The Master of Heathcrest Hall (70 page)

Then she would shiver, and look away from the sky, and go back into the silent, empty manor.

Such thoughts as these, together with all that had happened, could easily have made her morbid, and caused her to lie down in some black room in the house with no intention to ever rise again. But she could do no such thing, not when Rose had need of her. Furthermore, it was the case that the immediate and constant work of sustaining themselves occupied the great majority of their time, so that she had not the luxury of letting herself be consumed in terrible thoughts. In sum, when one is cold and hungry, it is difficult to consider much of anything else.

That first night the two sisters huddled together in a corner of the front hall, holding each other for warmth beneath a musty old bearskin they had pulled down from the wall. At last both storm and night ended, and a wan morning ensued. Their first order of business was to find something to eat, for it had been many hours since they had had anything.

An exploration of the kitchen quickly revealed that they were not the first who had come here with a similar intent. There was evidence of a careless fire in the stove, and dirty plates scattered on the broad plank table—though, by the looks of it, the trespassers had been here some time ago. Their mode of entry was quickly obvious, for the kitchen door had been forced open from the outside, breaking the latch. Ivy had thought herself so clever the night before in opening the lock at the front of the house, but it turned out they could have easily come around by the back!

A perusal of the stone-walled larder off the kitchen showed that much had been looted. This had been done in such haste that several barrels of flour had been broken open to spill their contents, and pots of salted meat had been smashed. All these things were long spoiled by exposure to air and the work of rodents. But rummaging past this detritus soon revealed two barrels of flour that were undisturbed, as well as a good number of hard-rinded cheeses, a salted pork, a pair of hams, and various crocks containing dried apples, preserved apricots, olives, and even a pot of honey. Whoever had been here had not had much time to do their work, for which Ivy was grateful.

As there was still wood in the niche by the fireplace, and a tinderbox on the mantel, they soon had a fire in the stove. Ivy found a knife to slice the pork and a pan to cook it in, and she mixed the renderings with the flour to make little biscuits. They ate these with a wedge of the cheese, and some of the apricots. The result was a meal that, given their famished state, seemed akin to a feast.

The food warmed them, and lifted their spirits. After that, they had energy to make an exploration of the house. Ivy had half-feared
that they were not alone here, that others might have entered the abandoned manor seeking shelter. But with the exception of spiders here and there, they encountered no other living beings.

Other than the south wing, the house appeared in much the state Ivy last remembered it, with the exception of being damper and mustier, and the air yet bore a sharp, acrid tinge of smoke. How the fire had begun, she could only guess. Though given that the shell of the outer walls yet stood while the roof had fallen in, she suspected the south wing had been struck by lightning. No one had been here to stop the fire. But there must have been a hard rain soon after the strike to douse the flames, or else the whole house would have been destroyed. That it had not been was a thing to be grateful for.

During that first day of exploring, they removed several blankets from the bedchambers and used them to make nests for themselves in the downstairs parlor. Ivy would not consider sleeping on one of the upper floors, for fear of being trapped by another fire. By the time this was done, another long umbral had commenced, though it was neither so cold nor terrifying as the first.

Over those next days, they continued to work to improve their living conditions within the old manor. An exploration of the courtyard behind the house revealed that the kitchen garden, though it had gone wild, still bore a number of herbs and greens and even parsnips and radishes which they could use to augment the foodstuffs from the larder. Though the variety was still poor, by Ivy’s calculations they had now enough food to last at least a month if they were frugal.

With food and shelter secured, clothing was their next priority. It was soon apparent that their dresses, intended for a warm day in the city, were not suitable for the damp chill of the West Country. So it was they spent a great deal of time going through every wardrobe and closet in the house, looking for something suitable to wear. Then, at the end of a corridor in the north wing, in a small chamber Ivy was certain she had never entered in her prior time
at Heathcrest, Rose opened a cherrywood cabinet and let out a gasp.

