Under the Green Hill Page 3

  She tried to strike up a conversation right away. “What’s your name?” she asked. It seemed a fair question. He replied with something that sounded like a grunt.

  “What?”

  “Bran.”

  “Oh.” She expected to be asked hers, but then she realized he must already know. She tried a different tactic. “Is it going to be a long drive? I love long drives. Especially out in the country. What’s the speed limit here? Do you go by kilometers? What’s the name of that town over there?” She said it all in a rush. It seemed that, with so many questions to choose from, he’d find it easy to answer at least one of them.

  “Don’t talk while I drive. It distracts me.”

  Silly was talkative and persistent, and not one to be bullied. All the same, she found herself cowed by the dark, rough man driving them, and didn’t dare talk to him for the rest of the three hours it took to reach the Rookery. She did, however, occasionally talk to James, and glanced defiantly slantwise at the man to see if he’d object. He never did, and the first time she almost thought she caught the faintest trace of a smile; it looked as if such a thing rarely touched his mouth.

  In the end, Silly decided that the man might have a real reason for not wanting to be distracted. He drove much more slowly than any of the other cars were going, and though he was careful he seemed…well, too careful. Perhaps he had only driven a few times in his life, or knew all the rules of driving without ever having had to put them into practice. He seemed to think for a very long while every time he shifted gears.

  The landscape was gradually changing. The smoggy, crowded streets around London were left far behind. The first two hours of driving were on a broad highway, but as they progressed, the towns were spaced farther and farther apart, and the small pockets of woodland that interrupted the fields grew bigger. They took an exit down a narrow lane that could barely be called paved, so dusty and rutted had it become. It was closely bordered by a hedge twice as high as the truck, and wound so sharply that Meg, looking forward through the dingy glass that separated them from the inside of the vehicle, held her breath in terror that they might run into some sheep or an old man idling by the roadside. She was certain there would not be room for two cars to pass each other. But they seemed to be the only travelers on the road, and followed it for quite some time, feeling trapped behind a maze’s tall walls.

  The way opened up at last to country far more wild than any they had passed before. The trees at the shoulder looked impossibly ancient, with trunks so wide that all of the children together, linking arms, couldn’t have reached around the circumference (even if they let Finn help). The road dipped down steep hills, and here and there jagged rocks jutted from the earth, too random to be monuments, too odd to have sprung up by their own means. In the distance they could see a line of dark trees, behind which must be a black wilderness. A little town was nestled in a hollow on one side of the road, the houses made of stone and thatch—Gladysmere, Meg figured. They were driven along a dirt road that skirted the edge of the forest, and over an arched wooden bridge that groaned under their weight as it carried them over a stream. And there, bursting on them as they passed through a copse of cedars, rose the Rookery.

  Welcome

  Outside of movies, Meg had never seen a place like the Rookery. Calling it a house wouldn’t do justice to its size. It was somewhat less imposing than a castle—it had never been built for pitched battles or sieges, and had no moats or high fortifications. It was a wealthy gentleman’s country house, from the days when hereditary titles made the man, when a king (or a queen) might give a courtier riches unimaginable for complimenting his wig or serving him a good meal. Phyllida’s ancestors had held the land for nearly two thousand years. Then, in the 1640s, a Gladysmere squire gave the disguised and hunted teenage Charles Stuart his own horse from under him. When that harried youngster became King Charles II, he remembered the kindness, and Phyllida’s ancestors earned fortune enough to build the Rookery and ensure that they would never shirk their hereditary duties for want of money. But Phyllida Ash would have done what she had to even if she must do it from a mud hut. Her duties were in her blood, and her ties to that particular piece of England so strong that no force, not the National Trust or the queen herself, could shift her.

  The Rookery was untouched by any wars or revolutions—it was so isolated that when strife came to England no one ever thought to attack it. Time itself had done little to the Rookery. The centuries had taken the sharpness from the corners, and moss filled the shady cracks so that where the façade had once been a light-gray rectangle, it was now almost a dark-gray oval, softened in its harsher angles. The Rookery was built in the shape of a massive U, with the arms extending at the back of the manor to create a partly enclosed courtyard.

