by Emma Carroll
‘Indeed, and I suspect you’re one of the most honest people in this household.’
I glanced nervously at Susannah, who probably wouldn’t agree. I wasn’t sure I would, either, standing here in my boy’s clothes.
‘Yes, master – I mean, Ellis,’ I stuttered.
‘Good. I find the qualities of friend and servant often overlap.’
I wasn’t an expert in either, so bit my lip.
Ellis, meanwhile, was rummaging deep in the basket, cushions, rope, jugglers’ balls all spilling out on to the sand. When he found what he was looking for, he held it up for me to see. It was silky, brightly coloured. The sort of costume an acrobat would wear.
‘We come here as often as possible so I can practise,’ he explained. ‘One day, when I’m good enough, I’m going to be a performer in a theatre troupe, or an entertainer, a player. That, my friend, is my lifelong dream.’
‘And he’s brilliant,’ Susannah chipped in. ‘Now you’ve shared your secret, Ellis, you might as well show Fortune a few tricks.’
In a blink, Master Ellis had swapped his doublet for the acrobat’s vest. Gesturing for me to stand back, he stood, feet apart, then slowly widened his legs until he dropped to the ground. It looked painful, seeing them split apart like that.
Ellis laughed at me. ‘Look at your face!’
But I’d never seen anyone do such a thing before. Next, he was up on his hands, curling his legs right over his head so his toes almost touched his nose. It was incredible. He kept stretching till his feet hit the sand again. Then he crawled like a crab over to Susannah, who was grinning from ear to ear. So was Bea.
A quick backflip. A gracious bow. And Master Ellis stood before me, pink in the face and sparkling.
I was, for once, speechless.
‘No one else knows what I do,’ Master Ellis warned me. ‘My father would disown me if he ever found out.’
‘I bet he would!’ I agreed, for this Ellis – the acrobat, the performer – was worlds away from the son his father was planning a future for. I couldn’t help imagining the look on Mr Spicer’s face if he ever did find out.
‘Can you keep the secret?’ Master Ellis asked. ‘You look as if you might.’
Instantly, I was wary. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ll be honest.’ He glanced at his sister. ‘Susannah is convinced you’re not a proper boy.’
I tried to laugh. ‘Bet she says that to all the skinny ones.’
‘Just the ones who are girls.’
‘Oh.’
I dug at the sand with my foot. There was no point denying what they’d already guessed, though I felt bad for not confessing earlier, and worried they’d have to tell Mr Spicer. So it was a relief when all Ellis did was hold out his hand for me to shake.
‘Seems we’ve both got things to hide,’ he said. ‘Come, can you keep a secret?’
‘Can you?’ I asked in reply.
Susannah, baby on hip, crossed the sand to join us.
‘Look at us all,’ she said, rather fiercely. ‘None of us is exactly normal – Ellis, in your bright clothes; you, Fortune, a girl who passes for a boy; and me, well, I don’t feel like a proper young lady, even though I try.’
She didn’t seem like one, either, now I dared to study her properly. Certainly, she wasn’t easy to warm to like her brother: if he was sunshine, she was dark, heavy skies. Yet maybe all that temper and scowling was her disguise, and beneath her prim face and expensive grey frock was a different Susannah Spicer.
I didn’t know. And she certainly gave very little away. But after our conversation on the beach, I watched out for that girl, so that when she did appear, I’d be ready.
13
With each passing day, I began to understand the rhythm of life at Berrow Hall a little more. I worked hard and I didn’t ask questions: I didn’t need to when some of the answers were so obvious.
Everyone was a little afraid of Mr Spicer. Our sneaking down to the beach each day, our clothes, our whispers, continued apace, though we all knew we’d be in monstrous trouble if we were ever found out. So I was glad of the news, a few weeks after my arrival, that Mr Spicer would be absent from home for a day or two. The grisly Dr Blood was accompanying him.
‘Is it sugar business that takes him away?’ I asked Mistress Bagwell. We were sitting in the servants’ hall, slurping pottage, as we did to break our fast every morning.
‘Oh no,’ she said, in that dramatic way of hers that warned me I was in for a story. ‘They’ve gone to Ilchester to observe a witch trial. To see how it’s done, like.’
