“So you can laugh,” he said. “I was worried that our gloomy house would wear you down. That the black moor would swallow you whole. Or perhaps your week in the city has refreshed you, and you shall be hungering to return soon for more of its lavish pleasures.”
“Not a chance, sir,” said Jane.
“I am selfishly pleased,” said Mr. Rochart, and then they were both silent. Silent—but the air seemed charged. Small tendrils of happiness curled off the spring air, coiled around Jane’s skin.
The sun was setting now. For a rarity the clouds were thinned enough that the sunset could be seen, and its pink and orange rays lit the underside of the white-grey sky. The moor was transformed, each blade of grass clarified, each clump of heather gilded with pink. Here and there daffodils ran along in drifts, bending in the evening breeze.
It was an odd happiness, and Jane couldn’t tell where it came from, only that it danced through the golden light, the air, thrummed in the quality of the silence between the two of them. She could not break that silence for anything, and when he did, it was half pleasure, half pain as she leaned into his voice, cupping each word to see what would be revealed there.
“When I was young I painted the moor,” he said. “When I was your age. No—younger, even.” Her heart shattered and swelled at the same time, his words both worse and better than they could be, even if she could not have said for the life of her what worse and better would have been in that moment.
The house was in sight now, the ancient car nearing its drive. The black walls soared overhead, and now she had to speak, and her words would undoubtedly fail him—supposing that he even cared what her words were. But she knew nothing about art—no, worse than nothing, for as Gertrude had pointedly reminded her she had had no money for tutors, for training, and so she was treading on a subject she would love not to be ignorant in, and yet, could not help but be. She remembered a series of grainstacks she had seen at a museum once, the same grainstack in shifting lights, seasons. “Did you paint it frequently?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, and stopped the car at the front door. “But my travails are a story for another time. Come Jane, you are home again, so take up your coat and come see what Cook has prepared for us. Why, what about this black fortress has brought a smile to your face?”
Home, thought Jane, stepping from the car. Home.
Chapter 7
HANDS OF IRON
Jane woke the next morning with renewed purpose. She was almost joyful as she jumped from bed. The white walls of her room seemed fresh rather than sterile; the dark-paneled halls were warm and inviting. She munched the toast and tea that Martha left outside her door while she dressed and settled the iron mask and fresh padding on her face.
If this worked, she would have a way in. A way to reach Dorie, a way to convince the girl to learn things before she was hopelessly behind. Stubborn Dorie might be, but if her fey skills were taken from her, she would have few options. Jane ran scenarios of Dorie’s stubbornness in her head while she coiled and pinned her hair, looping locks of it over the leather straps of her mask. The one white lock outlined her skull, twisted a pattern in her coiled bun.
An hour past dawn, and Dorie would surely be up and eating breakfast.
Time to tackle the lion. The lion cub? No, no lion—just a mule.
Jane hurried down to the kitchen. Martha was fitting the teapot onto a loaded tray, talking over her shoulder at Cook. “If he’d keep those late hours for good. But no, now it’s up at dawn. It’s bell-rings. It’s Martha where’s my tea. He won’t eat the fish.”
“You just take the kippers along anyway,” said Cook. “Sure and you’d think we were in the poorhouse already from the way he starves himself. Tell him if he doesn’t eat those they’ll be going to the dogs and hang the expense.”
Martha shook her head at Jane as she bustled past her with the tray. “You. Put him in a good mood,” she said. “Don’t know as I like it.”
Jane grinned. Morning light lit the kitchen stone, softened the folds of her dress. She wondered if Martha were right, if she could possibly take credit for something so lofty and far-removed as the moods of Mr. Rochart. “He’s not an early riser?” she said.
“Stays up near to cockcrow, sleeps till lunch,” said Cook. “Unless he gets excited about something, then Katy bar the door.” She eyed Jane, but Jane turned to Dorie, who was waving her hand and wafting raisins from a blue-striped stoneware bowl into her mouth, one by one.
Last time for that.
Jane scooped up the bowl. “Come on, Dorie,” she said. She half expected a mental tug on the bowl, but Dorie was not an intractable child at heart. She was willing enough to see what they were going to do next. It was only when “next” involved “hands” that everything went to hell in a handbasket.
“Maybe I’ll take these, too,” said Jane, nodding at the raisins.