Midwinter Nightingale (2 page)

Simon, looking out the rain-streaked window into the creeping landscape, began to fear that dark would have fallen by the time he reached his destination. He was bound for a solitary manor house situated in a wilderness known as the Devil's Playground because its thickets and swampy woods and overgrown hedgerows were so tangled and mazelike that travelers had been known
to get lost among them and wander in circles for days on end.

Rain splashed down the dirty glass, blurring the view of soggy meadows and waterlogged woodlands. Then— quite unexpectedly—the train jerked to a stop. Peering out, Simon saw that they had come to a tiny wayside halt; he could just make out the words FROG MERE on the single signboard. In the long pause that followed, nothing could be heard but the slap of rain on the roof and a deep sigh from the engine, as if the train were expressing its intention of never moving again.

But then the silence was broken by the slam of a door. Somebody—astonishingly in such a godforsaken spot— somebody had entered or left the train. Now footsteps came clacking in a purposeful way along the corridor, and the door to Simon's compartment was vigorously slid open.

Simon sighed, almost as deeply as the train. He was not at all anxious for company.

The girl who came in gave him an intent, considering look, half frowning, half friendly, before settling herself in the diagonal corner with a swish and flounce of dark brown velvet skirts and a twitch of her long fur driving coat. She neatly aligned her feet in well-polished boots and then, when she had made herself thoroughly comfortable, gave Simon another long, shrewd scrutiny.

“You look human, anyway!” she remarked. “Really, when a person travels across this country, they hardly know what to expect. I've been told there's still marsh
men with webbed feet! So I do like to pick a compartment where there's somebody who at least looks as if he would know what to do if the train broke down.”

Simon was doubtful whether he deserved this compliment. And he was not at all flattered by her wish to join him. The errand that brought him to this wild secluded country was a particularly private one and he wanted no hint of its nature to leak out. But he had a kind heart and did not like to snub the girl who had chosen his company.

He had to admit that she looked inoffensive enough. Her hair was dark and short and curved close about her head under a fur cap. Her round freckled face was not pretty—her pink cheeks were too plump, her nose and mouth too big—but she looked lively and keen, dimples showed in her cheeks and a pair of dark gray eyes laughed at Simon as she settled a foreign-looking cat in a cage on the seat beside her.

“I won't eat you, I promise! And nor will Malkin here, "will you, puss? I can see that you are "wishing me at the "world's end. But I swear that I am really very harmless. I'll even guarantee not to talk at all if you prefer silence. But if you
like
to talk—as I do—my name is Jorinda.”

“Mine is Simon.”

As soon as he had said this, Simon "wished he had held his tongue. But the name did not seem to strike any chord in Jorinda, "who, taking this as an acceptance of her offer to chat, "went on doing so in a low husky confiding voice "with a hint of a chuckle in it.

“You see, it is like this: My brother has finished school—at least, he was dismissed for bad behavior—if the truth be told—so I decided that I might as well quit my own abode of instruction in Bath (where they quite washed their hands of me in any case; they say I am incapable of grasping anything beyond ABC) so as to be back at Granda's manor before news about my brother reaches him—and so cushion the blow for the old boy. Don't you think that is best? Don't you think it a sensible plan?”

“Will your grandfather be very angry with your brother?”

“Oh, yes! Prodigiously! The last time Lot was expelled, Granda had a seizure, and foamed at the mouth, and Dr. Fribble had to bleed him and cauterize and phlebotomize him and put him to bed for three weeks with cold compresses and antiphlogistine and nettle gin—that was after Granda had chased Lot round the stable with a walrus tusk and knocked out two of Lot's front teeth. One trouble is, you see, that Lot is only my half brother; he isn't Granda's grandson. Granda never really wanted to have us wished on him. He was only persuaded by Lord Hatchery, who is our cousin and Master of Foxhounds.”

“Is your brother younger than you?”

She shook her head.

Simon thought she looked rather old to be still at school. Seventeen or eighteen, perhaps? He wondered why she spoke of her grandfather and not her father or
mother—where were they? But he was not really interested in her confidences and decided that this would be a good moment, while the train was at a standstill, to walk along to the horse box and check on the well-being of his mare, Magpie.

“I'm just going to visit my mare,” he said to the girl. “I'll be back in a few minutes.” He stood up.

