by Laura Powell
‘She was certainly lovely once.’ Mr Grey cleared his throat. ‘Cull derives from a Cornish word. Do you know what it means?’
‘The fishermen told me, yes: loss.’
‘This island has been called many things, in many different languages, but the meaning is always the same. Because this isle is a place of lost things . . . and people.’
Pattern felt a chill breath at her neck. ‘I do not want to be lost.’
‘My lady’s quarrel is not with you.’
‘Because of my class? Or because of my sex?
‘My lady only punishes those who deserve it.’
Pattern did not think this was said with much conviction. ‘So our mistress is not like the old gods in the stories? She is never vindictive and vengeful, but always fair?’
The aged steward screwed up his eyes.
‘She . . . she believes she acts for the best. And perhaps she does, some of the time. In truth, she is as likely to act out of boredom and mischief as from malice. I cannot help but think of the snowdrops. They have always flourished here, despite her efforts to uproot them. Perhaps it is a sign. Some things cannot be changed. Some things – some goodness – can never be entirely cut out.’
Then Lady Hawk might still have a capacity for mercy . . . Pattern hoped he was right.
‘You have not told Lady Hawk of my meddling. You saved me from drowning, and dragged me back to the safety of the boat. Why is that?’
‘Humph! I scarcely know myself. You are certainly a highly unsatisfactory housemaid: you are interfering and insubordinate, and you shirk your work. However, I will allow these are not actual crimes.’ He sighed. ‘My loyalty must be to my lady. I will always protect her, and do her bidding. But this island already has its fill of prisoners. I do not wish to see an innocent soul among them.’
‘Thank you,’ Pattern said humbly. ‘Does . . . does this mean the other servants are safe too? And the lady guests?’
He scowled. ‘That depends. As long as they keep out of my lady’s way – and mine.’
At least Pattern met with no reproach when she returned to the villa, for Mr Ladlaw’s reading had been a lengthy one and was only just drawing to an end. This gave the ladies plenty of opportunity to ask questions and bestow compliments, while granting Pattern time for a much-needed wash and change of clothes. She had previously asked Mrs Robinson if she could miss the event, since she was making a study of The Complete Servant and would like to use the time to catch up on her own reading. Mrs Robinson, who privately feared The Towers of Callabrio was not entirely respectable, had been very happy to oblige.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes!’ Nate exclaimed as soon as Pattern rejoined her fellows in the servants’ hall. Then, in lower tones: ‘Whatever happened to our pact? Why did you leave a fellow high and dry, and half going out of his mind with worry?’
‘There was hardly any time to think, let alone make plans,’ she whispered back. ‘The Reverend was about to put to sea, and—’
‘Well, you missed a treat, make no mistake,’ said Elsie, coming over to join them. ‘Mr Ladlaw’s story was ever so exciting, for there was a mad pirate ghost, and a wicked count, and a poor captive lady trying to make sense of it all. Mr Ladlaw has such a lovely speaking voice! He did all the accents and everything, and strode up and down waving his arms and such.’
‘It must have been very entertaining,’ Pattern said dutifully.
‘We all thought it was as good as being at a play. Except for Miss Smith, that is. She yawned throughout, and coughed and sneezed quite excessively, I thought – but then she does have a cold, poor thing, so perhaps that’s why she did not pay the attention she should.’
‘What did you think, Nate?’
‘Oh, it was proper rip-roaring. But –’ and here Nate gave Pattern a meaningful look – ‘I warrant you could spin a yarn of your own, given half a chance.’
She looked at him confusedly.
‘That story about the priest who went to sea?’ he prompted.
‘Oh, ah, yes – yes of course. It does not have a happy ending, I fear.’
Nate’s face fell.
‘In my, um, story, the priest tries to save a woman from drowning, but it is all a trick, because she is in truth a kind of monstrous octopus, who throws him into a magic whirlpool that traps him forever and ever. The – er – End.’
‘Dear me, Penny, that wouldn’t do at all,’ said Elsie, shaking her head. ‘Whoever would believe such absurdity? No, if you are going to write a tale of magic and adventure, then you had better read Mr Ladlaw’s first, so you know how it is properly done.’
