Silent on the Moor. Deanna Raybourn
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.
“Certainly, Mrs. Butters.” I glanced at the quivering girl, still staring over the edge of her apron. I gave her a small smile, but she merely threw the apron over her head entirely. I surrendered my efforts to encourage Jetty and turned my attention to breakfast.
“How delicious it all smells, Mrs. Butters,” I offered.
She smiled at me, wiping her hands on her apron. Dressed in a striped skirt and an old-fashioned cap, she looked like something out of a picture book. Her cheeks were flushed pink with the heat of the stove, and her little curls were tight from the steam.
“I would offer thee coffee or tea, but we’ve only tea, so tha must do.”
“Tea is perfect, Mrs. Butters. Thank you.”
She motioned me to take a chair and I obeyed, charmed by the contrast between this humble kitchen breakfast and the elaborate morning meals I customarily took in London. The kitchen itself was tidy and well-organised, with a neat larder tucked to the side. Through the open door I could see row upon row of bottles, jewel-bright with fruits and vegetables put away against the winter. Although it was nearly spring, there was still a good supply of the previous year’s harvest which spoke of good housewifery, in spite of the condition of the rest of the estate. It was a place to be proud of, and I wondered idly what the pantry in my London house had looked like before the place was burned down. It had never occurred to me to inspect it, and I made a mental note to be more diligent with my next home.
Mrs. Butters brought a tray with pots of jam and little plates of butter, and a few other delights. “Thee’ll be thinking this is very different from London.”
I reached for a piece of toast. “I begin to think you must have a touch of the witch about you, Mrs. Butters. I was indeed pondering that very thing.”
She gave a little start. “Say no such thing, my lady! Witches indeed, such a thing is not to be borne. Has tha not read the Bible?”
I hastened to make amends. “It was simply a jest, Mrs. Butters,” I soothed. “This jam is quite delicious. Did you make it yourself?”
Her ruffled feathers settled