The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (106 page)

“Yes, it was,” he agreed.

“You had months together, over the long Egyptian winter, toiling in the hot sun and lingering over group dinners, and all the while you watched him. He was confident at first, believing he had the measure of you, had
you
at a disadvantage. How immensely pleasurable it must have been for you to watch him disintegrate as the truth slowly dawned upon him—you had come to Egypt for revenge.”

Brisbane’s expression turned to one of disgust. “You have a febrile imagination, Julia. Redwall Allenby did nothing of the sort. Until the day Lord Evandale expelled him from the expedition, he thought I was in his power. He underestimated me completely.”

I thought for a moment. “He was a singularly stupid man, wasn’t he?”

“He was. And he was already ill, desperately so. When Lord Evandale dismissed him, he was devastated. He knew it was the end of him in the Egyptological community and he went home to die, it is as simple as that. It is a measure of his depravity that he thought to defile his sister first.”

I gave him a reproving look. “It is not really that simple, is it? I cannot believe you never took the opportunity to let him know why you had come.”

“I let him know every day,” Brisbane said with a savage little smile of satisfaction.

“How?” I asked.

“Can’t you imagine? You saw the photograph.”

I thought of the images I had seen, captured in that one brief moment, stilled forever. I shook my head. “No. How did you signal your thirst for vengeance to Redwall?”

“‘Thirst for vengeance?’ Ye gods, Julia, you ought to be writing thrillers of the lowest variety.”

I gave him a little poke in the ribs, but I must have caught him on the bad side. He stumbled and righted himself, looking very pale.

“I am sorry, Brisbane. But I was right, wasn’t I? You did go to Egypt for revenge, and you had it. I finally put it all together today. I had heard of course that your mother was
bound over for trial for stealing a bottle of laudanum. I knew she cursed the judge, Sir Alfred Allenby, and the chemist as well. That was Mr. Butters, wasn’t it? Poor Mrs. Butters. I wonder if she ever realised it was your mother who cursed her husband.”

“Of course she knows,” Brisbane said, gritting his teeth a little and holding a hand to his ribs. “She used to make griddlecakes for me when I was a boy.”

“Remind me to ask her what you were like as a boy. Incorrigible, I should imagine.”

“Thoroughly.”

His tone was light, but I knew he dreaded what was coming next. I dreaded it as well. I did not want to open new wounds, but so long as they poisoned him still, there was no hope for us. The only way for him to face the future was to put the past squarely behind him. I only hoped he was capable of it.

“But it was something Jerusha Earnshaw said that made all the difference.”

“Jerusha Earnshaw?” he asked, but I knew it was a bid for time. I gave him a repressive look.

“The innkeeper’s sister. She told me the charges against your mother would have likely been dismissed at the Assizes because the witnesses against her were a pair of children. Ailith and Redwall Allenby.”

His jaw hardened and his handsome mouth twisted into something most unpleasant. “Did she tell you why? Did she tell you it was because of me?”

I stared straight ahead as we continued to walk. It was easier somehow if I did not have to look directly at him as I exposed his demons.

“Well, it was,” he went on. “Ailith was not even ten, and the most accomplished liar I had ever met. I did my best to stay away from them, Ailith and her brother both, but sometimes our paths crossed. One day I went swimming in the river, where it flows calmly by the graveyard. Ailith and Redwall came upon me and began their usual habit, taunting and calling abuse. I ignored them until I realised Ailith was holding up a pendant of mine I had left on the bank with my clothes. It had been given me by my mother. She told me stories about the lady engraved upon it, a beautiful and terrible lady. I used to wonder if the woman on the pendant was my mother. It was my dearest possession. And there was Ailith Allenby, swinging it from her fingertips, saying she meant to keep it, even if it was an ugly piece of Gypsy trash.”

I had the oddest fancy then that Brisbane did not even remember I was there, he was speaking almost to himself, in a low hollow voice, his eyes unfocused, as if he only saw the past.

