The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (95 page)

“It was that way for me. I was the eldest, and I was a disappointment. Both of my parents were certain I would be a boy, an heir for Allenby. And when Redwall was born, I was dispensable.”

Such was the legacy of primogeniture upon the female psyche, I reflected bitterly.

“And when Ailith was born?”

“Oh, more disappointment, of course. They would have liked another son to secure the line, but she was so beautiful, even from birth. It was as if everything pure and lovely in the Allenby blood had been perfected in her. I never saw a more striking child, although truth be told, Redwall was extraordinarily handsome himself. Hilda was nothing but an
afterthought. No one ever paid her much attention. I was the odd one out,” she said with a wry smile. “With a peasant’s face and a sturdy gait, always with an argument or a truculent mood. My mother despaired of ever making a lady of me. All I cared about were books. I thought for awhile that Redwall and I might be good friends because we shared a love of learning, but he had no use for me.”

The words were spoken conversationally, with no regret, no bitterness. A simple recitation of facts that must have wounded her deeply at the time.

“The truth is Redwall was so obsessed with anything Egyptian. He simply could not be educated in any other subjects. Father ran off a dozen tutors for failing to teach him simple mathematics. He was a stubborn boy. I think being fussed over, having so much made of him as the heir, rather ruined his character. He was not always a pleasant child, and Ailith always followed where he led.”

I thought of the mummified children hidden behind the chimney and wondered if Sister Bridget knew precisely how unpleasant her brother could be.

“He was given to playing pranks, and I am sorry to say, the tricks were usually cruel ones, at someone else’s expense. He stole the note I left for Mama, explaining my decision to join a convent. He told her I had eloped with an artist.”

“That is monstrous,” I breathed.

Sister Bridget shrugged. “He did a dozen things worse, I am certain. He was angry that I left, that I was willing to reject the Allenby name and all that it stood for, and he wanted to hurt me. He thought that maligning my reputation would be the best way, but in truth, it was the only
weapon he had. He could not harm me. I was in a convent. All he could do was spread gossip about me, and I was immune to his venom.”

“But Lady Allenby, she must have been quite devastated. The thought of her daughter taking the veil might have given her some comfort. At least, the comfort of knowing you were safe and happy.”

“Oh, Redwall would not have cared about that. He was angry with Mother because she would not give him the funds to go to Egypt. It was before he attained control of the estate, under the terms of Father’s will. He was dependent upon Mother for everything then, and I think it galled him to have to ask for every last farthing. He was angry with her, angry with me. It was a rather efficient little revenge really.”

“And has Lady Allenby never learned the truth? Even now?”

Sister Bridget shrugged. “I do not know. If Redwall confided in anyone, it would have been Ailith, and she would never have gone against his authority, even after his death.”

“Why did you never tell Lady Allenby yourself? You might have written.”

She gave a short, unpleasant little laugh. “My dear lady, you clearly did not know Redwall. He collected the post himself. He wrote to me once, and only once, to tell me what he had done and to assure me that it was futile to think of writing to Mother because she wanted nothing to do with me.” She gave me an apologetic look. “I was younger then, and I believed him. I went to the head of my order for guidance, and she counselled me not to write, as thinking on my temporal family would only serve to interfere with my conventual life. For the most part I obeyed,” she said
with a wry little twist of the lips. “But once or twice I did send a letter, appealing to Redwall’s better nature. Unfortunately, he did not have one.”

I thought of the note in his diary about correspondence from
SB.
Sister Bridget, the sister who had renounced all material wealth and the legacy of the Allenby name.

“What a beastly young man,” I said, forgetting for a moment that he had been her brother.

She smiled. “He had his moments. But you must recollect I intended to leave the world behind in any event. The convent was my home, and that was where attention must be paid.”

I must have seemed dubious, for she touched my arm lightly.

“I would not have you think entirely ill of my brother. Redwall could be quite charming as well. And so generous. I remember once when I found a bird, a young pheasant with a broken wing, Redwall helped me to bring it home and care for it. When it died, I sobbed over it for days and Redwall promised to bury it for me, so that I should not have to do it myself. He saved me one beautiful feather from its plumage. And another time, when I was sent to bed without supper for some childish transgression, Redwall threw his own supper out the window, and Ailith’s as well, and said if I did not eat, neither would they.”

She leaned toward me, her tone conspiratorial. “I would have preferred if he had just shared his, but that was Redwall. He always liked a grand gesture, and Ailith was always so content to play the consort, pretty and docile and standing in the shadows. And poor little Hilda, always overlooked.”

