Deanna Raybourn - Silent on the Moor

I fell to nibbling my lip in silence, and Portia stared out at the ceaseless, restless moor.

“This is the most desolate place I have ever seen,” she said tonelessly.

“Oh, it isn’t as bad as all that,” I replied. “Miss Allenby took me for a walk this morning, and I thought the moor quite pretty. Desperately cold, of course, but pretty. You ought to come out with me after luncheon.”

Portia rolled her eyes. “There is no luncheon. It is called dinner here, or hadn’t you heard? And they sit in the kitchen, and they take every meal there, like savages.”

I pinched her arm. “Hush. The Allenbys keep country ways. They cannot afford to heat the dining room.”

“Ah, but Brisbane is now responsible for the cost of heating this place,” she corrected, echoing Morag’s sentiments.

“It makes no difference,” I told her repressively. “They sold the furniture. There is nothing to sit upon and no table to set, so it is the kitchen for you, my girl. Pretend you are at Wuthering Heights. Everyone there ate in the kitchen.”

Portia affected a faraway look and shivered, calling in a high voice, “Heathcliff, where are you? I’m so cooooooold.”

I shoved her. “Don’t be such an ass.”

She rose with a sigh. “I fear lunch, er, dinner will be something quite provincial. Game pie and boiled cabbage, unless I am very much mistaken.”

I linked my arm through hers and drew her down the stairs. “You are a terrible snob, Portia. Have I ever told you that?”

“Frequently.”

The rest of the household had already assembled in the kitchen by the time we arrived. Mrs. Butters was scurrying between oven and table, and although Portia raised her eyes significantly at the sight of the game pie and the bowls of boiled cabbage, I thought the table looked extremely inviting. A clean cloth had been laid, and although it had been mended, it was done with great skill and care, the stitches tiny and precise. A cheap glass vase had been filled with an armful of nodding daffodils, lending an air of gaiety to the room. The serving dishes were pewter rather than silver, but the mellow glow served the room, I decided, and the food itself smelled wonderfully appetising.

Besides the pie and the cabbage, there were dishes of pickles and a large fresh cheese, a great cottage loaf of new bread, and a clutch of boiled eggs. There was even a bowl of newly-picked salad greens, lightly dressed, and a tiny dish of mushrooms fried to crispness.

Lady Allenby was already seated, her walking stick braced against her chair. She motioned to me and I took the chair next to her, while Portia seated herself opposite. Ailith Allenby was helping Mrs. Butters, moving smoothly to carry the last few dishes and to pour a pitcher of beer for the table. In the corner, Jetty was scraping scraps into a basket by the sink, her mouth slack as she looked Portia over carefully from head to foot. I could not blame her. Portia was dressed in a particularly luscious shade of cherry that became her exceedingly well. I had no doubt Jetty had ever seen such a garment in this grey and gloomy corner of England.

Just then the kitchen door opened and a tall man entered, shrugging off a worn tweed coat and doffing his flat cap. He paused a moment to hang his things on a peg by the door, and I took the opportunity to study the newcomer. He was Brisbane’s opposite in almost every way. Though they were both tall men and muscular, this man was blond, with startling blue eyes and lines on his face that marked where he smiled, deeply and often. They were of an age, but it was clear to see from their faces that they had lived very different lives. This was an outdoorsman, a simple man, with simple tastes, I decided; one who would be happy with merely a roof over his head and a fire in his hearth.

He glanced up then, and caught my eye, smiling. I looked away, but he strode to the table, offering his hand.

“You must be one of the ladies from London. Lady Julia or Lady Bettiscombe?”

Before I could reply, Lady Allenby thrust his hand away from mine. “Godwin, manners! You must wait to be presented to a lady, and you have not yet washed.”

His smile did not falter. He withdrew his hand and contented himself with a wink. “I will go and make myself presentable then,” he said, casting his glance wider to include my sister. Portia raised her brows at him as he moved to the sink, dropping a kiss upon Mrs. Butters’ cap as he reached for the cake of soap. “Hello, Jetty, my love,” he said to the bashful hired girl. “Have you had a pleasant morning?” To my astonishment, the mockery had dropped from his tone, and there was only gentle affection.

The little maid flushed with pleasure and smiled, a great wide smile that showed a mouthful of crooked teeth as she giggled.

Mrs. Butters laughed and scolded him for being in the way, but Lady Allenby was not so forgiving.

“I do hope you will excuse him, Lady Julia,” she murmured. “We have despaired of teaching him how to conduct himself. I am afraid we are so isolated here, it is difficult to maintain the proper distance. And he is family, I suppose,” she trailed off, and I thought about the tapestry in the great hall. I had not seen his name stitched there, but then I had not looked for it. I made a mental note to investigate after the meal and hurried to reassure Lady Allenby.

“Think nothing of it, Lady Allenby. I completely understand.”

Godwin finished washing himself and hurried to take a seat at the table. He had his pick of either the chair by Portia or the one next to me, but he chose to partner Portia, offering her his handshake, which she accepted with lazy grace. He complimented her costume and was just moving on to how well it suited her complexion when Ailith sat between her mother and Portia, leaving two empty chairs for Valerius and the mysterious Hilda.

As if thinking had conjured him, Valerius entered then, nodding graciously toward Lady Allenby, and casting a hasty glance over the rest of the table.

“My apologies. Miss Hilda was showing me her chickens,” he explained hastily.

I stared at him in astonishment. I had not even seen her, but Valerius had already befriended the mysterious Hilda in the poultry yard. I ought not to have been surprised. Val, like all the March men, was singularly personable, with both charm and good looks to recommend him. I longed to ask him how he had met her, but before I had a chance to speak, a young woman hurried in, throwing herself down breathlessly in the remaining empty chair.

“Sorry, Mama,” she said shortly. The woman, who I took to be Miss Hilda, filled her plate and began to eat with as much vigour as a farmhand.

“Hilda,” her mother said sharply. “You have not made the acquaintance of Mr. Brisbane’s guests. You will kindly greet Lady Bettiscombe and Lady Julia Grey, and pray they will forgive your churlishness.”

Hilda laid down her fork and gave two short nods, one in my direction, one in Portia’s, and shot a quick smile at Val, then took up her fork and began to eat again with astonishing rapidity.

“Lady Bettiscombe, Lady Julia, I hope you will overlook my daughter’s poor manners. I assure you she is more gently bred than she has given you cause to believe.”

If Hilda was annoyed at her mother’s criticism, she gave no sign of it. She merely continued to eat, working her way rapidly through a second piece of pie before the rest of us had finished the first. She did not look up from her plate, but there was an awareness, an energy that fairly vibrated from her that made me wonder if she were not as curious about us as we were about her.

I scrutinised her closely as she ate, observing that she was nothing so pretty as her sister. Where in Ailith long limbs and a slender neck had given an appearance of elegance and delicacy, in Hilda they were coltish and awkward. Her elbows flapped as she ate, giving her the demeanour of a restless grasshopper. Her eyes were fixed upon her food, but I had seen a glimpse of their muddy grey hue when she had glanced in my direction, and I did not think I was mistaken in believing I had detected a keen intelligence there. Her clothes were appalling. One might expect that of an impoverished woman, but hers were particularly nasty, of masculine cut and carrying with them the distinct odour of the poultry yard. I thought I saw Val’s nostrils twitch ever so slightly, but he was too well-bred to offer less than perfect courtesy to a lady. He made some low remark to her and she replied with a grunt and a shrug of her shoulders while her mother and sister attempted to make polite conversation.