The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (73 page)

I itched to slap her, elderly aunt or not. She was still staring fearfully over the edge of her handkerchief, but there was a touch of triumph in her. She had given me the one argument I could not fight.

I slid the bottle back into my pocket. “Very well. For Father, I will keep silent. But mind this—I am keeping this bottle. And if I ever hear that you have harmed anyone, in any fashion, I will produce it.”

I spoke sharply, my voice ringing with conviction, but
we both knew the threat was a hollow one. It would be my word against hers if ever I decided to tell my tale.

She gave a dry laugh. “I am old and I am tired, girl. My fangs are well and truly drawn. When I go back to Norfolk, it will be to die, and with me, so dies this story.”

“That it will,” I said. “Go tomorrow. I will not say farewell.”

I left her then and went to my own room. In a very few minutes I was tucked into bed, warm and safe and so tired I thought I could sleep a month. But it was a long time before I slept, and every time I closed my eyes I saw Emma’s face, watching from the shadows.

T
he days running up to Christmas were busy ones, and I kept myself too occupied to think much. Whenever I found my thoughts lingering on Brisbane or Emma or Henry Ludlow, I ruthlessly wrenched them away, turning instead to hanging mistletoe or poking cloves into oranges to make pomanders. I went for long walks in the gardens and attempted to train Florence to sit nicely. And I said goodbyes; some of them rose more easily to my lips than others. Aunt Dorcas left us the day after her return from the Gypsy camp, and in spite of my parting words to her the previous night, I did my duty and stood with my family to bid her farewell. She passed down the line of assorted relations, pausing when
she reached me. She flicked me a cool glance, which I returned. Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly, proffering me a crumb of respect. I did not move, and she passed on. I was not sorry to see her go.

The following day, Plum and Alessandro, both of them nursing bruised hearts—and pride—took their leave as well. I regretted their leaving, but I was relieved, I realised with a guilty little pang. Alessandro had been a charming companion in Italy, but I had been mad to think even for a moment we might have been more than friends. And Plum was no companion at all at present. He was still sulking over his affairs, and Father had not been kind to him on the subject of Mrs. King, scolding him for taking up with such a creature. They were barely speaking by the time Plum and Alessandro departed, but I knew they would make it up eventually. Marches always did.

Still another parting made me quite nostalgic. My husband Edward’s distant cousin, the nearest neighbour to the Abbey, had been forced to quit the manor house at Greymoor. The snowfall that had locked us in with a murderer had caused the weakened roof of the house to finally collapse. Thankfully none of his family or staff were injured, but the damage was too extensive. It was the perfect excuse for him to tear it down, and when he came to the Abbey to bid his farewells, he was full of building schemes for a property he had in Kent, near his wife’s relations. So the last of the Greys moved out of Sussex, and the house was left to fall to ruin. It would not be long before the village children began to dare each other to run up and
touch its sagging doors and peer into its broken windows, I fancied. Ghosts walked abroad at Greymoor, and I shuddered when I wondered if Edward might be one of them.

But the weeks before Christmas were happy ones, too. Aunt Hermia and Portia’s beloved Jane came down from London, as well as a plentiful assortment of my brothers, sisters, spouses, nieces, and nephews. We were a full and merry party, and as the season ripened, I felt myself growing more relaxed. There had been no word from Brisbane, but I had not really expected one. I wore the pendant, as a charm for his safety, I suppose, and went about the business of Christmas. I wrapped presents and strung holly and ivy on the mantelpieces and played endless games of hunt-the-slipper with my nieces and nephews.

Christmas itself was Bedlam. The children were up at cockcrow, tearing into stockings and making a sweet nuisance of themselves. But in spite of the noise and frantic activity, the day was surprisingly pleasant. After breakfast we all bundled up and walked into the village for church. I had dreaded this, fearing that we would be met with stares and hostility. The shadow of murder still hung over our house, however normal we had tried to make things for the children. But I had underestimated either the power of the March name, or the affection with which the villagers regarded us. They were a trifle distant when we arrived, but after Uncle Fly’s eloquent sermon on the subject of brotherly love, we were greeted much more kindly. We chatted politely, and Aunt Hermia even extended invitations to several families to come and take mince pies and
wine with us. No one stammered or fled in fright, which I took as rather a heartening sign.

