by Jenny Kane
‘Grace? Is this a good time?’ Daisy had picked up the mobile without considering the time, or where Grace might be.
‘Sure, what’s up? You sound weird.’
‘Sorry, Grace, I’m having a mini panic about the wedding. I am doing the right thing, aren’t I?’
Grace, who theoretically had been working on her novel, but had in fact been mulling ideas over for the paper she might write with Rob, was glad of an interruption to her time-wasting, ‘Of course you are.’
‘It’s just, well … I’ve managed alone so long.’
‘I know, Daze, but you love Marcus.’
Daisy sniffed down the phone, rummaging about in her dungarees pocket for a tissue, ‘I loved Daniel Harcourt, but I didn’t marry him.’
Grace laughed, ‘Daniel Harcourt was a git. And anyway, you were only nineteen at the time. Thank goodness you didn’t marry him!’ An image of Mathilda popped into Grace’s mind as she spoke. She was nineteen as well. I wonder …
Daisy relaxed and began to giggle, ‘You’re right … I guess.’
‘Come on, Daze,’ Grace closed her eyes, temporarily shutting out the sheer Robin Hood-ness of her office, ‘Marcus loves you. You love Marcus. Your lives fit perfectly. He adores animals, and so do you. He works shifts, so you’ll have the luxury of time apart as well as time together. You’re a lucky woman, so sit back and enjoy it all.’
‘Thanks, Grace. You’re right. I knew you’d sort me out.’
‘By telling you what you knew already?’
‘Yup!’ Daisy, her irrational outburst already swept aside, carried on, ‘By the way, have you heard from the nice, intelligent, interesting Dr Franks again?’
Now it was Grace’s turn to sigh, ‘Sometimes, Daisy, I think you’re a mind reader.’
‘Ah. So he is on your mind then?’
Grace quickly explained about the paper proposal before her friend’s imagination galloped off at a romantic tangent. ‘What should I do, Daze? I’d like to do it, but I’m so short of time.’
‘Right.’ Daisy sounded sharp and abruptly businesslike. ‘Are you listening to me properly, Dr Harper? Are you sitting down?’
‘Y-e-s …’ Grace answered hesitantly, ‘I’m working from the study at home today.’
‘Now look, honey, I’m going to take hideous advantage of being your best friend and hope that that’s enough to stop you getting all offended by what I’m about to say. OK?’
‘O-K …’
‘To start with, press the pause button on the novel. Don’t ditch it, you’ve come too far, but leave it for a while,’ Daisy could hear Grace mustering herself to protest, so she began to speak faster, ‘concentrate on the textbook between nine and one every day throughout the summer hols, just get the damn thing over with. You say you’ve done the research. Well, use it and write it up. If you don’t do it soon, then you know as well as I do that someone else will come along and beat you to it. Next …’ Daisy was in her stride now, ‘you need to get a life. One that’s outside Robin Hood, the Folvilles, and the students. So get yourself over to Nottingham, meet that Rob Franks bloke again, sort out the paper, arrange to work on it in the afternoons or something. Give him first authorship and then he’ll have to do most of the work, and you’ll have the chance to get to know him. And, before you start arguing, don’t you dare tell me you don’t fancy him, because I don’t believe you!’
Grace felt like she’d been running in a race, but had somehow taken the wrong road and missed the finish line. A lot of what Daisy had said made sense, although contacting Rob Franks about a paper was hardly leaving everything else behind, was it? And could she really put the novel aside so easily?
She had to admit that the volume of daydreams about Rob had been increasing, and if she was honest, at two or three o’clock in the morning, when her rational, sensible, rather boring self was absent, he was far more to Grace than just a fellow historian she’d only met once.
The trouble was, now she’d admitted as much to herself, she knew she’d blush like an overripe tomato the very next time she saw him.
As yet Grace hadn’t replied to Rob’s latest email, even though she knew it gave her the perfect opportunity to meet him again. Taking a deep breath, Grace decided to take half of Daisy’s advice, by clicking on the email Reply icon. At least, she thought as she typed, seeing him again on a purely professional basis will let me see if I do actually like him, or if Daisy has been putting ideas in my head. I’ll probably find he’s married or not remotely interested in me beyond my mind. Or I’ll discover that I was totally wrong about him being that nice in the first place.