She sank into a reverie for a moment, and the silence stretched between us, comfortable and peaceful. After several minutes, she collected herself and smoothed her habit.

“I am sorry. I am unaccustomed to talking so much. It fatigues me, in a way I did not expect. I am responsible for the gardens at the abbey, and I often spend whole days in silent contemplation.”

“What a lovely thought,” I told her. “I will leave you now. Is there anything I can do to make you comfortable while you wait?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I would like only a little solitude, if that could be arranged. A few moments of contemplation would be most useful.”

I nodded and went to the door. I lingered a moment as I pulled it closed, watching Sister Bridget, the prodigal daughter come home. She slid to her knees, but did not cross herself, and unlike her mother, she did not finger her rosary. Instead her eyes were fixed on the tapestry where her name had been so carefully unpicked until only a single golden thread remained to show she had ever been born.

I went to the kitchen to find Portia and Mrs. Butters chatting soberly over cups of tea. Ailith was nowhere to be found, and I took the opportunity to apprise the others of Sister Bridget’s identity.

“Bless my soul,” said Mrs. Butters, her face alight. She had been sunk in gloom since Lady Allenby’s confession, but the prospect of seeing Sister Bridget roused her like the arrival of the prodigal son. “Miss Wilfreda come home. ’Tis like she were raised from the dead, like tha’ fellow, oh, what were his name?” She frowned, drumming her fingers on the table.

“Lazarus?” Portia hazarded.

“Tha’ is the one!” Mrs. Butters beamed. “You are clever,
my lady. Yes, indeed. I had thought her dead, I did, for many a year. What a turn it will give the mistress to see her alive again. And to go and live with her in the convent, I cannot imagine it.”

“Yes, quite the coincidence,” Portia remarked, arching a brow at me significantly. I gave a quick, sharp shake of the head to silence her, but I might not have bothered. Mrs. Butters was off again.

“Always loved my plum cakes, did Miss Wilfreda. I have just one put by in the larder. Oh, I must go and see to it. I left it a few days past now, and I do hope the moths have not got at it.”

She hurried away and Portia blinked at me. “Moths? Isn’t it too early for moths?”

“Portia, never mind about the moths.” I darted a glance at the door. “You must meet her before she leaves. She is quite something. I spent quarter of an hour in her company and felt so peaceful, I think I might well join an order on the way back to London.”

“I shall forward your post and adopt your pets, shall I?” my sister asked.

“Yes, and you may have all of my clothes,” I told her generously.

Portia snorted. “Your clothes? I would sooner give them to Florence to use as birthing cloths.”

“They were all made by
your
dressmakers,” I reminded her, but she waved a hand and I lapsed into a sulky silence.

Just then Brisbane entered, fully dressed in a fine black coat and a black silk neckcloth wound tidily about his throat. His shirt was neatly buttoned, and although his hair
would never be orderly, it was less tumbled than usual. He was paler than I would have liked, and there were new hollows carved beneath his cheekbones. He had lost weight through his ordeal, although I noticed his coat still tugged across the width of his shoulders.

“Where is she?” he asked without preamble.

“The old great hall, as you asked. She wanted a few moments of solitude, to pray I think. Brisbane, you ought to know, Sister Bridget was Wilfreda Allenby. She is Lady Allenby’s eldest daughter.”

“I know,” he said, shooting his cuffs.

I stared at him, and Portia merely sipped at her tea, looking from me to Brisbane with avid interest. I think she smelled a quarrel brewing between us.

“Kindly explain,” I directed him.

“I know Sister Bridget is Wilfreda Allenby,” he said slowly. “I have known it for months. I traced her whereabouts some time ago and was already in communication with the abbess in Dublin. When it became necessary to remove Lady Allenby, it was a simple matter to arrange it.”

My mouth was agape and he huffed an impatient sigh. “For God’s sake, Julia, how do you think I managed to arrange this so quickly from a sickbed? I am a competent man, but I am no conjurer.”

“How very clever you are,” I said sweetly. “And how stupid of me not to have known, but then you take great delight in amusing yourself with my silliness, don’t you, Brisbane?”

His lips tightened. “Julia Grey, I have no intention of quarrelling with you now. Nothing I have done was with the thought of making you feel foolish. In fact, nothing I have
done has anything to do with you. Now I am telling you, leave it be.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out. I turned to Portia, fairly sputtering in my rage.

“That is why I gave up men,” she said ruefully. “They can be so very difficult.”

