She drew the dull-looking blade from the horn handle and showed me how the point of the knife was flat, not sharp, and how a small triangle shape jutted down from it at a right angle. It was a curious-looking thing. She told me it was called a feam. I had seen enough of my own blood and felt enough pain not to fear it.
Alice had appeared as mysteriously as ever, crossing the lawn in front of the house with round-shouldered purpose. She offered no chit-chat, but nor did I. We’d grown easier in each other’s company, however – as easy as two women can be who could not be more different. I liked her soft voice, and wondered if she read to her father by the fire. Then I remembered she couldn’t read. Her voice was the only soft thing about her, though, I thought idly as she moved about the room with a brisk directness, her back straight, her neck long and equine. She’d have made a fine mistress of a house like this in another life. Probably better than I. Working in an alehouse might harden a person. Being poor almost certainly did. Still, she would leave here wealthier than she’d arrived.
She told me to take off my jacket and layers so that my arms were bare, then pulled a chair over to the window and nodded for me to sit in it. She tied a length of ribbon tightly around the top of my arm and prodded the white skin at my elbow.
‘Alice,’ I said, ‘do you think that it will have eyelashes by now?’
‘Eyelashes?’
‘Do you think the baby will have eyelashes?’
‘What a strange question. It’s hard to say.’
I nodded and eyed the things she had asked me to have ready for her: a large bowl, fresh linen, water, a needle and some pale thread. I’d acted on instinct and turned the key in the chamber door, what with Richard downstairs with James and the ledger. When I turned to Alice, she was standing at the fireplace, looking at the plaster figures on either side.
‘Are they your family?’ she asked.
‘No. Prudentia.’ I pointed. ‘Justitia.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Prudence and justice is the Shuttleworth family motto.’ I nodded at the feam. ‘Where did you get that?’
She wiped the blade on her apron for a few moments, then said, not unkindly, ‘You take such an interest in where my things come from.’
‘Well, I am glad you did not ask me to find one. Firstly, I would not know where to look. Secondly, I can imagine James’ face if I told him I’d ordered one.’
‘Who is James?’
‘Our steward.’
‘Why would you have to tell him?’ she asked.
‘Everything we buy goes in the household ledger he keeps, and everything that leaves Gawthorpe, whether it’s beer from the brewery or chickens from the farm or midwives for the mistress.’
‘Even me?’
‘Yes, even you.’
My hand throbbed as the blood collected in it. Alice asked me to pass the bowl – a pretty brass one decorated with flowers, given to us by Richard’s mother – and set it on the dresser, placing my arm above it.
‘Are you ready?’
Before I could say yes she had driven the feam into the crook of my arm with the wooden stick, and I yelped like a puppy as she drew it out. Warm, red blood began gushing immediately from the hole she had made. I clapped my other hand over my mouth but could not take my eyes from the grotesqueness of it.
‘What does prudence mean?’ asked Alice, adjusting her grip on my arm.
Clear, light pain was flooding through my whole body.
‘Ah … Prudence. Prudence means … How long does this go on?’
‘Until the bowl is half full.’
‘Half full?’ It was coming out so fast.
‘What does prudence mean?’ Alice said again.
‘It means cautiousness. Proceeding with care.’
‘And justice means freedom?’
‘No,’ I said, trying to look at anything but the bowl filling as easily with my own blood as if it was wine pouring from a bottle. My head felt as light as it did in the church when I fainted. ‘Justice means fairness. Lack of prejudice.’
Working as quickly as she had before, Alice pinched the skin either side of the piercing and drove a needle through it. I looked away as she stitched it with thread, wincing every time it made a puncture.
‘I will look like a cushion,’ I said, feeling her breath on my arm. ‘This will work, do you think?’
‘Breathing the veins is the best way to bleed while you’re not having monthlies. Bleeding can be healthy from the right place.’
She washed the blood from my arm and pressed a ball of linen to it, instructing me to hold it. Puck lumbered over, curiously. I pulled the pad of linen away from my arm and saw fresh blood leaking through the slapdash thread. Puck sniffed and licked at the wound a few times before deciding it was not as tasteful as he imagined.
