by June Francis
She still had much to learn about the adventurous Nicholas Hurst, but from the moment Jane’s brother’s widow, Rebecca, had opened the pages of the printed book concerning his travels and read aloud of his adventures to her and the girls, Jane hadn’t been able to get him out of her dreams. Not that she had ever revealed how she felt to anyone. The fact that Rebecca had known the Hurst brothers since she was a young girl and had visited their shipyard at Greenwich meant that she was able to paint vivid word pictures of Nicholas’s appearance to her listeners. Such descriptions did not appear in his book so were especially appreciated by Jane.
The day she had actually come face-to-face with him was one she would never forget. Especially when his behaviour in defending her son lived up to what she had expected of him. Then she had gone into labour, having received the news that her husband was unconscious after a fall.
By the saints, what an experience that had been, what with the famed explorer seeing her in such a state! And yet Nicholas had achieved all that she had asked of him and the three of them had survived the ordeal of childbirth. How had he felt deep inside with her being another man’s wife? How much had Simon’s sudden death reflected on that memory for him?
One thing was for certain: she had determined he would play a part in Simon’s life if it were in her power to bring it about. Hence the reason for asking Nicholas to be his godfather.
A sigh escaped her. How she wished her appearance had been different that day. He could have only compared her unfavourably with the wanton Louise who had been his mistress. Distracted now by the thought of the Flemish woman, she wondered if he had found her. What of the child? Had both been delivered safely from the ordeal of giving birth? If so, had he decided to wed the woman whom he’d felt so passionately about? Her heart ached at the thought.
She squared her shoulders and told herself to believe in Nicholas’s promise. He had said he would come. If all was well with him, then God grant that he would be here soon. She would welcome him warmly despite there being still eight months of the mourning period to endure.
Of necessity she’d had to sell the house her husband had left her in Oxford and rent a smaller one here on the outskirts of Witney in order to be able to support herself and the children. She had dared to consider entering the cloth trade, despite it being very much the precinct of men. For that she had been offered assistance by Rebecca’s father, Anthony Mortimer.
Just like Nicholas, he was a much-travelled man. Indeed, they had not known of his existence until his sudden appearance a few months ago. He had contacts abroad that he was willing to share with her and she had appreciated the help he had given her so far, but she sensed that was causing him to believe he had more influence and control of her situation than she desired. She suspected that he thought if he were to find her a weaver than she would look upon himself with much favour. Several times he had spoken of feeling lonely and she guessed that he might be looking for a wife to share the house he was having rebuilt at Draymore Manor.
She felt a tug on her sleeve which roused her from her reverie.
‘Mama, what if Master Hurst has not changed his mind and intends keeping his promise, but has lost his way in the snow?’ said Elizabeth, gazing up at her.
‘That is a foolish thing to say,’ cried Margaret. ‘Master Hurst is a great explorer! He has travelled to the Americas and to the Indies and been all over Europe. He will not get lost.’
Jane’s elder son, James, looked up from the wooden-jointed soldier he was playing with and said in a voice that had not so long ago lost its babyish lisp, ‘But the snow will cover the highway. His horse might wander off or lose its footing. It’ll be dark soon.’ Eagerly he added, ‘Perhaps he needs a light to show him the way!’
‘A light in the window like a beacon leading him here,’ said Elizabeth excitedly, gazing at her stepmother. ‘Shall I fetch the oil lamp, Mama?’
Jane nodded, glad to be active, which was strange considering how tired she was. She’d risen early that day to go over her accounts and later she had interviewed a man she had hoped would be willing to weave the thread she spun, but without any luck. She found this deeply discouraging and wondered if the time she spent teaching her stepdaughters to spin was just a waste. A depressing thought considering she had been so delighted when she had discovered that she had not lost the skill taught to her by her own mother.
‘I deem it would be wiser if we set the lamp in the window upstairs,’ said Jane. ‘Due to the dip in the street, its light might not be seen if we were to have it down here.’
