Silent in the Sanctuary. Deanna Raybourn
had nodded off in her chair, and her little snores punctuated the tale. Emma paused and took a breath, heightening our anticipation.
“This abbey was once the home of an order of monks, holy men who passed their lives in contemplation and good works. They tended the crops and the flocks, minding both the animals and the souls of men, and they were much loved. But then Henry VIII directed his lustful gaze at Anne Boleyn, and the monks were doomed. During the Dissolution, these lands were taken from them, and they were cast out of this holy place to make their way in the world, penniless and without friends. One of them, the elderly abbot, who had known only this place as his home since boyhood, cursed it as he left, calling upon the very stones them selves to witness the injustice visited upon his order. He conjured a curse against the new owner, a courtier of the king’s, crying out that the man should not live out a year in his ill-gotten home.”
She paused again and I glanced at Mrs. King, not surprised to see her spellbound expression. Emma had always been an excellent storyteller. During their Easter visits we frequently abandoned our books and games and insisted she spin us tales instead. She always demanded a trinket for her troubles, but her stories were so enthralling we never minded parting with a doll or pair of shoes as the price of an afternoon’s entertainment. I turned back to her, noticing that her eyes were shining now, brightened by her enthusiasm for her story. She would indeed have made a fitting bride for Shahriar, I thought as she picked up her tale.
“The new owner, the Earl March, laughed at the old man, and swept into the Abbey with his young countess. But his bride, a girl of seventeen, was not so insouciant as her lord and master. She feared the old abbot, for she had seen that he was touched with holiness, and every night when she made her prayers she begged God to spare her husband, for theirs was a love match.
“The months stretched on, and the seasons turned, and the young countess began to hope her husband would survive the curse. She doubled her prayers, and spent so much time on her knees that she wore holes into the silk of her gowns. Her husband mocked her, but still she would not cease praying for his deliverance. Until one day, when he grew impatient with her piety, and they quarrelled. To calm his temper he whistled for his horse and his hounds and he rode out to hunt boar. The countess fell to her knees in the chapel, vowing not to rise until her lord returned.”
Emma paused and leaned very slightly closer. “They brought him home the next day, carrying him on a door, broken and bleeding from the tusks of his quarry. He died that night, in agony. His countess, fearing her husband’s spirit could never rest in this place, raised a crypt in the village churchyard and buried him there. And after his funeral, she withdrew to the chapel and began to stitch. For nine years she worked, her fingers bleeding, her hands stiffening until she grew so withered she could no longer put down her needle. She told the story of that fateful hunt in silk and wool, stitching her grief until at last the story was complete.”
Emma raised her eyes to the tapestries, nodding toward the last, a magnificent piece that depicted the broken earl being carried home, his hunter and dogs trailing sadly behind.
“In all those nine years, not a morsel of food passed her lips. Village folk said it was a miracle, that she lived on her grief and her tears, nourishing herself with pain until her task was complete. And as soon as the last stitch was set, she lay down on the floor of the chapel and died. She was buried next to her lord in the crypt, but the tapestries survive to tell us the story. And somewhere in the Abbey, there is still a door, stained with the blood of a proud young nobleman, and no matter how many times the wood is sanded or scrubbed, the blood remains.”
Emma sighed, and in an instant, Scheherezade was gone, and she was my plain little cousin again, her hair too severe, her complexion too sallow for prettiness.
“That was beautiful,” Mrs. King breathed. “What a tragic story, and how wonderfully you tell it.”
Emma smiled. “Words are a cheap entertainment,” she said softly, catching Lucy’s gaze. The two of them exchanged a knowing look, and I wondered how many times Emma’s stories had kept them from despairing. I could well picture them, approaching yet another aunt’s door, hand-in-hand, ready to be taken in with little grace and no warmth. Perhaps Emma’s imagination had warmed them when they were cold, and comforted them when they were sent to bed in strange new rooms, where unfamiliar noises could seem like spectres, and shadows could be goblins.
“Emma, you have always had a great talent, you ought to write a book. Heaven knows I’ve seen people with far less ability make a success of it,” Portia suggested.
Emma shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t. The notoriety, the attention, I could not bear to be looked at like that, as if I were a circus animal. No, I should far rather keep a little cottage and a flock of chickens. That would suit me quite well.”
“Besides, I mean to keep her quite busy with nieces and nephews very soon,” Lucy put in, bouncing up to embrace her sister. “Cedric has said that I may have Emma with me, to act as my companion, and later as governess to our children. We need never be parted again.” Emma put an arm around her sister and hid her face in Lucy’s neck.
I avoided Portia’s eyes, but I could guess her thoughts well enough. Sir Cedric, a wealthy and important man, had offered his impecunious sister-in-law a post, not a home. It spoke of a meanness in his spirit I could not like. It would have cost him little to keep Emma simply out of kindness. But she would work for her bread.
“To your very fecund future in that case,” Portia proclaimed, raising her glass to Lucy and tactfully ignoring the subject of Emma’s employment. We toasted the bride and spent a pleasant half hour discussing plans for the wedding. Lucy was a happy bride, thrilled with her betrothed, and content to hear our ideas for her nuptials. Our suggestions grew more and more outlandish as the port decanter emptied.
Finally, I rose and stretched and made my excuses. Portia put out her tongue at me.
“You know you are not supposed to retire until the gentlemen have joined us. It is rude to our guests,” she said, putting on her severe elder-sister voice.
I covered my mouth, smothering a yawn. “Would you have me dozing on the sofa in front of them? I think that would be far more uncivil. Besides, poor Mrs. King is drooping in that chair. I think she would like to retire as well, only she is too polite to say it. Is it our fault the gentlemen have clearly lost sight of the time? Mind you poke Aunt Dorcas awake before you retire,” I said with a nod toward the old woman.
Mrs. King protested genteelly, but I bullied her, and I fancied she looked a bit relieved as we quit the drawing room. Aquinas had anticipated me and was lighting chambersticks in the hall.
“My lady,” he said, offering me one. “Mrs. King.”
“Thank you, Aquinas. Good evening.”
He bowed and wished us both a good evening. As we moved toward the great staircase, I caught Mrs. King hiding a yawn behind her hand.
“I do apologise,” she said. “I am simply not accustomed to keeping late hours. It is silly, I know. I live in London and keep city hours. One would have thought coming to the country would mean early to bed and early to rise.”
I gave a little snort of laughter as we started up the staircase. There were great carved panels of wood at the foot to keep the dogs out, or would have done if anyone had ever bothered to close them. A few of the puppies followed us up the stairs, lumbering along sleepily.
“You would do well to take one of the little brutes into bed with you. They haven’t fleas, and the pups will be far cosier than any warming pan,” I advised her.
She nodded, and for an instant her expression clouded.
“Mrs. King? Is everything quite all right?”
She hesitated, her pretty face drawn a little with an emotion I could not identify. Fear, perhaps? “Lady Julia, I do hope you will not think me terribly foolish, but—are there ghosts at the Abbey? I did not like to ask one of the gentlemen, they are so prone to think us ladies silly when we say such things.” She gave me an apologetic little smile, but her lips trembled. “I just thought