by Laura Powell
‘There you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here’s a fine mess, for everyone is bewitched except us two! I’d wager it’s partly the air of the place, but mostly the sound of Lady Hawk’s harp.’
His forthright manner surprised Pattern. When she first encountered the sinister powers at work in Elffinberg, she had taken refuge in common sense, making every effort to explain them away by rational means. By contrast, Nate seemed to have accepted the situation with remarkable ease.
‘It is very shocking, don’t you think? I can scarcely believe it,’ said Pattern.
‘Well, it could be that I’m mad, and everything I saw last night was a fever dream. But I trust my own eyes, and I trust my own brain. I trust yours too. And you agree with me, don’t you?’
Pattern gave a cautious nod.
‘The world’s a stranger place than most folks like to believe. My pa used to tell me stories about the island he came from – oh, they was fearsome enough to turn a man’s spine to jelly! He had a tale of a witch who sheds her skin and flies about by night in the shape of cat. She sucks a person’s breath out of them while they’re sleeping. And there was a devil woman too, all dressed in gold with a cow’s hoof instead of a foot. Pa swore blind he’d seen her himself one night, waiting under a cotton tree . . . ’ A smile crept across Nate’s face. ‘Mind you, a bit of witchery seems a small price to pay for the sight of Mr Perks waltzing with the Dowager. When I saw him this morning, just thinking of it was enough to give me the fits!’ His expression turned serious. ‘So. Got any ideas as to why the two of us didn’t go cuckoo?’
Pattern was a little unsure how to proceed. It was a great relief to find someone as sensible of the situation as she was. Yet how much could she trust him? She worried that if she took Nate into her confidence and told him of her investigation he might try to take it over. In the eyes of the world, after all, she was only a girl, and so the natural subordinate in any alliance. She wanted to retain the advantage of her insider knowledge. On the other hand, there was no doubt that Nate’s quick wits would prove useful . . .
‘Well,’ she said, ‘we can start by trying to pinpoint what we did or didn’t do that was different to everyone else. For example, did you have anything to eat from the tea?’
‘Some hope! Mabel promised to save me one of them raspberry iced buns, but Alfred took it off me.’
‘Interesting. I didn’t eat any of it either.’
‘You reckon there was some kind of sorcery in the cucumber sandwiches?’ His face fell. ‘What’ll we do? We can’t not eat.’
‘No indeed. But the other possibility is the snowdrops bestow some kind of protection.’ After Pattern’s dealings with herbal remedies, she had a healthy respect for the power of plants. ‘I was carrying the posy you gave me in my pocket last night, and I noticed you still had a piece of the flower clinging in your hair.’
Nate rubbed his hands over his springy dark crop. ‘It ain’t there now. But you might be on to something. It would explain all them deathly warnings about snakes, and how no good will come of going to that glade.’
‘Either way,’ said Pattern, ‘it was the playing of the harp, and Miss Hawk’s singing, that did the real mischief. And that can be easily remedied – look.’ She held out a set of earplugs, which she had fashioned from beeswax polish and a melted-down candlestick. ‘If you like,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I could make you a pair too. Then if we are invited to hear the music-making again we have only to block our ears.’
‘Hm.’ Nate was considering her thoughtfully. ‘Sharp as a box of knives, ain’t you? It’s almost like you’ve been up against this kind of hocus-pocus before.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Only that most girls would be having hysterics at the idea of being stuck on an island run by a witch.’
‘Most girls are not as feeble as you suppose.’
‘Well, I’ve got the heebie-jeebies, make no mistake.’ He struck a comically heroic pose. ‘But I’m working monstrously hard to hide it.’
Pattern was impatient to get to work. Last night’s moonlit jig was doubtless only the start of Lady Hawk’s sorcery, and she had a strong suspicion that Cull and the mysterious Italian island where Henry Whitby had disappeared were one and the same. A travelling island that floated across oceans . . . was it possible?