So a lamp was duly set in the window that jutted out over the ground floor where the family hoped and prayed for Nicholas Hurst’s arrival. Jane placed the cooking pot on its chains above the fire and added more onion, beans and turnip to the broth she was making and waited in frustrated silence.
* * *
As Nicholas rode on through the falling snow, his head throbbed and his shoulder was aflame with pain. He had to reach Jane—only she could ensure Matilda’s survival now. He fumbled inside a pouch at his waist for a kerchief and managed to drag it out and ease it beneath his doublet where the blood still oozed from the wound in his shoulder. Pray God it would stop bleeding soon.
So far he could hear no sound of pursuit, but that did not say he was not being followed. He could make no sense of what had occurred and how Berthe and the other woman had been involved! His mind strayed to that difficult time back in Bruges six weeks ago. After the death of Matilda’s mother in childbirth, Nicholas had let it be known that he desperately needed a wet nurse prepared to travel to England and stay there for a year. The woman his Flemish kin had found him had refused his more-than-generous offer to accompany him to England. He had been so relieved when Berthe had come forwards that he had not bothered with references. She had appeared sensible and trustworthy and in desperate need of help herself.
Her story was that her husband had been killed in a skirmish involving the French and the troops of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V. The information she had been able to provide about the movements of the Emperor’s army had been extremely useful. She had been left almost penniless with her own infant to support after her man’s death and soon after her baby son had died. Fortunately she was still producing milk in abundance to be able to give succour to his daughter and she had seemed more than willing to accompany him to the house of Jane Caldwell in England.
Jane! He had to reach Jane.
Was that a light ahead? He pushed back the brim of his hat in the hope of being able to see more clearly and his spirits rose, only to be dashed as the light vanished. He groaned, wondering if he was hallucinating. A wail from the babe that curled next to his heart recalled him to the present and was incentive enough for him to spur the horse on in the hope that he had not imagined that light and that Witney and Jane lay ahead just over the next dip in the white landscape. It would be terrible, indeed, for them to have survived the journey from Flanders, only for them both to perish in this snowy wilderness.
* * *
Jane could bear the waiting no longer. The snow had stopped falling and she had an urge to take a walk along the High Street and see if she could see any sign of their expected guest. She would not go far as it would be unwise to leave the children alone for long, despite Margaret being a sensible girl who knew to keep the younger ones away from the fire and the cooking pot.
She went out in the gloaming and had just walked past the Butter Cross when she saw a rider coming towards her. His hat and clothing were blanketed in snow and the reins lay slack in his grasp. His shoulders drooped and his head had fallen so that his chin appeared to have sunk onto his chest. He drew level with her and would have gone past if she had not realised with a leap of her heart that it was Nicholas; swiftly she seized the horse’s bridle and brought it to a halt.
‘Master Hurst!’ she cried. ‘What has happened to you?’
Nicholas forced his eyes opened and gazed down at the woman dressed in black, who st
ood looking up at him from concerned brown eyes, and he felt such relief. ‘Jane Caldwell?’ he said, the words slurred. ‘It is you, isn’t it, Jane?’ He reached down a hand and placed it on her shoulder.
‘Indeed, it is,’ she replied, her heart seeming to turn over in her breast when she noticed that his right cheekbone was bruised and swollen. ‘You are hurt. Is it that you came off your horse?’
He shook his head, only to wince. ‘No, I was attacked. The villains would have killed me, but I managed to escape.’
She gasped in horror. ‘I thought your enemies had been dealt with!’
Vaguely he realised that she was referring to those who had attempted to kill him in Oxford last year in an act of revenge. Feeling near to collapse, he muttered something in way of reply.
She realised that now was not the time to discuss the matter. ‘My house is not far away. I will lead you there.’
He smiled wearily. ‘If it had not been for the light, I might have gone astray,’ he said unevenly.