  There was a little lawn in the front, in the semicircle formed by a wide curved driveway that approached the vaulted front doors, but the landscape was dominated by trees standing so thickly it could almost be said the Rookery nested in the middle of a forest. But Meg had seen the forest proper, and by comparison, this was only parkland. Though oaks predominated, there were also alders and ashes and lindens and towering evergreens. Here and there, in an open spot, were single fruit trees—apples, pears, and cherries—all just past bloom, leaving a lingering sweetness where their petals dried on the ground.

  The Rookery stood five stories and had a great many windows. Meg tried to count them to figure up the number of rooms, and was so staggered by the quantity that she lost count. She’d assumed that whoever said the Rookery had a hundred rooms must have been exaggerating, but now she believed it. Why, how could two old people live alone in a house so grand? Even if they had frequent guests (and Meg had the idea that they didn’t), most of the rooms must have stood empty for years. She was intrigued at the thought of what treasures might be hidden inside rooms no one ever entered…and yet somewhat uneasy when she pictured all the places where people (or even ghosts, though if you asked her she’d say she didn’t believe in them) could hide.

  Overhead, a cloud of great shining black birds rose above the roof, winging in a circle to examine the newcomers before settling with hoarse caws on the trees and chimneys.

  The children didn’t have much of a chance to contemplate the house itself, for as soon as the truck stopped before the broad stone staircase an old woman in a flowered dress emerged from a normal-sized door hidden in the carved wood and brass of the great arched doors, which stood perhaps fifteen feet high. Phyllida Ash walked—one might almost say “skipped”—down the steps and hurried to meet them as they tumbled out of the truck.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” she cried cheerfully. “I’m so happy to meet my relatives at last!” The children didn’t make a very impressive group. They were wrinkled and tussled and had been sitting so long they could hardly stand. Their eyes were heavy, and James was covered in grape juice from an unfortunate incident on the plane. Finn looked surly, and his black hair was standing on end from the wind. Dickie looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment, though it might have just been his allergies.

  Phyllida figured out a bit more quickly than Bran that four boys and two girls don’t add up to four children, but though she was surprised, she was used to taking far more unusual things in stride.

  “Come inside, dears, you must be exhausted. Let me get you settled and fed and watered, and then I can learn all your names. I never can remember anything I hear when I’m standing up. I think comfort is the key to a good memory.” She ushered the children toward the door, rather like a mother hen herding her chicks. She didn’t try to hug or kiss them, which, though the children didn’t particularly notice this at the time, raised her in their subconscious estimation. (Perhaps it was only because she hadn’t sorted out which four properly belonged to her.) But she did take James’s hand after he stumbled on the first step, and when the others weren’t looking, she patted Dickie’s back reassuringly.

  “We’ll go into the garden kitchen. It’s by f
ar my favorite room. There’s another kitchen way off somewhere—I’m not quite sure where—that’s used by the servants, for themselves or if we’re having a banquet. But this one looks out over the herbs, with the rest of the garden behind it, and from late March until…well, until the end of October, it’s open for the breeze and the pennyroyal smells to come in.”

  They passed first through a great hall with shining wooden floors and walls, and silver sconces holding low, dull flames. There was no furniture save for a few chairs upholstered in burgundy pressed against the far walls, leading Meg to believe that the rest of the rooms might be similarly empty (which made the prospect of their exploration far less enticing). She later learned that the reception hall was an exception—most of the other rooms were cluttered with old wardrobes and trunks and great dusty canopied beds, with antiquities and dubious treasures and tapestries of scenes too faded to be seen.

  “We don’t live in most of the house,” Phyllida said as they continued through a hallway. On one side they glimpsed an enormous room dominated by a wooden dining table, its unlit candelabra like ghastly dead spiders with their legs in the air.

