I furrowed my brow. “I do not remember that one.”
He slid an arm under my knees and rose effortlessly to his feet. “‘Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee.’”
I was still laughing when he kicked the bedroom door closed behind us.
What followed was a revelation. It is astonishing that so simple a thing can change everything, but there it is. Before we went into that room, the world was as it has always been, but by the time I awoke, long afterward as dawn was just beginning to silver the shadows, my entire life had changed. I stretched and yawned, sinuous and satisfied as a cat. It woke Brisbane who opened one eye and grinned at me sleepily.
“You have ruined that corset in your haste,” I told him severely. “That was French lace, you know,” I added, mourning the loss of the beautiful pale violet confection. I had ordered it from Paris at great cost and worn it precisely once.
“I’ll buy you another. Besides, it is nothing compared to my complaint. You snore,” he said thickly.
I hit him with my pillow, sending a shower of feathers into the air. One settled on his shoulder and I blew it off. “I do not. You must have been dreaming of another wife.”
He took the pillow and put it under his head, leaving me nowhere to rest mine except his chest. I nestled there, one hand toying with the crisp, dark hair that spread toward his belly. Another interlude, vastly more interesting than those on the moor, took place and the sun was fully up by the time we had concluded our exchange of affections.
“We haven’t even talked about the wedding trip yet,” I said, yawning broadly.
Brisbane quirked a brow at me in a gesture I knew so well. “If that was where your thoughts were, remind me to apply myself more thoroughly next time,” he said with a touch of asperity.
“Oh, no. I only thought of it after, I assure you. If you apply yourself more thoroughly I don’t think I will be fit to leave this bed,” I consoled.
He nodded. “That is better. As to the wedding trip, I have had Monk on the Continent, scouting suitable destinations. He seems to think Venice would be lovely, or perhaps a villa in Greece?”
I stared at him. “Monk has been looking for a house? For us?”
“Of course. You don’t think I would marry you and drag you off to someplace, sight unseen? I trust him implicitly. He always thinks to inquire about things like hygienic arrangements,” Brisbane said, raising a brow significantly. “I gave him a list of places I compiled months ago and sent him off to look them over.”
“I cannot believe you have been thinking about this marriage, planning this marriage for months.”
He put a hand through my hair, twisting it around his fingers. “I have been planning it since that first interview in your study at Grey House, a few weeks after Edward’s death. You were all wide eyes and tart tongue, and you insisted to me Edward could not have been murdered.”
“You are joking,” I said, tickling his chin with a lock of my hair.
He shook his head, wrapping his arms about me and pulling me closer still. “I seem to recall you are the one always telling me to respect the sight,” he said, only slightly mocking.
“You had a vision? About me?” He did not answer at first, and I began to nip at him with my fingers until he replied.
“Ow, yes, stop that, you vicious little beast. I had a vision of you, the first time I stepped into Grey House, the night Edward died. That was why I kept staring at you while he lay on the bed, convulsing between us. I had seen you standing before me, your hand in mine. I could not hear what was said between us, but there was a sense of belonging to you, as if I had always known you somehow, and you had been waiting for me. It came as rather a nasty shock to realise you were already married.”
“Why were you so cold to me then? I thought you quite hated me.”
“I hated what was happening to you,” he said, brushing a bit of hair out of my eyes. “I knew you would suffer when he died. Besides, I never quite thought of myself as the marrying sort.”
I stared at him, comprehension dawning. “You were afraid of me.”
“Quite terrified,” he said, smiling. He kissed my palm then, and I settled back against him.
“I cannot imagine that,” I told him. “You, so coolly disdainful and dismissive. Terrified of me as I stood trembling in front of you, thinking you were the most alarming man I had ever met. I cannot believe you have ever been afraid of anything.”
“It was a rather novel experience, I assure you,” he said, tracing a path along the small of my back. I thought of the journey that had brought us together, the earl’s daughter and the country-bred Gypsy lad, and I marvelled at the workings of fate. So many little turnings along the way, and if either of us had taken a different path, we would never have found one another.