“I leapt out of the river and charged at her. I pushed her down and took the pendant back, and told her if she ever touched anything of mine ever again, I would kill her. Redwall tried to stand up for her, but I shoved him into the river. It might have been funny, a stupid children’s quarrel, but for the look on Ailith Allenby’s face. It was not the face of a child. It was the wilful evil of some devil straight from the pits of hell. I knew then she meant to do something terrible. And, coward that I was, I packed my things and I ran away.”

I had guessed some of what Brisbane told me, but I had not anticipated that. “I thought you ran away because the Gypsies would not have you as one of them.”

Brisbane came slowly back to himself, as if the sound of
my voice had roused him. “They have more generosity than you credit them with. I was my mother’s son, and she was a powerful woman. I looked just like them, I rode and picked pockets and made harnesses as well as any other Gypsy lad.”

“You picked pockets?”

He shrugged. “Once in a while and only from people who could spare it. My mother’s people are resourceful.”

Not quite the word I would have used, but I was not surprised he still felt warmly toward his maternal family.

“And after you ran away, Ailith Allenby took her revenge upon your mother instead.”

He nodded slowly. “I am to blame for everything that happened to her. The least I could do was see her avenged. It’s come full circle now.”

We walked in silence a moment, and then I had a sudden start of realisation. I put a hand into the neck of my bodice and drew out the pendant Brisbane had given me, incised with the head of Medusa, a beautiful and terrible woman. I tucked it away, hastily. There was no need to ask. I knew now precisely what I meant to him. What I had always meant.

Just then he turned to me, and I felt a surge of joy. The past had been exorcised. I felt lighter and a hundred years younger. We were betrothed, as far as the world knew.
This
was the moment then, when it would all come right.

“I just remembered, I put notices in the newspaper of our engagement to lend the lie more veritas,” he said, his brow furrowing.

“Yes,” I said encouragingly. My breath felt tight within my lungs.

“I forgot to post the retractions. They ought to be printed
as soon as possible. It would be more believable if you sued me for breach of promise, but the whole thing will go away more quickly if we just let it be.”

I swallowed hard, concealing my disappointment. “Of course. Breach of promise suits are so terribly louche, I always think.”

He stood for a long moment, staring at me, searching my face, and when he spoke it was without pretence and every word was its own tragic poem. “There is no money, Julia. Not a farthing. I’ve put everything I had into Grimsgrave. I was convinced there was a fortune under this moor, if only I could find it. I was a fool,” he said bitterly.

“I understand,” I said hollowly, but of course I did not. It was a very great irony that the fortune my husband had left me stood between me and my only happiness. “I could give it all away, you know. I am sure there is some home for elderly cats or something that would quite appreciate the money.”

He laughed, and I heard the sharp edge of despair in the sound, and perhaps anger as well. “I will not touch you again. It isn’t fair, to either of us.”

I nodded. “I won’t kiss you either. You might get ideas and I am a very respectable widow.”

We stood a foot apart and yet with worlds between. He reached out then and crushed me to him, heedless of his newly-stitched ribs. I clasped my arms around him, holding him as tightly to me as my own flesh.

“For the love of God, don’t cry,” he ordered, his face muffled by my hair. My hat had gone tumbling over the moor, bowled along by the wind, but I did not care.

“I won’t,” I promised. “But I am feeling rather fragile, so you might want to look away in a moment.”

He pulled back, and I saw a thousand emotions warring on his face. He seemed to be memorising my face, his eyes lingering on each feature in turn.

Finally, he released me. “Ailith will be buried the day after tomorrow. I will make arrangements for you and Portia to return to London the following day. I will be closing up the house. I am leaving England for a while.”

“For how long?” I asked him, determined to keep my composure.

“Until I am quite recovered from you,” he said evenly.

“When will you return?”

“Never.”

He turned and left me then, walking slowly toward the village. I stared after him for a long time, until I could no longer see the strong form and the witch-black hair tumbling in the wind. And then I turned and set my face for Grimsgrave Hall.

A
nd so Portia and I made our preparations to return to London. I expected her to pry and fuss, but she took one look at my face and put me straight to bed with a hot whisky.

