Lady Julia Grey Bundle

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Brisbane had not said precisely that, but I refused to believe he would do something as ludicrous as pull the entire house down and put up a modern monstrosity of red brick with crenulated towers. It might be the fashion, but Brisbane only chose those fashions which suited his aesthetic, and I could not believe modern architecture was one of them.

  "Of course he would put it to rights," Ailith said, tipping her head winsomely. "Hilda shall never permit him to do less."

  I struggled to understand her meaning, but she did not wait for a response. "She will take over all of the restorations herself when the time is ripe. He will want her to, and it would be her duty as the mistress of Grimsgrave."

  I did not speak. There were no possible words. She started up the path and I walked next to her, meek as any lamb to the slaughter.

  "Of course, he has not asked her, but that is merely a formality these days. A woman knows when a man has intentions, don't you think?"

  The beautiful cornflower-blue eyes that looked into mine were entirely guileless. She was merely repeating what her sister had told her, and I realised, as I ought to have realised before, the true cause of Hilda's antipathy. She might prefer my brother's company, but she was determined to save her home for her family. The little snippet had set her cap at Brisbane and meant to drive me away.

  "And has Brisbane given any indication of his intentions?" I asked, certain of the reply.

  "Oh, no, but then he would do the thing properly, would he not? He would wait until he has secured Mama's blessing, and I think she would demand rather a lot. Of course, he ought to ask me as the eldest, but I should never accept him."

  I resisted the urge to smile. "Would you not?"

  Ailith laughed and linked an arm through mine in a rare gesture of friendship. "Of course not. That was finished many years past." She paused, then laughed again at my obvious bemusement. "Has he not told you? We were not just playmates together. I was the first girl he ever loved."

  THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

  With a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument Smiling at grief.

  —William Shakespeare

  Twelfth Night

  The next day I carried the midday meal up to Lady Allenby. She was abed with another attack of her rheumatism, and as Mrs. Butters and Minna were busily occupied extinguishing the pudding Minna had managed to set alight, I offered to take the tray myself. Neither Ailith nor her sister were to be found, and I was glad of it. After Ailith's pronouncement of the day before, I was not certain I could manage civility. Ailith had not struck me as an unkind woman, but I could not make her out, and the more I thought about our conversation, the more confused I became. Surely she knew of my attachment to Brisbane. My very presence in the house was of such monstrous impropriety it must have shouted news of my affections from the rooftops. Ailith could not have repeated her sister's intentions innocently.

  But perhaps it had been meant kindly. We had become friends after a fashion, and it was entirely possible that Ailith knew something I did not about her sister's scheme. Hilda had shown herself to be impetuous and coarse. What treachery was within her sights? If Ailith suspected some mischief, she might well warn me simply out of her own natural kindness, and perhaps out of some lingering affection for Brisbane, her childhood playmate. Of their youthful dalliance, I could not even begin to think. My mind positively reeled at the thought, and I decided to turn my efforts to the situation at hand.

  It had occurred to me that with a little deft questioning, I might learn something from Lady Allenby, and a nice little chat over her marrowbones might be just the thing.

  Mrs. Butters thanked me profusely as I took up the heavy tray. "Oh, that is a kindness, my lady! It saves my hips, it does. Stairs are unkind to an old woman. I think you must be a Sumerian!"

  I thought for a moment before I realised she had meant Samaritan. I smiled at her and sniffed appreciatively at the tray. There was a plate of marrowbones, a sauce boat full of thick gravy, and a rack of toast, along with a few other little dishes of tempting morsels—pickles and radishes and some of her favourite bottled mushrooms. Lady Allenby exclaimed with delight when I appeared in her room, pushing herself up onto her pillows.

  "My dear, how kind of you," she began. I hastened to put the tray down and slid a careful arm behind her to help her settle more comfortably. She was dressed in a worn velvet bedcoat, its silken ribbons shredded a bit, but still a beautiful blue that flattered her eyes. Her hair had not been dressed, but she had donned a simple lace cap, the old-fashioned lappets framing her face. Altogether she looked like a queen of old, receiving statesmen in her bed of state as courtiers looked on.

