Lady Julia Grey Bundle

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  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."

  Her eyes went to Ailith, who paled visibly. But nothing else in her demeanour changed and when she put out her hand, it was perfectly steady.

  "Come, Lady Julia. I will light you to bed."

  THE NINTH CHAPTER

  I'll to thy closet and go read with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old.

  —William Shakespeare

  Titus Andronicus

  The next few days were passably diverting, although there was little enough in the way of either company or amusement to hold my interest at Grimsgrave in Brisbane's absence. I thought of him often, and when no one was about, I sometimes crept to his deserted room simply to be near his things, as if proximity to his possessions meant some sort of connection to the man himself. I longed for and dreaded his return. As difficult as uncertainty was to bear, at least it offered the consolation of hope. So long as Brisbane stayed away, there was a chance of happiness. Once he returned, matters would be decided once and for all.

  My mood was not a sociable one, but I did my duty by the household. Supper was taken early each evening, and we sat by the kitchen fire for an hour only before we were lighted up to bed. Ailith and Portia and I sometimes attempted three-handed whist, although Lady Allenby never played. I wondered if it was because of her swollen hands or if she simply disapproved of cards on principle. I had noticed a few more signs of piety about her, and she was punctual with her prayers, pausing several times each day at times that corresponded to the old hours marked by the religious houses.

  Valerius had fallen into the habit of reading of an evening, as had Hilda. They sometimes talked a little, perhaps of drains or chickens, I thought nastily. But they spoke only in low tones I could not overhear, and once or twice I saw her unbend so far as to smile at him, as if their conversation had strayed to warmer matters. If her glance happened to catch mine, she instantly dropped her eyes and flushed in irritation. Clearly, she had decided not to befriend me.

  Ailith was a little more companionable. She was never demonstrative, but we had taken to walking together over the moors each morning, and it was a pleasant diversion. The more time I passed in her company, the better I liked her in spite of her reserve. I spent a great deal of time with her as Portia had become increasingly preoccupied and snappish. She had formed the habit of striking out on her own across the moors, usually taking a protesting, wheezing Puggy with her as an excuse for walking, and ignoring her plans to refurbish the house entirely.

  Valerius busied himself each day in the village, sitting in the public room of The Hanged Man and attempting to win the villagers' confidence. When I asked him why, he would only say, "I have thoughts I wish to share with them regarding public hygiene." I could not bring myself to pry further, and left him to his own devices, although I could not fail to notice he spent much of his time sketching what appeared to be a very elaborate poultry house.

  As for the maids, Minna—sadly neglected by her mistress—was left to her own devices much of the time, and I set her to helping Mrs. Butters. I reasoned if she were properly trained she might aspire to the post of housekeeper herself in time. It would lend her less glamour than a lady's maid but more authority, and as I explained to her, a skill once learned is never wasted. She agreed with alacrity and spent most of her mornings in the kitchen, learning how to roll pastry and prepare simple sauces and roasted meats under Mrs. Butters' tuition. She even persuaded Jetty, by sheer dint of her own good humour, to clean her fingernails and put on a clean apron after she had done the rough.

  The most pleasant aspect of this arrangement was that it stopped Morag from continually complaining about Minna. Mrs. Butters did not seem to mind the girl's chatter, and Morag was free to get about her business without distraction, although there was precious little for her to do. My hems were invariably crusted with peat mud, but I seldom changed, and often wore the same costume from morning to night, quite a difference from London where I might wear six ensembles in a single day. After Morag had tightened every button in my wardrobe and polished my boots over and again until she seemed in danger of wearing through the leather, I gave her leave to read the books I had brought with me. She was not a proficient reader, having come late to her letters, but she was an enthusiastic one, and had a taste for low romances. I had tucked a few into my trunk for just this sort of occurrence, and it was not uncommon to find her holed up in her tiny room, feet stretched to the fire, happily tossing titbits to Florence as she devoured the further adventures of Miss Melanie Lovelady and her lover, the Count of Rompollion.

