The scrivener copied down the address, scratching laboriously at the paper with a worn-out goose-nib. When he handed her the paper she read:
Mr Zachary Deane Esq.,
Signe del Naranja,
Calle de Virgenes,
Sevilla
She did not thank him. She simply tucked the paper into her bag and swept out of the chamber. Outside she sucked in great lungfuls of air. Until that moment she had not realized she had been holding her breath.
Elspet wandered around the chambers of West View House like a lost soul. She had sent a letter to Hugh to inform him that Zachary wanted to sell; perhaps Hugh might be able to reason with Greeting to stay the sale. Without a shadow of a doubt they would see neither hide nor hair of Zachary Deane once he had the gold in his grasp.
Since the reading of the will she had not been down to the priest cellar; she had been too bitter, unable to find gratitude for prayer. But now she descended, thinking she might find comfort there. One of the servants had left a small taper alight as was the custom, so she pulled one of the horsehair kneelers over the flagstone floor and bowed her head, making the sign of the cross.
She gazed on the small statuette of Mary, who had a half-smile and wide, innocent eyes. Mary held her blue mantle about her as if concealing the mystery. Her halo glowed in the candlelight. She was just an ordinary woman once, thought Elspet, before the angel visited her. Did she have that peaceful expression then, or did she frown and scowl like everyone else and wonder why life treated her so harshly?
Elspet sighed. Would she ever have such a look, or know the secret of her grace? Mary looked so accepting. Elspet found that she could not accept that she would always be beholden to someone – to Mr Bradstone or, worse, to Zachary Deane – and she did not want to have to beg every day of her life. She stood, frustrated, still unable to pray. Perhaps, after all, even Mary could not help her.
Elspet dabbed her eyes on the lace of her sleeve, but before she left she lit two small candles, one for Lydia, the child who had died, and one for Joan. Joan would certainly need heavenly assistance when she told her what Father had done. She did not light another for Father, for despite her prayers, her anger still burned hotter than any candle.
She banged the door shut on the cellar and drew the drapes so that the metal curtain rings rattled and the fabric swung, releasing a mist of dust.
‘Martha,’ she called.
She came running at the tone of her voice.
‘Have these drapes taken outside to be beaten. And all the curtains at all the doors and windows. And while you’re at it, all the rugs.’
‘But mistress, it’s just started drizzling –’
‘Then it will help the dust settle in the yard. Go on now.’
‘Yes, mistress.’ Martha curtseyed to her and fetched a stool to stand on to take down the curtain.
She wound down the armfuls of cloth and dragged the bundle out of the door. A few moments later the houseboy arrived to take down the drapes at the windows. A fine film of grey settled over the furniture, the pale light streaked through the dirty diamonds of glass. She fetched a ewer with water and vinegar and scrubbed at the windows. The cloth blackened under the vigour of her rubbing.
Martha stopped short in the doorway to see her with her sleeves turned back and a dampened rag in her hands.
‘Mistress! Whatever are you doing?’ She bustled over. ‘Here, let me take that.’
‘How long since these were cleaned?’
‘Beg pardon, but I don’t know, mistress.’
‘Well, look.’ She held out the cloth.
‘I’ll see to it straight away, mistress. Straight away. I’ll go tell the boy.’ Martha snatched the rag from Elspet’s hands and ran off.
When the boy came back, he eyed her sideways as if to gauge whether or not she had gone stark mad, but she simply gestured to the windows.
‘All of them,’ she ordered, pacing up and down before them, ‘and the wainscots and banisters.’ It was obviously years since they had been done.
After the windows, she gave instructions for a thorough scouring of the whole house, even though today there was not enough sun to dry everything. But the activity and bustle in the house soothed the restlessness in her heart as she waited for Hugh’s reply. After a little more than a week his letter finally arrived; she tore off the seal and read his few lines.
Dear Mistress Leviston,
If your cousin wishes to sell, I want to buy. I had half a mind to come to London next week in any case to offer assistance with your preparations. I’ll go to Greeting, see what I can do.
