BONE HOUSE (18 page)

After several moments, I tear my eyes from hers, and turn back to the table. I lift the drawing in my fingers, only to discover another one below it. This too is me, but it is an earlier version, one I recognize more easily: the dress I wore the first day I sat with him in my master’s library, the day I spoke for hours while he listened and sketched idly. This time I am not angry, but nervous and intent. And while the portrait is not unflattering, it does not hold the beauty of the first.

Slowly I lift the sheet to reveal a third, and this one takes my breath away, for in it I lay sleeping. My hair is fanned across the bed cushion, and one arm curls idly round my head in a gesture that is almost wanton. My lips are parted slightly and my eyes appear just closed, as if any second I will wake. My heart races as I stare at the sketch, for it is obvious that it was not imagined. He must have been there in my room, watching while I slept. And once again, the woman he has drawn is both starkly beautiful, and strikingly feminine. I feel my mouth grow dry and my face grow hot, but while I should feel anger at what is obviously a trans
gression on his part, I feel only confusion, as if the world around me has suddenly been shaken by an unseen hand.

There are two more sketches in the pile: both roughly rendered, as if they had been done hurriedly. One is of me in the alehouse, drawn from across the room from his place by the fire: a hasty sketch of my profile as I stand at the bar. The other is more difficult to place, for I am outside and it has been drawn at a greater distance than the others. There are trees behind me and I stand staring down at the earth. In a flash it comes to me, for I am at
her
graveside, the night her body was taken. He has drawn no one else that was present on that occasion, neither Long Boy, Samuell, nor Mary. It is only me, standing in the moonlight by her grave.

I replace the pictures and let myself out of his room, leaving the door ajar just as I had found it. I am stunned by the sketches: feel as if there is another part of me that has dwelled somewhere within him. Who is this woman that he sees? Now that I have seen her I cannot put her from my mind. And as I descend the tower stairs, Cook’s words float across my memory like embers in the breeze: take care he does not steal your soul.

M
y mistress lies awake when I enter, her eyes disconcertingly wide, as if her body seeks to salvage what remains of her failing vision. She turns her head in small, trembling movements to face me, manages to nod a sort of greeting. Once again I am shocked at the speed with which her strength and vitality have ebbed, for the tide of health has indeed turned against her.

“You were here earlier?” she asks. Her tone is half-demanding, half-fearful.

“Yes,” I say. “While you slept.”

She nods again, relieved.

“Would you take some food?” I ask. She waves a hand in disgust.

“I sent for Edward,” she says. “He has been much . . . distracted of late. This business of the painter, I suppose. My own fault really.” She looks down, appears to forget herself. After a minute, her head snaps up.

“I asked him to intervene on her behalf,” she says. “Your mother’s behalf.” I stare at her. “He was not unwilling,” she continues. “So you see he is not without feelings, or regard, for your person,” she adds pointedly.

“Thank you, mum,” I murmur.

“He is unused to exploiting his title. Influence does not come
easily to him, in the way that it did to his father. So we shall have to see.”

I think of his father,
my
father, and the tale my mother told of the manservant he nearly flogged to death. Is this what she regards as influence? I feel suddenly as if I should not be here, that I cannot serve her in good faith any longer.

“When you and Edward have married, there will be much you have to learn. I was very young when I married, had no idea what to . . . expect.” She pauses, her eyes flit across the room toward the window. “It was a difficult period in my life.” She turns back to me and smiles wanly. “But I survived. And so shall you.”

I stare at her: cannot bring myself to speak. Like my mother, she survived him. And by birth and implication, so have I, for he has altered the course of life for all of us. She begins to cough and as she does lifts a handkerchief to her lips, discharging the contents of her mouth into it. At length the cough subsides, and she is left wracked by it, her small chest heaving from the effort.

“The two of you must marry quickly if I am to be present,” she says through a choked voice. Just then I hear a stirring in the hallway and when I turn, Edward is there in the shadows of the doorway. He clears his throat and enters, glances at me, and crosses directly to her bedside.

“I’ve returned, Mother,” he says, taking her hand. “I’ve done what you asked, but you must stop all this talk of death, for you shall be as right as rain by spring.” My mistress looks up at him and smiles.

“She is here,” she says. “She is waiting for you.” She waves a hand in my direction. My master reddens and clears his throat.

“You must rest now,” he says.

