‘Bridget, where is she?’ she said in a small voice. For a moment Bridget didn’t reply. They exchanged a look of shared unease. Then Bridget cleared her throat.
‘Go on into the village and ask a few faces.’
‘It was so icy this morning… and it must have been dark when she went out. What if she fell? What if some harm has come to her?’
‘Then we will find her and scold her for her lack of good sense,’ said Bridget, curtly. ‘Go on into the village.’
So Starling ran from the butcher’s shop to the baker’s, stopping everyone she saw along the way. She went along the river and along the canal, a good distance in either direction, asking fishermen and bargemen and rovers. She went across the bridge and asked the miller and the toll man; she knocked on the door of the parsonage, and checked in church. She steeled herself and went into the inn, which she had never done by herself before. She asked the serving girls, the inn keep, the travellers eating their stew and potatoes. By sunset she could think of nowhere else to go, no one else to ask. She will be home in the kitchen when I get back. Some small mishap detained her, that was all. She pictured Alice seated by the fire, with a hot cup of tea in her hands and a sprained ankle propped up in front of her. She pictured it so clearly that she ran back to the farmhouse in her haste, burst into the kitchen all breathless, and could not understand why the room was dark, the fire gone out, and Bridget still stood at the window with her face pinched up in fear. In that exact moment the ground seemed to shudder beneath Starling’s feet, and everything suddenly seemed breakable. She felt queasy and helpless, and sharp-fingered panic scrabbled in her gut.
‘We must send word to Lord Faukes on the morrow, if there is still no sign of her. He will know what to do,’ said Bridget, in hollow tones.
Neither one of them could go to bed, so they sat in the kitchen through the night, cold and sleepless, until the sun rose once again. There was still no sign of Alice. Bridget paid the yardman’s boy three farthings to run a message directly to Lord Faukes in Box, and half an hour later the rattle of the front gate roused the two of them from their chairs, hope flooding through them. The door was thrown open before they reached it, and the person that came through it stopped them in their tracks.
‘What’s the meaning of-’ Bridget began to say, only to cut herself off in astonishment.
‘Mr Alleyn?’ Starling breathed, not quite believing it was him.
‘Where is she? Where is she?’ Jonathan Alleyn gasped, fighting for breath. He staggered into the kitchen, looking around wildly as though Alice might be hiding behind the table. There were cuts and gashes on the backs of his hands, crusted with filth. ‘Alice!’ he shouted. And then the smell of him hit them, and shocked them even more. Starling clapped her hands over her nose and mouth.
‘Saints preserve us! He reeks of the slaughterhouse,’ cried Bridget. In truth, the stink he gave off was worse than blood. It was blood and rot and burning; excrement, putrefaction and filth. His clothes – his red army jacket and breeches – were so stained and tattered it was hard to recognise them. His hair was long and matted, his face unshaven. He had always been lean but now he was painfully thin. Beneath the clothes his body was like sticks and shards; no softness, no flesh. What skin they could see behind the dirt and bruises was a ghastly greyish white. There was a long tear in the shoulder of his jacket, a messy darkness beneath that gave off the worst smell.
Gagging, Starling followed him as he crashed through into the parlour.
‘Alice!’ he shouted to the empty room. Starling stood in his way, forcing him to stop.
‘Mr Alleyn! How are you here – here and not at the war? Where is Alice? Have you been with her?’ she asked desperately. Jonathan looked down at her and didn’t seem to recognise her at all. His eyes were feverish and wild; the hands that grasped her shoulders shook violently, but had an inhuman strength.
‘Where is she? The letter she wrote… it cannot be. I won’t believe it! Where is she?’ His voice rose from a whisper to a shout, spittle flying from his lips. His fingernails bit into her.
‘We don’t know where she is! Do you know? Have you seen her? What’s happened?’ said Starling, her words garbled by tears that came on suddenly, half closing her throat. ‘You’re not well, Mr Alleyn… please…’ But Jonathan shoved her to one side, and continued his search, trailing his stink behind him until it was in every corner of the house. When at last he came back to the kitchen, Starling stood shoulder to shoulder with Bridget, frightened and bewildered.
‘I must find her. I must tell her…’ Jonathan said indistinctly. He seemed to be losing control of his tongue; the sounds he made were strange and disjointed.
‘He is afire with fever,’ Bridget said quietly. ‘We mustn’t let him leave as he is.’ At this, Jonathan’s head whipped around and he glared savagely at them.
‘Who are you? What have you done with Alice? What have you done?’ he bellowed. It seemed to take the last of his strength. His hand was on his sabre, trying to free it from its scabbard, as he sank to his knees. ‘You cannot keep me here,’ he whispered. And then he collapsed.
Some weeks later, when the fear of harm coming to Alice had evolved into the agony of grief, the bitter torment of not knowing, Starling managed to see Jonathan again. She and Bridget had been made to quit the farmhouse in Bathampton, and Starling was in service to Lord Faukes, at the house in Box. She needed to be near Jonathan, since he was her best link to Alice. She needed to be near him, because he could set about finding her. He could stand up and deny the stories being told about her, and be believed. He could do something. And when Alice came back, and found the farmhouse at Bathampton let to strangers, she would come to Box second of all, Starling was sure. She would come to find Jonathan and Lord Faukes. She would come for her sister. For days Jonathan lay unconscious, and doctors came and went from his room. For days after that he would see no one. Starling was forced to wait, driven to distraction with impatience. When she did at last sneak into his room he was much changed. The stink was gone; he was clean, his wounds bandaged. He could stand, and walk – she had seen him. Yet he did not walk; he did not ride. He did nothing.
When Starling appeared in his room he did not seem to think it amiss. If he was surprised that she’d walked out of his secret life in Bathampton and into his everyday one in Box, he showed no sign of it.
‘Mr Alleyn, why do you not search for her?’ she whispered. Since losing Alice, Starling was less sure of herself, less brave. She was less sure of everything around her, other than that Alice would not have abandoned her willingly. And she was horribly, horribly lonely.
‘There’s no point,’ he said roughly, not looking at her. For a moment his mouth kept working, as if he would say more. He frowned; his eyes were swollen, and had lost their sparkle. ‘She’s gone,’ he said, eventually.
‘You cannot believe what they are saying about her. You cannot believe she had a lover, and has run off with him. You cannot!’
‘Can I not?’ he said, grinding out the words. He shook his head. ‘The letter she wrote to me,’ he said. ‘I wish I could remember! And my lord grandfather, and my mother. All tell the same story. And even Bridget has confirmed it…’
‘What? Remember what? What has Bridget confirmed?’ Starling’s heart felt weak and damaged. When it pounded like it did then, she worried that it might come apart. Her head ached unbearably, with disbelief, with shock, and desperation.
‘She has left with another. She is gone.’
‘She would never! You know that. Mr Alleyn, she loves you! She wants to marry you – it’s all she’s ever wanted! And she made me her sister… she would never just abandon us! Why aren’t you out looking for her? How can you believe them? You know it’s not true! You know it!’ She grasped his arm to make him see. ‘Someone has taken her! Or hurt her! Do something!’