“Tell me,” I commanded. “Tell me about your adventures. I know you have been to China, to Egypt. I want to know it all. Tell me about the Orient first. Is it very exotic?”
Without warning, Brisbane, my partner and now my husband, rolled me smoothly onto my back and put his lips to my ear. “Later,” he said, applying himself enthusiastically to the conjugal arts.
“But I want to know about China,” I said, laughing as he did something rather new and thoroughly enjoyable.
He drew back, looked at me with those mesmerising witch-black eyes. He put a firm finger across my lips. “That is a tale for another time.”
From the Correspondence of Lady Julia Grey
From Grimsgave Hall, Yorkshire
Dearest Aunt Hermia,
How silly you are! I cannot imagine why Portia has embellished her letter so, but I can promise you things here in Yorkshire are not nearly so dire as she imagines. I think her quarrels with Jane have left her peevish. I do not know what you hear on that score, but I beg you to invite Jane to tea and speak firmly to her. Goodness knows I do not approve meddling in the lives of others, but something simply must be done about the pair of them.
The estate of which Brisbane has taken possession is called Grimsgrave Hall, and the name, I confess, is rather apt. It lies at the edge of the moor, where I am told there is very good hunting for grouse, although at present it is rather empty and well, moorish. It is an old house, although not nearly as old as Bellmont Abbey—17th century, I should think and in its day it must have been a handsome place. (Really, Portia ought not to have used the phrase “godforsaken pile”. It could be quite nice with a bit of fixing up.) True, one of the wings has crumbled to ruin, but I suppose that could happen to anyone. There is a pretty little pond in front of the house, and despite what Portia says, I do not believe it is stocked with the bodies of depressed housemaids who have drowned themselves. It is a bit weedy to be sure, and gives off a rank smell when the wind is blowing, which as we are on a moor is rather constant. But, as I say, we have no cause to believe it is the site of serial suicides, although that would explain why the staff are so few in number. The rooms are quite modest, we are told, since the old wing fell down, and the Hall can be kept clean with very few pairs of hands. Of course, it could use a few more hands, as the beds are a little damp, if I am to be honest, and one has to exercise caution in sitting lest great clouds of dust or colonies of spiders be disturbed. Accommodations on the whole are acceptable, if rather medieval. Portia and I are sharing, and the bedroom is furnished with a chamber pot. I shall draw a veil upon that delicate subject and leave the rest to your imagination.
The occupants of the house were a bit of a surprise, although perhaps not the “catastrophic disaster” to which Portia refers. The previous owner, a very civil elderly person called Lady Allenby, is still in residence with her daughters, Hilda—who I must own is rather nasty and says as little to us as she possibly can, preferring to occupy herself with her poultry—and Ailith, who is a little too pretty for comfort. (Did Portia really call her “angelic”? I must speak to Portia about her standards.) In any event, they are rather comfortably ensconced, at least until Brisbane fits a cott
age for their use, and we do not look for them to leave for some time. The house is equipped with a very excellent cook-housekeeper, the rightly-named Mrs. Butters. She is a bustling, energetic sort of person with a very light hand for pastry. I will endeavour to secure her recipe for Scottish shortbread, as it is much crisper than Cook’s and just the thing on a brisk afternoon with a cup of tea. There is a scullery maid called Jetty, but she is a bit simple—as scullery maids so often are—and has little sense and limited conversation. She occasionally shrieks for no reason and throws her apron over her head, but Mrs. Butters does not seem to be alarmed by this, so we have learned to continue eating our meals and ignore her. (Yes, dearest. We take our meals in the kitchen. I did say “medieval”, did I not?)
Valerius has taken it upon himself to look into the drains of the little village nearby. I cannot think it a very nice hobby, however, it keeps him happy and occupied, and with Valerius one can hardly ask for more.
