‘I was looking for Beatrice,’ he mumbled, his eyes avoiding hers.
Before Meg had a chance to speak, he passed her and hurried away down the corridor. She frowned. Surely he knew Beatrice had gone out walking?
‘I didn’t expect to find Richard here,’ she said putting the bowl down beside Sarah.
‘He wanted Beatrice.’
Meg noticed a flush on Sarah’s cheeks and let the remark pass. Whatever was between Sarah and Richard, it would be wrong to distress her by prying. ‘Alice has made this posset for you and you must drink every drop,’ she said. ‘If you don’t, she’ll scold me.’
‘Then I’ll try,’ Sarah smiled. ‘Everyone is so good to me and I’m such a nuisance.’
‘Nonsense. Now shall I help you to sit up more so you can drink comfortably?’
‘Thank you.’
Meg put her arm around Sarah’s thin shoulders, tilted her forward and rearranged the cushions at her back. She feels as fragile as a bird, Meg thought sadly. If only her appetite was better, she might have more strength to fight what ails her.
A fit of coughing seized Sarah and took some time to subside.
Meg’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m sorry I was so clumsy.’
Gasping for breath, Sarah shook her head. ‘You’re not to blame. This stupid cough starts so easily.’
Meg fetched a footstool and sat down. She spread the napkin out in Sarah’s lap and handed her the bowl. Sarah took a sip and blinked. ‘Alice makes posset very strong.’
‘She never does anything by halves,’ Meg chuckled.
‘That’s true.’
Cautiously, Sarah took another sip. ‘Tell me what you’ve done today.’
‘I went with Beatrice to the church. It’s a lovely old place, far nicer than the one at King’s Barton.’ As she recounted the conversation with Beatrice, Meg saw Sarah’s expression fill with sadness at the mention of the quarrels between Beatrice and Richard’s parents. Meg broke off. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to remind you.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Sarah sighed, ‘the memory is often with me.’ A pulse throbbed at her temple. ‘If I could go back, there are many things I’d do differently. Richard says I ought not to. . .’ She stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, nothing. Go on, please.’
The news about Andrew brought a smile to Sarah’s worn face. ‘It’s a great chance for him and I’m sure he’ll welcome it,’ she said, but then her expression clouded.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Agnes is still so young, though. You will look after her, won’t you, Meg?’
‘Of course I will, but you’ll be here to see her grow up. We’ll find her a kind husband, she’ll have a family and you will have grandchildren to dote on.’
Sarah’s brown eyes regarded her steadily. ‘Dearest Meg, I think we both know that will never be.’
A lump rose in Meg’s throat. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘I have to face it, and as long as the children are safe, I’m not afraid.’
On her way to the kitchens with the empty bowl, Meg turned Sarah’s words over in her mind. If there was something between her and Richard, it seemed strange she should contemplate death with such equanimity.
Alice sat sewing by the kitchen fire. ‘It’s better than naught, I suppose,’ she grunted, ‘but a bit of posset won’t put flesh on her bones. She hardly ate a mouthful this morning, or yesterday for that matter. Not even that lovely cut of beef John brought up from the farm or Cook’s preserved plums tempted her, poor lady.’
She snapped off her thread and shook out the smock she had been mending. ‘If I’ve told Agnes once,’ she tutted, ‘I’ve told her a hundred times she’s not to climb trees and tear her clothes. She’ll be a grown woman before we know it and then where will she be?’
*
On a fine Sunday in March, as a blustery wind swept rags of cloud across the azure sky, a small party set out from Lacey Hall to attend church at King’s Barton.
Meg and Beatrice travelled in Beatrice’s carriage while Richard rode alongside. The last traces of snow had melted from the ruts in the road and mud squelched under the wheels and the horses’ hooves. On the trees the acid-green knuckles of budding leaves softened the sharp lines of the branches and birds darted in and out of the undergrowth.
‘Alice promised to keep an eye on Sarah,’ Beatrice said. ‘With the roads as slow as this, I doubt we shall be back until late afternoon.’ She looked out at the sky. ‘I think the weather will hold but Alice says we shall have a storm later.’ She smiled. ‘She says her big toe aches and of course that is always a sure sign.’
