The House Where It Happened Page 5

  “He follyed his heart. Is that not to his credit, Peggy?”

  “Hearts can be changeable.”

  “I know less about hearts than wee Sarah. But I cannae stand about gabbin’ – the mistress is waitin’ for her hot jar.”

  I found her in bed, the shutters closed against what grey light was offered on that February afternoon. She did look wretched, poor lady. Some women are more afflicted by their monthlies than others. I never suffered much: a dull throbbing in the pit of my stomach for a day, but nothing to hinder me going about my business. “Hard work takes your mind off aches and pains,” my ma always said. I would have traded ten years of my life for that niggle in my belly now.

  Remembering how nice Mary Dunbar’s clothes smelled as I unpacked them, I had brought lavender water with me to sprinkle on the mistress’s pillow. I thought it might put her in mind of brighter days ahead. Once in a while I took pains to please her, though it was always a fool’s errand. Just as it was this time. She raised herself up on an elbow and complained the scent made her head pound.

  “Leave me be and check on the children. I don’t want them misbehaving, especially Jamesey. He can be boisterous when his father’s away from home.”

  “Where are they, mistress?”

  “My cousin brought them to her room to show them some baubles in her trunk.”

  As I was leaving, I saw the keys the mistress wore at her belt lying on a chair. Quick as a wink, my back to her, I lifted them and slid them into my pocket. Then I slipped downstairs to the cupboard where my master’s wines were kept, and stole a bottle of brandy. I’d have need of it this night for what I knowed I had to do. Then I tucked the keys into the bottom of the mistress’s sewing basket – this could be a silver lining to all the belongings going astray in Knowehead.

  When I went to Mary Dunbar’s chamber, she was on her lone, perched on the window seat, looking out at the countryside. The young lady turned her bright face to me.

  “Jamesey says Scotland is only thirteen miles from Islandmagee. That’s closer than Carrickfergus. Can you see it from here?”

  “Times you can, if the day is clear. Not from Knowehead, mind you. You’d want to be looking over from Gransha or Mullaghboy. Winter’s better than summer for sightin’ it.”

  “Have you ever been across?”

  “Me, mistress? Sure how would I get a chance to travel? I have’n even been the length of Belfast. Peggy McGregor was born in Scotland, in a place called Portpatrick. She says there’s not much in the differ between it and Islandmagee, exceptin’ Scotland has fewer papish superstitions left over from before.”

  “I’ve heard about Islandmagee’s superstitions.” She gave me a sidelong look.

  I didn’t like the sound of that, so I took a few paces towards the door to show I had work to do. She carried on, as if nothing had been dangled. “James took Isabel to Edinburgh for their wedding trip. She says it has a castle even more magnificent than the one in Carrickfergus. How is my poor cousin? Is there anything I can do for her?”

  “The mistress hopes to sleep. It’s the best way for her to deal with these aches. She’ll feel the better for it when she wakes up, and might be fit for a sup of broth. Where are the bairns, mistress?”

  “They ran off to meet some playfellows. They said they had their mother’s permission, and promised to return before dark.”

  I knowed they didn’t have the mistress’s say-so, but judged it wise not to stir up trouble. “If need be, we can tell her they were gatherin’ firewood. I’ll press on, then. There’s cheese waitin’ to be made in the dairy.”

  “Stay and talk a while. I’m lonesome today. You’d think I’d be used to being on my own, with no brothers or sisters. But it’s never as quiet as this at home.”

  All the chores I had to see about before I could lay down my head that night came to mind. Never mind what needed to be done that called for brandy, as soon as I had the house to myself – and as much courage as I could screw up. But I hadn’t the heart to refuse her, and I suppose I was curious. We didn’t get many outsiders on the island. Most folk were born and bred on it, and marrying in wasn’t all that common. So I folded my hands in front of me, and waited to hear what was on the young lady’s mind.

  “Isabel says she hardly ever goes junketing. Are assemblies or musical evenings never held? Aren’t the islanders bothered about news of the outside world?”

  “Well, mistress, the outside world is’n half as interestin’ to us as our own doin’s. But a crowd gathers about my master when he returns from one of his trips. Folk do be curious to hear the latest news from the coffee houses in the city. He’s a great man for reading the gazettes they keep there. Sometimes he brings back a couple, and they be passed roun’ till the pages turn to rags. He even lets me read them, so he does.”

  “You can read?”

  “Why, a-coorse, mistress. Presbyterians believe in learnin’ for all. The Good Book was meant for everybody to take comfort from. I can write as well.” I don’t know what got into me then – it wasn’t like me to draw attention to myself. “Look,” I said, and breathed on the window pane, before tracing some letters.

  “What do you read about in those gazettes?”

  “Faith, they can be dull enough, full of battles with Prussian troops and Danish dragoons, and the treaty negotiations after their silly wars. And sure, what are they to us here on Islandmagee? Wine at three shillin’s a gallon, or a horse for sale that paces well – such like is more to our taste.”

  She made room on the window seat. “Sit here, Ellen.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, mistress, I prefer to stand.” Imagine if Mistress Haltridge caught me!

