Murkmere (17 page)

“Silas was here?” I said, amazed.

She nodded. “He saw me arrested.”

“He knew, but he said nothing to me!”

She twisted her hands together. “When I heard the news about Matt, I feared for you at Murkmere.”

“You never told me Matt was a spy.” I looked into her eyes as if I could search out their secrets. “You’re in grave trouble,
Aunt. What have you been plotting against the Lord Protector?”

She shook her head wearily. “I need plot nothing. Things will take their own course. The country’s stirring, the south and
soon the east.”

“There’s so much you haven’t told me. Why did they find books from Murkmere here?”

She hesitated, but I stared her out. “I’m old enough for the truth, Aunt Jennet. Can’t you see?”

She nodded at last. “Come close, then.”

I couldn’t help smiling, for there we sat on the pallet pressed together for warmth, whispering at each other. “We are close.”

“Closer still. No one else must hear.” She put her mouth against my ear so I felt the tickling rasp of her breath. “I’m going
to tell you a story.”

“A story? Now?” I hissed, half-exasperated.

“Trust me, Aggie, and listen.”

I thought hunger and cold had addled her poor brains, but I couldn’t bear to stop her when it might be our very last meeting.

“I never wanted you to go to Murkmere,” she said grimly. “You see, I’d heard too much from your mother.”

“It was my mother who stole the books, wasn’t it? And then ran away?”

“Not Eliza! She couldn’t read. I was the clever sister, she had the looks. Her head was always full of fancies, not facts.
When she went to Murkmere as a housemaid, I think she dreamed she’d marry the Master. Gilbert Tunstall was young and handsome
and athletic. It was before he lost the use of his legs.” My aunt shook her head, pursing her lips. “Silly hopes that came
to nothing when Mr. Tunstall found his bride.”

Her voice stopped. Was that all there was?

“How did the Master meet his wife, Aunt? You said it was a story.”

She frowned, huddling into herself. “It’s Eliza’s story, not mine, and I suspected even then that that was all it was — one
of her stories.”

She took a breath. And then I didn’t interrupt her again as her hoarse whisper went on and on against my ear.

“There was a ball at Murkmere one hot summer’s night. Eliza was helping carry food in for the buffet. She noticed Mr. Tunstall
leave, for a breath of air, she thought. He was gone awhile. Eliza went to fetch some jellies from the kitchen, and on the
way back Mr. Tunstall came in at a side entrance with a girl.

“Eliza said she was so startled she stood stock still, with the jellies jiggling in the bowl. You see, the young lady was
all wet, soaking wet; her silver ballgown was dripping. She stood in a pool of water and stared at Eliza with her large dark
eyes, and there was something so wild and helpless about her that Eliza fell under her spell there and then.

“And someone else had done so as well. The Master.

“Her name was Blanche, but Mr. Tunstall never said how he’d found her. He just asked Eliza to fetch her some dry clothes.

“They were married very soon afterward, Gilbert Tunstall and Blanche. He asked Eliza if she’d continue looking after his wife,
be her personal maid. Of course Eliza agreed.

“But it didn’t make her happy

“She’d say a little when she came to see me, but I was busy with my teaching. By now I was in charge of the school. She did
say there was a kitchen maid who’d wanted her position, a Dorcas Crumplin. She was a spiteful bit, jealous of Eliza.

“And there was Silas Seed. He was a pretty lad of eleven or thereabouts. He’d already gone to the bad, listened at keyholes,
was always where Eliza didn’t expect him. She thought he even spied on her in her bedchamber. She found him in her cupboard
one night when she was undressing.

“Then there was Blanche.

“Eliza loved her, but Blanche was a strange mistress. She seemed to care nothing for company, scarcely knew how to behave.
A restless soul, she was, staring out of windows, never settling to embroidery or books. The hems of her dresses were always
muddy and torn, and Eliza was always mending the rents. Blanche brought wildflowers and grasses from the mere into the house,
and wouldn’t allow them to be thrown away when they rotted. There was talk about her among the servants; the air was thick
with rumor.”

