He spread his hands out. ‘I think we have something special. Come here.’
She hugged the fleece to her as a barrier against his charm. ‘I want to live with someone, bring up my baby with someone. I’m twenty-nine, Marcus. At my age you were married. You had had your first baby.’ The word caught in her throat as she remembered the tiny, fragile bones in the well.
‘This is just the hormones speaking. Christ, Fliss thought about chucking me out at the end of the last pregnancy, she was so ratty.’
As usual, he reduced everything down to something simple, like her hormones, like her job. ‘And then you met me.’
‘Exactly. And that worked out well, until, you know…’ Until she realised he had gone back to his wife.
‘Marcus, I’m not joking. It’s over.’
He stood, walked over to her and stopped mere inches away. She could feel the warmth of his body fill the space between them. His face was hard, angry. ‘Tell me you don’t want me. Push me away.’
All their encounters usually ended on his agenda, in bed. This time she stepped back. ‘I mean it, Marcus. I need to end this. If you stay, it’ll just be me and the baby waiting for the next hour you can spare from your real family.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I think I’m happier being on my own than just having the occasional moment when you can spare it, the constant excuses.’
He turned, pulled on his jeans, then his shirt, and started doing up the buttons. ‘You are serious, aren’t you?’ His voice changed. ‘Did you meet someone?’
‘Look, we’ll always be friends—’ she stopped mid-sentence. They were never friends.
‘No, we won’t.’ Marcus walked over again, disturbingly close, and as she dropped her eyes she could see hair poking out of the top of his shirt. His scent was intoxicating and she had to resist swaying against him, despite his aggressive stance. His hand touched her hair, pulled one dark curl lightly through his fingers. ‘You and me, we’re not friends, we’re lovers. If you had got rid of the baby—’
She wondered if the baby could hear his words, hear the acid in his tone. ‘I didn’t want to.’ Her voice was more sure than she was. The pregnancy had cleared away the certainty she had had about the future: career, house, relationship.
‘Don’t I have any say?’ His voice was soft now but she wasn’t fooled. ‘I love you, Sage, in my own way.’
‘It’s not down to you, Marcus. It’s really over.’
He shrugged, half smiled. ‘Fool yourself if you like. You wait until the baby comes. You’ll want me then, and I’ll be here.’
‘You are so arrogant.’
He turned at the doorway. ‘That’s what you like about me.’
There was a bit of truth in that. He was so confident, so sure of her, it had been attractive. But he had responded to her refusal to have an abortion at first with reasoned argument, then with anger. She didn’t want that hanging over her baby. ‘It’s my life, Marcus.’
‘You can fight it, but I’ll win in the end. We’re perfect for each other.’ He opened the door and she ran after him, catching him before he closed the door.
‘Key.’
‘Really?’ He twisted the key off the ring he kept at work, so his wife wouldn’t find it. He pressed it into her hand, his fingers warm against her palm. ‘You’re determined tonight.’
‘I have to be.’
‘And I thought you were pleased to see me when you came in.’
She remembered how pleased she had been, and warmth spread up into her face. She hoped her olive complexion and the low light in the hallway concealed it as he headed down the stairs.
6
10th July 1580
Fine oak coffin, for your lordship’s daughter Elizabeth upon her decease two pounds, three shillings and four pence
Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582
Few grieve the young Lady Elizabeth except her family. Even the bridegroom Solomon Seabourne, here for the funeral, looks no sadder than he did at the betrothal. But he had hardly known the lady, their betrothal having been arranged by their fathers.
Lady Flora is much preoccupied with her belly. She has cramps and fears miscarrying the babe as she has so many before, so has retired to her chamber. Viola sits on the high stool in my office, writing notes for me and counting up the entries in the ledgers. I shall add them up for myself, of course, but Viola is rarely mistaken now. Sitting at my knee she learned to read before she was six.
She has taken her cap off again and her hair, the colour of a young fox cub, is so thick and full of curls it spreads over her shoulders.
‘Eighteen pounds, three shillings and ninepence farthing,’ she calculates, ‘before the rents from Springate farm, of five guineas.’ She sharpens her pen, slivers of quill dropping onto the desk and my papers. I sweep them away.
