Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [20]
“You’re awake,” she says.
“Yes. I am much improved.”
“I am glad to hear of it,” she says with a nod. Her eyes flicker briefly around the room searching for a place to sit, and for a moment I fear that she will sit upon the kirtle, but to my relief she settles herself on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed.
“Lucius gave you a fright, I think,” she says a little archly.
“I was . . . overcome for a moment. I cannot think why,” I say. “It was silly of me,” I add with a smile.
“Was it?” She raises an eyebrow. “At times our minds and bodies are in complete accordance. If one succumbs, so does the other.”
“I suppose so,” I say, shifting awkwardly.
“Still,” she continues, “if you consider it, her death is not so very surprising. The great-bellied woman lived in a state of perpetual sin, my dear. She must have known that God would claim her in the end,” she says pointedly.
“Yes, of course,” I murmur.
“We shall dwell no more upon it,” says my mistress, reaching over to pat my hand. She rises, and as she does she accidentally dislodges my kirtle, which lies folded at the foot of my bed. I slides to the floor and the vial hits the wooden boards with a thump.
“How clumsy of me,” she says, bending down to retrieve the kirtle, and as she picks it up she notices the vial. She holds it up to me.
“This is Edward’s. Wherever did you find it?”
“On the path outside the house, mum,” I stammer.
She holds it up to the candlelight, admiring it for a moment. “He lost it some years ago. I was terribly disappointed, as I’d purchased it myself from a dealer in London.”
“It is very beautiful,” I say.
“Perhaps one of the servants took it,” she says with a sigh, disregarding in her way the fact that I am a servant. “I shall take it to him immediately,” she says, pleased at the prospect. “And you must rest,” she says firmly. “I only wished to ascertain that you were out of danger.” She pauses then and turns to face me one last time. “Remember we must be vigilant with both our physic and our soul,” she says pointedly. “The one cannot survive without the other.”
“Yes, mum.”
She leaves me then, with a little nod of condescension, and I am left holding her words.
Chapter Six
The following day I return to my duties. I am anxious to confront my master about the vial at the first opportunity, though it is not clear to me how I should do so. My mistress has received word of the impending arrival of the portrait painter, and is busy making arrangements for his accommodation. She consults me over the suitability of his rooms, not wishing him to stay among the servants, as he has sat with royalty and her second cousin is his patron. But neither does she wish for him to be accommodated in the guest wing, for it is truly sumptuous, and by rights his status as a painter, even a talented one, places him only slightly higher than that of a craftsman. I suggest that he be given the tower room, above the library, for it is both apart from the servant’s quarters and austere in its decoration. It also benefits from much sunlight, and I remind her that such matters are important to a painter. She nods at this, and instructs the houseman to move a bed into the room at once.
I also propose that the painter might appreciate some volumes of history in his quarters, as he is due to remain for some days while he carries out his commission. My mistress agrees, and so I hurry to the library, where I know my master will be passing time among his books. I am short of breath by the time I reach the tower, not so much from tiredness as from anticipation, and I pause just outside the library door, my heart thumping in my chest. I can hear my master moving about inside; he has a peculiar shuffling gait due to one leg being slightly shorter than the other. I knock and enter when he bids me to, and he turns to face me, his hair disheveled and his eyes a little wild. Unlike his mother, he does not take much