by Mary Hooper
Satisfied, Merryl slid off her mother’s lap and resumed the flower picture.
‘When will a tutor arrive, Madam?’ I asked.
‘Very soon, I hope, for Mistress Allen’s sister knows an able and knowledgeable man who is looking for work as a tutor, and he has been sent for. He’ll take lodgings somewhere in Mortlake or Sheen and come to give the girls lessons every day.’
‘Will he be a nice tutor, Mama?’ Beth said. ‘One who is kind to us and doesn’t smack our hands?’
‘He’s not there to be nice to you,’ said their mother with mock severity, ‘but to teach you all the accomplishments that the Walsingham children have.’
Beth and Merryl pulled faces at this and began giggling, and in a moment Mistress Allen came in from her own chamber. She wore a plain brown dress, cut very straight and severe with no decoration nor ruff, and her hair was pulled back so tightly from her face that it gave her the appearance of a china-woman. The only adornment she had – or at least ever wore – was a crucifix on a long beaded chain which looked very like a rosary. Crucifixes, of course, were deemed Popish by the church and very much frowned on, so I supposed that she hid it on Sundays when we went to church.
She shook her head at me. No doubt she thought I was not being firm enough with the girls. ‘The children must not tire Mistress Dee more than necessary,’ she said, so I asked the girls to pick up the buttons and replace them in their tin box, and we all left the room.
At the top of the stairs, on the wall, was a sheet of metal, hard-polished so that you could see your face in it, and Mistress Dee had told me that this was there to check her appearance before going downstairs and facing the world. I, too, couldn’t help but glance in it whenever I left Milady and, doing so then, saw myself much as usual: my face fair and freckled, my eyes and hair brown – the latter a tangled mess, owing to the attentions of the monkey. At home, Ma had always kept my hair neat, trimming it with the shears we used to cut leather for the gloves we made, but since arriving at the magician’s house it hadn’t seen shears or scissors, nor had much time devoted to it at all.
I gave myself a small smile in the mirror (my teeth, I thought, were my best feature, for Ma had got us all into the habit of rubbing our teeth morn and night with a piece of cloth) and went downstairs. I paused on the bottom stair, by the window, but didn’t hear any strange noise. It was much on my mind, however. Also on my mind was the thought of how Mistress Midge was going to react to the news that the household was about to gain another member, the children’s tutor, who would, even though he wasn’t staying in the house, need food, drink and attention.
‘She must be taken into the park while still under the influence of the sleeping draught, and care must be taken that she is left somewhere she can be swiftly found . . .’ Dr Dee stopped speaking as I entered the library that evening. ‘Yes?’ he asked sharply.
‘Mistress Midge presents her compliments and asks if you would like some cold meats for your supper,’ I said, taking care to give no indication of having overheard a word.
‘Yes, yes, we would,’ he said impatiently.
‘Meat and some good white bread,’ said Mr Kelly.
‘Plenty of it,’ added Dr Dee. ‘With warmed malmsey wine and thick soup.’
I glanced at him in surprise, for he was as thin as a walking stick and I’d hardly seen him eat a hearty meal since I’d been there. I curtseyed and withdrew, and as I did so heard Mr Kelly say, ‘We must plan the letter.’
I went back to the kitchen. Something untoward was going on, I was sure of it. Something was being hatched; some plan for making money.
I prepared the supper tray, but the children wanted to take it in to their father, so I had no further opportunity that evening to enter the library. While they were absent I asked Mistress Midge if she’d heard any strange sounds while she was about the house, but her reply was typical.
‘I hear nothing and I see nothing that I shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘And neither should you.’
‘I just wondered about a certain noise and what it could be . . .’
‘We are not paid to wonder,’ she said stoutly. ‘Nor to hear noises that we shouldn’t. Just remember that Master is master and ‘tis his house to do what he likes in.’
Mr Kelly stayed very late that night, until after I was a bed, and though I heard Dr Dee bid him goodnight and the house fall silent, I was not brave enough to venture out of my room and search for whatever might have caused the strange noise.