Hi Rob, would be good to meet soon to discuss a paper.
Also free ‘in theory’ most afternoons.
Fancy a coffee and a planning session next week? Hectic with wedding plans after that.
Do you want to come here, or shall I head up to Nottingham?
Best,
Grace.
The speed of his reply back took Grace by surprise, and filled her mind with unwanted hope, just as she’d convinced herself he’d never be interested in her in a thousand years.
Sorry. Been bullied into doing an adult education thing next week.
I’m free tomo about 2pm?
Is that ok? Or too short notice? I’ll come to you if you can fit me in.
Hope you can make it – I have lots of ideas …
Let me know a.s.a.p. so I can book train ticket.
Best
Rob x
Grace’s mouth went dry, as she turned to the nearest photograph from the filming of Robin of Sherwood for support. It was her favourite one of Jason Connery, with all his merry men lined up beside him. ‘Tomorrow afternoon! Oh hell, guys, I’ll never have got myself together by tomorrow!’
Swallowing her nerves, thinking of Daisy’s advice, Grace emailed back an agreement, giving Rob details of where to meet her the following day, and then, ignoring the remainder of Daisy’s lecture, decided to stop herself worrying about her forthcoming non-date by picking up her manuscript.
She was so stiff from the journey that Mathilda had to be bodily lifted from her palfrey by the waiting groom. Flexing her arms and legs, she tried to ease the ache in her limbs without drawing attention to herself.
Hanging back from Robert and the steward, who’d quickly approached him on their arrival; Mathilda examined the scene around her.
The courtyard was not large, and from its centre Mathilda could see a narrow alleyway running off to its right that presumably led to the stables. Directly before her was the main house, a fine gabled building, modest in size, but obviously a cut above the standard tradesman’s dwelling. Attached to the house was a workshop, behind which Mathilda could just see some strips of land sloping gently upwards, which were obviously in productive use for the household and, assuming this was a demesne property, to provide food as part of the local landlord’s taxes.
An overpowering scent of leather filled the air, and Mathilda remembered that Robert had told her the man they were to stay with was a successful trader; a merchant who dealt his wares far beyond the local community. Mathilda looked around, comparing her current whereabouts to her own home.
Mathilda’s father was an excellent potter, but due to the readily available quantities of clay in the region, there were many other potters in Leicestershire. It wasn’t enough to be the best any more, especially with the added pressure of foreign imports. You needed to have a head for business, and her father had never had that. Although it would never have been openly admitted, it had been her mother who’d quietly got on with that side of things, and since her death, the difference in their fortunes had been staggering.
Mathilda’s contemplation was cut short as Robert turned to her, ‘Come, Mathilda, Master Hugo is expecting us within.’
It was strange and yet reassuring to be escorted on Robert’s arm into the square room which formed the main centre of activity for the house. So, thought Mathilda, our fake courtship has begun,
even though we are in the home of a trusted ally. Her heart thumped in her throat as she walked demurely next to Robert, her eyes taking in the detailed tapestry that hung against the wall opposite the fire place, its rich colours reflecting heat back into the room.
Practically furnished, the house spoke of sensible expenditure. The few luxuries that were evident all had a worthwhile nature; hangings to maintain warmth, and pots and cups that had been made to last, rather than to show off with.
Master Hugo entered the room in a flurry of bustle, a servant at his side, armed with a tray holding a pitcher and, rather tellingly to Mathilda, only two pewter mugs.
Mathilda’s mind had conjured up the expectation of this Master Hugo being a large, powerfully built, jovial man with thick red hair and huge hands. The reality of his appearance was in stark contrast to this imagined image. Dressed simply, but in quality cloth, Master Hugo was small of stature and slim, with thin fingers and hands that seemed to hang off the arms which were now wrapped around Robert, embracing him in a friendly greeting that seemed to last for an uncomfortably long time to the waiting Mathilda. She didn’t feel exactly threatened by Hugo’s presence, as she had done when she’d met the rector of Teigh, nor was she in wary awe as with Eustace, but she still found she’d taken an instant dislike to the man, although she had no idea why.
