Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (9 page)

Sir
Richard’s famous cattle, red with white patches, grazed in the park alongside
his horses. Elms lined the road leading up to the house and there were newly
planted lime trees around the formal garden and alongside the path that led
down to the fishponds and the warren. There was also an extensive and
well-stocked deer park that was lucrative as well as attractive. The house and
its grounds were tranquil, harmonious and welcoming rather than formal. A
traveller who saw the house might think it was a serene and calm place.

However,
inside Marfield Hall Richard Grasset’s daughters were arguing. This was not an
unusual state of affairs. What was strange was that they were carrying out
their disagreement in whispers. The whispers were accompanied by pushes and
hard digs of the elbow into one another’s ribs; but their mother knew nothing
of that and would have cared little if she had known, as long as they were
quiet. From their place in the gallery above the impressive new staircase that
led down to the equally splendid redecorated hall, the sisters could see the
door of their father’s study and it was on this door that their gazes were
jointly locked, when not engaged in glaring at each other.

“When
d’you think they’ll come out? Father’s kept ‘im in there for an age!” This
was Amelia, the younger daughter, in a stage whisper.

“How
would I know?” hissed her sister. “And be quiet - even when you
whisper, y’do sound like an old crow cawing!”

“Well,
and what of you? You do sound like an ass braying!” And Amelia performed
what she thought was a wheezy imitation of her sister as a donkey:
“Heeeh-haaa, heeeeh-haaa!”, which resulted in a scuffle and a bump as
Amabilis, the elder, knocked her sister’s curl-covered head against the gallery
rail.

“Ow,”
said Amelia, rubbing the bruise, but being a tomboy she was used to knocks. Her
interest in it soon passed and her gaze returned to the door. After a while she
ventured, “Fine looking though, isn’t he?”

Amabilis
shrugged. “I suppose so,” she said indifferently.

Her sister
looked at her a little oddly. “I’m sure mother thinks so,” she said.

“What
does it matter what mother thinks?” said Amabilis. Amelia looked shocked,
but pressed her sister again.

“Well,
don’t
you
think so?”

“I’ve
said I suppose so, haven’t I?” hissed Amabilis. “Now be quiet, Meely,
they might come out any time now …” They waited. The door remained
closed and although they strained their ears they could hear nothing.

The
irrepressible Amelia could not keep silent for long. “And he’s supposed to
be a wonderful horseman.”

Her sister
rolled her eyes. “Ye gods, Meely, is that all you can ever think of?
Horses, horses, horses. You stink of the stable and have hands like a
laundress. Look at your nails! How’d you ever hope to find a husband?”

“Husband?
Don’t know whether I want one. Anyway, I don’t have to think about that,
yet.”

“You
can’t put it off for ever, Meely. D’ye want to be an old maid? D’ye know what
the fate of old maids is, hmm?” Amabilis was jeering. “Leading apes
in hell, that’s what!”

“I
don’t believe that!” said Amelia, but she didn’t sound entirely confident.
Amabilis saw an advantage and took it.

“You’re
thirteen now, Meely! ‘Bout time you began to pay some attention to your
appearance. Men don’t want wenches that smell of horses and dogs and have mud
all over their kirtles and screech like popinjays.”

“They
might, if they liked horses and dogs - and popinjays - as well …”
reasoned Amelia. She looked at her sister’s gleaming golden hair, straight and
superior nose and brilliant, though critical, blue eyes. The rich dark murray
of her kirtle suited her; it contrasted stunningly with her fair colouring.
“Y’are very pretty, Lissy.”

Amabilis
inclined her head to accept the compliment.

“But,”
added Amelia, rather thoughtlessly, “perhaps ‘tis you who needs to give
some thought to marriage, if it’s true what y’say about old maids and I’m but
thirteen; after all - ” she was still gazing at the study door and didn’t
see the dangerous expression on her sister’s face “- you’re gone sixteen
and no-one has asked for - ow!”

“Be
quiet!” hissed Amabilis. “I don’t recall asking for your
opinion!” And she gave her annoying little sister a hard shove.

Amelia
pushed her back, taking her sister by surprise.

“Mind
my gown!” snapped Amabilis, smoothing the velvet with one hand and her
hair with the other.

“What
does your stupid gown matter? That’s all you ever think about! You’re vain,
Amabilis Grasset and y’know what the parson says about vanity - it’s in the
Bible …” Suddenly struck by the inspiration of thirteen, she jeered at
her sister, “And very pretty you’ll look - when you’re leading apes in hell.”
Amelia began to lurch up and down the gallery, doing an impression of her
sister performing that task.

“Why,
you …” Amabilis, her eyes narrowed, flung herself at Amelia who began to
run down the gallery, her feet thudding loudly on the floor as she taunted Amabilis
over her shoulder. Amabilis was taller, slimmer and faster. There was a loud
banshee wail as her fingers twined into her sister’s brown curls to twist and
pull them, hard. At precisely that moment, the study door opened and Sir
Richard and his visitor came out, still talking animatedly. At the same time
the girls’ mother, preternaturally alert to her daughters’ misdemeanours,
materialised in the hall from the kitchen where she had been overseeing the
servants.

As Amelia’s
long wail echoed down the stairs and across the hall, Sir Richard, Anne his
wife and their visitor stared at one another. Sir Richard had a sardonic look
on his face, his wife was clearly trying to remain cool and composed and their
visitor looked around quizzically for the source of the noise.