  I settled the tray and poured out the tiny glass of quince wine that Rosalie had recommended. Lady Allenby looked a little scandalised, but pleased. "A bit is just the thing for rheumatism," she agreed. She nodded toward the window. "Would you draw back the curtains, my dear? I see a bit of sunlight peeking round the edges."

  I obeyed, careful not to tear the fragile draperies from their rings. Sunlight spilled over the windowsill and into the room, motes dancing in the warm, buttery light. I glanced down and realised her bedchamber overlooked the kitchen garden. I could see the few little beds still struggling to produce, and the ruins of the beehives tucked into the crumbling stone wall. I commented upon them to Lady Allenby.

  "They must have been charming in the day," I finished. "I have never seen any quite like that, with such detail."

  She smiled wanly. "And the bees appreciated it, I am certain they did. They gave tremendous amounts of the sweetest honey. I tended the hives myself until last year." Her smile faded and her expression took on a faraway look. "They were quite my little companions, so brave. They gave their lives to assuage my pain," she said, rubbing at her swollen joints.

  "I beg your pardon?" Surely I had not heard her correctly.

  "The sting of a bee is a sure remedy for rheumatism. When my hands were at their worst, I used to thrust them into the hives. The bees stung me and after the first shock of the pain, there was relief, blessed relief. But I never forgot it cost them their lives to do it. I always felt so terribly guilty afterward. And then last summer after Redwall died, it seemed the proper time to let them go. One windy day, I opened the hives and destroyed the queen's chamber. The hive fled, and my bees have never come back. That is why the garden failed, you know. No bees to work it, and they will never return here."

  The sunlight had fallen on her face, cruelly, for it revealed the furrows and wrinkles of her ruined beauty. I wondered if Ailith ever looked at her and mourned what she would become. Or if Redwall had ever looked upon a mummy queen and thought of his mother, I thought with a shiver.

  "You ought to eat before the toast goes quite cold," I told her.

  She did not hear me, or at least she gave no sign of it. "I did the right thing by sending them away. My hands are quite ruined, but pain purifies, that is what God teaches us," she said with a nod behind me. I turned to see a prie-dieu, ebony with a cushion of the finest needlework I had ever seen. A prayer book lay open upon it, and overseeing all was a representation of Christ upon the cross, dripping with the gore of Crucifixion.

  I said nothing, and Lady Allenby nodded. "You are not of the Roman faith, my dear. You would not understand. To suffer is to understand Him, and His suffering for our sins and the sins of the world."

  I felt faintly embarrassed, as I always do when earnest people discuss religion. My brothers and sisters and I had been raised Anglican, of course, and all of the momentous events of our lives had been celebrated within the ceremonies of the Church. But we seldom attended of a Sunday, and discussions of spirituality were few and far between. We were far likelier to argue over the whereabouts of Shakespeare's lost play or the plight of prostitutes in Whitechapel, both pet subjects of Father's and Aunt Hermia's. God was rather far down on the list of our personal interests.

  "You are young yet," Lady Allenby assured me. "Many do not turn to God
until life has revealed all of its bitterness and the promise of the hereafter is the only solace left. There is a natural order, you know. Ordained by God. It ought not to be disturbed by man."

  I thought of her children, the runaway eldest daughter, the opportunistic dead son, the peculiar daughters left to her, and I agreed that she knew far better than I of the suffering of the world.

  She struggled a bit with her utensils, and I offered to spread the marrow onto her toast. Lady Allenby assented graciously, with a regal nod of the head as though she were granting a royal favour. I handed her each slice as it was spread, pausing a little so the toast should not become sodden if I prepared it too soon.

  "Quite delicious, will you not join me?" she offered. I declined. "The very thing for joints." She sampled the other dishes as well, exclaiming over the crispness of the radishes and the excellence of the mushrooms. "So few pleasures left at my age," she said at last, patting her lips with a napkin. "It seems almost sinful to enjoy one's food so completely."