Nate looked ready to object to this, but Mrs Robinson had returned to the hall and was looking about her in a most suspicious manner. Perhaps she feared the corrupting influence of Mr Ladlaw’s book had already begun to take hold.
‘Seems to me, Mr Ladlaw’s readers are going to be disappointed,’ Nate said as soon as they had left the hall and could speak freely, ‘and his tale of pirate ghosts and lady investigators will be his last.’
‘I fear you’re right.’ Pattern rubbed her eyes. She was very dejected, and it took every ounce of her self-control not to let it show. ‘We have to accept that we cannot protect Mr Ladlaw, or anyone else for that matter. Lady Hawk is too powerful, and her magic too unpredictable. The only course left to us is to persuade the gentleman to escape the island before she has time to strike.’
‘He ain’t going to listen to the likes of us. Not with Miss Hawk’s smiles and her ma’s music to befuddle his brain.’
‘There are ways around that. Miss Hawk’s mechanical charms are already failing, so next we must find a way for Mr Ladlaw to carry a snowdrop at tonight’s concert. Once his mind is clear of magic, I believe we can convince him of the danger. The boat is waiting on the beach, and Mr Grey told me the sea monster sleeps in the hour before dawn. That is when we must make our escape. I do not like to leave the rest behind, but no one else on the island is in danger, if Mr Grey is to be believed.’
‘You trust the old man?’
Pattern related her recent encounters with Mr Grey, and her suspicion that he served his mistress against his will. ‘He said he would always protect his mistress. But I think if we were to attempt to flee he would not stand in our way. For why else would he have told me when Scylla sleeps? Why else has he not already told Lady Hawk that I am working against her? But I confess I do not know how to ensure Mr Ladlaw carries a snowdrop. If we hide a bloom in his clothes, he may change them or take them off – as happened with the Reverend.’
‘Maybe us attempting to conceal the flowers ain’t the answer, then. Maybe we should ask Mr Ladlaw to hide them himself.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, I’ll play Cupid. I’ll sidle up to the gent and whisper that Miss Hawk wants him to wear some of them snowdrops as a token of her affection, but to keep the flowers hidden, on account of her being so bashful and modest and the rest.’
‘Yes, that could work. Perhaps tell him she wishes him to wear the flowers next to his heart? Or is that too much, do you think?’
‘Not for a poet. It’ll appeal to his romantic sensibilities, I reckon.’ Nate rolled his eyes. ‘You know what a sap these lovers can be – he’ll moon over it in secret, like a girl with a wedding ring.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Truth in speech must be accompanied by integrity and fidelity in all your dealings.
S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant
What a curious gathering the house party had become: all ladies, save for one lone gentleman! As evening drew in, nobody enquired as to the whereabouts of the Reverend Blunt – not even his own sister, Honoria. As with the other male guests, it was as if he had never been. Pattern looked out over the darkening landscape and pictured the unfortunate clergyman spinning about in his whirlpool all through the night, and the endless days and nights to come.
Miss Hawk continued to twitch and creak and stutter, and both her speech and movement
s had noticeably slowed. Her mama let it be known that she had taken a medicine for her headache that did not agree with her, which aroused much insincere sympathy from the ladies, and very tender concern from Mr Ladlaw. By contrast, nobody enquired after Miss Smith’s cold, despite her sneezing and sniffling. Poor lady! It was unlikely her rival’s internal mechanisms could survive another day without winding. But another day was all Lady Hawk required, of course. She had despatched three suitors in as many days, no doubt the fourth was marked as Mr Ladlaw’s last as a free man.
While Nate played Cupid with the snowdrops, Pattern turned to chemistry. The flowers might protect Mr Ladlaw from the mind-altering power of the music, but if he looked too restless and alert Lady Hawk would realize her enchantment had failed. Pattern needed to find something that would mimic the music’s effect. So she turned to her trusty sleeping draught, a homebrewed herbal concoction she had privately named Pendragon’s Syrup of Somnolence.