Ivy hurried over and saw at once the source of Rose’s astonishment, for the cabinet was filled with dresses. The dresses were all of an outmoded style, with many ruffles and bits of lace, but they were beautiful all the same, made of velvet and soft wool and heavy silk in hues of gray, deep violet, and blues so dark as to be all but black.

“I wonder who these belonged to,” Rose had said, touching the gowns.

Ivy had shaken her head. “I don’t know.”

“Look.”

Rose had bent down, then picked up something from the bottom of the cabinet. It was a porcelain doll. Its face was cracked, and its taffeta dress was yellowed. But it was still a pretty thing, with glossy black hair and faded pink lips and cheeks.

“These gowns aren’t very large. They must have belonged to a girl who lived in the manor long ago.” She cradled the doll in her arms. “And this must have been hers as well.”

Ivy thought of the large painting that hung above the first landing of the main staircase—the portrait that depicted Earl Rylend and his wife, as well as their son, Lord Wilden. And standing apart from them, almost lost in shadows on the edge of the painting, was a girl with dark hair and eyes.

“Yes,” Ivy had said, looking at the doll’s white porcelain face, “I think you must be right, Rose.”

They chose several of the warmest dresses and took them downstairs, and then upon searching discovered scissors, needles, and thread in the old servants’ quarters. Over the next several days, Rose worked upon the gowns, altering them, and using pieces carefully cut from one to lengthen the sleeves or skirt or bodice of another.

When she was done, they each had a new dress of warm wool to protect them from the chill; and as soon as she was done with these dresses, Rose began work on two more. She spent some of her time upon the doll as well, using leftover scraps to make a tiny
dress for it, and employing some paints she discovered in a cupboard to smooth over the cracks on its face and brighten its lips. When she was done, the doll was so lovely that any girl might have considered herself lucky to have received it for a present.

As she observed her sister sewing in the little parlor, Ivy could only be amazed. Both Rose and Lily had been through unimaginable ordeals these last years, first knowing poverty after their father’s illness, and then an even worse state following their mother’s death. True, they had experienced joy and comfort in their time on Durrow Street, but it had been a short interlude—and one wrested from them prematurely.

Now they had fled to a cold, musty manor in the country. Yet throughout it all, Rose had made no complaint, and had been extraordinarily brave. Indeed, once Ivy assured her that Lily would be very well in the city, and was staying there to learn how to craft dramatic scenes for plays, the only fear Rose expressed had been for the sake of Miss Mew.

Ivy assured her the little cat would be taken care of—that Mrs. Seenly would not abandon her, and that it was better they had not brought Miss Mew with them, for there was no milk to have here. Rose agreed with this point. And though she missed the cat, her attentions were soon fixed upon the porcelain doll instead, and she kept it close always.

While Rose had been brave, Ivy could not say the same for herself—for there was something she should do, something she knew she must, but could not bring herself to. From time to time, when Rose was occupied with her sewing, Ivy would take out the small, cloudy gem that Mr. Rafferdy had given her just before their parting. He had not had an opportunity to tell her exactly what it was, yet she could not say that she did not have an inkling. For why else was she so reluctant to do as Mr. Rafferdy had instructed?

I have cast an enchantment on it that should allow you to see an echo of the things that it revealed to me
, he had told her.
When you are ready, tap it three times and gaze into it
.

What thing could the gem have witnessed that day that she had not already seen herself? There was only one possibility, and she did not need to watch a reflection of that event to know that it had occurred; she felt it in her heart, which was as darkened and hollow as the husk of the manor’s south wing. She would never see Mr. Quent again in this life. She would never feel the prickling of his beard against her cheek or the strength of his arms enclosing her. She was lost and alone upon a moor, powerless to stop the cold rains that lashed at her; and no matter how many times she called for him, he would not come for her again.

All the same, each time she gazed into the dim jewel, Ivy knew she should do as Mr. Rafferdy had said. Surely he had given it to her for some purpose other than to horrify her. There was something it could reveal to her, something she needed to witness for herself. Yet each time, Ivy would put the gem back into the Wyrdwood box without tapping it as he had directed.