Chapter Three
The bellman called just past five o’clock and I woke to an icy cold bedchamber, for Jack Frost had visited in the night and the windows were so patterned with crystals that I couldn’t see outside. On rising, my breath blew clouds of mist into the cold room, and my washing water and cloth were frozen so hard that I’m sorry to admit that I didn’t even wipe over my face before I put on my flannelette under-smock and warmest gown and tied a shawl tightly around my shoulders. I then hurried along the corridor into the kitchen, for this room was warmer than my chamber, the fire having stayed in here overnight. I put some water on to heat and was set to brave the cold and go to the well in the courtyard to refill the water buckets, when, to my surprise – for the family were never usually around until eight or later – I heard Dr Dee’s handbell ring in the library.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I went along to see what he wanted. He was still in his loose morning gown and wearing a nightcap, his long beard unkempt and feathery, but was seated in businesslike fashion at his writing table with parchment, ink and quill.
I curtseyed and wished him good morning, remarking that he was about the house very early.
‘Yes, and ‘tis fearsome cold,’ he said. ‘Make up the fire in here, will you. And I’ll have some hot water. Is there plenty of coal?’
‘There is, Sir, and I’ll do the fire directly,’ I said, thinking that the water in the well was like to be frozen hard.
He suddenly fixed his piercing eyes on me. ‘Can you read?’ he asked abruptly.
I thought for a moment he was asking me in an interested way, as if he might have me instructed in the art of reading, and was so taken aback that I didn’t reply.
‘I said, can you read?’ he repeated brusquely, and hearing his tone I knew, of course, that he was in no way concerned about any lack of education. Knew, too, that he wouldn’t be interested in hearing that I was learning to read – and write – through playing with his children.
I shook my head. ‘I cannot, Sir,’ I answered meekly, for I thought he might test me and find me lacking. Also, I had early learned in this household that I should play the simple drab whenever possible.
‘As I surmised,’ was all he replied, and he stared once more at the parchment in front of him. ‘Make the fire up, then,’ he said, waving me off.
Braving the courtyard, I filled up the coal scuttles, but – as I’d thought – the water in the well was hard frozen, so that when I lowered the bucket it crashed on to ice. I set a kettle of water boiling ready to pour on to this and melt it, and in the meantime took a scuttle of coal into the library, swept the hearth of both fireplaces and, with tinderbox, straw and bellows, managed to relight the fires.
Dr Dee didn’t speak more to me, but seemed completely occupied with the document he was working on. He was obviously thinking a great deal more than he was writing, for though he was muttering constantly to himself, only occasionally did I hear the noise of his quill scratching across the parchment, and sand being shaken over the ink to dry it.
Mistress Midge was soon about the place, and the morning proceeded in the usual way: with me taking a little hot broth and some bread for my breakfast and then carrying hot washing water to all the rooms, making up fires and getting my two little charges ready for the day. After this I sand-scoured some cooking pots left from the previous day, prepared a rosehip tonic for Mistress Dee (who had not slept well because of the cold), made hot spiced wine to the specifications demanded by Mr Kelly and prepare
d a heap of vegetables for the dinner-time broth. Later, I was sitting with the girls, telling a tale of Jack Frost rising early in the morning to paint the windows, and showing them how to warm a coin on the fire and put it on the frost-rimed glass to make a peep-hole, when we heard the handbell in the library. Mistress Midge went, and came back to report that I had to deliver a letter, which I should go immediately and collect from Dr Dee.
I was not pleased to have to go out in such harsh weather, but consoled myself with the thought that I might see Isabelle. Putting on my warm cloak and gloves, and tying a wool scarf of Mistress Midge’s around my head for extra warmth, I went to the library to collect it.
‘She’s unable to read, of course?’ I heard Mr Kelly say in a low voice as I entered.
‘Whenever did a housemaid read?’ Dr Dee muttered. He handed me a sheet of parchment, folded and sealed with the Dee family crest of a scarab beetle, and I realised that this was the letter he’d been writing earlier.
‘Where am I to take it, Sir?’ I asked.
