I stomped inside to fetch the dirty linen, still cross at my wasted effort, but soon slowed. The house seemed to be waiting for something, holding its breath. I traced my name in the dust on the windowsill. I wondered if my mistress would be displeased I could write. I knew it was not something expected of a housemaid. Then fearing it might cast some sort of hex, and would tell the devil where I lived, I rubbed it out again with my sleeve.
While she was out I took the chance to explore, tiptoeing down the empty corridors, brushing spider-webs from my face. Cleaning this place would be an enormous task, and there was only one pair of hands – mine.
In the east wing, when I creaked open one door, a pile of weaponry and armour lay in the middle of the floor. I took in a gleaming halberd, some muskets and shot, even a scythe glinting there in light from the crack in the shutters.
That would teach me to pry, I thought.
I shut the door hurriedly. I did not want to know. Did not want to feel obliged to report what I had seen to anyone in the village. Like my family, the villagers were all fixed on fighting for Parliament and would be desperate to get their hands on these, if they only knew they were there.
Mother had told me that the Fanshawes were Royalists, for the King, so she had warned me to keep quiet about where our sympathies lay.
‘Folk like us can’t afford loyalties,’ she said, ‘not any more. Not if you want to keep your place.’
*
By lunchtime my good dress was drenched from cuff to shoulder. I found aches in parts I didn’t know I had, as I dragged sodden linens out of the tub to run them through the mangle and spread them on the hedges next to the drive to dry. The wind whipped up and the sheets flapped against me as if they had minds of their own. I had to tie the corners to the hawthorn branches to stop them blowing away.
I had just finished and was praying that it would all be dry by nightfall, when my mistress cantered across the field towards me. She had taken off her cloak and it lay across the horses withers; her cheeks were flushed pink, her face merry.
She was just about to dismount when the wind caught under one of the sheets and it filled like a sail. The horse leapt sideways, half-rearing in fright. I grabbed for the sheet but the wind was too strong and the end of it billowed out to flap right in the horse’s face. It reared again, hooves thrumming the air.
Lady Katherine clung to the pommel, but no sooner had it landed than the horse bucked and threw her, bolting off towards the yard, tail stuck up like a flag.
My hand was over my mouth. Lady Katherine did not move, but lay on her back on the wet grass. Thoughts flew. Was she winded? Dead?
What would I tell them at home, that I’d caused the death of my mistress on my very first day? I backed away, not knowing what to do. Then good sense flooded back to me and I rushed forward to help.
A flurry of petticoats and she was up, startling me, brushing herself down, rubbing her back. She saw me staring and began to shout. Her face was white as whey, her green eyes boring into me. I was too terrified to take in her words, just saw her mouth open and close, her riding crop pointing at me accusingly. I moved away, my face frozen.
Finally I was able to make sense of what she was shouting. I was stupid. There were racks in the orchard for drying. She wouldn’t forgive me if Blaze was hurt. The horse, I realised, she was worried about her horse. I opened my mouth to apologize, but she did not give me time,
‘Take the laundry to the orchard,’ she shouted, ‘out of my sight.’
In my hurry I stumbled, scratched my arms and tore my sleeve on the hedge trying to gather the dripping sheets in my arms.
Lady Katherine watched a moment, lips pressed together, then turned on her heel and marched off towards the stables. I could see patches of wet staining the back of her green silk dress.
My legs were so shaky I could hardly walk. When I got to the orchard I could see the drying racks hung from the trees, calm and orderly. I should have thought that in a house like this they wouldn’t just spread the linen over bushes like we did at home. I was stupid, like she said. I’d only been here a morning and already I’d got it wrong. And worse, my new mistress could have died. What if she’d broken a bone?
A hollow feeling sat in my stomach. I hadn’t tended the fire in the library either; Lady Katherine was cold and wet and the fire would be out. I sagged, wondered how long it would be before she sent me home.
After I’d finished hanging out the laundry I was too scared to go up to Lady Katherine. I went to check on her horse though, to make sure no harm had come to it. Blaze was a fine dark bay with a white face.