The church at King’s Barton was much larger than the one at King’s Lacey. As the carriage reached the village, they heard the bells ringing and saw people hurrying along the road. By the time they went in, many of the pews were already full. A few people nodded to Beatrice but there was no warmth in their greetings. As always, Meg wondered why their neighbours were so cool towards the Laceys, but in spite of their friendship, it was not a question she liked to ask Beatrice.
Settled in a pew halfway down the nave, she looked around her. Candle smoke darkened the walls but in places rectangles of paler stone showed where devotional pictures had been removed. There were no statues in the niches and at the tops of the arches and columns, forlorn stumps of stone carvings were a reminder of what had been hacked away. Meg wondered what they had represented and whether the ghosts of long-dead masons still bewailed the destruction of their painstaking handiwork. Was God really better served by it? A sea of bowed heads offered no answer to her question.
The parson fussed about at the plain, wooden lectern, marking places in his bible. With a sigh, Meg hoped his sermon would not be as dull as it had been last month. He had a reedy voice she found very irritating. The impious thought made her feel guilty and she sank to her knees to pray. As she always did, she prayed for Sarah’s return to health.
When she sat back in her seat, Richard had come in from making arrangements for the horses and the carriage. He leant towards Beatrice, whispering agitatedly in her ear. She looked startled, but hard as Meg tried to hear what they were saying, the noise of the congregation rising for the first hymn drowned the words.
Richard knelt to pray. The knuckles of his clasped hands were the colour of bone.
‘What is it?’ she asked Beatrice in an undertone.
‘Queen Mary has been executed. Richard heard someone talking about it in the churchyard.’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘I’ll have to tell you more after the service.’
When the service came to its end, Richard stood up abruptly. Beatrice caught his sleeve as he left the pew but he didn’t seem to notice her.
‘The execution was carried out a month ago,’ she muttered as she and Meg followed him out of the church. ‘With the roads so bad, the news has taken this long to reach us. Richard says Mary’s kinsmen in France will not allow such villainy to go unpunished, neither will Philip of Spain.’ She craned her neck to see where Richard had gone. ‘I hope he will be careful on the way home,’ she said anxiously. ‘He’s so angry I’m afraid he’ll ride too fast, and the road is still very treacherous.’
A draught of cold air met them at the doors. Wrapping her cloak around her, Meg stepped outside. Knots of people stood on the path and between the gravestones. From the animated way they were conversing, she was sure they were talking about the execution. She was about to answer Beatrice when suddenly she froze. Over by a large tomb surrounded by iron railings, two men stood talking. Her head swam. Surely she must be mistaken? But a moment later, she knew she was not. The younger man’s face was unmistakeable. He was Ralph Fiddler.
*
The groom was already leading Richard’s bay mare to the stables when they reached home. Beatrice was in too much of a hurry to go to her brother to notice Meg’s agitation. In her room, Meg fumbled with the pins securing her green velvet hat. She let out a cry of pain and exasperation as one of them jabbed her finge
r and drew blood.
‘Whatever’s the matter, madam?’ Bess’s blue eyes widened.
‘He was at church. I saw him.’
‘Who, madam?’
‘Ralph Fiddler.’
The colour drained from Bess’s cheeks and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh madam, do you think he saw you too?’
‘I don’t know, Bess.’
‘Have you told Mistress Beatrice?’
‘No, she has enough to worry about.’
‘Is he looking for us, do you think?’
Perplexed, Meg shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Bess, it might be some other reason entirely that brings him here, but until I am sure he’s gone I shall never feel safe.’
‘But how shall we know, madam?’
‘John often sends Andrew to Barton on errands. Perhaps he can find something out. But he must be careful who he talks to. I don’t want anyone suspecting we are asking questions about Ralph Fiddler.’
There was the sound of running feet and the door flew open. Agnes rushed in and buried her face in Meg’s skirts. ‘Uncle Richard is cross with me,’ she sobbed, ‘but I promise I haven’t been naughty.’
