Free Silent on the Moor by Deanna Raybourn

stair and seen the distinctive blue hem of her gown. All it had taken was a moment’s misdirection on his part, skilful as any conjurer, and my attention was diverted long enough for him to make his escape.
    “Blast him,” I muttered. But I had no intention of discussing the matter with Ailith Allenby, and it occurred to me that Brisbane’s absence might be a perfect opportunity for me to take the lay of the land. Brisbane had been terribly mysterious about his doings at Grimsgrave, and I was very keen to know the full extent of his troubles.
    I looked at Ailith and realised I was still grumbling to myself, for she was looking at me with the gentle, quizzical glance that nurses reserve for mentally defective patients.
    “Never mind,” I said, forcing my voice to cheerfulness. “I believe I am poorly dressed for an excursion on the moor.”
    She looked at the tiny feathered hat perched atop my head and frowned. “I am afraid that will never do, my lady. The moor wind will whip it away, and your ears would be quite chilled. And that thin shawl will not keep out a bit of the wind. Let me find you a proper shawl.”
    She hastened off, returning a moment later with another heavy length of blue wool and a pair of alarmingly ugly rubber boots. I stood very still as she wrapped my head with the scarf, trying not to think about how trying blue was against my complexion and trying not to breathe too deeply. The shawl still smelled of the sheep it had been shorn from. She wrapped it tightly, unlike her own elegant drape, and tucked the ends firmly into my skirt, plumping my waist unbecomingly.
    She clucked over my boots, insisting I remove them on the grounds they would be instantly ruined in the mud. Flat boots or pattens, she advised me, although rubber boots were by far the best. She fitted me with a pair that pinched a little—in spite of her height, Miss Allenby had tiny feet—and declared us ready. She looped a basket over her arm andwe left the house by the kitchen door, and as we walked it suddenly occurred to me to wonder why Brisbane had referred to Ailith Allenby by her Christian name.

THE FIFTH CHAPTER
    My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not,
My rams speed not, all is amiss.
    —William Shakespeare
“The Passionate Pilgrim XVII”
     
     
    W e passed into a garden, or rather, what had once been a garden. Sheltered by high stone walls, it was a peaceful place that had clearly once been a productive one as well. Gnarled old fruit trees sprawled against the walls, but it was easy to see the bones of where they had once been espaliered. Beds, edged in crumbling brick, were thick with weeds and overgrown bushes, and just at the edge, sheltered in the recess of a wall, a set of beehives stood quiet and empty. A small plot was still in cultivation, but it had been planted with an eye to industry rather than beauty. It bore none of the traces of elegance that lingered yet in the rest of the garden.
    Miss Allenby saw my interest and the faintest of blushestinged her cheeks. “The gardens of Grimsgrave were once renowned for their beauty. Even the kitchen garden was lovely. It has been many years since we have had gardeners to tend them. Godwin does what little he can with this plot, and Mama still has a tiny garden for her flowers.” She gestured toward a sunny spot where a listless bunch of daffodils struggled limply out of the dark, peaty soil. “Most of our vegetables are delivered by folk who used to be our tenant farmers,” she added, her tone edged with emotion—nostalgia perhaps?
    She motioned toward the far end of the garden where a rotting wooden door sagged in the stone wall. I turned back, eager to see Grimsgrave Hall in the clear light of day. It was almost as forbidding as it had been by moonlight. The native gritstone, once handsome no doubt, had weathered to blackness, giving the entire façade a gloomy cast. The ruined wing put me in mind of a skeleton, its flesh rotted away from the bones. But the