  “The ten or so rooms we use often are near the center here, and they look out on the garden. The bedrooms are on the second floor. I had four of them made up. I didn’t know if any of you wanted to share. But I can have two more dusted and aired by tomorrow, if you can make do tonight. Here we are.”

  She directed them into a bright, breezy room that hardly seemed to be inside a house at all—and certainly not inside a stately mansion. It was decorated like a country cottage, and a none-too-modern cottage at that, with heavy brass or cast-iron implements hanging on walls covered in a floral paper that would have been garish if it wasn’t faded by the sun that streamed in from an open door and two wide French windows. There was a twiggy broomstick in one corner, and an old-fashioned refrigerator that baffled Meg until she saw that it was cooled by a large block of ice. A fire smoldered in the hearth, hardly alive at all as it glowed red in the charred blocks of wood, though every now and then a tiny salamander of flame would crawl out to lick a fresh branch.

  In the garden kitchen, the outside and the inside seemed almost the same thing. The sun, creeping to midday, lit the flowering herbs to brilliant hues of green and pink and white. Cut flowers and potted plants covered nearly every surface except the large white table where Phyllida placed a jug of milk and a dish of butter before turning to cut thick slices of new bread. “This will tide your stomachs over until I can whip up something more substantial.” Dried bunches of leaves and flower heads hung from the rafters, and tendrils of some fragrant vine growing near the windows had snaked inside. It was as much a potter’s shed, apothecary’s workshop, and summerhouse as a kitchen. Meg had never seen anything quite so pretty and homey. Dickie began sneezing.

  “Health to you!” said a voice from the doorway, and the children looked to find an elderly man leaning on a heavy gnarled cane that was almost a club. Lysander Ash had one of those peculiar faces that seem unwilling to divulge their true meaning. It was often hard to tell if he was looking cross or amused, and the heavy white mustache entirely covering his upper lip didn’t help.

  “Dears, this is my husband, your great-great-uncle, Lysander Ash.” Meg wondered if she thought they were all related to her.

  “Couldn’t be there to meet you. Had a deal of work for today.” As when Bran said he was late, there didn’t seem to be anything of an apology in Lysander’s words.

  “It’s May Day, you know,” Phyllida said to the children. “That’s an important day in these parts.”

  It was on the tip of Meg’s tongue to ask why, but then Lysander said, “Have you told them the rules yet?”

  “Of course not! Can’t you see they’ve just arrived and they’re hungry and dead tired? Wouldn’t do any good to tell them anything now. That can all wait. Nothing could happen before sundown anyway.”

  The children exchanged glances at the idea of rules. They weren’t very used to them, aside from the obvious ones about looking both ways before crossing the street and not accepting rides from strangers. Perhaps the Ashes were not as easygoing as they seemed. But Phyllida, for one, didn’t appear to have any strictness about her. “Eat up, dears!” She laid out honey and jam. “We’ll have an early supper tonight, but this will do for now. Please, tell me your names whenever you’re not busy chewing.”

  “I’m Finn Fachan,” Finn said, wiping milk from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Oh,” Lysander said dryly. “Not a Morgan, then?”

  “No,” he said with what looked like a grateful smile. “Tom Morgan said he’d tell you. I hope I’m not a surprise. I’m a friend of the Morgans.”

  At this, Silly spattered breadcrumbs into her hand as she stifled an explosive laugh.

  “Glynnis Morgan didn’t tell us…but no doubt the message is on its way,” Lysander said. “News travels very slowly here. At least news from the outside does. But rest assured that any…friends of my relatives are welcome here. We certainly have the room for them.”

  “Yes, that’s what my father, Professor Fachan, said. He sent you a check to cover any expenses. I’m sure it will be enough.”

  Lysander’s look shifted more noticeably to the cross side, but Phyllida said quickly, “Oh, that’s very thoughtful, but there’s no need. I’ll send it back as soon as it comes. And are you a Morgan?” she asked, looking at Dickie.

  “No,” he said, sniffing loudly. “I’m Dickie Rhys.”