Meg lifted Agnes’s chin and looked at her tearful face. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s nothing she has done.’ With a rustle of silk, Beatrice appeared in the room. Gently, she disentangled Agnes from Meg’s skirt. ‘Bess, please take Agnes downstairs. Agnes, I’m sure Bess will play a game of spillikins with you, won’t you, Bess?’
Bess nodded and, taking Agnes by the hand, led her away.
‘Richard didn’t mean to be harsh,’ Beatrice said when the door closed behind them. ‘He’s usually perfectly willing to listen to Agnes’s chatter when he sits with us. It’s just that this news has distressed him so much.’
At any other time, Meg would have responded with sympathy but her mind was too full of her own fears to do so. The image of Ralph’s salacious eyes and sly smile would not leave her. She had thought she would never see him again. She felt as if an iron band had tightened around her chest.
‘Meg?’
She jumped as Beatrice put a hand on her arm.
‘You’re not listening to me, are you? Is something wrong? Are you unwell?’
With an effort, Meg recovered her composure. ‘It’s just a headache. If you don’t mind, I’d like to lie down for a while.’
‘Of course. Shall I bring you something to ease it?’
Meg shook her head. ‘Thank you but you mustn’t trouble yourself on my account. An hour or two’s rest is all I need. I’m sorry about Richard,’ she added hastily. ‘You go back to him. There’s no need to worry about me.’
After Beatrice had gone, Meg drew a deep breath to steady her racing heart. She went to the window and opened the casement to let in some fresh air. One part of her wished she had confided in Beatrice, as her advice was always so wise, but the other part was glad she had not. This was a problem she must resolve on her own. It would be wrong to involve the Laceys in her troubles. They had already done enough.
Over in the west, dark clouds obscured the horizon. Alice was right about a storm. In the hearth, a half-consumed log burnt through and fell with a hiss. She shuddered. Ralph Fiddler here in King’s Barton; if only she knew what he was after.
14
April came and drifts of daffodils brightened the countryside. The trees were in full leaf and the hedgerows frothed with hawthorn blossom.
Alice turned the house upside down with spring cleaning. Rugs and tapestries were hauled outdoors for the dust to be beaten out of them; the floors and wainscoting were polished with lavender-scented beeswax. Window leads were scoured to a shine with sharp sand and the panes polished until they sparkled.
To Meg’s relief, Ralph seemed to have left the area. Perhaps there was no more need to hide. She began to wonder whether she should resume her search for Tom, but she did not know where to begin and Sarah and the rest of her companions were safe and happy at Lacey Hall. It was unfair to expect them to come with her and the prospect of going alone was a daunting one. Sometimes she even wished she did not still feel so much for Tom. It would make her life so much simpler. But it was no use pretending. She still loved him.
As spring went on, the weather cooled. Mist often covered the gardens and fields when the household awoke in the mornings. The early promise of a fine summer receded but on the rare warm days, Beatrice and Meg encouraged Sarah to sit in the garden while they tended the herb beds and sowed the seeds Beatrice had collected and stored in the autumn. At first, it had surprised Meg that Beatrice did such lowly work, but she had long ago realised that Lacey Hall did not have as many servants as might be expected in such a large house. Her mother had had almost as many with a much smaller establishment.
In any case, Meg was glad to be out of doors. She enjoyed the simple, repetitive tasks gardening demanded and she relished the sweetness of the air and the earthy tang of the rich, red loam. She was proud of her improved knowledge too. She might never match Beatrice’s skill, but she understood the properties of many herbs now. Agrimony staunched and healed wounds; thyme treated sore throats. Lemon balm cured melancholy and indigestion.
‘Here is a new test for you,’ Beatrice smiled, pointing to a burgeoning plant with fleshy green leaves. She broke off a piece to show its hollow stem. ‘What’s this?’
Meg’s forehead puckered. ‘Lovage?’
‘Excellent, we shall make a proper housewife of you yet. How should it be used?’
‘Lyte’s Herbal says it will cure colic, fever and other pestilential disorders.’ She giggled. ‘The ancients used it to induce lust.’
‘Meg! I’m sure Lyte’s doesn’t mention that.’