The next morning I gathered up Redwall Allenby’s things, the journals and photographs and the little amulets from the babies’ coffin. I replaced them in his desk, wondering if they would ever again see the light of day. I almost opened the priest’s hole, but in the end I left the children where they lay, hoping they were at peace. Brisbane would have to make arrangements for them to be buried secretly.

Mrs. Butters was subdued as she prepared breakfast, and I do not think anyone was inclined to eat. I picked at some
eggs, and tried not to think. Portia fed bits of York ham to Puggy, coaxing him to eat from her hand.

“Puggy’s off his feed,” she complained. “I think he would rather be upstairs with Florence and the pups.”

To our mutual surprise, Puggy had turned out to be a devoted father. He doted on Florence, offering her the choicest titbits of food and permitting her to use his favourite cushion. He growled when anyone came near his little family, and had even nipped Morag when she touched one without his express permission.

“I do not see how we can keep them apart,” Portia said, offering Puggy a spoonful of coddled egg. “Do you mean to come back to stay with me, or will you go straight down to the Rookery?”

I thought of the peace of the countryside in Sussex. The Rookery was the charming little house Father had presented me with as a Christmas present. My devoted butler, Aquinas, had written that all was in order and I could finally take up residence whenever I liked. I would have as much quiet and solitude as I wanted, I thought.

And perhaps more. The city, with all of its heady diversions, might be a better distraction at present. But the thought of my family, pressing dinner invitations and outings upon me, made my stomach hurt. I wanted to be alone, but not alone. I wanted to pour out my hurts and frustrations, and I wanted never to speak again. In short, I was at war with myself.

I shrugged at Portia and idly buttered my toast. “I do not care. I suppose I will stay for a little while with you.”

“You needn’t sound so enthusiastic,” she said waspishly. “I am no more thrilled about the prospect than you, I assure you.”

I would have put out my tongue at her, but it was simply too much effort. Mrs. Butters brought another rack of toast, although we had scarcely touched the one on the table. I think she simply wanted to keep busy.

“Mrs. Butters, what will become of you? If Mr. Brisbane is closing up Grimsgrave, where will you go?”

She gave me a brisk nod. “You needn’t worry about me, Lady Julia. Mr. Brisbane made certain I would be taken care of. I have a sister in Leeds. He has said he will arrange for my transportation to her when he is ready to leave Grimsgrave. I have put a little something by, and I will be perfectly all right.”

“I am glad to hear it. At least someone will,” I said peevishly.

“And Minna,” Portia put in.

I lifted a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Hasn’t she asked you yet? She means to stay here and marry Godwin Allenby.”

“Out of the question,” I told her. “I know they have an understanding, but he cannot keep a wife.”

“You will break the girl’s heart,” Portia said softly.

I sighed. “I have promised her mother to take care of her, Portia. I have thought it over carefully, and I cannot leave her with an impoverished husband, no matter how much she loves him. If he cannot provide for her, he cannot have her.”

Portia looked to Mrs. Butters. “I do not suppose Godwin has a tidy sum put by as well?”

Mrs. Butters shook her head sadly. “I regret not. I have
grown rather fond of that girl. She would have trained up as an excellent housekeeper. Her cookery is very solid, and she has a head for figures.”

“What if we took Godwin back to London?” I suggested. “He could find employment, something reliable and steady. Then when he has saved enough, he can approach her mother for her hand.”

Mrs. Butters clucked. “Oh, no. Tha’ would never do. Godwin is an Allenby. He belongs to these moors. He would never live in a city. I think it would kill him.”

She cleared away a few of the dishes then, and Portia and I regarded each other across the breakfast table.

“We are a couple of sour old women,” I told her.

“But you are right, even if I hate to say it,” she said. “We cannot let her marry for love if it means she will starve. What if she had children? How would they keep them? I was stupid to think it. I just wanted a happy ending for them,” she finished wanly.

“Because we neither of us have ours?” I asked softly.

She nodded and we fell silent.

“Then we will have to give her a dowry,” I said finally. “We will each put up fifty percent. Name a sum that will settle them, either as far as purchasing a small farm and a herd to stock it, or a business in the village.”