She took the opportunity to slip into the dining room on the pretence of delivering a message to Mr Perks, and managed to put a couple of drops of the drug into Mr Ladlaw’s wine glass without anyone noticing (such sleight of hand had been part of her training at the Silver Service, and she was glad of her hours of practice now). She hoped she had the dosage right: too much, and he would fall asleep; too little, and her efforts would be pointless. But although the gentleman yawned copiously throughout dessert, he did not start to snore in his seat, and by the conclusion of the evening concert he was as dozy-looking as the rest of the enchanted household.
The house was all abed by eleven, whereupon Pattern and Nate met in Lord Charnly’s former bedchamber. Since the hour before sunrise when Scylla slept was their only opportunity to escape the island, they would have to be on the beach just before half past three. Furthermore, they needed to have enough time to persuade Mr Ladlaw of the danger and to allow for any unexpected interruption or delay. All in all, although they had planned to take the watch in shifts, and snatch a little sleep between times, both found they were far too on edge to rest.
‘What’ll you do once all this is over?’ Nate asked.
Pattern felt a little uncomfortable. She could hardly tell Nate that she was actually the Countess of Annwn, and her home was an apartment in the royal castle of Elffinberg. She was still getting used to the idea herself.
‘I will visit my good friend Eleri,’ she said. ‘And we will eat gingerbread until we feel sick, and stay up talking half the night.’
Oh, how she prayed this would happen!
‘I like the sound of that. What about your parents, though?’
‘They’re dead.’ Her mother and father had died in a shipwreck when fleeing Elffinberg in fear of the dragon But even if she could not mention the dragon, she felt she owed it to Nate to be as truthful as she could. So she explained that she believed her parents had been pastry-cooks, that they had drowned when she was a baby and that she had been raised in an orphanage before becoming a student at Mrs Minchin’s Academy. Then she asked about Nate’s own family.
‘Well, my mother was a chambermaid, and she met my pa while in service. He were a footman to Lord Stannersly, who brought him over from his West Indies estate.’
Pattern might have guessed Nate’s father had been born a slave, but she still found the idea very shocking, despite Nate’s matter-of-fact tone. The two of them had already been through so much together that it was strange to realize they remained strangers in most regards. After all, there had been little time or opportunity to speak of anything that did not relate to Lady Hawk and her intrigues.
‘But Pa died of a fever when I was little,’ Nate continued, ‘so Ma lives with her sister now. My aunt didn’t want her to marry Pa, and made no bones about it. Caused quite a family rumpus! She don’t like me so much either, to tell the truth. Being a betwixt-and-between . . . well, it can unsettle folk.’
‘I think people need to be unsettled, sometimes,’ said Pattern thoughtfully. ‘And it may be that there are advantages to being neither one thing nor the other. You see the world from different angles.’ She considered her experiences as both aristocrat and maidservant. ‘It means you have to make your own path, and that can be rewarding, for all its difficulties.’
Nate smiled at her through the shadows. ‘So what path are you on, Penny? I can guess it’s full of secrets.’
‘If we get out of here safely, I will tell you all about it.’ Nate deserved the truth from her; of that she was now sure. ‘No more mystery. That’s a promise.’
It was still pitch black outside, but the time had come to begin their venture. Pattern splashed cold water over her tired face, still trying to think of the best way to break the bad news to Mr Ladlaw.
She trusted the snowdrop would restore some clarity to his thoughts, or at least weaken his resistance to the idea that he was in danger. Perhaps the fact that Mr Ladlaw had an author’s colourful imagination would be in his favour. A man who could dream up tales of piratical ghosts might be more open than most to the idea that he was trapped on an enchanted island by a witch.
Since it was a warm night, Pattern found Mr Ladlaw sleeping outside the bedclothes. The open neck of his nightgown revealed that he had faithfully followed his beloved’s instructions, as relayed to him by Nate: the snowdrops were bound by a ribbon to his chest. So far, so good. However, the lingering effects of her Syrup of Somnolence meant waking him was no easy task. In the end, she had to throw some water over his face too.
