Murkmere (2 page)

“Come now, Miss Agnes,” Silas Seed said gently. “Don’t you remember that rooks nesting near a house are a sign of Good Fortune?”

“Well, yes,” I admitted, confused. That was a sign as well. I thought I knew the
Table of Significance
so well, yet sometimes it appeared to contradict itself.

“Come on through, then, without a care,” said the steward. “The rooks here signify no ill omen. Why do you think I walk so
freely?”

I dared look up at him. Silas Seed was a good head taller
than Jethro, taller than all the village boys, and taller than the keeper who stood dourly at his side, not looking at either
of us.

“You’ve a fine amulet, Sir, that’s why!” I muttered. I could see it nestling round his throat, a whole string of glowing amber
stones above the silk cravat.

Silas Seed’s dark eyes lit with amusement. “Then if you stay close by me, you’ve nothing to fear! I beg you come with me,
Miss Agnes, for I’m sure you’ve turned to ice. You’re earlier than I expected. I’d not posted anyone to watch for you at the
gates. A good thing we were doing the morning rounds and saw you.” He nodded to the keeper to pick up my bundle of belongings,
and his hand remained outstretched. “I have asked the housekeeper to organize hot food for you in the kitchen. Come.”

It seemed a long time since I’d had breakfast in the early morning darkness. And the bread had been stale again, with only
boiled rosemary water to moisten it, for yesterday’s milk was finished and we dared not milk our cow till daybreak for fear
of the Night Birds.

I looked up again at the steward, at his finely drawn features and smooth-shaven jaw, his black hair glossy as a blackbird’s
wing beneath the three-cornered hat. I thought I caught admiration in his eyes as he looked back at me. A handsome young gentleman
who did not see me as a child.

I put my hand into his at last and let him lead me through the gates.

“You’ve never been to Murkmere before?” he said. The frosty weeds in the holes of the drive bobbed as his fur-lined cloak
swept over them; puddles crackled under our boots. “Then you won’t have seen the mere that gives the Hall its name. Look —
there.”

I saw beyond a stretch of frozen sedge, the pale sheen of ice. My first sight of the mere. I knew it immediately as a fearful,
desolate place.

“Is the water deep beneath the ice, Sir?” I asked timidly.

“Some say it’s bottomless, that the water turns black a little way down.” He paused, and added somberly, “A maid drowned in
it a year back. When she was brought out by one of the keepers, her body was full bloated with black water.”

I was struck dumb. It was then that I saw someone standing motionless on the far shore, a pale figure against the dark reeds,
too slight to be a man. I thought it must be the spirit of the drowned maid, and I gasped.

Silas Seed followed my gaze and frowned. “It’s Miss Leah, the Master’s ward, out again, alone. She shouldn’t be there without
her maid.”

“But what’s she doing?”

“We’ve swans on the mere. She likes to go there by herself to watch for them. A foolish thing to do when the mere’s all ice.
I must send a footman out to her.”

He moved on quickly, the keeper tramping after him, expressionless as ever. I hesitated a moment, straining my eyes to pick
out the girl’s features. But even as I did so, the ghostly figure dissolved into the overgrown scrub and was gone.

In the main kitchen of Murkmere Hall a woman was standing at one side of the huge chimney, lifting her skirts to the blaze
of the fire. As we came in she hastily rearranged her clothing, and the keys at her lumpen waist jangled with agitation.

“Oh, Mr. Silas. I wasn’t expecting you to bring …” She gestured at me with a flustered hand. “I’d thought Doggett …”

“Doggett should be accompanying Miss Leah, Mistress Crumplin,” said Silas Seed coldly, “but I see that once again Miss Leah
is alone by the mere in this icy weather. I’ve spoken to Doggett about the danger before. It mustn’t happen again, Mistress
Crumplin, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Silas,” whined the woman. “But Miss Leah is like quicksilver. You’ve only to glance away and the girl is gone. Why
she should want to escape outside in this weather, I don’t know.”

“Escape?” said Silas, and he laughed, his dark eyes on me as if we shared the joke. “You make her sound like a prisoner, Mistress
Crumplin!”

I scarcely listened, still breathless from keeping up with the steward’s long stride through archways, courtyards, and stable
yard. I was looking at a little girl, standing almost in the hearth on the other side of the fire, who was turning a spit
with great effort, her cheeks scarlet with heat. As the joint turned, the sides of the meat were glossy and brown in the firelight
and the juices dripped down into a pan. I caught
the dense, sweet fragrance of the meat and for a moment I thought I’d faint.

I felt Silas Seed take my arm. My vision cleared. The housekeeper was staring at me. I took in a plump, creased face, wisps
of gray hair escaping beneath a cap. The steward pressed my arm, pushing me forward a little.

“Forgive me, Agnes. Let me introduce Mistress Crumplin, housekeeper to the Hall. She will oversee your requirements here.”

It sounded a very grand arrangement for a village girl. I looked up at the woman and tried to smile, but the house-keeper’s
pasty face was stolid and cold.

“And this is Miss Agnes Cotter, Mistress Crumplin,” said Silas Seed. He paused, and then added with strange emphasis, or so
it seemed to me, “Her mother, Eliza, worked here many years ago. No doubt you’ll remember her, Mistress Crumplin?”

The housekeeper’s mouth hung loose. She gave Silas Seed a startled glance, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him nod at
her, as if confirming what he’d said. “Eliza, eh?” she said slowly. “I’d not realized that Miss Leah’s companion was Eliza’s
daughter,” and she came over and peered into my face.