Robert regarded Hugo with respect, but said nothing. The atmosphere in the room changed as they faced each other, and Mathilda felt as if she was intruding, and dipped her eyes further.
The spell was broken by the clatter of a dropped cup. The servant muttered his apologies, which were irritably brushed away by Master Hugo, as he picked up the dropped vessel, and began to pour out two portions of ale.
‘So Folville, this is your temporary prize from the Twyford debt?’
Mathilda flinched inwardly at being referred to in this way, but wisely held her tongue. She realised with some shame that she had relaxed in Robert’s company, and for a few precious moments, had forgotten the reality of her situation. Under her breath, Mathilda swore there and then that she must never again forget that she was a mere object to these people. A tool; something to be used while they could, and if she perished in the process – well, there were plenty more where she came from …
‘Yes, Hugo, this is Mathilda de Twyford. A fine young woman.’
‘I’m sure,’ Hugo’s smile didn’t quite meet his eyes as he accepted her curtsy with a dismissive curl of his lips.
‘Mathilda knows the plan. It only remains for me to pass on my family’s message to her, and then you’ll be able to borrow her help to sell on the stall until the end of the day with no problem.’
‘Without problem you say, Robert. Are you sure?’ Hugo’s doubts were plain. Mathilda could almost feel the words roaming around his head. A mere female. She’ll be useless.
‘Do not be mistaken by her appearance, Hugo. Mathilda is a sharp, intelligent young woman who is older than she appears to be. She also has a lot to lose if things don’t go as we desire. She would be a fool to let us down, and I can assure you, Mathilda is no fool.’
Mathilda’s palms had begun to prickle with sweat. Robert spoke with a confidence that should have flattered her, and perhaps it would have done, if it hadn’t been accompanied with such a strong hint of menace at the prospect of her failure. All along their journey through the midland county roads, Mathilda had convinced herself that she’d be fine, and all would be well soon. Now she was here, at this house in Derby, the confidence she’d forced herself to portray was wavering. Tomorrow she would have to travel a considerable distance with this Master Hugo, and he obviously didn’t trust her; he didn’t even like her. A feeling that was entirely mutual.
She could tell that Robert did trust him however; this was the most relaxed Mathilda had seen him during their short yet eventful acquaintance.
Hugo pointedly passed a cup to Robert, dismissing Mathilda with a barked request which sounded very much like an order, ‘Mathilda, you will go to the workshop and find Mary. Until the morning, you can assist her as she wishes. There is a good deal to do before we go to market.’
Mathilda wordlessly curtseyed again, and followed the inclination of Master Hugo’s head, hoping it would lead her where she was bidden. Glancing back as she reached the door, she saw the men were already engrossed in conversation, and were paying no attention to her at all.
The workshop was small, but warm, and felt much more familiar and welcoming than the main house. Mary, an able woman, of about two score years, was hard at work piling belts into a wooden crate, her sleeves firmly rolled up . She came forward to welcome the visitor.
‘I’ve been sent to help.’ Mathilda spoke shyly, but was already glad to be away from the unsettling atmosphere of the main house.
‘You must be the girl from Twyford. I’m Mary, and any help you could give would be very gratefully received.’
‘I’m Mathilda.’ It was a genuine welcome, and Mathilda took to her companion straight away.
Mary turned to the only other occupant of the room. ‘This is Roger, Master Hugo’s apprentice.’
Mathilda greeted him politely, but the lad, no more than fourteen years old, only nodded curtly in response as she passed him on her way to the far end of the workshop to help Mary with the boxes of stock. It was obvious he was learning his manners from his master as well as his trade, for he offered no further words to the two females.
Deciding to concentrate her attentions on Mary and the task she required help with, Mathilda asked, ‘Master Hugo works leather?’