I stopped eating.
‘Someone here in Somerset is being tried as a witch?’
‘Yes, poor woman.’ Mistress Bagwell sighed. ‘All she did was make better cheese than her rivals, and now they’re trying her as an example to others.’
I felt suddenly ill. Mother had always sworn that Old Margaret would come home again – I mean, why wouldn’t she, when she’d done nothing wrong? The good women of Fair Maidens Lane were midwives, pig breeders, milkmaids, fisherwomen. There wasn’t a single witch amongst them. Never had been. Never would be. All I could hope was that somehow Master Sharpe – my gangly brother – was enough to keep everyone else above suspicion.
*
Had it not been for Susannah and Bea, I would have spent the day fretting over Old Margaret, and imagining worse fates for Abigail and Mother. As it was, Bea wouldn’t stop crying. Mistress Bagwell brought lavender water and cold cloths, and when that didn’t work, tried sugar mixed with milk. But Bea only twisted her head away and cried more.
All day Susannah walked the baby up and down the stairs, round the house, through the gardens. I hoped the sounds of the sea on the beach below might soothe her, like they’d done to me as a child. But out in the salty air she screamed even harder.
When Susannah grew tired, Master Ellis took over. He sang to Bea, rocked her, kissed her. By nightfall, everyone was exasperated.
‘I promised Mama I’d look after her,’ Susannah wailed. ‘I gave her my word.’
Master Ellis – fretful, teary – took himself off, claiming he had a balancing act to practise. It was then Susannah broke down too.
‘There must be something else we could try,’ she sobbed.
As I’ve said, I was rather afeared of babies. Growing up with midwives as neighbours, I was all too aware of the dangers of childbed and how frail new life could be. Many of the graves in our churchyard were the little ones that didn’t take the sexton long to dig. At the thought of such a fate happening to Bea, I felt desperate.
‘I know what your father thinks of herbs, but we really should try some chamomile,’ I said to Susannah.
She was still wary of me, still kept that mistress–servant distance, even though her brother and I were as easy together as old friends. And I could see her weighing it up, thinking over my suggestion, when we’d wasted enough time not treating Bea properly.
‘I’m sorry about what happened to your mother, truly,’ I pressed her. ‘But herbs aren’t witchcraft, they’re medicine. We’ve got to at least try – nothing else has worked.’
She wiped her eyes. Nodded as if to gather herself.
‘Mistress Bagwell keeps a bunch of dried flowers in the cellar. Hidden,’ she added, seeing my look, ‘behind the apple basket.’
*
The chamomile was easy to find. What was harder was rubbing a tincture of it into Bea’s gums. I had more luck than Susannah, which surprised us both, and it wasn’t too long before the baby began to look calmer. She even managed a dribbly smile.
‘I think she likes you, Fortune,’ Susannah observed.
‘Ah, I’m no dab hand with babies, miss,’ I replied, getting to my feet in case she’d any plans to give me the child.
‘Well, they say babies can tell if a person’s decent, and I think Bea’s decided on you.’
The funny little creature was staring at me, all right, her eyes as dark as nutmegs.
‘Thank you, Fortune,’ Susannah said quietly. ‘For helping with Bea, and for Ellis. He’s happier than I’ve seen him since, well, since Mother died.’
I flapped my hand, in truth a bit embarrassed. ‘Oh! Enough, now!’
I went off to the kitchens for bread, cold meat and a jug of small beer because Susannah was looking exhausted. By the time I returned, Bea was fast asleep. Susannah, feet up on a stool, was sewing.
I put down the tray of food, glad as anything. ‘Would you look at her now, peaceful at last!’
But Susannah seemed oddly captivated by the square of crewel work that lay in her lap. It struck me as a funny name for something so swirly and pretty.
‘Come,’ I said gently, ‘why not put your sewing aside and have a proper rest? I can turn your bed down and make up the fire—’
‘Fortune?’ Susannah said, as if she’d not heard me. ‘Look at this. What do you see?’