I am a little alarmed about Florence. She has grown quite stout, although the trip to Yorkshire seems to have upset her. She merely picks at her food and keeps looking at me reproachfully. I suppose I ought to consign her to your care when I travel, but I thought the moorland air would be good for her. As usual, Grim has been a hardy and stalwart companion, and I have got quite accustomed to carrying him along. I only hesitate to take him on sea voyages. You know what birds are.
As for Brisbane himself, he is proving impossible as usual. I hardly know what to think, for one minute he is pleased—demonstrably pleased—to see me; the next he is quarrelsome and peevish. Perhaps you are right and he is dyspeptic. It would certainly explain a lot…
I must dash. Miss Ailith has taken me to meet an acquaintance of hers, a Gypsy woman who lives in a cottage upon the moor, and I have promised to call upon her today. She reminds me of you a little, dearest, although I cannot think why. Perhaps it is because when one is with her, there is the oddest sense that all one’s troubles are really not so terrible and that all will come right in the end. As you can tell from that bit of sentimentality, I miss you dreadfully. Do give my regards to the other ladies at the meeting of the advisory board of the Refuge for Fallen Women and give Father a kiss and Bellmont a pinch from me.
With fondest affection, I am your loving niece—
Julia
From the Journal of Morag Colquohoun
Sometime in April, Somewhere in Yorkshire (otherwise known as the Seething Bowels of Hell)
Well, it is precisely as I expected, a disaster from end to end. It did not begin well. Lady B. was weeping when we left London. She made to dash away her tears, but I could see them, and all I have to say about that is if that sniffy Miss Jane thinks she is too good for Lady B., I will have something to say to her. There’s no finer person than Lady B., even if she does not like men. My friend Bet says it’s flying in the face of God to lie with another woman, but I say the world is a cold and cruel place and if a body can find someone to love, that’s good enough. That reminds me, I wonder what His man Monk is about these days? I thought I should see him when we arrived and made a point of wearing my best hat but he was nowhere to be seen, nor have I heard anyone speak of him since our arrival. ( NB: ask Her if Monk came with Him.)
Which brings me to Him, the whole reason we came into Yorkshire. I have to say, I agree with his high and mighty lordship, Her brother Bellmont. It doesn’t do for a lady to go haring off after a gentleman, even one so flighty as He is. I admit He’s a fine specimen of a man, if you fancy the dark and moody type. He reminds me of that Heathcliff fellow from the book She made me read when She decided we were coming to Yorkshire. I told Her so, and she took the book away before I could finish it. I hope it ended happily, although I cannot see how. Everyone important was dead halfway through.
I am glad I read it in part otherwise I might never have been prepared for the moor. It is a great, empty place, and one wouldn’t think such emptiness could be alarming, but it is the most frightening place I’ve ever been and I once walked the streets of Seven Dials, so nastiness isn’t nothing new to me. It is the wind, I think. It goes and goes, all the time, like a speaking voice that never says a word, but keeps talking just the same. It is enough to send a body mad, I’d warrant, and I’ve taken to stopping my ears with cotton wool to drive out the sound of it. Of course, I cannot hear Her when she calls, but that is all to the better. I’ve little enough to do here. There are no proper rooms for a lady’s maid, no private bedchamber for me, no little parlour to do my needlework. She has taken to wearing country tweeds and my greatest duty is scraping the mud from Her shoes. She does not mind the moor, but I have always said She was not quite like other Ladies. She leaves me to my reading and tending the dogs and listening to Minna chatter. (The cotton wool helps there too.)