I broke in at last. “What sort of rumor?”

“That she was unnatural. She was always down by the mere watching the swans. The servants said she talked to them in their
own language.”

The wind rustled through the straw thatching above us and shook the little window. I shivered against my aunt.

“The whisper grew that Blanche Tunstall was one of the avia,” she said, quieter still.

“The avia! Did the Master hear the rumor?”

“He must have. But he loved her, was besotted with her. He wouldn’t stand for any criticism, and he had a temper. Eliza was
too frightened to say anything to him. She knew he didn’t believe the old story of the avia, anyway. I should have been more
support to her, but I was married, with a baby on the way.”

“A baby?” I said, startled. I’d always tried to find out my mother’s story; it had never occurred to me that my aunt had one
of her own.

“Only two days old when she died, my little girl. She had come early. She wouldn’t suck. She was too weak to survive long.”

I pressed myself against her. “I’m so sorry Aunt.”

She shook her head brusquely, dismissing my pity. “I was pregnant at the same time as Blanche. After seven years she was expecting
at last. My own baby died the same night the Murkmere baby was born.”

“But I thought the baby died at birth with its mother,” I whispered.

“Blanche died, but the baby survived. No one knew, save the midwife and Eliza. The midwife told Eliza to find a wet nurse
so the baby might live. She said that the sooner the baby was away from Murkmere the better, that the servants had believed
the baby would be unnatural like its mother. If they discovered it hadn’t died, they’d be out for its blood. The midwife even
told Gilbert Tunstall that his baby daughter was dead.”

“That was a terrible thing to do!”

Aunt Jennet shook her head. “She thought it safest. Eliza herself didn’t know what to do. In the end she did what the midwife
told her, she brought the baby here. She didn’t know what had happened, of course — she thought I’d be able to feed the Murkmere
babe with my own and save its life.

“My Tom, seeing me so distraught, had already dug a grave out the back and buried our baby when Eliza arrived. When I saw
the little thing swaddled up in Eliza’s arms and heard its mewl, my milk began to leak through my bindings at once. I
thought she had been sent from heaven, like a miracle, to make up for what I’d lost. We pretended she was mine. In a way I
thought she was. None of the villagers guessed.

“Time went by. I longed to keep her, but in my heart I knew it wasn’t right. Then something happened.

“All this while the Master had been grieving at Murkmere, thinking that both his beloved wife and new baby were dead. He was
ill with the despair of it. One night he must have lost his reason. He threw himself from the old watchtower.”

I jerked back from my aunt in shock.

“He never walked again,” she said grimly. “When we heard that he was lying half-dead in bed, we knew we had to return the
baby. She might give him the will to live.

“Eliza went to Murkmere and demanded to see him alone. The servants sneered at her for thinking better of running away; they
thought she’d come to beg for work again. But she told the Master our secret, and together they hatched a plan. It was the
saddest day of my life, but it was the saving of him.

“I was to leave the baby at the gates of Murkmere, so she would be seen and taken in. I was in such a state, leaving her like
that, but Eliza heard later that she’d been found and was safe in the head keeper’s cottage. In due course the Master had
her brought to his own rooms in the Hall. He told the servants that he’d adopt the foundling as his ward and heir in place
of the baby he’d lost. In the village they believed that my baby had died suddenly in its sleep. No one guessed the truth,
and I — I was grieving all over again.”

I held her tightly a long moment.

“So Leah is the Master’s daughter,” I said. I found I wasn’t surprised; it was as if I’d sensed it all along.

“But she is Blanche’s daughter too,” said Aunt Jennet. “That’s why he couldn’t acknowledge her. She’d have been in danger.
He knew he could trust Eliza to say nothing.”

“But he could acknowledge Leah now, surely?” I said. “The servants won’t remember her mother; they’re all from the Capital.”