“It is time now, Edward,” she continues, pressing his hand fervently.

“Please, Mother,” he says urgently, his embarrassment acute.

“I cannot wait,” she says in desperation.

He stares at her and words fail him.

“You must promise me,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

“I cannot,” he says. There is silence then as the three of us regard each other.

“Perhaps I should go,” I say tentatively.

“No,” says Edward quickly. “No. You must stay. For this is a
family
matter,” he says with emphasis, turning to face me. “And you are family.”

He tells her then: the entire bloodstained tale, sparing no details. And as he does, a film of resistance seems to settle over her eyes. She does not meet my gaze even once during the telling, but her body seems to collapse upon itself, like a withered rose. My master speaks in even tones at first, but as she draws away, his voice takes on a greater urgency. When he finishes there is a suffocating silence, and the air is heavy with her enmity. Her disbelief is almost palpable.

“She is lying.” Her voice rolls across the room to where I stand by the window, and it is thick with rancor. “I do not know her motive,” she continues in steely tones, “but he would not have been capable, with his weakened heart, of such an act.”

“I was there,” interjects my master. “And I saw it. And he was not struck dead.”

“You were but a child,” she retorts.

“I saw the knife in his hand, and the blood upon the stable floor,” he says. “I heard her screams,” he adds. My mistress eyes him for a long moment, purses her withered lips.

“So I am to believe that he sired a bastard child without my knowledge?” she says finally.

“You can believe what you wish,” he replies wearily. “We speak the truth.”

My mistress turns away then. “I am tired,” she says. “And there is pain behind my eyes. I wish to sleep.” And with that, she closes her eyes, shutting out the past and its secrets, and the offspring of her husband.

My master slowly turns to face me, his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed with anger. The color ebbs from his face, and with it goes something else, perhaps his pride. He bends to retrieve his walking stick and shuffles from the room without another word. I turn back to my mistress and her face is like granite, though her spindly chest rises and falls almost imperceptibly. It seems that sleep has already taken her, eased her passage from the truth.

I go below to the kitchen, seek solace from the fire in the hearth. Little George is there alone turning spitted capon, his cheeks aflame from the heat. His eyes dart toward me with their usual mixture of curiosity and alarm. It is clear that he trusts no one on this earth, and there is little reason that he should. I look at him: his hands and brow are blackened with soot, his clothes are barely more than rags. At once I turn and walk down the passage to the larder, where I remove a handful of figs and sugared dates from a wooden barrel. I return to the kitchen, hold them out to Little George, and he stares in disbelief at my open palm. His eyes widen, then just as suddenly, they narrow as he gazes up at me suspiciously. I hold my palm out closer to him with the ghost of a nod, challenge him to take the offering. He glances round the room, then quickly takes the fruit, cramming half into his mouth and stowing the rest beneath his tunic. I retreat to the other side of the table, draw up a stool, and begin to peel a pile of onions Cook has left lying there. Little George sits watching me covertly, his mouth still full of dates, the turnspit momentarily forgotten. I do not know what has prompted this act of charity on my part—whether it is guilt over the wedge I have driven between my mistress and her only son, or anger over her denial of the sins committed by her husband. For though he is dead and buried, he is still the master of this house: I can feel his presence all around us, built into its very timbers.

Cook enters carrying water from the yard, and casts an unsus
pecting eye over Little George, nodding approvingly at the nicely browned capon. She sets the pail of water down and crosses over to where I sit.

“Anne Wycombe is without,” she says quietly, nodding toward the yard. “She has some business with you.” I rise at once, wiping the acrid juice of onions on a rag, and hurry out into the yard where Anne Wycombe waits, anxiously twisting her leather apron in her hands.

“What has happened?” I demand.

“He is gone,” she says. “The Long Boy.”

“When?”

“I left him sleeping late this morning. His fever had returned, and I went to fetch water. It was not the first time I had left him,” she adds defensively. I place a hand upon her arm in reassurance. “When I returned, he was gone. I looked for him around the village, even asked at the alehouse, but he has not been seen.”

“It may be nothing. He said he wanted to go out,” I say. She shakes her head doubtfully.

“He has taken things from the cottage. Bedclothes, and some bread and other food. I do not think he will return before nightfall.”

“You are not to blame,” I say. “Go home and rest. I will go to the cottage and await him. If he does not return by dark, we will notify the magistrate.”

