The Lady Brewer of London

by Karen Brooks

  “You have to suffer them,” Betrix finished, and placed an arm around my shoulders.

  Had anyone else said those words, I may have denied them. But I’d known Betrix for years. When Father refused to heed the guild and became independent (or so I’d thought) by going into business with Lord Rainford, Betrix’s mother, Else, and mine managed to ensure their friendship, and that of their daughters, survived. Up until Mother died, we’d shared so much—silly secrets and the frivolous dreams of the very young; our blooming attraction to various visiting knights or the sons of lords or wealthy merchants. The kind one has when the future is all rosy promise and a press of lips both harmless and pregnant with meaning. Once Hiske was ensconced within the house, taking control of Mother’s duties and many others as well, sacking servants and allocating their tasks to me and those who remained (“Idleness is the devil’s playground,” she’d say), she rejected Mistress Else Fortescue’s attempts at friendship, literally closing the door upon her. That meant Betrix was also denied. Though we’d exchanged furtive and even passionate letters of indignation and endless reassurances of sisterly love, and managed to meet in the woods and even at the market once or twice, Hiske’s snubbing of Mistress Fortescue (who, as far as she was concerned, as the daughter of a laundress, had married far above her station) meant our friendship eventually cooled. I’d been allowed to attend Betrix’s wedding, and I’d even squeezed in a visit after her son, Henry, was born. But I’d seen her stepping out with other girls, girls we’d once laughed at for their foolish antics and lack of learning. The truth was, I’d thought Betrix lost to me and mourned her long ago. Father’s death proved me wrong and for that I was very grateful. I learned that some things weren’t altered by time, not in an irreparable way anyhow.

  Betrix left the house promising to return when things settled. I would hold her to that—Hiske or no Hiske.

  I’d half expected the head of the Kontor, the foreign trading post set up by the Hanseatic League in Elmham Lenn, Captain Hatto Stoyan, to call. Amid all the other visitors, I felt his absence acutely. Though Mother’s death had put a strain on his relationship with Father (he’d known Mother’s family for years and would deliver news from Maastricht whenever he returned from there), I’d thought he’d make the effort. Despite Father, he’d always had a kind word for me and made a point of bringing the odd cask of wine or two from Bordeaux, cheeses from Ghent, and ribbons or lace from Italy for our pleasure. Excuses to visit they may have been, but I always enjoyed the captain’s presence and Mother’s spirits were visibly buoyant after he’d visited. Though I’d barely seen him since Mother died, I regarded Captain Stoyan, possibly unrealistically, as a link to her. Puzzled and hurt by his absence at first, I later discovered he was in London. I considered writing to him; I wanted him to know about Father, about us. But there were others who needed to be told first.

  Bad news is bold, a jackanapes, spreading faster than a plague, whereas good news is like a freshly hired hand, circumspect, afraid to overstep the mark. Just as I’d told the twins, I wanted to be the one to let Tobias know. Even though I was sure Lord Rainford would have dispatched a messenger to his son, I wrote briefly but, I hoped, lovingly. Tobias may have let correspondence between us falter, but I’d never done so. Though, since Mother died, I’d not had to deliver such bad tidings.

  After organizing the making of mourning clothes, a task readily undertaken by Mistress Taylor in town, I pulled Adam aside and shared with him the rest of what Master Makejoy had told me. Adam listened respectfully as I explained my situation (ours, he gruffly corrected, and I wanted to throw my arms around his neck as I had as a child), his strong jaw clenching and unclenching, his hand occasionally rising to run through his thick, gray hair or graze the fine stubble on his cheeks. I finished by asking him to elucidate where we stood as a household and business. I thought maybe I could throw myself on Lord Rainford’s mercy, but in order to do that I needed to understand the costs of running a house our size. If Lord Rainford was, as Master Makejoy inferred, to offer the lease to someone else, why could it not be me?