‘Sorry,’ I said, reaching towards his muzzle.
He side-stepped and rolled his eyes.
I stood silently and waited with my arm outstretched.
After a moment he shook himself and offered his head to be stroked. He was a fine animal. I was good with horses, always had been. My brother Ralph let me ride his horse sometimes and I loved that feeling of sitting on top of the world. No harm seemed to have come to Blaze so my heart stopped its hammering a little. He snuffled up the grass I tore for him from the verge and blew at me through his nose with his hot breath. I rubbed his ears and he nuzzled me back.
When I thought Blaze and I had made friends, I went back to the kitchen, with a vague hope that the porridge might still be on the hearth. I was ravenous. There was the smell of baking and Mistress Binch was there, hands on hips, scowling, as if she’d been waiting especially for me to arrive.
‘Where’s my pail?’
‘Beg pardon, Mistress. I took it. To get some coal.’
‘I’ve been looking for it all over, to mop the floor. And shut that door. Do you think we live in a barn? Go and fetch my pail. Have you never heard of a coal bucket? Don’t be touching my things, do you hear? That’s not a –’
Her mouth snapped open and closed like a trap, but I didn’t want to know any more. I’d have to brave her ladyship and fetch the pail from upstairs. I tried to creep in to the library without Lady Katherine seeing, but she pounced on me as soon as I put my nose through the door.
‘The fire’s out. And I asked you to wait at this door. Where’ve you been?’
‘Hanging the laundry, m’lady.’
‘All this time? You’ll have to be quicker than that. Tell cook I’m ready for my meal. Bring it to the dining room.’ Impatience made her forget to speak slowly.
I cringed away, and made a hurried bob. I ran down all the stairs back to the kitchen where Mistress Binch clucked her lips and frowned at the fact her good pail was full of coal dust.
‘Please mistress,’ I asked, desperately, ‘where’s the coal bucket kept?’
She answered me but with her head turned to the bread oven.
I asked again, and she turned and spat at me, ‘In the main chamber, like I said.’
*
I served Lady Katherine her meal of pie and pease pudding with my own stomach churning and empty. Mistress Binch did not offer me anything to eat and there seemed to be no time to stop anyway. As soon as I had cleared the dishes I was to clean the pewter and then beat the rugs. The fires were always smoking and on the verge of going out. Lady Katherine kept moving from room to room and demanding fires be lit in each one.
As twilight came I was still on the run up and down the corridors and the coal bucket was never out of my hand. Lady Katherine summoned me from where I was bent over the library hearth by stamping hard on the ground. I felt the tremor of the floorboards and turned in time to see her do it again. It got my attention, but it made me angry inside. Seeing her stamp like that reminded me of a small child who could not get her way.
‘Chaplin,’ she said, pacing up and down the room in front of me, and speaking very clearly, ‘a message came. My husband will be home the day after tomorrow, with my step-father and their servants. Wednesday. The day after tomorrow. You will have the house clean and ready. You’re to help Mistress Binch and you will serve us at table. I take it you know how
to do that?’ She did not wait for an answer. ‘And fetch me hot water. My back hurts like the bloody devil.’
She turned and watched me from the corner of her eyes to see my reaction to her oath.
I coloured, remembering. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. ‘Yes m’lady, sorry m’lady. It was the wind. It just snatched the sheets right out of my hand. I didn’t mean to frighten your horse.’
A moment passed between us, a moment where she was just a girl looking at me, a girl who might smile and forgive me. But she tossed her head, quashed it. Her chin rose as she said, ‘Bring the water. And you’d better turn back the bed and light the rush-lights.’
I was back in my place in an instant. ‘Where, m’lady? Where would you like to wash?’
‘My chamber of course.’
I didn’t want to light another fire that day. ‘It might be warmer in here.’
She glared. ‘What a foolish idea. I’m not undressing in the library! Certainly not. Light the fire in my chamber.’
