by Nunn, Kayte
Alice did not reply.
Rowan tried to go about her work as unobtrusively as possible, and the idea of her master or mistress having a favourite among the staff had not occurred to her. ‘You have no reason to be concerned by me,’ she said. ‘None at all. I have no interest in being anyone’s favourite.’
Alice snorted and rolled over, pretending sleep.
Since then she’d had very little time to ponder the matter, but when she came upon Alice leaving the master’s chamber before supper one evening, she felt a flicker of suspicion, for she knew of no reason why the maid might be there. Alice brushed her off, muttering something about a shirt that required mending and refusing to meet her eyes, and in that moment Rowan began to think that there might be more reason for Alice’s animosity than she had been given to understand.
Patrick Hollander was often away conducting business in London or, when he was at home, about the town on mysterious errands. From what Rowan was able to observe, her mistress did little other than sit at the pianoforte or read by the fire, and Rowan had grown accustomed to hearing the sound of music floating through the house as she went about her work. There was one tune in particular that Mrs Hollander returned to time and again. Rowan recalled her mother singing the same notes as she rocked her littlest brother, Albie, to sleep. A lullaby. And each time Rowan heard the notes she thought of the tarnished baby’s rattle she had found on her first morning, and noted the flat stays under her mistress’s gown.
Accustomed as she was to a house overflowing with bodies and chatter and movement, Rowan found the merchant’s house unnaturally quiet, and she was left alone with no one to oversee her for many hours of the day, though she did not dare slacken in her duties. She used her precious free time to wander the garden, a long strip of land bounded on two sides by a high brick wall, and which delighted her with its climbing honeysuckle and thorny rose bushes. At the rear was an orchard, a thicket of apple, damson and medlar trees, and then the stream, which was choked with watercress and marsh marigold, mallow, oxlips and willowherb. She also discovered a kitchen garden where a number of herbs and other medicinal plants, including her favourites feverfew, lemon balm, costmary, hyssop and chamomile, grew. She resolved that when she had the time she would gather peppermint, comfrey and rosemary to make an ointment to soothe her aching muscles, dry the witch hazel to make a balm for her skin, and dig out the teasel root that grew in abundance, for ailments of the stomach and nerves. When summer came she would gather wild rose petals and lavender buds for fragrant water to sprinkle on the bedsheets.
One afternoon, she spent near on an hour searching for the ingredients for a tincture for Prudence, for she had noticed that the cook had developed a cough that sounded like parchment rasping over stone. Prudence’s bedchamber was next to hers and Alice’s, and they would all sleep more soundly if her throat were soothed.
At the rear of the garden, beyond the orchard, the garden sloped away and as Rowan explored more thoroughly, she came to bushes of rosemary and sage along its edges. She tore off a few leaves from each plant, tucking them into her pocket, taking care not to bruise the tender young sage leaves. Then, in a far corner, what she had been hoping for: rosehips.
She was returning, a handful of the bright fruits gathered in her apron, when she saw Prudence standing at the back door, a long broom in her hand. ‘Whatever are you doing out there, girl? I’ve been calling for you for some time – did you not hear me? Come in at once, for you’ll catch your death; ’tis a bitter wind blowing.’
Rowan had been so absorbed in her explorations that she’d barely noticed the cold. She pulled a handful of the bright fruits from her pocket. ‘I might brew a decoction,’ she said. ‘For your cough.’Twill ease it.’
Prudence eyed her doubtfully, weighing up the benefits of such an endeavour. ‘Seeing as how your salve helped young Tommy,’ she said eventually, ‘I’ll say that’s most thoughtful of you. But mind you leave things as you find them and do not make more work for me.’
Later, Rowan boiled the herbs and hips in fresh water drawn from the well until she had a dark liquid to which she added a drizzle of honey and a splash of vinegar. The window fogged with the steam from her potion and the room was warm from the range. It was a most pleasant place to be and she sang to herself quietly, a song her mother had taught her about a heartbroken lover and a winding shroud. It added a note of melancholy to her mood but she hummed the tune nonetheless. When the hips had softened, she strained them into the mortar that had once been her mother’s, and pounded them to a pulp before returning them to the liquid. The mortar was little more than a hollowed stone, with a long rounded rock as a pestle, but Rowan liked to believe that it still held some of her mother’s power.
