and Morag gave a great guffaw. I ignored them both.
“Then a farm cart it will be,” I said firmly. “And do you think you could arrange such a conveyance for us? We are very tired and should like to get to Grimsgrave as quickly as possible.”
“Aye. ‘Twill take a moment. If tha’ll step this way to a private room. Deborah will bring thee some tea, and thee can rest awhile.”
Valerius excused himself to take a turn about the village and stretch his legs, but I thanked the innkeeper and led my dispirited little band after him upstairs to private accommodation. The inn itself was like something out of a children’s picture book. Nothing inside the little building seemed to have changed from the days when highwaymen stalked the great coaching byways, claiming gold and virtue as their right. Still, for all its old-fashioned furnishings, the inn was comfortable enough, furnished with heavy oak pieces and thick velvet draperies to shut out the mists.
The innkeeper introduced himself as Amos and presented a plump young woman with blond hair, Deborah, who bobbed a swift curtsey and bustled off to bring the tea things. We did not speak until she returned, laden with a tray of sandwiches and cake and bread and butter. A maid followed behind her with another tray for Minna and Morag, who perked up considerably at the sight of food. They were given a little table in the corner some distance from the fire, but Portia and I were settled next to it, our outer garments whisked away to have the dirt of travel brushed from them.
When the tea things had been handed round, Deborah seemed loath to go, and at a meaningful glance from Portia, I encouraged her to linger. We had not spoken of it, but it occurred to me—and doubtless to her as well—that it might be a good idea to glean what information we could from the locals about the state of affairs at Grimsgrave Hall.
For her part, Deborah appeared gratified at the invitation to stay. Her blue eyes were round in her pale face, and she refused Portia’s suggestion that she send for another cup and share our tea.
“I could not do tha,” she murmured, but she patted her little mob cap, and a small smile of satisfaction played about her mouth.
“But you must sit a moment,” I persuaded. “You must be quite run off your feet.” That was a bit of a reach. The inn was clearly empty, and although it was kept clean enough and the food was fresh and ample and well-prepared, there was an air of desolation about the place, like a spinster who was once the belle of the ball but has long since put away her dancing slippers and resigned herself to the dignity of a quiet old age.
Deborah took a small, straight-backed chair and smoothed her apron over her knees. She stared from me to Portia and back again.
“You seem terribly young to run such an establishment,” Portia commented. “Have you been married long?”
Deborah giggled. “I am not married, my lady. Amos is my brother. Will thou have another sandwich? I cut them myself.”
Portia took one and Deborah’s face suffused with pleasure. “I help him run the inn when we’ve guests.” She looked at us wistfully. “But thee’ll not stay here. Amos will take thee to Grimsgrave Hall.”
“Is the Hall a very old place?” I asked, pointedly helping myself to another slice of cake. The girl did have a very light touch. I had seldom had one so airy.
“Oh, yes, m’lady. ‘Twas built in the time of the Stuarts, but there was a manor at Grimsgrave since before the Conqueror came.”
“Really? How interesting,” Portia remarked. “And did it often change hands?”
“Oh, no, m’lady. The Allenby family did own that land in Saxon times. They kept it until last year, when Sir Redwall died and it were discovered there were no money. ‘Twas sold, to a newcomer, Mr. Brisbane. He is a friend to thee?”
“He is,” I put in smoothly. “We thought to surprise him by paying a visit. Spring on the Yorkshire moors is reckoned to be a very lovely thing.”
“Aye, it is,” she agreed. “The daffodils are out, and all across the moors you can hear the sounds of the little lambs bleating out their first cries.” She hesitated, and I flicked a glance at Portia. This was the time to press the girl.
“Is the Hall a very large establishment? Are there many places in the household for villagers?”
Deborah drew back. “No, m’lady. They’ve a half-wit girl to do the rough, and a few lads from the farms will help Mr. Godwin with the lambing and shearing when he has need of them. And, of course, Mrs. Butters is cook-housekeeper, but there be no household there like the old days.”
“Mr. Godwin?” Portia asked, pouring herself another cup of tea.
Deborah dropped her eyes to the work-roughened fingers in her lap. “Mr. Godwin was a sort of cousin to the late Sir Redwall. His part of the family was never so exalted. They were honest farmers, managers and stewards to the Allenby gentlemen. Mr. Godwin is the last of the Allenby men left. He still has a care for the sheep.”
I darted a glance at Portia. This was a curious development. Perhaps this last scion of the Allenbys was the source of Brisbane’s difficulties in his new home.
As if intuiting my thoughts, Portia asked, “What sort of man is Mr. Godwin?”
To my surprise, Deborah blushed deeply, not a pretty rose colour, but a harsh mottled red. “He is a fine man, m’lady. He is tall and accounted handsome by the village lasses.”
I hid a smile behind my teacup. There was no mystery about Mr. Godwin. He was simply the village Lothario. I wondered if he had ever misbehaved with Deborah, or if she had merely wanted him to. Making a mental note to observe him carefully when we arrived at Grimsgrave, I turned the conversation again.
“And is Mr. Brisbane often seen in the village?”
Deborah shook her head. “Never, m’lady. He keeps up the Hall, and if he has need of something, Mr. Godwin comes. We have not seen him since January past.”
This I did not like. Brisbane was an energetic, dynamic man. If he had holed up at Grimsgrave like an animal in its den, it meant he was either brooding or had fallen prey to the vicious migraine headaches he had battled most of his life. I was not certain which was the greater evil.
“Well, we will soon change that,” Portia said with forced jollity. “It is such a charming village. We must make certain he enjoys all its natural beauties.” I stared at her. What little we had seen of the village had been depressing in the extreme. Dark stone houses clinging together against moor mists and the bleak winds that howled down from the barren heights above, pale folk with pinched faces and suspicious eyes peering out from peeling doorways. True, Amos and Deborah had been courteous enough, but how much of that had been genuine, and how much had been in anticipation of the coin they might earn?
But Portia’s remark had the desired effect. Deborah smiled deeply, revealing a few dimples in her plump cheeks, and she hurried out to see how her brother was coming along with his preparations with the farm cart.
Portia and I each poured another cup and regarded one other. “I do not like this, Julia. Did you see the curtains twitch in the windows as we made our way to the inn?”
“Perhaps they get so few visitors,” I began, but gave up when I looked at Portia’s cynical face. “No, you are right. I do not like this either. It does not even feel like England anymore,