Immediately I recalled Roger’s words: ‘Do you let your pet suck blood from you, Fleetwood?’
I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Alice wrapped my arm in a strip of linen and tied it, before leading me to the bed and instructing me to lie down while she tidied up. The wound was on the same arm as my sprain – I had quite the inventory of injuries since meeting her, and I told her so. She smiled and closed the drapes.
‘I do not feel any different,’ I said after a while.
‘Give it a day or two,’ came her voice. I heard the tinkle of glass. ‘If you feel no better we can try the other arm, with more blood. You still have the willow bark I gave you?’
‘Yes.’
She appeared in the curtain fold with a piece of cloth no bigger than my hand, and took from its folds a single green leaf. She ripped a tiny edge off it and handed it to me.
‘Suck this,’ she said. ‘It will stop the blood coming so quickly. But don’t have any more than that, and spit it out – don’t swallow it.’
I lay with my hands on my stomach, sucking the bit of leaf like a farm apprentice on a summer afternoon. It seemed to dissolve on my tongue, and a sense of peace washed over me. Though I’d only known Alice a fortnight, with her here my worries seemed to fade to dying embers, only to flare up again at night. She could not promise that she would save my life. She had not promised anything, in fact. But knowing she was trying to help me, I felt safer than I had perhaps since I married Richard.
‘Alice, am I safe to keep riding in childbed?’
There was a pause while she considered.
‘I have not known many women who have horses, but my mother knew plenty, and she always said they could. Do you ride regular?’
‘Every day,’ I replied.
‘Then you’ve no reason to stop if you’ve always done it, as long as you don’t come off again. I expect for a skilled horsewoman it’s as safe as walking.’
‘Richard seemed to think the last time that … it was my fault for being rough, riding around and playing with Puck. He thinks it’s not good for a woman. The truth is I’d die if I had to stay indoors all the time, sitting in hard chairs embroidering cushions, though he thinks that is the safest place to be.’
‘Perhaps he wants to keep you where he can see you, like all husbands. Until they want you out of their sight, that is.’
Her bitter tone made me raise my head. ‘I thought you said you weren’t married?’
‘I’m not,’ she said quickly, and then as though she’d said too much, added, ‘Oh, I found your horse that ran away. It’s back in your stable.’
I was too surprised to reply, and stared at the closed drapes.
‘Did you hear me?’ she called from behind the drapes.
‘Yes. Where was it?’
‘A neighbour found it grazing in a field and brought it back.’
‘You’re sure it’s the same one?’
‘With the triangle of white on its nose? And a black tip on its ear? I’m sorry but the tack was gone; it probably threw it off.’
Or more likely someone stole it, I thought, seeing as I’d never known a horse to rid itself of a saddle, bridle, halter
and reins. Before I could reply, a noise at the door startled me, followed by Richard’s voice.
‘Fleetwood? Why is the door locked?’
I pulled open the curtains and Alice was already halfway towards me with my jacket, which I pulled on to cover the wound.
‘Fleetwood?’
Richard was rapping impatiently, and stepped immediately into the room when I finally unlocked the door.
‘Why was the door locked?’ he asked again, directing the question at Alice.
She looked helplessly at me, and, panicking, I swiftly glanced over at the dresser where her things had been moments before, but it was empty and gleaming as usual.
‘Richard, you must understand we do not want to be disturbed when Alice is doing her work.’
I tried to sound soothing, but he was still glaring at Alice.
‘And what work is that?’
I grasped wildly for an answer. ‘Feminine exercises.’
There was an awful period of silence that lasted perhaps five seconds, and Alice cast her eyes down to the floor. Where had she put her things so quickly? I eyed the corner of the room and the fireplace, but there was no sign of the bowl of blood.
‘Very well,’ Richard said finally. ‘Roger is downstairs and wishes to see you. He has … someone with him.’
‘Who is it?’
There had been a coolness between us since Roger’s dinner, though I could not say why. I wondered if I had irritated him by asking too many questions.