“I was packing to leave when he fell ill,” I confessed. “I was through with him, with his tricks and games, with all of it. I was quite shattered when I thought he would die. I thought it would change things. Clearly, it has not. I suppose I ought to leave now.”

Portia tipped her head quizzically. “I thought there were mysteries afoot here? Questions unanswered? Puzzles undetected? You cannot really expect me to believe you would rather leave here, not knowing the truth.”

I recognised the tone. She was cajoling, the way she had always done when she wanted something of me and suspected bullying would not work.

“Stop it, Portia. Don’t you want to go back to London, too?”

She went white to the lips, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. “Not now. Jane is gone, Julia. Forever. I have nothing to hold me in London, and in fact, I rather think a diversion might be quite welcome at present.”

“Portia,” I murmured, reaching for her hand. She let me pet her a moment, then drew herself up briskly, tucking her emotions away.

“So, what is it to be? Shall we endeavour to sleuth about and lay some of the ghosts of Grimsgrave Hall, or shall we slink back to London like whipped dogs?” She thrust out her hand.

I pulled a face, but clasped her hand in mine to seal the
bargain. “Very well. We will stay until it is finished,” I told her, not entirely happy about the arrangement. God only knew what fresh humiliations Brisbane could conjure for me. But knowing that I had meant to leave him gave me a little more power than I had had before. I made a mental note to keep my trunk packed in any event.

T
he departure of Lady Allenby was accomplished with a great deal less excitement than I would have expected. Godwin had told Ailith and Hilda of their sister’s arrival, and the ladies met in the entry hall where we had all assembled to bid farewell to Lady Allenby. Ailith embraced her sister with warmth, but Hilda greeted Bridget awkwardly, and I realised that they had not seen one another since Hilda was a young girl. It was a sober moment.

Valerius came to stand in the shadows next to Portia, and I took the place next to them. Mrs. Butters was weeping softly into her apron as her mistress descended the great carved staircase for the last time. Lady Allenby was dressed in one
of her usual wide gowns of deepest black, a rosary at her belt. Ailith had packed for her, the smallest bag imaginable, with the few things she would need for the journey. Once at the convent, God and the good sisters would supply her needs.

To my astonishment, Brisbane himself had gone to fetch Lady Allenby from her room. I do not know what words they may have exchanged, only that she leaned heavily upon him as they moved down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, she turned to him, her impressive height bringing her very nearly eye-to-eye with him.

“You have shown me more compassion than I deserve, Nicholas Brisbane,” she said, her imperious voice softened by something that sounded like gratitude. “One day, when you have need of it the most, and deserve it the least, God will repay you.”

He gave her a short, sharp nod and in that instant she raised one gnarled hand to make a quick sign of the cross over his bent head.

She turned instantly, lifting her chin and surveying the rest of the assembled company. “Of the dark deeds done in this house, I say only this, that I am responsible, and I will spend the rest of my life atoning for them, and begging God’s benevolent mercy upon my poor sinner’s heart. And although God has no cause to listen to a transgressor whose failings are legion, I will pray for each of you in the long dark evening of my life.”

The words were purest melodrama, but they seemed heartfelt, and oddly touching as well. As she passed, Lady Allenby gave each of us a brief nod, as if committing our faces to memory. It felt strange then, to know I would never see her again. In spite of what horrors she had perpetrated,
I felt a surge of pity for her, and I hoped that her convent would be a place of refuge and repentance for her.

She said nothing to her daughters. There was a sigh of recognition when she looked upon the plain, placid features of Sister Bridget, and I suspected Brisbane had told her of Wilfreda’s return. She lingered a moment before Ailith and Hilda, her expression as sorrowful as the Christ before which she knelt each day, and I knew she must be grieving for how thoroughly she had failed them. She was leaving them adrift in the world whilst she found a safe haven in her Irish convent, and I wondered if she would ever forgive herself for that. And more to the point, if her daughters would.

Sister Bridget took charge of her then, and it was Ailith who shut the door behind them. Hilda, her complexion reddened from wind and emotion, dashed angry tears from her cheeks and turned to me as if to speak. But she turned instead and fled to the garden, slamming the door as she went. Valerius followed hard upon her heels, and I hoped she would take some comfort in his company. He was seldom tactful, but his intentions were always good.

Ailith said nothing. She merely shook her head sorrowfully and looked neither to the left nor right as she slowly ascended the stairs.

“Those poor girls,” Portia breathed. “Whatever will become of them now?”