‘No, I found it in Pliny’s Natural History in Richard’s library.’
Beatrice frowned. ‘And he would chide me for letting you choose what to read unsupervised.’
‘If Pliny is the greatest danger I encounter in life, Beatrice, I shall be a lucky woman.’
‘That’s true, but all the same, don’t let Richard find out.’
She raked down the last ridge of soil to cover the sweet basil seed she had sown, straightened up and sighed. ‘I hope these seeds germinate properly. The weather is not as I’d like it to be for the time of year, the earth is colder than usual. It needs to warm if we are to have a good crop.’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘Enough for today, we must take Sarah indoors before the sun goes behind the house.’
The lilac trusses of a venerable wisteria cascaded over the arbour at the end of the herb garden. Beneath it, Sarah dozed in her chair, with a warm, woollen coverlet over her knees. At their approach, she opened her eyes. ‘The scent is like honey,’ she smiled. ‘It makes me so drowsy, I could stay here forever.’
‘And catch cold when the sun goes down and the dew falls,’ Meg scolded. She helped Sarah to her feet.
The path back to the house lay through the rose garden where the neatly pruned stems swelled with bronzy leaves and plump buds that gave off a sweet, spicy scent.
Beatrice brushed one with a fingertip. ‘When the time comes to gather the flowers, I’ll show you how to distil rosewater from them, Meg.’
‘I was famous for my rosewater,’ Sarah said wistfully. ‘No matter how much I made, it was never enough for everyone who wanted it.’
‘Then you must show me how to improve my skill,’ Beatrice squeezed her hand.
Sarah sighed. ‘I doubt there’s anything I could teach you, Beatrice. In truth, I fear my days of housewifery are behind me.’
*
‘Cook’s chill is worse,’ Alice grumbled. ‘I warned her it would be if she didn’t rub her chest with bergamot oil, but she never heeds my advice. I shall have to prepare dinner myself if there’s to be any today.’
‘Oh dear,’ Beatrice sighed, ‘I would help you but I promised this afternoon to Richard.’
‘Then let me,’ Meg said.
‘That’s very kind,’ Beatrice smiled.
In
the scullery, Meg cleaned her hands with water from the pump and put on the apron Alice found for her. A shoulder of mutton was to be the main dish and when it was seasoned and roasting in the oven, Alice took out a deep pie dish from one of the cupboards.
‘Those cupboards aren’t as tidy as they might be,’ she sniffed, going over to inspect the large, wooden chopping block on the table in the middle of the room. ‘This will do. Fetch me the two chickens hanging in the pantry then I’ll need onions and sage.’
Meg returned to find Alice kneading pastry. When she had scooped it into a ball, she laid a clean cloth over it and wiped her floury hands on her apron.
‘Put it to rest there by the oven, then you can slice the onions, but mind, I want them very fine.’
With a private smile, Meg decided that being Alice’s kitchen maid might prove a considerable test of a person’s patience.
While Alice cut up the chickens, Meg peeled the onions and sliced them into thin, translucent rounds. Alice glanced up from her work and gave her a grudging nod of approval. ‘You’ve done that before,’ she remarked. ‘Did your mother show you how?’
Perhaps it was better not to say that although Mother had exacted high standards from others, she never did any of the work herself.
‘She was very particular,’ Meg smiled.
‘That’s a good thing in a housewife, when I had a husband and a home of my own nothing left my kitchen until it was just so.’
‘I didn’t know you were married, Alice.’
‘It was long ago, but I can still remember what it’s like to live with a man who treats you cruelly.’ She gave Meg a shrewd glance and Meg felt uneasy.
‘My husband was a brute,’ Alice went on, ‘and I was a fool to be taken in, but then after he left me, for a while I was afraid I’d be worse off than ever. I thank the good Lord every day that Master Godfrey and Mistress Caterina took me in to look after Master Richard and Mistress Beatrice when they were babies. I’ve been here ever since.’
She fetched the pastry from beside the oven, slapped it down on the floured table and attacked it with her rolling pin. ‘I don’t want you thinking I don’t understand why you ran away from your husband,’ she said.
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