  For the next three nights, Adam and I waited until everyone was abed, then equipped with candles and cresset lamp, retired to the office. There was nothing surreptitious in our action; it was just that I preferred Hiske remain, for the time being at least, ignorant of what I was doing. On the first night, Adam made a fire and, as the kindling took, he opened a big ledger on the table. Inviting me to take Father’s chair, he sat beside me. Moving through the columns of neat figures and annotations he’d made over the weeks and months, I learned, to my dismay, that the day-to-day costs of running the house were more than I anticipated. While the tenant farmers paid reasonable tithes and supplied a variety of meat, grain, and dairy produce, like most of the town we were beholden to the Friary of St. Jude’s for our ale and purchased wood and coal from the respective merchants. Cloth and other sundries were bought when needed. Occasionally, small amounts went to the thatcher, farrier, cooper, cobbler, and all other manner of trades for repairs to and replacements of objects I had taken for granted. Then there was the servants’ wages . . .

  To ensure we maintained the household, even at the most basic of levels, more income was required. If we reestablished the vegetable garden, planted some more trees in the orchard, and started making our own ale again, we could make some savings. Wood could be collected from the forest, coal we’d have to ration. Mother’s and Father’s clothes could be recut for Karel and Betje and shoes patched; apart from mourning clothes, I could make do. I drank in all this information like a thirsty pilgrim. There was still some produce awaiting sale in the shop, but I no longer had the rights to it.

  I closed the pages we’d been studying, and tied the boards protecting them together. We sat companionably, staring at the flames. The office looked quite welcoming in its cheerful light, the halo of the candle we’d lit possessing an unearthly quality, the lamp aglow.

  “I feel most foolish. I’d no idea the house cost so much to run. And please don’t even think it.” I shook a finger in his direction. “No one will be asked to leave. Not yet. Not ever if I can help it.” I sighed and threw my hands up in the air. “What do we do now, Adam?”

  He looked at me sadly. “Pray for a miracle, Mistress Anneke. Pray.”

  “Well, then,” I said, slapping my thighs and rising. “Let’s make a start on that, shall we?”

  Four

  Elmham Lenn

  After the Nones of October

  The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV

  Over the next few days, Hiske took every opportunity to remind me of my situation and to refresh her offer of employment. Doreen had taken to putting on airs, earning a scolding from Saskia and Blanche. Unperturbed, the cocky girl raised her chin and strode off with the confidence of one who knew her place would soon be higher than those to whom she currently answered. From the looks that were exchanged, so did Blanche and Saskia.

  To make matters worse, five days after the news of Father’s death and our changed circumstances, Master Makejoy returned with another letter from Lord Rainford. Passing it to me, Master Makejoy waited while I read the contents. Quite simply, it was a notice to quit the premises. We’d four weeks. The housekeeper, steward, and cook were invited to remain for the new tenant, while the rest of the servants would be paid a small sum and given “goodly references as they deserve” from his lordship. There was no mention of the twins or me. It was as if we didn’t exist.

  I sat staring at the letter, arms loose by my sides. My mind refused to still as a thousand thoughts flew around like caged birds. I could not capture one. My stomach churned. Four weeks.

  Master Makejoy rested a hand on my shoulder. “Our offer still stands, Mistress Sheldrake. Myself and Mistress Jabben, soon to be Mistress Makejoy, would make you most welcome.”

  I gave a deep sigh. “I’m sure that you would treat your servants very nicely, Master Makejoy—”

  Puzzled by my
tone and words, Master Makejoy shook his head. “You’d be no servant.”

  I didn’t correct him but continued. “Only, it’s difficult for me to consider such a reduction in circumstances when I’ve been accustomed to a very different life. You can understand that, can you not?”

  “I do understand, Mistress Sheldrake, I do indeed. You’ve also enjoyed the help of your good cousin for many years, so it wouldn’t be so strange, surely, if this was to continue longer? Is it not time for you to repay your debt to her?” When I didn’t reply, he coughed into his fist. “Forgive me for saying so, but those who have no choice cannot be so fussy, can they? You can’t change what the good Lord intends.” He gave a crooked smile to lighten the severity of his words. It only succeeded in rendering them cruel.