She was holding up the piece of crewel work. I wasn’t sure I was the best person to ask, knowing as little as I did about needlework. All I could see was a pale blue curve that looked like a plant stem, and some shapes in red that might’ve been flowers.
‘It’s … umm … very pretty,’ I said. ‘Is it a cover for a pillow?’ which clearly wasn’t the right thing to say.
‘It’s not nice,’ Susannah insisted. ‘It’s peculiar. Can’t you see the crying baby?’
I looked again. As she traced the blue curves with her finger, I began to see something that might’ve been a person’s head, or a tree or … I rubbed my eyes. No, I couldn’t see a baby.
‘Sorry. It just looks like a pattern to me,’ I admitted. ‘I mean it’s very beautiful and you’re proper good at it, but—’
Susannah slumped back in her seat with a groan.
‘What is it?’ I was worried now. ‘What’ve I said?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not you. It’s me, overthinking things again. It’s probably a silly coincidence. It’s just that sometimes, when I sew …’ She hesitated, ‘… the needle has a life of its own. It won’t follow the pattern I want to work with.’
‘Sounds like my needle every time I try to sew,’ I remarked.
‘I’m being serious,’ she said sharply.
‘Sorry.’ But I couldn’t quite grasp what she was trying to tell me. ‘So you mean your needle sews by itself?’
‘Yes, it does.’ Susannah nodded. ‘And then afterwards the picture it’s sewn seems to actually come true. It’s happened twice now – once at the hiring fair when Father fell on the ice, and now Bea with her teeth.’
It came back to me that day in the carriage, when she’d left her needlework lying on the seat, and snatched it away to hide it up her sleeve. But really, anyone might’ve slipped over on the frozen river – and I’m sure plenty did. As for babies, well, they cried a lot, didn’t they? Neither incident was that unusual, all told.
She must’ve read my face: putting the crewel work aside, she reached for the bread I’d brought her and started eating.
‘You’re right,’ she said, between mouthfuls. ‘Forget what I’ve told you. It’s childish nonsense.’
‘Very good, miss,’ I agreed.
*
Except I didn’t forget, much as I tried to. And the next day, when Mr Spicer returned to Berrow Hall, he brought a darkness with him, which made me feel the weight of Susannah’s secret all the more. The mood in the house had changed. A taint seemed to cling to Mr Spicer – I was certain it came from the witch trial, and in the days that followed, his poor children bore the brunt of it. Ellis was made to watch cock fights and shoot pistols, Susannah to practise needlework until her fingertips bled, and poor Bea was passed between the house staff like an extremely chatty parcel. It wasn’t right at all, and I was in a turmoil for wanting to say so. But as I’d not yet been paid my first quarter’s wages, it was wiser to keep quiet, though I wasn’t certain how much longer I could manage to.
14
Christmastide passed, and before we knew it, Twelfth Night was upon us. Back home we celebrated with wassailing, which involved pouring cider around the apple trees to bless the harvest. The preparations at Berrow Hall were on another scale entirely. Hams were boiled, whole sheep roasted, pastry rolled and cut into shapes. Sweetmeats, marchpane, dates, quails’ eggs – everything was arranged on huge blue and white platters. The kitchen was as busy as a bees’ hive. Throughout the rest of the house we beat carpets, scrubbed flagstones, decorated mantelpieces and beams with holly from the garden. And suddenly I was everyone’s servant, not just Ellis’s, with a chorus of ‘take this’, ‘carry that’ ringing in my ears.
When the evening of the Twelfth Night party came, I was as excited as anyone. In the Great Hall’s fireplace, the yule log blazed merrily, bringing with it all the good luck we could wish for this coming year. Lute music drifted down from the minstrels’ gallery. Surveying it all, I could almost believe the master of this beautiful house was a decent man, who didn’t bully his children or attend witch trials. He was a man sad for his dead wife, and tonight would mark a new beginning.
Meanwhile, in the adjoining room a group of brightly dressed actors were putting the finishing touches to their costumes: once supper was served there was to be a mummers’ play. Ellis couldn’t wait. All day he’d been pacing the Great Hall, moving furniture, asking for more candles, then insisting they be taken away again. Everything had to be just right for the performers, though Susannah and I were the only ones who knew why it meant so much to him.