Once back at the Abbey, we feasted on a delectable Christmas lunch and then the children opened presents, a noisy and lengthy affair. Father, who could never bear to see anyone left out, gave each of his grown children a present as well. I presented Puggy with his finished cushion cover, which he received with an indelicate noise deep in his throat. I took that as an expression of gratitude. Florence looked exceedingly pretty in a collar fashioned of Venetian lace, and Grim bobbed his head in thanks for a tin of glacéed fruits from Paris. Then the children sang carols, and when they concluded—to tumultuous applause from their indulgent family—the tea things were brought in and we all gathered around as Father, preening in his garishly striped waistcoat from Violante, read out the Christmas letters from my absent brothers and sisters. There were few dry eyes when he was done, for we were all quite fond of each other and missed one another more than we would admit.

When he was finished, Father wiped his eyes and shooed us all to our rooms to prepare for the party that evening. Naturally it was to be a quieter affair than in years past. He had decided that dancing would be inappropriate, but Lysander had promised to play suitable music for our enjoyment. Everyone hurried to their rooms, the adults to change, the children to an early supper. Only Father remained behind, standing at the darkened window, and as I made to leave, he called me back.

I quirked a brow at him, and he waved toward the door.

“Close that, if you would. I do not mean to keep you long, but I should like to speak to you. Privately.”

I obeyed, and then joined him at the window. It had long since fallen dark, but the landscape was dotted with lights—lanterns and bonfires and torches as folks moved from house to house in merry parties. Father nodded toward a light not far away, just at the edge of a small wood on the other side of the moat.

“There is the Rookery. Can you see it?”

“Of course.” The Rookery was a tiny, quite mad-looking house. The Rookery had passed through several inhabitants since it was built in the eighteenth century. Each had left their mark, adding odd little staircases or pulling down façades and putting up new ones. What remained was a bizarrely charming confection with a pair of reception rooms and a few bedrooms, nothing more.

Father nodded again. “It is a sound little house. It was overgrown with ivy, and a few roof tiles were loose. Nothing that could not be mended. I had Benedick oversee the repairs before the snow fell. It is quite snug now, and perfectly in order, freshly painted, and not a bit of damp.”

I was a bit mystified as to why he was telling me this, but I nodded encouragingly. “Oh, excellent. I have always thought it a darling house.”

“I am glad to hear you say it,” he said mildly. “It is yours now.”

I blinked at him. “I did not hear you correctly, I am afraid.”

“It is yours, Julia. I know I gave you a present with your brothers and sisters, but this is something else. Just for you.”

I stammered a little in my confusion. “B-but, Father, surely there are others in the family who need a house.”

“It is not a house,” he corrected. “It is a home. Of your own, for so long as you shall live. I cannot give it to you outright. It is entailed with the estate, and when I am gone, it will belong to your brother, Bellmont. But I have arranged with the solicitor that it shall be yours to live in for the duration of your life, so long as you wish it. You may go and come back, as you like, but it will always be here for you to return to.”

I shook my head. I could not quite take it in. “But why me, Father? Portia is a widow as well,” I reminded him.

“Portia has a home, and Portia has Jane.” He put out a hand and touched my shoulder. “I will not always be here, child. I do not know what the future holds for you, but I would have you cared for. You are my favourite.”

I put a hand over his. “You have ten children, and five of them are under your roof right now. How many times have you said that today?”

“Five,” he admitted ruefully. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “But I only meant it once.”

He left me then and I was glad of it. I did not want him to see me weep.

Boxing Day was, in a word, noisy. The tradesmen called for their boxes and were quite civilly invited in for
mince pies. We had a tremendous luncheon of the Christmas remains with far too much drink. By the afternoon, the children were rampant with sugar and excitement and the adults were sore-headed as bears. Father organised the children into a game of pirates, which entailed plundering the lumber room costume boxes and much shrieking and running about the Abbey. Raids were conducted and booty secured, and at one point I was even taken prisoner by my niece Perdita, and tied to my chair with a petticoat. She ran off as soon as she had secured me, waving a wooden sword and screaming threats in an alarming Irish accent. Portia had a great laugh at my expense. She had only been tied with a cravat and worked her way free very quickly. I quirked a brow at her loftily.

“You may well laugh, but I have just been captured by Grace O’Malley, the greatest pirate queen ever to sail the Seven Seas,” I told her.

Portia snickered as I tried unsuccessfully to free myself. Eventually she was prevailed upon to untie my bonds. At that moment our niece returned and fixed me with a stern look.