She nods then, a little hesitantly, as if she is uncertain whether to leave the matter in my hands.

“Go now,” I say a little more forcefully, and with a sudden sigh of relief, she nods obediently and hurries from the yard. I watch her go, her barren frame fleeing down the lane. When I turn back toward the kitchen, Cook is standing in the doorway.

“There is trouble?” she asks when I enter.

“The boy has run away,” I say. She frowns and I walk past her into the kitchen, take some rolls down from the ceiling basket, and stuff them in the pocket of my kirtle.

“Where would he go?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Perhaps to find his mother,” I say.

I check the alehouse first. When I tell Samuell and Mary to keep a close eye upon the stables, Samuell frowns. “He may wish to see her,” I explain. Mary nods and lays a hand upon Samuell’s arm.

“We will watch for him,” she says.

“What news have you heard of the magistrate?” I ask.

“None this day. Your master was here this morning. They remained within for some time,” she says.

“Is the magistrate there now?” I ask.

She shakes her head no. “He asked for his horse to be brought round, and said he would return by nightfall.”

I nod, relieved that he has other matters elsewhere to attend to. With him away, I need not worry about my mother.

I go to Long Boy’s cottage, now deserted. Even the embers in the fire have grown cold. Anne Wycombe was right, for it is instantly apparent that the boy has taken things: the quilted cover from his trundle is missing, and when I open the larger of the trunks, I see that the woolen blankets are also gone. He has not touched his mother’s bedclothes, however, and I wonder at this. Perhaps he has not gone to find her after all.

I set about building a fire, piling kindling as high as it will go, for the house is deathly cold. Anne Wycombe has indeed been conscientious in her duties, for the tiny cottage is spotless. I consider going in search for the boy, but know not where to look, so I decide that there is little else to do but wait. I have not told my mother of his disappearance, believing she has plenty enough to worry her at the moment, and I am hopeful that he will return of his own accord. If nothing else, the cold or hunger may drive him home before the night is through. The fire blazes quickly and I draw a chair up to the hearth and take a roll out of my pocket, for I have eaten nothing since yesterday. A jug of ale lies on the table and I pour myself a mug. Next to it is the painter’s sketch of
Long Boy and now that I am not consumed with anger, I can see that the boy was right, for the painter has caught his very essence. It is the eyes which define him: remote, uneasy, disturbed.

I do not know what motivates the painter—whether it is curiosity or some form of opportunism. Or perhaps he is in search of something different altogether, for it occurs to me that he is a man without a place. Like Dora he has left behind his people and his homeland and now surrounds himself with strangers, defined only by his talent. As I stare into the fire I hear footsteps on the threshold. The door pushes open slowly to reveal the painter standing there. He steps inside, and stands silently regarding me. There is a look of melancholy in his eyes which I have never seen before. He removes his hat and takes a few steps into the room, glancing toward the bare trundle in the corner.

“Where is the boy?” he asks.

“He has disappeared,” I answer.

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

His eyes drift downward to the sketch on the table.

“It is a good likeness,” I tell him.

“At least I have accomplished this much,” he says with a wan smile. I think of the others in his room, the ones of me. Are these also his accomplishments? The painter stares down at the sketch again.

“The boy was restless,” he says, looking up at me. “He told me that his mother ran away.”

“Maybe that is how he sees her death.”

“He said that she no longer wanted him,” says the painter.

“Perhaps all children feel this when their parents die,” he adds, turning away. I look at him: remember that he too was left an orphan at the same age.

“Did you?” I ask.

He considers this for a moment. “I felt my place was with them,” he says finally.

“And where is it now?” I ask.

“I do not know,” he says slowly, and for the first time I catch a glimpse of his uncertainty. He has done this deliberately, allowed me to see this, but I do not know why.

“Why did you come here?” I ask finally.

“To return these.” He removes the diary and the miniature from his pouch and holds them out to me, as if they are an offering of peace. I hesitate before accepting them, for suddenly I do not want the responsibility that they bring. The burden of it all seems too great: the boy’s disappearance, my mother’s incarceration, the desecration of Dora’s corpse. I finger the crimson diary.

“Did you read it?” I ask.

He nods. “I had to know if it was hers,” he says, his tone embarrassed.

“And?”

He shakes his head no. “It was written by her mother.”

I feel a stab of disappointment, as she slips once again from our grasp.