Deanna Raybourn - Silent on the Moor

I took a deep breath and plunged into what I was afraid might be a colossal piece of impudence.

“Lady Allenby, I do hope you will forgive me for speaking so frankly. You have given me to understand that your son’s death has left you and your daughters in rather straitened circumstances.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but I hurried on, afraid both that she would accept my proposal and that she would reject it. I had suddenly seen how the Allenbys might be made solvent again, and I was certain that in some fashion I was conspiring against some larger scheme of Brisbane’s. I had no notion how , precisely, only that I was very sure he would not have cause to thank me for what I was about to do.

“It is entirely possible that within this room may lay your salvation. Have you a catalogue of what pieces Sir Redwall brought from Egypt?”

She shook her head. “No. I have his letters, and in those he talks about a few of the larger items, but if he kept an inventory, I do not know of it.”

“Then one must be made,” I said boldly. “You told me that Mr. Brisbane was preparing a home for you. Surely you will have no room for this collection there.”

“No, of course not,” she said slowly. “I confess I hoped not to. The Egyptian things have never been to my taste. I find them rather gruesome. It was something of a relief to be able to put them all in here and close the door.”

I felt a glimmer of hope. If she had been relieved not to see the things, she might well have no objections to my plan.

“This room will have to be cleared for Mr. Brisbane’s use eventually, and you will not be able to keep the things. Why not let me prepare a catalogue and make some inquiries for you? My brother, Lord Bellmont, is rather good friends with the director of the British Museum. Perhaps he can arrange for the museum to purchase some of the items. Or, failing that, we could no doubt interest one of the antiquities dealers in London in mounting an exhibition with an eye to selling the entire collection. Scholars will certainly be interested in his papers and books and the papyri, and collectors will be terribly keen for the rest of it. Even society ladies will go mad for the reproductions. Egyptian décor is rather in vogue just now, you know.”

I paused, and for a long, terrible moment Lady Allenby said nothing. Then she swallowed hard and looked down at the dustsheet still clutched in her knobby fingers.

“You are very practical, my dear. And as I suspected, very clever. It might well be an end to all of our money troubles. But I do not think—”

She broke off and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. Just as quickly as she had broken down, she composed herself, her posture once more erect, her eyes dry.

“I do not think I could bear to touch his things, nor could Ailith. Hilda might, if you could ever run her to ground, but I fear we would be of little help to you.”

I felt a surge of relief. “I do not care about that, I assure you. If I have need of assistance, I am quite certain I can persuade my brother, Valerius, to lend a hand. I would be happy to take this on, and if you will permit me, I will write to Bellmont tonight to set things in motion.”

Lady Allenby paused another long moment, then nodded. “In that case, I accept your generous offer with one caveat. Do you think it would be possible to arrange the sale without bringing the Allenby name into it?”

I started to protest, but she held up a hand. “I realise the interest would be much greater if Redwall’s name was attached, but it has been so difficult already, with the sale of the house, and being dependent upon Mr. Brisbane’s good graces. The sale of our furnishings has been discreet. We have so few visitors. Very few know how dire our situation has become. I should not like it to be known that we were forced to sell Redwall’s things.”

I laid a hand on her arm. “Of course. I shall make certain the entire affair is handled with discretion.”

She smiled then, and for an instant I saw the staggering beauty she must once have been.

“Thank you, my dear.” She glanced about the room, her expression unfathomable. “I only hope you do not come to regret your generous offer.”

I laughed at the time, but much later I realised that had I never offered to arrange for the sale of Redwall Allenby’s possessions, nothing that followed would have happened, and one of the few inhabitants of Grimsgrave Hall would still be alive.

Youth is hot and bold; age is weak and cold .

—William Shakespeare

“The Passionate Pilgrim XII”

I passed the rest of the morning attending to the various grievances and demands of the maids and the pets. Morag complained bitterly about sharing her room with Minna, and the dogs, my own Florence and Portia’s Puggy, demanded to be walked. Minna cheerfully offered to attend to the animals, even to the extent of feeding my raven, Grim, when she was finished with the dogs.

“Thank you, Minna,” I told her. “Mind you wrap up well when you take them out, and keep to the moor path. They needn’t go far, and Florence will want her little coat.”

She bobbed a curtsey. “And what about Puggy, my lady?”

“God himself could not kill that dog. I doubt a little cold air will do him any harm. Take a shawl for yourself as well, my dear. We don’t want you taking a chill.”

Minna smiled her dimpled little smile and hurried off to her charges. I turned to Morag who was busy plumping the bedpillows.

“You might take a leaf out of her book,” I advised her. “Minna is always ready to lend a hand, no matter if it is her job or not.”

Morag gave a deep sniff. “I am making the bed, am I not? Not that I’ve a choice.” Her voice dropped to a mutter. “No chambermaids. What sort of household is this, I ask you?”

“A poor one,” I told her severely. “Now mind your tongue. The Allenbys cannot help their reduced circumstances.”

Morag tipped her head, a sudden malicious light in her eyes. “But the Allenbys dinna actually own Grimsgrave, now do they? It’s Mr. Brisbane who ought to be hiring the maids, isn’t it?”

I flicked a glance at the bed. “You’ve made a mess of those sheets. The bed will have to be completely made over.”

She was still complaining under her breath when I left her, but as that was Morag’s customary state, I paid her scant attention.

I found Portia at length on the staircase. She had paused on the landing and was sitting in the panelled window embrasure, looking out over the vast stretch of moorland.

“Brisbane has gone,” I said, settling in next to her.

She blinked at me. “You must be jesting—no, it cannot possibly be a jest. It isn’t funny in the least.”

“He has gone to Edinburgh on business, and said he will return in a few days, which may well be a fortnight or longer for all I know.”

“Oh, isn’t that just like a man to ruin a thrilling romantic gesture by leaving as soon as you’ve come rushing up here to sweep him into your arms and declare your love for him?”

“What a revolting image. You must stop reading novels, Portia. They are ruining you.”

Portia snorted. “Do not ask me to believe you weren’t thinking precisely the same thing. You expected him to take one look at you and fall to one knee and propose instantly.”

I smoothed my skirts primly. “Yes, well. Brisbane has never done what was expected of him. I did, however, make it quite clear to him before he left that I intended we should settle the question of our connection once and for all upon his return.”

“And you think he will hurry back for that, do you?”

“Sometimes I wonder why I bother to confide in you,” I told her irritably.