Silent on the Moor (19 page)

I
woke much later in my own bed, blinking against the flicker of the candle at the bedside. From his cage in the corner, Grim quorked worriedly, flapping a dark wing in my direction. I stirred, feeling a warm hand over mine, a hand I knew as well as my own.

“Portia?” My voice was a mere croak, but it was enough to rouse her. She lay next to me, fully dressed and on top of the coverlet, ready to rise at a moment’s notice. She smiled sleepily, but the smile did not erase the new marks of fatigue upon her lovely features.

“It is quite time you woke, slugabed,” she chided. She put a hand to my brow, her expression anxious. After a moment she relaxed. “No fever then. You gave us a bit of a scare, you know.” Her tone was light, but there was a thread of unmis
takable emotion. She had been afraid, afraid enough to return from London.

I moved to rise, but she pushed me firmly back against the pillow. “He is resting now. You have not lost him,” she told me, her voice thick with emotion.

I felt something tight and painful in my chest ease. “What of Jane?” I asked.

A shadow passed over her face, and she said shortly, “She is gone. I do not wish to speak of it.”

I nodded, my head feeling thick and woolly. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days, more or less,” she told me.

“Two days!” I made to rise again, but Portia’s arm and a wave of giddiness thwarted me.

“You fainted when Brisbane came around, and Rosalie thought it best to force you to rest. She dosed you with one of her potions and Brisbane sent Godwin into Howlett Magna to telegraph me. Valerius and I came at once, Morag as well, of course.”

I sank back against the pillows. I felt boneless, weightless, and I wondered if my head would ever be entirely clear again.

“Brisbane?” I murmured.

“Mending quite nicely, according to Rosalie. Valerius has taken over the care of him, and said Rosalie could not have done better were she a proper doctor. She and Morag have been veritable dragons at keeping away visitors until he is fully recovered, and this morning he threw his soup plate at the wall.”

“A very promising sign,” I commented sleepily.

“It is indeed. Rosalie is plying him with all manner of tonics, and he is eating, although he says he is heartily sick
of soups and blancmanges. Apparently that is what precipitated his temper this morning.”

I struggled against the weight of sleep, forcing my eyes open. “Food. Who is preparing his food?” I clutched at Portia’s arm, but she soothed me.

“Minna is preparing it herself, and Morag is tasting everything before she will permit Brisbane to so much as lift his spoon. Valerius thought it a sensible precaution under the circumstances.”

I would have laughed at the notion of Morag serving as taster to Brisbane were the situation not so horrifying.

Grim quorked again and I waved a hand at him. “Good morning, Grim.”

“Good morning,” he returned politely. “Sweetie.”

I motioned to the box beneath his cage. “Toss a few of those violet creams in the cage for him, will you, dearest?”

Portia obeyed, but with an expression of distaste. Grim’s manners were impeccable, save when it came to enjoying his food. He tore at the little sweetmeats savagely, and Portia pulled a face.

“I always think he’d prefer a nice, juicy mouse,” she commented.

“By all means, go catch him one. What of Lady Allenby?” I asked finally.

“Withdrawn to her room. She confessed the deed at once, and took to her chamber. She will see no one, and when Brisbane is recovered, he will take the matter in hand. Hilda is hiding out with her chickens and will not speak to any of us, she is so horrified. Ailith has apologised perhaps a hundred times, and Godwin says he can manage the estate
perfectly until Brisbane is fully himself again. They have all been quite human about the whole thing, really. I do rather feel sorry for Hilda. She is quite changed. All her old arrogance is gone. Even Valerius cannot make her talk. He plans to build her a nice new henhouse to make her feel better when Brisbane is recovered.”

Portia continued to talk, but her words flowed together, soothing and soft, and after a few minutes, I heard nothing more.

I woke the next morning, feeling as if I had slept a hundred years. I longed for a bath and I was ravenously hungry. Morag carried up an enormous plate of eggs and bacon and devilled kidneys with toast and a steaming pot of tea. There were no mushrooms, I noted with a grateful shudder. I doubted I would ever be able to eat them again. I applied myself with vigour to my breakfast, and by the time I had wiped the last crumb from my plate, I was feeling entirely myself again.

