I ushered Father into the privacy of the closet and stood firm.
‘Close up the house! It is my livelihood. To what end, Father?’
‘Your security, Lizzy. You are young and pretty - when you smile - and despite what has happened here, I can make the business grow again, for us both. You will make another marriage soon, and the profits can provide your dowry.’ I saw his expansive chest puff out and the linen of his shirt stretch. ‘Are you practising your lute?’ Tempted to burst into laughter at the absurdity of playing my lute at such a time or giving in to him, I shook my head. I took possession of Thomas Cromwell’s silver and turned the keys in the five locks that opened my money coffer, hoping that Father, who was hovering by the window of my closet, would not notice how empty it was.
The coffer was a deceptively simple oak box which opened to show complicated mechanisms in the lid and sections for differing coins and promissory notes. Father was always distracted by its workings. The keys were secreted safely in a hidden part of my untidy chamber cupboard, in a little niche at the back that I had covered with a close fitting panel. I placed Master Cromwell’s silver inside the chest and repressed a sigh because once summer ended I would need to replace it. I must purchase more cloth and feed my servants.
I drew breath and sighed. I stiffened my hands, which lingered on the chest. Eventually, I realised, I would have to ask Father for help and it may as well be now. He hovered by my shoulder, studying the box. Banging closed the lid and fiddling around locking the coffer gave myself another few moments’ grace before I confessed to poverty. Taking a deep breath and exhaling it again, I looked up. His forehead had creased into a deep line above his nose between his eyes. They were filled with concern. Father had noticed my scarcity of coin.
‘You have nothing, Lizzy. How do you eat?’
I folded my arms.
‘We live on the produce from the garden - onions and cabbages, mostly, since the smoke ruined much of the herb garden and the salad. Cook is inventive. With economies, I can survive if the Company grants a loan on my behalf.’ I paused, watching his forehead creased into furrows as he waited for me to finish. ‘But, well … I wonder, can you lend me enough to replace part of my ruined cloth? I must do so this very month. Otherwise I’ll have to borrow from Zackary the Jew, or from the Company if they will lend - or both, if I must.’
There was silence. I broke it.
‘I don’t want the monastery trade to go elsewhere.’
He turned away from me and for a moment looked out at the garden. ‘The Company only lends on rare occasions,’ he said to the lead-framed window panes. ‘The Jews, like Zackary, do lend but there will be a high interest. Sometimes Italians from Tuscany will lend, though they are accused of usury.’
‘Then cover it for me, for my sake,’ I said with reluctance. I did not remind him that I had married Tom Williams for his sake, though I thought it.
He turned to face me. ‘It seems to me, Lizzy, that your husband was not doing as well as I thought, was he?’
‘No, but not as badly as you now think either. Father, I simply need cloth to sell.’
He nodded. ‘You should have said when I came before. Yes, I’ll purchase the cloth for you at the Bartholomew Fair this month, but only on condition that if things worsen here you come home. You will not borrow from Zackary Bassett or the Italians.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Mercy ought to come and stay for a few weeks.’ What he meant was she would come to persuade me to give up my cloth business, though he did not admit it. This would be the deal.
I shook my head. ‘Father, I don’t know that Mother would like it here at the moment; it still smells of smoke, and I shall be busy. You see, I must reassure the Abbots of St Nicholas and St Martins and the Prior of Austin Friars that we will have good woollen cloth for their novices by October. The others can wait.’
‘Smith can do all that for you.’ He rapped my desk impatiently with his knuckles. ‘Mercy will visit within a week and that is that.’ He leaned over and laid a hand on my shoulder. I stood in front of the coffer as if I were guarding it, though I had so little to guard. ‘You have had a difficult time. Mercy will help you set this house in order. That is my condition, Lizzy. I buy you cloth for the monasteries and Mercy spends a week here improving your mood.’