But suspicions were not enough – she needed evidence. Her efforts to draw information on Lady Hawk from Miss Jenks had met with no success. The lady’s maid considered herself far too grand to associate with a mere third housemaid. In fact, she kept herself apart from all the servants, including the upper ones, insisting on having her meals in her own room. She refused to handle anything Nate had touched because she thought his dark skin was ‘dirty’, causing all the servants to dislike her even more. If only disloyalty to her mistress could be added to her faults! But she was too discreet about Lady Hawk to be of any use to Pattern.
Fortunately, the afternoon provided Pattern with her first opportunity to explore beyond the villa. The young ladies and gentlemen were also eager to see the sights, and so Lady Hawk directed the kitchen to make up hampers of food for a picnic. The party would go on a tour of Cull’s scenic spots while their luncheon was prepared. The two footmen and Mr Perks would wait on the picnickers, with assistance from Pattern. Since the other servants preferred to take their ease back in the villa, with only Lady Hawk and the Dowager to wait on, she met with no competition for the job.
Alfred and William were to go ahead to the picnic spot on foot, while Pattern would ride on the donkey cart with Mr Perks to transport the hampers, icebox and other fitments. Arriving at the stable yard with a bundle of rugs to begin loading the cart, she expected to see James, the coachman, or Jacob, the groom, but was instead met by the sight of Lord Charnly and his valet, Mr Stokes. His lordship had tired of inspecting the horses and was now tormenting a couple of cats.
His victims were the grey tom that lived in the stables, and the kitchen’s marmalade mouser. Lord Charnly had tied their tails together with a bit of twine. The desperate creatures were scrabbling and clawing at each other in their frantic bid to get free, mewling piteously. Meanwhile, his lordship – normally so sour-faced – was chuckling heartily. His valet cheered him on from the side.
As the cats yowled and spat, Pattern could hold back no longer. ‘Sir! Please – for pity’s sake –’ She rushed forward and, braving the slashing claws of the cats, endeavoured to uncoil the twine. Once freed, the animals streaked away as fast as their legs could carry them. ‘For shame,’ she said under her breath, as she sucked her scratched and bloodied hands.
Lord Charnly had heard her. He looked as amazed as if one of the heaps of horse dung on the cobbles had risen up and spoken to him.
But it was his valet who answered on his behalf. ‘Hold your tongue, girl. It’s not just feral cats that could do with a kicking.’
‘The little maid’s in the right.’ Mr Grey had suddenly appeared in the yard. ‘You should know by now that my lady has a passion for animals. She cannot abide cruelty to them of any kind.’
Lord Charnly curled his lip. ‘Well, I cannot abide insolence from the lower orders. Your lady may run a liberal household, but it seems to me her good nature is being taken advantage of. Both of you would do well to remember your place.’
‘Vicious young brute,’ muttered Mr Grey, as soon as master and valet had swaggered back to the villa.
Pattern ventured a timid smile. ‘It must be very peaceful here as a rule. I am sure you rather dread the arrival of so many visitors.’
‘Humph. It’s nothing I’m not used to.’
‘Oh? I thought Lady Hawk did most of her entertaining abroad. I should have loved to have served her last house party, the one on the Italian estate—’
‘Italy?’ he said sharply. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I think it was Italy they said.’ Pattern was all innocent confusion. ‘The other servants, you see, were talking about milady’s travels. But it might
have been France they meant. Or Switzerland . . .’
The old man’s eyebrows bristled. ‘Perhaps if you spent more time on your work and less on idle gossip, then your memory would improve.’
Pattern did not take Mr Grey’s rebuke to heart. She was no longer the kind of girl to be cowed by the disapproval of her superiors. And, whatever dangers and difficulties might await her, she could not help but feel a skip of happiness as she and Mr Perks set off from the house. The sun on her face and breeze in her hair were the promise of freedom.
Cull’s resemblance to an English landscape was decreasing rapidly. They drove along an avenue of slim, dark cypress trees, through an olive grove whose silvery leaves shimmered like the scales of a fish, past thickets of myrtle and orchards of lemon trees. The chirp of cicadas buzzed alongside the sigh of the sea. Although the island was less than three miles long, the dusty white road was so winding, and the hills so undulating, it felt as if they were traversing a much larger terrain.
