Deanna Raybourn - Silent on the Moor

“Tha’s Grimsgrave Hall.” The words sent a little chill into my heart. It crouched at the end of a long drive, straight over the moors, unmarked by tree or bush, save a few small, twisted thorns. We passed through a gate, and I could just make out the contours of the house itself, looming low and dark, like some beast crouching in the shadows. Just in front lay a flat, glassy spot—a reed-fringed pond—its black waters barely ruffled by the moor winds. Behind the pond, a wall of black stone rose against the night sky, three pointed arches fitted with windows. As I stared, I saw the moon rise through these windows, as if the moon itself dwelt in the house. And then I realised the wall stood alone, remnant of a ruined wing.

“My God,” I murmured. There was no time to point out my discovery to Portia. Amos had drawn the cart to a stop at the front door of the house and had alighted to hammer upon the great oaken door. I alighted as well, grateful to be out of the cart, but the twist in my stomach did not leave me. All of the nerves I had suppressed in the bustle of the journey rose up with a vengeance, and I found it difficult to swallow, my mouth suddenly dry as tinder.

Chiding myself for a coward, I brushed the dust from my skirts and went to stand behind Amos, feigning a courage I did not feel. I glanced about Brisbane’s new home as we waited, wondering why it was impossible to reconcile the urbane gentleman with this dark and forbidding place. The tiny, welcoming light seemed too small, too feeble now. It glowed from a single window leaving the rest of the house shrouded in darkness. Behind me I could hear Minna’s little voice reciting the Lord’s Prayer, and I very nearly bade her say one on my behalf as well.

After an eternity, the door swung back on its hinges, and the tiniest woman I have ever seen, withered as a winter apple, stood in the doorway.

“Aye, Amos?”

“Ladies and a gennelman to stay wit’ Mr. Brisbane,” he called over his shoulder as he stalked to the cart and began flinging out baggage. There were a few protesting barks from the dogs and Grim, the raven, made an ominous noise in the back of his throat, but the pets were the least of my worries. I moved forward, inclining my head.

“Good evening. I am terribly sorry to descend upon you without warning. I am Lady Julia Grey. This is my sister, Lady Bettiscombe. Our brother, Mr. Valerius March.” Val and Portia both nodded to the little winter apple who instantly stepped back into the hall.

“Oh, ye must come in out of the wind,” she said, her expression one of profound bemusement. “Visitors indeed! We’ve not had so much excitement since the day the new schoolmaster came to Howlett Magna. Of course we must offer you shelter. Ye might be angels unaware, as the Bible does tell us! Come in, come in!”

We did, and I noticed she wore a mob cap on her fluffy little white curls and a wide pinafore over her striped gown. The entrance hall itself was as old-fashioned as its inhabitant—all heavy oak panelling and great paving stones. A dark carved staircase stood at the back of the hall, its shadows pierced by a single candle on the landing.

“I am Mrs. Butters, the cook-housekeeper,” she began, but before she could finish her introduction, I was aware of a presence on the staircase. Mrs. Butters must have seen my glance over her shoulder, for she paused and turned as the vision descended the stairs.

And a vision she was. In spite of the severity of her hairstyle and the plainness of her clothes, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was graceful, with a light, dignified step as she descended the staircase slowly. She moved into the light of the hall and I realised she was both older and poorer than I had first thought. She was well over thirty, with a gown that was twenty years out of fashion, its full skirts sweeping the stones of the hall as she walked. Even in the fitful light I could see the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, and at the seams of her dress where it had been turned more than once. But her gaze was calm and level and she looked at us as equals do, her chin high and her expression one of gentle reproof, perhaps at the lateness of the hour.

Mrs. Butters drew back another step. “Guests at Grimsgrave, Miss Ailith. Lady Julia Grey and Lady Bettiscombe and Mr. Valerius March. They are friends of the master’s.”

The cool, appraising look rested briefly on me, then my sister, lastly Valerius. She stared a long moment, as inscrutable as the Mona Lisa and just as arresting. Her features were beautifully sculpted; no Renaissance master could have fashioned her better. The skin was luminous as alabaster; the eyes wide and impossibly blue. Her brow was high and unmarked, and her corn-gold hair was parted severely in the centre, plaited, and wound round her head like a coronet. Upon a lesser woman, it might have seemed fussy, silly even. On her, it was a Madonna crown, light enough for that lily-neck to bear. Only her hands were unpleasant, red and rough as any laundress’, the nails bitten to the quick.

“Welcome to Grimsgrave Hall,” she said at last. Her voice was beautifully modulated, with none of the Yorkshire brogue that marked the local folk. “I am sorry we have not prepared a proper welcome for you. We did not expect you,” she commented.

“I am certain accommodation can be arranged quickly enough,” I returned with a smile. “If you would be so good to tell Mr. Brisbane we’ve come. And you are?”

Her expression remained sweetly serene as she dipped a suggestion of a curtsey. “I am Ailith Allenby, my lady. Welcome to my home.”

I stared at her in confusion. The innkeeper’s daughter had told us that Mr. Godwin was the last of the Allenbys, had she not? Then I recalled her words, the last of the Allenby men , she had said. No mention of a daughter of the house, I thought with a touch of exasperation.

Portia moved forward, extending her hand as coolly as a duchess. “Miss Allenby,” she said, extending a hand. Miss Allenby shook hers gravely, and mine as well. She nodded demurely to Valerius, then motioned for us to follow her. “Amos, leave the baggage in the hall and mind your way back to the village.”

Before I could think better of it, I spoke. “It is so late, and it is so far across the moor to the village. Surely a bed could be found for Amos here.” I finished with a winsome smile, but I knew at once I had overstepped myself. There was a sudden stillness in the room, and I heard the sharp intake of breath from Mrs. Butters.

Miss Allenby regarded me steadily for a moment, as if she had not quite understood my words, and I half wondered if I ought to offer her Portia’s phrasebook.

“There be no proper barn here,” Amos put in quietly. “And ‘twould not be fit for me to sleep in the house.” His tone was edged with harshness, but as he turned away, he gave me a quick nod and I knew he would not forget.

For her part, Miss Allenby seemed determined to pretend I had not spoken. She turned to the rest of us. “If you would care to step into the kitchen, there is a fire kindled. Mrs. Butters, something warming for our guests. Then we must see to their rooms.”

Amos took his leave and shut the door behind him as Portia raised a brow at me. We had seldom been entertained in kitchens. But before we could move, the door opened again, flung hard on its hinges. The moor wind gusted inside, flaring the candles as a man strode over the threshold.

“Brisbane,” I said, my voice catching. He saw me then, and I think his expression could not have been more surprised if he had seen a ghost. In fact, he stopped a moment and put out his hand, as if to prove to himself I was no wraith.

“You cannot be here,” he said finally. His hair was the longest I had ever seen it, witch-black and tumbled to his shoulders. His eyes, black as his hair, were fixed on mine, and he had gone pale under the olive of his skin. His black greatcoat hung carelessly from his shoulders, and as we stood, staring at one another, it slid unheeded to the floor. He wore neither neckcloth nor waistcoat. His white shirt was open at the neck and tucked loosely into his trousers, but it was not the unseemliness of his attire that made me gasp. His shirt and his bare forearms were streaked with blood.