I knew that ‘improving my mood’ meant that my mother would persuade me to return home. I was determined that she would not. I smiled to myself for the first time in days. A new plan was forming in my head. I would be rich if it worked. If I sold the new stuffs that Thomas Cromwell had liked, light fabrics such as bombazines and perpetuanas, rather than sticking to broadcloths that Father favoured, I could redeem my fortunes. Aloud I said, ‘Yes, Father. Now come and have some of my rabbit stew. Cook’s son caught the rabbit in the woods beyond Moorgate.’
‘Poaching, no good will come of that.’ He glared at me as if I were the poacher.
Even so, Father sat down with me to dinner. I ushered him into the hall just as the mid-day Angelus bells were chiming throughout the City, and closer to at St Alban’s Church where my Tom lay sleeping under his cover of earth and wilted rosemary.
‘Your mother will visit, and maybe if you won’t listen to me you will take heed of her advice,’ he said, wiping goblets of gravy from his chin with a napkin.
‘Well, then, Father, I had better have a chamber prepared for her. I look forward to it.’ I dabbed my mouth with my own napkin and managed to smile.
Chapter Five
MOTHER ARRIVED A WEEK later with her travelling bag and her maid. Within a day she charmed my household with kindness and compliments. She bothered to enquire after the servants’ well-being, to generously bestow special ‘you are the only one who matters’ smiles and, in turn, the servants went out of their way to win her approval.
‘Susannah, I wonder, would you bring me my stitching, the new block work collar from my chamber. Thank you, my child.’ And when Susannah returned to the parlour. ‘That was most thoughtful.’ Susannah adored Mother and I could see that Mother’s own maid, Lettie, was all pins and scissors, possessive of her mistress, and jealous of those smiles towards other maids.
My mother helped me pack greengages and gooseberries into stone jars, to pickle onions, and to gather and dry parsley, sage and thyme, all that was left of my garden now. The lingering smoky smell vanished because the kitchen now smelled sweetly of herbs, vinegar and pickling spices.
I used two of Thomas Cromwell’s shillings to purchase fish and meat. That week, we dined well and over dinner Mother’s chatter gradually drew me into a happier state of mind. For a time she never spoke of the business, though every evening, for a short time, as she embroidered an altar cloth for a chantry, I poured over ledgers trying to make sense of why we had made so little profit since Tom’s father died. My husband had given money generously to the Church, made poor investments and had purchased new clothing he had not needed.
That week, I stopped worrying and life temporarily took on a semblance of normality. Later in the evenings I put the ledgers aside, and played my lute while Mother sang ballads in her soft enchanting voice. She entertained Meg and myself as she related stories of a cousin who was one of Queen Catherine’s clerks.
‘You know he has dined on swan,’ she said. ‘And on an orange-flavoured syllabub.’
‘Oranges from Spain,’ I said.
‘Of course, and on figs too. He says they taste of nectar.’
‘I cannot even imagine them.’
I relaxed as we gossiped, and longed to taste this orange syllabub. After all, Father was purchasing the monastery cloth for me at the Bartholomew Cloth Fair, and he had promised a small loan to tide me over. Maybe one day, I, too, could afford to purchase oranges from Spain.
My immediate concern dwelt on how well Smith was doing on his errands to the three big monasteries. I had dispatched him to finalise our long-established cloth deals, and I used a half angel to purchase sweetmeats and jellies as gifts for abbots and priors
with whom we had previously done business. While I bottled gooseberries alongside Mother and Meg, trying to imagine the taste of oranges and figs, my mind was busy counting up my profit after I returned Father’s share. I thought of ledgers that showed profit and not loss, of a coffer not empty but filled with more shillings and half angels.
Meg and Mother sorted out the linen cupboards and chests that week, directing the maids to reorganise everything. I had considered clearing out Tom’s neatly arranged clothing cupboard but until Mother came to stay, I had not been able to bring myself to attend to the task. The blackbird, which I was sure had followed me from the churchyard, had taken up residence in the garden where he dodged about, hopping up onto bushes whenever I passed, watching me even as I glanced out of the chamber window. Just like that annoying creature, Tom’s gowns and tunics taunted me from his clothing pole, so that every time I contemplated the task, I had slammed closet doors closed again.