Their destination was a summer house on the island’s southernmost tip. It was in the design of a classical temple, with a domed roof and white marble columns. A golden statue of a nymph stood on the central pedestal, looking out over the sea to the faint outline of the Cornish coast. At least, Pattern thought she glimpsed the mainland, but when she looked again mist had once more obscured it from view.
The sea was perfectly calm, its blue just one shade darker than the sky. Pattern lingered a moment to admire it and saw a large dark mass under the water, perhaps quarter of a mile away from the rocks below. She remembered the darkness beneath the sea she had noticed on the boat trip to the island. This shadow was also moving; not fast, but enough to leave foamy ripples in its wake. A whale, perhaps? But she could not stay to puzzle it out – she had too much to do.
It was hot work lugging the hampers into the summer house. Just because the meal was a picnic, the niceties of formal dining could not be abandoned. China, silver and linens must all be laid out on folding tables, and there was nothing particularly rustic about the menu, either. Pattern helped with the setting out of whole lobsters, roast duck, salmon, dressed salad, fruit tarts, jellies, custard, strawberries and cream, cheese, lemonade . . . not to mention copious amounts of champagne. She was still plumping cushions and shaking out the rugs when the party arrived.
James the coachman drove Miss Hawk, Adele Lane, Lord Charnly and Mr Ladlaw in the barouche. Captain Vyne drove the other carriage containing Alicia Lane, Miss Smith, Miss Blunt and her brother, the Reverend. As they disembarked, all exclaimed over the loveliness of the views and declared that the sea air had given them a marvellous appetite. The platters of food were cleared with quite remarkable speed, and the champagne consumption was not far behind.
While the party was feasting, the haze from the sea began to creep up the hill. Nobody remarked on it, which made Pattern nervous. She touched the posy of snowdrops in her pocket for reassurance. She was increasingly sure of their magical properties, for any ordinary bloom would have died by now – it had been two days. Although the snowdrops’ strangely rich scent was nearly gone, and their heads drooped, they were still fresh white and green.
‘There is a meadow of wildflowers just a little way from here,’ Miss Hawk announced, once the party had finished their meal, and were lolling on the cushions. Until this point, she had scarcely uttered a word except ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘very well, thank you’ in response to her suitors’ tender enquiries. ‘I am sure Mama would be delighted if we were to gather some posies to take back to the house.’
Her guests needed no further persuasion. As one, they got to their feet and dusted off their clothes. Moments later, they were following her lead in single file down from the hill. Pattern was now on high alert – all the more so when she saw how quickly the party was swallowed up by the mist. Meanwhile, the servants got on with clearing the debris from the picnic.
‘Mr Perks, one of the young ladies has left her parasol behind. Please may I take it to her?’
‘Yes, yes, very good,’ the butler replied, with the surprising vagueness that had lately descended on him.
By the time Pattern had reached the foot of the hill, the mist had thinned sufficiently for her to see the coachman snoozing in the shade of a tree, with the horses cropping the grass nearby. The rest of the party had dispersed in several different directions. A little way ahead, she found the ladies – save for Miss Hawk – silently gathering flowers. The mechanical, repetitive way they went about the task struck Pattern as highly unnatural, but since they did not appear to be in any immediate danger, she pressed on in search of the gentlemen.
The mist had begun to swirl around most confusingly, but she finally spotted the figure of Mr Ladlaw striding along the ridge over the bay. At least the haze provided cover for her pursuit, and after following Mr Ladlaw for only a short while, his path crossed with that of the Reverend Blunt, who was hurrying in the opposite direction.
After exchanging curt greetings, Mr Ladlaw indicated that he must not delay. ‘I think it only fair to disclose that I am on my way to an assignation with Miss Hawk. She has invited me to view a particularly inspiring vista. She tells me it is most poetical.’
‘Pardon me,’ the other gentleman replied, ‘but I fear you must be mistaken. For I am on the way to meet with the lady myself, as there is a rare species of seabird she especially wishes to show me. She knows I am a keen ornithologist, and holds my knowledge of birds in high esteem.’
Mr Ladlaw gave the tolerant smile of a man given to humouring the insane. ‘Well, well. It will not do to keep your feathered friends waiting. I bid you good day, sir.’ He swept an ironical bow.
