The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (88 page)

I thought of an unrolling of a mummy I had attended, given by a duchess to amuse her friends. It had seemed a diversion, an entertainment then. I had had no sense of the person beneath the wrappings. Just a bundle of withered skin and bones, a few bits of dark red hair still plaited into a tidy arrangement.

But this…I leaned over again to peer once more into the coffin. The bundle was neatly wrapped, the linen strips woven into a perfectly-executed pattern of lozenges. It was so beautifully done; I could imagine the painstaking care to make certain each fold was just so. And it was heartbreakingly small. The child could not have been more than a few days old at most. The other was almost precisely the same size, and I wondered if perhaps they were siblings or if
Redwall had merely begun his macabre collection out of whichever stray mummy babies he could find.

“It is horrible,” I said finally. “One oughtn’t collect people as though they were curiosities.”

“I happen to agree with you—” He paused, dropping his arm. He had stepped closer to the desk, but not to look at the mummy. His gaze was fixed on the photograph of Redwall Allenby. He arched a black brow at me in inquiry. There seemed no possible explanation without revealing to him my purpose in being in Sir Redwall’s rooms.

Instead, silence stretched between us, taut as a bowstring, until Brisbane bent to retrieve the lid of the coffin. He replaced it, shutting the tiny remains from sight. He returned the coffin to the priest’s hole and slid the panel neatly back into place.

“Brisbane, you cannot leave them there!” I made to move toward the priest’s hole, but he turned and placed himself squarely between me and the resting place of those sad little bundles.

“I can, and I shall. There is no reason to disturb them at present. Carry on with your cataloguing,” he said, his tone oddly cold.

I gave a little sigh of resignation. “I knew you would not like me poking about in here, but the Allenby ladies have so little, and they cannot have these things with them in the cottage. I suggested to Lady Allenby—”

“You suggested? I might have known. And here I thought you were meddling in here at her request,” he observed, his tone acid.

I blinked at him. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew. You were careful to replace the dustsheets, but there were signs things in here had been disturbed. And you will forgive the observation, I am sure, but it did occur to me if there were someone snooping about, the likeliest culprit was by far yourself.”

He folded his arms over the breadth of his chest and I thought of the implacable expression of a particularly imperious pharaoh I had just catalogued. In his current mood, Brisbane might as well have been fashioned out of the cool black basalt himself.

I took a step toward him, deliberately gentling my tone. “There is no need to be cross. The Allenby ladies must have some means of keeping themselves. The sale of this legacy might well be the making of them.”

“Oh, that it might,” he said agreeably, “save that it is not their legacy to sell.”

I blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

He leaned close so there would be no mistaking his words, each syllable clipped and impersonal. “This house and everything in it with the exception of the personal effects of Lady Allenby and her daughters is mine.”

“I do not understand.”

“Then let me be quite clear—this house and all of its remaining contents were sold. Lord Salisbury, acting as an agent of Her Majesty, purchased the estate and deeded it to me. I own every stick of furniture, every pillow, every spoon. I even own that revolting tapestry mouldering on the wall in the great hall.
It is mine.
”

I shook my head. “Brisbane, that is not possible. Lady Allenby—”

“Lady Allenby does not know. She never troubled to read the terms of the sale, and her solicitor, a drunk old devil from Leeds, never bothered to tell her. He couldn’t even be bothered to travel out here to see her. He conducted the entire matter by correspondence, taking a fat fee for himself. She has nothing except the clothes upon her back.”

I stared at him for a long moment, scarcely able to comprehend what he had told me. “That poor woman,” I murmured finally. “To lose her home must be a complete devastation, but this as well. She has nothing, and neither have her daughters. How could you not tell them?”

He shrugged one muscular shoulder, his expression indifferent. “They will discover it soon enough. When the cottage I am preparing is ready, they may take a few furnishings to suit and their own effects. Under the law, I will have been far more generous with them than I am required.”

“And what of your conscience?” I demanded. “Is there no moral law greater than those passed by Parliament? Brisbane, you cannot let them go on thinking they have been fairly treated. And you cannot let them believe this collection will be sold to their benefit. I must stop cataloguing,” I finished, more to myself.

“Oh, no. Do go on. I won’t want these things around, so you might as well catalogue them for me. I daresay the proceeds will more than recompense me for the repairs I have put into the cottage.”

I took a step still closer, searching his face, but to no purpose. I did not know him. “You are a stranger to me,” I said softly. “I never imagined you could treat a defenceless lady with such callousness. This is not you.”

“Perhaps you do not know me,” he returned.