“You were not supposed to free yourself. I must give you to Tarquin. He has ransomed you,” she told me.

“Thank you, but I think not. I would rather be your prisoner than your brother’s. He put spiders in my bed the last time I slept at the farmhouse.”

Perdita’s expression turned mulish. “But you
must,
Auntie Julia. He has paid the ransom,” she insisted. “See?” She dug into her pocket and extracted a handful of
plunder. There, on her grubby palm, lay a necklace of perfect grey pearls I had never thought to see again.

Portia and I gasped and lunged for them at the same time. Startled, Perdita shrieked and threw them into the air. Portia caught them neatly, while I took our niece by the shoulders.

“Perdita, dearest, where precisely did you get this necklace?”

She looked inclined to pout, but if Benedick’s children were high-spirited, they were also well brought up.

“Tarquin gave it to me.” Her expression darkened. “He would not agree to the bracelets as well, but I thought you were worth them.”

“Indeed. And where is Tarquin now?”

“Mounting an attack on the kitchens. He means to take the larder. He wants cake.”

I released her and patted her on the head. “Thank you, dearest. Play with Auntie Portia now. She will be your prisoner. I must have a word with your brother.”

Portia shot me an evil look, and the last I saw, Perdita was lashing her ankles to a chair while Puggy danced around, snarling.

Tarquin was easy enough to find. I ran him to ground in the kitchens precisely where his sister said he would be. He must have been successful, for he was busily stuffing his pockets with ginger nuts and Cook was nowhere to be seen.

“Tarquin, my boy, may I have a word?” I asked him. He blinked at me, owlish in a pair of very smart spectacles. He was the cleverest of Benedick’s children, and I suspected he would be the handsomest.

“You’re my prisoner now,” he informed me. “Did Perdita tell you? I paid an enormous ransom for you,” he said, wrapping a striped scarf about my head. “I will release you and make you one of my crew if you promise to fight for me.”

“Very tempting offer, I am sure,” I said, removing the scarf. “But I wanted to ask you about that ransom. Where did you find the necklace?”

He pulled a disgusted face. “That bit of rubbish? You needn’t worry, Auntie Julia. It is only a bit of glass. I found it stuffed in the bear.”

I stared at him. “The bear? You mean Maurice?”

He nodded and tucked another ginger cake into his pocket. “There is a hole under his arm where the stuffing is coming out. I saw it when we were playing hide-and-go-seek earlier. I put my hand in, and I felt something I thought might be pebbles or some choice marbles. It was only those bits of trumpery. I found these as well—you can have them if you like.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out my bracelets. I felt a little weak as I looked at them. Thousands of pounds’ worth of perfectly matched pearls with diamond clasps, an empress’ treasure, lying serenely on a boy’s palm.

“Did you find earrings as well? And a great long rope of pearls?”

He shook his head. “But I did not have long to look. Grandfather was coming, and I had to hide.”

I nodded knowledgeably. “Of course you did.”

His face brightened. “Would you like for me to have a
look round for you now? I know just where I found these bits. I daresay the others are there as well.”

I nodded and he led the way, careful to take a circuitous route to avoid the scalawag ways of his uncle Ly, who was laying plans to board his ship and overthrow him, Tarquin told me solemnly.

At length we reached Maurice the bear, and Tarquin made a careful search. He retrieved every last piece of the Grey Pearls, presenting them to me with as much ceremony as the chancellor handing the crown jewels to the queen.

As my hands closed over them, he turned to me, his young face quizzical. “Aunt Julia, they aren’t real, are they?”

I smiled at him. “Yes, they are, my dear boy. And I thought I would never see them again. Thank you.”

He goggled at me, and in return for his aid I promised to return to serve as his crew once I had secured the pearls in my room. I put them away, nestling them onto their bed of black satin, and paused. I thought of Charlotte, the last person to touch them. Poor greedy Charlotte, clever and avaricious and dishonest. For all her sins, there was something almost likeable about her. I wondered where she was, and if she had eluded Brisbane, if he would believe her if she claimed not to have the pearls. Hiding them in the hole in Maurice’s pelt had been a stroke of genius. It had been the merest accident they had been recovered. Perhaps she had thought to come back for them some day, or perhaps she had been happy enough to escape. It did not matter now.

I closed the lid with a snap. I was done with them.