  “He’s a friend of ours,” Silly spouted, rather too loudly.

  “Good to have you with us, Master Rhys,” Lysander said, pulling a large white handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to Dickie. “Catching a cold there?”

  “No, sir. I have allergies.” He blew his nose softly, as though to do the job properly with so many people around might be rude.

  “Oh, you poor dear!” Phyllida said. “And I suppose the garden is making them worse. I’ll give you a bedroom facing the front of the house. There shouldn’t be too much pollen blowing there. Will you be all right here for now?” Dickie, red-nosed and puffy-eyed, nodded and tried to disappear back into his chair.

  “My deductive powers tell me that the rest of you must be Morgans,” Lysander said. And he proceeded to name them all, in order from eldest to youngest. “Well, that’s it, then. The formalities are over. I’ll go back to work, if you please. I’ll return before dinner to go over the rules.” He cast a look that might have been ominous, though James, who, it seemed, could see right through him to his better nature, giggled and threw a crust of bread at him. It stuck in his hair, and he frowned very severely, which only made James laugh harder. Meg pulled his hands down and, since she didn’t know what else to do, dipped her napkin in her milk and scrubbed at the impossible grape-juice stains, turning them a sickly mauve.

  “Don’t bother with those, dear,” Phyllida said to Meg, deftly snatching her napkin from her. “I’ll give them to Lemman to wash. She has the patience for it.”

  “Who’s Lemon?” Silly asked.

  “She takes care of the dairy. You’ll meet her later. But don’t be offended if she doesn’t talk to you. She never talks.”

  “Oh, she’s dumb, then?” Finn said.

  “‘Mute’ is a nicer word for it, dear, but, no, she’s not mute. She just chooses not to speak. Are you all finished eating?” They had bolted their food, and there was nothing left but crumbs on their plates and sticky white rings in their glasses from cream that hadn’t been wholly separated from the milk. “I’ll show you your rooms and the main part of the house. I daresay you’ll want to explore the rest of it on your own. Better save that for tomorrow, though. You’re apt to become lost, and all of the household will be gone tonight. No one will think to find you until morning, and who knows what might be creeping in some of those old rooms. I haven’t been in half of ’em since I was a girl your age.” She nodded to Meg, who was fascinated and a bit unnerved by the
idea that Phyllida Ash had ever been her age (or, worse, that she, Meg, would ever be in her eighties).

  “But first you can meet the rest of the household.” Phyllida Ash pulled a little lever on the wall, and in some distant room a bell tinkled. She led the children back to the main entrance hall, where they found a dozen men and women lined up along the wall. There was a spindly older man dressed in black who could be no other than a butler (though his duties these days were few), and a younger fellow, similarly dressed though with a less staid demeanor, who was his under-butler in training. Several cheerful-looking, pretty girls in ruffled white aprons served in the kitchen or as parlor maids, performing their light duties where they were required. There was a roughly dressed pensioner whose sole job was cleaning muddy shoes or snow-covered boots before they could foul the house. A man in his twenties leaned casually against the wall, looking as if he thought himself too good to be there—or almost anywhere else, for that matter. He sometimes ran errands into town, or repaired things with lazy taps of a little hammer, but mostly he hung around the kitchen, chatting up the girls, until the cook shooed him away. The cook was there, too, a stout, pleasant, matronly woman who had evidently been baking bread and just washed her hands—they were clean up to mid-forearm, beyond which they were plastered in flour and gummy gobbets of dough.

  Phyllida Ash introduced the children, then went down the line. Each bowed or dropped a curtsy, except the young man who liked the kitchen girls, who only scowled deeply with his eyebrows, no doubt wishing they’d get a move on so he could go back to his proper business of flirting.

  “These are the servants, then?” Finn said, looking them up and down as though he had just purchased them at a slave market and was unsure whether he’d gotten a good buy. Meg, a proper middle-class American who really did almost equate servants with slavery, was horrified. They might be servants, she thought, but did he have to rub it in their faces?