As I looked eagerly back at her, searching for motherliness, for kindness and welcome, all I saw was suspicion and the tiny
red veins branching on her nose. “Eliza’s daughter?” she said sourly, stepping back. “You have no look of her.”

A pang went through me. I’d heard my mother had been a
beauty. And from the housekeeper’s tone she hadn’t liked her. It seemed I’d hear no fond memories from Mistress Crumplin.

“I remember your mother too,” said Silas Seed unexpectedly.

I looked at him in astonishment. “You were here so long ago?”

He smiled at my expression. “My father was steward before me, so as a child I lived on the estate. Yes, I remember your mother
a little.”

“Oh, Sir, what do you remember?”

He shook his head. “That she was kind to me, that’s all. And the Mistress loved her, so I heard.”

“Eliza married a thatcher afterwards, I believe,” said Mistress Crumplin. I saw disdain crinkle the corners of her mouth,
and lifted my chin.

“My father was
chief
thatcher of the area before he died, Ma’am.”

“Both parents dead, then,” she said without sympathy. “You’re all alone.”

‘No, Ma’am, indeed not. My mother’s elder sister lives with me, my Aunt Jennet. The cottage belongs to her. She was schoolmistress
in the village until recently.” My voice wobbled suddenly. Aunt Jennet had turned forty and her eye-sight was failing. She’d
been forced to give up her beloved profession, and I knew it pained her.

Silas Seed had left the room — to find a servant to fetch Miss Leah inside, I supposed — and now I was alone, with
the housekeeper staring at me again. I dropped my eyes meekly, but inside I was indignant. Why should she give herself airs
when her bodice was stained with old food and the lace on her cap was frayed and gray? Then I reproached myself. I’d noticed
her unhealthy color and heavy breathing. Perhaps she was ill. But I was glad when she waved me away to sit at a trestle table
under one of the small, deep-set windows.

“Stop that now, and give the Miss some food, as Mr. Silas ordered,” she said roughly to the child at the spit, giving her
a cuff for good measure. The poor little maid brought me some soup and bread and a cup of wine, as well as several slices
of the meat on a pewter plate, as if she knew I was half-starved. She looked as if she didn’t get enough to eat herself: the
grubby dress hung loose on her tiny frame; even her shoes were ill-fitting, and she had to shuffle to keep them on. She was
too frightened to respond to my grateful smile as she set down the food.

I’d never had so much to eat: in the winter food was scarce in the village. I was almost sorry when Mr. Silas reappeared.

“If you’ve finished, Miss Agnes, we’ll go to the library now.”

I swallowed hastily and nodded.

“Have word sent to the Master that we’re waiting there for him, would you please, Mistress Crumplin?” he said to the housekeeper.
Although I could sense that beneath his civility his displeasure with her still lurked, he beckoned me out with an encouraging
smile.

The little maid scurried to clear the plates onto a tray,
almost spilling my cup of unfinished wine. I looked back awkwardly as I left, wondering if I should thank the house-keeper
for my food.

The words died on my lips. With sudden energy Mistress Crumplin had leaned toward the maid, snatched the cup of wine from
the tray, and was downing the remainder in one hearty swig.

I
’d glimpsed the Master on his few visits to the village, but all I’d seen was a pale face peering out from a high, black coach.

His name was Gilbert Tunstall, but in the village he was known as the Master. As a member of the Ministration, the most powerful
authority in the land, the Master was our landlord and ruler; but he was a kind one, and never fined us when we were late
with our dues. I wasn’t nervous about meeting him. I knew he’d suffered the most terrible misfortunes years ago: widowed when
young, then a crippling accident. Although his sister was married to the great Lord Protector in the Capital, I’d heard that
nowadays he rarely traveled there to perform his duties as Minister, but shut himself away at Murkmere.

As we left the kitchen quarters and came to a grander part of the house, I saw dark stains on the silk wallpaper and on
the rugs beneath my heavy boots. The drafts couldn’t blow away the sour, chill smell of damp that clung to the passages of
Murkmere Hall, though they made the flames in the sconces flicker and rip. But I was used to the dankness of the Eastern Edge,
the sea murk that drifted into the corners of the cottages, and thought little of it. Murkmere was vaster and more magnificent
than anything I’d ever known; I did not question, then, its creeping decay.

I had clumped after Silas Seed for an age, it seemed to me, when at last he held open a door and nodded for me to enter.

I went in before him, holding my breath; I’d never been in a library before. The only books I’d read in all my fifteen years
were the readers I’d had at school in the village and Aunt Jennet’s textbooks in the cottage, from which she’d sometimes taught
us: dull, turgid tomes, dealing with politics, social welfare, and law. I was certain that at Murkmere I’d find thrilling
stories about the past, vivid descriptions of seers’ dreams, or even narratives that were entirely invented.

Though the library was filled with the harsh light of winter, it was an elegant room, paneled in the stippled gold of walnut.
At the long bay windows hung thick curtains of green velvet, drawn back by silken loops to show curving window seats padded
in the same velvet. A coal fire burned brightly in the grate and there were candles in ornate candelabra on the marble mantel.
I scarcely noticed that the silver candelabra were dull, the rugs under my boots faded and dirty. All I took
in was that the shelves that lined the room from floor to ceiling were completely empty.

“But, Sir, where are the books?”

“Mr. Tunstall had all his books removed some while ago,” Silas Seed said absently. He traced a finger over the surface of
a small bureau and looked at it, pursing his lips.