  "I think a greater sin would be to fail to enjoy it if you are privileged enough to have it," I said, wondering if I had overstepped myself.

  To my astonishment, she laughed, a rusty, wheezing sound, as if she had not laughed properly in a long time. It ended badly, with a little fit of choking, and it was several minutes before she was settled again on her pillows.

  "I am sorry. I ought not to have said it." I busied myself with tidying the tray to hide my embarrassment.

  "Dear Lady Julia, you are such a charming girl. Little wonder Mr. Brisbane is so taken with you," she said, fixing me with those knowing blue eyes.

  I folded the napkin carefully. "Do you think so? Ailith seems to be under a different impression."

  Lady Allenby sighed. "Did she tell you Hilda means to marry him?"

  "Words to that effect," I admitted.

  Lady Allenby motioned for me to sit on the edge of the bed. I did so, gingerly, so as not to disturb her. She twisted the edge of the coverlet in her gnarled hands.

  "You must not mind my daughters, Lady Julia. It has been difficult for them, living here, so far removed from appropriate society."

  I tipped my head. "Ailith at least seems to relish it. I believe she even referred to herself as queen of this domain," I said lightly.

  The strong silvery-white brows knitted together. "Oh, my poor girl. You see, she was devoted to her elder sister and her brother. The loss of both was difficult, is difficult, to bear." She hesitated, then went on, each word clearly painful for her. "My older children were born very close together. Only two years separated my eldest and my youngest. Redwall and Ailith were even born the same calendar year, one in January, the other in December. They always said it made a bond between them, like twins. Their sister, Wilfreda, was a little apart. She was bookish and solemn, a contemplative, competent child, rather like Hilda, but with a ready laugh. Redwall and Ailith were wild as moor wind. I never knew where they were or what they were about. Wilfreda was always at the graveyard or up on Thorn Crag, book in hand, preferring her own company save for the times she bullied Godwin into taking her riding. Wilfreda always knew her own mind, and once she had determined to do something, it was as good as done. I did not realise until it was far too late that she had decided to leave us."

  Lady Allenby talked on, spinning out her tale.

  "When the children were nearly grown, Wilfreda was eighteen, Redwall seventeen and Ailith very nearly, I engaged an artist to paint them. Not Hilda of course. She was but a child. It was tradition for the Allenbys to be painted upon maturity. There used to be an entire gallery of excellent paintings in the east wing," she said ruefully. "Until necessity compelled us to sell them, and the wing itself fell into decay. But the children, I wanted them painted, and the artist I engaged was one of fine reputation. He began with Ailith and Redwall, they insisted upon being painted together. The artist objected, but Redwall had his way. He told me he did not trust the artist, he thought the man a blackguard and felt he was not to be left alone with young ladies. He was quite right to be concerned. Ailith was painted with Redwall, but Wilfreda would have none of it. She and Redwall quarrelled terribly over it, but she had her way in the end. And she left this house with him, one moonbright night. I have not seen her since," she finished, her voice faltering just a little.

  I put a gentle hand to hers. "I am so very sorry."

  Her smile was mournful. "I was so angry when she left, I burned the painting of Redwall and Ailith. I ought not to have done it. It was an excellent likeness of them both. There was nothing of Wilfreda's painting to burn. Only a blank canvas he had never touched with paint. He must have talked to her during her sittings, plotting with her to carry her off. I made inquiries of course, but there was nothing to be done. The trail had gone quite cold, and I did not like to make a scandal. Perhaps it would have been different if my husband had still been alive. It was so difficult after his death, everything. The house, the children. So much to look after, and I had never been taught to."

  She trailed off then, and I saw her eyelids, heavy now as she wandered in the past. I slipped off the bed and drew the curtains over the window, dimming the room. She gave a little sigh and settled deeper into her pillows. I took up the tray and tiptoed to the door, glancing behind me to see the mournful eyes of Jesus looking down at me from the bloodied cross. It was a gruesome thing, and I did not know how she could bear to sleep with it in her room.

