The Lady Julia Grey Bundle (101 page)

“I understand. Thank you,” I said, giving her a cordial nod. I walked around her then to the moor gate.

“Why do you care?” she called after me. “Let the dead bury the dead, or haven’t you heard that?”

I turned. “Yes, but I find they so often don’t.”

It was a cool, grey morning, the air freshening over the moor, the sort of weather that might burn away into glorious sunshine by noon, or might just as easily turn to lowering skies and thick, black clouds. Still, I hoped it would hold as I wished to speak with Valerius before I ventured out to Rosalie’s cottage. I made my way to the poultry yard to speak with my brother.

“Valerius!” I cried over the din of his hammering. He waved and dropped his hammer, barely missing his foot. His
face was grimy with dust from the chickens and he looked nearly as disreputable as Godwin usually did.

“I was hoping to speak with you and Portia,” he said. “I thought I could tell you both at the same time, but I suppose I will have to face you down separately.”

He looked serious, sober even, and I put out a hand. “Val, what is it? Are you ill?”

He smiled and linked his arm with mine, a rare gesture of affection. “No, I wanted to talk to you about Miss Hilda.”

I gave him a little pat. “Excellent. I came to discuss that very subject. I thought to give you a word of warning.”

His expression sobered. “Julia, I must stop you there, for I will hear no word against her. I have quite made up my mind. I mean to ask Miss Hilda to marry me.”

“Are you quite mad?” I asked, pulling my arm from his. “Val, you cannot. You hardly know the girl.”

“I know her well enough,” he countered roundly. “I know her character. She is honest, as honest as the earth. She has a good mind and—I know you will not believe it—but she can be quite funny at times.”

“And this is your basis for marriage? The most important decision you will ever make,” I argued.

His colour rose a little. “I can think of worse reasons to marry,” he said. If his words pricked like thorns, I believe it was unintentional.

I stared at the toes of my boots, torn. “I feel I ought to counsel you, to point out that marriage ought to be based on sounder reasons than those you offer.”

“Why don’t you then?” he asked.

“Because I am a fool. I know property and family and
common interests are supposed to be the pillars of a good match, but I cannot preach to you what I do not believe myself. I married for security and look what became of me. I was the Mistletoe Bough bride.”

Valerius’ warm hand closed over mine. “I am glad you understand.”

“I did not say that,” I warned him. “In fact, I object, strenuously, for the
opposite
reason. Val, you cannot take a wife so dispassionately, as if you were ordering soup from a menu. Life is far too long to spend it shackled with someone who does not—”

I broke off and looked away, suddenly embarrassed. He prodded me. “Someone who does not?”

“Someone who does not rouse your passions,” I said in a burst of bravado. “Tepid affection or an overdeveloped sense of chivalry are no proper reasons for marriage. Surely you must see that.”

He turned to me, mouth agape. “Chivalry? You think I mean to rescue her?”

“Of course you do. What other reason could there possibly be? Valerius, I have seen the dancers you admire. I know your tastes well enough. If you have ever kissed a girl who was not tiny and brunette and buxom, I will eat my basket.”

His cheeks wore a painful flush. “Bellmont was right about you. Your association with Brisbane has coarsened you. I cannot believe you would notice such things, much less speak of them.”

“Why?” I demanded. “Because I am a woman? What hypocrites you men are! You and Bellmont could happily spend an entire evening judging the opera chorus like a pair
of horse dealers, and yet I am vulgar because I am willing to speak of what you ought to know well enough. For God’s sake, Valerius, you have studied medicine! If you do not appreciate the fact that women have passions as well as you, then you are not fit to treat them.”

He swallowed hard, his jaw set. “This discussion has become both uncomfortable and unprofitable. I see no need to prolong it. I intend to offer my hand to Hilda Allenby.”

He turned on his heel and left me then, scattering chickens as he went. I hurried out onto the moor in a bad temper, an incipient headache lurking as I walked, hoping my interview with Rosalie would be more productive than either of my previous conversations.

As I drew nearer, I could hear a thin thread of violin music reaching out over the waving grasses of the moorland. It was a Gypsy tune, quick and lively, beckoning me onward. When I reached the wicket gate, Rosalie threw open the door, rosy and smiling.

“Lady, come and meet my husband!” I handed her the basket with my compliments, and she thanked me. She stepped back and I entered the cottage. Standing in front of the window was a Gypsy man of middling height, wiry and dark, with dancing black eyes and handsome features. There was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, and even a touch of flirtation as he drew his bow across the violin on one last, dancing note.