It was the morning of their fifth lumenal at Heathcrest when there came a knock at the front of the house. The sound of it was so unexpected that Ivy hardly knew what she was hearing. For up until then she had seen no sign of any sort of human presence outside the windows of the manor: no horses in the distance, or threads of smoke rising from a croft.

Then it came again: a steady pounding upon the door. Rose had hugged the doll tightly, her eyes wide. Ivy had hesitated. Then she took up a poker from the hearth.

“Stay here,” she said to Rose, then went to the front hall.

It occurred to her that this was absurd, that a band of robbers would have no fear of a small woman in a gray dress, armed with a poker or not. But then the knocking came again, and there was nothing to do but answer it, lest they let themselves in. Raising the poker, she flung open the door.

Who was more astonished, she or the dark-haired man on the other side, it was difficult to say. Ivy knew her mouth was formed into a circle much like his own.

“Lady Quent!” he said, even as she exclaimed, “Mr. Samonds!”

For a long moment they stared at each other, as if to make certain their eyes had not deceived them. But there could be no mistake. His face was perhaps a bit more tanned and weatherworn than before, but remained kind and open. At last, as if having made his own confirmation of her identity, he glanced down at the poker in her hands.

“You look very intent upon using that, your ladyship,” said the farrier of Cairnbridge village.

Hastily, she lowered the poker. “I could not know who it was at the door. I feared the worst. But to discover it is you, Mr. Samonds, I …” She was at a loss to say anything more, and instead reached out and took his hand, and gripped it tightly. It was roughened from his work, though when he squeezed her hand in return it was with the gentlest pressure.

At last she recovered enough to invite him in, and he readily agreed, for the mist was beginning to bead upon his brown coat. It was only as he stepped over the threshold that Ivy noticed the pistol in his hand. Ivy was not the only one who had been prepared for an unfriendly welcome when the door was opened. Mr. Samonds put the pistol in his belt, covering it with his coat, and followed after Ivy.

She brought him into the little parlor, and introduced him to Rose as a fond acquaintance from her prior time at Heathcrest. Mr. Samonds’s hands might have been rough, but his voice and manner were both soft, and Rose’s fear was at once dismissed—though she remained shy, as she ever was around strangers, and cradled the doll on her lap while Ivy bade Mr. Samonds to sit by the fire. Ivy had no tea to offer him (for Rose had yet to discover the box of tea), but she had found a half-full bottle of whiskey in her explorations, and had brought it to the parlor thinking it might prove useful.

It did now as she offered some of the whiskey to Mr. Samonds, and he accepted it gladly.

“The lumenal has just begun, and it might be deemed early for spirits,” he said after taking a sip of the whiskey. “But who can
really tell what is early and late these days? The lumenals and umbrals are all a muddle.”

“They are, though it seems to be more often the latter than the former here in the country,” Ivy said.

“So it does. But how is it you happen to be in the country at all, Lady Quent? Given all that has occurred, I am astonished to find you here. And where is your husband?”

Ivy suddenly found it hard to draw a breath. She was mindful of Rose upon the sofa. “I’m afraid my husband is … not with us.”

His look was startled, and he hastily set down the whiskey glass. Rose presumed Mr. Quent remained in prison in the city; she did not yet know the truth. But Ivy thought Mr. Samonds must have an inkling of it now.

“How is it that you are here yourself?” Ivy said hastily. “Back in the city, we heard of the troubles in the West Country. And since Rose and I have been here, we have not seen any sign of another soul out the windows.”

“I am not surprised by that,” Mr. Samonds said grimly. “There were a number of skirmishes in the county the better part of a month ago. But as I guess you know, Huntley Morden’s men won out, and Valhaine’s soldiers were forced to retreat to the east. By then, most of the people in the county had fled to escape the fighting. There’s not a person left in Cairnbridge at the moment, though some yet remain in Low Sorrell. None of the young men, of course, for they’ve all joined up with Morden’s army. But some of the elderly, or those who could not bear a journey, stayed there.”