After a
slight pause, Sir Richard spoke. “‘Tis the family ghost, George. Take no
heed of it - every ancient family has at least one - d’you not have a few dozen
at Oakenhall?”

Sir George
Paston, his guest, was about to reply when Lady Anne spoke up quickly.

“Pay
him no attention, Sir George.” She frowned at her husband. “It was
probably one of the servants - think nothing of it, I pray. I will chastise -
the individual.”

“What,
dear, you’d deny our inheritance? For I believe our inheritance was its
cause.”

Sir George
interrupted, taking up the jest. “And what does it portend, that
blood-curdling shriek? Surely it foretells doom upon the house.”

“I
fear it does; for every time it is heard, some dish begins to burn in the
kitchen …” As Sir Richard made this remark, his wife looked as though
she would like to fell him with one of the ancient shields decorating the
walls. Quickly straightening her frown into a pleasant smile, she half curtsied
to the men and excused herself.

“So,
now our business is - mostly - transacted,” began Sir Richard in a happy
and somewhat relieved voice, “we’ll away to the stables, my boy.” He
clapped George on the shoulder and the two men made their escape.

“Did
you spend as much on refurnishing the stables as you did the manor?”
George was half jesting, but there was admiration in his voice as they
approached the building.

His host
gave a wry smile. “No; but my wife would say however much was spent, it
was too much. I do recall her saying something to the effect that I should ‘lay
good Turkey carpet as well for the beasts and have done with it’.”

George
laughed. “It certainly impresses, Richard.” The stables were light
and airy and scrupulously clean. They entered through a central arch into a
building that held two rows of stalls, where it seemed scarcely a blade of hay
was out of place. In a prominent place stood a dark brown mare, not very tall
but with clean, strong legs that were long relative to her height, below a good
clean shoulder. It could be clearly seen that her stride would be ground
covering and as she swung about impatiently to look at them, this was
confirmed. She was not young - her back was bowed and her belly rounded with
pregnancy - but she had spirit and power about her. Her feet were blue black
and when they struck cobbles, the sound was full and ringing. This was quality.

“You’ll
remember Sweet Gale,” said Sir Richard. “Of the north; and one of the
best in the north.”

Sir
Richard’s Galloway mare viewed them with severity.

“I
do,” said George.

“Fifteen,”
said Sir Richard, with pride. “And in foal again to my stallion, Galliard.
She is not in the best of tempers at this stage. I wanted you to see her again;
but she will back at grass again within the hour. And now - we’ll see the
sire.”

Galliard
was black, fine limbed and long maned with a white star and a white spot on one
foot.

“Good
feet, like Gale,” said George, but he did not think the stallion had the
presence of his own Bayard. Out of courtesy to his host, he did not say so, but
made some conventional and truthful comments about the horse.

“He
came from Marseilles, of course,” said Sir Richard, meaning he was a
special import. “The progeny they have produced thus far is fast and
enduring.”

“You
have some of them here?” said George, looking around. He did not see
anything amongst the other occupants of the stable that suggested they were the
offspring of the mare and stallion. There was a slight pause and George
wondered if Sir Richard, who had moved across the stable to examine a grey
gelding, had not heard him.

“What?
Oh, no, not here at present -”

George
thought he detected something in the casual tone of his host and waited.

” -
and that brings me to a matter that I wish to discuss. I need your help, George
…”

* * * * *

Meg opened
the box she had brought with her from the lonely inn on the crossroads, way
back in the hills. She had not needed to collect it from the innkeeper or his
wife. She had just needed to find the thorn tree under which she had buried it,
one of a small group near a dark, peaty pool. Spring was so far behind there
that the leaves were scarcely showing and there would be no blossom for another
month. She had found the tree, though, gnarled and beautiful, standing guard
like the graceful old custodian that it was. The ground was hard, but not
frozen and the box came up from under its deep, flat topped stone cover,
smelling of soil and leaf mould, aged, mellow wood and - just a hint of what
was inside it.

Cornelius
was beside her as she opened it. They were sitting in the window seat of Meg’s
room at the Hart and Hawthorn. Whenever possible, Meg liked to have a room from
which she could view the street. She learned so much that way and it was a
constant entertainment, better than a play. Cornelius sniffed at the beautiful
earthy smell of the box. Some buried items, when dug up and brought into the
light again, smell of the grave and stinking rot, a smell that chills the
marrow and drives the nose - and its owner - away to seek more lively scents.
Others simply smell of the richness of the earth and soil, roots of trees - and
secrets. That was what this box smelled of, and Cornelius appreciated it,
although he would not really have minded if it had smelled of rot and decay.

The box
contained a number of small phials. Even stoppered and sealed, some of the
scent of each one hovered around it. Some were rich and powerful, matching the
earthy smell that still lingered round the box. Others were fragrant and
enticing, hinting at rare flowers and spices. The deepest, darkest ones were
compelling and mysterious. The noses of Cornelius and Meg inhaled
instinctively. Then they both breathed out long sighs.

“Pleasant,
Brother Nose-all?” Cornelius looked as though he was considering the
question and then jumped down from the window seat to go to his place by the
fire. Just a little too much, said his back, eloquently, as he turned away from
her. A touch too much for a
dog’s
nose.