Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [31]
Perhaps she’d also kept it hidden from herself.
After my mother’s departure I am summoned by my mistress. The painter has retired to his room to prepare his canvases, having completed only a few preliminary sketches, and my mistress is tired and irritable. I help her remove her headdress and cumbersome outer garments and she retires to her bed, saying she will not partake of the midday meal. I leave her to rest and go below to take my supper with the others. The painter has asked to eat alone in his room, and when I arrive Alice and Lydia vie with Cook for the honor of taking up his tray. Cook rolls her eyes at me and hands the tray to Rafe instead, who frowns but acquiesces, as he is remarkably compliant where Cook is involved. Alice pouts and pulls a face as soon as Cook’s back is turned, but the matter is soon forgotten.
The presence of a stranger in the Great House often causes ripples of disruption, as if we are a closed circle of stones.
That evening, I hurry along the lane to Long Boy’s cottage, anxious to be rid of my newfound wealth. The night is clear and bitter cold and by the time I reach his door my face is numb. But when I enter the room is empty, though a few charred embers still glow in the fireplace. My first thought is of my mother and a wave of panic sweeps across me as I contemplate her disapproval. Perhaps the boy has gone in search of food, though one glance tells me that my mother has left him with sufficient provisions for some time. Perhaps he has simply gone out to take the night air, as the shroud of his fever still hangs heavy about the room. I stoke the fire and take a seat beside it, thinking to wait for his return, but after nearly an hour I can stand it no longer, and go in search of him.
I walk the length and breadth of the village, stopping to peer into the forest at several points, as I know that he spends much of his time lost among the trees. He has no boyhood friends that I am aware of; always I have seen him on his own, so I am at a loss for where to search. Finally, I venture to the alehouse, where I can at least inquire whether anyone has seen him. As always at this time of the evening, smoke bellows forth from the chimney, and when I push the heavy wooden door open, the warmth and smell of woodsmoke buffets me. The room is dark and full of red-nosed men with tankards in their hands, and no one takes much notice of me as I cross the floor. In the back is another room where I go in search of Mary, the tavern owner’s daughter, an old friend of mine, now heavy with child. I find her preparing a plate of stewed onions and bacon in the kitchen, and her shiny face lights up when she sees me enter. She is a large, good-natured girl who married young and has done nothing but bear babies since, but she shoulders her burden with ease.
She greets me warmly, then lays a thick-wristed hand upon my arm, telling me to wait while she delivers the plate of food. She disappears into the next room, returning in a moment with a smile upon her lips.
“For the painter,” she says, tossing her head toward the door. “It seems the Great House left him hungry,” she teases.
“He is here?” I ask, peering through the half-open door. I had not seen him when I entered.
She nods. “Aye. In the corner. He has hardly uttered two words.”
“He is not the talking sort,” I say, and do not add that this is an understatement. Earlier this evening he declined Cook’s offer of food, sending Rafe away with full hands, a fact which did not