I liked to see order, though my own closet was never orderly. So, when, at dinner, Mother suggested sorting out clothing ready for me to emerge from my dark mourning, I suggested we instead clear out the clothing that had once belonged to Tom. ‘You can take his long gowns away. They are of good worsted and trimmed, Mother.’
‘Let us see, Elizabeth.’ She laid down her knife and smiled at me.
‘Father might like a hat.’
‘Perhaps he would. Shall we look today?’
‘Why not.’ I would be glad to see those expensive clothes gone, to eradicate Tom’s extravagance and cleanse my house of his memory. I did not expect it to be as upsetting a task as it turned out.
That afternoon, we climbed the narrow stairway to my late husband’s chamber, hefting a great wicker basket up with us, ready to pack away the garments. I thumped the basket down on the rushes. After a brief hesitation, I opened up the large cupboard that closeted Tom Williams’ clothing and shoes.
I turned back to my mother. ‘I really should have done this before you came. You have had to make room on that crowded rail for your own gowns and cloak.’
‘Lettie did that, not me. Lizzy, remember that everything has its own time. It won’t be easy to dispose of these goods. You will feel sad.’ She smiled her lovely smile, and in that moment I was grateful for her help.
The chamber was a pleasant room with good furnishings - a light oak-wood cupboard, a beech-wood chest, a wash table on which stood a pretty china bowl, a high, curtained bed with a comfortable flock mattress, fine linen sheets lace-edged and covered with a counterpane on which a strange mythical half-man, half-deer was embroidered in bright silks. The armed chair where Mother chose to sit was a valuable oak chair, its arms engraved with a pattern of carved acanthus leaves. Tom had purchased it a year ago when the business was doing well. Mother leaned against its cushioned velvet back, watching me as I lifted shirts and hose from the chest and holding them up, examined them for moth holes. I pulled out hats that were baggy on top and trimmed with squirrel and held them up, too. Mother admired them all.
‘Tom had exceptionally good taste, I’ll say that,’ she said as she reached out for a hat with a green velvet crown and a long curling feather that was dyed blue. She stroked the feather, set it aside and reached over to me for a second hat that was trimmed with rabbit fur. ‘He did not spare the cost on clothing.’ She looked approvingly at the black over-gown I was wearing. ‘He allowed you fine cloth for your gowns also.’
‘He was a merchant,’ I said quickly, for Tom’s kindness and generosity had not compensated for the unnatural marriage we had shared, and since I had discovered that he had emptied our coffer to purchase new clothes, I was angry. ‘Tom cared about his clothing, when he was not playing at being a yeoman in a red doublet.’ I said evenly enough, and waved my hand at the hat. ‘Keep the one with the fur trimming for Father. They both have large heads. Pity that Tom Williams was thin and Father is well…broad, otherwise the doublets would fit,’ I added unkindly.
‘Fat, you mean.’ Mother tut-tutted across the crown of the rabbit-trimmed hat. ‘Your father is too fond of sweet wines, rich red meats and sweetmeats. They will be his undoing, I fear.’ She smiled indulgently as if Father were present.
‘I hope his love of sweet things will not be his undoing. He should spend a week here in Wood Street. That would trim him down; we eat plenty of soups and cabbage stews here,’ I said before I realised that I had relaxed my guard. She would realise that my generous table of this week was an exception, and I had no intention of giving her further excuse to press for my return to our Putney manor house. I fussed about the clothing pole and busied myself pulling out a linen shirt with buttons. It was old, worn into thin patches, past mending. I set it aside for the poor, thinking that I should remove the bone buttons first since they could be re-used.
‘You do not have to live in such a way, nor do you have to hide your difficulties, Lizzy. Come home,’ Mother leaned towards me clasping the furred hat, her face intense with concern. ‘You always loved the manor house. I …’
I spun around and faced her, my face hot, ‘I cannot, so do not ask me to. Examine your reasoning, Mother. Maybe, in truth, you want me to keep you company now that Joan is living with Alice and Harry. I enjoy your company, Mother, but I must remain here.’
She sighed. ‘It is not just about companionship. I wish you would reconsider, Lizzy. Joan is a trial and I am glad she is living in Surrey. You cannot stay here on your own.’
