‘I’m going to say a few words, now the plant is more comfortable,’ Margaret said.
Alice covertly watched Margaret’s round face as she intoned, eyes closed:
‘Nature wilde, o nature deepe
who all the worldly mysteries keepe,
no more dampe of grief or rue,
let the flowre growe strong and true.’
Alice was discomfited to find herself witnessing some sort of spell. Her stomach gave a lurch. Confused, and afraid her very soul could be at risk, she repeated ‘Lord have Mercy’ over and over in her mind. It could be that she really was harbouring a witch and could be in mortal danger. She clung doggedly to her short phrase as Margaret continued:
‘In the web of the worlde I play my part,
Guide my fingres, guide my hearte,
Great Mother of all, helpmeet and friend,
In the beginninge, now, and at life’s ende.’
But when Margaret opened her eyes and smiled–a lopsided smile which fattened her cheeks–Alice found she could not countenance her as evil.
‘That should do the trick.’ Margaret reached out and clasped her by the hand. ‘And when the seeds come, leave them in the frost, make sure they get good and cold. And sow them when they are young and tender, still green. Don’t dry them out, they take years that way, so my mother told me. But I’ll be back long before then, what am I thinking about? I must hasten to Arnside now. I have a man with a toothache to see to.’
Alice squeezed her dry leathery hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘you were very kind, this afternoon. You are welcome to call to the summerhouse any time, as long as you are…’ Here Alice foundered.
‘Discreet,’ finished Margaret. ‘Yes, dear, no one sees me come and go; that is one skill I most certainly have–to blend into the background. That’s why the brown cloak.’
‘Though have a care you are not mistaken for a deer!’ She laughed at her own words. It was a long time since she had heard herself make any kind of jest. But Margaret simply waved her hand as she sped away.
Chapter 15
‘Who’s getting the wagon?’ Ella asked.
‘Farrier’s bringing his dray,’ one of the men said.
‘And you’re sure it’s to be this Saturday?’
‘Aye, there’s to be a ball and a dinner,’ the butcher said. ‘There’s been all sorts ordered–fancy stuff. Not just the meats off the estate, but–wait till ye hear this–a peacock and a suckling pig out of season.’
‘I wouldn’t mind being sat at that table,’ Ella said, her mouth watering.
‘There’s to be a haunch of venison, and eight woodpigeon set aside, and the pastrycook’s even making a flower garden out of candied fruit and marchpane.’ Lizzie Pickering, Lady Emilia’s maidservant, was wide-eyed.
‘Oh that old windbag. I wouldn’t eat anything she’d cooked,’ Tom Cobbald said.
‘Anyway, it will take more than a few oranges and honeyed plums to sweeten up Sir Geoffrey when he and his guests see what we’ve got in store,’ Audrey said, pulling at the greasy strings of her bonnet. ‘Get them out, Tom.’
With a flourish Tom produced a large pair of curving ram’s horns from a sack. Ribald laughter ensued. Ridged into a full twist, the horns were the largest Ella had ever seen. The villagers stood back, sucking in their breath and making admiring noises.
They were gathered on the village green next to the pump, near the lines where people hung their clothes and sheets to dry. On summer evenings after market days, it was where people got together for a smoke or a chat or to see who was in the stocks, on the way home before the evening chores. There were several felled tree stumps, used as seats, but today the ram’s horns were set down on one so everyone could see what a fine pair they were.
‘Tom Cobbald! Wherever did you find a ram that size?’ Ella said.
Tom smirked and looked pleased. ‘You and Sarah from the mill can dress them,’ he said. ‘Tie some ribbons round and some strong ivy, and make a loop for nailing them. Make them fair and pretty.’
‘The farrier’s set on being Lady Emilia, he’s after getting one of her gowns. Any chance, Lizzie?’ Audrey said.
Lizzie shook her head and bit her lip. ‘No, I daren’t chance it, I’m risking my position already. If they thought I had anything to do with the cuckolding, I’d be cast out, sure as milk turns to butter.’
‘Aw, go on, Lizzie, you could borrow an old gown. Surely there’s one clout she wouldn’t miss.’