‘If you are to help me, make a list of the extra meats for the dinner,’ I say. ‘Cook calls for a dozen fowls, and an ox calf for our honoured guest.’
She bends over the list, the pen scratching in her quick hand. ‘My lady stepmother wants eels. Mistress Agness says they strengthen the womb.’
‘What would that old spinster know? Anyway,’ I grumble, ‘where will we get eels from, in this season?’ My old back creaks from sitting still so long. ‘Come, child. Let us walk around the garden, and stretch our legs.’
We go out through the side door, past the yard with the stench of the stables and a cloud of black flies that follows, and into the rose garden. It is at its best, and the scent of the blooms hangs in the air and fragrances shirts spread over the bushes to dry. A figure ahead leans over some work, seated on a bench, but I cannot see who it is.
‘It’s Mistress Isabeau.’ Viola scampers ahead, holding her cap.
The Frenchwoman stands and makes a respectful bow. I’ll say this for her, her manners and style are impeccable, raised as she was at the French king’s court. She murmurs something in French, and Viola answers, versed as she is in language.
The seamstress is beautiful. I have never wanted to clutter my life with a woman, and have been accused of having a cold nature, but even my heart is stirred by Isabeau Duchamp. She seems to glow from inside; her skin is the colour of fresh cream, her eyes are blue as lapis lazuli. Her hair is confined in a heavy caul, but the escaping curls are almost white, they are so fair. Her lips are very full, and the maids accuse her of colouring them. She has been at the manor for eight months, embellishing the silks for Lady Elizabeth’s trousseau. I wonder her fate, now.
I persuade Viola away, through the garden towards the orchard where, at least, there might be some blessed shade. The child babbles: do I not think Isabeau is beautiful and kind? Do I not like the panel she is working on, no doubt now to be altered for Lady Banstock, as Elizabeth has no need for it? The child is rarely tedious like this, but I suppose a girl of fourteen is full of such romances. As we pass through the archway from the gardens, a figure in plain velvet dress approaches with his man. Solomon Seabourne, the bereaved groom, the youngest son of Lord Seabourne. The marriage would have benefited both families. He is attended by his servant Kelley, who bows low then steps back.
‘Master Vincent.’ Seabourne bows to me then to Viola, and smiles at her. He is a well-made man, tall, handsome enough. His hands are his weakness: a true gentleman does not have the blackened fingers of a clerk or perhaps would hide the stains with gloves. He notices my gaze.
‘Ah, you see my fingers, Master Vincent. I have been exploring the qualities of spirits of silver. The silvery metal turns black upon exposure to light. Silver is closest to gold in purity, and if we can understand its corruption we may find the impurity that keeps silver from being gold.’
Viola’s blush has faded. ‘So, if silver were purified, it would form gold?’
‘We believe so, although it is mercury that most alchemists consider most able to make the transformation.’ His face is quite animated, and I see a similar interest in Viola’s features. ‘My man and I are engaged upon such w
ork. We hope to achieve full conversion at the full moon.’ Viola hangs upon his words, but my gaze is caught, instead, by the servant, Kelley. He wears the oldest of clothes, yet of good quality and well patched. His boots are very fine, and new, and have a heel raising him above what must be a mean stature. Despite the heat he wears a leather cap over his ears, and his dark hair is longer than the fashion. He looks like a tinker, gypsy dark, and his eyes are sharp with interest at Viola and Seabourne’s discourse.
I break in upon the talk, make my bow and Viola and I walk on, leaving Master Seabourne to his enjoyment of the roses.
Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir
7
Thursday 28th March
The Poplars residential home was a large Victorian property with a modern extension, but along one side it had an original orangery, with cast-iron supports and window frames. As Sage slipped her muddy boots off a care assistant told her that Maeve Rowland, former owner of Bramble Cottage, spent her days there overlooking the gardens. Sage passed a pot-bellied woodburning stove, and saw an old woman dozing in a padded wicker rocking chair. Her body was hunched forward, and to one side. She opened her eyes at the clunk of the care assistant’s shoes on the tiled floor.
