She spoke to William gently, but her motion included Patrick. ‘Would you like to drive into Rye?’ she said. ‘We need supplies for the pantry, and …’
Patrick got to his feet instantly. ‘I’ll harness up the greys, Mistress. Sure it’s a little breath of air you could both be doin’ with. It’ll not take any time at all!’
The jug clattered against the flagstone as William scrambled up. ‘I have nine shillings left from the sovereign Lord O’Neill gave me …’ He quickly put the jug back on the kitchen table, and was shouting his plans for the purchases he would make as he dashed up the back stairs to his room.
Jane looked at the suddenly emptied kitchen, realizing how quickly in these few days the quiet routine of the country had become their own, when a simple trip to buy kitchen supplies could cause such excitement. Anne had spoken of boredom, of monotonous routine, at Blake’s Reach ‒ and had dreaded having to suffer them again. Was she much different from Anne, she wondered. The unpleasant memory of Paul’s prediction thrust itself back into her consciousness.
***
Rye looked almost familiar to her now ‒ the square-towered church on the steep hill, and the Rother curving sluggishly round the cliffs that made the town-site. It was market-day in Rye, and farmers’ carts, with here and there a more elegant vehicle choked the streets leading into the centre of the town. The cries of chicken, geese and duck fattened for markets filled the air, mingling with the thick country accents, and the din that came from the open doors of the ale-houses. Pretty, frightened calves looked with great eyes of non-understanding at the throng. Jane’s carriage moved slowly under the great gate into the Old Town, and Patrick started asking directions to the shop in George Street where Kate had told them the supplies for Blake’s Reach had been bought in Spencer’s time. When they drew up before it, Patrick looked at it in doubt.
‘Don’t seem to be much of an establishment, Miss Jane,’ he said as he opened the carriage door. ‘Should we try somewhere else?’ He jerked his head towards the lower streets, where the market-day crowd was mostly gathered.
‘No ‒ this is the place. We’ll stay here.’
The shopkeeper had already opened the door, and was bowing to her ‒ a stout man, wrapped in a huge snowy apron, which matched the colour of his shirt. Gossip about her arrival had done its work well; he had been expecting a visit from her.
‘Welcome, Miss Howard. I am Samuel Purdy, the proprietor. I hope that we may have the honour of continuing to receive the patronage of Blake’s Reach.’
Jane didn’t quite know what to make of the situation. As Purdy bowed her into the shop with many expressions of pleasure, and his wife bobbed a curtsey, Jane decided that his servility was due to one of two reasons ‒ either that Robert Turnbull had settled Spencer’s account here already, and Samuel Purdy had summed up the impression given by her dress, the carriage and pair, and he was hoping for further and lavish patronage, or ‒ and this seemed more likely to Jane ‒ that the bill was still unpaid, and he wanted settlement. She wished she had questioned Kate about it.
The interior of the shop was dim, but it had the rich, heavy smell of good food. Purdy tempted her with many delicacies she could not afford, and she put them aside briskly ‒ ordering sugar and white flour, honey, raisins, barley, salt, soap and candles. The last two were items Sally had always made herself at The Feathers, but at Blake’s Reach there had been too few servants to make that thrifty practice possible. As she went down her list Samuel Purdy grew disappointed, and his manner showed it. He brightened a trifle when she added at the end some small quantities of the spices she needed for cooking, and which were so expensive.
Then she gathered up her reticule, and prepared to leave. Purdy hurried to open the door. ‘Doubtless you’re hardly settled, Miss Howard, and we shall see you more often when you know what you lack at Blake’s Reach.’
‘Doubtless. Good afternoon, Mr. Purdy.’
Patrick was loading the purchases into wicker baskets to stow on the back of the carriage; Jane motioned to William that they would walk down George Street, and leave Patrick to his task. William had barely fallen into place beside her, when he suddenly tugged frantically at her sleeve.
‘Look! There’s Mr. Fletcher!’
Jane stopped dead. ‘Where?’
‘Across the street. Look, he’s bowing!’