  As I escorted him to the door, I wondered, What could I do? Even as I tried to think of ways of earning an income, of supporting the household, I knew I would have to inform Saskia and the others about Lord Rainford’s generous terms, that they didn’t have to leave the house or Elmham Lenn. It was the one bit of bright news. Was that what bothered me? The idea that educated as I was, trained to be a good wife and mother for some impoverished noble or wealthy merchant, I would suddenly be relegated to the status of servant? Surely, we were all servants in God’s eyes? Was it that or was it the idea of working for Cousin Hiske and Master Makejoy that perturbed me, indeed, made me rebel with every fiber of my being?

  God help me, I was proud. I would keep my own house, my own family. But how could this happen? I’d no means, no prospects . . .

  Was I being punished for my sins? Or for Mother’s?

  I could feel Will’s eyes upon me as I walked down the hall and knew my distress would carry the conversation in the kitchen tonight. I was beyond caring. I needed to find an answer and fast. But what? Oh, Papa, Papa . . . Mother . . . Moeder . . .

  That night a storm raged, shaking the shutters while rain lashed the roof and lightning tore the sky. Instead of remaining in the solar with Hiske, I endured her disapproval and wandered downstairs to the main hall. Taking her role of chaperone seriously, Hiske followed. The trestle table and benches had been cleared, the floor swept. Unlike many houses, with the exception of the shop, we eschewed rushes in the lower rooms, adopting the style of my mother’s homeland, laying timber floors. The hounds bounded over to greet me, their claws clicking and sliding, their tongues wet, their breath steaming. Thrusting their great shaggy heads beneath my arms and onto my lap as I knelt, they whimpered when a low, long growl of thunder shook the house and their hackles rose. I laughed that two such huge creatures were rendered helpless by the weather, then remembered how treacherous and deadly it could be and my laughter died.

  Joining the servants by the hearth, they welcomed me and Hiske, the women returning to their sewing; Saskia, her spinning. Sitting down close to a cresset lamp, I unpicked some embroidery Betje had attempted. Hiske sat on a stool beside me, back erect, hands in her lap, not speaking. Even the silence between us was laden with meaning, with pressure and inevitability. I felt it with every sigh my relative issued, every look cast upon me with all the grace of a seagull. The low chatter of Saskia and Blanche, and occasional comment from Doreen, Iris, and Will, was a blessed relief.

  After the first candle expired in a molten pool of wax and the lamps dimmed, I excused myself to go to bed. But first I looked in on the twins, who slept soundly, Louisa stretched on a pallet at the foot of their bed. In my room, I slowly undressed and, placing my nightgown near the fire to warm it, wrapped a shawl tightly to cover my nakedness and sat at the window, watching and listening to the storm. How terrifying it must have been for those on the Cathaline, trapped upon the sea in a creaking, shuddering wooden vessel, the waves arching over the deck, pounding them into the fathoms below. My reflections were dark. I wondered if Father suffered. What had been his last thoughts? Were they of Mother? He’d never shed a tear for her, not that I’d seen. Did he weep for himself when he realized all was lost? Or, as I now suspected, had everything he valued vanished years earlier? But if that was the case, why had he ever entered into such a one-sided agreement with the man who was the cause of such grief? Did he no longer care? How could he make himself so beholden to the noble who’d been party to such a great betrayal? I would never know. Not now.

  Retreating from the gasps of cold that crept through the cracks, I threw on my nightshirt and snuggled under the furs. Despite the comfort and warmth, sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned, adopting the wild rhythms of the weather. Sometime toward dawn, I drifted into that in-between space where the waking world and that of apparitions and spirits collide. Mother came to me, drawn across a nimbus of memories. There she was, a younger, more colorful woman, holding my hand steady as I practiced my letters; then she was beside me; then opposite, a book open in her lap, reading to me. Her gentle brow was drawn, her white-gold hair framing her face, her voice earnest. Next, we were conversing, our hands as much a part of the conversation as our tongues. I couldn’t tell if we were speaking German, Dutch, or Spanish, languages Mother insisted I should be fluent in, but we were laughing between words. Father listened, hands behind his back, a bemused look on his face as his women chattered in foreign tongues. His stern voice demanded we speak French or English and, with a look of regret, we did, Mother promising me with her eyes that as soon as Father departed again, our language lessons would resume. We could set the patterns of our days when Father was gone. Read, talk, explore, garden, brew, ride. My soul began to lighten as I relived the times I’d shared with Mother until I found myself thinking of those last frenzied words she’d uttered, after she’d revealed the terrible truth . . .