Your servant,
Hugh
Thank God. Relief flooded through her. The letter had taken a few days to reach her, so perhaps even now he was at Greeting’s. She pressed the letter to her lips and kissed it. ‘Oh Hugh!’ she exclaimed.
The messenger lad in the doorway smiled, and twisted his cap in embarrassment. No doubt he thought the letter full of terms of endearment. He was waiting for a reply so she sat at her desk and wrote a fervent note of thanks. She folded it carefully, and smiled, for in this mood even the smell of the sealing wax gave her pleasure. She almost skipped down to the kitchen to tell Goody Turner she would take Jakes out.
‘A fine idea, mistress,’ Turner said, grinning at her obvious good cheer, ‘he needs exercise that one, he runs us all ragged if he don’t get a walk. But make sure you take your sun-shade. That sun’s baking. Nearly fried my ears off on the way here.’
‘Come on,’ Elspet said to Jakes. ‘Walkies! And, Goody Turner, we are going to the drapers to order more cloth for curtains!’
‘New curtains? Well, there’s something. I was worried. There was rumours your cousin might be closing up the house.’
‘Not if I can help it. Mr Bradstone and I won’t hear of it.’
‘I’m right glad.’
‘Here, Jakes!’ The dog stopped sniffing the bottom of the door long enough to have his lead put on. ‘Shall we stop by the butchers on the Strand, and buy some bones? Bones, Jakes!’ Jakes let out a delighted woof. She fetched her hat and fastened it on, calling for Martha, before asking, ‘Do we need anything, Turner?’
‘I don’t think so, mistress, though if you pass the comfit-seller, I wouldn’t say no to a twist of pear drops.’ She winked.
‘Cheeky! Sugared figs for me – but we will see what the man has on his barrow.’
‘Pear drops, milk sops, lemon cherry, make we merry!’ Martha said, catching the mood and jamming her felted hat on her head.
Elspet picked up Diver and gave him a squeeze. ‘You be nice for Goody Turner, now.’ He wagged his stubby tail.
She passed him over. Goody Turner ruffled his head and said, ‘Don’t fret, mistress, he’ll be fine and dandy. Just make sure Martha holds tight to that Jakes, get him fixed to the railings in town. He’d chase a cobble set in the road, that one.’
It was almost six when Martha and Elspet returned, their arms full of parcels and their mouths full of candied delights. Martha dragged her feet and complained during the last half-mile. Goody Turner poked her head up the stairs to see what they’d bought. Now that Father was gone, Coleman, Broadbank and the lad spent their time in the stables or below, and they were a house full of women. It made them giddy.
‘Look at those roses in your cheeks!’ Goody Turner said to Martha. She grabbed hold of the muddy and excited Jakes and added, ‘Off you go; go on down now.’
Martha and Goody Turner were only halfway down the stairs when there was a loud knock at the door. As Elspet was so near she went to open it herself, though Goody Turner appeared again right behind her. She pulled open the door still in her outdoor clothes. Below, the dogs set to barking.
Hugh was on the doorstep, and another, shorter, older, man who was leaning on a stick. ‘Hugh!’ she said, surprised but pleased to see him. ‘Why, how strange, I’ve just penned you a letter, not a few hours ago!’
‘This is my father. May we come in?’
‘No need. We won’t be staying,’ Hugh said.
She didn’t register his words at first for she was busy saying, ‘I have just come in from outdoors myself.’ It was only when the men staunchly retained their hats that she realized something was the matter.
Hugh was holding himself very upright and stiff, his face was set and tight. Hugh’s father’s demeanour was similarly grave. A part of her went cold and still. She heard herself observe the usual courtesies.
‘Have you ridden here?’ she asked. ‘The stable lad will—’
‘No.’ His father cut her off. ‘Our carriage waits outside. Is there someone from the family who can sit with you whilst we talk?’
‘No,’ she said, somewhat flummoxed, ‘only Martha, my maidservant. I’ll call her.’
But Martha had heard the conversation. ‘Here, mistress,’ she called.
