainly more than a dog would have done. By the time I had finished the accounts we were rather good friends and I was feeling a bit less bleak than I had before.

  “You are a very companionable creature,” I told him. “But you really ought to have a name. I suppose Hugi or Muni is too expected. I wonder what they called you.”

  He looked at me with gem-bright eyes, and for one mad moment I thought he was going to tell me. But he kept his secret and did not speak again for the rest of the afternoon.

  To my delight, Portia called that evening. I nearly wept with relief. I greeted her warmly, too warmly, I suspect, for she pulled out of my embrace and looked at me suspiciously.

  “Darling, do you feel quite yourself?”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s been quite dreadful, really. Simon is worse, nearly at the end, according to Griggs.”

  She divested herself of her hat and gloves and other trappings, heaping them in a bright, shifting pile of expensive, misty blue. She kept Puggy, settling him onto a purple fringed cushion as she took a chair. We began our usual duet.

  “Oh, not that cushion, Portia. It’s rather a favorite.”

  She gave me an injured little pout. “Puggy is very well behaved. What do you expect him to do to it?”

  “Flatulate,” I said plainly. “Or worse.”

  “Nonsense. You wouldn’t do anything so frightfully common, would you, Puggy-Wuggy?”

  She blew him kisses, which he ignored. “There, you see? He is a perfect lamb. Order up something decadent from the kitchen and have Aquinas open some champagne. We will be very naughty and you can weep out all your troubles and I will console you.”

  I did as she bade me. I ordered food—Cook sent hot, tiny, crispy prawns, bathed in sizzling butter. There were other scrumptious things as well, fruits and pastries, and when Aquinas brought the champagne, I noticed he was careful to bring the finest bottle in the cellar. He withdrew, tactfully closing the door behind him, and Portia and I happily commenced to a Lucullan feast. Or at least, Lucullan by our standards.

  I told her everything as we ate. Well, nearly everything. If I am honest, it was nothing like everything. I gave her a carefully edited version of the truth, juggling secrets like so many conjurer’s balls. In the first place, I did not reveal the secret of Brisbane’s parentage. I simply skimmed rather neatly over Brisbane’s retrieval of the box, telling her of his pugilistic endeavors at the Gypsy camp, but purposefully leaving out his fluent conversation with Jasper. Naturally I did not mention the kiss—if it could be called a kiss. That seemed a tepid, bloodless sort of word to describe what we had done. But it was private, and I could not bear the thought of recounting to her, chapter and verse, what it had been.

  I also neglected to mention Magda’s fatal grudge against Valerius. Portia inferred, because I heavily implied, that Magda’s trouble had been with Edward and that the arsenic had been intended for him. She assumed that Magda neglected to use the poison before Edward died by another’s hand and I did not correct her.

  I also omitted the bloody shirts and Val’s presence at Carolina’s grave the night Magda was banished from her camp. I had not spoken to him myself yet, and I did not feel it quite sporting to spill his secrets to another member of the family. I owed it to him to hear his side of the story before I threw him to the wolves. Besides, I was desperately afraid Portia would run straight to Father, and that was a complication I could do without.

  So I presented her with a bowdlerized version of events, stressing the tangle surrounding Edward’s death and my own sadness at Simon’s impending loss. Puggy snored, but Portia was very attentive.

  She sympathized over Simon for a moment, then steered the conversation back to the investigation.

  “You must keep yourself busy, Julia,” she advised. “I know that Simon’s passing will grieve you, but it comes as no shock. He has been unwell for so long, and surely it is a blessing in itself that h
e is shortly to find release.”

  I murmured something in agreement.

  “So,” she went on briskly, “you must have a thought to life after Grey House. You must bring this investigation to an end as quickly as possible and move on with your life.”

  I drained my glass, licking the last drops of champagne. Delicious. I poured another. “I know. I do have plans, you must believe me. I wish to travel, perhaps even to write a book. I thought of selling Grey House, as well. It’s really far too big for me.” I stared at the fizzy gold bubbles of the champagne racing one another to the top of my glass. “But I feel that if I do not know the truth about Edward, however painful, that I cannot move forward. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes, of course.” She popped a prawn into her mouth, then selected one for Puggy. “And what of Brisbane? Shall you see him again when all this is finished?”