  “I tell you not to torment you or taint your memory of me, but so that you will understand. Do not blame your father. He is faultless in this. I tell you so that one day, my darling, you will have the power to help yourself, Tobias, and the twins should the need arise, should Father be unable or”—she coughed, her breathing labored—“choose not to . . . What happened . . . it hurt him deeply. Scarred him in ways I can only imagine. If you cannot see it in yourself to forgive me, then please, my sweetling, at least forgive him.”

  I rolled over. What did you mean, Mother? I don’t understand . . . I don’t know what to do . . . I was three again, wailing in my sleep, crying for my mother.

  As when I was little, she came to me just as I’d given up hope, standing at the end of the bed, regarding me in a manner I knew all too well. Her soft smile, tilted head, exuding faith in her eldest; it was brimming from her eyes. “You will make it work, Anneke. You always do.” It’s what she would say to me whether it was a napkin I couldn’t fold correctly, a stitch I hadn’t mastered, or a word I couldn’t translate. I reached out and her image dissolved. I fell into sleep then—the kind from which there is no rest. All the while, her words echoed: You will make it work, work, work.

  The sky had begun to transform, its oyster dullness just creeping into the room when I woke and sat bolt upright, my heart pounding. I threw back the covers and went to the window. Wrenching open the panes, I gazed upon the new day. Following the boundary of the property, I took stock of what it contained: the storage rooms at the rear, the kitchen below, the stables with the rooms above, the bakehouse, the brewhouse . . . the brewhouse with the small room attached at the back. The silhouette of the buildings blurred before forming something more solid, something upon which my mind could alight and hold fast. As I stared, an idea plucked at the edges of my imagination, teasing me with its incompleteness, its fragments refusing to cohere, until . . .

  I knew what it was I had to do—what I had to try.

  You will make it work, Anneke. You always do.

  In order to do this, there was one person to whom I could turn, if not to learn the truth, then to test its veracity and possibly change everything.

  Wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, I flew down the stairs. Outside, the cocks crowed and the rattle of the henhouse doors reverberated causing the dog
s to bark, telling me the house was astir. I slipped into the office and, shivering in its icy darkness, lit the remnants of a candle. I quickly found what I was looking for and while I still felt my mother’s presence, wrote a letter.

  Reading it over, I sanded the paper and, using Father’s seal, closed it. I sat for a moment; the cold had fled my body to be replaced by unnatural warmth. I wiped my brow, my chest tight, my throat ashes. I can make this work. I can.

  “Mistress Sheldrake!”

  “Will!”

  “I saw the light beneath the door.” Will’s face flamed. “I wondered if someone had left a candle burning. But you’re here. Sorry, mistress . . . Is there anything I can fetch you?”

  I stared at him, at his sleep-patterned face, at the way his uniform was not yet laced properly. “Nay. Thank you.” He bowed and went to leave.

  Make it work.

  “Wait. Actually, there is.” I rose. “I need you to saddle Shelby and deliver this.” I handed him the letter, my hand closing over his for just a second, imparting significance, urgency. “You’re to wait until there’s an answer and return at once.”

  He took the folded parchment, noted the seal, and frowned. “But, Mistress Sheldrake, Mistress Blanche and Mistress Saskia have work for me. They will—”

  “Understand when I inform them I’ve sent you on an errand.”

  Will stared at the letter. “Where am I to deliver it, mistress?”

  I hesitated. If I asked Will to take it to Lord Rainford’s house in town, then chances were Master Makejoy and Hiske would learn of my intentions. That would not do. Not yet. I made up my mind. “To Scales Hall, Will.”

  “Lord Rainford’s residence on the Gayfleet?”

  “The same. I want you to do whatever you can to ensure this reaches his lordship. Am I clear?”