Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [40]
“Lord, they drink like fools tonight,” says Mary as she enters, her hands full of empty wooden platters. She deposits them on the table and wipes her hands on a grease-stained apron. “If you ask me, it is fear that makes them thirsty,” she says.
“Fear,” I say. “Of what?”
“Of her,” says Mary. “Or her ghost, whichever be the source of the stories.”
“What stories?” I ask.
“Have you not heard?” I stare at her uncomprehendingly. “She’s been seen,” she says. “In Chepton town.”
“When? By whom?” I ask.
She shrugs. “ ’Tis only a rumor. But it has them drinking like a herd of horses,” she says with a toss of her head toward the other room.
I frown. Can it be that my mother is wrong?
“He is there as well,” says Mary, interrupting my thoughts. “Your friend, the painter.” She begins to scour the platters in a bucket. I go to the door and peer within. He is alone in the corner by the fire, once again sketching, a tankard of ale by his side. “Does he speak to anyone?” I ask.
“I did not know he had a voice,” she says with a laugh.
I think again of his questions: they were not asked in idleness. It interests him, this business of Dora’s disappearance: she interests him, though I do not know why. Truly her allure extends beyond the grave.
“What does he draw?” I ask.
“People,” she says with a shrug. “Rough sketches only, as far as I could make out.”
“This business of Chepton. When did you hear it?”
“This night only. From some farmers who’d been to market.”
I shake my head. “ ’Tis nothing but a fancy tale,” I say. Mary picks up a tray and heads for the other room, pausing just before. She turns to me with a piercing look.
“’Tis a tale she might have told,” she says, and disappears behind the door.
The following day my mistress is unwell, and she elects not to sit for the painter. She is disappointed by the process: it does not hold her interest as she thought it would, or perhaps it is his manner that puts her off. She sends a message via Rafe that he will not be needed in her chamber that day, that he may attend her son instead, if he is willing. Then she sends for Lucius, and I am kept occupied with Scripture reading for the remainder of the morning, as we await his arrival.
Eventually she dozes off, much to my relief, for I find I do not have the patience for Scripture these last few days. I take up my sewing, but before I can progress Alice comes to the door, saying that my master has requested me to attend him in the library.
“For what purpose?” I ask her, a little startled, for he is not in the habit of sending for me.
“I know not,” she says with a sniff. “Only that the painter is there with him. Perhaps my master desires your good opinion of his likeness,” she says in a teasing voice.
As I make my way toward the library, I can think of only the money and the vial, the two things that tie me to him. When I arrive I find them taking wine, apparently awaiting me. The painter sits to one side, his satchel at his feet, his easel standing to one side, a blank piece of paper pinned to it. My master jumps up nervously as I enter, and ushers me inside with unusual politeness, adding to my growing sense of unease. He thanks me for coming so promptly and offers me a drink, which I decline. Then he gives a little cough and glances over at the painter.
“I have asked the painter to carry out a private commission,” he begins self-consciously. “It is a portrait of sorts . . . though not my own,” he adds hastily. “It is my great desire that he undertake a portrait of her, and he has kindly agreed to oblige me.” He stops then and regards me hopefully, almost as if he is awaiting my approval. I say nothing, dumb with surprise, and in a moment he turns away, crossing over to the window.
“I thought that using my description, I could assist . . . or enable him to render her likeness, but I find that I have not the facility, nor the heart, for such a task,” he says, looking out upon the grounds.
“Had the body not been taken, it might have been possible . . . if