Silent on the Moor

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Portia pressed it back into my hand. “Julia, you have seen enough Gypsies to know their tricks. She means to frighten you. I’d wager a fiver the next time you go, she will speak of death stalking your shadow and promise to banish him for a pound, and ensure your good health if you buy a candle for another shilling.”

  I replaced the charm carefully in my pocket. “You’ve grown cynical in your old age.”

  “And you are still foolish in yours,” she returned, though not as harshly as she might have. “That Hilda is rather beastly, don’t you think? She smells of the poultry yard. Dreadful clothes.”

  “I suspect they are suitable for her purposes,” I said slowly. “But she seems highly put out that we have come. I wonder if we are somehow upsetting her apple cart?”

  Portia shrugged. “I cannot imagine how. Lady Allenby told me all she does is keep chickens and walk on the moor. God knows I shan’t interfere with either of those occupations. Perhaps she’s just peevish. Like Nerissa.”

  The mention of our crabby elder sister set both our mouths twitching.

  “What do you think of Godwin?” Portia asked.

  I tipped my head, thinking of his handsome face and warm smile. “A rogue, but not a serious one. He seems a merry sort, doubtless wanting for company here,” I said, casting a look about the deserted ruin of the orchard.

  “But Deborah, the innkeeper’s sister, said he was popular with women. He must go into the village. I wonder,” she trailed off.

  “Yes?” I prodded her.

  She shook her head, casting off her reverie. “I wonder if he is entirely trustworthy about women. I am worried for Minna.”

  I laughed aloud. “Minna? Our little Cockney cabbage? Why on earth should you worry for her?”

  “Because she has never been out of London. Because all the men she knows are pale and thin and weedy. Because Godwin Allenby is a big strapping man who radiates health and animal good looks and would be very attractive to a girl of Minna’s class.”

  I considered. “I suppose you are right. I hadn’t thought of it, but he is very different from the London lads. The accent alone would make him seem exotic to her.”

  Portia snorted. “I can scarcely make out one word in three. What the devil was he talking about at luncheon?”

  “Dinner,” I corrected. “He was talking about the view from Thorn Crag, and telling us we ought to make our way up there on a fine day. He claims we could see all the way to Scotland, which I highly doubt, but it is enticing.”

  Portia goggled at me. “You learned all of that from the gibberish he was talking? How on earth did you make him out?”

  I shrugged. “After Morag, I imagine I could understand anyone. In any event, you needn’t worry about Minna. I shall tell Morag to keep an eye open, and we will all have a care for her. I am very fond of Minna, as I know you are. Besides,” I finished with a shiver, “I should hate to be the one to explain to Mrs. Birch how we let her eldest daughter stray from the path of virtue. I am rather frightened of Mrs. Birch.”

  Portia nodded solemnly. “As are we all.” She was silent a long moment, then she seemed to gather herself and rose from the bench. “I suppose we had better make some plans to put the house in order,” she said. “We must tread carefully. I know Brisbane owns the house, but I cannot help but feel the Allenbys are still very much mistresses here.”

  I thought of Ailith and her corn-gold hair and wide blue eyes, her exquisite grace and her easy self-assurance. And I thought of Brisbane, immured here for the long cold months of winter with nothing to do but sit opposite that beautiful face and marvel at its perfection.

  And I felt a surge of determination.

  I rose and shook out my skirts, brushing the odd leaf from their folds. “Do not worry, Portia. They may have held sway here in the past, but this is a new day.”

  THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

  He that dies pays all debts.

  —William Shakespeare

  The Tempest

  After our conversation in the orchard, Portia retired to rest whilst I made excuses to remain downstairs. She shrugged and went on her way, and I scurried to make certain no one was lingering in the hall as I slipped into Sir Redwall’s study. I had little doubt Brisbane would not appreciate my efforts to help the Allenbys, and until I knew why, I had no intention of letting him discover it.

  I could hear Mrs. Butters humming a hymn tunelessly to herself and the occasional giggle from Jetty as they scrubbed the kitchen, but once I closed the door behind me there was only the cool silence of the deserted room.