‘You will soon find out.’ He turned on his heel, but not before his eyes searched the room. ‘There is a strange smell in here, is there not?’
His eyes lingered on Alice, then he left, closing the door firmly behind him.
‘He meant the blood. I can smell it, too,’ I told Alice, but her expression was smooth. How changeable her mood could be, like clouds scudding across the sun. She and Richard were alike in that way. ‘Will you wait here while I see which guest has arrived?’ I asked her.
As I descended to the bottom of the house, I thought of the curious exchange I’d just witnessed. Richard had acted as though he found Alice’s presence offensive, revolting even. I remembered their first meeting, when he was laughing and joking with her. But Richard was a man who liked to be flirted with and deferred to, and Alice’s silent reproachfulness when he asked her to stable my horse no doubt stung. Our female servants grew shy and pink-cheeked when he spoke to them, whereas Alice was indifferent. Well, he had chosen a woman as my companion once, and now it was my turn. But all thoughts of my husband and midwife evaporated when I turned the final corner of the staircase, for standing in the entrance hall were two figures: the expansive Roger Nowell and the parchment-thin Device child.
‘Roger. Jennet.’ I tried not to look so startled. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
Jennet was not looking at me, but appraising everything in her sight with her wide eyes – the oak banister, the portraits hanging in the gloom of the stairwell. She was still wearing the same old dress and starched white cap, which made her face look all the paler. Without saying a word, she walked to the picture window at the back of the house. I blinked at Roger.
‘Do you have business with Richard?’
‘Yes, he is waiting for me in the hall. I came to ask if it would not be an inconvenience to show Jennet around Gawthorpe while Richard and I discuss matters? She has never seen such a palace and would greatly enjoy a tour.’
I touched my arm where the feam had punctured it; the linen was making it itch. I thought of Alice upstairs in my chamber, and looked over at Jennet’s small silhouette at the window. Without waiting for an answer, Roger gave me a fatherly wink and departed, his polished boots echoing across the stone floor. I swallowed and went over to where the child was standing.
‘That’s Pendle Hill.’ I pointed at the looming mass in the distance. ‘And this is the River Calder. Sometimes you can see salmon jumping upstream.’
Her face was quite delicate, and not ugly. Her small upturned nose was spattered with freckles, and her eyelashes were long and grey.
‘Which rooms would you like to see?’
She shrugged, and in her broad accent said, ‘How many are there?’
‘Do you know, I’ve never thought about it. I don’t know. Perhaps we could count? Though there are many more for the servants, and I don’t think we should disturb them. How many rooms are in your house?’
She stared at me. ‘One.’
‘Oh. Well, then. Let’s see.’
I showed her around the ground floor – the dining room, the buttery and servants’ working rooms, where the study was. In the great hall, I pointed up to the gallery and told her how minstrels and players sometimes came to perform, and we would watch from below. She paced around mostly in silence, occasionally asking who was in a portrait. The mermaids and mystical figures in the dining room appeared to fascinate her, as did the polished swords and suits of armour, and she examined each one with her hands behind her back, like a miniature Roger. Then we went to the outbuildings: the great barn, which I told her was one of the largest in the country, and the stables and farm offices. Sure enough, as we walked through the yard, and the stable boys and apprentices nodded and wished us good day, I saw the grey mare with the white triangle on her nose chewing hay languidly in her stall.
‘Are you enjoying staying at Read Hall?’ I asked as we returned to the house.
Jennet wanted to see upstairs, and after a moment’s hesitation I agreed.
She shrugged again. ‘It is not as big as this house.’
‘But Roger and Katherine keep a lovely home. I’m sure they are looking after you well.’
I wondered how Roger could keep her one way and her family another, taking responsibility for one and disposing of the rest.
Jennet had turned on the stair to face me.
‘Can I live here instead?’ she asked.
She left one hand on the banister, like a little lady of the court. I opened and closed my mouth, disarmed by her forthrightness.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. You are a guest of Roger’s.’