When she deemed it time, she decanted the mixture into a beaker and set it aside on the windowsill to cool. Later she would stopper it with a cork that she had taken from one of the master’s empty port bottles. It was a small thing to make a soothing draught for Prudence, but as she worked she felt the connection to the women of her family who had gone before her, that they too had made such remedies, and it gave her great comfort.
One afternoon, Tommy Dean appeared again at the back door and displayed his leg for the women to inspect. ‘Look!’ he said, with a triumphant expression. The wound had completely healed over, only a faint scar now visible. ‘’Tis almost as if it never happened.’
Rowan grinned back at him, pleased that he was well and happier still to see him, for in idle moments she had found herself recalling the warmth of his smile and wondering if she might see him again. Though it had been only a matter of weeks since their first encounter, Tommy looked as though he had filled out in that short time, becoming broader in the chest. His voice had deepened and he was noticeably taller. She was reminded that her brothers would be changing too and it made her momentarily sad that she was so far away from them. ‘You’ll steer a wide path away from the horses in future, I’m sure,’ she said.
‘I’ll certainly be quicker on my feet,’ he laughed.
Prudence nodded approvingly at her. ‘You’ve a rare talent there, Rowan,’ the cook admitted.
‘What’s that?’ Alice asked, looking up from the sock she was darning.
‘She has a healing gift,’ said Prudence. ‘I have seen it myself, for my cough is already improved.’
Alice buried her head in her mending but not before Rowan had seen a sneer of contempt mar her features. ‘You disagree, Alice?’ she asked boldly.
‘I am not certain I have an opinion one way or the other,’ she replied, though her tone was at odds with her words. ‘Best the master not hear of such a thing,’ she added. ‘If there is the slightest breath of magic or witchcraft under his roof …’
‘Hush, I say!’ cried Prudence, making the sign against evil spirits. ‘Do not use that word inside of these walls. We are talking of a healing talent, nothing more.’
‘Remember what happened to Widow Spanswick,’ said Alice darkly.
‘What?’ Rowan asked.
‘She used to offer syrups, balms and the like,’ said Alice. ‘Came into town on market days. Then, last harvest time, the baker’s daughter took ill. The pox. He begged her for a tincture, and then gave it to his wife, but the wife and child were both dead ’ere the week was out. Cold as marble.’
‘And then what happened?’ Rowan asked, concern blooming in her chest.
‘The widow was driven from the town,’ said Alice, obviously relishing the story. ‘Some of the men – our master included – confronted her at the next market day and told her that if she ever showed her face in Oxleigh again, she would be brought before the magistrate. It was only due to the fact of her late husband having been so well thought of that she wasn’t thrown in the town lock-up and accused of poisoning.’ She locked eyes with Rowan.
‘Stop frightening the girl,’ Prudence scolded. ‘Rowan would never be so foolish as to try to treat someone with the pox.’
Alice shrugged and returne
d to her mending, a sceptical expression on her face, and Rowan felt a chill of unease snake down her spine.
Most of the time, Alice saw to Caroline, but one afternoon when Alice was out on an errand, two women came to call. As Rowan served them tea and sweetmeats prepared by Prudence, she snuck fascinated glances at their fine clothes and elegantly dressed hair. One had a swollen belly, and as Rowan overheard excited chatter about a growing family, she saw her mistress’s serene expression slip for a moment.
After they had departed, Caroline pulled her aside and led her into the shop at the front of the house. There, Rowan looked on in open-mouthed awe at the bolts of fine cloth spread out on the long, wide countertop, so fine and fluid that they spilled over the edges like water from a dam. Her fingers itched to touch them, to feel the softness for herself.