  Deserted, and yet populated with treasures I could only imagine. I scarcely breathed as I moved between the dust-sheeted heaps, wondering which held riches from a pharaoh’s tomb, and which the crude trinkets fashioned for picking a tourist’s pocket. And I wondered if I should be able to tell the difference. I had no experience with Egyptology beyond attending a few lectures in London and the unrolling of a mummy that a certain duchess had arranged as an entertainment. It had been a gruesome evening, but thrilling nonetheless, and as I picked my way through Sir Redwall’s possessions, I wondered what I would do if a mummy lay amongst them.

  I twitched aside a dozen dustsheets, tantalised by the glimpses of polished stone and gilded wood, the flashes of gold—or perhaps something baser. I itched to fling them all aside, but I knew there was no method to that, and if I was not a properly-trained Egyptologist, at least I knew enough to have a care with the items. Since I did not know which was truly valuable and which was worthless rubbish, I decided to handle them all as though they were priceless, a sensible precaution under the circumstances, I thought. And I would catalogue the items as I found them. I would have preferred to group them like with like, but the conditions of the room made that impossible. There simply was not sufficient space to alter the current arrangements, and as it was, moving the furniture and statuary would require a great deal of muscle—muscle I had no inclination to find at present. In spite of my assurances to Lady Allenby, I did not wish to involve Valerius before it was absolutely necessary. I had little doubt Godwin would be happy to help, but it seemed prudent to keep a bit of distance until I knew him better, and as for Brisbane, the less he knew of my plans for the present, the happier I would be, I was convinced.

  After a lengthy search I found the desk, an enormous thing with dozens of drawers and a handsome bit of carved detail. There was nothing of Egypt about this piece. It was of good English oak and more than a hundred years old, judging by the patina. I ran a hand over its surface, smooth as satin from years of careful polishing. The pigeonholes still held paper, and I found a few sheets of foolscap to begin my notes.

  As I opened the drawers, searching for a pen or bit of pencil, I realised the desk had not been cleared out after Sir Redwall’s death. His diary lay open to a date from the previous summer, the page annotated in a spidery masculine scrawl. It took a bit to decipher it, but it was a note to himself: Unwell today. Dosed twice with q. I flipped to the previous page and there was the note: Felt poorly. Single dose. I continued to flip back and each page had a note about his health and sometimes estate business, each item marked with a little tick, presumably after he had concluded the matter. Speak to Godwin about gardener’s cottage. Arrange sale of little pasture. Letter from SB. Some of the days were noted with tiny drawings, hieroglyphs from the look of them. His handwriting had grown progressively more feeble over the weeks before his death, a sign of his deteriorating health, no doubt. But had he realised he was dying? He had, by his own hand, arranged for the sale of one of his pastures. Surely he had known the failing state of his fortunes. Had he planned some retrenchment before his death and been unable to carry it out?

  I closed the diary and moved on through the pigeonholes and little drawers, finding nothing of value but everything of interest. There were no letters from SB, nothing to indicate if this had been an inamorata or a business associate or even another scholar of Egyptology. I would have expected letters from creditors, bu
t there were none. I found a tiny scarab, its enamel long since lost, and a small ball of bits of twine, carefully saved and wrapped neatly. There was a penknife, a handsome thing marked with the initials AA. I took it to be his father’s, Sir Alfred’s, saved for sentimental reasons, or perhaps simply because it was an item of good quality. The dockets for correspondence were neatly labelled, To be answered, To be read, To be filed, but empty save for a few mouldering issues of periodicals pertaining to Egyptology. I scanned them for articles penned by Sir Redwall, but found none. This was not entirely unexpected. Many gentlemen preferred to use a nom de plume when writing professionally. I laughed at the obviously false soubriquet St. John Malachy-LaPlante, and those I laid aside. It was not entirely impossible that Sir Redwall had written them himself.