I washed and dressed and emerged. Lady Allenby’s door was closed, and I wondered if she were still immured in her room. I found Portia with Brisbane. He was propped up in bed, neatly dressed in a clean nightshirt, arms tightly locked about his chest as Portia endeavoured to cut his hair and Valerius attempted to take his pulse.

“Brisbane, honestly. You look quite a pirate. Now, if you will just let me trim a lock here and there, I can make you thoroughly respectable,” she argued. She advanced toward him with scissors, and he held up a hand.

“I may not yet have regained my full strength, but if you
so much as lay a single blade on my head I will have Puggy stuffed and mounted to hang over my fireplace,” he told her, his eyes glinting coldly. I blinked back sudden tears. I had not imagined it would be so moving to see him alive and in a foul mood, but I had come to accept that I would rather have Brisbane in a savage temper than any other gentleman with perfect manners.

“Portia, do you mind?” Valerius asked sharply. “I am trying to assess his condition, and you are agitating him.”

“I would not agitate him if he would give in,” Portia pointed out reasonably.

“Now, children,” I said briskly. “No need to fuss. Brisbane, if you wish to go about looking like Heathcliff that is your affair. Leave him be, Portia.” She subsided, and Val shot me a grateful look as he applied himself to Brisbane’s pulse.

I glanced at the hearth where Mr. Pugglesworth was resting on his favourite cushion and emitting foul smells. “Ah, Puggy. I thought I smelled something decaying. Well, I am glad you’ve brought him, Portia. He will be on hand when Florence is delivered of his offspring.”

I had not had the chance to write the news to her, and Portia blinked at me in surprise. “Mr. Pugglesworth is going to be a father? Are you quite sure?”

“As sure as ever I would want to be,” Morag told her sourly from the doorway. She entered bearing a tray with a pretty little dish of custard and a soup plate of beef tea. Brisbane looked pointedly at the dark smear on the wall, the souvenir of his earlier displeasure.

“Morag, unless there is something on that tray I can chew, do not bother to come any farther.” Morag sniffed and put
the food on the hearth. Puggy hefted himself off of his cushion and sniffed at the custard before putting his front paws into the dish and lapping it up.

Val sat back with a decided air of satisfaction. “Strong and steady. Mrs. Smith, I have the utmost respect for your methods.”

Rosalie was sitting in the little chair by the fireplace, knitting a sock of purple and scarlet wool, Rook curled quietly at her feet, occasionally looking with interest at Puggy’s plate of custard.

“A bit of beef, well cooked and the broth thickened with blood, that is what you need now,” she told Brisbane. “Do you not agree?” she asked Val.

He preened a little at her tact. “I will tell Minna,” he said, rising and taking his leave.

Rosalie stood as well, tucking her knitting into her pocket. “I will tell Minna to bring an egg also, soft-boiled, and a glass of good wine to build your blood.”

She turned to me as she passed and put a hand to my cheek. “You are well now.”

“Yes. Thank you, Rosalie,” I told her. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “For everything.”

“We will talk later,
chavvi,
” she said. She left us then, and Rook moved to sit at Brisbane’s side, his shaggy head tucked under Brisbane’s hand. Portia settled into Rosalie’s abandoned chair, rubbing at Puggy’s back with her slippered foot. Bits of hair and dandruff littered the cushion and I looked away, feeling rather queasy. Brisbane was watching me closely as he stroked Rook’s ears, and I felt suddenly shy of him. I thought of all I had said to him, baring my soul and
telling him things I could not imagine ever saying again in the clear light of day. My cheeks burned and I looked away.

“It is there, the book with the green kid cover,” he said suddenly, his voice cool. He nodded toward the stack of books that had been tidied into a teetering pile next to the bed.

I blinked at him. “What is?”

“The catalogue,” he said with the merest sigh of impatience.

I retrieved it, willing him not to remember what I had whispered to him in his unconsciousness. I opened it to find a catalogue, perfectly organised and exact in its details.

“Ah,” I said. “A fair sight better than what I was about, I can promise you. If I may borrow this, I can at least compare the current collection with this and see if anything is missing.”

