Silent on the Moor. Deanna Raybourn

broadly.

      “I am. I have not slept so well in years. Something about the air up here, I think,” he commented, smiling.

      “I am suspicious of you, Valerius. You look entirely too cheerful for a person whose presence here has been secured by means of extortion.”

      He shrugged. “I am of a gentle and pleasant disposition,” he said mildly.

      I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. “I am in no mood to quarrel, Julia. I have a mind to walk out over the moor, perhaps to the village. I am rather curious about how they manage for a doctor in Lesser Howlett.”

      “Not very well,” I told him. I quickly related what Rosalie had revealed about the village doctor.

      He rolled his eyes. “I am not surprised. Any medical professional with the slightest bit of acumen would have had something done about the drains in Howlett Magna. I mean to see if they fare any better in Lesser Howlett. Good drains are fundamental for public health,” he added. I hastened to divert him before he warmed to his theme and we spent the better part of the morning discussing public hygiene.

      “And you might like to stop for a chat with Rosalie Smith whilst you’re out,” I advised. “She seems quite knowledgeable about folk remedies.” We parted then, Val full of schemes for his entertainment, and I felt a little deflated. With Brisbane gone there was nothing pressing, and I looked about the hall for something to do. Ailith had taken herself upstairs. Portia and Lady Allenby and the mysterious Hilda were nowhere to be seen, and I was seized with a sudden, childlike urge to explore Grimsgrave on my own.

      I crept to the nearest set of doors, enormous, panelled things, and pushed one open, holding my breath as it creaked in protest upon its hinges. I moved into a handsome hall of excellent proportions, the walls panelled, the plaster ceiling worked in a repeating pattern of lozenges and crowns. The room was impressive, not the least because it was entirely empty. Not a stick of furniture nor vase nor picture warmed the room. It was a cold, austere place, and I shivered in spite of myself.

      I turned to leave, surprised to see that I had been quite wrong in thinking the room was bereft of decoration. Hung just next to the great double doors was a length of tapestry, bordered in flame stitch, and fashioned as a sort of genealogical chart. The names and dates had been worked in thick scarlet wools, and far back, just near the top of the tapestry, several of the names were surmounted by crowns heavily stitched in tarnished gold thread.

      I moved closer to read the names. Those at the top were Saxon royalty, the kings of England before the Conqueror came from across the sea. From them descended an unbroken line, all the way down to Lady Allenby herself, married to Sir Alfred Allenby, I noticed. Peering intently, I could just make out that they had been first cousins, and that Lady Allenby had been orphaned quite young.

      “I wonder if that was arranged,” I murmured. It seemed too neat otherwise, the orphaned heiress of the old blood royal married off to the sole heir. Rather like royal marriages of old, I thought irreverently, keeping the bloodlines and the family fortunes secure. Still, the notion of an arranged marriage left me cold, and I hoped it had been one of affection instead.

      I traced the line between them, and down to where Sir Redwall’s name had been stitched, the year of his death still bright and untarnished. Some distance apart was Ailith, and between them a place where another name had been recorded but had clearly been unpicked by a careful needle. After Ailith was Hilda, the letters quite narrow and cramped, looking rather like an afterthought. My eyes returned to the empty spot between Redwall and Ailith.

      I passed then to a smaller room, the dining room I suspected, a similar chamber with panelling and plaster ceiling, its furniture also missing. In these panels I noticed the crowned initial A carved over and over again, endless reminders of the once-royal blood that still flowed in the Allenby veins.

      I clucked my tongue at the carvings. There were royals within my own family, but most of them were not the sort worth remembering, I reflected wryly. For all our exalted history, the Marches were very much country gentry, deeply connected to the land and its people. We had a gallery of painted ancestors, but as their exploits were always of the wildly eccentric and deeply embarrassing sort, I had learned to ignore them. I was much more attached to the modern, American idea of finding merit in one’s efforts rather than one’s birth. But I had little doubt the Allenbys would find such a notion heresy.

      I crossed the hall again, feeling very intrepid indeed as I made my way into the dust-sheeted room next to Brisbane’s bedchamber. I crept through, scarcely heeding the ominous, ghostly shapes in the half-light. I was bound for Brisbane’s inner sanctum, for reasons that did me no credit.

      “Curiosity is a dangerous pastime,” I reminded myself as I edged into his room. But then so is love. I sat on the edge of his bed for a long moment, breathing in the scent of him. It was an easy thing to imagine him there, lying with his black hair tumbled across the soft white linen of the pillow. I put out a hand to touch it, then drew it back in haste.

      He had made his bed, skilfully as any housemaid would have done, and I was suddenly glad of it. I had been seized with such a tremendous sense of longing I might well have lain down.

      I surged up from the bed, realising I had strayed into rather dangerous territory. I had not come to build castles in Spain, I told myself firmly. I had come to find some clue as to Brisbane’s state of mind as master of Grimsgrave.

      His trunk yielded nothing unexpected, save a copy of Socrates in Greek, the endpapers heavily marked in Brisbane’s distinctive hand. I had known he had a facility for languages, but I had not realised Greek was among them.

      I tucked it neatly back into his travelling trunk, along with a small leather purse full of what seemed to be Chinese coins, and a set of false white whiskers so realistic I started back in fright at the sight of them. I had seen Brisbane in them once before and had not known him, I reflected with a smile. We had come quite far since then, and yet not far at all.

      I rose and moved to the covered table in the corner, lifting the linen cloth carefully. A set of scientific instruments reposed there, some chemists’ glass, a scale, and most impressively of all, a microscope even finer than Valerius’. “No wonder Brisbane keeps that under cover,” I mused. “He would never know a moment’s peace if Valerius suspected this was here.”

      “Talking to oneself is the first sign of a disordered mind.” I whirled to find Lady Allenby standing in the doorway, leaning upon her rosewood walking stick, her expression gently reproving.

      I dropped the cloth and straightened. “I was just—”

      Her expression softened and she held up a hand. “There is no need to explain, my dear. I was once your age. And I was in love.”

      I took a deep breath. “Is it so obvious?”

      “Only to someone who has also suffered.”

      I dropped my head. “It isn’t always dreadful, you know. In fact, it is rather wonderful most of the time.”

      She gave me a moment to compose myself. I took a deep breath and forced a smile.

      “I was looking over the other rooms as well. The dining room and the great hall. They must have been magnificent.”

      “There were Jacobean suites of furniture in each of them, the finest English oak, carved by a master’s hands. They were sold along the way, with the Flemish tapestries and the French porcelains,” she added with a sigh. “So much of this place lost. It will be a mercy, I think, to leave it behind.”

      I marvelled at her courage, twisted and wracked with pain, forced to leave the only home she had ever known.

      “I hope you will be happy in your new home,” I said impulsively. It seemed a stupid sentiment. Who could be happy in such circumstances, torn up by the very roots?

      “God will provide. As will Mr. Brisbane. He might have turned us out into the streets to starve, you know. We must be grateful that he is a generous man.”

      “Or perhaps