“Oh, it would please you to think so. You do enjoy the masquerade, don’t you? The mysterious, the enigmatic Nicholas Brisbane, living in shadows and secrecy. But I do know you. I know you as well as I know my own name. You are not a man who would torment any woman, no matter her offence. You are not cruel or malicious or vengeful, and yet you pretend to these things because you have some secret purpose you do not care to share with me.”

Brisbane curled a lip at me, his smile scornful. He jerked his head at the photograph on the desk. “Blame him. He is the one who left them with nothing. The sale was arranged before his death.”

I shook my head, trying to make sense of a senseless situation. “No, the sale was concluded after his death, when the ladies had no choice, when they had sold all of the important furnishings.”

“The sale was arranged before Redwall’s death,” Brisbane repeated. “He did not have time to complete it, but the papers were presented for Lady Allenby’s signature, and she did not trouble to read them properly. He was the one who put them into this situation. And anything I do for them,
anything,
” he said, his voice low and brutal, “is more than he would have.”

He straightened and cast another glance at the photograph. “Not such a handsome face now, is it?”

He brushed past me, collecting his coat as he went. I sank down onto the chair, desperately trying to understand. I had never known Brisbane to be so cold, so distant, but neither could I comprehend a man who would leave his
closest relations penniless. I picked up the photograph and searched the face, looking for something, anything that would offer some insight. There was nothing. Just the same beautiful features, the same winsome smile, the same exotic background. I did not replace it on the desk. Instead I tucked it carefully into one of the drawers. If nothing else, I did not want Brisbane to dispose of it in a fit of pique. For a stranger, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of antipathy on Brisbane’s part to the previous owner of his house.

And then, I realised what I ought to have known since the first conversation I had had with Ailith Allenby. Redwall was no stranger to Brisbane. They had been children together on this very moor, and whatever had passed between them, it angered Brisbane still.

A
fter a quiet luncheon taken by myself in the kitchen—Lady Allenby felt unwell, Hilda had disappeared onto the moor, and Ailith had sent word to Mrs. Butters not to expect her—I wanted nothing more than to get right out of the house. I buttoned myself into a snug coat of heathered green tweed and tucked a scarf of soft bottle-green wool into my collar. The day was not quite so cold and the wind had died to a dull murmur, like gossiping voices whispering over the moor. I left by the front door this time, skirting the reed-fringed pond. The front wall sheltered the pond from the wind, its green surface barely rippling. I heard a frog croak and then a little splash as I walked past. The reeds shivered where something had disturbed them, and I hastened my steps a little, making my
way around the ruined wing and onto a narrow path that led to a little copse of ash trees.

Just as I reached the edge of the copse, a shadow fell across the path and I started, my hand at my throat.

“’Tis only me, my lady. Thou art skittish as a new colt,” Godwin said, smiling as he came near, an axe swinging from his hand.

“Oh, no. You just startled me. I did not realise anyone was about. I have never taken this path before.”

“You’ll not get lost,” he promised. He pointed over his shoulder. “Tha’ way lies the gardener’s cottage where I sleep. Just beyond is the graveyard and the chapel ruins, and from there the path to the Bear’s Hut, but mind you don’t go tha’ far. Mr. Brisbane’s given orders it’s not to be disturbed while the repairs are being done.”

“The Bear’s Hut? Were there really bears kept there?”

“Aye, though tha’s quite before my time. ’Tis a cottage now, and has been for many a year. The roof is rotten through, and ’tis a dangerous place. When it is fitted up good and tight against the weather, ’twill be a fine home for the Allenby ladies. ’Tis quiet there and far from the bleating of the sheep.”

“Rather inconvenient lodgings for you at the gardener’s cottage,” I remarked, keeping my tone deliberately light. “So far from the moor and the flock.”

“Tha’ it is, particularly when the ewes are throwing lambs and the weather is grim, and it’s twice as broken-down as the Bear’s Hut. The wind fair roars through some nights, and I can hear my own name in it.” He paused a long moment, then hefted the axe in his hand. “I must be getting on,” he
said, edging around me on the narrow path. “If there is aught you need, make use of the cottage. Whatever I have is yours,” he added with a gallant little bow. There was a twinkle in his eye, and I waved in response, turning my back and setting off down the path without looking back. His manner was one that puzzled me exceedingly. He was friendly to the point of flirtation, but for what reason I could not fathom.

I was still turning over the question of Godwin’s familiarity when I rounded a bend in the copse and came upon the gardener’s cottage. The little stone house, which must once have been quite snug and handsome, was in a state of pitiful decay. Half of it had come down, although the other half, considerably newer by the look of it, seemed sturdy enough. Judging from its size, it would just admit a single room, enough for a bachelor’s needs, but whatever would they do if Godwin decided to marry?

