Silent on the Moor. Deanna Raybourn

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      “I believe his death was fairly recent, and I can see that it grieves you still. Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

      She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it, sudden tears shimmering in her eyes. After a moment she composed herself and turned to me.

      “You are very kind, Lady Julia. It was sudden and you are quite correct. It does grieve me still.”

      She started slowly down the path and I hurried to keep up with her longer stride. “Everything changed when Redwall died. I had no idea the house had been mortgaged. His death left us paupers, Lady Julia, beggars in our own home. My mother and sister and I are dependent upon Mr. Brisbane for every crust of bread.” She stopped to take a breath, her hands fisted at her sides. “We are to remain at Grimsgrave until a home can be fitted out for us.”

      I felt a rush of pity for her then. I could only imagine how difficult the past months had been for her. To lose a beloved sibling, a home, and a fortune was too much to be borne. I could only hope Brisbane was not making the situation more difficult in his present bad humour.

      “I do hope Mr. Brisbane is proving a hospitable landlord,” I offered.

      She shot me a questioning look over her shoulder, and I quickened my pace. “I simply mean that he can be terribly short-tempered. But his bark is much worse than his bite. If there is anything you need, you have only to ask him. He really is quite generous. To a fault at times.”

      She turned abruptly, fixing me with an appraising look. “How well do you know Nicholas Brisbane?” she asked without preamble. I nearly stumbled again, this time into a rabbit hole.

      “As well as anyone could,” I told her. “He is a singular sort of person. I would imagine it would take a lifetime to know him completely.”

      She paused again, raising delicate gold eyebrows. “Really? I have not found him much changed.”

      I stared at her, and for some unaccountable reason, I felt the chill of the moor wind as I had not felt it before. “You knew him? Before he came to Grimsgrave?”

      Miss Allenby nodded slowly. “We were children together. Didn’t he tell you? He was a boy in this place.”

      She turned and led the way back to Grimsgrave Hall. The wind had risen again, and conversation was impossible. It was just as well. Ailith Allenby had given me much to think about.

      THE SIXTH CHAPTER

      

      Crabbèd age and youth cannot live together.

      —William Shakespeare

      “The Passionate Pilgrim XII”

      

      When we reached Grimsgrave, Miss Allenby and I went our separate ways. She left her basket in the hall, inclining her head graciously toward Valerius who passed her upon the stairs.

      “Are you just now rising?” I asked him. He yawned broadly.

      “I am. I have not slept so well in years. Something about the air up here, I think,” he commented, smiling.

      “I am suspicious of you, Valerius. You look entirely too cheerful for a person whose presence here has been secured by means of extortion.”

      He shrugged. “I am of a gentle and pleasant disposition,” he said mildly.

      I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. “I am in no mood to quarrel, Julia. I have a mind to walk out over the moor, perhaps to the village. I am rather curious about how they manage for a doctor in Lesser Howlett.”

      “Not very well,” I told him. I quickly related what Rosalie had revealed about the village doctor.

      He rolled his eyes. “I am not surprised. Any medical professional with the slightest bit of acumen would have had something done about the drains in Howlett Magna. I mean to see if they fare any better in Lesser Howlett. Good drains are fundamental for public health,” he added. I hastened to divert him before he warmed to his theme and we spent the better part of the morning discussing public hygiene.

      “And you might like to stop for a chat with Rosalie Smith whilst you’re out,” I advised. “She seems quite knowledgeable about folk remedies.” We parted then, Val full of schemes for his entertainment, and I felt a little deflated. With Brisbane gone there was nothing pressing, and I looked about the hall for something to do. Ailith had taken herself upstairs. Portia and Lady Allenby and the mysterious Hilda were nowhere to be seen, and I was seized with a sudden, childlike urge to explore Grimsgrave on my own.

      I crept to the nearest set of doors, enormous, panelled things, and pushed one open, holding my breath as it creaked in protest upon its hinges. I moved into a handsome hall of excellent proportions, the walls panelled, the plaster ceiling worked in a repeating pattern of lozenges and crowns. The room was impressive, not the least because it was entirely empty. Not a stick of furniture nor vase nor picture warmed the room. It was a cold, austere place, and I shivered in spite of myself.

      I turned to leave, surprised to see that I had been quite wrong in thinking the room was bereft of decoration. Hung just next to the great double doors was a length of tapestry, bordered in flame stitch, and fashioned as a sort of genealogical chart. The names and dates had been worked in thick scarlet wools, and far back, just near the top of the tapestry, several of the names were surmounted by crowns heavily stitched in tarnished gold thread.

      I moved closer to read the names. Those at the top were Saxon royalty, the kings of England before the Conqueror came from across the sea. From them descended an unbroken line, all the way down to Lady Allenby herself, married to Sir Alfred Allenby, I noticed. Peering intently, I could just make out that they had been first cousins, and that Lady Allenby had been orphaned quite young.

      “I wonder if that was arranged,” I murmured. It seemed too neat otherwise, the orphaned heiress of the old blood royal married off to the sole heir. Rather like royal marriages of old, I thought irreverently, keeping the bloodlines and the family fortunes secure. Still, the notion of an arranged marriage left me cold, and I hoped it had been one of affection instead.

      I traced the line between them, and down to where Sir Redwall’s name had been stitched, the year of his death still bright and untarnished. Some distance apart was Ailith, and between them a place where another name had been recorded but had clearly been unpicked by a careful needle. After Ailith was Hilda, the letters quite narrow and cramped, looking rather like an afterthought. My eyes returned to the empty spot between Redwall and Ailith.

      I passed then to a smaller room, the dining room I suspected, a similar chamber with panelling and plaster ceiling, its furniture also missing. In these panels I noticed the crowned initial A carved over and over again, endless reminders of the once-royal blood that still flowed in the Allenby veins.

      I clucked my tongue at the carvings. There were royals within my own family, but most of them were not the sort worth remembering, I reflected wryly. For all our exalted history, the Marches were very much country gentry, deeply connected to the land and its people. We had a gallery of painted ancestors, but as their exploits were always of the wildly eccentric and deeply embarrassing sort, I had learned СКАЧАТЬ