Diver appeared from the stairs, growling, teeth bared. ‘Go on down now. Good dog. Goody Turner will get you some supper.’
Diver seemed to sense the odd atmosphere and his hackles were up. He carried on growling, his ears back. Goody Turner had to pull him, whining, down the stairs. When Elspet turned back to the visitors, Hugh’s father was raising his bushy eyebrows at his son.
‘Mistress Leviston, let us go inside,’ he said. His voice was a broader, harsher version of his son’s.
‘Yes, yes . . . of course.’ She led the way and heard the click click of his cane as the men followed. She pulled an upright chair near to the hearth for Hugh’s father, though the fire had not been lit for weeks.
She perched on the edge of her seat and waited silently while they settled themselves. ‘He won’t sell?’ she asked.
Hugh’s father gave a slight sideways nod of the head and fixed Hugh with a look. Hugh stood again, and announced, ‘I am sorry, Mistress Leviston –’ he was struggling for words – ‘it’s this way. I find I no longer wish to be wed.’ He sat down again suddenly and looked at his knees.
She leaned towards him. ‘Oh Hugh, we can wait a while, if you wish. There is no need for it to be so soon—’
‘No.’ His father’s voice cut in. ‘What my son means is that he is breaking his engagement. He does not want to marry, Miss Leviston, not now and not at any future date.’
‘Oh.’ The word sounded very small.
Her mind raced. Did he mean he did not want to marry her? So the will had made a difference after all. She looked to the father, but he would not meet her eye, and was drumming on his thigh with his fingers.
She stood up again, hearing the rustle of her gown. ‘Might I ask you, Hugh, why you have changed your mind?’ Her question was too reasonable given that an explosion seemed to be happening in her chest.
‘He does not want—’ His father started to speak but she interrupted him.
‘With all respect, sir, I am asking Hugh. He owes me some explanation at least. Hugh?’
Hugh pulled at his fall-back collar, and stretched his jaw, as if the words were stuck in his throat. Eventually, he said, ‘We went to Greeting. I wanted to buy the house and business from your cousin. That’s when we found out . . .’
He did not go on, but she waited. Faint barking came from below.
Then he burst out, ‘Damn it, that you lied to us. Your father and you both, that Zachary is not your cousin, that he’s your . . .’
‘Your bastard brother,’ his father said. ‘That he is the son of a whore of Cheapside.’ His voice was rising now, getting louder. ‘That up until a few months ago he was making a living stealing and cheating his betters. That there are records of him and his brothers in every gaol in the city.’
‘Is it true, Elspet?’ Hugh pleaded.
‘I –’ She was confused, she sank down in the chair, hand to her forehead, as if to press it there might bring her an answer. ‘Truth be told, I don’t know. I mean, yes, they tell me Zachary is my half-brother. But I knew nothing of this – this other business, indeed nothing of him at all before he came to this house, my father did not tell me – I mean to say . . .’ She struggled to find anything sensible to add.
Old Mr Bradstone cleared his throat and rose to his feet, leaning on his stick, preparing to go. ‘The facts are these. We have just found out that Leviston’s Lace is not the solid business we thought it to be. There are debts. Add to this your personal history . . .’ he wrinkled his nose, ‘and what seemed a suitable match is regrettably no longer so. I am sorry, Mistress Leviston.’ He did not look sorry, just self-righteous. ‘Come, Hugh, we have said what we came to say.’
She reached out a hand, a protestation on her lips.
‘No, do not get up again,’ Hugh said, his face red with heat, ‘Martha can show us out.’
Martha jumped up from her seat by the door and opened it. She seemed small and slight next to the two burly men, and her eyes darted in fear first to one gentleman and then to the other.
The full enormity of what it meant took Elspet’s breath. She leapt from the chair. ‘Wait!’ she shouted. ‘Hugh!’ She put her hand to his shoulder to stay him.
He turned but his eyes avoided hers.
‘Will you leave me now, when I need you the most?’ She heard the choke in her voice. ‘Zachary wants to sell everything I own. And you will let him take my reputation too?’