He nodded, and as I made to rise, he put out his hand, clamping it tightly about my wrist. “I ought to thank you,” he said softly. “If you had not acted so quickly and so decisively, I would be dead.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it and shrugged. “It was Minna who found you. And Rosalie who knew what to do. They deserve your thanks, not me.”

I left him then, clutching the book to my chest like a shield. He had not remembered then, and I was unutterably relieved. And dismayed. I had found the courage to tell him precisely what I felt for once. I did not think I could do so again.

Portia followed me from Brisbane’s room, cuddling Puggy under her chin. I left the catalogue on Redwall’s desk in the study, and without discussion, Portia and I took up wraps and made our way into the fresh air and sunshine of the garden. It was the warmest day yet during our time in York
shire, and I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun when we stopped to a little bench in the orchard.

“It was a very near thing for him,” Portia commented.

I opened my eyes and nodded. “Closer than you know. I thought—”

“I know,” she said, covering my hand with her own briefly. She stroked Puggy’s ears, cooing to him over his wheezing. “But why? Why should Lady Allenby want to poison Brisbane?”

I shook my head. “I am not certain, but I think it has to do with this house and with Redwall Allenby. Brisbane knew him when they were boys, and they did not get on. When Brisbane talked of him, there was a venom there, a hatred I have never seen in him.” I quickly explained to her the terms of the sale of Grimsgrave and the precariousness of the Allenby fortunes.

“But killing Brisbane would not solve her difficulties,” Portia pointed out. “Presumably his estate would pass to his heirs, whoever they may be. Perhaps Monk,” she suggested, referring to Brisbane’s trusted man of affairs and sometime valet. “Good God, where
is
Monk? Brisbane hasn’t mentioned him, and I didn’t think to ask. He ought to have been here, having a care for Brisbane.”

“He is engaged upon a case. I do not know where, but I do not think he has been here since Brisbane took up residence at Grimsgrave, although he ought to be,” I finished waspishly.

Portia shook her head. “Be fair, Julia. Brisbane had no notion he was in danger here, and if he did not suspect, how could Monk have known? Now, who besides Monk might benefit should Brisbane die?”

I shrugged. “Hortense de Bellefleur. He has paid her an al
lowance for twenty years. It would be like him to want to take care of her even after his death.” It remained an interesting development that my father’s dearest companion should have been Brisbane’s first mistress. Though Brisbane and Hortense had concluded their liaison before Brisbane had even turned twenty, he still counted her a dear friend, as did I.

Portia pursed her lips. “I suppose. Or he could leave everything to you.”

I gaped at her. “To what purpose? I have more money than Croesus. Brisbane knows that. He would not be so senseless. He would leave his assets to those who could best profit from them.”

Portia and I fell silent, pondering the implications of the attack on Brisbane.

“Of course,” I said slowly, “there are the Allenby daughters. Ailith claimed she was Brisbane’s first love, and Hilda was quite forthright about her intentions to marry him to regain her home.” Quickly I related the details of these new revelations to Portia.

She was thoughtful, stroking Puggy’s swayed back. “I wonder. What if Lady Allenby knew of Hilda’s scheme?”

“I know she did. I told her myself.”

“Aha!” Portia jumped, unsettling Puggy. He puffed out an annoyed sigh and she settled him down again. “You told Lady Allenby that Hilda meant to marry Brisbane. What if she opposed the match?”

“But she told me she did not believe anything would come of it,” I argued.

“So she told you,”
Portia echoed meaningfully. “Just because she said it, does not mean she believed it. What if
she knew of Hilda’s intentions, and feared that Brisbane
would
marry her? The Allenbys do not marry outside their own semi-royal blood, do they? Lady Allenby might have viewed such an arrangement as the grossest
lèse-majesté.
Who is to say what steps she might take to prevent it?”

“Preposterous,” I said roundly. “She had only to remove Hilda from his house.”

“Which she has not the means to do,” Portia rejoined.

“Then she would have been better off waiting until they
had
married. Then Hilda would have inherited the Hall and the Allenbys would once more be masters of their own domain.”

“But that would have polluted the Allenby line,” Portia argued. “What if Hilda conceived a child in that time? The Allenby blood would have been tainted with his.”