Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

‘Ha! I’d not say I was clever, lad. Not with wood. Herbs, flowers, blessings maybe, but not so as I’d like with wood. Seems as I can only do these carvings of the Luck.’ He held up the one he was working on and blew on it. ‘I tried to do a portrait of Joe once in wood, but it never came right, did it, Joe?’ The bird lifted its wings and clacked its beak. ‘Good thing Askew can sell these to the Lakers or I’d have a thousand of them by now.’

‘Who are the Lakers, Mr Grace?’

‘Call me Casper, youngling. Why, Lakers are people such as yourself who come to see the Lakes hereabout, of course.’

‘They are very fine.’

Casper looked at him with bright eyes. ‘It is fine country, ain’t it?’ He shot to his feet and grabbed Stephen’s hand. ‘Come with me.’ He raced up the path again, dragging Stephen behind him as the bird fluttered along between perches beside them. Stephen half-stumbled, half-ran along the path, not sure if he was frightened or delighted. Suddenly the trees fell away behind him and he found himself thrust out onto a rough promontory, where the view of the lake made him gasp.

Casper knelt at his side, one arm round his shoulders. He smelled of woodsmoke and tobacco and sweat. Stephen breathed it in deeply. As Casper spoke, he pointed out the hills with his free hand.

‘Now that monster there is Skiddaw — you can see ships at sea from there! Then there is Latrigg, sheltering under her like a young lamb by her mother. There is Crosthwaite Church, white and shining as a blessing. There Keswick sits and whistles and is busy, and beyond that rise there are the stones the Druids left to watch us. That forest is Great Wood, and that great rearing is Castlerigg Fell.’ He placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders a moment to spin him round. ‘Now look up! Look up!’ Stephen stretched his throat to peer at the slopes above him. ‘Causey Pike, and Cragg Hill beyond, and down there, where it all narrows, lie Borrowdale and Rosthwaite. If you are caught there when the snow comes, you must kick your heels till the thaw.’

Stephen tried to repeat the names quietly as they were spoken. ‘Have you climbed all these hills, sir?’

The man flashed his teeth in a smile. ‘Mostly, mostly. And many times; some plants favour one spot, others another.’

A voice called from the woodland behind them. ‘Stephen! Stephen, where are you?’

‘That is my tutor, Mr Quince,’ the boy offered confidentially. ‘We are here, sir!’

Mr Quince had been engrossed in West’s guidebook when Stephen took off into the woods, and the heat was making him sweat rather profusely by the time he had caught up. He found his charge standing on the outcrop like a ship’s figurehead. A man in working clothes was lying on the rock behind him, enjoying the same view. Stephen turned towards him.

‘This is Casper Grace, Mr Quince. He has been telling me all the names of things.’

Mr Quince patted his forehead with his handkerchief then put his hand out to the man. Casper scrambled to his feet and shook it. ‘Glad to meet you, Grace.’

‘Oh, just Casper. Casper does me fine, sir.’

‘Mr Grace knows the names of all the mountains,’ Stephen said, then looked abashed. ‘He told me them, but I fear I have forgotten half already.’

‘Do not reproach yourself too much, my boy. They are such a number, and so all on top of each other I have been puzzling to match them to my book.’ Quince tapped the little volume in his pocket. ‘Perhaps if you have not been too troublesome, Mr Grace will consent to be our guide from time to time during our stay.’

Casper shrugged. ‘I’m not in the habit of guiding. Lots of folk do that. I have other business most days, and like to be free to do it.’

‘Oh do, please,’ Stephen said, going so far as to lay a hand on Casper’s arm. ‘Then I may see Joe again.’ He paused, wondering if this might seem a slight. ‘And you too, sir.’

‘Who is Joe?’ said Mr Quince, looking about him.

The bird provided the answer himself, hopping forward and crooning his name. Mr Quince was taken aback.

‘Joe talks,’ Stephen said.

‘So I see. Remarkable.’

Casper smiled, then mussed the boy’s hair and spoke. ‘I am not much with company, Master Westerman. I have my days where I must be off and running lonesome.’

‘Like a wolf?’ Stephen looked up at him.

‘Ha! Yes, though my teeth are not so sharp.’ Casper rubbed his chin. ‘I am out on the hills most of most days, and most of the nights too. Let’s say when we meet if I am not too bothered by the witches and weather, I’ll show you some places.’ He looked down at Stephen again. ‘There’s a vixen in Great Wood likes to show off her cubs to her friends, and Joe and me are friends of hers. Fancy seeing that one day, youngling?’ Stephen nodded. ‘We shall then. Good day!’

Before Stephen or Mr Quince were able to draw breath to thank him or make any farewells, Casper had sprung over the edge of the outcrop, and was lost in the woodland below. The bird turned to them and cawed in a familiar sort of way, then fluttered off after him.

Stephen leaned in towards Mr Quince, and his tutor put an arm around his shoulders.

‘What do you think he meant about witches and weather, sir?’

Quince pondered a second. ‘No doubt it is some saying of the area, my boy. Now all this charging around must have made you hungry. Shall we go and see if there is any food to be had at the Hall?’

Stephen nodded and they made their way more slowly back into the woods. ‘Have you heard of the Luck of Gutherscale Hall, sir?’ he asked, after they had gone a little way.

‘I have read something of it in the guides,’ Quince told him. ‘The legend says it was originally a gift from the fairy people to the most powerful family hereabouts — the Greta family.’

‘I should like to know more of that.’ Stephen had realised he was both tired and hungry. It seemed harder going down the hill than running up it had been. ‘Do you believe in fairies, Mr Quince?’

The tutor laughed. ‘Good lord, no! No doubt the cross was brought over by the Crusaders.’

Stephen looked about him as if searching for a glint among the foliage. ‘I would like to find it.’

‘You did say you wanted to search for dragons,’ Mr Quince reminded him, ‘and they are great guardians of treasure in folklore. Perhaps if we find the dragon, we shall find the Luck tucked under its scaly claw.’

The thought was enough to keep Stephen silent the rest of their return down the slope.

Harriet found her way into the drawing room with the help of one of the maids, a little nervous since she was later than she should have been. She had gone first to her son and his tutor’s apartments to see them safe and already eating their meal informally in their own rooms. Then she had delayed too long trying to get her curls in order and deciding between a dress of navy with gold trim which she felt rather too grand, and a simpler gown in grey that made her feel a hundred years old. However, when she was shown into the light and spacious room, she found she was among the first of the house’s inhabitants to arrive. A young man sprang up from the couch on which he was reclining and bowed, clicking his heels together, then he came forward to take her hand.

Her first impression was of youth. She noted the carelessly arranged and unpowdered hair of the man, and the blue eyes. He was slender and long-limbed and she wondered if Crowther would have looked something like this in his early years.

‘Mrs Westerman! I am pleased to see you. I am Felix von Bolsenheim, at your service, ma’am.’

She let him take her hand with a smile. ‘I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Mein Herr.’