‘Not a one. She’s that fussy and particular, and she often opens the closet just to look on her gowns.’
‘How many has she got? What are they like?’ Ella was curious to know all the details of Fisk Manor.
‘Must be twenty or more–all satin and lace, and embroidery, with pale silk petticoats with flying birds, and hems trimmed with gold point–all fastening at the back. I swear if I wasn’t there to help her fasten them, she’d go about in just her chemise!’
‘Hang me for a dog if she don’t when she tiptoes off to her turkeycock. And I’m sure and certain he knows better how to undo her stays than to fasten them,’ Audrey said.
‘Mind you, she don’t look that type. Bit bony, to my mind,’ said Tom. ‘Be like sleeping with my old mare–all ribcage and teeth.’
‘She’s not that bad,’ Lizzie said. ‘She’s got a fair complexion.’
Tom did not look convinced.
‘Reuben the farrier’ll do a fine portrait of her airs and graces–he looks less like a horse than she does,’ Ella said.
Lizzie twisted her apron strings between her fingers. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ It was as if Lizzie had not spoken–nobody bothered to respond.
‘Who’s to play Sir Geoffrey?’ Ella asked.
Tom put his finger on his top lip in imitation of Geoffrey’s curling moustache, and gave a low bow, twirling his fingers as he went. Everyone laughed.
‘He’s had a lump of flax sewn into a hat, with some extra for a moustache,’ giggled Audrey, ‘and he’s to redden his face, and scowl and scratch his ears!’
‘Let him have a flagon of ale, but scribed with “Madeira”, and be half falling off the wagon,’ Ella said.
‘Be careful,’ said Lizzie, ‘don’t go too far; he might do for us all, he has a right evil temper.’
‘Yes,’ Audrey said, ‘he hit my cousin with his riding crop last week at market, and nearly trampled her boy on his horse. She’s got a red mark on her cheek to prove it.’
‘He never,’ Ella said.
‘He did. So he’s got it coming.’
‘The miller’s grinding lads have said they’ll play the lovers, and be as lewd as you like.’
‘Sarah and me are making tie-on codpieces, big as your forearm, out of stuffed straw,’ Ella said.
‘That’ll be some sight to make your eyes pop,’ Audrey said. ‘Word’s spread already–some people’s mouths run on wheels. I reckon there’ll be a fine turnout to see our procession when they hear our drums and cymbals.’
‘Better keep quiet when we get near the manor, though, and put out your torches, or Sir Geoffrey might get wind of it before you can nail up the horns,’ said Lizzie. ‘Or worse, he might catch you at it, and then we’d all be done for.’
‘Nah, he can’t do much with all the lot of us. Make sure you’re wearing a vizard, Ella, to hide your face, and a long cloak to hide your gown. Miller’ll give you some sacks to make a cape if you’ve no cloak,’ Tom said.
Lizzie laughed nervously. ‘I’d best go, before Mistress misses me. There’s such a lot to do for the dinner, and Mistress’ll be wanting her lace collars pinked and pressed.’
‘Meet us here next week then. We want to know what their faces were like when they clapped eyes on it. And we’ll tell what sport we had,’ Audrey said.
‘Aye. But I fear it will be trouble. Sir Geoffrey’s in with Rawlinson, the magistrate,’ said Lizzie.
‘Oh, get some backbone, girl,’ Tom said. ‘It’s only a bit of fun. Nothi
ng bad’ll happen.’
Lizzie continued to twist her apron strings round her fingers. ‘I’ll be off then,’ she said.
Tom called out, ‘Soon as you can after the day’s work on Friday–we want to get the wagon ready and decorated before sunset if we can, and the nights are beginning to draw in.’
‘We’ll be in the taproom at the Hare and Hounds,’ Audrey said.
‘I can’t wait till Saturday!’ Ella’s face was glowing. ‘Ibbetson’s cook and all her family are turning out to see us. See you all at the inn yard.’
The group began to disperse.