He was dressed in traditional Roma garb, with breeches tucked into soft leather boots to the knee, his shirt gaily patterned with checks and a scarlet handkerchief tied neatly about his neck. He wore a waistcoat, buttoned to show off
his trim waist, and he sported a pair of handsome, lush moustaches, liberally oiled.

When he saw me, he doffed his flat cap and swept a courtly bow. “Good day to you, my lady. I am John-the-Baptist Smith.”

I smiled and extended my hand. “How do you do? I am Lady Julia Grey.”

He smiled back at me, his teeth flashing beautifully white against his olive skin. “Oh, I know you, lady. My Rosalie tells me all.”

“Indeed? Then I shall be glad I have confessed to no crimes,” I said lightly.

Rosalie did not laugh, but her husband roared, slapping his knees. “Tea, Rosalie love,” he called, and she moved to put the kettle on.

“You should take Rook for a walk on the moor,” she told him when she had done. “He returned yesterday, and he is pining for some attention. The tea will be ready when you return.”

It was subtly done, but both John-the-Baptist and I knew it was an order, not a request. It amused me to find that Rosalie wielded such power in their relationship, but as John-the-Baptist took down his coat and whistled for the dog, I realised it was probably only because he permitted it.

“A singular fellow,” I commented when he had gone. “And a likeable one.”

“Indeed” was her only reply.

“It is a rare man who would consent to have a wife he could see only once or twice a year,” I said, keeping my tone casual.

She shrugged. “Some men would see it as a blessing. No one to nag constantly, no one to spend his money.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I rather think John-the-Baptist would prefer your presence, don’t you?”

She sat then, heavily, and gave me a sigh. It sounded like a breath of surrender, and I knew it was time to ask the questions I wanted answered.

“Why didn’t you tell me Sir Alfred Allenby was the man responsible for putting Mariah Young in gaol?”

Rosalie’s face had settled into lines of fatigue, or was it despair? There was something old and tired about her, and for the first time I realised how much of her youthful vigour was an illusion. There were spots on the backs of her hands, just a few, and there seemed to be more silver threads among the black of her hair.

“Yes, the Allenbys and the Youngs have a long history,” she said finally. “Our destinies were intertwined long ago, and even now we are not able to break free.”

“Of course you could,” I said sharply. “Brisbane has only to sell this place and you to go travelling with your husband. No one is keeping you here.”

Rosalie laughed, a dry, brittle, mirthless sound. “She does.
She
keeps me here. I swore an oath to her, and I am bound by it, as firmly as by the strongest iron chains.”

“Are you talking about Mariah? Rosalie, she has been dead for thirty years. You owe her nothing. If there ever was a debt or obligation, you have certainly paid it by now.”

She shook her head, her expression mournful. “You do not understand. The blood oath is a thing which cannot be broken,
must not
be broken. I am bound to remain here until it is done.”

“Until
what
is done?” I demanded, my frustration rising. I had had my fill of half truths and enigmatic tales.

But she merely shook her head again, turning her wedding ring round and round on her finger, the slender band of gold mellow in the firelight.

“It was my fault,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What was your fault?”

“Laudanum.” She spoke slowly then, each word delivered painfully, as if being wrenched from her. “She suffered so from the headaches. I wanted her to be free of it. I gave it to her the first time. But she took it so often, too often. And she needed more and more to keep the pain at bay. That last day, she needed it so desperately, and I would not get it for her. We quarrelled, and I told her if she needed it—” She broke off, closing her eyes, her hands fisted in her lap. “I told her if she needed it she would have to steal it herself.”

“Oh,” I breathed, finally understanding at long last the burden of guilt Rosalie Smith carried upon her shoulders.

She opened her eyes. They were tearless, but full of pain, and I hated myself a little for opening such wounds.

“She was seen, and when they made her turn out her pockets, there it was.”

She spread her hands helplessly, and I took one in my own. “Rosalie, it was not your fault. Mariah made her choices, and they were not good ones.” I thought for a fleeting moment of Brisbane and his devils, wondering if it was even possible for him to avoid his mother’s fate. I tightened my grip on her hand. “Rosalie, what is in the red syrup you gave to Brisbane? Is it poppy?”

She shook her head. “No. I would not give him syrup of poppy. He wanted it, but I knew it would destroy him. It is dan
gerous, the poppy—the hedge witch’s laudanum. I gave him a special mixture of lettuce and skullcap, with a little colouring of beetroot so he would think it made of poppy. It will soothe a headache and induce sleep, but it is not dangerous.”

I sagged in my chair, boneless with relief. “Thank God for that,” I murmured. “I threw his out. I thought it was poppy. If you have more, I ought to take it to him.”