The Reverend returned it. ‘Indeed,’ he said coldly, ‘I would not wish to disturb your flights of fantasy. Good day to you too.’
With that, they went their separate ways, both shaking their heads at the other’s foolishness. And, indeed, Pattern could understand their confusion, because she was fairly certain she saw not one but two women in the mist. Each possessed the gleaming fair hair and slight figure of Miss Hawk. Each receded into the haze the nearer her suitor approached. Furthermore, they were not the only versions of Miss Hawk to be seen on the island – when Pattern looked behind her through the mist, she thought she glimpsed two more again in the vicinity of Lord Charnly and Captain Vyne.
Like the clergyman and the poet, each gentleman laboured under the delusion that Miss Hawk was waiting for them only a little way ahead.
‘Miss Hawk! One moment – I beg –’ wheedled the Captain, who had never had to chase after a girl in his life, and was not enjoying the novelty. Accustomed to being the handsome prince of any party, he had lost some of his natural advantage now that his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes were set in a watery squint against the sun.
‘Fair lady! I implore you to wait!’ wheezed Lord Charnly, as he attempted to thrash past a thorn bush. Used to getting his way through bullying or brute force, the effort of appearing deferential was almost as much of a strain as his struggle through the undergrowth.
Pattern, perhaps because of the snowdrops in her pocket, was able to navigate far better than Miss Hawk’s admirers. Even so, the mist had rendered the geography of the island so higgledy-piggledy and unpredictable that it took her quite some time to find her way back to the summer house. In the meantime, the haze would momentarily part to reveal a sandy bay or stand of pine or grassy dell, through which the gentlemen blundered back and forth in increasingly frantic haste. And, all the while, the four Miss Hawks glided ahead of them, always just out of reach.
CHAPTER EIGHT
For human savages, like other wild beasts, are allured by their appetites to their destruction.
Mrs Taylor, Practical Hints to Young Females
It was a bad-tempered party that returned to the villa. The ladies had grass-stained skirts and, unaccountably, baskets of weeds and thistles in place of the wildflowers they had so painstakingly gathered. The gentlemen had sunb
urned noses and aching heads. Supper was by all accounts a most subdued affair, and Lady Hawk’s announcement that she would play the harp again before bedtime was not met with any great enthusiasm. This time, the ladies’ and gentlemen’s smiles of appreciation looked as strained as the servants’.
Pattern had not had a chance to talk to Nate since their conference that morning, but he tugged his ear at her before taking his place on the stairs, which reassured her that he had remembered to wear the plugs. Once everyone was in place, and more or less quiet, she carefully slipped the wax into position.
As soon as the music began, all fidgets and sighs ceased. Pattern could dimly hear the melody, but it was so muffled by the wax she would have felt reasonably safe from its charms even if she had not been in possession of the snowdrops. Once more, Lady Hawk’s song was as mysterious as it was beautiful. Once more, everyone’s faces were rapt with concentration, but emptied of any discernible real emotion or thought.
Pattern tensed when the music finished. Would they be expected to dance again? She was tired and footsore, and in no mood to pretend to frolic delightedly by the light of the moon. So she was relieved, as well as surprised, at Lady Hawk’s closing words: ‘You are weary, all of you. Sea air can be tiring when you are not used to it. Sleep well, dear friends, and soundly.’
All around her, Pattern saw people blink and stretch and look about. The vexations of the day had been smoothed away; as the servants prepared to attend to their masters and mistresses, it seemed to all intents and purposes an ordinary end to an ordinary evening. Pattern, however, sensed there was more to come. There was a tension in the air that made her skin shiver all over in expectation. Then she saw Lady Hawk slip into the courtyard and go over to the cage of songbirds. She opened the gilded door, took out a chirruping finch and released it into the night.
Pattern had no idea what this meant, but it was sure to signify something. So although her own duties were over, and she herself should be going to bed, she lingered in the servants’ hall. She was not alone: Mrs Robinson was inspecting some tablecloths, and Nate had just returned from his round of collecting boots, ready for cleaning in the morning.