‘Do you know the house of William Mucklow, the sugar refiner?’ he said, and I nodded, for his dwelling and refinery stood beside the river on the far side of Mortlake about a mile away, and there was a sugar loaf depicted on a metal sign outside.
‘The letter is for him. It’s to go into his hands, mind, and no other’s.’
‘Take it straight there, for it’s important. No gossiping or dilly-dallying,’ said Mr Kelly, and I gave him a simple smile, so that he might think he’d caught me out on the very thing I’d been planning to do.
At the back door I put on some canvas overshoes, but indeed would have been better off wearing my ordinary leather-soled ones, as these flapped in an ungainly manner and were difficult to walk in, having smooth soles which caused me to slip over on the ice more than once. To spite Mr Kelly (although I own it was childish of me, and he would not know) I did not go straight there, but went by way of the market in the high street in the hope of seeing Isabelle.
Mortlake was a goodly sized village with many thriving market gardens and, in season, fine asparagus beds. It also had excellent river connections to London, so that many traders sent their goods downriver in order to supply the wealthy London market. This meant, therefore, that women from a little further out in the country came to Mortlake and Barnes to sell their goods and supply what was lacking: salad stuffs, baskets of eggs, herbs, cheeses, bunches of flowers from their gardens, whatever vegetables were in season and an abundance of apples, pears, plums and cherries in their due times. There was a good baker’s and a butcher’s shop in the high street, and also market stalls selling pots and pans, hand-carved wooden trenchers, lengths of material and pieces of lace. Most days there were peddlers, too, with ribbands and bows, and optimistic quack doctors selling bottles of linctus and various salves mixed on the spot. The smaller traders, like Isabelle, sold from baskets and usually had different things every day, according to how the weather was or to what they’d managed to buy cheaply. It was a very noisy place that morning, for everyone was crying up their goods in order to attract more sales and a pack of barking dogs were racing round and round two milch cows, who’d set up a constant, frightened mooing.
Isabelle was at her usual place but instead of trading her normal goods – penny mackerel, garlic, cabbage or candles – she’d set up a brazier of coals and was roasting chestnuts on the fire. These were selling well, for many a housewife was stopping to buy a twist of paper containing half a dozen hot chestnuts, and Isabelle could scarce get them on the fire quickly enough.
‘Here,’ she said, throwing two chestnuts towards me. ‘Slip these inside your gloves to warm your hands.’
I did so, and though they burned at first, this soon faded to a pleasant warmth.
‘Are you here to buy foodstuffs?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘I have an errand to run. Dr Dee has asked me to deliver a letter to William Mucklow the sugar refiner.’ I then added in a lower tone, ‘And I believe it must be something dishonest, for I have twice been asked if I can read.’
‘And you didn’t tell them?’
‘Of course not!’
This caused Isabelle to laugh. ‘Many an employer has been caught out by underestimating his servant,’ she said. ‘Is the letter sealed with wax?’
I nodded.
‘Then a small cinder from my fire dropped on to the wax would melt it . . .’
I gasped. ‘I dare not!’
She grinned. ‘If you believe them to be doing something dishonest, why not?’
‘But what if they found out?’
‘How would they do that?’ She shrugged. She shovelled another pan of chestnuts on to the brazier, setting up a spitting and a crackling. ‘Have you heard the ghost again?’
‘’Tis not a ghost,’ I said. I knew that if I allowed myself to believe that, then I’d never have another peaceful night in the house. ‘For certain ‘tis not, for I’ve heard that same noise in the daytime.’
‘’Tis, then, a special ghost with remarkable powers,’ Isabelle said, teasing me. ‘But stay – have you heard the latest rumours about the queen?’
I nodded eagerly. ‘She is set to marry a Frenchman and a Catholic and her English suitors are heartbroken!’
‘You know! But did you know that he won her heart with a sack of pearls?’
‘I heard ‘twas a bag,’ I said, laughing. ‘But I must get on. I’ll see you here later in the week.’
I bade her goodbye and walked through the market and down along Mortlake High Street. The chestnuts cooling and no longer warming my hands, I peeled and ate them.