“He has already been,” she told me. The kettle had begun to boil and she rose to prepare the tea, moving slowly, as a woman underwater. “He came this morning to fetch it.” She flicked me a sidelong glance. “You are meddlesome, Lady Julia. But from the best motives, I think.”

“Of course from the best motives,” I snapped. “I do not want anything to happen to him.”

She spooned leaves into the teapot and poured in the water. I noticed something else in there as well, a few starry borage flowers. I said nothing. I could use whatever courage I could find, I decided.

“Something has already happened to him,” Rosalie said, bringing the pot to the table. “He had a vision this morning, a gruesome one.”

I felt a cold prickle down my neck. I hated to think that my actions had caused Brisbane to suffer, no matter how maddening he could be.

“What sort of vision?” I asked, my voice unnaturally high. But I had already guessed.

“He saw Death, lady. Dressed in black and gliding over the moor, waiting to collect a new soul as the moon waxes full.”

Rosalie spoke then with all the theatricality of her people, imbuing each word with horror. She paused to allow the full
dread to overcome me, then poured out a cup and pushed it toward me.

Defiantly, I drank it off, scalding and bitter. “Then his visions are singularly useless,” I told her. “Death is everywhere.”

“Indeed,” she said, sipping at her tea, looking markedly more composed than she had a few moments before. “Death is everywhere. I only wonder if you will know him face-to-face,” she finished darkly. And then she smiled her slanted, enigmatic Gypsy smile, and I wondered if I liked her quite as much as before.

A
s soon as I left Rosalie’s cottage, I spied John-the-Baptist returning, Rook hard upon his heels, frisking in the soft heather. John-the-Baptist called a greeting and I paused on the path, waiting for him to join me.

“Tha women’s gossip is all finished?” he asked, smiling knowingly.

“Are women ever finished gossiping?” I asked by way of reply. Rook nuzzled my knee and I bent to pet his rough white head.

“The dog likes you. He doesn’t usually take to
gorgios,
” John-the-Baptist remarked.

“We are old friends now, Rook and I.” I straightened,
brushing the dog hairs from my skirts. “You must be very glad to see Rosalie again.”

He nodded. “Aye. It’s been too many years apart. But there’s an end to that.”

“You mean to take her with you this time?” I wondered if Rosalie knew that. She seemed perfectly content to remain where she was, mired in guilt and bound by a promise to her dead sister.

“I do,” he told me, folding his arms over his chest in a confident gesture I had seen so often upon his nephew. “This business here is done, or it will be soon.”

My hand stilled of its own accord. “You know this for a fact?” I wondered then if he had spoken to Brisbane, if perhaps he knew something more of Brisbane’s plans than his own aunt did.

“My sister has the sight. She told me this will be the end of things,” he said, his brows lowering ominously.

“Ah, yes. When the moon waxes full, I have heard,” I returned waspishly.

A small smile played about his lips, nearly hidden by his moustaches. “You do not believe in the sight?”

“Oh, no, I believe. I have seen it often enough to know its power. It would just be helpful if the sight could be more
specific,
” I complained.

John-the-Baptist gave a little snort of laughter, but said nothing.

“You knew Brisbane as a child,” I said suddenly, remembering Rosalie’s tale of how John-the-Baptist had intervened in a quarrel between Brisbane’s parents.

He gave a nod, and the kerchief at his neck fell an inch
or so, baring the flesh. I could see a thin white line, the legacy of his interference. It marked him still.

“I taught the boy to sit a horse like a centaur and to play the violin as if it were part of his own arm,” he said proudly. “Rosalie and I had no children. The boy was like my own.”

“It must have been quite a wrench for you when he left,” I hazarded.

Again, that slow secret smile. “A wrench? Lady, I gave him the money.”

My expression must have betrayed my surprise for he gave a roar of laughter, startling the dog. “We are not like
gorgio
folk,” he reminded me. “A boy is a man when he can keep a wife. And Nicholas had wit. I knew he could survive.” He shook his head. “Lady, you look doubtful, but I tell you the truth. Nicholas was more of a man at ten years old than I was at twenty. He took care of himself because he was forced to it. Life for a
poshrat
in our tribe is not easy, particularly if his father is the
gorgio
parent. He would never have been fully accepted.”

I recognised the word
poshrat.
It meant a half blood, and it was never used by the Roma as a term of affection.

“You mean your own people did not consider him one of them?”

“Never,” he said flatly. “This is why marriage between your people and mine is not encouraged. Life is very hard for the children, more so if the mother is Roma. It is her duty to keep the blood pure and not marry outside of her own people.”