  I shook my head and immediately regretted it. Champagne always left me dangerously light-headed. “I do not see why I should. I mean, I think it highly unlikely. I would have no need of him in a professional capacity, and socially…”

  I let the thought hang there unfinished. It was provocative, really, the notion of meeting Brisbane in a social setting, with none of the complications of an investigation. “No, I think our paths will not cross again.”

  “Pity. I think you rather like him.”

  My first instinct was to deny, but I realized the futility before I even said the words. Ever the elder sister, Portia liked to think that she understood me better than I knew myself. I merely smiled at her.

  “What if I did? I have found him enigmatic and tempestuous. You yourself said he was too much of an adventure for the likes of me.”

  Portia snorted. On any other woman, it would have been vulgar. On her, it was roguishly charming.

  “Too much for the little mouse you were then, creeping about in your blacks and greys. Look at you now,” she said with a sweep of her hand toward my vivid violet gown and its daring neckline. “You’ve come quite a long way since then, my pet. All bold colours and alabaster décolletage. Too delicious. And as for Brisbane being enigmatic and—what was the other?”

  “Tempestuous,” I supplied, thinking of the faint black-plum bruise on my back, a bruise just the shape of his hand.

  “Tempestuous. Most interesting qualities, Julia, and you would call them liabilities. Tell me, what did he look like at the Gypsy camp? Was he really naked to the waist?”

  She leered at me over the top of her glass and I could hardly speak for laughing.

  “Ninny. He looked like a man, what do you expect?”

  “Descriptive details, please! It’s been ages since I saw one, and I likely never will again, at least if Jane has anything to say in the matter. Now, reveal all!”

  I settled back against the cushions and described in lurid detail.

  “Goodness,” she said when I had finished. “Are you certain you are not embellishing? You always were prone to exaggeration as a child.”

  I shrugged. “It is all in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”

  She was thoughtful as she reached for a raspberry tart. There was a scratching sound at the door then and we exchanged looks of surprise.

  “Another bottle already? Aquinas is a gem, Julia. Whatever you are paying him, double it instantly.”

  I rose. “It is not Aquinas. There would have been footsteps.” I opened the door cautiously. No one. I stepped back and there was an odd ruffly sound from the floor.

  “Ah, thought you would invite yourself to the party, did you?”

  The raven made a whirring noise in his throat and toddled past me, grave as a judge in his little black robe.

  Portia gave a little cry. “What the devil is that?”

  I closed the door and resumed my seat. “A raven, and not just any raven, my dear. This gentleman happens to be one of Her Majesty’s own.”

  Portia’s eyes were enormous. She reached for Puggy protectively “You don’t mean it! Not a Tower raven…what on earth is he doing here? How?”

  The bird was pecking comfortably at the lace-edged hem of her gown. I distracted him with a tart, waving it in front of his bright black eyes. “Val. He won him off of Reddy Phillips on a lucky hand at cards.”

  Portia, clutching Puggy to her bosom, leaned over and watched the raven, tearing daintily at the tart.

  “He’s rather handsome, but something of a macabre sort of pet, don’t you think? Especially with a dying man in the house?”

  “Don’t be ghoulish,” I said sharply. “Simon has not seen him, nor will he. It might upset him in his present circumstances.”

  Portia agreed, then tossed another tart to the bird.

  “That’s for me,” he said pleasantly.

  Portia’s eyes rounded even more. “He speaks?”

  I nodded. “Apparently Reddy took him for a jape, substituting another bird in its place. No one at the Tower seems to have noticed, which I find ridiculous. I mean, one would think that if one’s job is the care and well-being of these creatures, one could have the diligence to tell them apart.”

  “One would,” she agreed. “Do you mean to keep him, then?”

  “I mean to give him back, only I don’t quite know how. Reddy plagued us for a while, but I did not want to turn the bird over to him.”

  “Why ever not?” Portia’s voice rose in exasperation, the perquisite of an older sister. “You want to be rid of him, who better to take him off your hands than the little half-wit who stole him in the first place?”