‘We’re here to choose the fabric for a new gown, for I cannot have you serving my friends again in that,’ Caroline said, running her eyes over Rowan’s coarse chemise and the patched flax of her dress. ‘Heaven only knows what they will think of us if we cannot even keep our maids properly clothed.’
Rowan was like a ravenous man at a feast of delicacies as she stared at the fabrics. Which might she be permitted to choose? Indeed, would she be allowed to choose or must she accept what she was given? Alice’s garments, though of course not as fine as their mistress’s, were still well fitting and fashionable.
Several heavy leather-bound pattern books sat on the counter, but she could not confess to her mistress that she had already snatched glances at the swatches of vibrant fabrics contained therein as she swept the floors every morning. She remembered one with a soft pink stripe and another woven with posies of tiny blue and yellow flowers and allowed herself a small dream of a beautiful gown with a full skirt, matching sleeves and a fitted bodice sitting neatly over her stays.
Jeremiah, the pinch-faced, bewigged man who served in the shop, pulled out a bolt of plain broadcloth, the colour like that left in the trough after Prudence had washed the dinner dishes, a kind of murky grey–brown. ‘This is most serviceable,’ he said, his gaze travelling the length of Rowan’s shabby dress.
Dishwater grey. Rowan’s hopes were dashed. It had been too much to wish for a prettier colour, and she struggled to hide her disappointment.
Caroline nodded in agreement. ‘She will need a new cap too. Perhaps some ribbon as well, for even a maid might dream of dressing like a duchess. You may have a trim of your own choosing, Rowan.’
‘Yes, mistress. Thank you.’ It was a small kindness, she supposed.
‘I wonder if I might ask something of you?’ Caroline said as they left the shop and entered the parlour. A curious expression coloured her pretty features, one of hope and anxiety combined.
‘Yes, mistress?’
‘I understand you have a gift with herbal tonics and the like.’
Rowan thought carefully before answering. ‘They … they are but commonplace remedies,’ she stammered, remembering Alice’s tale of Widow Spanswick. ‘Simple infusions and tinctures, no more’n that.’
‘I see,’ Caroline said. ‘Nothing stronger?’
Margaret Gyngell, Mistress Anne Bodenham, the Handsel sisters: her mother had whispered their names to Rowan, warning her of their fates. Even now, a person could still be fined or imprisoned for claiming to be a witch. Rowan hesitated, for she did not know how best to reply, but she was saved from answering as her mistress continued.
‘This is rather a delicate matter, you understand. Not one I would generally discuss with a serving maid. I trust you will be discreet.’
Rowan nodded, aware as they stood side by side of how slight her mistress was, the handspan of her waist.
‘Then I will speak plainly. My husband and I have been married five years, but are yet to be blessed with children. I have prayed daily, until my knees are quite bruised, but to no avail. I have to confess it is a great sadness to me. I worry that my marriage has a sickness and that my inability to produce an heir is the cause of it.’
Caroline tapped her fingers against her skirts, seemingly unaware of the rhythm she played. Rowan recalled the tarnished rattle she had found on her first day at the house and not seen since.
‘I am compelled to ask if you know of a nostrum that might …’ She cleared her throat, a rising pinkness in her complexion indicating her embarrassment with the subject. ‘Assist in such matters.’
Rowan weighed up the wisdom of revealing the extent of her knowledge. If she agreed, then might her mistress come to suspect her of unnatural powers, especially if she was not successful? And if her master were to find out? She shuddered, for she now knew what might happen then. But if she were to refuse, then Caroline might take against her. She wanted to help if she could, for to be a wife but not a mother was surely a sad state to be in.
There was trouble in either course of action.
‘I have heard of one such receipt,’ she said carefully. ‘But it can be dangerous, if ill used. And I am not certain that I will be able to find all that I need.’
A look of relief came over Caroline, and Rowan saw once more the sweetness in her mistress’s face when she smiled. ‘I shall let Prudence know that you may have extra time to search for all that you require. The forest to the north of the town yields all manner of plants that are not found elsewhere, so I am told. However, if you cannot find all that you seek growing nearby, you may visit the apothecary. Be sure to instruct him to send the account to me directly and not my husband.’