‘Nathan? That better be the bloody chocolate biscuits.’ Her voice was loud, and made Sage think of crazed china, full of tiny cracks.
‘Yeah, yeah, just the best ones for you. That’s why you’re getting so fat.’ The care assistant put a plate at her elbow, along with a cup of tea. ‘Don’t forget to share – you’ve got a visitor. Dr Sage Westfield, this is Mrs Rowland.’
What Sage could see of the old woman was sparrow-thin, the skin creped and blotched with age. When Maeve Rowland looked up, her eyes were faded blue, almost lost in nests of wrinkles. One eyelid drooped, the corner of her mouth sagged.
‘Dr what?’
‘Dr Sage Westfield. She’s an archaeologist.’ Sage smiled at Nathan as he pulled a chair over for her.
The old woman gazed out of the window for a long moment. ‘You’re the one digging up the garden at Brambles.’
‘How did you know that?’ Sage asked.
‘Everyone knows; all of Banstock is talking about it.’ She dabbed the slack corner of her mouth with one hand.
‘The new owners wanted to build an extension. They had to do a survey first because it’s a listed building, and I was called in when they found Tudor pottery. The house is very interesting.’
‘Draughty old rat trap, you mean.’ Maeve wavered a clenched hand. ‘I’d still be there if it wasn’t for this bloody stroke.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Sage watched the woman’s shaking hand reach for a biscuit.
‘Don’t be. I’m eighty-six. It’s time. I just thought I’d die there, become one of the ghosts.’ The sun came out, casting the shadow of the windows onto the tiled floor, bleaching the throw over her legs. Maeve squinted and Sage got up to adjust one of the blinds.
‘Thanks.’ Maeve waved a hand towards the plate. ‘Do you want a biscuit?’
Sage refused, and the old woman seemed relieved. ‘Once I could eat what I bloody well liked, now I have a care plan written by a dietician. So, what have you found?’
‘A well in the garden. We think it’s about the same age as the cottage but it’s been filled in.’
‘We thought there was something like that out there; it used to leave a ring in the grass in dry weather,’ Maeve said. ‘Why would someone fill a well in?’
‘Usually because it’s falling down, but we think this was filled in for another reason,’ Sage said. ‘It’s full of rubbish and soil from a midden. We’ve found broken pottery, glass, ash, that kind of thing from the Tudor era.’
The old woman stared at her. ‘Is that all?’
Sage hesitated. ‘And some bones. Mostly domesticated animal bones but some human.’
‘Isabeau.’ Maeve breathed the word, her gaze intent on Sage.
‘Isabeau?’
‘A young woman who went missing back in the time of Queen Elizabeth the First.’ She waved a hand. ‘My husband and I did some research on the period when we first moved into the cottage.’
‘Well, we can’t identify the adult bones, beyond saying that they are mature. And, we found a child’s bones.’
‘Isabeau’s baby.’ Maeve sat back, nodding.
Sage fumbled in her bag for a notebook. ‘Can you tell me more?’
‘Just a local legend. She was a French servant who supposedly got pregnant by the Devil, who then came and stole her child. But I don’t believe in the Devil; no doubt the poor girl got into the family way and was hidden with her baby, to save embarrassment.’ Maeve looked at Sage sideways. ‘There’s a headstone, in the woods behind the common. She was supposed to have been pregnant when she died.’
Sage nodded. ‘The previous landlord of the Harbour Bell – Dennis Lacey – mentioned a stone. But why would there be a gravestone in the woods if she was put down the well?’
‘I have no idea. I always knew there was something wrong at the cottage, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Little things. The smell of lavender water in the front bedroom. And sunlight soap, horrible stuff, in the utility room – the old back kitchen, where some poor little Victorian dogsbody did the washing. I think it’s the atmosphere.’
‘Atmosphere?’
Maeve ran her tongue slowly over her lips to remove the crumbs. ‘My husband used to wake up at night saying he could hear a sort of moaning, as if from an animal; he was a light sleeper. He went outside with a torch once, thinking a cat had been run over, but he could only hear it indoors.’