“We cannot offer it directly,” Portia warned, and I bristled.

“I know that. It would be insulting to them both. We will have to disguise it as an inheritance. We can make Brisbane give it to Godwin, say it was a legacy from Ailith’s death.”

“But Ailith’s property would go to Lady Allenby,” she pointed out.

I waved her aside. “Nuns cannot inherit property,” I told her loftily. “At least, I do not think they can, and if they can, we will simply have Brisbane tell him otherwise. We’ll make up some story about Hilda getting a sum as well. I hardly think Godwin will question such a piece of good fortune closely.”

Portia’s eyes lit up and we haggled then, even drawing Mrs. Butters into the business. The three of us worked the sums and argued over the details, but in the end, we devised a settlement that seemed suitable without being too generous. There was also the question of how to present the money. We agreed to leave it to Brisbane, and Portia volunteered to apprise him of our plan while I began to pack.

I do not know what was said, or how. I only know that by suppertime, all was decided. Minna flew out of the kitchen as I was coming down the stairs. She was still holding a ladle in one hand, dripping sauce upon the flagstones as she clasped me in an embrace.

“Oh, bless you, my lady! I know you did this. Miss Ailith hated him, she would never have left him money. But I know you and Lady Bettiscombe did this between you. How can I ever thank you?”

She was sobbing freely now, and I disengaged myself gently. “If you keep crying, you will water the sauce and ruin supper.”

She wiped her eyes on her apron and shook her head. “I cannot believe it. I just knew we wouldn’t be able to marry, not with us having but a shilling between us. And then when Mr. Brisbane told us, it was like a miracle, like the
world just cracked open wide and everything I ever dreamed of was inside.”

She hugged me again, fiercely, and flew off to the kitchens, leaving me feeling fairly staggered. I was the daughter of an earl, I thought bleakly, born to privilege and wealth most people could not even hope to imagine. And in that moment, I would have happily traded places with a little maid who had everything I did not.

Ailith Allenby was buried quietly in the graveyard of the ruined chapel. There were no hymns, no weeping, only the soft patter of the rain that fell upon the coffin. The grave had been dug the day before, and I noticed that Brisbane and Godwin were conspicuously absent for a long period of time before the burial. They never said, and I never asked, but I saw the grave was rather shallower than one might have expected and the bottom of it was freshly packed, as if something else had been buried before Ailith’s coffin was lowered into the ground. No one else seemed to notice anything amiss, and I murmured a prayer for the souls of the lost babies as well as their unfortunate mother as the clods of earth covered her at last.

It was a small and solemn group that wended its way back to Grimsgrave under a cluster of black umbrellas. Hilda and Mrs. Butters served as chief mourners in the absence of Lady Allenby. Brisbane had sent word to Lady Allenby of Ailith’s death, but she had not replied. Perhaps she was already too deeply entrenched in the solitude of her convent life, or perhaps she struggled with the twin burdens of guilt
and relief: guilt at her own crimes and relief that the daughter who was bent upon her destruction was dead.

There had been a letter from Sister Bridget, brief and to the point. All of Ailith’s personal property was to be given to the poor of the parish “that she who had done so little good in her life, might do some in death.” Harsh, but not inaccurate, I thought. Hilda refused to deal with the matter, so Mrs. Butters saw to the removal of her things. I wondered if somewhere in the village a little girl would be awed at the gift of the elaborate doll’s house, never dreaming what it had meant to Ailith’s twisted mind. The doll’s house was uninhabited when it left Grimsgrave. The tiny infant dolls with their unmistakable gilt hair had been laid in Ailith’s coffin. I could not imagine leaving them in the toy house, and destroying them seemed somehow wrong. Yorkshire folk believed that suicides walked the earth, never resting in their graves. It seemed a primitive sort of magic to leave the dolls with her, but perhaps she would lie quietly.

After cakes and wine at Grimsgrave, everyone dispersed. Portia went to play with the puppies, Mrs. Butters to rest, and heaven only knew where Brisbane had got to. Valerius, still weak from the blow to his head, was dozing by the fireside, and I found Hilda in the room she had shared with Ailith. It was barren now that Ailith’s things were gone. A little trunk stood open under the window and it was half filled with Hilda’s books and unbecoming tweeds. In spite of the recent tragedies, there was a new serenity to Hilda that she wore well. She even smiled a little in welcome as I settled myself on a chair.