  “Tell me what else you read about in your master’s gazettes.”

  “I’ve a weakness for the advertisements. One time he give me a gazette to keep, and I brung it home when I had a half-day off and read it to my da. He thought it strange the way the advertisements ran sideways along the edge of the page, fillin’ in space where there was no news. But Ma said it was thrifty. Da loved hearin’ about rewards offered for lost dogs and stolen horses, or wigs and false teeth for sale. He said he could listen till the cows came home. Thon’s real life, says he. Not the high jinks of generals and dukes.”

  “I like reading about highwaymen.”

  “My da does and all. There’s some believe the Good Book is readin’ enough for anyone, and have no tolerance for other books. But my master is a broad-minded man and gives me all sorts to read. He allus takes pains to help me better myself. Even though I be vastly content with my station in life, mistress.”

  “You miss your master, don’t you?”

  I started plumping the pillows on her bed, till I could speak without giving myself away. “We all miss him. The household is livelier when he’s at home. It gets a bit stale without Master Haltridge – he’s a breath of fresh air.”

  “You sound quite the pet.”

  “Ach, no, mistress, don’t say such things. He’s just the best of masters and the kindest of gentlemen.” Nervous at the thought of my master’s weakness for me being noticed, I started gabbling to cover it. Even though I might not be able to cover up for him, when push came to shove. “Peggy McGregor has knowed him all his life, and she maintains he has a heart bigger nar his body. Me master loves Peggy’s cookin’. He allus comes back a greedy guts for a bowl of her beef stew. They send out dishwater from the kitchens in them inns where he puts up, and charge a king’s ransom for it.”

  “Why does he travel so much?”

  “I suppose he does what he must, to keep his business affairs in order.”

  “My cousin hates him journeying so far from home. She can’t abide being left here, in a house with only women and children. She says it sets her teeth on edge to hear the wind howl, like lost souls calling from the other side.”

  “Aye, the wind can make your skin crawl.”

  When first she was wed to my master, the mistress and the old dame were company for one a
nother – especially at night, sitting in the parlour, after the bairns went to bed. My master’s comings and goings weren’t so hard to bear then. It was only when his mother fell ill that the mistress started to mind his being away so often. She told me once she felt like a prisoner at Knowehead, instead of its mistress. Best not to share this with the young lady, I thought. Mistress Isabel Haltridge was well able to speak for herself.

  Mary Dunbar looked me up and down. “How old are you?”

  “I turned nineteen in November past.”

  “So there’s a year between us. I had my eighteenth birthday in December. Do you have a truelove?”

  I shook my head. I might be soft on my master, but I wasn’t so soft as to claim him for a sweetheart.

  She went on, “I’ve had a proposal of marriage already, but my father rejected him. Freddie – Ensign Montgomery – was with the infantry in Armagh. He had the shiniest boots I ever saw. I thought him exceedingly handsome in his regimentals. But he had the name of being a rake and a trifler, though he swore I reformed him. My father wouldn’t hear tell of an engagement. He said it was only a notion of mine to wed him. He’s always complaining that I take too many notions.” She heaved a sigh. “I’d be glad to marry a soldier – there’s nothing like a man in uniform, with all those gold buttons and braid. Do you truly have no sweetheart?”

  “Sure who’d look sideways at me?” The bottle of brandy danced before me, and the purpose I had for it. And my skin betrayed me with a change of colour. I daresay the young lady thought it was modesty, though in truth it was shame.

  One man had looked sideways at me – and more, forbye – and now I was suffering for it, in the way sins of the flesh were usually punished. I towered over most folk on Islandmagee, men as well as women, and the Good Lord saw fit to fashion me from serviceable materials. The only man ever to notice me was my master. And, in gratitude, I was weak.

  But it was hard to be strong round a gentleman such as my master. I recalled the first time I understood he liked me – as a woman, rather than as a maid who served his family faithfully. It was in October past, and my eyes were delighting in the red and gold of the leaves as I walked to Carnspindle on a half-day off. My master rode up behind me on his dappled grey stallion, and before I knowed it, he leaned down and pulled me up in front of him. Just for a minute or two. Should I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget how it felt inside the circle of his arms. Like queen of the castle, I was. But it was broad daylight, and anybody could have come round the bend in the road.

  “Master,” I said, “what if someone should see and tell the mistress?”

  “Say my name and I’ll set you down,” he said.

  “James,” I whispered. It was the first time ever it passed my lips.

  And he said my name back to me – “Ellen” – as if it had meaning, instead of a word to shout out when something was wanted. Then he eased me down to the ground, letting his hand slide over the swell of my hip.

  Mary Dunbar drew me back to the present. “A gentleman called Frazer Bell bowed to my cousin and me at the meeting-house yesterday. My cousin says he has no wife.”

  “He’s a neighbour of ours, mistress, and great friends with my master.” It was said of him he preferred reading poesy to the Good Book, but I didn’t repeat the scandal.

  “My cousin was disappointed he did not tarry to speak to us. He seemed in a hurry to be away. Still, there were several other gentlemen who asked to be presented to me.”

