I laugh with him. ‘Maura taught her too. I’m not doing anything different to what she would. That’s our duty to the people in our care, to make their lives less burdensome when they labour for us.’
It took a while for me to realise Edward Elliott does not like it when I go out on my own. Oh, the gardens are fine, the orchards and fields too, but not the village. A natural concern, I suspect, given how hostile the villagers are towards him, but that hostility no longer seems to extend to me. There are matters they clam up about, but mostly they are happy to have me around, the Coppers and the Cornishes, the Lambournes and the Danes, the Perrys, the Kanes, the Woodfoxes and all the others who now smile and wave when they see me coming. But my uncle’s presence would put pay to that.
‘And Jedadiah Gannel. Do you speak with him?’ This has become a regular question, but I can answer it mostly honestly.
‘No, Uncle. I do not speak with him.’ And in truth, I do not – not since that night in the orchard. But I have seen him. He watches me and I have found that I look for him. But I do not speak to him.
It is not Edward Elliott’s fault that they miss my mother so much – he can’t compete with her charm. I fear no matter who had been left in charge of Blackwater during her absence would have met with this unfriendliness. People do not like change – even for three months, which seems such a short time – and it was not his fault that, without Isolde to care for the land, the land ceased to care for its folk. I have noticed, however, that no one mentions missing my father or his ways. There seems to be no hostility towards him, just indifference. I think of Jedadiah calling him “feckless”, just as Aoife did. I wonder that he made so little impression on the world. Yet my mother loves him, surely she does.
I pluck at the shawl in my lap and make a point of not looking at the glass of brandy at Edward’s hand. He spends a goodly portion of his day in the library, reading and drinking and smoking a pipe. I do not mention that I’ve noticed he does not ride the boundaries, nor check on the crops or the flocks, or go into the village anymore than he must, nor go to the mine or the smelter (both locations which he continues to tell me I’m not ready to visit).
Uncle Edward has grown used to me; he has realised I am doing the work he has been neglecting. I think it is a relief to him, but he still feels he must appear to be in charge, so the lack of his efficacy will not be so apparent, so glaring. And I in turn make sure to discuss the business of the estate with him as if I, not Oliver Redman, am a manager employed to do such things. I couch it in terms of asking his advice, rather than telling; I begin sentences with ‘As you know, Uncle Edward’, and finish them with ‘Don’t you think?’ Mostly, he agrees with me, although sometimes, just to be contrary, he will contradict me, order an action to which I nod consideration, then ignore completely. I’m polite and respectful of his feelings because he has been so kind to me; and he’s my father’s brother, it would do no good to upset him, to have him complaining about me when my parents come home. Óisín and Aoife taught me how to manage an estate even though there wasn’t much of a one left at Hob’s Hallow. And it’s becoming clearer and clearer to me that my uncle knows very little about managing anything but the level in a wine bottle.
I wonder why Isolde and Liam left him in charge here; perhaps Liam was blind to his sibling’s faults, perhaps he shared them. But Isolde? Surely Isolde knew better. Then again, perhaps she could refuse her pretty husband nothing.
‘Uncle,’ I say, a reckless urge surfacing, ‘might it be possible to visit the mine today? Or the smelter?’
He shakes his head just as I suspected he would. ‘Not today, Miren, although definitely next week. I would not want you there without me and as you can see I am swamped.’ He gestures at the nothing by which he is swamped. ‘No one will look out for you like family, and I would not trust your safety to anyone else.’
‘You are too kind to me, Uncle Edward.’ I smile though my teeth grind against each other. Next week there will be fresh reasons not to visit the mine and smelter. I keep my mouth shut for I am content to playact while building this new life, a new family. He still tells me stories about the Elliotts, but they are often repeated and the details frequently vary from one recounting to the next. He cannot know how, growing up with tales from Aoife and Maura, a tiny deviation from the course of a once-heard story can set my head ringing. His shifts and missteps are, I think, the result of the alcohol. It will steal the memory from man or woman as surely as a hex.
But I find I forgive him much because I am happy. The continued lack of my parents is an ache, yes. The life I left behind at Hob’s Hallow, for all its recent travails, also hurts me to recall. Maura and Malachi, Óisín and even Aoife, the pain carved in my heart for each one. And I cannot deny that the resentment against Isolde and Liam has in no way diminished. But there is much here to love and rejoice in. There is Oliver in the village who discusses the running of estate with me openly and honestly, and Lazarus Gannel