But Jorinda had already plunged into an account of how her brother, who was the cleverest person she knew, had been sent to school at Fogrum Hall after being thrown out of Harrow.

“He has never been able to spell, you see—that's the trouble—as often as not he can't even spell his own name—so teachers think he is stupid, and that makes him
so
angry. Because, you see, he is not stupid—not in the very least. He has
wonderful
ideas—about how to run the world—sometimes the things he says are quite amazing. Why are you standing up? Sit down again directly!”

“I'm going to see my—”

But the girl swept Simon's objection aside. She grabbed his hand as he moved across the carriage intending to edge past her and step out the narrow doorway into the corridor, and gave it such a jerk that, without intending to, he sat down on the seat opposite her.

“That's better!” She laughed at him. Her face, Simon thought, was very like that of a squirrel, with round cheeks and slightly protruding teeth and large bright eyes.

“Are you hungry?” she went on. “My maid will bring
in a picnic by and by. After we have gone through customs. Where does that happen?”

“At Windwillow.”

“Customs!
What a stupid business that is! Who ever could have thought it up? And why? When my pa and ma were young you could travel anywhere, all over the country without these stupid stops and payments—so my old nurse has told me. Why should I be obliged to pay a tax to these customs officers if I take my Granda a present of Shrewsbury cakes or Bath biscuits or Pontefract licorice pipe tobacco?”

“It came into force when the country was split up into four different kingdoms,” Simon explained, “when the North country and the Combe country and the Wetlands all declared independence from London.”

“Oh, I know; I know
that,”
she said pettishly “But still I don't see why these stupid rules should apply to people like
us.
… It is all very well for farmers and drovers, I daresay. Why, even—” She stopped and bit her lip. “Forgot what I was going to say! Anyway, politics are dull and idiotic—ain't they? Stuff only fit for old gray-beards. In fact I think this country—north, south, east or west—is detestably dull—don't you? But when the old king finally pops off—as he's supposed to do soon— they say everything will be different. Do you think that is true?”

“I really can't say,” Simon answered carefully. “When King James died and King Richard came to the throne, I don't remember there being much difference.”

“Ah, but then, King Dick was old Jim Three's son. They were as like each other as two peas in a pod. But now, nobody seems quite sure who the next king will be, which makes it more exciting—don't it? When my pa comes out of jail—”

She stopped and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her expression was horrified, but her eyes laughed at Simon.

“Oh,
mercy
, what have I been and gone and let out now? My brother Lot is always saying that my tongue will be my downfall one of these days! Forget what I said, will you, pray?”

“Of course,” said Simon politely. “Anyway, people can be sent to prison for all kinds of reasons—” not necessarily criminal ones, he was going on to add, but the girl interrupted him.

“My pa's reason was lycanthropy—and that's not really his
fault
, after all. I don't think people should blame him and send him to prison for a failing he was born with—do you? You might as well be sent to jail for having measles. It is wholly unfair! Of course, at the time, there was a lot of trouble. In fact Grandma died of the disgrace. That was when Lot and I were quite little—fifteen years ago—so we don't remember her. Nor Pa, for that matter. He's been in jail for nearly all of my life.”

“I'm sorry,” Simon said, wondering what lycanthropy was. He had never heard the word. Illegal swinging on lych-gates? Licking ants' nests? Forced entry into liquor stores?

But the girl was chattering on. “Of course Granda never liked our pa; I've ever so many times heard him say, 'Why m'daughter was so besotted as to go and marry a perditioned werewolf chap I'll never comprehend,' and our old nurse has told me, time and again, that Granda was against the marriage from the very start— though our pa does come from a very grand old ancient family in Midsylvania…. But, as I told you, what's so unfair is that Pa can't help it. So it's really no fault of his. He was furious when they put him in the Tower for fifteen years. Said he'd get even with them all when he came out. Still, he may have changed his ideas while he was inside. Don't you think? People do, so they say….”

“I believe I have heard of your father,” Simon said cautiously “Is he Baron Magnus Rudh?”

“Why, yes.”

The engine sighed again, then let out a loud moan, as if it suffered from acute stomach cramps. The whole train jerked backward—forward—backward again, amid a chorus of men's shouts, loud clanks and hammer blows.

“They must be adding some more coaches,” Simon said. “I have never known them to do it here before.”