  My afternoons were spent in Sir Redwall's study, with Grim the raven for company, carefully compiling the detailed catalogue of his collection. I had written to my brother Bellmont straightaway, encouraging him to use his influence with the museum to explore the possibility of purchasing the items Sir Redwall had brought home from Egypt. Even to my untrained eye there were a number of quite fine pieces, and I managed to tidy things enough to begin setting these aside. The obvious tourist tat went into another pile, and I was very pleased to find an excellent assortment of books, some scholarly, some written for the more casual traveller, but all in better shape than I might have expected given the haphazard method used to store them. A few mice nibbles here and there, a bit of wear on the covers, but all in all a very comprehensive collection. There was even a first edition of the Description de l'Égypte, commissioned by Napoléon after his conquest of Egypt and running to several volumes—twenty-three to be precise. It had been a massive undertaking, written by more than one hundred and sixty scholars, all presenting the most comprehensive knowledge of Egypt at the time of the Napoleonic conquest. Father had the second edition in his library at Bellmont Abbey, and it had been one of my favourite pastimes as a child to while away long afternoons tucked in the window embrasures, studying the plates of illustrations.

  This edition was, if possible, even more exquisite, and I toyed with the idea of making Lady Allenby an offer for the set myself before I decided such a gesture might be too fraught. One would not wish to insult Lady Allenby by offering too little, but neither would one wish to spend too much above the value. Better to let them go, I decided. I put them carefully aside and moved on to the lesser volumes, including one or two extremely distasteful tomes on mummification with very nasty illustrations. They were disgusting enough to fetch a very high price, I had little doubt.

  In all, the work was very interesting, but it could only divert me so long from the question of Brisbane. More than one moonlit night had found me perched in my window embrasure, reading breathless verses of quite stimulating Egyptian love poetry from the little red volume. And several times I collected myself, pen poised halfway through a word, staring out of the window and across the moor as if I expected him to come striding toward me through the heather.

  Finally, one afternoon when I had stared at a collection of shawabtis so long their features had blurred, I threw down my pen and fled the house on my own. I had learned to dress for the moor. My fetching hat with the violets had been torn to pieces by the wind, and I knew better now than to leave the house without a thick shawl. I borrowed one of Morag's, a warm black affair knitted of the best wool, and wrapped it over my head, tucking the ends carefully into the waist of my skirt. On an impulse I asked Minna for one of the little cakes she had baked that morning and she presented it to me proudly, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a pretty ribbon. I tucked it into a basket and set off on the moorland path from the kitchen garden, raising my face to the sun.

  "Thee'll get wrinkles on tha' pretty face," came a good-humoured voice from behind me. I whirled to see Godwin emerging from the kitchen garden. He was smiling at me and carrying a canvas sack. I waited for him.

  "Hello, Mr. Allenby. Running off to join the circus?" I asked, nodding toward the sack.

  He laughed, his face crinkling into a mass of weathered lines. His eyes were lit with amusement, and I fancied for just a moment if he were properly dressed and groomed, he would
give any of the finest gentlemen in society a fair bit of competition. But even as he was, grimy and unkempt and shaggy as a moorland pony, he was arrestingly attractive. He raised the sack.

  "Tha's a bit of dinner for myself. Minna is a fair hand with the cakes now," he told me. We walked together slowly, and when we came to a boggy bit, he took my elbow, letting his hand linger perhaps a moment too long on my arm.

  "Thank you, Mr. Allenby."

  "Thee must not be so formal. I am Godwin. 'Mr. Allenby' is too grand for the likes of me."

  "Very well, Godwin. Where will you be taking your dinner?"

  He paused and stepped behind me, raising his arm just over my shoulder to point out a steep rocky outcropping rising high over the moor. "The heights up there on yon crag. Thorn Crag, it's called. 'Tis a good enough place to survey the whole of the moor. I must collect the sheep. 'Tis nearly time to dip."

  I was acutely aware of his arm still stretched out beside me, his rough sleeve brushing my cheek. I stepped neatly aside.

  "Surely you alone cannot dip the entire flock."

  He smiled at me again, holding no grudge though I had evaded him.

  "I'll have a few of the boys from the next farm over to help. But mind you stay away. A nasty business tha' is, the dipping of sheep."

  Of that I was only too aware. When I was twelve, I had pestered my brother Benedick to let me help him dip Father's flocks at the Home Farm. Finally he agreed, without bothering to tell me the dip was mixed up of a few extremely nasty things, including arsenic. It took me the better part of a month to wash the smell away.

  "And where are you off to, my lady?" Godwin asked, raising his brows at the cake in my basket.