Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [36]
“The language is some other. Is it your mother’s tongue?”
Again he nods, nervously fingering the pages.
“Can you read it?”
My question irritates him, for he shakes his head no, snaps the cover shut, and slides it back to its hiding place.
“Perhaps we could find someone to read it to you,” I venture.
“It is mine,” he says emphatically.
“Of course. I only thought that it might contain a message for you from your mother.”
“I have seen her,” he says again. “And she will come for me.” And with that he clutches the diary to his breast and turns his face to the wall.
I have no choice but to leave the volume with him, even though its contents might well shed some light on Dora’s death. But even if he were willing to part with it, I do not know that I could find a translator, for to my knowledge there is no one in the village who shared her tongue.
I stoke the fire and prepare some bread and broth, which I leave on the stool by his bed, for he remains turned to the wall.
“You must eat,” I say. “And rest. I’ll come again this evening.” I turn to go but his voice stops me.
“I will wait for her,” he says fervently.
I leave, hoping my mother will return soon, though what she will make of his wild talk I do not know.
Cook has prepared a ray with some refreshment for my mistress and the painter. When I enter her outer chamber I can see that the effort of sitting for him has already left her tired. She rises and excuses herself. I remain behind and offer ale to the painter, who appears oblivious to her fatigue, perhaps willingly so. He takes it but places the cup to one side so as to carry on with his work. The canvas is covered now with a wash of gray and salmon, and the outline of my mistress can be discerned. After a moment, he lays aside his brush and takes up the cup.
“The woman whose body was taken,” he says after a moment. “Who was she?” His directness catches me off guard, and for a moment I cannot think how to answer him. It is not an easy question, for she was both a mother and a whore, but these two things do not begin to describe her.
“She lived here,” I say evasively. “In the village.”
“But she was not from here,” he says. He has clearly overheard talk in the village, probably at the alehouse.
“No. She came across the water many years ago. When I was a child. But she was one of us,” I add quickly. He smiles a little.
“Is such a thing possible?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He pauses, considering his response. “To be foreign. This is not a skin one loses easily,” he says.
“I do not know.”
“But I do,” he replies. “How did she die?”
“She fell,” I say. “It was an accident. She was . . . unlucky.” He stares at me closely, as if he can read my doubts, and I am forced to look away. He takes up his brush and dabs at the canvas.
“The thieving of bodies . . . does this happen often here?” he asks.
I shake my head slowly. “No. Never before.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Was she buried with her possessions?”
“No,” I say, my mind reaching back to the money in the hole beneath her floor.
“Then it is very strange,” he says, with a frown.
“You did not know her,” I say quietly.
“Did you?” he asks.
“We all did.”
“You knew her well?”
I nod my head slowly up and down, imagine she is here listening to my answers, as if it were a test of my loyalty.
“I was very fond of her,” I say finally, and my voice is thin with grief. The painter frowns.
“I am sorry,” he says quietly. “I did not know.”
I stare at him. Perhaps I did not either, for we do not feel our thirst until the water has run dry.
At supper that evening there is talk of a search party. A group of men from the village, those that could be spared, spent much of the day combing the forests and fields, but to no avail. No one has a clue to her whereabouts, nor to who has taken her.
“They found nought,” says Rafe, chewing earnestly, his long, black curls bobbing up and down. “No sign nor trail, though with the ground frozen solid, there’d be none to follow.”
“ ’Tis a heavy load. Whoever it was could not have got far without the help of a horse