“Why, do you often travel on this line?”

“No, not often.” I am no good at this kind of secret, diplomatic business, Simon thought. I wish I were back minding geese in the forest. Or painting in my studio. But painting is what I have been summoned for. Well, I wish that Magpie and I were safe at Darkwater Farm.

Now a loud bleating, which Simon had been half consciously noticing for the past five minutes, became even louder, quite deafening, as if a hundred sheep had climbed onto the train and were finding themselves seats in the next carriage.

“We seem to have a flock of sheep on board,” he said, changing the subject.

“Oh, I saw them in a siding when I got on,” Jorinda agreed carelessly. “A couple of stock cars loaded with them. They will be going to market in Windlebury, I daresay”

She sounded supremely uninterested.

“Well, while they are attaching the sheep, I shall go and take a look at my mare,” Simon said firmly, putting on his coat, and this time, instead of walking along the corridor, he left the carriage on the platform side and walked back, through the pelting rain, to the horse box at the rear of the train. Now there were three stock cars behind it, which had been shunted from a siding.

The horse box, Simon had observed when Magpie was led on board at the London terminus, was of a far superior construction to the passenger cars, which were old and shabby, with cracked windows and worn upholstery leaking straw at the split seams. The horse box, in contrast, was magnificently fitted up. It must at some time have formed part of a royal train. There were polished mahogany stalls lined with thick cotton padding, each with a coat of arms on the door, brass mangers that glittered like gold, deep trays filled with sand for the
horses to stand in and ingenious water troughs filled by a drip from silver tanks overhead so as to avoid too much spillage. Huge bales of hay lined the coach so that the equine passengers need never go hungry.

Magpie seemed content and was quietly chomping on a nose bag of oats that Simon had left for her. She greeted him with a friendly snuffle and rubbed her head vigorously on his chest, then returned to her meal.

“Good ol' gal, ain't she?” said the horse-box attendant, a wizened little man with a brown face like a withered oak leaf. “Lucky, piebalds are reckoned—ain't they? Windfall Clumps, that where you and she's bound for?”

“That's right.” Simon pulled out his and the mare's tickets, one pink, one green, and the man clipped them. He said, “But you have to go through customs first, at Windwillow. Anything to declare?”

“Only my paints and paintbrushes and the mare's bag of oats. And two saddlebags.”

“Arr! Those be the very kind of baggage they go through fiercest—like a mouse in a lardy cake,” the attendant said, absently brushing off a mouse that had run up his gaitered leg (the horse car was alive with mice because of all the spilled oats).

“Why?” Simon asked.

“Why! Word has it they be a-looking for a lost piece o' joolry—Queen Adelaide's crown. Mind—no one never tells
me
nothing. Maybe 'tis Princess Sophronisba's choker customs gentry be after, but I dunno—'tis all fancy and make-believe, I daresay, sos they can claim
extra wages—” and he spat between the hooves of a dapple-gray pony who was occupying the stall next to Magpie's.

“Where are the sheep going?” Simon asked. A sudden surge of bleating came from the car next door as it was shunted into place.

“I
dunno. Like I said, no one tells
me
nothing. Mind, I did hear as they was going to Burgundy—but I reckon 'twas a Banbury tale.”

“Burgundy? But that's across the Channel! And—” Simon was going on to say, we are almost at war with Burgundy—but at that moment the engine gave a loud authoritative whistle and there was a violent jerk as the new couplings were tested.

“I'd better get back to my seat,” Simon said, then gave the old man a guinea and ran back along the corridor to his own compartment.

The glass-paned door was half open and he saw the girl, his fellow traveler, reflected in it as he approached. She was standing up and had opened the door of her cat's travel cage. The cat, Simon had noticed before, was a most unusual and foreign-looking beast, pinkish cream in color with very soft, thick-looking fur and black points, ears, paws and tail. It seemed well accustomed to travel, sat very composed, bolt upright, and gazed into space with a lofty air, ignoring everything outside its cage. Now its owner pulled from her pocket a small notebook or pamphlet and very quickly and neatly slid it under the pink velvet cushion on which the cat was
sitting. The cat took no notice of this. Then Jorinda closed and locked the cage, attached the key to her ear—Simon had noticed before that she wore silver earrings shaped like keys—and sat down nimbly in her corner seat.