I shrugged. “They will go to live in the Bear’s Hut with Mrs. Butters, and that will be the end of them.”

That afternoon I walked across the moor to Rosalie’s cottage. Portia stayed behind, pleading a headache, and I was
secretly glad of it. I was eager for some fresh air and I wanted to talk to Rosalie alone. She opened the door before I even put my hand to the little gate in the stone wall, as if she had been expecting me.

“Good afternoon, lady,” she said, stepping aside. The cottage was as tidy and cosy as ever, but I noticed her hearthrug was empty. I mentioned it to her.

She gave a shrug. “Rook prefers Brisbane’s company, so I let him go where he pleases. He may return, he may stay at the Hall. It is no matter.”

I was glad she introduced the subject of Brisbane, for I had not yet fixed how to go about learning what I wanted to know.

“You were marvellous when he was ill,” I told her. She gave me a fathomless, familiar look.

“I think we will need something stronger than tea for this chat, eh, lady?” She went to the beautifully painted cupboard and took out two tiny glasses, thin as paper and decorated with a design of Venetian gilt. She took out a bottle as well, dark green and felted with dust. When she had poured us each a glass of thick, amber liquid, she lifted hers to me in silent salute. I returned the gesture and sipped, gasping a little as the liquid slipped down like molten glass.

“What is this?” I asked when I recovered my breath.

“A mixture of my own making. Brandy, and a few other special things.”

“Very tasty,” I remarked, taking another sip, this one smaller and I took the time to roll it over my tongue, tasting honey and something more elusive.

She drained her glass and poured another for each of us,
then sat forward, resting her elbows on the gaily-printed tablecloth. “You’ve questions in your eyes. Ask them.”

“I hardly know where to begin.”

“At the beginning, child.”

I took another sip, feeling its warm Dutch courage suffusing my bones. “When Brisbane was poisoned, Minna came to fetch me and I thought of the different means by which he may have come to harm. I thought of the mushrooms of Lady Allenby and Godwin’s arsenic for dipping the sheep. And I thought of your poppy-red syrup, and I had no way of knowing which of the three of you might have wanted him dead.”

“You took a chance,” Rosalie said. “You are bold, Lady Julia.”

“I was not bold,” I confessed. “I was terrified. I knew if I made the wrong choice, he would die. It was that simple. And I chose you, without even knowing why. Until later, when I had long hours full of dreamless sleep, and I woke knowing what I ought to have pieced together before.”

I paused and she looked at me expectantly, her mouth curved into a faint smile.

“I chose you because I knew you would never harm your own kin. Brisbane is your nephew, isn’t he?”

The smile deepened. “He is. My poor little
chavvo.
Not quite a Gypsy, not quite a
gorgio.
When he was a child it made him very bitter. He used to say he would never fit into either man’s world, neither the Gypsy’s nor the
gorgio’s.
And I always told him it was because neither of those worlds was big enough to hold him. I taught him that he carried what was best of both inside him, and to be proud of what he was. Or I tried,” she finished with a sigh. “His mother, she was
not so kind to him. I have never known another woman so beautiful as my sister. But neither was there a woman as cruel as Mariah Young. She was many years older than I was, the eldest of our mother’s children, while I was the youngest. I was fifteen when he was born, and his mother wept and cursed him for being the son of a faithless man. Do you know about Black Jack Brisbane?”

“Good Lord, he sounds like a pirate.”

“He was no better. He took what did not belong to him, usually women. They came willingly, make no mistake, for he was the handsomest man I have ever known. Quite a match in looks for Mariah, and in temper. They were a tempestuous couple. They never lived together for more than two months running. Always the fighting, the screaming, the throwing of dishes and breaking of chairs. Always Mariah ran away and Jack would bring her back. Her brothers and cousins learned not to interfere. My own husband, John-the-Baptist, still carries a scar upon his neck from coming between them.”

“Jack stabbed him?” I breathed.

“Mariah,” she corrected with a grim nod. “Jack had been choking her, and John-the-Baptist thought to impress me with his bravery. We were not married then, but he thought I was pretty,” she recounted with a tiny smile. “He jumped into the fray and pulled Jack off of her. And quick as a cat, Mariah went for
him,
cutting him with the blade she carried in her skirt.”

She gave me a stern look. “Whatever
gorgios
say of us, you must believe that we are not all like that. We are a passionate people, but we do not like to fight. We are peaceful and
loving, but Mariah was always the devil’s child, and Jack was just the same. They were alike as brother and sister, the same faults, the same witch-black hair and the same peculiar way of looking right through a person. I always wondered if Black Jack’s mother was quite a lady, or if perhaps she had had an indiscretion with a travelling tinker,” Rosalie said with a meaningful lift of her eyebrows.