The guests started arriving at sundown. Eager to see who was coming, I stole a moment with Ellis and Bea, who were watching from a window seat at the front of the house. Since I’d been at Berrow Hall the only person to come calling was Dr Blood, who, sure enough, was amongst the first to arrive.
‘Might’ve known he’d be here,’ Ellis muttered irritably.
‘I suppose your father invited him,’ I reminded him.
‘But he’s not a friend.’
‘Business partner, then.’
The driveway was thick with traffic. Horses, carriages, a sedan chair all inched towards the house in a parade of lanterns and extravagant party costumes. Bea was fascinated. Hands pressed against the glass, she insisted on standing unsteadily in her brother’s lap. It was all she ever wanted to do these days – stand up, wriggle about, chat away. And if anyone ignored her, she’d squeal a high-pitched ‘Eeeeeeeeeh!’ so usually it was worth letting her have her way, just to save your ears.
‘You know my father and Blood are loyal to the king, don’t you?’ Ellis said, still on the same subject.
I did: Mistress Bagwell had said as much.
‘My father is trying to find a shipper to take a special cargo across the Atlantic Ocean.’ Ellis’s jaw tensed, just like his father’s. ‘And he’s after the king’s assistance – his navy, to be precise.’
‘What, ships with guns on board?’
Ellis nodded. He didn’t often speak about sugar trading, so it must have been bothering him. ‘His usual shipper won’t work with him – and you can’t just hire anyone. They’ve got to be trustworthy.’
‘Because of thieves?’
‘Or pirates. Or Spaniards. Or even the shippers and traders themselves.’
It hadn’t occurred to me that the seafaring life would be as full of rogues as a Bridgwater back street.
‘I won’t have any part of that world,’ he said firmly, and a bit desperately. ‘If Father keeps trying to force my hand I’ll run away. I mean it. I’m sick of how he treats me.’
I’d never heard him speak like this before, and I confess I was worried.
‘Just don’t do anything hasty,’ I replied.
I was still mulling over what he’d said when Mistress Bagwell came to find me.
‘Quickly now, lad,’ she said, bustling me to my feet. ‘There’s work to do.’
*
Once the guests had all arrived, the feasting began in earnest. Bowls of punch, spiced biscuits, ca
pons, hams, white bread, custards and possets, a vast dish of fruit filled the table, the centrepiece of which was a cone-shaped, brownish lump. Though it didn’t look appetising, that lump was a sugar loaf. Mistress Bagwell cut me a sliver when no one was looking, and the taste was like gold dust on my tongue.
It was no big surprise that Mr Spicer was a charming host. As he moved amongst his guests crowing about his daughter’s needlework talents and his son’s head for business, both Susannah and Ellis played their parts beautifully.
‘Isn’t there another daughter?’ asked a woman wearing huge ruby earrings.
There was, though she was being cared for in the kitchen, and Mistress Bagwell was under strict instructions to keep her there.
When the Twelfth cake was cut open, it was Ellis and Susannah who found the beans hidden inside. The discovery made them King and Queen of Misrule, and was met with whoops and cheers because, for the rest of the night, they were in charge. Not the adults, not the men. Whatever these two children said, we had to do: it was exactly the type of rule-breaking I approved of.
For the first time all evening, Ellis was smiling. Immediately, he ordered that Bea be brought from the kitchen, and she was soon in his arms, her face smeared with cake.
‘Ladies, gentlemen, I declare Susannah the King of Misrule!’ Ellis cried. ‘She’ll be a far superior leader to me. I’m very happy to be her queen!’
It was meant in high spirits, and was taken so. People laughed. Glasses were raised. The mood was joyous – deafeningly so. Mr Spicer was easy to spot, being the only person looking decidedly stony-faced.
Susannah, embarrassed by the attention thrust on her, asked for quiet.
‘My one request this evening is that you all have fun. Enjoy each other’s company, accept each other. Tonight, we don’t care for rules.’
A huge cheer went up.
‘If you find my misrule isn’t to your taste, then I suggest you take yourself off to the garden where it cannot offend you.’ Though she didn’t look at her father, the message was needle-sharp.