Jane managed to return the bow with no more warmth than was barely civil. Beside her William said, ‘Well ‒ aren’t we going over?’
‘Certainly not!’ Jane dragged swiftly at his arm, and looked away from the straight, blond figure once again dressed in the old seaman’s coat. She was conscious that Paul himself had not moved, but stood straight, hat under his arm, looking across at them. She started to walk briskly down the street.
‘We’ve too much to do to stop and gossip …’ In a wave of confusion she swept straight into a draper’s shop, pulling William with her, and found herself buying three yards of wide lace, and a length of printed cotton, neither of which she particularly wanted. In panic she took the money from her reticule and paid, leaving quickly before she committed any more folly.
And outside, directly across the street from the draper’s, was Paul. He had been studying the bottles in the curved window of a wine merchant’s shop, but he half-turned as Jane and William reached the pavement. His quick glance took them in, but no one in that crowd on the street could have had time to notice it, for he turned back to the window immediately. Jane took William’s hand, and moved on to where the crowd was thicker.
They loitered before the stalls of vegetable produce, but bought none, because it was the end of the day, and the best was long since gone. They looked at some cages of birds for sale ‒ brightly coloured foreign birds that Jane doubted would survive the dampness of an English winter. There were smooth, plump fantails, which she wanted to buy, but resisted. From a stall of odds and ends, William bought himself a magnifying glass, and Jane added a second-hand book of fables, printed in large characters with elaborate chapter-headings and tailpieces, because she was conscious that she ought to be more firm with William about lessons. And all the time, she kept glancing back ‒ and always Paul was there, two or three stalls away from them, but steadily keeping pace with their progress. He never seemed to raise his head, or to look at them, but he was always ready to move when they did. Sometimes the crowd between them thickened, and she lost him. Then the crowd would fall apart, a farmer’s cart move on, and there he would be again.
They were drawn, at last, by the smell from the baker’s shop, the warm smell of spices and sugar and jam. Almost without thinking Jane found herself inside, the bell on the door bouncing and ringing loudly, and the woman, inevitably fat, coming forward with pink smiling cheeks. Here the smell was close, and nearly overwhelming; she was suddenly hungry. Instead of the modest purchase of a few muffins to eat at supper, she found herself pointing at a rich plum cake, and a sugary loaf sprinkled with cinnamon. For William there was a small almond custard pie, to eat in the carriage on the way home. As she paid for them she felt guilty ‒ in view of her dwindling funds it seemed a scandalous indulgence, which she could not explain. And at the back of her head was a faint notion that Paul Fletcher’s presence in the street outside had something to do with it.
But when she stepped down into the street, he was no longer there. The market had begun to dissolve; the people were fewer, and the sun was low on the roofs that overhung the cobbled streets. Animal droppings and vegetable refuse lay thick on the grounds where the stalls had been, and a chill little wind had started to whine about the houses. Paul was nowhere in sight.
She drew her wrap about her, and hurried back towards George Street; William was tired, and he was thinking about the custard pie. Rather fretfully he protested her pace as she climbed the steep street to where the carriage waited. Patrick came to attention as he saw them; he sprang forward to open the door.
‘I was thinkin’ you were surely lost,’ he said. ‘There’re
some quare types about in a sea-coast town …’
‘Oh, stop fussing, Patrick!’ She suddenly found his solicitude irritating. ‘What could happen to …’
She broke off, staring into the carriage. On the floor over by the opposite door was a basket of oranges, and beside it a glass jar containing dried figs and prunes; there was also a blue china bowl with a sealed lid, filled with preserved ginger ‒ the same, she recognized, as she had rejected at Samuel Purdy’s shop. She turned swiftly to Patrick.
‘How did these get here? I didn’t order them! … Patrick, you didn’t …?’
‘An’ I wish t’ Heaven I had, Mistress … for yer deservin’ of all such delicacies.’ He shook his head. ‘No, ma’am, ’t weren’t meself … Mr. Fletcher came, not three minutes ago, and left them for ye. Got them out of Purdy’s place, he did. A present, he said.’
