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.
THE SEVENTH CHAPTER
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.
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