  Mary Dunbar had no shortage of admirers when she made an appearance in our meeting-house on the Sabbath. The meeting-house is a fine, T-shaped building put up by the old minister, Master Haltridge. Visitors always stop to look at the sundial scratched on one of the outside walls, with the date on it: 1664. I saw folk stop to look at Mary, too. Their eyes lit up the moment they clapped them on her dainty wee frame. She was as fragile as a dandelion clock. Heads were turned by that cloud of curls and her complexion as pale as Frazer Bell’s prize doves. There was the novelty of a new face, of course, but even so, hers was not a face you would tire of quickly.

  “Tell me a story,” begged Mary Dunbar.

  “Sure I know none fit for a young lady.”

  “The children say you have a gift for storytelling.”

  “I grew up round tales, my da’s a great man for them. I tell the bairns the odd yarn, to while away an evening. But you would’n pay any heed to them.”

  “Still, I’d like to hear one. I heard stories about Islandmagee on the coach from Armagh.” She darted the same look at me as before: the one that made me want to walk away from her.

  I played stupid. “Stories about what a paradise it is here? We’re left alone on the island, maybes on account of being surrounded by water on three sides.”

  “The land gobbled up by water . . . No, it was stories about Hamilton Lock.”

  “Better not blether about the like of him, mistress. No good comes from dwellin’ on his wickedness.”

  “But stories about wicked people are always more interesting than stories about good people. A man who sat opposite me on the coach said his ghost was haunting Knowehead House. Is it true? Have you seen him? I wonder if I shall!” She trembled, and not entirely from fear.

  “For the love of God, mistress, don’t go repeatin’ that.”

  “So it’s true!”

  I swallowed. I didn’t want to say it was true, and I wasn’t certain I could say it was untrue. “I’ve never laid eyes on him, and I trust I never shall. Them that see Hamilton Lock get no luck from the sight of him. How could they, and him bad to the backbone? He was the sort of man would steal the Cross from under the Lord Jesus.”

  “I heard he was a handsome, black-haired man, a full head taller than anybody else, with eyes that danced.”

  “He had honeyed ways with him. So they say.” Suddenly I noticed a bloodstained handkerchief knotted round her thumb. “Why, mistress, have you hurt yourself?”

  “I broke my nail just now, on the chest where my clothes are stored. It bled heavily for such a minor mishap.”

  “Shall I get you some salve?”

  “It’s stopped now. But I’m afraid there’s blood on the floorboards. I suppose it’ll scrub off.”

  “I’ll fetch some rhubarb leaves from Peggy’s vegetable patch. Nothin’ to beat them for shiftin’ bloodstains.”

  A clatter of footsteps on the stairs signalled the childer’s return. They burst through the door. “Come and see the swans on the lough, Cousin Mary,” said Sarah.

  Mary’s eyes shone. It was as if she was told we had sunken treasure in the lough. “I didn’t know you had swans here.”

  “Hard winters, the wild ones come into the lough for shelter, mistress.” I was never pushed about them. Too fancy for my taste, with their dazzling white plumage, set off by orange bills bordered in black. And people said such daft things about them. Nonsense about them being silent till they sang their swansong, for instance – that’s just plain wrong: they whistle and snort, so they do. I’ve heard them with my own ears. In harsh weather, sentimental folk on Islandmagee feed the swans, but I never gave them so much as a breadcrumb. Let them root around for themselves. Beauty was always getting preference, whether it took the shape of a bird or a woman.

  Mary stroked Sarah’s hair. “Have you ever noticed how their necks are shaped like an S? For Sarah. That makes them your special birds.” The child smiled fit to crack her face in two. Mary Dunbar looked thoughtful. “If I could choose to be any creature on God’s earth, it would be a swan. Their beauty moves me. I can’t bear ugliness – there’s something sinful about it. I don’t know why we talk about somebody being as ugly as sin. If you ask me, it should be as sinful as ugly.”

  With that, she threw her cloak over her shoulders and went off with the childer, hand in hand. I stood at the casement to watch them. The lettering I had set down with my finger stood out on it. I might only be a maid, but at least I could do script like a lady. I looked past the words, to Ma
ry Dunbar beyond the glass. She had her skirts up in her hands, racing the bairns, forgetting herself. But my ma always warned me women should never forget themselves. It leads to trouble. Whether you be maid or lady.

  I brooded on our visitor. Could it have been chance alone that brought the name Hamilton Lock into the conversation during that coach ride from Armagh? What if Mary Dunbar had raised it herself? She seemed to have some purpose in mind with her questions – she wasn’t just passing the time. I felt a prickling on my skin, and it struck me some folk are born to whip things up, come what may. That’s just how they’re fashioned. Maybes they cannot help themselves.

  Chapter 3

  Nobody noticed me slip in to see to the candles in the dining room before supper. Master Jamesey was telling a story, with Mary Dunbar and Sarah as his audience.

  “If you walk too close to the cliffs, the Magee ghosties will get you. They watch and they wait. And before you know it, their hands reach up to grab you by the ankles and wheek you onto the rocks. They can crush a skull like a head of cabbage.”