She scarcely heard any more of the chatter as Patrick settled her in the carriage with a light robe about her knees, and spread a handkerchief on William’s lap to catch the crumbs from the pie. On the road back to Blake’s Reach she answered William’s questions absently but gently, and now and then, as the wheels jolted in the ruts, her foot touched the basket of oranges, and she smiled secretly and quietly.
***
Back at Blake’s Reach she was mortified to find that, beside the lace on Anne’s gowns, the stuff she had bought from the draper in Rye appeared cheap and coarse. She rolled it, and put it away sadly; perhaps it would do to trim some undergarment that no one would see. The length of cotton, when she held it against her, was a washed-out green, and made her skin sallow and her hair carrotty-red. The printed pattern was old-fashioned, and too large for elegance. She gave it to Kate, with the promise that soon, when there was less to attend to in the house, she would make it into a gown for her.
She slept soundly that night ‒ and curiously free from thoughts of Paul Fletcher.
***
She lay in bed, only half-awake, when Kate brought her the bunch of primroses and the note. She caught her breath a little at the sight of them ‒ pale, soft little things, still wet with dew. Kate’s lips were pursed in disapproval.
‘Found these by the kitchen door. Fine friends ‒ that don’t dare come knocking at the front door at an hour that’s respectable!’
When she was gone, Jane read the note. ‘I have news for you, and Blonde Bess needs exercise. At Appledore take the road sign-posted to Snargate and Old Romney. I will wait at the willow grove a mile beyond Snargate.’
Six
They had been so still that a family of wild-duck clinging to the shadow of the tall reeds had ceased to listen for them. Jane, lying on the grass, slowly raised her head, turning her face to catch the sun fully on it. On the other side of the dyke a row of elms grew straight and tall; near the footbridge a wild apple tree was in full bloom. The warm breeze occasionally carried the scent and the falling petals towards them. Everything was quiet, save for the hum of the insects, and the faint plopping sound when one of the ducks broke the surface of the water.
‘It’s so peaceful,’ she said softly. ‘I haven’t had such peace since … since I was a little girl.’
‘I used to think the Marsh was peaceful, too,’ he said. ‘That seems a long time ago …’
She did not answer, tried not to hear the disillusionment and near-bitterness in his voice; she did not want to cloud one second of this golden day, nor give a particle of it to regret or unhappiness. It had begun like no other day had ever before begun ‒ those pale, wet primroses, and the note, and then the meeting with Paul at the willow grove beyond Snargate. It had been so early then that the sun had not yet burned the dew off the pastures where the sheep cropped quietly. She had dressed herself in a habit that had belonged, of course, to Anne, and had enjoyed the sight of her own reflection in the mirror. Patrick had helped her to mount Blonde Bess, and for the first time she had ridden out on to the Marsh alone, feeling the strangeness and excitement, the small fear, of once again being on a horse. After the first few minutes her hands and body relaxed; she and Bess were no longer apart from one another. She allowed herself to respond to the steady, even motion of the mare. Bess was a perfect creature, she decided ‒ full of breeding and good manners. With her gloved hand she patted the mare’s neck softly.
Paul waited for her at the grove of six willow trees where two broad dykes joined each other. He and his horse were almost hidden by the long curtain of waving green, but as she approached he mounted and rode through to meet her.
His smile was gay; he swept off his hat with a gesture that had the lightness of this spring morning in it. Again he had discarded his seaman’s coat for the well-cut clothes he had worn to Blake’s Reach.
‘Good morning!’ he called, when she was within earshot. ‘What a sight you are! ‒ no one but a London tailor cut that habit, or I’m a Dutchman! You ride well, Mistress Howard! Of course, all the Blakes have ridden well …’ He shrugged, and laughed. ‘And here I’ve been thinking that you didn’t appreciate or deserve anything so good as Blonde Bess!’
She laughed in return. ‘See how wrong you are! I’ve been riding since I was a child, and I’ll warrant when I choose to I can ride astride as well as any man.’ Then she leaned forward and touched Bess’s neck again. ‘But it’s mostly Bess … she’d make anyone look good.’