There was nothing childlike about the intensity of her stare, and it gave me the oddest feeling that I had said the wrong thing, and would regret it later. Then she turned on her heel and continued her climb up to the top of the house. After her request, I was embarrassed to show her all the empty bedrooms, made for guests that never stayed.
‘My mother often comes to visit,’ I lied. ‘And Richard’s family, who live in Yorkshire. He has lots of brothers and sisters, and I have none.’ We were back at the staircase now.
‘Who is that?’ She was pointing at the Barton family portrait.
‘That’s my mother and me.’
‘Why do you have a bird on your hand?’
‘That was my pet, Samuel. He didn’t live for very long. I kept him in a cage in my room.’
‘Why does your mother have no bird?’
‘She did not have a pet.’
‘My mother has a dog.’
I thought of the ugly woman Elizabeth Device, who I’d seen in Hagg Wood with Alice, and the brown mongrel that had slipped past me, and what Roger had said about Elizabeth’s familiar spirit. Surely it was nonsense – I’d seen the creature with my own eyes and there’d been nothing devilish about it. But the woman had turned to me when it passed her … My skin prickled at the memory of her eyes.
‘What is its name?’ I asked.
‘Ball.’
‘That’s a strange name for a dog. Do you have a dog?’
‘No, mine hasn’t shown itself yet.’
What an odd child she was.
‘I have a large dog named Puck. He is somewhere in the house,’ I said.
‘Does he talk to you?’
‘No, but we understand each other.’
Jennet nodded. ‘My sister has one too. And my grandma has a boy.’
‘A boy? You mean a son?’
‘No, a boy. His name is Fancie.
He wears a coat that is brown and black, and sometimes he comes to our house and they go for a walk.’
‘Oh, you mean a dog.’
‘No. He is a boy. She’s known him twenty years and he’s never grown up.’
I couldn’t help but stare at her.
‘Have you told Roger all this?’
‘Oh, yes. He is very interested in my family.’
We stood in an awkward silence, looking at my portrait, then Jennet mounted the last of the stairs and I showed her the long gallery. It was a bright day, and the floor had just been polished, so the windows reflected on to the wood like the sky in a lake. I felt that Jennet was growing bored with her tour, though her gaze continued to rove over every cupboard, every chair, as though she was a merchant assessing it for sale. Once we were back in the tower staircase, she pointed.
‘What’s that room?’
‘That’s my bedroom.’
‘Can we go in?’
I laughed nervously. ‘Not today.’
‘Is someone in there?’
‘No.’
After a pause, she nodded and began her ladylike descent. My palms were slick with sweat, and my heart had begun beating a pattern in my chest. If Alice knew her mother, would Jennet know Alice? I realised I did not want to find out, because I had a peculiar feeling that Jennet Device was dangerous, and I could not say why. How ridiculous that sounded, though – she was a child.
I took her into the hall and she scampered over to Roger like a granddaughter. He and Richard were sitting either side of the table with papers spread between them, and Roger was pouring the dregs of a jug of wine into his cup.
‘Did you enjoy your tour, little one?’ he asked. Jennet nodded. ‘Fleetwood, you are looking better every day.’ I smiled and nodded. ‘Richard,’ he went on, ‘might I trouble you for a mouthful of something before I begin the journey to Lancaster? Is there any of that chicken pie your cook makes going spare? We wouldn’t turn down a crust of that, would we, now?’
He winked at Jennet, who was standing behind his chair like an attentive servant.
‘Fleetwood, would you mind asking the kitchen?’ Richard asked.
‘Of course.’
I curtseyed and went back through the house, feeling cold even though almost all the fires were lit. The kitchen was a part of the house I rarely visited. Along the length of it was a long, low table covered at intervals with flour and pots. Baskets of vegetables stood on the floor and the open range glowed and threw warmth around the room. Above it, ‘Waste Not Want Not’ was spelt in stone letters each the size of a forearm, a reminder left by Uncle Lawrence. A rabbit hung framed in the window, swinging gently. The kitchen staff regarded me in the way I’d grown used to: a quick glance, then away.
The Familiars Page 9