‘Did you ever hear it?’ Sage asked.
Maeve’s hand shook, and she dropped the remainder of a biscuit onto her blanket. ‘Yes. The last time was the day I had the stroke. I felt dizzy and fell to the floor. I just couldn’t stand up. Then it started, like a noise in my own head.’ A tear streaked down the weak side of her face. ‘Six hours of lying there, listening to it. The moaning was— for a while, I wondered if it was me moaning, if I was going mad.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. My neighbour knew something was wrong when I didn’t put the bin out. She got the police and ambulance. The moaning stopped once someone else was in the house, or at least, I couldn’t hear it anymore.’ She brushed stray crumbs off her lap. ‘I never went back. Good riddance to the place. I got a good price and it pays for all this.’
Sage glanced down at her notebook. ‘Can you tell me anything more about Isabeau?’
Maeve shrugged. ‘Some legends say she was a witch, that the Devil appeared at one of her coven’s black masses in the ruined abbey. She ran to the church, but the Devil caught up with her at the gate. There was a clap of thunder, and he ripped her baby right out of her belly.’ She munched on the last biscuit, spraying crumbs.
Sage looked across the garden, her mind struggling with the horrible image. The orangery looked over a landscaped garden, lush with grass and shrubs, and someone had hung a bird feeder from a tree. The stove pushed out a lot of heat, and Sage took her jacket off.
‘That’s a horrible thought.’ She smiled at Maeve. ‘I’m pregnant myself.’
‘I can see that. Well, people leave unexpectedly and myths build up. Maybe she died in childbirth, but the Devil makes for a much better story.’
‘You’re right. But sometimes there’s an element of truth,’ Sage said. ‘Like you mentioned Isabeau was French. As I said before, we’re not even sure whether the adult is female, though it is looking that way.’
Maeve nodded. ‘It would be nice to find out what really happened to Isabeau, if she existed. Maybe she was the one making all that moaning.’ She laughed self-consciously, embarrassed. The last time my husband Ian heard it, eighteen years ago, he had a heart attack. They said he’d been over-exerting himself, but he was strong as an ox, sixty-eight years old, and a country auctioneer. He was used to moving heavy furniture around
.’
‘That must have been very hard.’ Sage folded her hands in her lap.
‘It was, but I’ll see him soon enough. Anyway, for all we know it could have just been wind through the weather vane or coming down the chimney.’ Maeve rubbed her slack hand with the good one and uttered a harsh chuckle. ‘I was volunteering up at the big house then, Banstock Manor. I created a walled orchard. All the espaliered apples and pears up there are mine.’ Her voice was touched with pride. ‘The owners were looking into the history of the Banstock family, and they found a link to the cottage in the deeds. That’s when they told me about the memorial stone in the woods.’
‘I’d love to go and see it.’
‘Not much to see, now. It’s just a tumbledown old marker, leaning over, a bit like me. Take the footpath across the common towards Marten’s Farm. There’s a big track; the locals walk their dogs down there. Take the other path, down to the stream. It’s just on the other side.’
‘Thank you,’ Sage said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ She closed her notebook. ‘Are there any papers about the history of the cottage? And it would be helpful to look at the deeds.’
Maeve struggled to push herself up the chair. ‘The new owners, they have them all.’
Sage held out her hand to Maeve, who clasped it. Her skin felt like warm paper, her fingers curved with age.
Maeve leaned forward. ‘You come back and tell me what you find. You promise.’
‘I will. I really will.’ Sage smiled as she gathered up her coat and bag.
‘And you be careful, girl. There’s something odd about that house.’
* * *
It was a relief to get out of the hot conservatory, and Sage walked towards the village of Banstock, enjoying the breeze. She meant to go straight to Bramble Cottage, but her eye was caught by the church. It was squat with a tower at one end, a solid nave in the middle and a small extension at the western end. It looked like it was built in the Norman style, clearly pre-dating the Tudor and Jacobean buildings that had sprung up around it by some centuries. She walked across the road to the oak lychgate, a wooden structure covered with old thatch that led through the churchyard wall. She creaked open one of the silver-grey gates.
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