“In any event, by the time Nicholas was ten, he had had enough. His father tired at last of Mariah’s tricks and left them for good, and Nicholas had taken a lifetime of abuse from his mother. He did what any good Roma does when the welcome is a cold one. He packed his little bundle and he struck out on a new road and he did not look back. It was many years before I saw him again, years of loss and pain, for both of us.”

I waited, and she went on, speaking more to herself than to me. “They say the Roma came from Egypt, and that is why they are called Gypsies, that we came dancing out of the pharaoh’s lands, summoning our luck with magic spells and telling fortunes in teacups. That is a faery story for children. Even we do not know where we come from, but the Sight is a true gift, one that has been handed down for centuries, and for as long as the women of the Young family have travelled this isle, there have been those of the blood who knew things before they came to pass. Mariah was one of those. I was never blessed with the gift, but Mariah was exceptional. She could tell a woman was quick with child before she had even missed her courses. She could watch the way the moonlight fell on a man’s face and know he would die within a fortnight, and she passed her gift to Nicholas, the first male of our line ever to have the Sight.”

“He fights it,” I told her. “I have watched him struggle against it. He thinks—I don’t know—that it is superstition or something out of a story to frighten children with. He does not see it for the gift it is.”

“Many do not,” Rosalie pointed out. “Can you imagine what it must be, to know things before they happen, and yet so often be powerless to stop them?”

“He is not powerless,” I argued. “He could do a great deal of good if he only accepted the visions and acted upon them. Instead he fights them with all of his might, ending up with migraines so ferocious he doses himself with all sorts of monstrous things. I have seen him take absinthe and hashish, and God knows what else, all because he will not admit what he really is.”

“And what is he?” Rosalie prodded gently.

“The most extraordinary, maddening man I have ever known,” I said, feeling exhilarated and a little deflated at the same time.

“And you believe that just because you are willing to accept him for what he is, that others will be as broad-minded?”

I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. “Of course not. You are quite right. They would clap him in an asylum the first time he tried to tell anyone what he saw. I am a fool.”

She shook her head, the golden coins at her ears glinting in the light. “Not a fool. A woman in love, and that is a very near thing.”

“Am I so very obvious?”

She was kind enough not to laugh.

“Thank you for not answering,” I said with a touch of asperity.

We fell silent a moment and I was struck by how companionable it was. We were from very different worlds, Rosalie Smith and I, but we were kindred spirits.

“How did you know I was his aunt?” she asked finally.

I shrugged. “The initials on your knife. RY. I thought it stood for Yolande or some other second name, but then I realised it might well be your maiden name, Young. And then Godwin actually referred to you as Rosalie Young. I did not pay it mind at the time, but I thought of it later.”

She nodded. “I have known him since boyhood. He used to bring his pets to me to nurse them back to health.”

I shook my head. “I still cannot imagine that you have lived here so long.”

“Ever since Mariah died,” she said softly. “John-the-Baptist married me even though he knew I would never travel with him, not so long as Mariah’s boy was out there, lost in the world, with none of his kin to know him.”

I stared at her, scarcely comprehending what she had just said. “You have been here since Brisbane ran away? He ran away from here?”

“We were camped out on this very moor, just below Thorn Crag. Sir Alfred hated the Gypsies on his land, but he liked to keep us where he could watch what we did. He thought we would behave better under his thumb,” she told me, her eyes slanting maliciously. “We made more trouble here than any other two places combined. But Nicholas was not happy. He left here, running away, and Mariah went out of her head. There were legal troubles and she died of a broken heart. There was no one left to wait for him. The chemist had died and this cottage was vacant. Sir Alfred
agreed to rent it to John-the-Baptist and me, provided we marry in the church. We did, and I told John-the-Baptist to go on. I knew he could never leave the road, and I could not leave this place, not so long as there was a chance that Nicholas would come back and need to find his people.”

I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. It was perhaps the most extraordinary tale of sacrifice I had ever heard. I only wondered if Brisbane appreciated it.

“Did you never see him then? Not until he came to Grimsgrave in January?”

“Bless you, of course I did. He has come before, a dozen times since he was grown. He found me when he was barely twenty, and he insisted upon paying for the rent on this cottage himself, although if you ask him, he will deny it. He has been good to me.”