Hugh made to move away. She clasped his arm. ‘Please, Hugh, think again. I will be a good wife, the best you could wish for – I am skilled in household accounts and with the needle . . .’ She knew she was gabbling, clutching at straws. She was humiliating herself but could not prevent the words spilling out.
He shook his head. ‘I am sorry, I would not have—’
‘Hugh.’ His father summoned him briskly. Hugh shook his head wordlessly and strode to the door where it was held open for him.
Elspet cried, ‘I beg you, I am not my brother. I am honest and hardworking and . . .’ but her voice trailed away. She had caught sight of his father’s face which regarded her with contempt as though she were the lowest worm of the earth.
In haste Hugh ducked away and out of the door. She saw two hats pass the window. A moment later hoofbeats rang out, followed by the rattle of wheels as their carriage pulled away. She stood in the darkness of the hall, unable to move into the brighter light of the chamber.
‘Martha,’ she whispered, ‘leave me.’
Martha’s shoes clacked away downstairs. Elspet leaned her back against the front door to keep the world out, and the hall fell silent.
Whatever would she do? The house would be sold from under her feet. There was nowhere else to go, not even a husband and house in Yorkshire.
‘Oh mistress.’ It was Martha. She had crept back. The fearful look on her maid’s face reflected her own. It was a disaster.
‘Oh Martha,’ she cried, and fell sobbing on her shoulder. Martha patted her on the back, but Elspet had felt her stiffen, as though something in their relationship had already changed.
Part Two
All things which are similar and therefore connected, are drawn to each other’s power.
Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa,
De Occulta Philosophia
Chapter 18
August 1608, a year earlier
The Royal Court of Felipe III, El Escorial, Madrid
‘So what would you suggest?’ The young King’s voice was irritable; he found the older man’s ponderous manner irksome.
‘That we should enable all Moriscos to be educated as your father promised. After all, they are citizens of Spain.’
‘It has been tried. It achieves nothing, to compel them to undertake instruction, and well you know it. Quiroba is a more astute inquisitor-general than his predecessor. He has proved what we already knew – they pay us lip-service in church, but beneath their nods and smiles lie hearts of treachery. And no soo
ner have they left our churches, than they band together privately to carry out their heathen customs.’
The King picked up his glass of port and downed it before putting it on the highly polished walnut table, which was set like an island in the vast library. Immediately the glass was removed by one of the courtiers and a fresh glass was clinked down.
Fr Fernandez, the Jesuit, who was small and old, was standing by the table sweating slightly. He had dreaded this interview. When the King asked for advice he did not really want advice, at least not advice that conflicted with his own ideas. And here, looked down on by the painted frescoes of the gods of rhetoric, dialectic and grammar, he felt even more inadequate in his grey homespun.
Despite the support of English Jesuits at court, he feared his opinion was a lost cause but, nevertheless, he had to try. So what if it was the last thing he did? He had already had seventy-two years of good life.
He wiped his forehead and smoothed out a sheaf of unrolled parchments before the King. ‘Here are the documents showing the education programme for the Morisco seminaries of Seville, of Madrid, of—’
The King interrupted. ‘My father said that he ordered a census of the Moriscos to be taken. Has that been done?’ He scooped up one of the documents with a well-manicured hand and scanned it briefly before casting it back on to the table.
‘Your father was . . . well-intentioned, but I’m afraid he did not appreciate the difficulties,’ replied Fr Fernandez. ‘It is too awkward an undertaking. It will provoke bad feeling if we single them out for anything, let alone to be counted. Anyway, the Church simply does not have the manpower; it would be too time-consuming for those in ecclesiastical office.’ He picked up the scroll and held it out to the King. ‘Why not take a look at these reports: we have had a modicum of success with the re-education measures and—’
‘But we need to know how many we are dealing with.’ The King paced the floor, his gold-leafed boot heels tapping on the marble tiles. ‘How can the Duke of Lerma plan how many mercenaries will be required for their transportation if I don’t know the numbers of Moriscos I am dealing with?’
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