Jane wondered if he meant the one that she had placed in the window upstairs and she rejoiced. ‘A guiding light was James’s idea.’
‘He’s an intelligent lad,’ said Nicholas, forcing the words out.
She nodded, his words pleasing her so much. It was essential that he liked the children and they him. Suddenly she became aware of a bulge beneath his riding coat and that it was moving. At the same time she heard a sound reminiscent of a baby grizzling. ‘What is that noise?’
‘Noise?’ He blinked at her. ‘I have been hearing it for some time and it distresses me. You will help me, Jane?’
‘Of course,’ she replied, puzzled, thinking that possibly he had a small dog hidden beneath his coat. ‘Although I would have thought you’d know there is no need for you to ask such a question.’
‘Perhaps not, but it is good manners to do so. The baby...’ he said.
‘Simon,’ she said, reminding him of her son’s name, concerned that he might have forgotten it.
‘No, it is a girl,’ he muttered.
She looked at him askance. ‘You have a baby girl concealed beneath your coat? How did you come by her?’ Even as she spoke a thought occurred to her and her heart sank.
‘It is a long story and it is much too cold out here to tell it now,’ he gasped, placing an arm beneath the bulge. He gritted his teeth as pain shot through his shoulder with the movement and he felt blood well up from the shoulder wound.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, her eyes widening with concern.
‘A blade pierced my shoulder. A mere scratch!’ he lied. ‘It is more important that Matilda is fed. I thought with you having your son to nurture that you could give succour to her as well.’
Matilda! Jane’s disturbed brown eyes met his hazel ones. ‘I fear that I must disappoint you. I cannot do what you ask!’
Nicholas looked at her in shocked dismay. ‘Never did I think to hear you speak so, Jane Caldwell!’
‘Do not take on so,’ she cried, hastily seizing the bridle again and hopping to one side so as to avoid the horse’s hooves. Her voice dropped. ‘It brings a flush to my cheeks to speak of such to you, but I have no choice but to refuse your request because I—I...’ She floundered, embarrassed to speak of such a personal matter to a man, yet it was this man who had assisted at the birth of her son. She added in a rushed whisper, ‘My milk has dried up and I cannot feed even Simon. No doubt it is due to the sudden death of my husband and all the extra work involved in selling the house. It has been such a worry thinking about how I am to provide for the children, what with trying to find a weaver willing to work with me—a task which appears to have proved beyond even Master Mortimer’s abilities so far.’ She took a breath, realising she was gabbling to cover her nervousness. ‘Now let us not discuss this matter further right now. We must get you and the child indoors without further ado!’
Mortified and deeply concerned by the mention of Master Mortimer, Nicholas could only stare at her as he swayed in the saddle, clutching his shoulder. ‘I beg your pardon. I have no experience of such matters. Does young Simon still live?’
‘Aye, I have hired the service of a wet nurse who has ample milk,’ she said. ‘I do not doubt Anna will be willing to provide for Ma-Matilda, as well, for a small fee.’
He could not conceal his relief. ‘You will arrange it?’
‘Of course, I would not have any child starve.’ She wasted no more time in talk, but swept before him like the galleon he had likened her to when first he saw her, leaving him to follow on his horse.
He swore inwardly, deeply regretting the faux pas he had made, and, summoning his remaining strength, told the horse to walk on. He had no idea if there was stabling at this present house of hers. If not, then he would have to find the nearest inn and stable the beast there.
As soon as Nicholas saw the house, which was at the end of a row of terraced dwellings constructed of the local stone, he realised that the knocks he had received had done more than make him dizzy, they had caused him to momentarily forget that Jane’s husband had left his financial affairs in a mess. Hence her reason for moving to Witney to a much smaller house than the one he had visited in Oxford. There was no way she would have been able to afford the luxury of her own stabling even if she owned a horse.
She suggested that he ride his mount to the back of the house where there was a garden and leave the horse there for now. ‘I will send for Matt, the son of the wet nurse, and he can stable it for you at the Blue Boar Inn.’