“I am glad you have come,” she said, and I believed her.
“I wanted you to know that I am leaving tomorrow. Miss Earnshaw has offered me a post in her school. I am to live on the premises in Manchester and help her establish the curriculum. And when the pupils come, I am to teach modern languages and ancient history. Miss Earnshaw is not at all troubled by my lack of formal education,” she finished, blushing hotly. “She says even though I am self-taught, I am well-suited to such a post.”

“A very good fit, I think,” I told her. “So you are leaving the moor at last.”

She nodded. “I do hope Minna will see to my chickens,” she said with a tiny smile.

“Perhaps you will have a flock at the school. You can teach the girls poultry-keeping skills,” I suggested. “Every woman ought to have her own money, even if it is just a bit from the eggs.”

Her smile broadened then. “Perhaps we will. It is a useful skill at that.” She faltered then, and I could see that she was steeling herself for what she was about to say.

I spoke first. “Have you told him?”

“No, but I did write him a rather good letter. I even quoted a bit of Donne. He’ll like that.”

I nodded. “Yes, he will. My brothers all have a weakness for poetry, I’m afraid.”

She looked up sharply then. “Do you think he will come after me?”

I thought a moment, then shook my head. “I think not. My brothers share a love of poetry, and a rather pliable character. They would all rather languish in their heartbreak than
do anything useful about it. You’ve made rather a lucky escape, if you ask me. Valerius may take up writing sonnets, and that would be a tragedy indeed.”

I spoke lightly, but I knew Valerius would feel the disappointment keenly. It was the first time in his life he had truly played the man, and I pitied him. He had so much compassion, so much tenderness to give. He had been badly thwarted in his choice of profession, and now he was to suffer yet another defeat.

Hilda straightened her shoulders then, and for the first time I saw the proud, stiff carriage of the Allenbys in her. “It would be too easy, you know. That’s the trouble. If I married him, I would be safe and comfortable, and I would go on feeling as though I were wrapped in cotton wool. I am terrified of going to Manchester. I am terrified of living in a little room and making my tea on a spirit lamp. I am terrified of teaching. And that is why I must.”

I knew only too well the feeling of being wrapped in cotton wool. I rose and offered my hand.

“Fear is how you know you are alive, my dear,” I told her.

She took my hand and tipped her head to one side. She was actually rather pretty now that she wasn’t scowling at me, and I understood why Val had thought her attractive. It was an interesting face, and one that promised great character.

“Are you afraid, Lady Julia?” she asked at length.

“Every day,” I told her, thinking of a future without Brisbane. “Every day.”

After I left Hilda, I set off amid lowering cloud to bid farewell to Rosalie and John-the-Baptist. Portia and I were
almost completely packed and would be up before cockcrow to make the long journey by road to the village with our trunks in time to catch the train to London. There was so much I wanted to thank Rosalie for, and I knew I would miss her terribly.

The rain was teeming down by the time I reached the cottage. Its lights glowed through the darkening gloom of the afternoon, beckoning with such homely warmth I nearly wept.

“Oh, don’t be feeble,” I told myself firmly. “You are merely tired and a little melancholy. A hot cup of tea and some good company, and you will be right as rain.”

I set my shoulders against the wind and pressed on, nearly slipping over the flat rock at the turning of the path, and then almost falling against the door as a strong gust blew against my back.

“Lady Julia!” Rosalie exclaimed. She ushered me in, already rubbing at my hands and face with a towel. “You ought not to have come today. The storm grows stronger.”

“I wanted to say goodbye,” I explained, my voice muffled by the towel.

She finished wiping my face and took my wet things. Only then did I realise she was not alone. I had expected John-the-Baptist, but not Brisbane. He was standing at the window, looking out at the moor, his back to the room. He must have seen me coming for some distance, time enough to school his reaction. He did not turn.