But that was Brisbane’s problem, I realised with a little stab of annoyance. However high-handed he was about the Allenby ladies, Godwin was his responsibility as well, and I wondered if he meant to make any better accommodation for his farm manager. I moved on, thoroughly irritated now and beginning to get a little chilled. I had been optimistic in thinking it was growing warmer, or perhaps it was the trees that made a difference. The ashes had given way to larger trees, oaks and elders and a few conifers, planted thickly and blocking out much of the sunlight. It was much darker now, and I had the sensation of venturing into a faery-tale forest, one out of myth and perhaps populated with dangerous creatures. It seemed difficult to breathe in
that little wood, as if the trees themselves had robbed the place of air.

“Rubbish,” I said stoutly, tugging my coat more tightly about me and straightening my shoulders. “They are just
trees.
” I walked on for some distance, the path winding ahead of me, always turning one direction and then back on itself so I could never see far ahead. Suddenly, the path opened abruptly and I was in a large clearing on the edge of a hill, the ground sloping down and away toward a river. I took a deep breath and the feeling of constriction in my chest eased. It was peaceful, partially because of the gentle rushing of the river, for once drowning out the constant murmur of the moor wind, but also because of the little graveyard nestled against the stone wall of a chapel. The building itself was in ruins, only the barest structure remained, and a bit of tracery in a window where stained glass must once have been fitted. It was perfectly situated to capture the dying light of an afternoon, and I wondered what story had been memorialised there.

“It was King Alfred burning the cakes,” came a low voice from behind a gravestone. I turned to see Ailith rising, holding her cloak tightly about her. She nodded toward the broken stone frame in the chapel wall. “Not appropriate for a chapel, really, but the Allenbys never wanted anyone to forget whence we came,” she remarked, picking her way over the stones to where I stood.

“A lovely spot,” I remarked, nodding toward the sloping hill and the pretty sweep of the river as it tumbled over the rocks.

“One of the prettiest in Yorkshire,” she agreed. “It is no surprise our family chose to bury its dead here rather than
build a house for the living.” The words were laced with wistfulness and I wondered if she knew precisely how much the Allenbys had lost.

She stepped forward, lifting a graceful hand to gesture toward the ruined chapel. “There was an arched roof there, and even a few tiny flying buttresses to support it. It was meant to be a cathedral in miniature. It was quite a work of art in its day. I am told architects used to come from all over Europe to study it.”

We began to walk, choosing our steps carefully amidst the broken stones. “What happened to it?”

She led me around to where the interior of the chapel must once have stood, and I gasped. The stones here were scorched deeply.

Ailith shook her head sadly. “That is what your neighbours will do when a family insists upon sheltering priests.”

I put out a tentative hand to touch the blackened stones. “The villagers did this?”

“In the time of Elizabeth. Our family had known some prominence during the reign of the first Mary, but with her death, our hopes for a Catholic restoration were dashed.” She nodded toward the chapel stones. “The queen sent agents north, ferreting out all of the recusants they could find. They tore houses apart looking for them. Sometimes local people helped in order to curry favour. Here, the villagers decided to take matters into their own hands. After they found the priest’s hole in the house and dragged our poor priest screaming from its sanctuary, they turned him over to the queen’s men. He was burned alive.”

I started at her mention of the priest’s hole, but she went
on, her face expressionless as her voice. She was reciting a story she had been told, but its horrors did not touch her.

“After they had burned the priest and all the Roman articles of worship, they burned the chapel. They dared not lay hands on the family, but they destroyed everything we held most dear. The statues of saints, the Alfred chapel, the tapestries depicting the life of the Virgin Mother. All were destroyed.”

“That is dreadful,” I told her, trying and failing to imagine the peaceful people of Blessingstoke ever turning upon Father or laying a hand against his estate at Bellmont Abbey. But then, Father had always looked to their benefit, and I wondered not for the first time at the antipathy that seemed to exist between the Allenbys and the villagers who ought to have owed them a livelihood.

Ailith turned then and left the shelter of the ruined chapel. “Come, Lady Julia. I should like to show you something,” she called over her shoulder. I obeyed, coming to stand beside her where she had paused in front of a gravestone. Unlike the other Allenby monuments, some grand, all beautiful, with weeping angels or statues of saints, this was a plain slab, the chiselled words sharp and black against the dark grey stone.

Sir Redwall Allenby 1848-1887

Let not be shut in my soul

Let not be fettered my shadow

Let be opened the way for my soul and for my shadow

May it see the great god.

 

A gay little bundle of daffodils rested on the stone, and I knew Ailith had laid them there. She nodded toward the in
scription. “It is an Egyptian funerary text. Redwall used to read me poetry sometimes, and funny little fables. But once he read to me a darker book, one that spoke of death and the passage of the afterlife. I remembered it, and told them to carve it into his gravestone. He was ill when he came home from Egypt, you know. I think his travels destroyed him. I think he knew he would not leave this place.”