I gave a sigh of exasperation. “And so the children are punished, when it is through no fault of their own that their blood is mixed?”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It is the way. I am not so particular. If the boy was born to my wife’s sister, he is a Rom, that is my way. But I am only one man in the tribe. I cannot change the old ways, and I would not want to. I did what I could for him, and I helped him to leave. I never told Rosalie, but believe me when I say it was the best.”

“I suppose it was,” I said slowly, thinking of the life Brisbane had made for himself.

John-the-Baptist must have intuited my thoughts, for he threw his arms wide. “You see what he is now? A
gorgio
lord, even if he does not bear the title. He owns land and the other
gorgios
treat him with respect. It is not our way, but it is the
gorgio
way. If he must live in their world, he must be better than they are.”

I took his point, but there was no possible reply to such a statement. Brisbane, as a half blood, would always be judged by a different standard, by both his Gypsy family and the English he lived amongst. It struck me as a formula for an incredibly difficult and lonely life.

“My tea is ready,” he said. “I leave you now.” He lifted his cap to me and I offered my hand.

He smiled in surprise and took it. His own hand was wide, the fingers long as suited a violinist.

“You are a lady of many surprises,” he observed, giving me a mischievous smile. “I wonder what secrets you know.”

“Not as many as I would like,” I told him truthfully.

He laughed again. “Do not wish to know what is hidden,” he advised me. “Things that are kept in locked cupboards are not worthy to be seen.”

He left me then, whistling for Rook to follow. The dog
gave me a mournful look and trotted obediently away. As they moved, I heard the sound of the Grimswater bell, beckoning faintly. John-the-Baptist did not turn, but Rook pricked up his ears and paused a moment, then put his head down and followed his master.

“I will see at least one mystery in this place solved,” I muttered, gathering up my skirts and picking my way hastily over the moor toward Grimswater. The ground was softer here, the mud clutching at my shoes and hems like soft, grasping fingers. I jerked myself free time and again, never quite making headway as I zigzagged over the ground, searching for a safe, dry path.

I thought that keeping to the low clumps of moor grasses would ensure safe footing, but no sooner had I stepped upon a promising bit of gorse than the ground gave way beneath me and I sank nearly up to my knees in squelching black mud.

“Damnation,” I said. I wriggled my legs but they were stuck fast in the mud.

I heard a voice behind me.

“Lady Julia, are you quite all right?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Godwin was bounding toward me, light-footed as a damsel, springing from tussock to tussock until he reached me, not even breathing heavily.

“Godwin, thank God. I am quite stuck,” I told him, looking ruefully at my legs.

He clucked at me and bent swiftly to remedy the situation. He looked up at me, his hand poised near my leg.

“May I?” His lips were twitching with amusement, and I thumped him on the back with a fist.

“Yes, you lummox. I don’t care about propriety just now. Get me out!”

He bent again to his task, wrapping his hands firmly about my stockinged thigh and pulling slowly and evenly until the leg came free with a sickening sucking sound. There was a gush of black water and the hole filled again, swirling peaty mud about my other leg.

“Do not put tha’ foot down again,” he warned. “Thee’ll only be stuck fast again. Wrap your arms about my back and keep tha’ foot free of the ground.”

I obeyed, but in spite of my little lecture about propriety, it was an awkwardly intimate position to occupy. His back was broad and warm under my arms, and I could feel the play of the heavy muscles as he gently worked my leg free. There was another great sucking sound as the earth rendered up my leg, dripping filthy water from my sodden boot and stocking.

Godwin turned and scooped me up easily. “Put tha’ arms about my neck. I’ll carry thee to solid ground, and then we’ll see if thou’re hurt,” he said, cradling me gently as he had the pups. We had not far to go, and I did not argue with him. It was rather pleasant being taken care of, and so long as I did not make a habit of it, I did not see the harm.

In a very few minutes we had regained the path. He set me gently on my feet and spent quite a long time examining my ankles and knees for injury, feeling both carefully with surprisingly deft hands.

Finally I twitched my skirts down with a brisk gesture. “I
think
that will do, Godwin,” I told him repressively. “I am
quite all right, and I thank you for your timely rescue. I might have been stranded out there for hours.”

The prospect was not an enticing one, but what he told me next chilled my blood.

“Tha’ might not have survived at all,” he said, his expression sober. “There are mires on the moor, and some of those spots have no bottom, nought but pools of mud tha’ go on forever, right to the centre of the earth. Sheep have been lost on the moor before, and people, too, from time to time. Did no one say thee must keep to the path?”