So when I wasn’t carrying coal I was carrying water. As night fell the house became a labyrinth of black shadows. Pools of grey moonlight crept in through the windows. I kept glancing over my shoulder to check there was nobody there, fearful of what else might lurk in all those dark corners. Everyone in the village knew that Markyate Manor stood on the site of an old monastery, but I tried not to think of the spectre of the murdered monk. Folk said he glided through the solid walls as if they were not there.
*
Lady Katherine’s chamber was not a very cheerful place. Grand yes, the ceilings had icings of ornate plaster, but the walls were damp and peeling. What had happened? Why was everything so run-down?
Lady Katherine arrived after I had lit the fire and the rush-lights, and just as I was smoothing out the bed. I was proud of the way I had the jug of hot water already standing by.
‘Unlace me.’ She stood in front of me and turned, obviously expecting me to undress her, but my mouth was dry at such a prospect. I did not dare to touch her with my rough, chapped hands. Her hair fell in soft coppery tendrils over the eyelets of her bodice.
I unlaced her as she fidgeted. I helped her out of the bodice and the skirt, noticing how she shivered with the cold. She pointed at the basin and I fetched it over with the linen cloth, but I stood there, not knowing how to wash her. Which parts should I wash?
She turned and snatched the cloth from my hand. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ She rubbed vigorously at her neck and her face, then her arms. As she scrubbed, the back of her chemise gaped open and I saw faint criss-crosses of white scars. That was shocking enough, but down below there was a big purpleish bruise across her back. I gasped. I had done that. To Lady Katherine Fanshawe. I was horrified.
She swung round. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing m’lady.’
‘Then fetch me a towel and clean linen. If I stand here uncovered who knows what disease may find its way in?’
I wiped gently, and saw her wince. She turned and pulled the cloth from my hand. ‘Not like that. You’re too clumsy.’
‘There’s a bruise m’lady.’
‘It’s nothing. I’ve suffered worse.’
I lowered my eyes and she threw the cloth back in the basin. She confused me, this child-woman with the arrogant look. And she was never still, full of a strange restlessness. There was a trunk in an adjoining dressing room and I rummaged inside, glad to find a dry cloth and a clean nightdress.
I held out the cloth for her to dry herself but she shook her head. Her foot tapped on the floor and her eyes showed she was thinking of something else. ‘When my husband Thomas is home, you will sleep here,’ she announced.
She seemed very young to be married, but I curtseyed to this order and bunched up the nightdress for her to put her arms through the sleeves. ‘You can bring your bedding down,’ she said. ‘And you are to help me move that chest against the door.’ Her hands fluttered as she talked.
There was another door in the wall opposite the dressing room, and she saw me look to it.
‘Yes, that’s his room. My step-father has the key.’
Her face showed she did not like him. I tied the strings at the front of her gown in a bow.
‘Both doors,’ she said, looking into my eyes. ‘We’ll secure both doors.’
*
When I left Lady Katherine it was full dark. Coming out of her well-lit room was a shock and I took a moment to steady my breath. I gripped tight to the banisters with one hand, the basin of dirty water slopping in the other, reaching out for the steps with my toes.
There was not enough light to do chores, though Mistress Binch had left unfinished pewter on the kitchen table with the sand and sawdust for polishing. A stub of candle was in one of the drawers so I lit it gratefully, and sat on a kitchen stool a moment, feeling the pressure lift from my feet. I was bone-weary. The remains of a meal lay on the table, and I crammed an edge of pie-crust and some cold pease pudding into my mouth with my fingers.
The doors in the house were well-bolted by Mistress Binch, except the back door, so I slid the bolts home. Shielding my precious candle, I wound my way upstairs. The door opposite mine was closed. I guessed Mistress Binch lodged there.
My room was as I’d left it, flickering now in the light from my single flame. It seemed like twelve months since I’d first set foot here, not only twelve hours.