  The rest of the desk revealed nothing of note. If Sir Redwall had left debts, someone had removed the bills, perhaps with an eye to satisfying the creditors. I assembled a few items I should need—paper, ink, pen, blotting paper, gluepot, even a clever little notebook that had never been used—and tidied the rest away, thinking to put them in the largest bottom drawer. I opened it, and realised I had missed something. There was an album of sorts wedged into the bottom, and I prised it loose with the aid of the paperknife. It was an old-fashioned leather album covered in black kidskin. I opened it and read the inscription: The property of Redwall Allenby 1858. I did the subtraction quickly. The album was a child’s then, begun when he was still a schoolboy.

  I glanced through the first few pages, past the reports of his tutors, pasted carefully in with little notes from his father and clippings from newspapers. They were yellowed and crumbling and I smiled at the thought of the boy carefully cutting the columns and pasting them into his album. Most were pieces about Sir Alfred, lauding his career and praising the Allenby family. Clearly the boy had shared his mother’s pride in their name and accomplishments.

  And then, sadly, a death notice, heavily bordered in black, mourning the passing of Sir Alfred. I worked the dates again and realised Redwall would not have been more than twelve, so young to have lost his father. I knew what it meant to lose a parent in childhood, but as I had been only six when my mother passed, I felt Redwall’s loss must have been keener. I hardly remembered my mother—only a rustle of taffeta, the scent of her perfume. At least Redwall had had his album to comfort him.

  I turned faster now, skimming quickly. There were letters from Lady Allenby, addressed to Redwall at university, then in care of postes restantes abroad, as well as various hotels. Then came notices in the newspapers announcing his appointment to the Egyptological expedition mounted by Lord Evandale and seconded by St. John Malachy-LaPlante, the Comte de Roselende. So the silly name was authentic after all, I mused, and not a pseudonym of Redwall’s. I wondered how Redwall had felt at being selected for the excavation party. Had he been thrilled to finally see the ruins he had studied for so long? Or had he been apprehensive, a stranger in a strange land, uncertain of himself so far away from his native heath? Perhaps his years of travel had inured him to the exoticism of Egypt. The differences between the windy Yorkshire moors and the burning desert sands of Egypt did not bear thinking about.

  The rest of the book was blank. If Redwall had kept a journal of his adventures in Egypt, it was elsewhere, and I hoped I would discover something of the sort as I cleared out his things. He was an interesting character, I decided, and I would like to know more about him.

  There was another volume, this one slender and bound in scarlet kid, a collection of love poems of the Egyptians in translation. The paper was thin and soft, perhaps with much handling, for the cover was worn so badly that the gilt of the title was almost completely obscured. I thumbed a few of the pages, struck by the passionate language.

  “This will be further reading,” I murmured, and tucked the volume into my pocket.

  Suddenly mindful of the time, I tidied away a stray curl and bundled my supplies into the drawer, stuffing the scrapbook into its place on the bottom. It would make excellent reading for some rainy day, I had no doubt, but the room had suddenly grown much darker and I realised how long I had been about my task.

  After supper that night, the household sat by the kitchen fireside. Godwin was apparently not expected to tarry with the family, for he left directly supper was finished and did not return. Ailith Allenby said little, her golden head bent over her needlework. Portia had taken a book of poetry from her pocket, but it sat on her lap, unread, the pages unturned. Valerius chatted to Hilda about his discoveries regarding the drains in Lesser Howlett, and she listened with little grace, nodding once or twice and deigning to speak a syllable or two when she thought no one else was listening. It was left to Lady Allenby and me to carry the conversation, and we did so by discussing the garden. She described it as it had been in her youth, lush and bountiful, providing more than enough food for the family and the staff.

  “Of course, we had more than just Mrs. Butters then,” she said with a little laugh, “although she was with us. That was long before she married Butters. She was just little Martha the kitchenmaid then, with hair in two great plaits down to her waist and clumsy hands. Cook used to curse her for breaking plates, if I remember. But she grew quite skilled in time, and eventually she married Mr. Butters, a tradesman in the village. I always thought it a great pity they had no children. She would have been a wonderful mother. But they were not blessed, and then Mr. Butters took ill and died. So much has changed since then.” She broke off, her eyes misty with reminiscence.

  “Little of it for the better,” Hilda put in suddenly. She ignored the reproving glance of her mother.