  * * *

  Once I left Lady Allenby, I returned her dinner things to the kitchen feeling quite irritable, nervy and cross, and I was not fit company for anyone. Ironically, it was company I longed for. I had begun to miss Portia terribly, and Brisbane's insistent avoidance of me was verging on insult. He could not have been more pointed in his evasion if I had had boils and a leper's bell.

  And to complicate matters even further, I was not at all inclined to carry on with the work in the study until I had spoken to Brisbane. I could not entirely believe his assertion that he meant to keep the proceeds of the sale of Sir Redwall's collection, but experience had taught me Brisbane was nothing if not unpredictable.

  A dozen other questions circled in my brain, about Hilda's intentions toward Brisbane, the mysterious disappearance of Wilfreda, until my head ached and I could not stand to be inside a moment longer. The sky had been lowering all day, but I resolved to take my chances. I was in the hall buttoning my coat when Minna ran me to ground, smelling of smoke and burnt currants, a plump Florence resting languidly in her arms.

  "There you are, my lady," Minna said, thrusting the little dog at me. "I do wish you would have a look at Florence."

  I stopped buttoning and peered at my little pet. I stroked her head and she gave a soft moan. "She's got terribly fat, Minna. What have you been feeding her? I imagine it's just a bit of indigestion."

  She shook her head, her eyes wide with alarm. "I do not think so, my lady. I think she is—" She dropped her eyes modestly. "I think she is in pup."

  I looked closely at Florence, and I fancied her large, woeful eyes were slightly embarrassed. "But by whom? She does not go out, she does not mix with neighbourhood dogs."

  Minna primmed her lips. "That rascal, Mr. Pugglesworth."

  "You cannot be serious. Puggy is half-decayed. I do not see how he could manage it."

  "Manage it he did, my lady! Morag said she caught them at it two months back."

  "Did she? And she did not see fit to warn me at least?"

  "She had to swat him with a slipper to get him off of poor Florence. She thought she had parted them in time, but I think she did not," Minna added.

  I considered Florence with her fine-boned, shivery elegance and Puggy in all his decrepitude. "How perfectly revolting. It seems rather incestuous, although I don't suppose such things matter to dogs." I cupped my hand under Florence's chin. "My poor darling. What frightfully ugly pups you're going to have."

  She licked at my hand and I scratched behind her ears. "Feed her up, then. She must k
eep up her strength if she's going to whelp. Prepare a quiet place, warm and safe, perhaps the bottom of a cupboard if you can find one suitable," I told Minna. "And line it with some towelling or an old blanket."

  She bobbed a tidy curtsey and left me, cuddling Florence and crooning a little lullaby. I made a mental note to write the happy news to Portia. She would be greatly diverted to know of Mr. Pugglesworth's prowess.

  * * *

  As soon as I left the house, my feet turned toward the poultry yard, almost before I realised I intended to go there. Hilda was there, wrapped in a shawl and tossing kitchen scraps from a pail as she clucked her tongue at a plump chicken, muttering under her breath.

  "Leave off, you great fat brute. You've not even given a single egg in a fortnight. I ought to put you in the cookpot."

  "You have the countrywoman's gift for poultry, Miss Hilda," I called. "I do not think I have ever seen such plump birds."

  She looked up, scowling, and threw the rest of the scraps out in a single motion. She stood for a moment, uncertainty rising in her face, then she made a sound of resignation and crossed to where I stood.

  "I suppose you want an apology for what I said." Her eyes were wary, and I made no move toward her.

  "Not unless you mean it. I've always hated telling someone I was sorry because I ought to."

  She said nothing for a long moment, her eyes fixed over my shoulder as she turned the matter over in her mind. I nodded toward her little flock.

  "I meant what I said. They are very fine birds. You ought to be proud of them."

  I turned to leave her, but she snorted, a derisive sound, but not one that was intentionally insulting, I fancied.

  "Any fool can raise a chicken," she retorted.

  "I assure you that is not so. My brother Benedick once attempted to keep a flock to raise egg money. He managed to forget to shut the henhouse the same day Father acquired a new mastiff. Poor chickens."