Her cool composure had not deserted her—her voice did not tremble, nor did her calm gaze waver—but I saw her hands tighten until the knuckles went quite white. I had never pitied her more. She had lost her beloved brother, and as nearly as I could surmise, had no idea that he had arranged to leave her penniless. It seemed likely she had never seen the macabre little relics hidden in the priest’s hole either. They had been close then, as I was to my own brothers, but he had only permitted her to know that much of his business as it suited him to reveal. I longed to ask her about the financial arrangements at Grimsgrave, or about the gruesome little mummies, but when I turned to her, I saw the beginnings of a tear shimmer on her lashes. I could not do it.

I pressed her arm instead and offered her a kindly smile. “It is a lovely quote, and a fitting one for a gentleman who was so devoted to his studies.”

Ailith nodded and blinked furiously. Ever mindful of her dignity, she would not weep, not in front of me, and I tactfully bent over and pretended to fuss with my bootlace to give her time to compose herself.

I wandered to the next stones, a series of small markers, identical down to the tiny cherub carved in each.

“Those were Mama’s,” Ailith said, coming up behind me.
“She calls them her ‘disappointments.’ Most of them were born after Redwall and I, one came after Hilda.”

“How tragic,” I breathed. “There must be five, no, six of them.”

Ailith nodded. “Yes, all of them dead at birth. Mama said they were taken justly, as a punishment for her sins, hers and Father’s.”

There seemed no possible response to that. I knew the notion was a popular one, but I had little use for any divinity that would punish innocents for the crimes of their parents. I bent and put a fingertip to the last in the row, the smallest cherub in the graveyard, barely larger than my palm. It was beautifully carved, and I wondered if it had given any comfort to Lady Allenby, or if she denied herself the solace of visiting her children’s graves.

After a moment I straightened and we left the little graveyard together. The wood seemed friendlier now that I had a companion, and as we walked, Ailith pointed out the things I had missed—a clump of violets blossoming in a bit of moss, a pretty bird with red wings I had never seen before. I did not take note of its name, but she seemed very knowledgeable about the creatures of the small wood, and I complimented her on her understanding of the wild things.

“It is my kingdom,” she said, her voice lightly mocking. “The wood, the graveyard, the moor. There is not an inch of it I do not know, not a foot of it I do not command.”

We had passed Godwin’s cottage and were just emerging from the wood onto the moor path back to the Hall.

“Do you not wish to travel? Have you never been to London?”

“What could I possibly desire there?” she demanded. “A dirty city full of strangers?” She drew a great deep breath of moorland air. “Everything I require is here.”

I thought of her sister, running away from Grimsgrave with the travelling artist, her brother venturing to faraway lands, even Hilda, retreating into her books, and it seemed sad to me that Ailith had been nowhere, had seen nothing.

But just then the path turned and I could see Grimsgrave, and for an instant I saw it, not as it was—an age-blackened house falling to ruin—but as it had been, a gracious and elegant manor house, lording its austere beauty over an even more austere and beautiful moor. And I thought of the unbroken line of the Allenby family, stretching back in time, tethered by the blood of kings, and I marvelled that they had held their little domain for so long. Viewed in that light, it seemed tragic that it had slipped from their grasp.

I paused on the path and Ailith turned, her expression quizzical. “It is a fine view,” I told her, nodding toward the house.

“Very little to admire now,” she commented without rancour. She might have been a property agent assessing an investment. “But it was once magnificent. There was a painting over the fireplace in the dining room, commissioned just after the east wing was added, and it was a very good likeness, my grandmother used to say. She knew the house before the wing crumbled. Hers was the last generation to know the house whole.”

Ailith began to describe it for me as her grandmother must have done for her: ladies trailing silken hems over the wide lawns, swans gliding gracefully over the glassy pond,
gentlemen in velvet breeches waving plumed hats as they spurred blooded horses home from the moor.

“They did not mix with the neighbours, you understand,” Ailith told me carefully, “but they hosted parties for their cousins and more distant relations. That is how the masters of Grimsgrave chose their brides and kept the bloodline of Allenby unblemished. Not a single bride was ever taken who did not bear some strain of Allenby blood.”

I raised a brow, but did not comment. Father had often said that the wild eccentricity of the Marches was due to too many generations of close breeding. He had insisted upon tracing my mother’s ancestry for twenty generations to prove they shared no kin. “Fresh blood,” he always said, “is the key to good breeding, in horses or in children. Someone ought to tell the queen that,” he would invariably add. He did not approve of the heavy concentration of German blood in the royal family, and I doubted he would approve the Allenbys either.