She placed the hat on the counterpane and sank down beside it. I held onto the shirt. ‘I am not alone, as you well know, and I have responsibility towards my household here.’
‘One day, you will have another husband. You are not safe here on your own with only servants and that man, Smith, to guard you. You are tired and you are often melancholy. What if you are attacked again, or the house is fired next time?’
‘I do not expect a further attack.’
‘Your father says that there are merchants who want your trade. He thinks one or even two of them had the fire set and others may be covering it up. He will take your cloth, your apprentices and your journeyman into the warehouse on Cornhill. It is a safe proposition. The profit will be set aside for your marriage.’
I shook my head. ‘Next time, if there is a marriage, it will be one of my own choosing. That is my widow’s right.’
‘It may be your right, but you must allow your father to guide you.’
Stretching up to my full height, which was not all that much, I said, ‘The business is enough for now, for I shall stay in Wood Street and move forwards with my life, not backwards.’ I said it with a catch in my voice for, after all, four years ago I had not wanted to leave the manor in Putney. We were silent for a moment until I added quietly, ‘I am not coming home. This is my home.’
‘If you change your mind, we -’
‘Thank you for your consideration, but I won’t.’
I turned to the cupboard again and dragged out several heavily embroidered robes followed by plainer tunics of brown worsted. After I had made two heaps on the bed of good garments that my mother and the servants could use, I set aside older items of Tom Williams’ linen and clothing into a third pile for the poor. The shirt with the bone buttons I had hesitated over. ‘Mother, would you like the buttons?’ I said determined to lighten the conversation.
Mother took her scissors from her belt purse and, taking the shirt from me, began to cut away the buttons.
I folded the best clothing in the basket for my mother. She could cut the tunics down and refashion them for my brother’s children. Last of all, I lifted Tom’s yeoman’s uniform from the clothing pole and folded it into a chest, setting small bags of dried fennel into the red doublet and hose before wrapping both in linen. When I lifted his fine leather shoes and smelled the leather again, my tears flowed for him, my sensitivity at his demise so conflicted. I turned away and wiped at my eyes with my sleeve. Shaking my head, I bent down and lifted the shoes I had dropped by the bedpost, and tossed them into
the basket. I scooped up the clothing from the bed and threw the garments on top of the shoes.
I heard Mother cross the chamber, and a heartbeat later, felt her fold me into her arms. ‘There, there, sweeting,’ she said to me soothingly as if I were still the vulnerable small girl who had too often cut herself in rough play with a fuller’s son. ‘Cry. It is best that you weep.’
I leaned into her embrace and wept, not, I think, because of what had been between Tom Williams and me, but for what could have been and what should have been and that which had never been.
‘Holy Mother of God, Blessed Lady,’ I repeated over and over, sobbing into my mother’s breast. ‘May his soul rest in peace.’
My mother let me go and fetched a cloth from the side table on which stood a washing bowl, dipped it in the cool water and gently, oh so softly, gave it into my hands.
She lowered her voice. ‘I think I know why you could not love Tom Williams. He was a kind man, though I thought,’ her voice was a whisper; ‘I cannot speak it, for it is a great and terrible sin.’
I shook my head. ‘Do not ever speak of it, Mother.’ The rest, unspoken, continued to hang between us. Mother crossed herself and shook her head, but I knew she was grateful that I had kept silent all the years of my marriage, lest the truth caused us all disgrace. I could not speak of it for it made me think of Hell’s fork-tailed devils stabbing at him with hot prongs, his flesh burning and stinking.
I wiped away my tears at length and glanced down at the piles of clothing. ‘I shall send Meg up later to take away those old clothes. Smith will take them with him when he visits St Anselm’s Priory. The rest are yours.’
‘You could sell them, you know,’ Mother said.
‘I could, but I think you will make them over for my nephews. Father will be pleased with the hats, especially the one with the fur trim, and, well, do as you wish with the shoes.’
The Woman in the Shadows: Tudor England through the eyes of an influential woman Page 4