  “How long has Mrs. Butters been a widow?” I queried.

  “Oh, it must be thirty years past. She and Mr. Butters had the cottage on the moor as their own. They kept it so nicely. Butters dearly loved to putter in the garden when he was not wanted in his shop. But when he died, it seemed better for Mrs. Butters to stay here in the main house rather than out on the moor by herself.”

  “The cottage on the moor? Do you mean the one where Rosalie Smith lives?”

  Lady Allenby nodded. “Yes. She has been there a very long time,” she added dismissively.

  A long time indeed, I thought rapidly. If Rosalie had moved in directly Mrs. Butters had left, she had lived in the little cottage for thirty years, and yet she looked scarcely more than forty.

  “Gypsies age better than we,” Hilda put in, correctly interpreting my thoughts. “Perhaps they have some pact with the devil.”

  “Hilda!” her mother said sharply. She crossed herself and kissed the rosary at her belt. Hilda looked down at her work-roughened hands, but I saw that a tiny smile played over her lips. Portia and Ailith had heard the remark and let their own conversation lapse. Lady Allenby looked from Portia to me.

  “Sometimes my daughter confuses pertness with wit,” Lady Allenby observed coldly.

  If Hilda was disturbed by her mother’s cutting remark, she masked it well. She merely turned to stare into the fire, her conversation with Valerius clearly at an end. My brother busied himself with a newspaper a fortnight out of date, but I fancied he heard everything.

  “Think nothing of it.” Portia waved a lazy hand. “We are an irreligious family.”

  Lady Allenby’s expression stiffened. “I am sorry to hear it. I think there can be no true satisfaction in a life that is not virtuous.”

  Portia flashed her a winsome smile. “Oh, I manage. If you will excuse me,” she said, rising, “I am feeling a trifle unwell. I think I would like to retire early this evening.”

  It was the grossest discourtesy to excuse herself early, but Lady Allenby’s disapproval melted instantly, and she was solicitous, determined to send for Minna to tend to Portia.

  “Not necessary, I assure you. It is only a headache. A good night’s sleep will put me to rights, and I am certain the moorland air is cure enough.”

  Lady Allenby smiled warmly at this observation, and I marvelled at Portia�
�s ability to offend on one hand and ingratiate on the other.

  Ever attentive, Ailith rose and lit a candle for Portia, leading her into the darkened hall and bidding her good-night.

  Lady Allenby leaned near to me whilst she was away. “I do hope you and Ailith will become friends. I know it is presumptuous of me to say it, but she has so little opportunity for good company here. She suffers so from loneliness.”

  If I was taken aback by the words, the sincere warmth beneath them won my sympathy. I glanced to where Ailith’s natural companion, her own sister, sat sullenly staring into the fire. “I would like that, too, Lady Allenby.”

  She smiled and I introduced the topic of chickens then, and when Ailith returned we were peaceably debating the merits of brown eggs versus white. Almost against her will, Hilda was drawn into the conversation, chickens being her one passion. She warmed a little, but she was nothing as hospitable as her sister, and when she had had enough of the talk, she merely rose and left without preamble or farewell, even to Valerius.

  Lady Allenby shook her head. “I do not know what will become of that child.”

  “She is no child,” Ailith put in sharply. “She is thirty years old, and can mind her tongue well enough if she chooses. She simply has no sense of duty.”

  Lady Allenby made a fretful noise. “I blame myself. She was a babe when Sir Alfred died, and I was left to raise my poor fatherless children alone. I was too soft with her. I ought to have remembered the Scriptures. I ought not to have spared the rod.”

  I shuddered at the thought. Father had had the raising of ten children without benefit of a wife, and yet never once had he raised a hand to any of us in anger.

  “Perhaps not, Lady Allenby,” Val ventured quietly. “They say the most spirited horses are the most easily broken in temperament. You would not like to have your daughter’s spirit broken, I am sure.”

  Lady Allenby’s eyes were stern as they fixed on my brother. “It is a mother’s duty to perfect her children,” she said coldly. “And I have failed all of mine.”