“What about Silas Seed? And Dorcas Crumplin is still there.”

I frowned. “But the Master trusts Silas.”

“Who knows why he keeps the secret? It’s none of our business. But the books came from the Master, he gave them to Eliza to
give to me for saving his daughter, and maybe to keep my silence down the years. Eliza knew I wouldn’t want money. They were
the best present I could have had, books that hadn’t been approved by the Lord Protector.

“They opened my eyes, those books. Eliza was almost afraid to touch them. She married your father soon after, and forgot I
had such wicked, dangerous things in the cottage.” My aunt smiled. “But I found I couldn’t go on teaching the approved ways
when I knew they were wrong. In the end I had to give up.”

“I wish you’d told me.” I looked at her steadily. “I’ve read a book too, a proper book.”

“Be very careful, Aggie.”

“I will be.”

There was no sound outside on the stairs or from below, only the hissing of the wind through the thatch. My aunt’s face was
grave. “I may be taken away from here, Aggie. If I don’t come back —“ I couldn’t bear her to go on. I flung my arms round
her and spoke into her soft, seamed neck. “They shan’t take you for trial, Aunt! I’ll tell the Master what’s happened. He’s
a Minister. His word will set you free.”

“But Aggie, dear child, it’s been years since he gave me those books. He won’t remember.”

“I’ll remind him!”

I stared at her sad, doubting face, trying to fix a picture of it forever in my mind. I longed to protect her, she who’d always
protected me, but my heart was full of foreboding. I didn’t know if I’d succeed in saving her, and she knew it too. I couldn’t
add to her fears by telling her everything that had happened to me over the past week, and now for her sake I had to face
going back. My triumphant escape had come to nothing.

And now I feared for Leah as well.

My aunt spoke again, hesitantly. “There’s something more I should tell you before you go.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll say nothing of what I’m about to say? No one knows this, no one.”

I nodded, puzzled.

“When Eliza brought Leah here she was like a pearl, even when I first took her swaddling off, all her newborn redness gone,
her little back so smooth and white. She was quite perfect in every limb. She cried and fed and slept as all babies do.
But Eliza told me something years later. I didn’t know whether to believe her.”

“What did she say?”

“I knew she’d helped the midwife, of course. I knew she was there at the birth.” Aunt Jennet’s voice faded. Her face was suddenly
haggard.

“What’s the matter, Aunt?”

“Eliza said she saw …”

“Saw what?”

“The baby looked different then. She saw it was born with wings.”

J
ethro had no skill for hiding. I knew he was skulking behind the broad oak across the road before he emerged — I could see
his anxious face peering round at me. “Where’s your cloak?” he said as we hurried away.

“I left it for my aunt. I must return to Murkmere, Jethro. I must speak to the Master on her behalf.”

He nodded, but his face was somber. He slung his jacket around my shoulders against the wind. “Best ride through the Wasteland.
You’ll avoid the soldiers that way. I’ll come with you, see you safe. I’ve seen no one from the estate searching for you yet.”

“You won’t,” I said bitterly. “I’ve been a fool. Silas must have known all along that I’d have to return for my aunt’s sake.
No wonder he let me escape. No doubt he told the stable hand who came with me to let me go. That’s why I haven’t been pursued.”

Jethro saddled up Tansy and untethered my mare. We had to pick our way over the Wasteland’s marshy ground, which was half-hidden
by patchy snow. I was in a fever of impatience. What if the Militia were already leaving, hustling my aunt away with them?

The gates were closed; no one was about in the chill wind. “Someone may hear if I pull the bell rope,” I said, dismounting.

Jethro dismounted too. He put a hand on my arm. “One thing, Aggie.”

“What now?” I said, as sick to my stomach with apprehension as I had been when I first arrived at Murkmere. The rooks sat
in the distant treetops eyeing us, their feathers ruffled sideways.