I did not undress, but took my cloak from its peg on the door. I flung myself onto the bed, but there was no softness or bounce, just the planks. The thin straw mattress smelled of mould, so I spread out my cloak on it and lay down, watching the candle-flame dance. I prayed that if I closed my eyes to sleep the candle would not set anything alight. At night I was always caught between these two fears – the fear of fire and the fear of waking in the dark.
Nobody except a deaf person knows how it feels to lie in the inky blackness, unable to know what has woken you, unable to hear, unable to see. The way the dark closes in as if you’re locked in a box, muffled from the rest of the world. The fear that some danger might be behind you, and you’d never know until it was too late.
I thought of home; Mother and Elizabeth sleeping companionably, their shawls tangled together, and of my brother Ralph, downstairs on the proddy rug, his long legs spread out before the fire, feet still in his boots, his sword ready in case of trouble. I missed them already with a hollow pain below my ribs that made me clutch my side to keep from crying. Outside, an owl flashed by my window. I felt the fear in my chest fluttering hard to get out.
I wound my fingers into the cloak, holding it tight as if it might shield me against the night terrors. Thomas Fanshawe was coming with his stepfather and there was all that huge house to clean before they did. How could I do it all with no help? I heard Ralph’s voice saying, ‘You can do it, Abi!’ the way he used to when I was struggling with my letters, or learning to form new words with my lips.
I pictured my brother’s smiling face, his tousled hair – my wayward brother who was always caught in the grip of some new-fangled idea or other, and never listened to a word anyone said, except to me. He always made time to listen to me. Perhaps because of what happened to me, and because I didn’t talk much. He talked to me when he needed to discover something for himself – he’d lay it out before me like laying out a fleece for inspection, thinking I could not really hear, and I’d read his lips even more easily when he spoke slow and soft.
And it was Ralph who’d encouraged me to read Mother’s recipe books, though it was hard, so I wouldn’t lose my language. He wanted me to learn the look of folks’ words on a page. The dancing letters that matched the shape of people’s lips.
I steeled myself, set myself to pray. I prayed for forgiveness as I did every night. God had already punished me by bringing me the spotted fever. Four days I had fought the demons of the disease, but when I had awoken, the music had left my life. No more creak of the sails on the windmill, no more lowing of cattle or t
he ripple of my brother’s laughter. No more birdsong. So I had to pray, with all my heart. Perhaps then God would forgive me and my hearing would return.
I pinched the candle out with my eyes closed, so I could pretend I liked it here at the manor, that I’d chosen the dark myself and it was still daylight beyond my eyelids. Then I put my face towards the window determined to waken at the first inkling of light.
3. Diggers’ Dreams
I was awake long before dawn to wash myself at the well and because I was too scared of the day ahead to go back to sleep.
Mistress Binch had left porridge bubbling, but was out of the kitchen. I took the pot off the heat whilst I scrubbed the pewter from the night before and milked the five cows. There was too much milk for such a small household, but I put some in the butter churn and some to sour before serving the porridge.
Mistress Binch arrived back with some eggs, complaining before she had even shut the door. ‘Look at the place,’ Mistress Binch said to me. ‘There’s grass growing in the gutters, the vegetable garden hasn’t been sown, and Mr Grice won’t let Lady Katherine take on more servants. And when I asked her yesterday how I was to manage to feed Sir Simon and all his serving men with no help in the vegetable plot, she just shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Ask Mr Grice”.’
‘Who is Mr Grice?’ I asked. He was the man who didn’t want me here and I was curious to know more about him.
‘He’s the overseer that looks after the house and looks to Lady Katherine whilst her menfolk are away fighting. He’s been with the family for years. Here – get these boiling in the pan.’ She thrust the eggs at me. ‘He was her guardian too when she was smaller, so there’ll be no riding out like a wild thing when he’s back, I can tell you. She’ll have to behave like a proper lady then.’
‘Is he fighting with her husband for the King?’ I’d broken one of the eggs and it was swirling round in the water. I tried to fish it out with a slotted spoon without Mistress Binch seeing.
‘No. Mr Grice was wounded at the battle of Naseby, so he can’t fight.’
Shadow on the Highway Page 2