‘Some of the ingredients might prove costly,’ Rowan cautioned.
Caroline waved away her concerns. ‘Do not trouble yourself with that.’ She also didn’t seem to have heard Rowan’s doubt that she might not be able to concoct the draught. Rowan knew plenty about the birthing of babies, having watched and once even helped her mother bring them into the world, but the making of them – how to bring about the kernel of a new life beyond what she had observed in the paddock and the stable – well, that was something else entirely.
Rowan’s mind went back to a time when she had watched her mother scour the hedgerows and pound herbs by the full moon’s light. She was thankful that she had paid close attention, that her mother had made her repeat the ingredients and method of combining them back to her until she was satisfied Rowan could recite all of them without error. Perhaps she would be able to find the nettles, dandelion, orris root and other ingredients that she needed hereabouts. ‘It may take me some weeks to gather the herbs. I shall need until early spring at least,’ she said.
Caroline sighed impatiently. ‘Are you sure it cannot be done sooner?’
Rowan shook her head. ‘Some will not yet be in bloom.’
‘Very well, what is a few months more, I suppose,’ she said, sighing again. ‘But say nothing at all to my husband.’
‘Of course not, mistress.’ Rowan caught a flash of the shape of a baby in her mind’s eye. But it did not fill her with warmth, for its face was as pale as candlewax, the eyes closed. She shooed the image away.
‘I understand you are an orphan, but have four brothers.’
Rowan was surprised that Caroline had taken note of this. Prudence must have informed her, for she was certain she had not mentioned it to anyone else. She nodded. ‘They are all younger than I.’
‘You must miss them, for family is a comfort. If you are successful, then I will perhaps manage to persuade my husband to grant you a week’s leave, that you may go and see them.’
‘Thank you, thank you indeed.’ Rowan turned to leave.
‘Oh, and Rowan?’
‘Yes, mistress?’
Caroline produced a small folded paper from the pocket of her frock coat and held it out.
For a moment, Rowan didn’t understand what it was.
‘Your wage,’ Caroline said.
Rowan took the packet and felt its weight in her hand, tangible evidence of her months of hard work. ‘I am much obliged, mistress,’ she said, bobbing a curtsey. Caroline dismissed
her and Rowan left the room with her mind awhirl. She had been right to offer assistance. The thought of perhaps seeing her brothers in the months to come and being able to give her aunt and uncle money she had earned to help with their keep, was more than she had allowed herself to hope for.
TWELVE
December 1768, London
After waiting a respectable half-hour following the departure of the silk merchant, Mary left the house. She clutched a handful of the coins he had given her as an advance and went immediately to the butcher on the corner of Spital Square. ‘Your finest pullet,’ she said, feeling a thrill of pride rush through her. ‘And a pound of lamb’s fry, if you please.’ She and Frances would feast that night, and the ones to come.
When she returned home again, cheeks flushed with the cool air and the astonishing turnaround in their fortunes, she found her sister sitting in the drawing room. Mary’s sketchbook was in her hands.
‘Is anything amiss?’ she asked, for Frances wore a most serious expression. On the table by her side, in a short, stacked tower, were the remaining coins that he had left them.
Frances glanced up. ‘All your eggs in one basket? Is that wise? And does he really know what he is doing, to promise you work for a year or more? I know your designs are unique, sister, and please do not misunderstand me when I say this, but not one is yet woven into fabric. Can you trust him?’
‘I believe so. Why do you doubt him?’
Frances picked up one of the coins and held it to the light as if testing whether it were real. ‘There is something …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Something? What, exactly?’ Mary was put out. She didn’t want her sister to prick the bubble of goodwill that Mr Hollander’s proposal had brought, but on the other hand, she respected her judgment.
‘Nothing, I suppose,’ Frances waved her away. ‘In any case, beggars cannot be choosers.’
‘Well, tonight we are not beggars. We have a fowl for supper, and more, and I for one will be glad not to be hungry for a change,’ Mary said firmly.