As he was feeling extremely weary, Nicholas agreed. He dismounted with difficulty, glad that there was no one there to see him narrowly avoid falling flat on his face. He stumbled to his feet and struggled with the straps of the saddlebags, pain stabbing through his shoulder and down his side and arm like a skewer. At last he managed to complete his task and, not having the strength to throw the saddlebags over his uninjured shoulder, carried them dangling from his left hand towards the rear door of the house.
Fortunately it was unlocked and he pressed down on the latch and entered the building. He found himself in a darkened room and almost fell over the loom that was there, narrowly avoiding bumping into a spinning wheel and several baskets on the floor. Before he could climb the two steps that led to an inner door, it was flung wide from the other side and Jane stood there, holding a candlestick that provided a circle of warm light.
‘This way,’ she said.
He thanked her and entered the main chamber of the house. Instantly the two girls and the boy who were waiting there rushed over to him. He dropped the saddlebags.
‘You’ve come, you’ve come,’ cried Elizabeth, hugging as far as she could reach of his waist whilst James’s small arms wrapped around one of his legs and Margaret stood close by, beaming up at him.
He had never expected such an enthusiastic welcome, although he remembered the children being friendly enough at their first meeting last year. He had been told to tell them stories and had done his best. He thought how different this greeting was from that of his elder brother Christopher’s sons and daughter, whom he scarcely knew. They were inclined to be tongue-tied in his company, as if overcome by his presence. He felt tears prick his eyes. If it had not been for Jane ordering the children to allow Master Hurst to warm himself by the fire, he might have been completely unmanned.
She set a chair close to the fire and bade him be seated. On unsteady legs he crossed the floor, hesitating by the cradle to gaze down at the child sleeping there.
‘He has grown,’ he murmured.
‘What did you expect? He is more than four months old now,’ said Jane, her face softening.
Without lifting his head, he said, ‘I will never forget seeing him born. It was a happening completely outside my experience.’
‘That was obvious,’ she said unsteadily.
He looked up, caught her eye and she blushed.
They continued to stare at each other, both remembering the forced intimacy of Simon’s birth
at a time when they were only newly acquainted.
He recalled her cursing him and his rushing to carry out her commands, fearing she might die before the midwife arrived. She had called him a lackwit when he had not reacted fast enough, for Simon’s birth had been imminent. When the boy’s head had appeared, the ground had appeared to rock beneath Nicholas’s feet and he had thought he would swoon. Fortunately her unexpectedly calm voice had recalled him to his responsibility towards both mother and child. He had once seen a calf born and although that experience was definitely different he had managed to react in a way that met Jane’s approval.
As for Jane, she was thinking that it was probably best that they had never met before the day of Simon’s birth, otherwise she would never have had the nerve to order him around the way she had done. Hearsay was not the same as actually meeting someone face-to-face. Of course, she had known more about Nicholas than he did of her, yet setting eyes on a real live hero was a very different matter from one who lived in the pages of a book and somehow seemed larger than life.
Chapter Two
Jane dropped her gaze and Nicholas forced himself to cross the remaining distance to the fire, wondering afresh what madness had caused him to unburden himself that day of Simon’s birth and speak of Louise. He should have kept his mouth shut because it was obvious to him that Jane might find it difficult to accept Louise’s daughter in the circumstances. Why had he not considered that as a possibility? Was it because Jane had so impressed him with that maternal side of her nature? He could only pray that his daughter would be able to win her heart as those children in her charge had won his with the warmth of their welcome.
He sank thankfully into a chair. The children followed and stationed themselves with a girl on either side of him whilst James leaned against his knee and fired a question at him.
Jane listened to them talking as she removed her gloves and coat with trembling hands and hung the latter on a peg. She took a deep breath to calm herself, wondering how badly he was wounded and thinking of the baby concealed beneath his doublet. Had that woman rejected her daughter or was Louise dead?