She’s a London girl, Minna is, but I’ve seen the way her eyes follow that Mr. Godwin, and there’ll be trouble there, mark my words. He seems a nice enough lad, but I never trust a farmer. They smell of dirt and shit and their hands are never clean. Give me an honest sailor or publican any day. The finest-smelling man I know is Her father, his lordship himself. He smells of pipe tobacco and books. (Mem: Monk smells of beeswax. Why should that be?) I have just realised I wrote “shit”. Lady Hermia said I wasn’t to swear anymore and that I must give a ha’-penny to the poor box at the church if I forgot. She didn’t say nothing about writing, and if she had I would have told her it is a far sight easier to remember proper speaking when I have to speak to the quality, but writing here is like talking to Bet, and if your best friend can’t overlook a little swear word now and again, what’s the use of her? Besides, She doesn’t go to church except to listen to the music or look at the windows, so how am I to get to church to put my coin in the poor box? Perhaps with Easter coming on She will make an exception. If not, I can send the ha’-penny to Bet. She’s poor enough, I reckon, and that just means I will have passed over the part where the coin sits in church, waiting to be given. Poor Bet. I’ve told her a hundred times to leave the game, but she says it’s easy money. Easy money! I never worked harder in my life than I did as a whore. Taking care of Her is a far sight easier than trying to make enough to kip in the doss house for the night. I try not to remember it, but it is like trying to stuff too many clothes into a trunk. You can shove and shove and even try sitting down upon it, but if you’ve put too much in, it will burst open and make everything untidy. That’s how bad memories are. There are times I lie in my bed after I’ve tucked Her in, and I know I am warm and safe and none shall harm me, but still I remember. I remember the fear and the hunger and the bone-grinding sameness of it all. And that’s when I make certain Her slippers are warmed the next morning and Her bath is just as She likes it. She thinks She takes care of me, but really, I take care of Her.
I wasn’t certain of Her at first. I mean, She knows She is a Lady and who Her father is. That doesn’t matter to Her. She will have a conversation with me, just as civil as if I were Her equal. Curious, isn’t it? I said Bet was my best friend, but really, I think it must be Her. When I first went to Her, she was a little silly and vague. She barely noticed me. But after the master died and He came into Her life, things changed a bit. It’s as if She woke up and really saw things for the first time. Now She’s got a trick of looking right through a person, as if She can see precisely who you are. I think she’s learned that from Him, and I think that scares the devil out of Him. (NB: another ha’-penny to Bet.) He’s never met the like of Her, and why would He? There’s not another like Her, and if He were half the man I think Him, he’d have noticed by now. Well, of course He’s noticed, a man would have to be blind and deaf not to notice Her. (She was pretty before the master died, but widowhood has been the making of Her. Lady B. has turned her out smartly, and She has a liveliness about Her that She never had before.) Still, He hasn’t done anything about it, and I begin to despair of Him. He’s no proper Scot if He cannot screw up His courage to court the woman He loves, and I think He does love Her. He’s
just too daft to know it yet.
A Recipe for Baked Mushrooms
In 1861, Isabella Beeton published the seminal work, Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. More than just a cookery book, it offered the wife or cook-housekeeper recipes, advice, and gentle admonishment. Each recipe was given with seasonability, price, and yield so that the most discriminating home-maker could be certain of receiving good value for money. She further included suggestions for serving the various dishes, with Baked Mushrooms designated as suitable for breakfast, luncheon, or supper. It is a perfect dish for invalids, being soft and easy to digest, provided the mushrooms are fresh and wholesome. It is a favourite dish of Lady Allenby’s and this is the recipe used by Mrs. Butters at Grimsgrave Hall.
Baked Mushrooms
16-20 mushroom-flaps
Butter
Pepper to taste
For this mode of cooking, the mushroom-flaps are better than the buttons, and should not be too large. Cut off a portion of the stalk, peel the top, and wipe the mushrooms carefully with a piece of flannel and a little fine salt. Put them in a tin baking dish, with a very small piece of butter placed on each mushroom; sprinkle over a little pepper and let them bake for about 20 minutes, or longer should the mushrooms be very large. Have ready a very hot dish and serve with hot gravy. Sufficient for 5 or 6 persons.
DEANNA RAYBOURN
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