Lizzie picked up her basket and set off disconsolately to the manor. What would happen if her master or mistress were to hear about it? She would be thrown out, and her with no family or other place to go. It didn’t bear thinking about. She must keep her head down and have no more to do with that Ella. She was trouble. It was written on her face, plain as a pikestaff.
Thomas was delighted when the invitation arrived from Fisk Manor for the Grand Dinner. He waved the gold embossed card at Alice over the dining table, his face beaming with satisfaction. He saw it as an indication of his high standing in the county that he should have been invited, and a welcome opportunity to talk business with the squires, giving him the excuse he needed to sell them his financial services. It had been a few years since anyone had dared to throw such a luxurious party, and rumour had it that it was to be a sumptuous affair. He was perplexed that Alice did not share his enthusiasm.
‘I would rather not attend,’ Alice said. ‘I feel it is still too soon to be enjoying myself. Forgive me, dear, but I am not ready to put away my mourning just yet.’
She could not tell him that she had offended Sir Geoffrey, and that there would be no more lucrative commissions; nor could she tell him that she was too worried about the lady’s slipper to be concerned with ostentatious dinners at the manor.
Thomas threw down his napkin. ‘For God’s sake, woman. Are you going to closet yourself in that damp summerhouse for the rest of your life?’ He ran his hands through his thinning brown hair. ‘Moping won’t bring Flora back. It’s been a year; it’s time to pick up the pieces and move on.’ And then, with soft entreaty, ‘She would not have wanted this…to see you so–’ he searched for the words–‘so faded and dull.’
Alice shrank further away from him. His words had stung her heart.
He approached her as if to take her by the arm, but like the tail of a bee-sting, the words could not easily be withdrawn and she moved sharply away from him towards the window, presenting him with a view of her tense shoulders in their hard black worsted. So he thought her unattractive, did he?
‘I have told you, I am not ready for Sir Geoffrey’s wasteful frivolities. And by the sounds of it, you will be glad–since I am so dull.’
There was a palpable silence as he took in the bite of her words.
‘Very well. If that is how you feel, I will attend without you. I will tell Sir Geoffrey and the Lady Emilia that you are indisposed.’
She heard his footsteps and the creak of the floorboards as he left the room, and then the door bang shut in the hall.
She gazed out of the window unmoving. A fine drizzle clouded the glass except for a few clear rivulets through which she could see the full weight of autumn–sycamore leaves strewn on the grass like twists of brown paper, the ash tree’s yellowing fringes swaying over dripping U-shaped branches.
Was she so faded and dull? She stared at a raindrop sliding down the glass outside. She supposed she was. She thought back to their old family home in Cartmel, the glossy cherrywood table with its fine white linen and lace runner, with the fat bowl of roses and wildflowers dropping their scatter of petals over the polished surface. In her mind’s eye, she saw her hand reach out to run a finger across the wood, saw the dab of flower-dust on her fingertips; her fine crocheted lace cuff above a hand wearing a cluster of amethyst and ruby rings. She heard again the faint swish of her orange-scented pomander against her damask skirts, saw the lavender-coloured silk, felt the stiffness of the linen embroidered skirt-panel with its intertwined moss-stitch leaves and chubby silken birds. But that was before the days of shaking.
Another bead of water formed a transparent runnel down the windowpane. Alice looked down at her feet in their dull black bootees, and the dark folds of her lustreless woollen skirts.
Thomas was right, she was a different woman now. It was as if she had got lost somewhere, but she did not know how to get her self back–she was even making friends with an old beggar-woman. She could no longer imagine herself as a woman who could wear satins and jewellery, and touch a glass stopper from a perfume bottle behind her ears. The world was a cruel place; she mourned for her loss of faith in the fairness of the world as much as for the loss of her childhood home. There was so much to mourn. And the death of Flora had drained the last of her joy.
Her thoughts turned to her husband. Though she and Thomas had never been more than cordial, there had always been a deep tolerance between them. Thomas had taken her in marriage when nobody else would–for what other man would want a woman who had a child already? Though Flora was her sister, she had been in every respect like her own child. Thomas had loved Flora. Oft-times Alice suspected that without Flora, Thomas would never have married her, for he had always treated Alice like a friend rather than a wife.