  “I cannot explain it, except to say that I do not like Reddy Phillips. I did not wish to make it so easy for him.”

  Portia regarded the raven a moment longer. He had finished his little treat and was sitting, looking from one of us to the other, as if he understood each word perfectly.

  “You know, I am not surprised Reddy has business with ravens,” she said thoughtfully. “His elder brother was quite obsessed with them.”

  “Was he?” I was keeping a wary eye on the bird. He was eyeing Puggy a little too intently for my liking.

  “Yes, you must remember Roland. I was obliged to dance with him sometimes during my Season thanks to Auntie.”

  We grimaced at each other. Aunt Hermia’s rule that one must dance with any gentleman who asked was ironclad. She made exceptions only for the most outrageous cads. She had some notion that it would give us an opportunity to widen our acquaintance, but as we always tried and failed to make her understand, there was a reason we were not acquainted with such people in the first place.

  “I remember him vaguely. Whatever became of him?”

  “Dead. Married some thin, weedy girl from the Duke of Porthchester’s family. She was only sixteen, if memory serves. Piles of money on his side, a lineage to the Norman Conquest on hers. Unhappy marriage, by all accounts.” As always, I was deeply impressed with Portia’s ability to remember the minutest details of other families’ misfortunes. She was a walking catalog of gossip, and although I deplored it, secretly I was rather glad. It saved me the trouble of talking to people. “Roland was quite apparently indiscreet with his affairs. He was actually on his way to an assignation when there was an accident. Train, boat, carriage, I can’t recall. Something to do with transportation. Anyway, I don’t think the child-bride mourned him very long. She married some Continental, a count or some such creature, the next year. Not a farthing between them except for her jointure from Roland, but they seem quite happy.”

  I sipped at my champagne, wondering how differently my life might have turned out if Edward had left me a widow years earlier. Might I have found a Continental count to ease my widowhood? Portia was still talking, reminiscing about the Phillipses.

  “He was a member of that awful club, do you remember? They formed it the year you made your debut. Fashioned themselves after Cousin Francis’ Hellfire Club.”

  I preferred not to remember. Sir Francis Dashwood, a cousin on our father’s side, had been the founder of the infa
mous Medmenham Club, often referred to by its more descriptive—and accurate—sobriquet, the Hellfire Club. The members had been notorious for their exploits, both in the bedchamber and in the chapels of the occult. In the years since its dissolution, a number of other reprobate youths had attempted to revive it, with varying success.

  Portia was musing aloud. “What did they call themselves? Something very like it…Brimstone! Yes, that was it. The Brimstone Club. They had all of these nasty little rituals, deflowering virgins together, that sort of thing. And all of that superstitious nonsense! They used to drink out of virgins’ skulls to cure diseases and things. You must remember—it was all the talk for the entire Season. Such speculation about who might belong. They were so secretive about their membership, no one ever knew for certain. Except for Roland Phillips—he went on and on about it. Of course, that family has never been one for discretion. Roland talked about how they always had ravens when they met, for effect, I suppose. His father bought that estate the other side of Basingstoke. They used the old folly there as a meeting place for the club, almost a ruin, I think it was. Very atmospheric and eerie. Tried to conjure the dead, I think.”

  I stared at her. “You are making all of that up. You are quite drunk. Give me the champagne.”

  She snatched up the bottle and held it out of my grasp. “I am not making it up. It was most entertaining. And profitable,” she said with a wicked gleam in her eye. “I managed to blackmail Bellmont into giving me a tidy little sum of money by threatening to tell Adelaide he was a member.”

  “Never!” I did not imagine that Portia would scruple at a little good-natured extortion within the family. What shocked me was the idea that our eldest brother might actually have done something worth concealing.

  “Do not let me shatter your illusions, dearest. Monty is lilywhite, I promise. But you know what a Polly Puritan Adelaide is. If there had been a breath of scandal touching Monty she never would have married him. I thought it might be amusing to touch him for a little pocket money. Fool that he was, he paid me.”

  “Portia, that is disgraceful. How much?”