Deanna Raybourn - Silent on the Moor

“You will regret it,” he said finally. “You will be sorry you stayed, and you will come to blame me.”

I stepped back and shook my head. “You said the last time we met I was more your equal than any woman you had ever known. Whatever is amiss here, I am equal to it as well. Good night, Brisbane.”

He did not bid me good-night, but as he turned to the fire, I heard him murmur, “Forgive me.”

And I wondered to which of us he was speaking.

She speaks, yet she says nothing .

—William Shakespeare

Romeo and Juliet

“I am afraid there is no other suitable chamber,” Miss Allenby apologised when she showed us up. “I have given you my sister Hilda’s room. She can share with me, and there is a little closet where Mr. Valerius can be accommodated.”

She meant closet in the medieval sense of the word, a small, panelled room with a narrow bed fitted into the wall and a tiny tiled stove for warmth. Valerius gave me an evil look and slammed the door behind him. He had already shown little grace in carrying up the bags, and I decided to leave him be. Perhaps a good night’s sleep would smooth his ruffled temper.

Portia and I demurred politely at Miss Allenby giving up her sister’s room to us, but she shook her head. “Oh, but you must have Hilda’s room. It has a pretty view over the moor, and the bed is bigger than mine. We have so little, but we must make you as comfortable as possible.” There was a gentle dignity about her, even as she admitted that the family had fallen on hard times. She showed us to the room, and I was relieved to see it was passable—more heavy, dark oak panelling with furniture to match, what little of it there was. The room appeared to have been stripped of its furnishings save the bed, an enormous monstrosity far too large to fit through either the door or casement. Some long-ago estate carpenter had doubtless assembled it in situ , never dreaming anyone would wish to remove it. There was a small chest beneath the window, and a handful of books stood propped upon the sill, leaning haphazardly against one another. I brushed a fingertip over the first, a heavy volume of green kid.

It was a compendium of Egyptian hieroglyphics, and rather an advanced one from the look of it. Miss Allenby smiled. “My sister is a devotee of Egyptian history,” she explained. “It is not a very ladylike pastime, but so long as she does not read her books in front of Mama, no one troubles her.”

“Indeed,” Portia remarked kindly, “Julia’s literary tastes are far more shocking, I assure you.”

I pulled a face at her, but Miss Allenby said nothing. She was already moving to the fireplace where a fire had been laid in the cold hearth. A warming pan was procured, and Morag heaped it with coals from the kitchen fire and thrust it between the sheets. Within minutes clouds of steam were billowing from the bed, and Miss Allenby had the grace to look abashed.

“It is difficult to air things properly. It can be rather damp on the moor,” she murmured. She left us then, and it was just as well. I would have hated a stranger to hear the imprecations uttered by Morag when she inspected the tiny adjoining room and realised she would have to share with Minna.

“Do be quiet, Morag,” I instructed. “I am far too tired to listen to you tonight. Finish the unpacking and I promise you may abuse me as long as you like in the morning.”

She yanked a gown from my trunk and spun slowly on her heel, surveying the near-empty room. “And where do you suggest I unpack to , my lady?”

I sighed. “Very well, I take your point. Not so much as a peg to hang a hat upon. Just fling me my nightdress and go to bed. We will sort it out in the morning.”

She snorted and did as she was bid, banging the connecting door to register her displeasure. Minna had already retired, having done twice the work in half the time, and Portia and I were left alone. We made our preparations hastily and scrambled into bed.

“It reminds me of the Great Bed of Ware,” Portia observed in ominous tones.

“Not quite so large, but certainly as forbidding,” I agreed. “At least the bed curtains are still in evidence. We should freeze otherwise.”

She looked around the room, shaking her head slowly. “Steaming beds, no paraffin lamps, and I do not like to look under the bed to make certain, but I believe that is a chamber pot.”

“Do not speak of it, I beg you,” I said faintly.

We stared at each other a long moment. “It is like something out of the Middle Ages. I had no idea people actually lived like this anymore.”

“Hush,” I warned. “I should not like Miss Allenby to hear you. She has been most hospitable. Clearly, their means are reduced. I am certain it is not their fault.”

She pressed her lips together. “Just because they are in res angusta doesn’t mean the rest of us have to endure it.”

There was no possible reply to that, so I did not attempt one. Portia blew out the candle and I drew the bed curtains, shutting out the pale, tattered remnants of moonlight. We huddled together for warmth, careful to keep our toes well clear of the steaming bed warmer.

“Are you going to tell me what he said?” my sister whispered into the darkness.

“No. But we are staying.”

“For how long?”

“I cannot say. As long as he needs me, I suppose. Or until I grow tired of bashing my head against the wall.”

She reached out and took my hand, saying nothing. We had not slept in the same bed since we were children, and I had forgot what a comfort it could be to have a hand to hold in the dark. Just as I was dropping off to sleep I heard a door close nearby, and female voices—one raised in impatience, the other low and soothing. Ailith was telling her sister of the new arrivals, I surmised. At length they quieted, and I heard nothing more.

The next morning I rose early, feeling better than I had since I had left London. True, Brisbane was bedevilled, and the accommodations were far from comfortable, but the sun was shining, Brisbane had not sent me away, and I had slept surprisingly well. I woke feeling rested and a little stiff from the chill of the room. Portia slept on and I slipped through the curtains, careful not to rouse her. The fire had died, but sunlight was streaming through the window. I pushed it open, breathing in great gusts of fresh moorland air. The moor stretched as far as the eye could see, green and brown, and purpled with heather in a few brave patches. There were dark shadows where the bogs lurked, but the moor had lost the sinister feeling of the previous night. Tufts of grasses spotted with tiny flowers rippled like waves, beckoning me out of doors, and I longed to explore. But first there was breakfast, and I was happily anticipating a hearty meal—my first proper sustenance since we had left London.

The hygienic arrangements were primitive at best. I daubed a bit of cold water about my person and dressed in a warm costume of soft tweeds edged in crimson braid. The skirt was full enough to make walking easy, and there was a divine little pair of low-heeled kid boots—just the thing for scrambling over the moor, I thought. I felt very smart as I descended to breakfast, following the delectable smells to the kitchen. Mrs. Butters was bustling from stove to table, bearing bowls of porridge and hot stewed fruits, racks of toast, and plates of hot, crispy sausages. Behind her scuttled a fey little creature, barely as tall as Mrs. Butters, with an untidy nest of black hair and wide, childlike black eyes. She took one look at me and scurried to the corner where she sat on a tiny stool, peeping over the corner of her apron.

Mrs. Butters leaned close, pitching her voice low. “Pay her no mind, my lady. Tha’s Jetty, tha is. She’s a halfwit, but a harder worker or a quicker hand you’ll never find. Her father is a farmer over Lesser Howlett way. She comes to do the rough. She’ll not speak to you, not at first. I pray you’ll not take offence, for she means none. She’s tha afraid of strangers, she is. But she is blessed in her own way, for the Lord does tell us that the meek shall inherit the earth,” she finished firmly.