Then she looked at Paul. ‘I hope it’s good news that brings primroses to my door so early.’
‘Good news! ‒ wait till you hear! Twenty guineas a month for the church! Twenty guineas!’ he repeated, in a tone that was almost a shout of triumph.
She gasped. ‘How …? How did you manage it? Twenty guineas …?’
‘I waited to see what was offered before I said your price. The offer was twenty guineas.’
‘Twice as much,’ she said slowly. ‘But why, Paul … why!’
For an instant some of his good humour seemed to desert him; he frowned slightly. ‘How should I know? I’ve learned never to question what good fortune comes my way. I’d advise you to do the same.’
Then abruptly he swung his horse’s head towards the open spaces of the Marsh ahead of them. ‘Come on ‒ the morning’s wasting! Riding in that stuffy carriage to Rye hasn’t given you any idea of what this piece of country’s like.’ He looked back over his shoulder, smiling again. ‘Come on! I’ve a mind to test that boast of yours that you’re a rider …’
He dug in his heels, and his horse sprang forward; he urged it quickly down the steep bank of the dyke towards a spot where he knew from long experience that the water was shallow enough to be forded. Taken off her guard, Jane was left behind.
‘Paul! Wait for me! … Wait for me!’
She would never forget this day. She lay in the sun now with Paul sprawled on the grass near by, and she closed her eyes for a second and lived the delight of it again. She had never been so free, so unfettered ‒ she thought she had never before felt so young. Paul had been gay, easily matching her mood, and encouraging her to voice every stray thought that entered her head. There had been many things to share, and many things to laugh about; she had enjoyed the kind of frivolous relaxation she had not known since the old days when she and Sally’s three daughters had shared an idle hour over the kitchen fire at The Feathers. But Paul had no resemblance to those three laughing girls: Paul was a man that many women would have called handsome; he was young, masculine and strong, his voice was firm and low-toned, and there was a touch of humour about his mouth and eyes. When they shared their simple lunch at an ale-house on the other side of Ivychurch, she found herself colouring as she looked up suddenly and caught his warm unabashed gaze on her; he was looking at her as a man looks at a woman he finds attractive and desirable. He didn’t try to cover that look, or turn it into anything less than it was; he questioned her with his eyes, honestly and seriously. It was she who lowered her eyes, and looked away.
That moment had gone, but the memory of it stayed with them. They were acutely conscious of each other; th
ey lay in the sun by the dyke, a yard or so of grass separating them, and found other things to talk about.
He glanced at her. ‘Did you know you’ve got petals in your hair? You look like …’
‘And so have you ‒ it’s like snow.’ She twisted a little, resting her elbows on the grass, and cupping her chin in her hands. ‘Oh, look at Blonde Bess there … Look at her, Paul! How lovely her coat is in the sunshine.’
‘I can’t think,’ he said lazily, ‘what possessed Turnbull to send you Blonde Bess, of all his horses. He loves horses ‒ that I know ‒ and he keeps a number of them at the stables in Rye. But Bess is the favourite, and the best of them.’
She glanced at him sideways. ‘Are you sure you can’t think why he sent Bess? He was very fond of my mother. I think perhaps he was in love with her.’
He shrugged, rolling over on his back and squinting up at the sun. ‘Turnbull … in love with Anne Blake. Well, why not? ‒ stranger things have been. But I can never think of Turnbull allowing himself the luxury of such waywardness. Though, Heaven knows, Anne Blake was easy enough to fall in love with … when I think of her then …’ He moved his head, and looked at her. ‘Well, Jane, people will love you too, because of the memory of Anne.’ He chuckled, a quiet, derisive sound. ‘I can’t think that it was anything but a romantic, sentimental memory that prompted my … my employer to increase the price on the church. Twenty guineas! ‒ well, there are fools born every minute. I wouldn’t have paid it!’
She chose not to take him seriously. ‘Well! ‒ I can see you think money is wasted on me. You’d rather have me receive you in the vegetable patch, than by the fire in my drawing-room ‒ and wearing my green silk gown.’
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