Now, though, she sensed something was out of kilter between them. He had weathered Flora’s death, but she herself had found it hard to put thoughts of her aside. It was as if she and Thomas were ghosts from different times but floating in the same house, they almost passed through each other as they came and went. Thomas no longer placed his arm in hers when they went out, no longer put his hand on the small of her back to guide her across the street; his eyes evaded hers when they met, and any easy companionship had gone. They led separate lives, held together only by the thin veneer of appearances. There was something different about Thomas; he even evaded her company now.
She would not go to Fisk Manor. Let Thomas go alone. She could not face Geoffrey, who would want to take her aside and enquire, God forbid, after the health of the lady’s slipper and when the seedlings would be ready. The thought of it made her weary.
She sighed and leaned on the windowsill. The glass showed a dark reflection drizzled with beads of rain. Her eyes stared back, grey, like troubled pools. She lifted a stray bronze-coloured curl and almost tucked it in her cap. She had been pretty once, her fiery hair an emblem of her energy and enthusiasm, her lust for life. Where had all that energy gone? She felt the soft warm texture of her hair and, having second thoughts, pulled out more curls until the glass showed a warm glow around her pallid face. She pinched her cheeks until a tinge of red bloomed there, pulled herself up straighter, pushed back her shoulders.
Thomas was right. It was time to put the mourning behind her.
Chapter 16
Richard walked briskly up to the Ibbetsons’ front door and knocked. He had thought long and hard about this visit, and had asked God for guidance. He must apologize to her for the accident with the rifle. Horrified, he had disposed of it immediately afterwards into the river. He could have killed her. The incident seemed like a prompt from above. He had sworn to give up firearms, but had thought a little innocent target practice would not matter. Now he knew better.
He knocked again. He hoped he would be able to convince her to hear him out. He was worried for Alice–she was playing a dangerous game, fraternizing with that cunning woman from Preston. Widow Poulter was a keeper of the dark arts, so he had heard, and when he had asked Dorothy about it, mentioning no names of course, she had said it was his duty to warn Alice not to stray onto the dark path.
He could not but think there had been some divine purpose in how he had come to be in Netherbarrow, to worship at the Hall. There had been the sign of the Holy Spirit in his woods. He still could not decide if he had imagined the wonder of it–whether it was really something quite ordinary, just a tu
rtle-dove lost from someone’s dovecote. But the memory made his spine tingle. And he could not separate the image of the orchid from the picture of Alice, her white skin, the red of her lips. Something about the orchid spoke to his heart, an unmistakable yearning. He wanted to bring the orchid home.
Ella the maid answered the door. He wondered briefly why the Ibbetsons kept her on. Thomas Ibbetson had not fared too badly in the war, he knew. His modest house had remained, whereas he had heard that Alice’s family home had been sacked and burnt to the ground by the New Model Army. Since the war, many were living in reduced circumstances. But their maid looked unkempt, and her bodice was too low–he noticed with annoyance how his eyes automatically dropped to the white flesh of her bosom. She was not even particularly pleasant or efficient. She mumbled, and kept him waiting in the hall.
He looked around him at the dark panelled walls hung with more of Alice’s luminous flower paintings. It was of course grander than his own cottage, but he could see it was nowhere near as grand as the house he had given away, or the house the Longleys had seen burnt to the ground. A tenderness arose in him, thinking of how Alice must have felt seeing her family’s possessions reduced to rubble and ashes.
He hoped that Thomas would be out at the counting house and that Alice would be willing to receive him. There was no reason why she should, yet he felt he had to try. She was a fair-minded person underneath her protestations–his instinct told him that. Surely she would let common sense prevail.
When he turned back from looking at the walls, she was standing quietly waiting.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Wheeler.’
She looked different, somehow, softer. She was wearing a dark green velvet bodice over a matching fine wool skirt. It was very becoming. He noticed her trim waist and slim arms, and her white throat rising out of the dark emerald neckline.
‘May I speak with thee a few moments?’
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