I thought I remembered Ailith saying something of the sort, but I could not recall. “Perhaps. I had no idea it was all that dangerous. Thank you for intervening. My thoughtlessness put you at risk, and I am sorry for that.”

He flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. “’Twas nothing. I’ve known these moors from boyhood. Besides, I would have done it twice over to save thee. I want you to think well of me, my lady.”

He ducked his head, almost bashfully, and I gave a little cough, uncertain how to respond. Whatever admiration Godwin harboured for me, surely he knew nothing could come of it.

But perhaps I could use it to my advantage, I thought suddenly. I reached into my pocket and drew out the object I had been carrying.

“Godwin, do you recognise this?” I opened my palm, and lying flat, glowing burnished gold in the morning sun was the amulet of the ram.

His eyes widened and his tanned face went white to the lips. He took a step backward and looked at me in horror.

“Where did you get tha’?”

I held his gaze with my own. “I think you know where I found it. And the other, just like it.”

He shook his head, angrily, as a child will. “I have never seen tha’ before.”

I took a step closer, raising my palm to his eye level, forcing him to see it. “Godwin, you are not that accomplished a liar. You have seen it. Tell me where.”

He shook his head again, and when he spoke, his voice was clipped and completely lacking in the warm northern burr to which I had become accustomed. “I have never seen it before. And I have work to do. You can find your own way back to the Hall.”

I stared after him as he broke into a run, taking the moor path in great, loping strides. I shoved the amulet in my pocket, nearly ripping the seam in my frustration. I had mishandled the situation badly. It had not occurred to me that he would be so horrified by the sight of the amulet. I had thought to surprise him, to startle him into telling the truth. I had not counted on his abject terror at seeing it.

I turned my steps toward Grimsgrave Hall, determined to find answers at last.

Not surprisingly, Brisbane was out when I arrived back at Grimsgrave. There was no sign of Godwin either, and I went to my bedchamber to freshen up a little. Grim quorked at me from his cage, but whether it was a greeting or a scolding, I could not tell.

I opened the little door of the cage and clucked at him,
encouraging him to come out, but he merely fixed me with a cold, beady eye.

“Good morning, Grim,” I said formally, but he continued to look just over my shoulder, ignoring me with all the cool hauteur of a fine gentleman. A scolding then.

“Very well, sulk if you must. I am going to have a think,” I told him. I reclined on the bed, hoping a few moments of meditative silence would help me to put the pieces together.

Still, nothing seemed to fit quite properly, and after a quarter of an hour I gave up and got something to read. Redwall Allenby’s travel journals would be just the thing, I decided. He had left for Egypt just after the mine had collapsed and shortly after the disappointment of unrolling the ruined mummy. It occurred to me that he might well have alluded to his experiments in his first journal, and I opened it, skimming the spiky letters in faded brown ink. His writing style was painfully pedantic, with regular, dutiful recordings of what he ate, how long he slept, and even his toilet habits. I cringed a little as I skipped over them, searching for some mention of anything of significance.

But there was nothing, I soon realised. I reached for the next journal, and the one after, and these were more detailed, but just as disappointing. His travels had broadened to the Americas, to other parts of Africa and Europe as well as he trailed each new purchase related to Egyptology. He seemed to make many varied and interesting acquaintances, but none of his connections deepened to friendship, and there was a distinct air of superiority when he spoke of them. He was the worst kind of traveller, I reflected sourly. The entitled Englishman, considering himself lord of all he
surveyed, and looking down on everything and everyone with marked contempt.

But as the journals went on, I noticed one change. There was frequent mention of money troubles, of requests on the part of his mother for funds for Grimsgrave, and his repeated annoyance that he should have to maintain an estate he no longer occupied. His spending was curtailed, expenses were curbed, and at last, to his outrage, he was obliged to accept a post with an expedition if he hoped to return to Egypt for the 1884-1885 season.

“The Evandale expedition,” I murmured, tracing his endlessly dull recitation of the facts surrounding the equipment of the party. There were lists of supplies, innumerable complaints about poor accommodations and slights to his dignity. I skipped over the greater part of them, turning a dozen pages at a time. The first thing of interest was a tiny set of sketches, not very well-rendered, but perfectly recognisable. One was a ram of Osiris, the other the
tyet
of Isis. Underneath were scrawled the words,
Seven Days.
Something stirred in my memory, but only distantly. I turned the page, reading as Redwall railed against the members of the expedition, lambasting Lord Evandale for a fool, and naming the Comte de Roselende as his greatest enemy.