‘Yes,’ Mary pointed to Mathilda’s girdle, ‘that’s one of his.’ Mathilda stroked the fine belt she wore in wonder, stunned that such an obnoxious little man could have made something so beautiful. As she searched about her, she saw an array of equally detailed pieces of work, many of which held the same intricate pattern of lines and butterflies. Passing each separate item to Mary to pack in soft barley straw, Mathilda caressed them with the reverence such works of art were due.
‘They’re beautiful.’
Mary smiled, ‘Indeed, my master has the gift, sure enough.’
Mathilda was surprised, ‘Master? Forgive me, I assumed you to be his wife.’
Mary let out a short laugh that contained no trace of humour, ‘Master Hugo wants no wife.’
Chapter Fifteen
As Grace waited, sat at her usual table in the window of the Mrs Beeton’s tea shop, she began to think that perhaps this hadn’t been such a good place to arrange to meet Rob. A cafe tucked away in St Martin’s Square at the far side of the city wasn’t the easiest place to find if you didn’t know Leicester very well. And it was a good twenty-minute walk from the train station, even at speed.
Unwilling to witness his reaction to its Robin Hood-esque décor, Grace had experienced a strong desire to keep him out of her office. Not only could she not have coped with any derisory comments he might be compelled to make, it seemed too private a place to share with him yet, although she wasn’t sure why she felt that way. The result had been suggesting somewhere to meet that was some distance from work.
Four times she’d got dressed that morning. Four times, for heaven’s sake! This was not normal behaviour. In the end Grace had plumped for the top and jacket she’d worn to the viva, and some clean jeans. Smart but flattering. Or so she hoped. She’d worried for a moment that he’d only think she had one set of clothes, but then told herself not to be so damn stupid, and had marched to work before she started staring at her limited wardrobe of clothes, and found herself getting changed all over again.
Flicking to a clean page in her notebook, Grace tried to concentrate on formulating a plan for the paper Rob had suggested. It was no good though. Fidgety and uncomfortable, Grace found herself glancing out of the window so often that forming any cohesive outline was nigh-on impossible. Sustaining herself with a large cappuccino rather than her usual pot of tea, Grace blew through the circling steam and stared into the liquid, attempting to
focus her thoughts.
‘Praying to the god of caffeine?’
So caught up in her thoughts, Rob’s sudden arrival made Grace jump, causing her to slop coffee into her saucer. Realising that despite her determination not to, she was already blushing, and embarrassed to be caught looking vacant, she mumbled, ‘Something like that,’ before pulling herself together. ‘Coffee?’
Damn. He looks even better in jeans and that old rugby shirt than he had in his linen suit. Rats.
Grace tried to pay attention on what Rob was saying from his position sat opposite her, but her mind was too busy trying to convince itself that she really didn’t find him attractive at all. On failing that particular task, Grace worked on telling herself firmly that Rob wouldn’t be either interested in her or available anyway.
‘Are you with me, Grace?’
‘What? Oh, sorry,’ Grace’s cheeks coloured again, and she began to bluster, ‘I’ve not been sleeping well, lots on my mind, you know how it is …’
‘Indeed.’ Rob was studying at her with a curious mixture of concern, puzzlement and regret, ‘So, do you fancy having a crack at this paper for the English Historical Review then, we could aim for next Easter instead of October?
‘Yes, sure. “The Fourteenth-Century English Crown Needed Criminals” sounds a feasible title with all the research we’ve already done. Are you sure you don’t mind doing the bulk of the writing?’
‘No problem. As long as you are sure you don’t mind me stealing your research notes.’
‘I’ve done the work; it might as well be used. I’ll need it for the textbook, but not for a while yet.’ They continued to sip their coffees in silence before Rob said, ‘But you said you were intending to start writing up your book over the student holidays?’
‘Well, yes,’ Grace thought quickly, ‘but most of my notes are on the computer, I can attach them and send them over to you, without losing out myself. Anything else can be photocopied.’
‘Right,’ Rob sat back, his eyes twinkling slightly, making Grace feel uncomfortable.
