And now this shawl, which is beautiful and soft and warm.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
Nelly mutters something under her breath. Despite the afternoon hours I regularly spend with Ena to give the housekeeper a rest there’s no change in her attitude towards me. Indeed, it seems worse. The child has flourished, her teeth have begun to come through, relieving the pain, and she’s sleeping all night – which means Nelly is sleeping too. The woman remains unwilling to give up the time my care of the child gains her to herself, yet she seems resentful that the little girl likes me. Would she rather Ena be miserable? Yet she is tender with the babe, I will give her that; she fusses over her as well as any mother.
‘What did you say?’ I ask. I’ve kept a civil tongue these weeks, waiting for her to get used to me. But I’m at the end of my tether. She keeps walking towards the kitchen and I follow, glaring at her back, the curls that escape the bun at the base of her neck, and notice again how fine is her dress, yet still ill-fitting; a very well-kept housekeeper indeed. For some reason this enrages me. I raise my voice as I repeat, ‘What did you say?’
Still she doesn’t respond and I reach out and grab her left arm, pull and she’s swings about. The rage in her face melts my own away; I am merely angry, but she positively loathes me. She wants to do me harm. There is something feral in her expression that makes me think of a wild beast.
‘Nelly!’ My uncle barks from the open door of the library and Nelly shrinks away like a dog yelled at by its master. I half expect to see her drop to all fours on the marble tiles, tail between her legs. He hisses, ‘Apologise.’
It takes a long moment but she does it, forcing the word out between gritted teeth: ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry what?’ Uncle Edward thunders. His face is red with anger.
‘Sorry, Miss Elliott.’ She turns away, the glance she throws at him is searing, then heads towards the kitchen once more. We both watch her until she pushes through the door at the end of the corridor and it thuds angrily behind her. Edward shakes his head, the tension draining from his face, and he gestures for me to join him.
There are two seats beneath a tall, arched window. He has been using one, I can tell from where the pipe is smoking in a heavy silver ashtray beside a glass filled with what is a more than generous measure of brandy. We’ve not yet had breakfast. I don’t say anything. I take the chair opposite. He has been reading one of the Murcianus books – Mythical Creatures – the illustrations are beautifully coloured.
My uncle sits, and sighs, gives me a weary smile. ‘Please forgive Nelly. She is—’
‘She is tired. She is on the edge of her nerves. She will be in better humour soon,’ I snap. ‘Frankly, Uncle, I am at a loss as to why you keep making excuses for her.’ I am surprised that I’m speaking so bluntly to him; much as I have liked him, I’ve always kept a distance between the truth of myself and my thoughts, and what I show him.
He looks taken aback, then something dark swims in his eyes, like a shadowy shape beneath the sea.
I take a deep breath, then puff it out. ‘I am sorry, Uncle. I am not used to such hostility from servants.’ Which is true, but then Maura and Malachi were more like family than they ever were servants. ‘I cannot try any more than I already have. It matters not what I do, she gets angrier and angrier with me for whatever reason she has.’
‘Miren, it is... concern. She is worried for your parents. She worked a long time for them and they have been gone for so long... I am beginning to worry myself. Nelly is one whose fears bubble to the surface in a way she cannot help. Now you and I are far calmer beings, more controlled.’ He smiles lazily. ‘But Nelly is all passion, bless her.’ He holds up a hand. ‘But I will speak to her. Again.’
‘Your patience is admirable, Uncle.’
He smiles. ‘Have you been to the village again?’
‘Yesterday afternoon, Uncle. I treated Oliver’s sheep. The last herd requiring my attention.’ In the end it was easier to simply call it “husbandry” and feed the animals of each house – cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, horses – a mix of herbs in a suspension of sour milk with a little of my blood mixed in, brewed in my mother’s workroom off the kitchen. It looked normal enough (as long as no one knew about the blood), and the beasties lapped it up with delight. ‘and to check on the Brune child, Nectan. He’d come down with croup.’
‘And?’
‘And now he is well.’
‘You and your home remedies. What a teacher you must have had in that Maura! Your mother was dab hand too.’ He blinks, laughs, corrects himself. ‘When she was here. I assume she still is – and I rather hope she’s on her way back to us and not ministering to every tinker in ill health she meets upon
