the air
with its insistence, and the house came to life around her. There was an
urgency in the hurrying feet, the sharp commands, the snap of irritation, and
she heard Alex's voice, cool but comma n ding.
The storm had been all that she had expected, and the men camped in the orchard
had had a wretched time of it as the rain bucketed, running in torrents under,
over, and between the flimsy tents. The wind had howled, tearing at the pegs,
and the lazy and inexperienced had lived with the consequences as their fragile shelters had flown with the gusts. The
campsite was in chaos, and Ginny listened to the sudden silence in the house as the entire brigade, from the colonel
down, pitched in to restore order.
So fate had played into her hands. The house was deserted,
the colonel and his men in the orchard, and the tide would be full in Alum Bay at eight o'clock. Ginny dressed rapidly and slipped from the room. She went
directly to the still room, where she stood for a moment, allowing the silence
to seep into her pores, her ears pricked for the slightest sound. Nothing . . .
except the voices carrying through the now-still air from the orchard.
Twenty minutes of careful activity produced the poultice of
herbs and distilled alcohol that would keep Edmund's wound clean and aid the
healing. This was one area of housewifery in which Ginny excelled, simply
because it fascinated her. There were few of the common, and no-so-common
ailments, that she did not know how to cure or at least ease. She had spent much
of her childhood gathering simples in the company of the old women of the
island, learning the art of healing.
The poultice went into a wicker basket covered by a checkered
napkin, together with a plentiful supply of fresh bandages, and Ginny crept
downstairs to the dining room. The wall panel sprung open as her foot pressed
the requisite floorboard, and she was inside, the concealed door closing behind
her as her knowing fingers found the catch. She remembered the story of how her
grandfather had summoned locks m i th s from London to achieve this marvel. Since Henry
VIII's reformation, when Catholic priests had found refuge in the secret
passages and chambers of the houses of their sympathizers, most newly built
houses of the nobility contained in their plans some such hiding place. Her
father ' s father, with a fascination for all
things mechanical, had constructed his own, utilizing every device known to the
age. John R edfern, in his turn, had kept the
mechanism well oiled, although the priest's hole and the secret passageway had,
in his lifetime, only been used in play by his tomboy daughter and her equally
mischievous cousin.
It was ten shallow steps to the stone chamber, and she
whistled softly to reassure the captives that the intruder was not be feared.
"What do you do, coming from the house?" Edmund was
on his feet, still shaky, but his color was better, although, like Peter, his
complexion carried the waxen tinge of long days away from fresh air and light.
" How
strong do you feel? " she asked, setting down her burden.
She explained her plan rapidly, even as she en couraged
Edmund back to the pallet and swiftly applied the poultice to a wound that was
much less red and swoll en . She changed the bandage, nodding
with satisfaction. "There is no seepage of fluid, Edmund. If you avoid
wett in g the bandage on the crossing, then it will not need to be changed for several
days."
"How am I to manage the cliff path, Ginny, with o nl y one hand?"
"On your backside, as we used to do." She fashioned
a sling from the napkin, securing his arm against his chest. " You will go between us, but you must
not attempt to use this arm."
"You were always overfond of giving orders," Edmund
grumbled, even as his eyes shone with the prospect of activity and release.
"Indeed." She grinned through her tiredness and the
desolation she could not admit, even to herself. "And on this occasion, my friend, you will obey."
Edmund tugged one
with its insistence, and the house came to life around her. There was an
urgency in the hurrying feet, the sharp commands, the snap of irritation, and
she heard Alex's voice, cool but comma n ding.
The storm had been all that she had expected, and the men camped in the orchard
had had a wretched time of it as the rain bucketed, running in torrents under,
over, and between the flimsy tents. The wind had howled, tearing at the pegs,
and the lazy and inexperienced had lived with the consequences as their fragile shelters had flown with the gusts. The
campsite was in chaos, and Ginny listened to the sudden silence in the house as the entire brigade, from the colonel
down, pitched in to restore order.
So fate had played into her hands. The house was deserted,
the colonel and his men in the orchard, and the tide would be full in Alum Bay at eight o'clock. Ginny dressed rapidly and slipped from the room. She went
directly to the still room, where she stood for a moment, allowing the silence
to seep into her pores, her ears pricked for the slightest sound. Nothing . . .
except the voices carrying through the now-still air from the orchard.
Twenty minutes of careful activity produced the poultice of
herbs and distilled alcohol that would keep Edmund's wound clean and aid the
healing. This was one area of housewifery in which Ginny excelled, simply
because it fascinated her. There were few of the common, and no-so-common
ailments, that she did not know how to cure or at least ease. She had spent much
of her childhood gathering simples in the company of the old women of the
island, learning the art of healing.
The poultice went into a wicker basket covered by a checkered
napkin, together with a plentiful supply of fresh bandages, and Ginny crept
downstairs to the dining room. The wall panel sprung open as her foot pressed
the requisite floorboard, and she was inside, the concealed door closing behind
her as her knowing fingers found the catch. She remembered the story of how her
grandfather had summoned locks m i th s from London to achieve this marvel. Since Henry
VIII's reformation, when Catholic priests had found refuge in the secret
passages and chambers of the houses of their sympathizers, most newly built
houses of the nobility contained in their plans some such hiding place. Her
father ' s father, with a fascination for all
things mechanical, had constructed his own, utilizing every device known to the
age. John R edfern, in his turn, had kept the
mechanism well oiled, although the priest's hole and the secret passageway had,
in his lifetime, only been used in play by his tomboy daughter and her equally
mischievous cousin.
It was ten shallow steps to the stone chamber, and she
whistled softly to reassure the captives that the intruder was not be feared.
"What do you do, coming from the house?" Edmund was
on his feet, still shaky, but his color was better, although, like Peter, his
complexion carried the waxen tinge of long days away from fresh air and light.
" How
strong do you feel? " she asked, setting down her burden.
She explained her plan rapidly, even as she en couraged
Edmund back to the pallet and swiftly applied the poultice to a wound that was
much less red and swoll en . She changed the bandage, nodding
with satisfaction. "There is no seepage of fluid, Edmund. If you avoid
wett in g the bandage on the crossing, then it will not need to be changed for several
days."
"How am I to manage the cliff path, Ginny, with o nl y one hand?"
"On your backside, as we used to do." She fashioned
a sling from the napkin, securing his arm against his chest. " You will go between us, but you must
not attempt to use this arm."
"You were always overfond of giving orders," Edmund
grumbled, even as his eyes shone with the prospect of activity and release.
"Indeed." She grinned through her tiredness and the
desolation she could not admit, even to herself. "And on this occasion, my friend, you will obey."
Edmund tugged one
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