‘Hell’s teeth, girl! Have you lost your mind?’ he spluttered, eyes bleary with sleep, his dark tangle of hair sticking up in any number of directions. ‘It’s the middle of the night! What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Mr Ladlaw, sir, I am very sorry, but I need you to stay calm and believe me when I tell you that you are in very great danger and must leave this house and this island as soon as possible, in secret.’
‘Good God! Is it a fire? Burglars? Pirates?’
‘No, sir. It is altogether more complicated. I will try to explain, but first I must ask: what do you remember of your last few days on the island, sir?’
Groggily, he ran his hands through his hair. ‘Well, Miss Hawk has been as charming as always. She has borne the other gentlemen’s unwelcome attentions with admirable patience and restraint.’
‘You remember the other gentlemen then, sir?’
‘Of course. There was . . . hmm . . . a soldier who fancied himself a ladies’ man, and a clergyman with absolutely no literary taste whatsoever. And some fellow with a scowl, who kept blathering on about pheasants . . . How odd – I feel I know their names perfectly well, yet they have become fearfully muddled.’ As he rubbed his eyes, some of his bewilderment cleared, and he began to be more aware of the impropriety of their situation. ‘What are you, anyway – a scullery maid? Who are you to discuss Miss Hawk and her suitors?’
Despite herself, Pattern felt a little aggrieved at being mistaken for such an inferior servant. ‘I am a third housemaid, sir, but I also wish to be your friend, since I fear you have made a powerful enemy.’
‘Pooh! What enemies could a poet possibly have? Our words are balm to the troubled soul, not incitement to violence! In any case, I am not accustomed to making friends with servants, least of all those who ambush me in the middle of the night with mad warnings and impertinent questions.’ He reached for his dressing gown. ‘Enough of this nonsense. I really must insist you leave.’
‘Please wait, sir. Wait and think a moment. Miss Hawk had four suitors, of which you are one. Yet you are the only gentleman left in this house. So where are those other gentlemen now? When did you last encounter them?’
This gave him pause. ‘I – well, let’s see. We were having a picnic and then . . . I think there was a walk . . . the scenery was supposed to be most inspiring . . . if only I could have kept myself from getting lost! Or was it Miss Hawk who was lost? I cannot tell. It was all very confusing. But then . . . then . . .’ His face changed. ‘My God – I remem
ber it now – I was fighting a duel. A duel! Or did I dream this? It must have been a nightmare, I’m sure of it.’
‘No dream, sir. You fought a duel with the Reverend Blunt.’
‘That pompous windbag? I refuse to believe it.’
‘Look at your arms; they bear the marks of your battle.’
Mr Ladlaw rolled up the sleeve of his nightgown and beheld the scratches and scrapes and specks of dried blood that covered his skin, first in astonishment, then horror.
‘Sweet heavens. I didn’t kill the man, did I?’
‘No, sir. He suffered a different fate.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Mr Ladlaw put his head in his hands. ‘I am a lover, not a fighter. I have not fenced since my school days! My poor head . . . it is such a jumble of impossible things. Perhaps it is the heat. Yes, that must be it. I am not accustomed to the climate, and it is making me ill.’
‘Indeed, sir, the climate here is very unusual. Were you not surprised to find olive groves and lemon trees so close to the Cornish coast?’
‘I am no more a gardener than I am a duellist, but I suppose you do have a point. Oh dear,’ he said weakly, ‘I do not feel at all well. Is that what happened to the other gentlemen? Perhaps they were taken ill and have gone away for medical attention. It seems to me we must all be suffering from a fever of the brain.’
‘That is not a bad way of describing it, sir. But tonight you are in your right mind, I assure you. To this end, I am going to show you what befell poor Captain Vyne. So I must ask you to please look into the mirror by the fireplace, and endeavour to stay calm, however shocking the image you see there.’
Mr Ladlaw pressed his hands to his face anxiously. ‘Why? What’s happened to me? Was I badly scarred in the duel?’
‘No, sir. Thus far, you are unharmed.’
He had already got up and hastened to the mirror. ‘Then what –’
He started back with a gasp of horror. There was the anguished face of Captain Vyne, holding out his hands in desperate appeal on the other side of the glass. Until now, it was only Pattern and Nate who had seen him.
