The Silver Moth by Carol Lefevre

Author:Carol Lefevre [Lefevre Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781782643654
Publisher: Lion Hudson

4

Breakfast at Moonacre Manor was a confused affair that morning. Maria Merryweather had heard the bells and made her way to the kitchen to question Esmé. There she found the kettle whistling on the hob, but the eggs and sausages were lying uncooked beside the frying pan. To cap it all, she had caught her first glimpse of Josefina. Then Mulders had arrived and explained that the de Noir clan had raided the village. A few minutes later, her cook had arrived, flushed and out of breath, and now here was her granddaughter, equally flushed and breathless, adorned with cobwebs and mud, and without her shoes.

“Rose! Were you in the thick of this to-do in the village?”

“In a way, yes,” Rose answered. She sat down at the big pine table and told her grandmother all about it, from finding the silver plane hidden in the gorse, to Hugo de Noir taking Gabrielle and Frieda to the castle.

Grandmother Merryweather did not fuss over the state of Rose’s clothing. Ignoring Josefina, who was edging along the top shelf of the dresser, she said, “Well, I see that you’ve been having an adventure. But now you had better run upstairs and make yourself tidy.” And to Esmé, “We’ll breakfast half an hour later than usual.” Being a True Gentlewoman, she said nothing about the monkey. “Your guests may sleep in the other tower room. It hasn’t been opened in a very long time, so be sure to air it well. Ask Mulders to see to the fire.”

Up in her room, Rose caught sight of herself in the silver mirror: she looked wilder than any of the gypsy women, with her hair full of cobwebs and her clothes filthy. She undressed and washed in the water Esmé had brought earlier – the wonder was that it was still quite warm. How much had happened so quickly!

After breakfast, Rose helped Esmé prepare the tower room. Like her own room, it had a private staircase, and Rose climbed its stone steps armed with a bucket of soapy water and a mop, while Esmé followed with her broom, a bag of dusters, and three branches of fresh rosemary, which she called incensier. Mulders carried up a basket of logs and pinecones. Josefina, nattering happily, brought a small crystal vase of purple pansies and sprigs of fern. Around her neck she wore a muslin bag filled with dried rose petals and lavender – this was to be slipped under Gabrielle’s pillows.

At Rose’s touch the door swung open, and she and Esmé peered into a dim interior. The room was under a spell of cold, and old dust. Esmé flung back the heavy curtains. The window latches protested mightily but soon gave way, and with gusts of fresh air flowing into it, the room came to life. Mulders lit the fire, and when it began to crackle he disappeared downstairs. When he returned bearing an armload of freshly laundered linen, his Buddha’s earlobes were pink from the effort of climbing the stairs.

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