William Mucklow was a Puritan and though I don’t know much about such people – only that they forbade such things as gaming, singing, and dancing round a maypole – the house which adjoined his refinery was tall, plain and forbidding and seemed as if it might belong to such as he. As I approached the front door, wondering if I should deliver my letter there or take it round to the back, two important-looking men came out: physicians, I thought, or legal men. I waited until they went off then climbed the steps up to the door and knocked. There was no reply so I knocked again, several times, and eventually went around to the back of the house.
There were two doors here and one of them stood wide open, which was surprising in such cruel weather. When I tapped on it a maid ran out and hurried off without looking at me, muttering to herself. Bemused, I went in, whereupon another maid appeared, looking distracted. Her dark hair was untidy and her nose red, as if she had a cold or had been crying.
‘I have a letter for your master. For Mr Mucklow,’ I said.
‘Give it to me here, then,’ she said. ‘Though I don’t know when he’ll bother to read it.’
‘I have to give it into his hands,’ I said. ‘I’ve been told so by my master.’
She sighed. ‘Who’s your master?’
‘Dr John Dee,’ I replied.
Her eyes widened. ‘Then I suppose I shall have to let you see Mr Mucklow,’ she said, ‘though I doubt if letters from such as your master are welcomed here.’
‘I think it’s of some importance.’
She tossed her head. ‘Then follow me.’
I hurried to catch up with her as she walked through the kitchen and up a flight of stairs. ‘Is anything wrong here?’ I asked. ‘Is it a bad time?’
‘Aye. It’s very bad and no mistake.’
‘Has there been a bereavement in the family?’
‘No bereavement,’ she said, turning to me, ‘but the master’s daughter has run away – and her maid just dismissed from her post for not watching her well enough.’
I looked at her in surprise. ‘Why did she run away?’
‘She has eloped, they think.’ She showed me into an icy room, where our breath showed in clouds. ‘Miss Charity is a very naughty girl, for it has broken her mother’s heart.’
‘The family have taken it very badly?’
‘I should say. My mistress is prostrate with
weeping. She hasn’t eaten for two days nor slept for two nights, and there are fears for her sanity.’
Saying this, she left me, and I stood and stared at the gloomy tapestries on the walls, trying to make out the scenes – which seemed to be from the Bible – and thinking on what could be contained in the letter.
A few moments later a tall man with long straggly hair, mixed grey and auburn, came into the room and held out his hand for the letter. He wore a black suit in some coarse material and a shirt with a plain white collar which marked him out as a Puritan, but I thought it best to ascertain I was giving the parchment into the right hands.
‘Mr Mucklow?’
He nodded. ‘And you, I understand, are from the house of the magician.’ Without waiting for me to speak he went on, ‘I’d be obliged if you’d tell your master that normally I’d hold no truck with any person of that description, but my household is in a sorry state and my wife has pleaded that I should leave no stone unturned.’ He sighed. ‘You know, of course, that our child is missing?’
‘I heard that news, Sir,’ I said, giving him the letter.
He tore off the seal, then crossed to the window in order to gain more light to read by. I went to the door but, as I made my curtsey to leave, he suddenly said, ‘No. Wait. There may be a reply.’ He scanned the letter. ‘Damn hocus pocus. Scrying-stone! The impudence of the man,’ he said, and dropped it on to the polished table beside him. Then he immediately picked it up and looked at it again, his mouth working as if he was in some inner turmoil.
‘Will there be a reply, Sir?’ I asked.
He clenched his hands into fists. ‘Any that I might make now would be unsuitable for a maid to hear. And yet . . .’ He cursed and strode to the door, where I heard him running up the stairs.
What did the letter contain? Beside myself with curiosity, I took a few timid steps across the room to stand beside the table. Then, my head tilted as if I was looking out of the window and admiring the frost-rimed trees, tried to pick out some of the words. It was in Dr Dee’s flowing script, which was not nearly as easy to read as the plain, rounded characters of the girls, but I could see very clearly the number 20.
